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 his _fiancee_, 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.