death
for herself. From the age of sixteen, when she had been placed by Mr.
Beaufort at the head of his household, she had been cradled, not in
extravagance, but in an easy luxury, which had not brought with it
habits of economy and thrift. She could grudge anything to herself, but
to her children--his children, whose every whim had been anticipated,
she had not the heart to be saving. She could have starved in a garret
had she been alone; but she could not see them wanting a comfort
while she possessed a guinea. Philip, to do him justice, evinced a
consideration not to have been expected from his early and arrogant
recklessness. But Sidney, who could expect consideration from such a
child? What could he know of the change of circumstances--of the value
of money? Did he seem dejected, Catherine would steal out and spend a
week's income on the lapful of toys which she brought home. Did he seem
a shade more pale--did he complain of the slightest ailment, a doctor
must be sent for. Alas! her own ailments, neglected and unheeded, were
growing beyond the reach of medicine. Anxious fearful--gnawed by regret
for the past--the thought of famine in the future--she daily fretted
and wore herself away. She had cultivated her mind during her secluded
residence with Mr. Beaufort, but she had learned none of the arts by
which decayed gentlewomen keep the wolf from the door; no little holiday
accomplishments, which, in the day of need turn to useful trade; no
water-colour drawings, no paintings on velvet, no fabrications of pretty
gewgaws, no embroidery and fine needlework. She was helpless--utterly
helpless; if she had resigned herself to the thought of service, she
would not have had the physical strength for a place of drudgery, and
where could she have found the testimonials necessary for a place of
trust? A great change, at this time, was apparent in Philip. Had he
fallen, then, into kind hands, and under guiding eyes, his passions and
energies might have ripened into rare qualities and great virtues. But
perhaps as Goethe has somewhere said, "Experience, after all, is the
best teacher." He kept a constant guard on his vehement temper--his
wayward will; he would not have vexed his mother for the world. But,
strange to say (it was a great mystery in the woman's heart), in
proportion as he became more amiable, it seemed that his mother loved
him less. Perhaps she did not, in that change, recognise so closely the
darling of the old t