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.