The Finger of Fate Part 2

"Now, you thief!" cried young Harding, when his pa.s.sion was nearly spent. "You can go back to Mr Whibley's covers, and hatch whatever plot may suit you and your sn.o.b of a master, but no more of my pheasants' eggs."

Doggy did not dare to make reply, lest it should tempt a fresh application of the cudgel. Clambering over the fence, he hobbled back across the common, and hid himself among the hazels of the Whibley preserves.

Turning towards the plundered nest, Henry Harding examined the ground in its proximity. He discovered a scattering of buckwheat, that had been steeped in some sweet-smelling liquid. It was the same he had seen Doggy distribute over the sward.

He collected a quant.i.ty in his kerchief, and carried it home. On a.n.a.lysis it proved to be poison!

Though there was no trial inst.i.tuted, the story, with all its details, soon became known in the neighbourhood. Doggy d.i.c.k knew better than to bring an action for a.s.sault; and the Hardings were satisfied with the punishment that had been already administered to their disgraced keeper.

As for the retired stockbroker, he had no alternative but discharge his ill-conditioned servant, who from that time became notorious as the most adroit poacher in the parish.

The submissiveness with which he had received the castigation administered by Henry Harding seemed afterwards to have been a source of regret to him: for in future encounters of a similar kind he proved himself a desperate and dangerous a.s.sailant--so dangerous that, in a conflict with one of General Harding's watchers, occurring about a year from that time, he inflicted a severe wound upon the man, resulting in his death. He saved his own neck from the halter by making his escape out of the country; and though traced to Boulogne, and thence to Ma.r.s.eilles--in the company of some jockeys who were taking English horses to Italy--he finally eluded justice by hiding himself in some corner of that cla.s.sic land, then covered by a network of petty states; most of them not only obstructive to justice, but corrupt in their administration.

CHAPTER THREE.

THE ARCHERY FETE.

Three years had elapsed, and the half-brothers were again home from college. They had both pa.s.sed beyond the boundaries of boyhood. Nigel was of age, and Henry full grown.

Nigel had become noted for sedateness of conduct, economy in expenditure, and close application to his studies.

Henry, on the other hand, had won a very different character. If not considered an absolute scapegrace, he was looted upon as a young gentleman of somewhat loose habits,--hating books, loving all sorts of jollity, and scorning economy, as if, instead of a virtue, it were the curse of life.

In reality, Nigel was only restrained by an astute, secretive, and selfish, nature; while Henry, with a heart of more generous inclinings, gave way to the seductions of pleasure, with a freedom that would be tempered by time. The General, however satisfied with the conduct of his elder son, was not pleased with the proclivities of the younger; more especially as his heart, like Jacob's, had a yearning for his last born.

Although struggling against any preference, he could not help thinking at times, how much happier it would have made him if Henry would but imitate the conduct of Nigel--even though their _roles_ should be reversed! But it seemed as if this desire was not to be gratified.

During their sojourn within college walls, the rumours of _diableries_, of which his younger son had been the hero, were scarce compensated by the reports of scholastic triumphs on the part of the elder.

It is true that Nigel himself had been habitually the herald to proclaim these mingled insinuations and successes, for Henry was but an indifferent correspondent. His letters, when they did come, were but too confirmatory of the contents of those written by his brother, being generally solicitations for a little more cash. The _ci-devant_ soldier, himself generous to a fault, had never failed to forward the cheque, caring less for the money than the way in which it was spent.

The education of the Harding youths was now considered complete. They were enjoying that pleasant interval of idleness, when the chrysalis of the school or college is about to burst forth into a b.u.t.terfly, and wing its way through the world.

If the old rancour existed it showed no outward sign. A stranger would have seen nothing between the half-brothers beyond a fair fraternal friendship. Henry was frank and outspoken, Nigel reserved and taciturn; but this was their natural disposition, and no one remarked upon it. In all matters of parental respect, the elder brother was the more noticed.

He was implicit in his obedience to the wishes of his father; while Henry, on the other hand, was p.r.o.ne to neglect this duty--though only in matters of minor consequence, such as keeping late hours, lavish expenditure, and the like. Still, by such acts the father's heart was often sorely grieved, and his affection terribly tested.

At length came a cause that tried the temper of the half-brothers towards one another--one before which the strongest fraternal affection has oft changed into bitter hostility. It was love. Both fell in love, and with the same woman--Belle Mainwaring.

Miss Belle Mainwaring was a young lady, whose fair face and fascinating manners might have turned wiser heads than those of the two ex-collegians. She was older than either; but if not in its first blush, she was still in the bloom of her beauty. Like her baptismal name, she was a belle in her own county, which was that inhabited by the Hardings. She was the daughter of an Indian officer, a poor colonel, who, less fortunate than the General, had left his bones in the Punjaub, and his widow just sufficient to maintain her in a simple cottage residence that stood outside, and not far from, the palings of Beechwood Park.

It was a dangerous proximity for two youths just entering on manhood, and with very little business before them beyond making love, and afterwards settling down with a wife. Both would be amply provided for without troubling their heads about a profession. The paternal estate, under the hammer, would any day have realised a clear hundred thousand; and he who cannot live upon half of this is not likely to increase it by a calling.

That the property would be equally divided there was no reason to doubt.

There was no entail; and General Harding was not the man from whom an act of partiality might be expected. The old soldier was not without traits of eccentricity; not exactly crotchets or caprices, but a certain dogmatism of design, and an unwillingness to be thwarted in his ways, derived no doubt from his long exercise of military authority. This, however, was not likely to influence him in matters of a paternal character; and, unless some terrible provocation should arise, his sons, at his death, would no doubt have an equal share in the earnings of his life.

So thought the social circle in which the Hardings moved, or such part of it as took this much interest in their movements. With such fair presumption of being provided for, what could the young Hardings do but look out for something to love, and, in looking out, upon whom should the eyes of both become fixed but on Belle Mainwaring? They did, with all the ardent admiration of youth; and as she returned their respective glances with that speaking reciprocity which only a coquette can give, both fell in love with her. The inspiration came on the same day, the same hour, perhaps in the same instant.

It was at a grand archery _fete_, given by the General himself, to which Miss Mainwaring and her mother had been invited. The archer G.o.d was also present at the entertainment, and pierced the hearts of General Harding's two sons with a single arrow.

There was a remarkable difference in their way of showing it. To Miss Mainwaring, Henry was all a.s.siduity, lavish of little attentions, ran to recover her arrows, handed her her bow, held her sunshade while she bent it, and stood ready to fling himself at her feet. Nigel, on the other hand, kept himself aloof, affected indifference to her presence, tried to pique her by showing partiality to others, with many like manoeuvres suggested by a calculating and crafty spirit. In one thing the elder brother succeeded--in concealing his new-sprung pa.s.sion from the spectators.

The younger was not so fortunate. Before the archery practice was over, every guest upon the ground could tell that, at least, one arrow had been shot home to the mark, and that mark was the heart of young Henry Harding.

CHAPTER FOUR.

A COQUETTE.

I have often wondered what the world would be without woman: whether, if it were without her, man would care longer to live in it; or whether he would then find it just the place he has been all his life longing for, and would wish never to leave it. I have wondered and pondered upon this point, until speculation became lost in obscurity. It is, perhaps, the most interesting philosophical question of our existence--its most important one; and yet no philosopher, as far as I know, has given a satisfactory answer to it.

I am aware of the two theories that have been propounded--to one another opposite as are the poles. One makes woman the sole object of, our existence--her smile its only blessing. For her we work and watch, we dig and delve, we fight and write, we talk and strive. Without her we would do none of these things; in short, do nothing, since there would be no motive for doing. "What then?" say the advocates of this theory.

"Would existence be tolerable without a motive? Would it be possible?"

For our part we can only give the interrogative answer of the phlegmatic Spaniard, "_Quien sabe_?"--no answer at all. The other theory is, that woman, instead of being life's object and blessing, is but its distraction and curse. The supporters of this hypothesis make no pretence to gallantry, but simply point to experience. Without her, say they, the world would be happy, and they triumphantly add, "what is it?"

Perhaps the only way to reconcile the two theories is to steer midway between them; to regard both as wrong, and both as right; to hold woman in this world as being alike a blessing and a bane; or rather that there are two sorts of women in it, one born to bless, the other to curse-- mankind.

It grieves me to cla.s.s Belle Mainwaring with the latter: for she was beautiful, and might have belonged to the former. I knew her myself--if not well, at least sufficiently to give her correct cla.s.sification.

Perhaps I, too, might have fallen under her fascinations, had I not discovered that she was false, and this discovery protected me.

I made my discovery just in time, though by accident. It was in a ball-room. Belle liked dancing, as do most young ladies of the attractive kind; and there were but few b.a.l.l.s in the county, public or private, civilian or military, where you might not see her. I met her at the hunt ball of B--. It was the first time I had seen her. I was introduced by one of the stewards who chanced to have an impediment in his speech. It was of the nasal kind, caused by a split lip. In p.r.o.nouncing the word "captain" the first syllable came out sounding as "count." There was then a break, and the second, "ain," might have been taken, or _mis-taken_, for the prefix "von." My Christian and baptismal names, slurred together as they were by the stammering steward, might have pa.s.sed muster as Germanic; at all events, for some time afterwards--before I could find an opportunity to rectify the error--I was honoured by Miss Mainwaring with a t.i.tle that did not belong to me.

I was further honoured by having it inscribed upon her dancing card much oftener than I, in my humility, had any right to expect. We danced several measures together, round and square. I was pleased, flattered-- something more--charmed and delighted. Who would not, at being so signalised by one of the belles of the ball-room? And she was one.

I began to fancy that it was all up with me--that I had found not only an agreeable partner for the night, but for life. I was all the better satisfied to see scowling faces around me, and hear whispered insinuations, that I was having more than my share of the charming creature. It was the pleasantest hunt ball I had ever attended.

So far up to a certain hour. Then things became less agreeable. I had deposited my partner on a couch, alongside a stately dame, introduced to me as her mother. I saw that this lady did not take kindly to me; but, on the contrary, sat stiff, frigid, and uncommunicative. Failing to thaw her, I made my bow and sauntered off among the crowd, promising to return to Miss Mainwaring for still another dance, for which I had succeeded in engaging her. Not being able to find any comfort apart from her, I soon returned, and sat down on a chair close to the couch occupied by mother and daughter. As they were engaged in close conversation, neither of them saw me, and of course I did not intrude.

But, as their voices were above a whisper, I could not help hearing them; and the mention of my own name made it difficult for me to withdraw.

"A count!" said the mother; "you are beside yourself, my child."

"But Mr Southwick introduced me to him as such, and he has all the air of it."

All the air of it!--I liked that.

"Count Fiddlestrings. Mr Southwick is a fool and an a.s.s. He's only a paltry captain--on half-pay at that, without the shadow of an expectation. Lady C--has been telling me all about him."

"Indeed!"

I thought there was a sigh, but I could not be sure of it. I should have liked it very much; but then what came after would, or should, have rendered me indifferent to it.

"And you've engaged yourself to him for another dance, while young Lord P--has been twice here to ask for you--absolutely on his knees for me to intercede for him!"

"What's to be done?"

"Done! throw him over. Tell him you forgot that you had a previous engagement with Lord P--."

"Very well, mamma, if you say so, I'll do that. I'm so sorry it should have happened."