Chapter Seven.
Plotters for Fortune.
The stag-hunt, at which Henry Harding had exhibited such gallant courage, had been the very last of the season; and, soon after, spring stole over the shire of Bucks, clothing its beechen forests and grassy glades in a new livery of the gayest green. The crake had come into the cornfield, the cuckoo winged her way across the common, uttering her soft monotonous notes, and the nightingale had once more taken possession of the coppice, from whence, through the livelong night, pealed forth its incomparable song. It was the month of May—that sweet season when all nature seems to submit itself to the tender inclinings of love; when not only the shy birds of the air, but the chased creatures of the earth—alike tamed and emboldened by its influence—stray beyond the safety of their coverts in pursuit of those pleasures at other seasons denied them.
Whether the love-month has any influence on the passions of the human species, is a disputed question. Perhaps, in man’s primitive state, such may have been the case, and Nature’s suggestiveness may have extended also to him. But at whatever season affection may spring up between two young hearts, surely this is the time of the year that Nature has designed it to reach maturity.
It seemed so in the case of Henry Harding. In the month of May his passion for Belle Mainwaring had reached the point that should end in a declaration; and upon this he had determined. With the outside world it was still a question whether his love was reciprocated, though it was generally thought that the coquette had been at length captured, and by Henry Harding. The eligibility of the match favoured this view of the case, though, to say the truth, not more than the personal appearance of the man.
At this time the younger son of General Harding was just entering upon manhood, and possessed a face and figure alike manly and graceful. The only blemish that could be brought against him was of a moral nature—as already mentioned, a proneness to dissipation. But time might remedy this; and even as things stood it did not so materially damage him in the eyes of his lady acquaintances—more than one of whom would have been willing to take Miss Mainwaring’s chances. The light in which Belle regarded him may be best learnt from a conversation that, about this time, took place. It was over the breakfast-table in her mother’s cottage, the speakers being her mother and herself.
“And you would marry him?” interrogated Mrs Mainwaring, after some remark that had introduced the name of Henry Harding.
“I would, mamma; and, with your leave, I will.”
“What about his leave?”