Chapter Fifty Eight.
The New Squire of Beechwood.
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 élite 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 règle: 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 dégoût 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.
I stood aside to give them passage.
He entered the carriage first, as if forced in by command. The lady, resplendent in sable robes—it was winter—placed her foot upon the step to follow. At that moment the horses, already pawing the gravel with impatience, made a false start forward. They were suddenly checked by the coachman; but the lady staggering, would have gone to the ground, but for my person interposed to prevent her. By a mere mechanical act of politeness, I had stretched forth my arms, between which sank Mrs Nigel Harding.
“You of all men!” muttered she, in a tone I could not easily forget, and which conveyed to my ear less of gratitude than reproach. Then breaking off, and transferring her spleen to the peccant Jehu, she flounced into the carriage, and was whirled off out of my sight.
What astonished me still more was the behaviour of her husband. I saw his face, as the carriage drove off, projected out of its open window. By the light of the lamp I could perceive that there was a black look upon it; but, instead of on the coachman, his eyes appeared to be directed towards myself, as though I had been the cause of the accident! Certainly he did not seem grateful for my voluntary act of politeness.
It was five years before I saw either again. I had almost, if not altogether, forgotten them, when a circumstance, occurring many thousand miles away, returned to my recollection the young squire of Beechwood Park, and of course along with him his wife.
The circumstance to which I allude was not only strange, but of serious consequence to several of the characters who have figured in this tale; among others, to Nigel Harding and his lady. Better for these last if it had never occurred.