Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - Night and Morning, Complete

To do Mrs. Beaufort justice, she had not been privy to the letter her husband wrote to Catherine, although not wholly innocent of it. The fact is, that Robert had never mentioned to her the peculiar circumstances that made Catherine an exception from ordinary rules—the generous propositions of his brother to him the night before his death; and, whatever his incredulity as to the alleged private marriage, the perfect loyalty and faith that Catherine had borne to the deceased,—he had merely observed, “I must do something, I suppose, for that woman; she very nearly entrapped my poor brother into marrying her; and he would then, for what I know, have cut Arthur out of the estates. Still, I must do something for her—eh?”

“Yes, I think so. What was she?—very low?”

“A tradesman’s daughter.”

“The children should be provided for according to the rank of the mother; that’s the general rule in such cases: and the mother should have about the same provision she might have looked for if she had married a tradesman and been left a widow. I dare say she was a very artful kind of person, and don’t deserve anything; but it is always handsomer, in the eyes of the world, to go by the general rules people lay down as to money matters.”

So spoke Mrs. Beaufort. She concluded her husband had settled the matter, and never again recurred to it. Indeed, she had never liked the late Mr. Beaufort, whom she considered mauvais ton.

In the breakfast-room at Mr. Beaufort’s, the mother and son were seated; the former at work, the latter lounging by the window: they were not alone. In a large elbow-chair sat a middle-aged man, listening, or appearing to listen, to the prattle of a beautiful little girl—Arthur Beaufort’s sister. This man was not handsome, but there was a certain elegance in his air, and a certain intelligence in his countenance, which made his appearance pleasing. He had that kind of eye which is often seen with red hair—an eye of a reddish hazel, with very long lashes; the eyebrows were dark, and clearly defined; and the short hair showed to advantage the contour of a small well-shaped head. His features were irregular; the complexion had been sanguine, but was now faded, and a yellow tinge mingled with the red. His face was more wrinkled, especially round the eyes—which, when he laughed, were scarcely visible—than is usual even in men ten years older. But his teeth were still of a dazzling whiteness; nor was there any trace of decayed health in his countenance. He seemed one who had lived hard; but who had much yet left in the lamp wherewith to feed the wick. At the first glance he appeared slight, as he lolled listlessly in his chair—almost fragile. But, at a nearer examination, you perceived that, in spite of the small extremities and delicate bones, his frame was constitutionally strong. Without being broad in the shoulders, he was exceedingly deep in the chest—deeper than men who seemed giants by his side; and his gestures had the ease of one accustomed to an active life. He had, indeed, been celebrated in his youth for his skill in athletic exercises, but a wound, received in a duel many years ago, had rendered him lame for life—a misfortune which interfered with his former habits, and was said to have soured his temper. This personage, whose position and character will be described hereafter, was Lord Lilburne, the brother of Mrs. Beaufort.

“So, Camilla,” said Lord Lilburne to his niece, as carelessly, not fondly, he stroked down her glossy ringlets, “you don’t like Berkeley Square as you did Gloucester Place.”

“Oh, no! not half so much! You see I never walk out in the fields,—[Now the Regent’s Park.]—nor make daisy-chains at Primrose Hill. I don’t know what mamma means,” added the child, in a whisper, “in saying we are better off here.”

Lord Lilburne smiled, but the smile was a half sneer. “You will know quite soon enough, Camilla; the understandings of young ladies grow up very quickly on this side of Oxford Street. Well, Arthur, and what are your plans to-day?”

“Why,” said Arthur, suppressing a yawn, “I have promised to ride out with a friend of mine, to see a horse that is for sale somewhere in the suburbs.”

As he spoke, Arthur rose, stretched himself, looked in the glass, and then glanced impatiently at the window.

“He ought to be here by this time.”

“He! who?” said Lord Lilburne, “the horse or the other animal—I mean the friend?”

“The friend,” answered Arthur, smiling, but colouring while he smiled, for he half suspected the quiet sneer of his uncle.

“Who is your friend, Arthur?” asked Mrs. Beaufort, looking up from her work.

“Watson, an Oxford man. By the by, I must introduce him to you.”

“Watson! what Watson? what family of Watson? Some Watsons are good and some are bad,” said Mrs. Beaufort, musingly.

“Then they are very unlike the rest of mankind,” observed Lord Lilburne, drily.

“Oh! my Watson is a very gentlemanlike person, I assure you,” said Arthur, half-laughing, “and you need not be ashamed of him.” Then, rather desirous of turning the conversation, he continued, “So my father will be back from Beaufort Court to-day?”

“Yes; he writes in excellent spirits. He says the rents will bear raising at least ten per cent., and that the house will not require much repair.”

Here Arthur threw open the window.

“Ah, Watson! how are you? How d’ye do, Marsden? Danvers, too! that’s capital! the more the merrier! I will be down in an instant. But would you not rather come in?”

“An agreeable inundation,” murmured Lord Lilburne. “Three at a time: he takes your house for Trinity College.”

A loud, clear voice, however, declined the invitation; the horses were heard pawing without. Arthur seized his hat and whip, and glanced to his mother and uncle, smilingly. “Good-bye! I shall be out till dinner. Kiss me, my pretty Milly!” And as his sister, who had run to the window, sickening for the fresh air and exercise he was about to enjoy, now turned to him wistful and mournful eyes, the kind-hearted young man took her in his arms, and whispered while he kissed her:

“Get up early to-morrow, and we’ll have such a nice walk together.”

Arthur was gone: his mother’s gaze had followed his young and graceful figure to the door.

“Own that he is handsome, Lilburne. May I not say more:—has he not the proper air?”

“My dear sister, your son will be rich. As for his air, he has plenty of airs, but wants graces.”

“Then who could polish him like yourself?”

“Probably no one. But had I a son—which Heaven forbid!—he should not have me for his Mentor. Place a young man—(go and shut the door, Camilla!)—between two vices—women and gambling, if you want to polish him into the fashionable smoothness. Entre nous, the varnish is a little expensive!”

Mrs. Beaufort sighed. Lord Lilburne smiled. He had a strange pleasure in hurting the feelings of others. Besides, he disliked youth: in his own youth he had enjoyed so much that he grew sour when he saw the young.

Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort and his friends, careless of the warmth of the day, were laughing merrily, and talking gaily, as they made for the suburb of H–.

“It is an out-of-the-way place for a horse, too,” said Sir Harry Danvers.

“But I assure you,” insisted Mr. Watson, earnestly, “that my groom, who is a capital judge, says it is the cleverest hack he ever mounted. It has won several trotting matches. It belonged to a sporting tradesman, now done up. The advertisement caught me.”

“Well,” said Arthur, gaily, “at all events the ride is delightful. What weather! You must all dine with me at Richmond to-morrow—we will row back.”

“And a little chicken-hazard, at the M–, afterwards,” said Mr. Marsden, who was an elder, not a better, man than the rest—a handsome, saturnine man—who had just left Oxford, and was already known on the turf.