Night and Morning, Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

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