Chapter Seven.Plotters for Fortune.The stag-hunt, at which Henry Harding had exhibited such gallant courage, had been the very last of the season; and, soon after, spring stole over the shire of Bucks, clothing its beechen forests and grassy glades in a new livery of the gayest green. The crake had come into the cornfield, the cuckoo winged her way across the common, uttering her soft monotonous notes, and the nightingale had once more taken possession of the coppice, from whence, through the livelong night, pealed forth its incomparable song. It was the month of May—that sweet season when all nature seems to submit itself to the tender inclinings of love; when not only the shy birds of the air, but the chased creatures of the earth—alike tamed and emboldened by its influence—stray beyond the safety of their coverts in pursuit of those pleasures at other seasons denied them.Whether the love-month has any influence on the passions of the human species, is a disputed question. Perhaps, in man’s primitive state, such may have been the case, and Nature’s suggestiveness may have extended also to him. But at whatever season affection may spring up between two young hearts, surely this is the time of the year that Nature has designed it to reach maturity.It seemed so in the case of Henry Harding. In the month of May his passion for Belle Mainwaring had reached the point that should end in a declaration; and upon this he had determined. With the outside world it was still a question whether his love was reciprocated, though it was generally thought that the coquette had been at length captured, and by Henry Harding. The eligibility of the match favoured this view of the case, though, to say the truth, not more than the personal appearance of the man.At this time the younger son of General Harding was just entering upon manhood, and possessed a face and figure alike manly and graceful. The only blemish that could be brought against him was of a moral nature—as already mentioned, a proneness to dissipation. But time might remedy this; and even as things stood it did not so materially damage him in the eyes of his lady acquaintances—more than one of whom would have been willing to take Miss Mainwaring’s chances. The light in which Belle regarded him may be best learnt from a conversation that, about this time, took place. It was over the breakfast-table in her mother’s cottage, the speakers being her mother and herself.“And you would marry him?” interrogated Mrs Mainwaring, after some remark that had introduced the name of Henry Harding.“I would, mamma; and, with your leave, I will.”“What abouthisleave?”“Ha! Ha!” laughed Belle with a confident air. “I think I may count upon that. He has as good as given it.”“Already! But has he really declared himself—in words I mean?”“Not exactly in words. But, dear ma, since I suppose you will insist upon knowing my secrets before giving your consent, I may as well tell you all about it. He intends to declare himself soon; this very day if I am not astray in my chronology.”“What reason have you for thinking so?”“Only his having hinted that he had something important to say to me—time fixed for a call he is to make this afternoon. What else could it be?”Mrs Mainwaring made no reply, but sat thoughtful, as if not altogether pleased with the communication her daughter had made.“I hope, dear mamma, you are contented?”“With what, my child?”“With—with—well, to have Henry Harding for your son-in-law. Does it satisfy you?”“My dearest child,” answered the Indian officer’s widow, with that cautious air peculiar to her country—she was Scotch. “It is a serious question this; very serious, and requires careful consideration. You know how very straitened are our circumstances—how your poor dear father left little to support us—having but little to leave?”“I should think I do know,” peevishly interposed Belle. “Twice turning my ball dresses, and then dyeing them into wearing silks, has taught me all that. But what has it to do with my marrying Henry Harding? All the more reason why I should. He, at all events, is not likely to be troubled with straitened circumstances.”“I am not so sure of that, my child.”“Ah! you know something about his expectations then? Something you have not told me? Is it so, mamma?”“I know very little. I wish it were otherwise, and I could be sure.”“But his father is rich. There are but two sons; and you have already told me that the estate is not entailed, or whatever you call it. Of course he will divide it equally between them. Half would satisfy me.”“And me too, child, if we were sure of half. But there lies the difficulty. It is the fact of the estate not being entailed that makes it. Were that done, there would be none.”“Then I could marry Henry?”“No, Nigel.”“Oh, mamma! what do you mean?”“The estate would then be Nigel’s by the simple law of entail. As it is now, it is all uncertain how they will inherit. It will depend on the will. It may go by a caprice of their father—and I know General Harding well enough to believe him capable of such caprice.”In her turn Belle became silent and thoughtful.“There is reason to fear,” continued the match-making, perhaps match-spoiling, mother, “that the General may leave Henry nothing, or at most only a maintenance. He is certainly very much dissatisfied with his conduct, and for a long time has been vainly endeavouring to change it. I won’t say the young man is loose in his habits; if he were, I would not hear of him for your husband. No, my child, poor as we are, it needn’t come to that.”As the widow said this she looked half interrogatively towards her daughter, who replied with a smile of assenting significance.“Henry Harding,” continued the cautious mother, “is too generous—too profuse in his expenditures.”“But, mamma, would not marriage cure him of that? He would then have me to think of, and take better care of his money.”“True, true; supposing him to be possessed of it. But therein lies the doubt—the difficulty, I may call it—about the prudence of your accepting him.”“But I love him; I do indeed!”“I am sorry for that, my child. You should have been more cautious, until better assured about his circumstances. You must leave it to time. You will, if you love me.”“And if, as I have told you—this afternoon—what answer?”“Evasive, my dear. Nothing easier. You have me to fall back upon. You are my only child; my consent will be necessary. Come, Belle! you need no instructions from me. You will lose nothing by a little procrastination. You have nothing to fear from it, and everything to gain. Without it, you may become the wife of one poorer than ever your father was; and, instead of having to turn your silk dresses, you may have none to turn. Be prudent, therefore, in the step you are about to take.”Belle only answered with a sigh; but it was neither so sad or so deep as to cause any apprehension to her counsellor; while the sly look that accompanied it told, that she determined upon beingprudent.
The stag-hunt, at which Henry Harding had exhibited such gallant courage, had been the very last of the season; and, soon after, spring stole over the shire of Bucks, clothing its beechen forests and grassy glades in a new livery of the gayest green. The crake had come into the cornfield, the cuckoo winged her way across the common, uttering her soft monotonous notes, and the nightingale had once more taken possession of the coppice, from whence, through the livelong night, pealed forth its incomparable song. It was the month of May—that sweet season when all nature seems to submit itself to the tender inclinings of love; when not only the shy birds of the air, but the chased creatures of the earth—alike tamed and emboldened by its influence—stray beyond the safety of their coverts in pursuit of those pleasures at other seasons denied them.
Whether the love-month has any influence on the passions of the human species, is a disputed question. Perhaps, in man’s primitive state, such may have been the case, and Nature’s suggestiveness may have extended also to him. But at whatever season affection may spring up between two young hearts, surely this is the time of the year that Nature has designed it to reach maturity.
It seemed so in the case of Henry Harding. In the month of May his passion for Belle Mainwaring had reached the point that should end in a declaration; and upon this he had determined. With the outside world it was still a question whether his love was reciprocated, though it was generally thought that the coquette had been at length captured, and by Henry Harding. The eligibility of the match favoured this view of the case, though, to say the truth, not more than the personal appearance of the man.
At this time the younger son of General Harding was just entering upon manhood, and possessed a face and figure alike manly and graceful. The only blemish that could be brought against him was of a moral nature—as already mentioned, a proneness to dissipation. But time might remedy this; and even as things stood it did not so materially damage him in the eyes of his lady acquaintances—more than one of whom would have been willing to take Miss Mainwaring’s chances. The light in which Belle regarded him may be best learnt from a conversation that, about this time, took place. It was over the breakfast-table in her mother’s cottage, the speakers being her mother and herself.
“And you would marry him?” interrogated Mrs Mainwaring, after some remark that had introduced the name of Henry Harding.
“I would, mamma; and, with your leave, I will.”
“What abouthisleave?”
“Ha! Ha!” laughed Belle with a confident air. “I think I may count upon that. He has as good as given it.”
“Already! But has he really declared himself—in words I mean?”
“Not exactly in words. But, dear ma, since I suppose you will insist upon knowing my secrets before giving your consent, I may as well tell you all about it. He intends to declare himself soon; this very day if I am not astray in my chronology.”
“What reason have you for thinking so?”
“Only his having hinted that he had something important to say to me—time fixed for a call he is to make this afternoon. What else could it be?”
Mrs Mainwaring made no reply, but sat thoughtful, as if not altogether pleased with the communication her daughter had made.
“I hope, dear mamma, you are contented?”
“With what, my child?”
“With—with—well, to have Henry Harding for your son-in-law. Does it satisfy you?”
“My dearest child,” answered the Indian officer’s widow, with that cautious air peculiar to her country—she was Scotch. “It is a serious question this; very serious, and requires careful consideration. You know how very straitened are our circumstances—how your poor dear father left little to support us—having but little to leave?”
“I should think I do know,” peevishly interposed Belle. “Twice turning my ball dresses, and then dyeing them into wearing silks, has taught me all that. But what has it to do with my marrying Henry Harding? All the more reason why I should. He, at all events, is not likely to be troubled with straitened circumstances.”
“I am not so sure of that, my child.”
“Ah! you know something about his expectations then? Something you have not told me? Is it so, mamma?”
“I know very little. I wish it were otherwise, and I could be sure.”
“But his father is rich. There are but two sons; and you have already told me that the estate is not entailed, or whatever you call it. Of course he will divide it equally between them. Half would satisfy me.”
“And me too, child, if we were sure of half. But there lies the difficulty. It is the fact of the estate not being entailed that makes it. Were that done, there would be none.”
“Then I could marry Henry?”
“No, Nigel.”
“Oh, mamma! what do you mean?”
“The estate would then be Nigel’s by the simple law of entail. As it is now, it is all uncertain how they will inherit. It will depend on the will. It may go by a caprice of their father—and I know General Harding well enough to believe him capable of such caprice.”
In her turn Belle became silent and thoughtful.
“There is reason to fear,” continued the match-making, perhaps match-spoiling, mother, “that the General may leave Henry nothing, or at most only a maintenance. He is certainly very much dissatisfied with his conduct, and for a long time has been vainly endeavouring to change it. I won’t say the young man is loose in his habits; if he were, I would not hear of him for your husband. No, my child, poor as we are, it needn’t come to that.”
As the widow said this she looked half interrogatively towards her daughter, who replied with a smile of assenting significance.
“Henry Harding,” continued the cautious mother, “is too generous—too profuse in his expenditures.”
“But, mamma, would not marriage cure him of that? He would then have me to think of, and take better care of his money.”
“True, true; supposing him to be possessed of it. But therein lies the doubt—the difficulty, I may call it—about the prudence of your accepting him.”
“But I love him; I do indeed!”
“I am sorry for that, my child. You should have been more cautious, until better assured about his circumstances. You must leave it to time. You will, if you love me.”
“And if, as I have told you—this afternoon—what answer?”
“Evasive, my dear. Nothing easier. You have me to fall back upon. You are my only child; my consent will be necessary. Come, Belle! you need no instructions from me. You will lose nothing by a little procrastination. You have nothing to fear from it, and everything to gain. Without it, you may become the wife of one poorer than ever your father was; and, instead of having to turn your silk dresses, you may have none to turn. Be prudent, therefore, in the step you are about to take.”
Belle only answered with a sigh; but it was neither so sad or so deep as to cause any apprehension to her counsellor; while the sly look that accompanied it told, that she determined upon beingprudent.
Chapter Eight.Father and Son.General Harding was accustomed to spend much time in his studio, or library it might be called—since it contained a goodly number of books. They were mostly volumes that related to Oriental subjects, more especially works upon India and its campaigns; but there were also many devoted to science and natural history, while scattered here and there upon tables were odd numbers of theOriental Magazine, theTransactions of the Asiatic Society, and theCalcutta Englishman. There were also large pamphlets in blue parliamentary covers, that related only to the affairs of the Hon. E.I.C.In poring over these volumes, the retiredmilitairewas accustomed to pass much of his time. The subjects, with the descriptions attached, recalled scenes in his past life, the souvenirs of which gave him pleasure, enabling him to while away many an hour that, amidst the seclusion of the Chiltern Hills, might have otherwise hung rather heavily on his hands. Each new book about India was sure to find its way into the General’s library, and, though never a very keen sportsman, he could enjoy the descriptions of hunting scenes to be found in the pages of “Markham” and the “Old Shikaree,” since in both there is something to interest not only the sportsman but the student of Nature.On a certain morning he had entered his studio, but with no intention of devoting himself to the tranquil study of his books. On the contrary, he did not even seat himself, but commenced pacing the floor with a quick step; while his clouded brow denoted agitation of mind. Every now and then he would stop, strike his clenched hand against his forehead, mutter a few words to himself, and then move on again. Among his mutterings could be distinguished some words that guided to the subject of his thoughts. The names “Nigel” and “Henry” constantly occurring, told that both his sons had a share in his cogitations, though chiefly the latter, whose cognomen was most frequently pronounced.“This boy Henry has half driven me mad with his wild ways. And now, worse than all, his affair with this girl. From what I have heard, there can be no doubt that she’s entangled him; no doubt of its having become serious. It won’t do; must be broken off, cost what it will. She’s not the stuff to make an honest man’s wife out of. I’d care less if it were Nigel. But no, she won’t do for either—for no son of mine. I knew her mother too well. Poor Mainwaring! Many a dog’s day he spent with her in India. Like mother, like daughter. By heavens, it won’t do; and I shall put a stop to it! I think I know how,” continued he reflectingly. “If he’s mad, she isn’t; and therein I may find my means for saying the poor lad from the worst of all misfortunes—a wicked wife.”The General made several turns in silence, as if maturing some plan.“Yes; that’s the way to save him!” he at length joyfully exclaimed; “perhaps the only way. And there’s no time to be lost about it. While I’m thinking he may be acting—may have gone too far for me to get him out of the scrape. I shall see him at once—see and question him.”The General stooped over the table; pressed upon a spring-bell; and then resumed his pacing.The bell brought up the butler, a portly individual, who so far as could be judged by appearance, was as respectable as the General himself.“Williams! I wish to see my son Henry;—find out if he’s upon the premises.”“He’s on the premises, General. He’s down at the stables. Groom says he’s going to mount the brown filly.”“The brown filly? Why she’s never been ridden before!”“She never has, General. I think it very dangerous; but that’s just what Master Henry likes. I tried to persuade him against it, but then Master Nigel told me to mind my own business.”“Send quick to the stable; tell him I forbid his riding the filly. Tell him to come hither. Haste, Williams, haste!”“Ever running into danger, as if he loved it,” said the General, continuing his soliloquy; “so like what I was myself. The brown filly! Ah! I wish this was all. The Mainwaring damsel’s a worse danger than that.”At this moment Henry made his appearance, breeched, booted, and spurred, as if for the hunting-field.“Did you send for me, father?”“Of course I did. You were going to mount the brown filly?”“I am going. Have you any objection to my doing so?”“Do you want your neck broken?”“Ha, ha, ha! There’s not much fear of that. I think you make light of my horsemanship, papa.”“You carry too much confidence, sir—far too much. You mount a vicious mare without consulting me. You do other and more important things without consulting me. I intend putting a stop to it.”“What other things do you refer to, father?”“Many other things. You spend money foolishly—like a madman; and, like a maniac, you are now rushing upon a danger of a still graver kind—upon destruction, sir—rank, absolute destruction.”“Of what are you speaking, father? Do you mean by my mounting the filly?”“No, sir. You may back her, and break your neck, for aught I care. I’m speaking of what’s far wickeder—a woman.”The word woman caused the youth to turn pale. He had thought that, to his father at least, his love for Miss Mainwaring was still a secret. No other woman could be meant.“I do not understand you, papa,” was his evasive response.“But you do, sir—perfectly. If I gave you the name of this woman, you wouldn’t be any the wiser than you are now; you know it too well. I’ll tell you, for all that. I refer to Miss Belle Mainwaring.”Henry made no reply, but stood blushing in the presence of his parent.“And now, sir, about this woman I have only a few words to say—you must give her up.”“Father!”“I won’t listen to any of your love-sick appeals. Don’t make them—they’ll only be wasted on me. I repeat, sir, you must give Belle Mainwaring up—at once, absolutely, and for ever!”“Father,” said the youth, in a firm tone, within his breast love pleading for justice, “you ask me to do what’s not in my power. I acknowledge that between myself and Miss Mainwaring there is something more than the affection of friendship. It has gone further than mere feeling. There have been words—I may say promises—between us. To break them, requires the consent of both parties; and for me to do so, without first consulting her, would be a cruel injustice, to which I cannot lend myself. No, father; not even with the alternative of incurring your displeasure.”General Harding stood for a moment silent; pretending to reflect, but furtively contemplating his son. A superficial observer could have seen only anger at this filial defiance, where one clever in reading faces might have detected something like admiration mingling with the sentiment. If there was such, however, in his heart, his speech did not show it.“Enough, sir! You have made up your mind to disobey me? Very well. Understand what this disobedience will cost you. I suppose you know the meaning of an entailed estate?”The General paused, as if for an answer.“I know nothing about it, papa. Something connected with a will, I believe.”“The very reverse. An entailed estate has nothing to do with a will. Now, my estate isnotentailed, andisconnected with a will. It is about that I am going to talk to you. I can make one, giving my property to whomsoever I please; either to your brother Nigel or yourself. Marry Miss Mainwaring, and it shall be Nigel’s. Still, to you I shall leave just enough to carry you out of the country—that is one thousand pounds sterling. Now, sir, you hear what I have to say.”“I hear it, father; and with sorrow. I shall be sorry to lose the inheritance I had reason to expect, but far more your esteem. Both, however, must be parted with, if there be no other consideration for my retaining them. Whether I am to marry Miss Mainwaring or not, must depend upon Miss Mainwaring herself. I think, father, you understand me?”“Too well, sir—too well; and I answer by telling you that I have passed my word, and it shall be kept. You may go and mount the filly, and thank God she don’t do with your neck what you are likely to do with your father’s heart—break it. Begone, sir!”Without saying a word, Henry walked out of the room, slowly and sadly.“The image of his mother! Who could not help liking the lad, in spite of his rebellious spirit, and with all his wasteful habits? It won’t do to have such a noble heart sacrificed upon a worthless jade of a woman. He must be saved.”Once more the General pressed upon the spring-bell, this time more violently than before. It brought the butler back in double quick time.“Williams!”“General?”“My carriage, as soon as the horses can be put to?”Williams disappeared to cause execution of the order.A few more turns to and fro across the Turkey carpet, a few muttered soliloquies, and the carriage wheels grated upon the gravel outside.Williams helped the General to his hat and gloves; saw him down-stairs; handed him into the carriage; and watched it rolling away, just as Henry, on the back of the brown filly, was fighting her across the green sward of the park, endeavouring to keep her head in the opposite direction.
General Harding was accustomed to spend much time in his studio, or library it might be called—since it contained a goodly number of books. They were mostly volumes that related to Oriental subjects, more especially works upon India and its campaigns; but there were also many devoted to science and natural history, while scattered here and there upon tables were odd numbers of theOriental Magazine, theTransactions of the Asiatic Society, and theCalcutta Englishman. There were also large pamphlets in blue parliamentary covers, that related only to the affairs of the Hon. E.I.C.
In poring over these volumes, the retiredmilitairewas accustomed to pass much of his time. The subjects, with the descriptions attached, recalled scenes in his past life, the souvenirs of which gave him pleasure, enabling him to while away many an hour that, amidst the seclusion of the Chiltern Hills, might have otherwise hung rather heavily on his hands. Each new book about India was sure to find its way into the General’s library, and, though never a very keen sportsman, he could enjoy the descriptions of hunting scenes to be found in the pages of “Markham” and the “Old Shikaree,” since in both there is something to interest not only the sportsman but the student of Nature.
On a certain morning he had entered his studio, but with no intention of devoting himself to the tranquil study of his books. On the contrary, he did not even seat himself, but commenced pacing the floor with a quick step; while his clouded brow denoted agitation of mind. Every now and then he would stop, strike his clenched hand against his forehead, mutter a few words to himself, and then move on again. Among his mutterings could be distinguished some words that guided to the subject of his thoughts. The names “Nigel” and “Henry” constantly occurring, told that both his sons had a share in his cogitations, though chiefly the latter, whose cognomen was most frequently pronounced.
“This boy Henry has half driven me mad with his wild ways. And now, worse than all, his affair with this girl. From what I have heard, there can be no doubt that she’s entangled him; no doubt of its having become serious. It won’t do; must be broken off, cost what it will. She’s not the stuff to make an honest man’s wife out of. I’d care less if it were Nigel. But no, she won’t do for either—for no son of mine. I knew her mother too well. Poor Mainwaring! Many a dog’s day he spent with her in India. Like mother, like daughter. By heavens, it won’t do; and I shall put a stop to it! I think I know how,” continued he reflectingly. “If he’s mad, she isn’t; and therein I may find my means for saying the poor lad from the worst of all misfortunes—a wicked wife.”
The General made several turns in silence, as if maturing some plan.
“Yes; that’s the way to save him!” he at length joyfully exclaimed; “perhaps the only way. And there’s no time to be lost about it. While I’m thinking he may be acting—may have gone too far for me to get him out of the scrape. I shall see him at once—see and question him.”
The General stooped over the table; pressed upon a spring-bell; and then resumed his pacing.
The bell brought up the butler, a portly individual, who so far as could be judged by appearance, was as respectable as the General himself.
“Williams! I wish to see my son Henry;—find out if he’s upon the premises.”
“He’s on the premises, General. He’s down at the stables. Groom says he’s going to mount the brown filly.”
“The brown filly? Why she’s never been ridden before!”
“She never has, General. I think it very dangerous; but that’s just what Master Henry likes. I tried to persuade him against it, but then Master Nigel told me to mind my own business.”
“Send quick to the stable; tell him I forbid his riding the filly. Tell him to come hither. Haste, Williams, haste!”
“Ever running into danger, as if he loved it,” said the General, continuing his soliloquy; “so like what I was myself. The brown filly! Ah! I wish this was all. The Mainwaring damsel’s a worse danger than that.”
At this moment Henry made his appearance, breeched, booted, and spurred, as if for the hunting-field.
“Did you send for me, father?”
“Of course I did. You were going to mount the brown filly?”
“I am going. Have you any objection to my doing so?”
“Do you want your neck broken?”
“Ha, ha, ha! There’s not much fear of that. I think you make light of my horsemanship, papa.”
“You carry too much confidence, sir—far too much. You mount a vicious mare without consulting me. You do other and more important things without consulting me. I intend putting a stop to it.”
“What other things do you refer to, father?”
“Many other things. You spend money foolishly—like a madman; and, like a maniac, you are now rushing upon a danger of a still graver kind—upon destruction, sir—rank, absolute destruction.”
“Of what are you speaking, father? Do you mean by my mounting the filly?”
“No, sir. You may back her, and break your neck, for aught I care. I’m speaking of what’s far wickeder—a woman.”
The word woman caused the youth to turn pale. He had thought that, to his father at least, his love for Miss Mainwaring was still a secret. No other woman could be meant.
“I do not understand you, papa,” was his evasive response.
“But you do, sir—perfectly. If I gave you the name of this woman, you wouldn’t be any the wiser than you are now; you know it too well. I’ll tell you, for all that. I refer to Miss Belle Mainwaring.”
Henry made no reply, but stood blushing in the presence of his parent.
“And now, sir, about this woman I have only a few words to say—you must give her up.”
“Father!”
“I won’t listen to any of your love-sick appeals. Don’t make them—they’ll only be wasted on me. I repeat, sir, you must give Belle Mainwaring up—at once, absolutely, and for ever!”
“Father,” said the youth, in a firm tone, within his breast love pleading for justice, “you ask me to do what’s not in my power. I acknowledge that between myself and Miss Mainwaring there is something more than the affection of friendship. It has gone further than mere feeling. There have been words—I may say promises—between us. To break them, requires the consent of both parties; and for me to do so, without first consulting her, would be a cruel injustice, to which I cannot lend myself. No, father; not even with the alternative of incurring your displeasure.”
General Harding stood for a moment silent; pretending to reflect, but furtively contemplating his son. A superficial observer could have seen only anger at this filial defiance, where one clever in reading faces might have detected something like admiration mingling with the sentiment. If there was such, however, in his heart, his speech did not show it.
“Enough, sir! You have made up your mind to disobey me? Very well. Understand what this disobedience will cost you. I suppose you know the meaning of an entailed estate?”
The General paused, as if for an answer.
“I know nothing about it, papa. Something connected with a will, I believe.”
“The very reverse. An entailed estate has nothing to do with a will. Now, my estate isnotentailed, andisconnected with a will. It is about that I am going to talk to you. I can make one, giving my property to whomsoever I please; either to your brother Nigel or yourself. Marry Miss Mainwaring, and it shall be Nigel’s. Still, to you I shall leave just enough to carry you out of the country—that is one thousand pounds sterling. Now, sir, you hear what I have to say.”
“I hear it, father; and with sorrow. I shall be sorry to lose the inheritance I had reason to expect, but far more your esteem. Both, however, must be parted with, if there be no other consideration for my retaining them. Whether I am to marry Miss Mainwaring or not, must depend upon Miss Mainwaring herself. I think, father, you understand me?”
“Too well, sir—too well; and I answer by telling you that I have passed my word, and it shall be kept. You may go and mount the filly, and thank God she don’t do with your neck what you are likely to do with your father’s heart—break it. Begone, sir!”
Without saying a word, Henry walked out of the room, slowly and sadly.
“The image of his mother! Who could not help liking the lad, in spite of his rebellious spirit, and with all his wasteful habits? It won’t do to have such a noble heart sacrificed upon a worthless jade of a woman. He must be saved.”
Once more the General pressed upon the spring-bell, this time more violently than before. It brought the butler back in double quick time.
“Williams!”
“General?”
“My carriage, as soon as the horses can be put to?”
Williams disappeared to cause execution of the order.
A few more turns to and fro across the Turkey carpet, a few muttered soliloquies, and the carriage wheels grated upon the gravel outside.
Williams helped the General to his hat and gloves; saw him down-stairs; handed him into the carriage; and watched it rolling away, just as Henry, on the back of the brown filly, was fighting her across the green sward of the park, endeavouring to keep her head in the opposite direction.
Chapter Nine.The Checkmate.Mr Woolet sat in his office, which was separated from that of his solitary clerk by a thick wall and a narrow doorway between. But there was another wall of slighter dimensions, alongside Mr Woolet’s room, partitioning off a kind of cupboard enclosure, into which, when Mr Woolet required it, the said clerk could introduce himself, and there, standing cat-like and silent, hear what passed between his employer and any client whose conversation it was deemed necessary to make note of.After this it is scarce necessary to add that Mr Woolet was an attorney; and though the scene of his practice was a quiet country town, in the shire of Bucks, this practice was carried on with as much sharpness and trickery, as if it lay among the low courts surrounding Newgate, or the slums of Clerkenwell.The great city does not monopolise the plant calledpettifogging. It thrives equally as strong in the county town. Even the village knows it to its cost; and the poor cottager, in his leaky shed at three shillings a week, is too often encompassed by its toils.Of such small fry Mr Woolet had hooked his hundreds, and had prospered by their capture to the keeping of a carriage and pair; but, as yet, none of the big fish had entered his net—the largest being the widow Mainwaring, who had been caught while taking from him a lease of her cottage. The carriage had, therefore, been kept to no purpose, or less than none: since not being in accord with his position it only brought him ridicule. This, however, could not last for ever. The gentry could not always hold out against such a glittering attraction. Some swell must in time stand in need of Mr Woolet’s peculiar services, and enable him to achieve the much wished-for position. And so it seemed to turn out, as one day a carriage much grander than Mr Woolet’s own, with a coachman nearly a quarter of a ton in weight, and a powdered footman beside him, drove through the street of the little town in which Mr Woolet lived, and pulled up opposite his office.Perhaps the lawyer was never more delighted in his life, than when his clerk protruded his phiz inside the office-door, and announcedsotto vocethe arrival of General Harding. In a moment after the same individual ushered the General into his presence. A masonic sign communicated to the clerk caused his disappearance; and the instant after that pale-faced familiar was skulking like a ghost within the cupboard enclosure.“General Harding, I believe?” said the obsequious attorney, bowing to the lowest button of his visitor’s surtout.“Yes,” bluffly responded the old soldier. “That is my name. Yours is—”“Woolet, General; E. Woolet, at your service.”“Well, I want some service from you—if you’re not otherwise engaged.”“Any engagement, General, must stand aside for you. What can I do to oblige you?”“To oblige me, nothing. I want your services as an attorney. You are one, I believe?”“My name is in the Law List, General. You can see it here.”Mr Woolet took up a small volume, and was handing it to the General.“Never mind about the Law List,” bluntly interrupted the soldier, “I see it on your sign; that’s enough for me. What I’m in search of is an attorney who can make a will. I suppose you can do that?”“Well, General, although I cannot boast of my professional abilities, I think I can manage the making of a will.”“Enough said; sit down and set about it.”Considering that he kept a carriage himself, Mr Woolet might have felt a little offended by this brusque behaviour on the part of his new client. It was the first time he had ever been so treated in his own office; but then it was the first time he had ever had a client of such a class, and he knew better than to show feeling under the infliction.Without saying another word, he sat down before his table, the General taking a seat on the opposite side, and waited for the latter to proceed.“Write now as I dictate,” said the General, without even prefixing the word “please.”The lawyer, still obsequious, signified assent, at the same time seizing a pen, and placing a sheet of blue foolscap before him.“I hereby will and bequeath to my eldest son, Nigel Harding, all my real and personal estate, comprising my houses and lands, as also my stock in personal securities, excepting one thousand pounds, to be sold out of the last, and paid over to my other and youngest son, Henry Harding, as his sole legacy left from my estate.”To this extent the lawyer finished the writing, and waited for his client to proceed.“You have done, have you?” asked the General.“So far as you dictated, General, I have.”“Have you written down the date?”“Not yet, General.”“Then put it in.”Woolet took up his pen, and complied.“Have you a witness at hand? If not, I can bring in my footman.”“You need not do that, General. My clerk will do for one witness.”“Oh! it wants two, does it?”“That is the law, General; but I myself can be the second.”“All right, then; let me sign.”And the General rose from his seat, and leaned towards the table.“But, General,” interposed the lawyer, thinking the will a somewhat short one, “is this all? You have two sons?”“Of course I have. Haven’t I said so in my will?”“But, surely—”“Surely what?”“You are not going to—”“I am going to sign my will, if you will allow me; if not, I must get it made elsewhere.”Mr Woolet was too much a man of business to offer any further opposition. It was no affair of his beyond giving satisfaction to his new client; and to accomplish this he at once pushed the paper before the General, at the same time presenting him with the pen.The General signed; the lawyer and his clerk—summoned from the cupboard—attested; and the will was complete.“Now make me a copy of it,” demanded the General. “The original you may keep till called for.”The copy was made; the General buttoned it up in the breast of his surtout; and then, without even cautioning the lawyer to secrecy, stepped back into his carriage, and was soon rolling along the four miles of road lying between the village and his own residence.“There’s something queer about all this,” soliloquised the pettifogger, when left alone in his office. “Queer he should come to me, instead of going to his own solicitor; and queerer still he should disinherit the younger son—or next thing to it. His property cannot be worth less than a cool hundred thousand pounds, and all to go to that half-negro, while the other, as most people thought, would have a half share of it. After all, it’s not so strange. He’s angry with the younger son; and in making this will he comes to me instead of going to Lawson, who he knows might say something to dissuade him from his purpose. I have no doubt he will stick to it, unless the young scamp leaves off his idle ways. General Harding is not a man to be trifled with, even by his own son. But whether this will is to remain good or not, it’s my duty to make it known to a third party, who for certain reasons will be deeply interested in its contents; and who, whether she may ever be able to thank me for communicating them, will, at all events, keep the secret of my doing so. She shall hear of it within the hour.”“Mr Robson!”The pale face of the unarticled clerk appeared within the doorway—prompt as a stage spirit summoned through a trap.“Tell the coachman to clap the horses into my carriage—quick as tinder.”The spirit disappeared without making any reply, and just as his invoker had finished the folding of the lately attested will, and made a minute of what had transpired between him and the testator, carriage wheels were heard outside the door of the office.In six seconds after Mr Woolet was in his “trap”—as he used condescendingly to call it—and rattling along a country road, the same taken ten minutes before by the more ostentatious equipage of the retired Indian officer.Although driving the same way, the destination of the two vehicles was different. The chariot was bound for Beechwood Park, the “trap” for a less pretentious residence outside its enclosure—the villa-cottage occupied by the widow Mainwaring.
Mr Woolet sat in his office, which was separated from that of his solitary clerk by a thick wall and a narrow doorway between. But there was another wall of slighter dimensions, alongside Mr Woolet’s room, partitioning off a kind of cupboard enclosure, into which, when Mr Woolet required it, the said clerk could introduce himself, and there, standing cat-like and silent, hear what passed between his employer and any client whose conversation it was deemed necessary to make note of.
After this it is scarce necessary to add that Mr Woolet was an attorney; and though the scene of his practice was a quiet country town, in the shire of Bucks, this practice was carried on with as much sharpness and trickery, as if it lay among the low courts surrounding Newgate, or the slums of Clerkenwell.
The great city does not monopolise the plant calledpettifogging. It thrives equally as strong in the county town. Even the village knows it to its cost; and the poor cottager, in his leaky shed at three shillings a week, is too often encompassed by its toils.
Of such small fry Mr Woolet had hooked his hundreds, and had prospered by their capture to the keeping of a carriage and pair; but, as yet, none of the big fish had entered his net—the largest being the widow Mainwaring, who had been caught while taking from him a lease of her cottage. The carriage had, therefore, been kept to no purpose, or less than none: since not being in accord with his position it only brought him ridicule. This, however, could not last for ever. The gentry could not always hold out against such a glittering attraction. Some swell must in time stand in need of Mr Woolet’s peculiar services, and enable him to achieve the much wished-for position. And so it seemed to turn out, as one day a carriage much grander than Mr Woolet’s own, with a coachman nearly a quarter of a ton in weight, and a powdered footman beside him, drove through the street of the little town in which Mr Woolet lived, and pulled up opposite his office.
Perhaps the lawyer was never more delighted in his life, than when his clerk protruded his phiz inside the office-door, and announcedsotto vocethe arrival of General Harding. In a moment after the same individual ushered the General into his presence. A masonic sign communicated to the clerk caused his disappearance; and the instant after that pale-faced familiar was skulking like a ghost within the cupboard enclosure.
“General Harding, I believe?” said the obsequious attorney, bowing to the lowest button of his visitor’s surtout.
“Yes,” bluffly responded the old soldier. “That is my name. Yours is—”
“Woolet, General; E. Woolet, at your service.”
“Well, I want some service from you—if you’re not otherwise engaged.”
“Any engagement, General, must stand aside for you. What can I do to oblige you?”
“To oblige me, nothing. I want your services as an attorney. You are one, I believe?”
“My name is in the Law List, General. You can see it here.”
Mr Woolet took up a small volume, and was handing it to the General.
“Never mind about the Law List,” bluntly interrupted the soldier, “I see it on your sign; that’s enough for me. What I’m in search of is an attorney who can make a will. I suppose you can do that?”
“Well, General, although I cannot boast of my professional abilities, I think I can manage the making of a will.”
“Enough said; sit down and set about it.”
Considering that he kept a carriage himself, Mr Woolet might have felt a little offended by this brusque behaviour on the part of his new client. It was the first time he had ever been so treated in his own office; but then it was the first time he had ever had a client of such a class, and he knew better than to show feeling under the infliction.
Without saying another word, he sat down before his table, the General taking a seat on the opposite side, and waited for the latter to proceed.
“Write now as I dictate,” said the General, without even prefixing the word “please.”
The lawyer, still obsequious, signified assent, at the same time seizing a pen, and placing a sheet of blue foolscap before him.
“I hereby will and bequeath to my eldest son, Nigel Harding, all my real and personal estate, comprising my houses and lands, as also my stock in personal securities, excepting one thousand pounds, to be sold out of the last, and paid over to my other and youngest son, Henry Harding, as his sole legacy left from my estate.”
To this extent the lawyer finished the writing, and waited for his client to proceed.
“You have done, have you?” asked the General.
“So far as you dictated, General, I have.”
“Have you written down the date?”
“Not yet, General.”
“Then put it in.”
Woolet took up his pen, and complied.
“Have you a witness at hand? If not, I can bring in my footman.”
“You need not do that, General. My clerk will do for one witness.”
“Oh! it wants two, does it?”
“That is the law, General; but I myself can be the second.”
“All right, then; let me sign.”
And the General rose from his seat, and leaned towards the table.
“But, General,” interposed the lawyer, thinking the will a somewhat short one, “is this all? You have two sons?”
“Of course I have. Haven’t I said so in my will?”
“But, surely—”
“Surely what?”
“You are not going to—”
“I am going to sign my will, if you will allow me; if not, I must get it made elsewhere.”
Mr Woolet was too much a man of business to offer any further opposition. It was no affair of his beyond giving satisfaction to his new client; and to accomplish this he at once pushed the paper before the General, at the same time presenting him with the pen.
The General signed; the lawyer and his clerk—summoned from the cupboard—attested; and the will was complete.
“Now make me a copy of it,” demanded the General. “The original you may keep till called for.”
The copy was made; the General buttoned it up in the breast of his surtout; and then, without even cautioning the lawyer to secrecy, stepped back into his carriage, and was soon rolling along the four miles of road lying between the village and his own residence.
“There’s something queer about all this,” soliloquised the pettifogger, when left alone in his office. “Queer he should come to me, instead of going to his own solicitor; and queerer still he should disinherit the younger son—or next thing to it. His property cannot be worth less than a cool hundred thousand pounds, and all to go to that half-negro, while the other, as most people thought, would have a half share of it. After all, it’s not so strange. He’s angry with the younger son; and in making this will he comes to me instead of going to Lawson, who he knows might say something to dissuade him from his purpose. I have no doubt he will stick to it, unless the young scamp leaves off his idle ways. General Harding is not a man to be trifled with, even by his own son. But whether this will is to remain good or not, it’s my duty to make it known to a third party, who for certain reasons will be deeply interested in its contents; and who, whether she may ever be able to thank me for communicating them, will, at all events, keep the secret of my doing so. She shall hear of it within the hour.”
“Mr Robson!”
The pale face of the unarticled clerk appeared within the doorway—prompt as a stage spirit summoned through a trap.
“Tell the coachman to clap the horses into my carriage—quick as tinder.”
The spirit disappeared without making any reply, and just as his invoker had finished the folding of the lately attested will, and made a minute of what had transpired between him and the testator, carriage wheels were heard outside the door of the office.
In six seconds after Mr Woolet was in his “trap”—as he used condescendingly to call it—and rattling along a country road, the same taken ten minutes before by the more ostentatious equipage of the retired Indian officer.
Although driving the same way, the destination of the two vehicles was different. The chariot was bound for Beechwood Park, the “trap” for a less pretentious residence outside its enclosure—the villa-cottage occupied by the widow Mainwaring.
Chapter Ten.The Bait Taken.The relict of the late colonel, who had left his hones in the Punjaub and herself with only a slight maintenance, had nevertheless sufficient to maintain a “turn-out.” True it was but a pony and phaeton; but the pony was spirited, the phaeton a neat one, and with the charming Belle in it, hat on head, whip and ribbons in hand, it might have been termed stylish. The appearance was improved by a boy in buttons, who sat upon the back seat, well trained to sustain the dignity of the situation.This choice little tableau of country life might have been seen at the gate of Mrs Mainwaring’s villa at eleven o’clock of that same day, on which the conversation already reported had passed between herself and her daughter in the breakfast-room.It was an early hour for a drive; but it was to be a journey upon business to her lawyer. It was never made; for just as the sprightly Belle had taken her seat in the phaeton, adjusted her drapery, and commenced “catching flies” with her whip, what should appear coming up the road, and at a spanking pace, but the two-horse trap of that lawyer himself, Mr Woolet.The trap was evidentlyen routefor the widow’s residence, where more than once it had brought its owner upon matters of business. Its approach was a fortunate circumstance; so thought Mrs Mainwaring, so thought her daughter, neither of whom on that particular day desired to go to the town. It was not one that had been set apart for shopping; more important matters were on thetapis, and these could be arranged with Mr Woolet on the spot. The phaeton was at once abandoned, “Buttons” receiving orders to keep the pony by the gate, and the ladies, followed by the lawyer, returned into the cottage. The attorney was received in the drawing-room; but, as the business could have nothing to do with the beautiful Belle, her presence was excused, and she sauntered out again, leaving her mother alone with Mr Woolet.Though there was still a certain obsequiousness about the lawyer’s manner, it was very different from that he had exhibited when dealing with General Harding. There was a vast distinction between a live General, possessed of a clear hundred thousand pounds, and a defunct colonel’s widow, with scarce so many pence. Still, Mrs Mainwaring was a lady of acknowledged social position, with a daughter who might at no distant day have thecontrolof a gentleman who had a hundred thousand pounds, and who might become a profitable client of whoever chanced at the time to be her mother’s solicitor. Mr Woolet was a sharp, far-seeing individual, and this forecast had not escaped him. If he showed himself more at ease in the presence of the colonel’s widow than he had done in that of the General, it was simply because he recognised in the lady a nature like his own—less scrupulous upon points of honour or etiquette.“Have you any business with me, Mr Woolet?” asked the lady, without making known the fact that she was about going on business to him.“Well, Mrs Mainwaring, scarce enough to make it worth while my calling on you—at all events, interrupting your drive. What I have to say may be of no importance—but five minutes will suffice for saying it.”“Take what time you please, Mr Woolet; our drive had no object—a little shopping affair of my daughter’s, that can be disposed of at any hour. Please be seated.”The lawyer took a chair; the lady sank into a couch.“Something, I suppose, connected with the cottage?” she continued in a tone of studied indifference. “I think the rent is paid up to—”“Oh, nothing of that,” interrupted the lawyer. “You are too punctual in your payments, Mrs Mainwaring, to need reminding from me. I have come upon an affair that, indeed, now that I think of it, may look like interference on my part. But it is one that may be of importance, and, studying your interest as my client, I deem it my duty to interfere. I hope, if in error, you will not be offended by my apparent over-zeal.”The widow opened her eyes, once beautiful enough, but now only expressive of surprise. The manner of the attorney, his tone of confidence—of an almost friendly assurance—led her to look for some pleasant revelation. What could it be?“Over-zeal on your part can never be offensive, Mr Woolet—at least, not to me. Please let me know what you have to communicate. Whether it concern me or not, I promise you it shall have my full consideration, and such response as I can give.”“First, Mrs Mainwaring, I must ask a question that from any other might be deemed impertinent. But you have done me the honour to trust me as your legal adviser, and that must be my excuse. There is a rumour abroad—indeed, I might say, something more than a rumour—that your daughter is about to be—to contract an alliance with one of the sons of General Harding. May I ask if this rumour has any truth in it?”“Well, Mr Woolet, to you I shall answer frankly: there is some truth in it.”“May I further ask which of the General’s sons is to be the fortunate, and, I may say, happy individual?”“Really, Mr Woolet! But why do you want to know this?”“I have a reason, madam—a reason that also concerns yourself, if I am not mistaken.”“In what way?”“By reading this, you will learn.”A sheet of bluish foolscap, with the ink scarce dried upon it, was spread out before the eyes of the widow. It was the will of General Harding.She coloured while reading it. With all the coolness of her Scotch blood; with all the steadiness of nerve produced by an eventful life—in long accompaniment of her husband in his campaigns—she could not conceal the emotion called forth by what she read upon the sheet of foolscap. It was like the echo of her own thoughts—a response to the reflections that, scarce an hour before, had been not only passing through her mind, but forming the subject of her conversation.Adroitly as woman could—and Mrs Mainwaring was not the most simple of her sex—she endeavoured to make light of the knowledge thus communicated. She was only sorry that General Harding should so far forget his duties as a parent, to make such a distinction between his two sons. Both were equally of his own blood; and, though the younger might have been of better behaviour, still he was the younger, and time might cure him of those habits which appeared to have given offence to his father. For herself, Mrs Mainwaring was very sorry indeed; and, although it did not so essentially concern her, she could not do otherwise than thank Mr Woolet for his disinterested kindness in letting her know the terms of this strange testament. In fine, she would always feel grateful to him for what he had done.The last clause of her speech was delivered in a tone not to be misunderstood by such an astute listener as Mr Woolet; and at its conclusion he folded up the will, and prepared to take his departure. To repeat excuses, and say that he had only done what he deemed his duty, were empty words, and were so understood by both.A glass of sherry, with a biscuit, and the interview came to an end. Mr Woolet returned to his trap, and was soon rolling back to the town; while Buttons was commanded to take back the pony to its stable. The sauntering Belle was summoned into the drawing-room.“What did he want, mamma?” was her inquiry on entering. “Anything that concerns me?”“I should think so. If you marry Henry Harding you will marry apauper. I have seen the will. His father has disinherited him.”Miss Mainwaring sank upon the couch, with a cry that told rather of disappointment than despair.
The relict of the late colonel, who had left his hones in the Punjaub and herself with only a slight maintenance, had nevertheless sufficient to maintain a “turn-out.” True it was but a pony and phaeton; but the pony was spirited, the phaeton a neat one, and with the charming Belle in it, hat on head, whip and ribbons in hand, it might have been termed stylish. The appearance was improved by a boy in buttons, who sat upon the back seat, well trained to sustain the dignity of the situation.
This choice little tableau of country life might have been seen at the gate of Mrs Mainwaring’s villa at eleven o’clock of that same day, on which the conversation already reported had passed between herself and her daughter in the breakfast-room.
It was an early hour for a drive; but it was to be a journey upon business to her lawyer. It was never made; for just as the sprightly Belle had taken her seat in the phaeton, adjusted her drapery, and commenced “catching flies” with her whip, what should appear coming up the road, and at a spanking pace, but the two-horse trap of that lawyer himself, Mr Woolet.
The trap was evidentlyen routefor the widow’s residence, where more than once it had brought its owner upon matters of business. Its approach was a fortunate circumstance; so thought Mrs Mainwaring, so thought her daughter, neither of whom on that particular day desired to go to the town. It was not one that had been set apart for shopping; more important matters were on thetapis, and these could be arranged with Mr Woolet on the spot. The phaeton was at once abandoned, “Buttons” receiving orders to keep the pony by the gate, and the ladies, followed by the lawyer, returned into the cottage. The attorney was received in the drawing-room; but, as the business could have nothing to do with the beautiful Belle, her presence was excused, and she sauntered out again, leaving her mother alone with Mr Woolet.
Though there was still a certain obsequiousness about the lawyer’s manner, it was very different from that he had exhibited when dealing with General Harding. There was a vast distinction between a live General, possessed of a clear hundred thousand pounds, and a defunct colonel’s widow, with scarce so many pence. Still, Mrs Mainwaring was a lady of acknowledged social position, with a daughter who might at no distant day have thecontrolof a gentleman who had a hundred thousand pounds, and who might become a profitable client of whoever chanced at the time to be her mother’s solicitor. Mr Woolet was a sharp, far-seeing individual, and this forecast had not escaped him. If he showed himself more at ease in the presence of the colonel’s widow than he had done in that of the General, it was simply because he recognised in the lady a nature like his own—less scrupulous upon points of honour or etiquette.
“Have you any business with me, Mr Woolet?” asked the lady, without making known the fact that she was about going on business to him.
“Well, Mrs Mainwaring, scarce enough to make it worth while my calling on you—at all events, interrupting your drive. What I have to say may be of no importance—but five minutes will suffice for saying it.”
“Take what time you please, Mr Woolet; our drive had no object—a little shopping affair of my daughter’s, that can be disposed of at any hour. Please be seated.”
The lawyer took a chair; the lady sank into a couch.
“Something, I suppose, connected with the cottage?” she continued in a tone of studied indifference. “I think the rent is paid up to—”
“Oh, nothing of that,” interrupted the lawyer. “You are too punctual in your payments, Mrs Mainwaring, to need reminding from me. I have come upon an affair that, indeed, now that I think of it, may look like interference on my part. But it is one that may be of importance, and, studying your interest as my client, I deem it my duty to interfere. I hope, if in error, you will not be offended by my apparent over-zeal.”
The widow opened her eyes, once beautiful enough, but now only expressive of surprise. The manner of the attorney, his tone of confidence—of an almost friendly assurance—led her to look for some pleasant revelation. What could it be?
“Over-zeal on your part can never be offensive, Mr Woolet—at least, not to me. Please let me know what you have to communicate. Whether it concern me or not, I promise you it shall have my full consideration, and such response as I can give.”
“First, Mrs Mainwaring, I must ask a question that from any other might be deemed impertinent. But you have done me the honour to trust me as your legal adviser, and that must be my excuse. There is a rumour abroad—indeed, I might say, something more than a rumour—that your daughter is about to be—to contract an alliance with one of the sons of General Harding. May I ask if this rumour has any truth in it?”
“Well, Mr Woolet, to you I shall answer frankly: there is some truth in it.”
“May I further ask which of the General’s sons is to be the fortunate, and, I may say, happy individual?”
“Really, Mr Woolet! But why do you want to know this?”
“I have a reason, madam—a reason that also concerns yourself, if I am not mistaken.”
“In what way?”
“By reading this, you will learn.”
A sheet of bluish foolscap, with the ink scarce dried upon it, was spread out before the eyes of the widow. It was the will of General Harding.
She coloured while reading it. With all the coolness of her Scotch blood; with all the steadiness of nerve produced by an eventful life—in long accompaniment of her husband in his campaigns—she could not conceal the emotion called forth by what she read upon the sheet of foolscap. It was like the echo of her own thoughts—a response to the reflections that, scarce an hour before, had been not only passing through her mind, but forming the subject of her conversation.
Adroitly as woman could—and Mrs Mainwaring was not the most simple of her sex—she endeavoured to make light of the knowledge thus communicated. She was only sorry that General Harding should so far forget his duties as a parent, to make such a distinction between his two sons. Both were equally of his own blood; and, though the younger might have been of better behaviour, still he was the younger, and time might cure him of those habits which appeared to have given offence to his father. For herself, Mrs Mainwaring was very sorry indeed; and, although it did not so essentially concern her, she could not do otherwise than thank Mr Woolet for his disinterested kindness in letting her know the terms of this strange testament. In fine, she would always feel grateful to him for what he had done.
The last clause of her speech was delivered in a tone not to be misunderstood by such an astute listener as Mr Woolet; and at its conclusion he folded up the will, and prepared to take his departure. To repeat excuses, and say that he had only done what he deemed his duty, were empty words, and were so understood by both.
A glass of sherry, with a biscuit, and the interview came to an end. Mr Woolet returned to his trap, and was soon rolling back to the town; while Buttons was commanded to take back the pony to its stable. The sauntering Belle was summoned into the drawing-room.
“What did he want, mamma?” was her inquiry on entering. “Anything that concerns me?”
“I should think so. If you marry Henry Harding you will marry apauper. I have seen the will. His father has disinherited him.”
Miss Mainwaring sank upon the couch, with a cry that told rather of disappointment than despair.
Chapter Eleven.Awaiting the Proposal.In the afternoon of that day Belle Mainwaring sat upon the couch in a state of expectation not easily described. The more difficult, from its being so rare—that is, the circumstances under which she was placed. She was in the position of a young lady who expects a proposal of marriage to be made to her, and who has already determined upon declining it. She was strong in this determination; though her strength came not from her own inclinations. She was but acting under the commands of her mother.She was not without some sinking of spirits as to the course she was about to take. In reality she loved the man she was going to reject—more than she imagined then, more than she knew until long afterwards. Flirt as she had been, and still was, conqueress of many a heart, she was not without one herself,—it might not be of the purest and truest; but, such as it was, Henry Harding appeared to have won it.For all that, he was not to wear it; unless he could surround her with all the adornments of wealth, and the costliest luxuries of social life. She now knew he could not do this; and, though her heart might still be his, her hand must go to some other. To his brother Nigel, perhaps, she may have whispered to herself. She was a beautiful woman, Belle Mainwaring—tall, large, and exquisitely moulded—a figure that becomes the reclining attitude required by a couch; and, as she so reclined upon ordinary occasions, the coldest observer might well have been excused for admiring her gracefulness.On the day in question her attitude was not graceful. It was not even easy, nor befitting her figure. She sat bolt upright, now and then starting to her feet; pacing the room in quick, hurried strides; stopping a moment by the window, and scanning the road outside; and then returning to the couch, and staying upon it for a short time, as if a prey to terrible unrest and anxiety.At times she would sit reflecting on the answer she should give; how it might be shaped, so as to make it least unpalatable to him who was to receive it. She had no doubt about its bitterness; for she felt confident in having the heart of the man about to offer her his hand. She did not wish to unnecessarily give him pain; and she studied the style of her intended refusal, until she fancied she had most cunningly arranged it. But then would come a spasm of her own heart’s pain; for to say “No!” was costing it an effort; and at this the whole structure would give way, leaving her intended answer still unshaped.Once she was on the point of changing her purpose; and, prompted by the nobility of love, she came near giving way to her better nature. She had almost made up her mind to accept Henry Harding spite his adverse fortune—spite the counsels of her mother.But the noble resolve remained but one moment in her mind. It passed like a flash of lightning, only showing more distinctly the dark clouds that would surround such a destiny. Henry disinherited—a thousand pounds alone left him! It would scarce be enough to furnish the feast, with the trousseau she might expect upon the day of her marriage. Preposterous! Her mother was right; she would yield to the maternal will.There was another thought that held her to this determination. She felt confident in her conquest; and if at any future time she might see fit to give way to her predilection, it would still be possible to do so. General Harding would repent the disinheritance of his younger son, and revoke the will he had made, perhaps in a moment of spite or passion. Neither the lawyer who made it, nor her own mother, had any idea of the General’s doing so. It was not in keeping with his character. But Belle believed differently. She saw through the eyes of hope, lighted by the light of love.In such frame of mind did Miss Mainwaring await the expected visit of Henry Harding. Nor was there any change, when the boy in buttons announced his arrival, and the moment after ushered him into the room. Perhaps, just at that moment, at the sight of his handsome face and manly form, her heart may have faltered in its resolution. But only for an instant. A thought of his disinheritance, and it was again firm.She was right as to the object of his coming. Indeed, he had all but declared it at their last interview—all but accomplished it. Words had already passed between them, that might have been construed as on his side a proposal, and on hers an acceptance. He now came in all the confident expectation of formally closing the engagement by the terms of a betrothal.Frank, loyal, and without thought of trick or deception, he at once declared his errand.The answer went like an arrow through his heart—its poison but little subdued by the fact of its being conditional. The conditions were “the consent of mamma.”Henry Harding could not understand this. She, the imperious belle, who in his eyes seemed armed with all power and authority, to have her happiness dependent on the will of a mother, and that mother known to be at the same time selfish and capricious! It was a rebuff unexpected, and filled him with forebodings, as to what might be the decision of Mrs Mainwaring. He was not the man long to endure the agony of doubt; and at once demanded to see her.His wishes were readily complied with; and, in less than five minutes after, the couch lately graced by the fair, frivolous daughter, was occupied by the staid, serious mother—the daughter absenting herself from the interview.In the frigid face of the widow Henry Harding read his fate. His forebodings were confirmed. Mrs Mainwaring was sensible of the honour he would have conferred by becoming her son-in-law, and deeply thankful for the offer; but the position in which she and her daughter were placed made such a union impossible. Mr Harding must know that, by the sudden death of her late dear husband, she had been left in straitened circumstances—that Belle would therefore be without fortune; and that as he, Mr Harding, was in the same position, a union between the two would not only be impolitic, but absolute insanity. Though poor, her child had always been accustomed, if not to the luxuries, at least to the comforts of a home. What would be her condition as the mother of a family, with a husband struggling to maintain them? Mrs Mainwaring could not speculate on such a fate for her dear child; and, although Mr Harding was young, and had the world all before him, he had not been brought up to any profession promising a maintenance, nor yet to those habits likely to lead to it. For these reasons she, Mrs Mainwaring, must firmly, but respectfully, decline the offered alliance.Throughout the speech, which partook somewhat of the nature of a lecture, Henry Harding sat listening in silence, but with astonishment strongly depicted in his features. This had reached its climax, long before the last sentence was delivered.“Surely, madam,” said he, giving vent to his surprise, “you cannot mean this?”“Mean what, Mr Harding?”“What you have said of my inability to support a—your daughter. I know nothing of the struggle you speak of. I admit I have no profession; but my expectations are not so poor as to make it necessary I should have one. Half of my father’s estate is sufficient to provide against such a future as you allude to. And there are but two of us to share it.”“If that be your belief, Mr Harding,” rejoined the widow, in the same cold, relentless tone, in which she had all along been speaking, “I am sorry to be the first to disabuse you of it. The estate you speak of will not be so equally divided. Your share in it will be a legacy of a thousand pounds. Such a trifling sum would not go far towards the maintenance of an establishment.”Henry Harding stayed not to answer the last remark, made half interrogatively. In those that preceded it he had heard enough to satisfy him, that he had no longer any business in the drawing-room of Mrs Mainwaring; and hurriedly recovering his hat and cane, he bade her an abrupt good morning.He did not deign to address the same scant courtesy to her daughter. Between him and Belle Mainwaring was now opened a gulf so wide, that it could never be bridged over—not even to save him from a broken heart.As the rejected lover strode away from the cottage that contained what he so lately looked upon as hisfiancée, black clouds came rolling over the sky, as if to symbolise the black thoughts in his heart.In all his youthful life it was the first great shock he had received; a shock both to soul and body—for in the announcement made by Mrs Mainwaring there was a blow aimed at both. His love blighted, his fortune gone—both, as it were, in the same instant! But the bitterest reflection of all was that the love had gone with the fortune. The loss of the latter he could have endured; but to think that the sweet speeches that had been exchanged between him and Belle, the tender glances, and the soft, secret pressure of hands that more than once had been mutually imparted—to think that, on her side, all these had been false, heartless, and hollow, was enough to wound something more than the self-esteem of a nature noble as was his. He could frame no excuse for her conduct. He tried, but without success. It was too clear, the cause of her refusal; too clear were the conditions on which she would have accepted his love, and had led him to believe in its acceptance. Her words and acts had been all pretence—the very essence of coquetry. It was over now, and with a bitter vow he resolved to expel her from his heart—from his thoughts, if that were possible. It was youth entering upon a hard struggle; but to a nature like his, and under such temptation to continue it, there was a chance of success. The woman he had hitherto looked upon as the type of all that was innocent and angelic, had proved herself not only capricious, but cunning, selfish, mean, less deserving of love than contempt. If he could but bear this impression upon his mind, there would be a hope of his recovering the heart he had so inconsiderately sacrificed. He registered a mental vow to do this, and then turned his thoughts towards his father. Against him he was all anger. He had no doubt the threat had been carried out; the will had been made that very morning. The minuteness of Mrs Mainwaring’s information, even to the exact amount of his own legacy, left him no room to question its correctness. How she had obtained it he neither knew nor cared. She was sharp-witted enough to have placed herself in communication with his father’s solicitor, whom he supposed to have made the will. But he did not stay to speculate upon this. His thoughts were all turned upon the testator himself, who by that single stroke had deprived him at once of his love and his living.In the agony of his soul he could not see how his father had befriended him—how he had saved him from a fate far worse than disinheritance. His contempt for the cruel coquette was not yet decided enough for this.His father’s threat had been only conditional. He might look forward to a chance of the will being revoked. He might not be restored to full favour. There would be some punishment for his disobedience, which was as complete as if his suit had succeeded. But such a grand penalty would scarce be exacted. It was not compatible with the indulgence he had already experienced.A meaner spirit would have reasoned thus. Nigel Harding would have done so, and sought restoration to the paternal favour he had forfeited. Not so Henry. His pride had been touched—stung to the quick; and in the midst of his mortification, with his soul suffering from its thwarted passion, while pursuing the path homeward he resolved that his father’s house should know him no more.And he kept this resolution. On reaching the park-gates, instead of entering, he walked on to the nearest inn, and thence took a fly to the nearest railway station.In another hour he was in the midst of the great metropolis, with no thought of ever again returning to the green Chiltern Hills, or the shire of Buckingham.
In the afternoon of that day Belle Mainwaring sat upon the couch in a state of expectation not easily described. The more difficult, from its being so rare—that is, the circumstances under which she was placed. She was in the position of a young lady who expects a proposal of marriage to be made to her, and who has already determined upon declining it. She was strong in this determination; though her strength came not from her own inclinations. She was but acting under the commands of her mother.
She was not without some sinking of spirits as to the course she was about to take. In reality she loved the man she was going to reject—more than she imagined then, more than she knew until long afterwards. Flirt as she had been, and still was, conqueress of many a heart, she was not without one herself,—it might not be of the purest and truest; but, such as it was, Henry Harding appeared to have won it.
For all that, he was not to wear it; unless he could surround her with all the adornments of wealth, and the costliest luxuries of social life. She now knew he could not do this; and, though her heart might still be his, her hand must go to some other. To his brother Nigel, perhaps, she may have whispered to herself. She was a beautiful woman, Belle Mainwaring—tall, large, and exquisitely moulded—a figure that becomes the reclining attitude required by a couch; and, as she so reclined upon ordinary occasions, the coldest observer might well have been excused for admiring her gracefulness.
On the day in question her attitude was not graceful. It was not even easy, nor befitting her figure. She sat bolt upright, now and then starting to her feet; pacing the room in quick, hurried strides; stopping a moment by the window, and scanning the road outside; and then returning to the couch, and staying upon it for a short time, as if a prey to terrible unrest and anxiety.
At times she would sit reflecting on the answer she should give; how it might be shaped, so as to make it least unpalatable to him who was to receive it. She had no doubt about its bitterness; for she felt confident in having the heart of the man about to offer her his hand. She did not wish to unnecessarily give him pain; and she studied the style of her intended refusal, until she fancied she had most cunningly arranged it. But then would come a spasm of her own heart’s pain; for to say “No!” was costing it an effort; and at this the whole structure would give way, leaving her intended answer still unshaped.
Once she was on the point of changing her purpose; and, prompted by the nobility of love, she came near giving way to her better nature. She had almost made up her mind to accept Henry Harding spite his adverse fortune—spite the counsels of her mother.
But the noble resolve remained but one moment in her mind. It passed like a flash of lightning, only showing more distinctly the dark clouds that would surround such a destiny. Henry disinherited—a thousand pounds alone left him! It would scarce be enough to furnish the feast, with the trousseau she might expect upon the day of her marriage. Preposterous! Her mother was right; she would yield to the maternal will.
There was another thought that held her to this determination. She felt confident in her conquest; and if at any future time she might see fit to give way to her predilection, it would still be possible to do so. General Harding would repent the disinheritance of his younger son, and revoke the will he had made, perhaps in a moment of spite or passion. Neither the lawyer who made it, nor her own mother, had any idea of the General’s doing so. It was not in keeping with his character. But Belle believed differently. She saw through the eyes of hope, lighted by the light of love.
In such frame of mind did Miss Mainwaring await the expected visit of Henry Harding. Nor was there any change, when the boy in buttons announced his arrival, and the moment after ushered him into the room. Perhaps, just at that moment, at the sight of his handsome face and manly form, her heart may have faltered in its resolution. But only for an instant. A thought of his disinheritance, and it was again firm.
She was right as to the object of his coming. Indeed, he had all but declared it at their last interview—all but accomplished it. Words had already passed between them, that might have been construed as on his side a proposal, and on hers an acceptance. He now came in all the confident expectation of formally closing the engagement by the terms of a betrothal.
Frank, loyal, and without thought of trick or deception, he at once declared his errand.
The answer went like an arrow through his heart—its poison but little subdued by the fact of its being conditional. The conditions were “the consent of mamma.”
Henry Harding could not understand this. She, the imperious belle, who in his eyes seemed armed with all power and authority, to have her happiness dependent on the will of a mother, and that mother known to be at the same time selfish and capricious! It was a rebuff unexpected, and filled him with forebodings, as to what might be the decision of Mrs Mainwaring. He was not the man long to endure the agony of doubt; and at once demanded to see her.
His wishes were readily complied with; and, in less than five minutes after, the couch lately graced by the fair, frivolous daughter, was occupied by the staid, serious mother—the daughter absenting herself from the interview.
In the frigid face of the widow Henry Harding read his fate. His forebodings were confirmed. Mrs Mainwaring was sensible of the honour he would have conferred by becoming her son-in-law, and deeply thankful for the offer; but the position in which she and her daughter were placed made such a union impossible. Mr Harding must know that, by the sudden death of her late dear husband, she had been left in straitened circumstances—that Belle would therefore be without fortune; and that as he, Mr Harding, was in the same position, a union between the two would not only be impolitic, but absolute insanity. Though poor, her child had always been accustomed, if not to the luxuries, at least to the comforts of a home. What would be her condition as the mother of a family, with a husband struggling to maintain them? Mrs Mainwaring could not speculate on such a fate for her dear child; and, although Mr Harding was young, and had the world all before him, he had not been brought up to any profession promising a maintenance, nor yet to those habits likely to lead to it. For these reasons she, Mrs Mainwaring, must firmly, but respectfully, decline the offered alliance.
Throughout the speech, which partook somewhat of the nature of a lecture, Henry Harding sat listening in silence, but with astonishment strongly depicted in his features. This had reached its climax, long before the last sentence was delivered.
“Surely, madam,” said he, giving vent to his surprise, “you cannot mean this?”
“Mean what, Mr Harding?”
“What you have said of my inability to support a—your daughter. I know nothing of the struggle you speak of. I admit I have no profession; but my expectations are not so poor as to make it necessary I should have one. Half of my father’s estate is sufficient to provide against such a future as you allude to. And there are but two of us to share it.”
“If that be your belief, Mr Harding,” rejoined the widow, in the same cold, relentless tone, in which she had all along been speaking, “I am sorry to be the first to disabuse you of it. The estate you speak of will not be so equally divided. Your share in it will be a legacy of a thousand pounds. Such a trifling sum would not go far towards the maintenance of an establishment.”
Henry Harding stayed not to answer the last remark, made half interrogatively. In those that preceded it he had heard enough to satisfy him, that he had no longer any business in the drawing-room of Mrs Mainwaring; and hurriedly recovering his hat and cane, he bade her an abrupt good morning.
He did not deign to address the same scant courtesy to her daughter. Between him and Belle Mainwaring was now opened a gulf so wide, that it could never be bridged over—not even to save him from a broken heart.
As the rejected lover strode away from the cottage that contained what he so lately looked upon as hisfiancée, black clouds came rolling over the sky, as if to symbolise the black thoughts in his heart.
In all his youthful life it was the first great shock he had received; a shock both to soul and body—for in the announcement made by Mrs Mainwaring there was a blow aimed at both. His love blighted, his fortune gone—both, as it were, in the same instant! But the bitterest reflection of all was that the love had gone with the fortune. The loss of the latter he could have endured; but to think that the sweet speeches that had been exchanged between him and Belle, the tender glances, and the soft, secret pressure of hands that more than once had been mutually imparted—to think that, on her side, all these had been false, heartless, and hollow, was enough to wound something more than the self-esteem of a nature noble as was his. He could frame no excuse for her conduct. He tried, but without success. It was too clear, the cause of her refusal; too clear were the conditions on which she would have accepted his love, and had led him to believe in its acceptance. Her words and acts had been all pretence—the very essence of coquetry. It was over now, and with a bitter vow he resolved to expel her from his heart—from his thoughts, if that were possible. It was youth entering upon a hard struggle; but to a nature like his, and under such temptation to continue it, there was a chance of success. The woman he had hitherto looked upon as the type of all that was innocent and angelic, had proved herself not only capricious, but cunning, selfish, mean, less deserving of love than contempt. If he could but bear this impression upon his mind, there would be a hope of his recovering the heart he had so inconsiderately sacrificed. He registered a mental vow to do this, and then turned his thoughts towards his father. Against him he was all anger. He had no doubt the threat had been carried out; the will had been made that very morning. The minuteness of Mrs Mainwaring’s information, even to the exact amount of his own legacy, left him no room to question its correctness. How she had obtained it he neither knew nor cared. She was sharp-witted enough to have placed herself in communication with his father’s solicitor, whom he supposed to have made the will. But he did not stay to speculate upon this. His thoughts were all turned upon the testator himself, who by that single stroke had deprived him at once of his love and his living.
In the agony of his soul he could not see how his father had befriended him—how he had saved him from a fate far worse than disinheritance. His contempt for the cruel coquette was not yet decided enough for this.
His father’s threat had been only conditional. He might look forward to a chance of the will being revoked. He might not be restored to full favour. There would be some punishment for his disobedience, which was as complete as if his suit had succeeded. But such a grand penalty would scarce be exacted. It was not compatible with the indulgence he had already experienced.
A meaner spirit would have reasoned thus. Nigel Harding would have done so, and sought restoration to the paternal favour he had forfeited. Not so Henry. His pride had been touched—stung to the quick; and in the midst of his mortification, with his soul suffering from its thwarted passion, while pursuing the path homeward he resolved that his father’s house should know him no more.
And he kept this resolution. On reaching the park-gates, instead of entering, he walked on to the nearest inn, and thence took a fly to the nearest railway station.
In another hour he was in the midst of the great metropolis, with no thought of ever again returning to the green Chiltern Hills, or the shire of Buckingham.