On the death of General Harding, his son Nigel became master of
Beechwood, and soon after--almost indecently soon--the husband, though
not the master, of Belle Mainwaring.
To the former, no one thought of questioning his claim. He was the
eldest son; and, as most people now believed, the only one. The report
that the younger had met his death among the Revolutionists of Rome soon
got abroad, and was generally credited. But even had it been supposed
that he was living, one-half the world knew no better than that General
Harding's estate was entailed; and that, therefore, Nigel was entitled
as the heir. If the other half wanted to know better, and would take
the trouble to inquire of Mr Woolet--the new solicitor to the estate--
that gentleman could assure them of the soundness of his client's title,
by reference to a document of a certain date, which he kept in a large
tin case conspicuously lettered. The case itself had the honour of the
most conspicuous position upon his shelves; so that no client could
commune with Mr Woolet without seeing that he was alongside the
solicitor who had in his custody the title deeds, and other legal
documents, of Nigel Harding, Esq, Beechwood Park, Bucks. So said the
lettering on the case. About the ownership of the property, then, there
was no question or dispute. In times past there had been a talk about
its having been divided between the brothers. Afterwards came out the
will, leaving all to the elder; and, now that the younger had
disappeared, and was deemed dead, the point was no longer discussed.
Indeed, remembrance of the latter was almost dead. He had been already
more than twelve months out of sight; and, with such associates as he
used to keep, out of sight is soon out of mind. He was remembered as a
generous, somewhat reckless youth, not likely to make much way in the
world--either to fame or fortune.
But he was now dead; that was an end of him; and his brother Nigel was
looked upon as one of the luckiest fellows in England, as also one of
the most prosperous squires in the shire of Buckingham.
He was, at all events, likely to be one of the most conspicuous; for the
husband of Belle Mainwaring could not be hidden under a cloud. If he
should choose to lead an unsocial life, she was not the lady to become
the companion of his solitude; and it was not long before he made this
discovery. The tranquillity of Beechwood Park ceased upon the same day
that Miss Belle Mainwaring became the mistress of its mansion; and the
drowsy solemnity of its old trees, hitherto disturbed only by the cawing
of the rook, or the soft cooing of the wood-quest, was now constantly
assailed by the sound of human voices, gay and jocund.
Under the rule of its new mistress--for _she_ ruled--Beechwood Park
became the centre of festivities; while the _elite_ of the neighbourhood
were only too happy to accept of its hospitalities, as they would those
of a retired knacker, provided he could dispense them with sufficient
profuseness.
But neither in the host nor hostess of the Beechwood was there any
question of retired knacker; and everything was therefore _en regle_:
select parties for out-door sports--archery in summer--hunting spreads
in winter--dining and dancing at all seasons of the year.
Belle Mainwaring had obtained the reward of her great beauty, as her
mother the recompense of her consummate skill; for the widow of the
Indian colonel had found a snug corner in the establishment of her
son-in-law. It was not shared either by the sister of the late
proprietor. The spinster aunt had disappeared previous to the nuptials
of Nigel. She was still knitting that eternal stocking; but in a humble
abode proportioned to the allowance left by her brother's will. Her
chair was now occupied by the widow Mainwaring, though not set in a
corner.
And so for a period of years passed the gay, grand life at Beechwood
Park; while the outside world took part in it, or looked on admiringly--
not a few feeling envy. How could it be otherwise, where two young
people, both gifted with good looks--for Nigel Harding was far from
being personally plain--lived in the enjoyment of so many advantages--
property, position--in short, everything that should make life
desirable?
The world is not very discriminative; else it might have seen, under all
this apparent joy, something that resembled sorrow.
I did, though not at Beechwood Park, since after my unfortunate
_contretemps_ at the county ball, I was not likely to have the
opportunity. But there were other houses still open to me; and at these
I not unfrequently came in contact with the distinguished couple, as
also the interesting individual to whom I had been indebted for getting
my name _scratched_ from the dancing-card. And the more I now saw, the
more I felt thankful for that lucky deliverance. Perhaps but for it, I
should have been one of the broken-hearted bees who, with scorched and
shrivelled wings, still continued to buzz around Belle Mainwaring--long
after she became a wife.
It may have been some thought connected with these that caused the cloud
I observed on the brow of Nigel Harding--as now and then a fierce
flashing in his eyes, that betrayed his semi-oriental origin. I could
not tell; nor did I indeed care, as I had never much respect for the
man. I was, perhaps, more observant of his wife; and speculated a
little more profoundly as to the cause of the cloud on her brow, to me
equally apparent. Amidst her gaiety I observed traces of abstraction--
even when flattery was being poured into her ear. On her part there
appeared to be no jealousy. On the contrary, the presence of her
husband only seemed to give _degout_ to her, his absence relief. All
this I could easily perceive, and guess at the reason. That short
conversation I had heard under the _Deodara_ was sufficiently expletive;
and I knew that Nigel Harding had married a woman who, in the true sense
of the word, would never be his wife. Love him she certainly could not,
and did not. But it was not certain that she could not and did not love
another. On the contrary, I was certain that she _did_. Who that other
was I cannot confidently say, though I had many and varied surmises. At
times I thought it might be the man she had so cruelly jilted; at other
times I fancied it one who, with less cruelty, but like firmness, would
have rejected _her_.
The last time I saw Miss Belle Mainwaring--I forget, she was then Mrs
Nigel Harding--was under circumstances that might be called peculiar.
It was at the close of a quiet dinner party, given by a country squire,
on the borders of Bucks. I had repossessed myself of my night-wrapper,
and stood upon the doorstep, to await the coming up of the carriage that
was to transport me to the railway station, and which the squire's
hall-porter had already summoned upon the "Sweep." As I stood awaiting
my turn, there drew up before me an equipage of elegant appearance: two
splendid horses in front, a splendid coachman on the box, and an equally
resplendent footman beside him. Gold glittered on the liveries of the
lacqueys, while a coat of arms glistened on the panel of the door. It
was a turn-out in striking contrast with my own modest "trap" that had
closed up behind it.
"Whose carriage?" was the mental inquiry I was making, when the
stentorian voice of the hall-porter undesignedly gave me the answer. It
was the carriage of Nigel Harding.
At the same instant this gentleman came out, closely followed by his
wife.