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.