“Quam inulta injusta ac prava fiunt moribus.”--TULL.
[How many unjust and vicious actions are perpetrated
under the name of morals.]
“Volat ambiguis
Mobilis alis Hera.”--SENECA.
[The hour flies moving with doubtful wings.]
Mr. Robert Beaufort sought Mr. Blackwell, and long, rambling, and
disjointed was his narrative. Mr. Blackwell, after some consideration,
proposed to set about doing the very things that Lilburne had proposed
at once to do. But the lawyer expressed himself legally and covertly, so
that it did not seem to the sober sense of Mr. Beaufort at all the
same plan. He was not the least alarmed at what Mr. Blackwell proposed,
though so shocked at what Lilburne dictated. Blackwell would go the next
day into Wales--he would find out Mr. Jones--he would sound him! Nothing
was more common with people of the nicest honour, than just to get a
witness out of the way! Done in election petitions, for instance, every
day.
“True,” said Mr. Beaufort, much relieved.
Then, after having done that, Mr. Blackwell would return to town, and
cross over to Boulogne to see this very impudent person whom Arthur
(young men were so apt to be taken in!) had actually believed. He had
no doubt he could settle it all. Robert Beaufort returned to Berkeley
Square actually in spirits. There he found Lilburne, who, on reflection,
seeing that Blackwell was at all events more up to the business than his
brother, assented to the propriety of the arrangement.
Mr. Blackwell accordingly did set off the next day. That next day,
perhaps, made all the difference. Within two hours from his gaining the
document so important, Philip, without any subtler exertion of intellect
than the decision of a plain, bold sense, had already forestalled both
the peer and the lawyer. He had sent down Mr. Barlow’s head clerk to his
master in Wales with the document, and a short account of the manner
in which it had been discovered. And fortunate, indeed, was it that the
copy had been found; for all the inquiries of Mr. Barlow at A----
had failed, and probably would have failed, without such a clue, in
fastening upon any one probable person to have officiated as Caleb
Price’s amanuensis. The sixteen hours’ start Mr. Barlow gained over
Blackwell enabled the former to see Mr. Jones--to show him his own
handwriting--to get a written and witnessed attestation from which the
curate, however poor, and however tempted, could never well have
escaped (even had he been dishonest, which he was not), of his perfect
recollection of the fact of making an extract from the registry at
Caleb’s desire, though he owned he had quite forgotten the names he
extracted till they were again placed before him. Barlow took care to
arouse Mr. Jones’s interest in the case--quitted Wales--hastened over to
Boulogne--saw Captain Smith, and without bribes, without threats, but
by plainly proving to that worthy person that he could not return to
England nor see his brother without being immediately arrested; that his
brother’s evidence was already pledged on the side of truth; and that by
the acquisition of new testimony there could be no doubt that the
suit would be successful--he diverted the captain from all disposition
towards perfidy, convinced him on which side his interest lay, and saw
him return to Paris, where very shortly afterwards he disappeared for
ever from this world, being forced into a duel, much against his will
(with a Frenchman whom he had attempted to defraud), and shot through
the lungs. Thus verifying a favourite maxim of Lord Lilburne’s, viz.
that it does not do, in the long run, for little men to play the Great
Game!
On the same day that Blackwell returned, frustrated in his half-and-half
attempts to corrupt Mr. Jones, and not having been able even to discover
Mr. Smith, Mr. Robert Beaufort received a notice of an Action for
Ejectment to be brought by Philip Beaufort at the next Assizes. And,
to add to his afflictions, Arthur, whom he had hitherto endeavoured to
amuse by a sort of ambiguous shilly-shally correspondence, became so
alarmingly worse, that his mother brought him up to town for advice.
Lord Lilburne was, of course, sent for; and on learning all, his counsel
was prompt.
“I told you before that this man loves your daughter. See if you can
effect a compromise. The lawsuit will be ugly, and probably ruinous. He
has a right to claim six years’ arrears--that is above L100,000. Make
yourself his father-in-law, and me his uncle-in-law; and, since we can’t
kill the wasp, we may at least soften the venom of his sting.”
Beaufort, still perplexed, irresolute, sought his son; and, for the
first time, spoke to him frankly--that is, frankly for Robert Beaufort!
He owned that the copy of the register had been found by Lilburne in a
secret drawer. He made the best of the story Lilburne himself furnished
him with (adhering, of course, to the assertion uttered or insinuated
to Philip) in regard to Fanny’s abduction and interposition; he said
nothing of his attempt to destroy the paper. Why should he? By admitting
the copy in court--if so advised--he could get rid of Fanny’s evidence
altogether; even without such concession, her evidence might possibly
be objected to or eluded. He confessed that he feared the witness who
copied the register and the witness to the marriage were alive. And then
he talked pathetically of his desire to do what was right, his dread of
slander and misinterpretation. He said nothing of Sidney, and his belief
that Sidney and Charles Spencer were the same; because, if his daughter
were to be the instrument for effecting a compromise, it was clear that
her engagement with Spencer must be cancelled and concealed. And luckily
Arthur’s illness and Camilla’s timidity, joined now to her father’s
injunctions not to excite Arthur in his present state with any
additional causes of anxiety, prevented the confidence that might
otherwise have ensued between the brother and sister. And Camilla,
indeed, had no heart for such a conference. How, when she looked on
Arthur’s glassy eye, and listened to his hectic cough, could she talk
to him of love and marriage? As to the automaton, Mrs. Beaufort, Robert
made sure of her discretion.
Arthur listened attentively to his father’s communication; and the
result of that interview was the following letter from Arthur to his
cousin:
“I write to you without fear of misconstruction; for I write to you
unknown to all my family, and I am the only one of them who can have no
personal interest in the struggle about to take place between my father
and yourself. Before the law can decide between you, I shall be in my
grave. I write this from the Bed of Death. Philip, I write this--I, who
stood beside a deathbed more sacred to you than mine--I, who received
your mother’s last sigh. And with that sigh there was a smile that
lasted when the sigh was gone: for I promised to befriend her children.
Heaven knows how anxiously I sought to fulfil that solemn vow! Feeble
and sick myself, I followed you and your brother with no aim, no prayer,
but this,--to embrace you and say, ‘Accept a new brother in me.’ I spare
you the humiliation, for it is yours, not mine, of recalling what passed
between us when at last we met. Yet, I still sought to save, at least,
Sidney,--more especially confided to my care by his dying mother. He
mysteriously eluded our search; but we had reason, by a letter received
from some unknown hand, to believe him saved and provided for. Again I
met you at Paris. I saw you were poor. Judging from your associate, I
might with justice think you depraved. Mindful of your declaration
never to accept bounty from a Beaufort, and remembering with natural
resentment the outrage I had before received from you, I judged it vain
to seek and remonstrate with you, but I did not judge it vain to aid. I
sent you, anonymously, what at least would suffice, if absolute poverty
had subjected you to evil courses, to rescue you from them it your
heart were so disposed. Perhaps that sum, trifling as it was, may have
smoothed your path and assisted your career. And why tell you all this
now? To dissuade from asserting rights you conceive to be just?--Heaven
forbid! If justice is with you, so also is the duty due to your mother’s
name. But simply for this: that in asserting such rights, you content
yourself with justice, not revenge--that in righting yourself, you do
not wrong others. If the law should decide for you, the arrears you
could demand would leave my father and sister beggars. This may be
law--it would not be justice; for my father solemnly believed himself,
and had every apparent probability in his favour, the true heir of
the wealth that devolved upon him. This is not all. There may be
circumstances connected with the discovery of a certain document that,
if authentic, and I do not presume to question it, may decide the
contest so far as it rests on truth; circumstances which might seem
to bear hard upon my father’s good name and faith. I do not know
sufficiently of law to say how far these could be publicly urged, or, if
urged, exaggerated and tortured by an advocate’s calumnious ingenuity.
But again, I say justice, and not revenge! And with this I conclude,
inclosing to you these lines, written in your own hand, and leaving you
the arbiter of their value.
“ARTHUR BEAUFORT.”
The lines inclosed were these, a second time placed before the reader
“I cannot guess who you are. They say that you call yourself a
relation; that must be some mistake. I knew not that my poor mother
had relations so kind. But, whoever you be, you soothed her last
hours--she died in your arms; and if ever-years, long years, hence--
we should chance to meet, and I can do anything to aid another, my
blood, and my life, and my heart, and my soul, all are slaves to
your will! If you be really of her kindred I commend to you my
brother; he is at ---- with Mr. Morton. If you can serve him, my
mother’s soul will watch over you as a guardian angel. As for me, I
ask no help from any one; I go into the world, and will carve out my
own way. So much do I shrink from the thought of charity from
others, that I do not believe I could bless you as I do now, if your
kindness to me did not close with the stone upon my mother’s grave.
PHILIP.”
This letter was sent to the only address of Monsieur de Vaudemont which
the Beauforts knew, viz., his apartments in town, and he did not receive
it the day it was sent.
Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort’s malady continued to gain ground rapidly.
His father, absorbed in his own more selfish fears (though, at the first
sight of Arthur, overcome by the alteration of his appearance), had
ceased to consider his illness fatal. In fact, his affection for Arthur
was rather one of pride than love: long absence had weakened the ties
of early custom. He prized him as an heir rather than treasured him as
a son. It almost seemed that as the Heritage was in danger, so the Heir
became less dear: this was only because he was less thought of. Poor
Mrs. Beaufort, yet but partially acquainted with the terrors of her
husband, still clung to hope for Arthur. Her affection for him brought
out from the depths of her cold and insignificant character qualities
that had never before been apparent. She watched--she nursed--she tended
him. The fine lady was gone; nothing but the mother was left behind.
With a delicate constitution, and with an easy temper, which yielded to
the influence of companions inferior to himself, except in bodily vigour
and more sturdy will, Arthur Beaufort had been ruined by prosperity.
His talents and acquirements, if not first-rate, at least far above
mediocrity, had only served to refine his tastes, not to strengthen his
mind. His amiable impulses, his charming disposition and sweet temper,
had only served to make him the dupe of the parasites that feasted on
the lavish heir. His heart, frittered away in the usual round of light
intrigues and hollow pleasures, had become too sated and exhausted for
the redeeming blessings of a deep and a noble love. He had so lived for
Pleasure that he had never known Happiness. His frame broke by excesses
in which his better nature never took delight, he came home--to hear of
ruin and to die!
It was evening in the sick-room. Arthur had risen from the bed to which,
for some days, he had voluntarily taken, and was stretched on the sofa
before the fire. Camilla was leaning over him, keeping in the shade,
that he might not see the tears which she could not suppress. His mother
had been endeavouring to amuse him, as she would have amused herself, by
reading aloud one of the light novels of the hour; novels that paint the
life of the higher classes as one gorgeous holyday.
“My dear mother,” said the patient querulously, “I have no interest
in these false descriptions of the life I have led. I know that life’s
worth. Ah! had I been trained to some employment, some profession! had
I--well--it is weak to repine. Mother, tell me, you have seen Mons. de
Vaudemont: is he strong and healthy?”
“Yes; too much so. He has not your elegance, dear Arthur.”
“And do you admire him, Camilla? Has no other caught your heart or your
fancy?”
“My dear Arthur,” interrupted Mrs. Beaufort, “you forget that Camilla
is scarcely out; and of course a young girl’s affections, if she’s well
brought up, are regulated by the experience of her parents. It is time
to take the medicine: it certainly agrees with you; you have more colour
to-day, my dear, dear son.”
While Mrs. Beaufort was pouring out the medicine, the door gently
opened, and Mr. Robert Beaufort appeared; behind him there rose a taller
and a statelier form, but one which seemed more bent, more humbled,
more agitated. Beaufort advanced. Camilla looked up and turned pale. The
visitor escaped from Mr. Beaufort’s grasp on his arm; he came forward,
trembling, he fell on his knees beside Arthur, and seizing his hand,
bent over, it in silence. But silence so stormy! silence more impressive
than all words his breast heaved, his whole frame shook. Arthur guessed
at once whom he saw, and bent down gently as if to raise his visitor.
“Oh! Arthur! Arthur!” then cried Philip; “forgive me! My mother’s
comforter--my cousin--my brother! Oh! brother, forgive me!”
And as he half rose, Arthur stretched out his arms, and Philip clasped
him to his breast.
It is in vain to describe the different feelings that agitated those who
beheld; the selfish congratulations of Robert, mingled with a better and
purer feeling; the stupor of the mother; the emotions that she herself
could not unravel, which rooted Camilla to the spot.
“You own me, then,--you own me!” cried Philip. “You accept the
brotherhood that my mad passions once rejected! And you, too--you,
Camilla--you who once knelt by my side, under this very roof--do you
remember me now? Oh, Arthur! that letter--that letter!--yes, indeed,
that aid which I ascribed to any one--rather than to you--made the date
of a fairer fortune. I may have owed to that aid the very fate that has
preserved me till now; the very name which I have not discredited. No,
no; do not think you can ask me a favour; you can but claim your due.
Brother! my dear brother!”