“I have a reason, madam—a reason that also concerns yourself, if I am not mistaken.”
“In what way?”
“By reading this, you will learn.”
A sheet of bluish foolscap, with the ink scarce dried upon it, was spread out before the eyes of the widow. It was the will of General Harding.
She coloured while reading it. With all the coolness of her Scotch blood; with all the steadiness of nerve produced by an eventful life—in long accompaniment of her husband in his campaigns—she could not conceal the emotion called forth by what she read upon the sheet of foolscap. It was like the echo of her own thoughts—a response to the reflections that, scarce an hour before, had been not only passing through her mind, but forming the subject of her conversation.
Adroitly as woman could—and Mrs Mainwaring was not the most simple of her sex—she endeavoured to make light of the knowledge thus communicated. She was only sorry that General Harding should so far forget his duties as a parent, to make such a distinction between his two sons. Both were equally of his own blood; and, though the younger might have been of better behaviour, still he was the younger, and time might cure him of those habits which appeared to have given offence to his father. For herself, Mrs Mainwaring was very sorry indeed; and, although it did not so essentially concern her, she could not do otherwise than thank Mr Woolet for his disinterested kindness in letting her know the terms of this strange testament. In fine, she would always feel grateful to him for what he had done.
The last clause of her speech was delivered in a tone not to be misunderstood by such an astute listener as Mr Woolet; and at its conclusion he folded up the will, and prepared to take his departure. To repeat excuses, and say that he had only done what he deemed his duty, were empty words, and were so understood by both.
A glass of sherry, with a biscuit, and the interview came to an end. Mr Woolet returned to his trap, and was soon rolling back to the town; while Buttons was commanded to take back the pony to its stable. The sauntering Belle was summoned into the drawing-room.
“What did he want, mamma?” was her inquiry on entering. “Anything that concerns me?”
“I should think so. If you marry Henry Harding you will marry a pauper. I have seen the will. His father has disinherited him.”