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 about _his_ leave?"
"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 being _prudent_.