CHAPTER IX.
"Thus things are strangely wrought,
While joyful May doth last;
Take May in Time--when May is gone
The pleasant time is past."--RICHARD EDWARDS.
From the Paradise of Dainty Devices.
It was that period of the year when, to those who look on the surface of
society, London wears its most radiant smile; when shops are gayest, and
trade most brisk; when down the thoroughfares roll and glitter the
countless streams of indolent and voluptuous life; when the upper class
spend, and the middle class make; when the ball-room is the Market of
Beauty, and the club-house the School for Scandal; when the hells yawn
for their prey, and opera-singers and fiddlers--creatures hatched from
gold, as the dung-flies from the dung-swarm, and buzz, and fatten, round
the hide of the gentle Public In the cant phase, it was "the London
season." And happy, take it altogether, happy above the rest of the
year, even for the hapless, is that period of ferment and fever. It is
not the season for duns, and the debtor glides about with a less anxious
eye; and the weather is warm, and the vagrant sleeps, unfrozen, under the
starlit portico; and the beggar thrives, and the thief rejoices--for the
rankness of the civilisation has superfluities clutched by all. And out
of the general corruption things sordid and things miserable crawl forth
to bask in the common sunshine--things that perish when the first autumn
winds whistle along the melancholy city. It is the gay time for the heir
and the beauty, and the statesman and the lawyer, and the mother with her
young daughters, and the artist with his fresh pictures, and the poet
with his new book. It is the gay time, too, for the starved journeyman,
and the ragged outcast that with long stride and patient eyes follows,
for pence, the equestrian, who bids him go and be d---d in vain. It is a
gay time for the painted harlot in a crimson pelisse; and a gay time for
the old hag that loiters about the thresholds of the gin-shop, to buy
back, in a draught, the dreams of departed youth. It is gay, in fine, as
the fulness of a vast city is ever gay--for Vice as for Innocence, for
Poverty as for Wealth. And the wheels of every single destiny wheel on
the merrier, no matter whether they are bound to Heaven or to Hell.
Arthur Beaufort, the young heir, was at his father's house. He was fresh
from Oxford, where he had already discovered that learning is not better
than house and land. Since the new prospects opened to him, Arthur
Beaufort was greatly changed. Naturally studious and prudent, had his
fortunes remained what they had been before his uncle's death, he would
probably have become a laborious and distinguished man. But though his
abilities were good, he had not those restless impulses which belong to
Genius--often not only its glory, but its curse. The Golden Rod cast his
energies asleep at once. Good-natured to a fault, and somewhat
vacillating in character, he adopted the manner and the code of the rich
young idlers who were his equals at College. He became, like them,
careless, extravagant, and fond of pleasure. This change, if it
deteriorated his mind, improved his exterior. It was a change that
could not but please women; and of all women his mother the most. Mrs.
Beaufort was a lady of high birth; and in marrying her, Robert had hoped
much from the interest of her connections; but a change in the ministry
had thrown her relations out of power; and, beyond her dowry, he obtained
no worldly advantage with the lady of his mercenary choice. Mrs.
Beaufort was a woman whom a word or two will describe. She was
thoroughly commonplace--neither bad nor good, neither clever nor silly.
She was what is called well-bred; that is, languid, silent, perfectly
dressed, and insipid. Of her two children, Arthur was almost the
exclusive favourite, especially after he became the heir to such
brilliant fortunes. For she was so much the mechanical creature of the
world, that even her affection was warm or cold in proportion as the
world shone on it. Without being absolutely in love with her husband,
she liked him--they suited each other; and (in spite of all the
temptations that had beset her in their earlier years, for she had been
esteemed a beauty--and lived, as worldly people must do, in circles where
examples of unpunished gallantry are numerous and contagious) her conduct
had ever been scrupulously correct. She had little or no feeling for
misfortunes with which she had never come into contact; for those with
which she had--such as the distresses of younger sons, or the errors of
fashionable women, or the disappointments of "a proper ambition"--she had
more sympathy than might have been supposed, and touched on them with all
the tact of well-bred charity and ladylike forbearance. Thus, though she
was regarded as a strict person in point of moral decorum, yet in society
she was popular-as women at once pretty and inoffensive generally are.
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.
"Anything you please," said Arthur, making his horse curvet.
Oh, Mr. Robert Beaufort! Mr. Robert Beaufort! could your prudent,
scheming, worldly heart but feel what devil's tricks your wealth was
playing with a son who if poor had been the pride of the Beauforts! On
one side of our pieces of old we see the saint trampling down the dragon.
False emblem! Reverse it on the coin! In the real use of the gold, it
is the dragon who tramples down the saint! But on--on! the day is bright
and your companions merry; make the best of your green years, Arthur
Beaufort!
The young men had just entered the suburb of H---, and were spurring on
four abreast at a canter. At that time an old man, feeling his way
before him with a stick,--for though not quite blind, he saw
imperfectly,--was crossing the road. Arthur and his friends, in loud
converse, did not observe the poor passenger. He stopped abruptly, for
his ear caught the sound of danger--it was too late: Mr. Marsden's horse,
hard-mouthed, and high-stepping, came full against him. Mr. Marsden
looked down:
"Hang these old men! always in the way," said he, plaintively, and in the
tone of a much-injured person, and, with that, Mr. Marsden rode on. But
the others, who were younger--who were not gamblers--who were not yet
grinded down into stone by the world's wheels--the others halted. Arthur
Beaufort leaped from his horse, and the old man was already in his arms;
but he was severely hurt. The blood trickled from his forehead; he
complained of pains in his side and limbs.
"Lean on me, my poor fellow! Do you live far off? I will take you home."
"Not many yards. This would not have happened if I had had my dog.
Never mind, sir, go your way. It is only an old man--what of that? I
wish I had my dog."
"I will join you," said Arthur to his friends; "my groom has the
direction. I will just take the poor old man home, and send for a
surgeon. I shall not be long."
"So like you, Beaufort: the best fellow in the world!" said Mr. Watson,
with some emotion. "And there's Marsden positively, dismounted, and
looking at his horse's knees as if they could be hurt! Here's a
sovereign for you, my man."
"And here's another," said Sir Harry; "so that's settled. Well, you will
join us, Beaufort? You see the yard yonder. We'll wait twenty minutes
for you. Come on, Watson." The old man had not picked up the sovereigns
thrown at his feet, neither had he thanked the donors. And on his
countenance there was a sour, querulous, resentful expression.
"Must a man be a beggar because he is run over, or because he is half
blind?" said he, turning his dim, wandering eyes painfully towards
Arthur. "Well, I wish I had my dog!"
"I will supply his place," said Arthur, soothingly. "Come, lean on me--
heavier; that's right. You are not so bad,--eh?"
"Um!--the sovereigns!--it is wicked to leave them in the kennel!"
Arthur smiled. "Here they are, sir."
The old man slid the coins into his pocket, and Arthur continued to talk,
though he got but short answers, and those only in the way of direction,
till at last the old man stopped at the door of a small house near the
churchyard.
After twice ringing the bell, the door was opened by a middle-aged woman,
whose appearance was above that of a common menial; dressed, somewhat
gaily for her years, in a cap seated very far back on a black _touroet_,
and decorated with red ribands, an apron made out of an Indian silk
handkerchief, a puce-coloured sarcenet gown, black silk stockings, long
gilt earrings, and a watch at her girdle.
"Bless us and save us, sir! What has happened?" exclaimed this worthy
personage, holding up her hands.
"Pish! I am faint: let me in. I don't want your aid any more, sir.
Thank you. Good day!"
Not discouraged by this farewell, the churlish tone of which fell
harmless on the invincibly sweet temper of Arthur, the young man
continued to assist the sufferer along the narrow passage into a little
old-fashioned parlour; and no sooner was the owner deposited on his worm-
eaten leather chair than he fainted away. On reaching the house, Arthur
had sent his servant (who had followed him with the horses) for the
nearest surgeon; and while the woman was still employed, after taking off
the sufferer's cravat, in burning feathers under his nose, there was
heard a sharp rap and a shrill ring. Arthur opened the door, and
admitted a smart little man in nankeen breeches and gaiters. He bustled
into the room.
"What's this--bad accident--um--um! Sad thing, very sad. Open the
window. A glass of water--a towel."
"So--so: I see--I see--no fracture--contusion. Help him off with his
coat. Another chair, ma'am; put up his poor legs. What age is he,
ma'am?--Sixty-eight! Too old to bleed. Thank you. How is it, sir?
Poorly, to be sure will be comfortable presently--faintish still? Soon
put all to rights."
"Tray! Tray! Where's my dog, Mrs. Boxer?"
"Lord, sir, what do you want with your dog now? He is in the back-yard."
"And what business has my dog in the back-yard?" almost screamed the
sufferer, in accents that denoted no diminution of vigour. "I thought as
soon as my back was turned my dog would be ill-used! Why did I go
without my dog? Let in my dog directly, Mrs. Boxer!"
"All right, you see, sir," said the apothecary, turning to Beaufort--
"no cause for alarm--very comforting that little passion--does him good--
sets one's mind easy. How did it happen? Ah, I understand! knocked
down--might have been worse. Your groom (sharp fellow!) explained in a
trice, sir. Thought it was my old friend here by the description.
Worthy man--settled here a many year--very odd-eccentric (this in a
whisper). Came off instantly: just at dinner--cold lamb and salad.
'Mrs. Perkins,' says I, 'if any one calls for me, I shall be at No. 4,
Prospect Place.' Your servant observed the address, sir. Oh, very
sharp fellow! See how the old gentleman takes to his dog--fine little
dog--what a stump of a tail! Deal of practice--expect two accouchements
every hour. Hot weather for childbirth. So says I to Mrs. Perkins, 'If
Mrs. Plummer is taken, or Mrs. Everat, or if old Mr. Grub has another
fit, send off at once to No. 4. Medical men should be always in the way-
that's my maxim. Now, sir, where do you feel the pain?"
"In my ears, sir."
"Bless me, that looks bad. How long have you felt it?"
"Ever since you have been in the room."
"Oh! I take. Ha! ha!--very eccentric--very!" muttered the apothecary,
a little disconcerted. "Well, let him lie down, ma'am. I'll send him a
little quieting draught to be taken directly--pill at night, aperient in
the morning. If wanted, send for me--always to be found. Bless me,
that's my boy Bob's ring. Please to open the door, ma' am. Know his
ring--very peculiar knack of his own. Lay ten to one it is Mrs. Plummer,
or perhaps. Mrs. Everat--her ninth child in eight years--in the grocery
line. A woman in a thousand, sir!"
Here a thin boy, with very short coat-sleeves, and very large hands,
burst into the room with his mouth open. "Sir--Mr. Perkins--sir!"
"I know--I know-coming. Mrs. Plummer or Mrs. Everat?"
"No, sir; it be the poor lady at Mrs. Lacy's; she be taken desperate.
Mrs. Lacy's girl has just been over to the shop, and made me run here to
you, sir."
"Mrs. Lacy's! oh, I know. Poor Mrs. Morton! Bad case--very bad--must be
off. Keep him quiet, ma'am. Good day! Look in to-morrow-nine o'clock.
Put a little lint with the lotion on the head, ma'am. Mrs. Morton! Ah!
bad job that."
Here the apothecary had shuffled himself off to the street door, when
Arthur laid his hand on his arm.
"Mrs. Morton! Did you say Morton, sir? What kind of a person--is she
very ill?"
"Hopeless case, sir--general break-up. Nice woman--quite the lady--known
better days, I'm sure."
"Has she any children--sons?"
"Two--both away now--fine lads--quite wrapped up in them--youngest
especially."
"Good heavens! it must be she--ill, and dying, and destitute, perhaps,"--
exclaimed Arthur, with real and deep feeling; "I will go with you, sir.
I fancy that I know this lady--that," he added generously, "I am related
to her."
"Do you?--glad to hear it. Come along, then; she ought to have some one
near her besides servants: not but what Jenny, the maid, is uncommonly
kind. Dr. -----, who attends her sometimes, said to me, says he, 'It is
the mind, Mr. Perkins; I wish we could get back her boys."
"And where are they?"
"'Prenticed out, I fancy. Master Sidney--"
"Sidney!"
"Ah! that was his name--pretty name. D'ye know Sir Sidney Smith?--
extraordinary man, sir! Master Sidney was a beautiful child--quite
spoiled. She always fancied him ailing--always sending for me. 'Mr.
Perkins,' said she, 'there's something the matter with my child; I'm sure
there is, though he won't own it. He has lost his appetite--had a
headache last night.' 'Nothing the matter, ma'am,' says I; 'wish you'd
think more of yourself.'
"These mothers are silly, anxious, poor creatures. Nater, sir, Nater--
wonderful thing--Nater!--Here we are."
And the apothecary knocked at the private door of a milliner and hosier's
shop.
