The intention was kind, but the manner was so patronising that Arthur felt offended. He put back the gun, and said, drily, “I shall have no occasion for the gun, thank you.”
If Arthur was offended by the offer, Philip was much more offended by the refusal. “As you like; I hate pride,” said he; and he gave the gun to the groom as he vaulted into his saddle with the lightness of a young Mercury. “Come, father!”
Mr. Beaufort had now mounted his favourite hunter—a large, powerful horse well known for its prowess in the field. The rider trotted him once or twice through the spacious yard.
“Nonsense, Tom: no more hurt in the loins than I am. Open that gate; we will go across the paddock, and take the gate yonder—the old six-bar—eh, Phil?”
“Capital!—to be sure!—”
The gate was opened—the grooms stood watchful to see the leap, and a kindred curiosity arrested Robert Beaufort and his son.
How well they looked! those two horsemen; the ease, lightness, spirit of the one, with the fine-limbed and fiery steed that literally “bounded beneath him as a barb”—seemingly as gay, as ardent, and as haughty as the boyrider. And the manly, and almost herculean form of the elder Beaufort, which, from the buoyancy of its movements, and the supple grace that belongs to the perfect mastership of any athletic art, possessed an elegance and dignity, especially on horseback, which rarely accompanies proportions equally sturdy and robust. There was indeed something knightly and chivalrous in the bearing of the elder Beaufort—in his handsome aquiline features, the erectness of his mien, the very wave of his hand, as he spurred from the yard.
“What a fine-looking fellow my uncle is!” said Arthur, with involuntary admiration.
“Ay, an excellent life—amazingly strong!” returned the pale father, with a slight sigh.
“Philip,” said Mr. Beaufort, as they cantered across the paddock, “I think the gate is too much for you. I will just take Puppet over, and then we will open it for you.”