On that same evening, as usual, there were four chairs placed at the
dinner-table of General Harding. One was empty--that which should have
been occupied by his younger son.
"Where is he?" asked the General, drawing the napkin across his breast.
Nigel knew not. Of course the maiden aunt could not tell. With her the
scapegrace was not a favourite, and she took no heed of his movements.
The butler was questioned, but did not know where Master Henry had gone.
Nigel could only say he had seen him take the path towards the cottage
of the Mainwarings; and a frown darkened his brow as he imparted the
intelligence.
"He may have stayed for dinner," added the elder brother; "Mrs
Mainwaring makes him so welcome."
"She won't after awhile," said the General, with a smile that to some
extent relieved the frown also visible in his face.
Nigel looked at his father, but forbore asking for an explanation. He
seemed to divine something that gave him relief, for the shadow upon his
brow became sensibly lighter.
Upon that subject the conversation dropped; nor would it have been
resumed again during dinner, but that before the meal ended a
communication came into the room, through the medium of the butler. It
was in the shape of a note, evidently scrawled in haste, and upon paper
that could only have come from the _escritoire_ of a cottage or a
country inn. From the latter it had issued--the "Hare and Hounds," a
hostelry that stood not far from the gates of General Harding's park, on
the high road to London. There was no postmark--the letter having been
hand-carried.
Hurried as was the scrawl of the superscription, the General recognised
it as the handwriting of his son Henry. The shadow returned to his
countenance as he tore open the envelope. It grew darker as he
deciphered the contents of the note enclosed therein. They were as
follows:--
"Father,--
"I say `father,' since I cannot dissimulate my real thoughts by
prefixing the epithet `dear,'--when this reaches you I shall be on the
road to London, and thence heaven knows where; but never more to
return to a house which, by your own decreeing, can no longer be a
home for me. I could have borne my disinheritance, for perhaps I
deserve it; but the consequences to which it has led are too cruel for
me to think of you otherwise than with anger. The deed is now done,
and let that be an end of it. I write to you only to say that, since
by the terms of your will I may some day become the fortunate
recipient of a thousand pounds, perhaps you will have no objection to
pay it to me now, deducting, if you please, the usual interest--which
I believe can be calculated according to the rules of the Insurance
societies. A thousand pounds at your death--which I hope may be far
distant--would scarce be worth waiting for. Now, it would serve my
purpose, since I am determined to go abroad and seek fortune under
some more propitious sky than that which extends over the Chiltern
Hills. But if I do not find the sum at your London lawyer's within
three days, subject to my order, I shall make my way abroad all the
same. I am not likely ever to ask for it again. So, father, you may
choose in this matter, whether to oblige me or not; and perhaps my
kind brother Nigel, whose counsels you are so ready to take, may help
you in determining the choice.
"Henry Harding."
The General sprang from his chair, long before he had finished reading
the letter. He had read it by fits and starts, while striding about the
room, and stamping his feet upon the floor, until the glasses jingled
upon the table.
"My heavens!" he at length ejaculated, "what is the meaning of this?"
"Of what, dear father?" asked the obsequious Nigel. "You have received
some unpleasant news?"
"News! news! worse than news!"
"From whom, may I ask?"
"From Henry--the scamp--the ungrateful--Here, read this!"
Nigel took the note and read. "It is indeed an unpleasant
communication; unfeeling of Henry--insulting, I should say. But what
does it all mean?"
"No matter what it means. Enough for _me_ to know that. Enough to
think that he is gone. I know the boy well. He will keep his word.
He's too like myself about that. Gone! O God--gone!"
The General groaned as he traversed the Turkey carpet. The maiden aunt
said nothing, but sat by the table, quietly sipping port wine and
munching walnuts. The storm raged on.
"After all," put in Nigel, with the pretence of tranquillising it, "he
means nothing with this strange talk. He's young--foolish--"
"Means nothing!" roared the General in a fresh burst of excitement.
"Does it mean nothing to write such a letter as this--in which every
word is a slight to my authority--a defiance?"
"True enough," said Nigel, "I know not what can have possessed him to
speak as he has done. He's evidently angry about something--something I
don't understand. But he'll get over it in time, though one cannot
forgive him so easily."
"Never! I will never forgive him. He has tried my temper too often;
but this will be the last time. Disobedience such as his shall be
overlooked no longer--to say nothing of the levity, the positive
defiance, that accompanies it. By my faith, he shall be punished for
it!"
"In that regard," interposed the unctuous elder son, "since he has
spoken of my giving you advice, it would be to leave him to himself--at
least for a time. Perhaps after he has passed some months without the
extravagant support you have hitherto so generously afforded him, he may
feel less independent, and more prone to penitence. I think the
thousand pounds he speaks of your having promised him, and which I know
nothing about, should be kept back."
"He shan't have a shilling of it--not till my death."
"For your sake, dear father, a long time, I hope; and for his, perhaps,
it may be all the better so."
"Better or worse, he shan't have a shilling of it--not a shilling. Let
him starve till he comes to his senses."
"The best thing to bring him to his senses," chimed in Nigel; "and take
my word for it, father, it will do that before long--you'll see."
This counsel seemed to tranquillise the perturbed spirit of the irate
General, at least for a time. He returned to the table and to his port;
over which he sat alone, and to a much later hour than was his usual
custom. The mellow wine may have made him more merciful; but whether it
was this or not, before going to bed he returned to his studio, and
wrote, in a somewhat unsteady hand, a letter to his London lawyer--
directing the latter to pay to his son Henry, on demand, a cheque for
the sum of 1,000 pounds.
He despatched the letter by a groom, to be in time for the morning post;
and all this he did with an air of caution, as if he intended to do good
by stealth. But what appears caution to the mind of a man obfuscated
with over a bottle of port, may seem carelessness to those who are
around him. There was one who looked upon it in this light. Nigel knew
all about the writing of the letter, guessed its contents, and was privy
to its despatch for the post. Outside the hall-door it was taken from
the hands of the groom to whom it had been intrusted, and transferred to
the charge of another individual, who was said to be going past the
village post-office. It was Master Nigel who caused the transference to
be made. And from him the new messenger received certain instructions,
in consequence of which the letter never reached its destination.