The world had become just one year older from the day that Belle
Mainwaring "refused" the young son of General Harding. The crake had
returned to the cornfield, the cuckoo to the grove, and the nightingale
once more filled the dells with its sweet nocturnal music.
As a tourist straying among the Chiltern Hills--with me almost an annual
habit--I could perceive no change in their aspect. Nor did I find that
much change had taken place in the "society" introduced in the early
chapters of our story.
I met Miss Mainwaring at a private ball, that concluded an out-door
archery meeting. She was still the reigning belle of the neighbourhood,
though there were two or three young sprouts that promised soon to
dispossess her. There was less talk of her becoming a bride than had
been twelve months before; though she was followed by a train of
admirers that appeared to have suffered but slight diminution--Henry
Harding being the only one missing from the muster. I heard that his
place had been supplied by his brother Nigel; though this was only
whispered to me in conjecture by one that was present at the gathering,
where was also Nigel Harding himself. Knowing somewhat of the nature of
this young gentleman, I did not believe it true, but, strange enough,
before leaving the ground I had convincing evidence that it was so.
These summer fetes, when extended into the night, afford wonderful
opportunities for flirtation--far more than the winter ball-room. The
promenade which occurs during the intervals of the dance may be extended
out of doors, along the gravelled walks, or over the soft grassy turf of
the shrubbery. It is pleasant thus to escape from the heated air of the
drawing-room--improvised for the night into a ball-room--especially
pleasant when you take along with you your partner of the dance.
Strolling thus with one of the aforementioned maidens, I had halted by
the side of a grand _Deodara_, whose drooping branches, palmately
spread, swept the grass at our feet, forming around the trunk of the
tree a tentlike canopy by day, by night a shadow of amorphous darkness.
All at once a thought seemed to strike my companion.
"By the way," said she, "I was wondering what I had done with my
sunshade. Now I remember having left it under this very tree. You stay
here," she continued, disengaging herself from my arm, "while I go under
and see if I can find it."
"No," said I, "permit me to go for it."
"Nonsense," replied my agile partner--she had proved herself such in the
galop just ended--"I shall go myself. I know the exact spot where I
laid it--on one of the great roots. Never mind; you stand here."
Saying this, she disappeared under the shadow of the _Deodara_.
I could not think of such a young creature venturing all alone into such
a dismal-looking place; and, not heeding her remonstrance, I bent under
the branches, and followed her in.
After groping about for some time, we failed to find the parasol.
"Some of the servants may have taken it into the house?" she said. "No
matter. I suppose it will turn up along with my hat and cloak."
We were about returning to the open lawn, when we saw coming, through
the same break in the branches under which we had entered, a pair of
promenaders like ourselves. _Their_ errand we could not guess. Though
ours had been innocent enough, it occurred to me that it might have a
compromising appearance.
I cannot tell if my companion had the same thought; but, whether or no,
we stood still, as if by a mutual instinct, waiting for the other pair
to pass out again. We supposed they had stepped under the tree actuated
by curiosity, or some other caprice that would soon be satisfied.
In this we were mistaken. Instead of immediately returning into the
light, faint as it was, and only springing from the glimmer of a starlit
sky, they stopped and entered into a conversation that promised to be
somewhat protracted. At the first words, I could tell it was only the
resumption of one that had already made some progress between them.
"I know," said the gentleman, "that you still bear _him_ in your mind.
It's no use telling me you never cared for him. I know better than
that, Miss Mainwaring."
"Indeed, do you? What a wonderful knowledge you have, Mr Nigel
Harding! You know more than I ever did myself, and more than your
brother, did too; else why should I have refused him. Surely that might
convince you there was nothing between us--at least, on my side there
wasn't."
There was a short pause, as if the suitor was reflecting on what the
lady had just said. My companion and I were puzzled as to what we
should do. I knew it by the trembling of her arm, that spoke
irresolution. By a similar sign I felt that we were agreed upon keeping
silent, and hearing this strange dialogue to its termination. We had
already heard enough to make discovering ourselves exceedingly awkward--
to say nothing of our own compromising position. We kept our place
then, standing still like a couple of linked statues.
"If that be true," rejoined Nigel Harding, who appeared to have brought
his reasoning process to a satisfactory conclusion, "and if also true
that no other has your heart, may I ask, Miss Mainwaring, why you do not
accept the offer I have laid before you? You have told me--I think you
have said as much--that you could like me for a husband. Why not go
farther, and say you will have me?"
"Because--because--Mr Nigel Harding,--do you really wish to know the
reason?"
"If I did not, I should not have spent twelve months in asking--in
pressing for it."
"If you promise to be a good boy, then I will tell you."
"I will promise anything. If it be a reason that I can remove, you may
command me, and all the means in my power. My fortune--I won't speak of
that--my life, my body, my soul, are all at your service."
The suitor spoke with a passionate enthusiasm I had not deemed him
capable of.
"I shall be candid, then," was the response, half-whispered, "and tell
you the exact truth. Two things stand between you and me, either of
which may prevent us becoming man and wife. First, there is my mother's
consent to be obtained; and without that I will not marry. To my dear
mother I have given that promise--sworn it. Second, there is _your
father's consent_; without it I _cannot_ marry you. I have equally
sworn to that--my mother exacting the oath. Much, therefore, as I may
like you, Nigel Harding, you know I cannot perjure myself. Come! we
have talked of this too often. Let us return to the dancing, or our
absence may be remarked."
Saying this, she swept out from beneath the branches.
The foiled suitor made no attempt to detain her. The conditions could
not be answered, at least not then; and with a vague hope of being able
at some future time to obtain better terms, he followed her back into
the ball-room.
My companion and I, as soon as released, sauntered the same way. Not a
word passed between us, as to what we had heard. To me it did not throw
much new light either on the ways of the world or the character of Miss
Mainwaring; but I could not help regretting the lesson of deception thus
unavoidably communicated to the young creature on my arm, who might
afterwards think of practising it on her own particular account!