Speak, brother!where are you hurt? exclaimed Robert Beaufort.
He will never speak more! said the groom, bursting into tears. His neck is broken!
Send for the nearest surgeon, cried Mr. Robert. Good God! boy! dont mount that devilish horse!
But Arthur had already leaped on the unhappy steed, which had been the cause of this appalling affliction. Which way?
Straight on to , only two milesevery one knows Mr. Powiss house. God bless you! said the groom. Arthur vanished.
Lift him carefully, and take him to the house, said Mr. Robert. My poor brother! my dear brother!
He was interrupted by a cry, a single shrill, heartbreaking cry; and Philip fell senseless to the ground.
No one heeded him at that hourno one heeded the fatherless BASTARD. Gently, gently, said Mr. Robert, as he followed the servants and their load. And he then muttered to himself, and his sallow cheek grew bright, and his breath came short: He has made no willhe never made a will.
CHAPTER V
Constance. O boy, then where art thou?
* * * * What becomes of me
It was three days after the death of Philip Beaufortfor the surgeon arrived only to confirm the judgment of the groom: in the drawing-room of the cottage, the windows closed, lay the body, in its coffin, the lid not yet nailed down. There, prostrate on the floor, tearless, speechless, was the miserable Catherine; poor Sidney, too young to comprehend all his loss, sobbing at her side; while Philip apart, seated beside the coffin, gazed abstractedly on that cold rigid face which had never known one frown for his boyish follies.
In another room, that had been appropriated to the late owner, called his study, sat Robert Beaufort. Everything in this room spoke of the deceased. Partially separated from the rest of the house, it communicated by a winding staircase with a chamber above, to which Philip had been wont to betake himself whenever he returned late, and over-exhilarated, from some rural feast crowning a hard days hunt. Above a quaint, old-fashioned bureau of Dutch workmanship (which Philip had picked up at a sale in the earlier years of his marriage) was a portrait of Catherine taken in the bloom of her youth. On a peg on the door that led to the staircase, still hung his rough driving coat. The window commanded the view of the paddock in which the worn-out hunter or the unbroken colt grazed at will. Around the walls of the study(a strange misnomer!)hung prints of celebrated fox-hunts and renowned steeple-chases: guns, fishing-rods, and foxes brushes, ranged with a sportsmans neatness, supplied the place of books. On the mantelpiece lay a cigar-case, a well-worn volume on the Veterinary Art, and the last number of the Sporting Magazine. And in the roomthus witnessing of the hardy, masculine, rural life, that had passed awaysallow, stooping, town-worn, sat, I say, Robert Beaufort, the heir-at-law,alone: for the very day of the death he had remanded his son home with the letter that announced to his wife the change in their fortunes, and directed her to send his lawyer post-haste to the house of death. The bureau, and the drawers, and the boxes which contained the papers of the deceased were open; their contents had been ransacked; no certificate of the private marriage, no hint of such an event; not a paper found to signify the last wishes of the rich dead man.
He had died, and made no sign. Mr. Robert Beauforts countenance was still and composed.
A knock at the door was heard; the lawyer entered.
Sir, the undertakers are here, and Mr. Greaves has ordered the bells to be rung: at three oclock he will read the service.
I am obliged to you., Blackwell, for taking these melancholy offices on yourself. My poor brother!it is so sudden! But the funeral, you say, ought to take place to-day?
The weather is so warm, said the lawyer, wiping his forehead. As he spoke, the death-bell was heard.
There was a pause.
It would have been a terrible shock to Mrs. Morton if she had been his wife, observed Mr. Blackwell. But I suppose persons of that kind have very little feeling. I must say that it was fortunate for the family that the event happened before Mr. Beaufort was wheedled into so improper a marriage.
It was fortunate, Blackwell. Have you ordered the post-horses? I shall start immediately after the funeral.
What is to be done with the cottage, sir?
You may advertise it for sale.
And Mrs. Morton and the boys? Hum! we will consider. She was a tradesmans daughter. I think I ought to provide for her suitably, eh?
It is more than the world could expect from you, sir; it is very different from a wife.
Oh, very!very much so, indeed! Just ring for a lighted candle, we will seal up these boxes. AndI think I could take a sandwich. Poor Philip!
The funeral was over; the dead shovelled away. What a strange thing it does seem, that that very form which we prized so charily, for which we prayed the winds to be gentle, which we lapped from the cold in our arms, from whose footstep we would have removed a stone, should be suddenly thrust out of sightan abomination that the earth must not look upona despicable loathsomeness, to be concealed and to be forgotten! And this same composition of bone and muscle that was yesterday so strongwhich men respected, and women loved, and children clung toto-day so lamentably powerless, unable to defend or protect those who lay nearest to its heart; its riches wrested from it, its wishes spat upon, its influence expiring with its last sigh! A breath from its lips making all that mighty difference between what it was and what it is!
The post-horses were at the door as the funeral procession returned to the house.
Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. Morton, and said, with his pocket-handkerchief still before his eyes:
I will write to you in a few days, maam; you will find that I shall not forget you. The cottage will be sold; but we shant hurry you. Good-bye, maam; good-bye, my boys; and he patted his nephews on the head.
Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his uncle, who muttered to himself, That boy will come to no good! Little Sidney put his hand into the rich mans, and looked up, pleadingly, into his face. Cant you say something pleasant to poor mamma, Uncle Robert?
Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskily, and entered the britskait had been his brothers: the lawyer followed, and they drove away.
A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the house into the conservatory, to gather some fruit for his mother; she had scarcely touched food since Beauforts death. She was worn to a shadow; her hair had turned grey. Now she had at last found tears, and she wept noiselessly but unceasingly.
The boy had plucked some grapes, and placed them carefully in his basket: he was about to select a nectarine that seemed riper than the rest, when his hand was roughly seized; and the gruff voice of John Green, the gardener, exclaimed:
What are you about, Master Philip? you must not touch them ere fruit!
How dare you, fellow! cried the young gentleman, in a tone of equal astonishment and, wrath.
None of your airs, Master Philip! What I means is, that some great folks are coming too look at the place tomorrow; and I wont have my show of fruit spoiled by being pawed about by the like of you; so, thats plain, Master Philip!
The boy grew very pale, but remained silent. The gardener, delighted to retaliate the insolence he had received, continued: