The Finger of Fate Part 8

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 pa.s.sion, 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.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

SELF-EXILED.

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 gla.s.ses jingled upon the table.

"My heavens!" he at length e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "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 G.o.d--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 pa.s.sed some months without the extravagant support you have hitherto so generously afforded him, he may feel less independent, and more p.r.o.ne 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.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

LONDON THUGS.

On arriving in London, Henry Harding put up at a West-end hotel, which he had allowed his cabman to select, for he knew very little of London or its life. He had only paid two or three transient visits to it, and but few of his father's acquaintances resided in the metropolis. Upon these he did not think of calling. He supposed that the affair with his father might have become known to them--perhaps his rejection by Belle Mainwaring--and he had resolved upon keeping out of sight, to avoid the necessity of concealing his chagrin. Henry Harding had a proud spirit, and could neither have brooked ridicule nor accepted sympathy. For this reason, instead of hunting out any old college acquaintances he might have found in London, he rather avoided the chances of meeting them.

Besides the note written to his father, he had addressed one to the footman, simply directing this individual to pack up his clothes, guns, canes, and other impedimenta, and send them on to Paddington station, "till called for." This was done; and the luggage, in due time, arrived at the hotel where he was staying. Some eight or ten pounds of loose money, that chanced to be in his pocket on leaving home, was all the cash he commanded; and this was out of his pocket before he had been half that number of days in London.

For the first time in his life he began to find what an inconvenient thing it is to be without cash, especially in the streets of a large city--though he yet only knew it as an inconvenience. He expected his father would accede to the request he had made, and send an order for the payment of the thousand pounds. To allow time for the transaction, he kept away from the solicitor's office for nearly a week. He then called to make the inquiry. It was simply whether any communication relating to him had been received from his father. In case there had been none, he did not wish the lawyer to be any wiser about the affair.

None had been--not any. This was the answer given him.

In three days he called again, and reiterated his former inquiry almost word for word. Almost word for word was the answer he had--not from the solicitor himself, but the head clerk of his office. General Harding had written no letter lately to Messrs Lawson and Son (the name of the firm), either in reference to him or any other matter. "He's not going, to send it," bitterly soliloquised Henry as he left the solicitor's office. "I suppose I'm not punished enough--so he thinks, with my precious brother to back him. Well, he can keep it. I shall never ask another shilling from him, if I have to starve."