Chapter Twenty Three.
Dissimulation.
On that same night, as upon almost every other of the year, General Harding was seated in his dining-room with a decanter of crusted port on his right hand, a glass a little nearer, and a Phillipine cheroot between his teeth. His maiden sister was on his left, round a corner of the table, upon which stood before her another wine-glass, with an épergne of flowers, and a hand-dish containing fruit. It was the hour after dinner, the cloth had been removed, the dessert decanters set upon the table, and the butler and footmen had retired.
“It’s just nine,” said the General, consulting his chronometer-watch, “Nigel should be back by this. He wasn’t to stop for dinner—only luncheon—and the train leaves Reading at 7:16. I wonder if those Mainwarings were there?”
“Pretty sure to be,” replied the ancient spinster, who was shrewd at conjectures.
“Yes,” thoughtfully soliloquised the General, “pretty sure, I suppose. Well, it don’t much matter, I’ve no fear for Nigel; he’s not the sort to be humbugged by her blandishments, like that hot-headed simpleton, Hal. By my word, sister! it is very strange we’ve not heard a word from the lad since he left us.”
“You will, when he’s spent the thousand pounds you gave him. When that comes to an end, he’ll not be so sparing of his correspondence.”
“No doubt. Strange, though—not a scrape of his pen since that nasty epistle from the inn—not even to acknowledge the receipt of the money. I suppose he got it all right. I’ve not looked into my bank-book since I don’t know when.”
“Oh, you may be certain of his having got it. If he hadn’t you’d have heard from him long ago. Henry isn’t one to go without money, where money can be had. You’ve good reason to know that. I should say you needn’t trouble about him, brother; he’s not been living all this time upon air.”
“I wonder where he is? He said he was going abroad. I suppose he has done so.”
“Doubtful enough,” rejoined the spinster, with a shake of her head; “London will be the place for him, so long as his money lasts. When it is spent you’ll hear from him. He’ll write for a fresh supply. Of course, brother, you’ll send it?”
The interrogatory was spoken ironically and in a taunting tone, intended to produce an effect the very opposite to what it might seem to serve.
“Not a shilling!” said the General, determinedly setting his wine-glass down on the table with an emphatic clink. “Not a single shilling. If within twelve months he has succeeded in dissipating a thousand pounds, he shall go twelve years before he gets another thousand. Not a shilling before my death; and then only enough to keep him from starvation. No, Nelly dear, I’ve made up my mind about that. Nigel shall have all except a little something which will be left to yourself. I gave Hal every chance. He should have had half. Now, after what has happened— There are wheels upon the gravel. Nigel with the dog-cart, I suppose.”
It was; and in ten seconds more Nigel, without the dog-cart, stepped softly into the room.
“You’re a little late, Nigel?”
“Yes, papa. The train was behind time.”
This was a lie. The delay was caused by stoppage nearer home—at the widow Mainwaring’s cottage.
“Well, I hope you have had a pleasant party?”
“Passable.”
“That all? And such weather. Who was there?”
“Oh, for that matter, there was company enough—half of Bucks and Berkshire, I should think, to say nothing of a score of snobs from London.”
“Any of our neighbours?”
“Well—no—not exactly.”
“It’s a wonder the widow Mainwaring—”
“Oh, yes, she was there. I didn’t think of her.”
“The daughter, of course, along with her?”
“Yes, the daughter was there, too. By the way, aunt,” continued the young man, with the design of changing the subject, “you haven’t asked me to join you in a glass of wine. And I’d like to have a morsel of something to eat. I feel as if I’d had nothing at all. I think I could eat a raw steak if I had it.”
“There was a roast duck for dinner,” suggested the aunt; “but it is cold now, dear Nigel, and so is the asparagus. Will you wait until it is warmed up, or perhaps you would prefer a slice of the cold boiled beef, with some West Indian pickles?”
“I don’t care what, so long as it’s something to eat.”
“Have a glass of port wine, Nigel,” said the General, while his sister was directing Williams as to the arrangement of the tray. “From what you say, I suppose you don’t want a nip of cognac to give you an appetite?”
“No, indeed. I’ve got that already. How late is it, father? Their clocks appear to be all wrong down the road, or else the trains are. It’s always the way with the Great Western. It’s a bad line to depend on for dining.”
“Ah, and a worse for dividends,” rejoined the General, the smile at his own pun being more than neutralised by a grin that told of his being holder of shares in the G.W.R.
With a laugh Nigel drank off his glass of port; and then sat down to his cold duck, boiled beef, and pickles.