Читать книгу The Finger of Fate: A Romance - Reid Mayne - Страница 12

On that same evening, as usual, there were four chairs placed at the dinner-table of General Harding. One was empty – that which should have been occupied by his younger son.

“Where is he?” asked the General, drawing the napkin across his breast.

Nigel knew not. Of course the maiden aunt could not tell. With her the scapegrace was not a favourite, and she took no heed of his movements. The butler was questioned, but did not know where Master Henry had gone. Nigel could only say he had seen him take the path towards the cottage of the Mainwarings; and a frown darkened his brow as he imparted the intelligence.

“He may have stayed for dinner,” added the elder brother; “Mrs Mainwaring makes him so welcome.”

“She won’t after awhile,” said the General, with a smile that to some extent relieved the frown also visible in his face.

Nigel looked at his father, but forbore asking for an explanation. He seemed to divine something that gave him relief, for the shadow upon his brow became sensibly lighter.

Upon that subject the conversation dropped; nor would it have been resumed again during dinner, but that before the meal ended a communication came into the room, through the medium of the butler. It was in the shape of a note, evidently scrawled in haste, and upon paper that could only have come from the escritoire of a cottage or a country inn. From the latter it had issued – the “Hare and Hounds,” a hostelry that stood not far from the gates of General Harding’s park, on the high road to London. There was no postmark – the letter having been hand-carried.

Hurried as was the scrawl of the superscription, the General recognised it as the handwriting of his son Henry. The shadow returned to his countenance as he tore open the envelope. It grew darker as he deciphered the contents of the note enclosed therein. They were as follows: —

“Father, —

“I say ‘father,’ since I cannot dissimulate my real thoughts by prefixing the epithet ‘dear,’ – when this reaches you I shall be on the road to London, and thence heaven knows where; but never more to return to a house which, by your own decreeing, can no longer be a home for me. I could have borne my disinheritance, for perhaps I deserve it; but the consequences to which it has led are too cruel for me to think of you otherwise than with anger. The deed is now done, and let that be an end of it. I write to you only to say that, since by the terms of your will I may some day become the fortunate recipient of a thousand pounds, perhaps you will have no objection to pay it to me now, deducting, if you please, the usual interest – which I believe can be calculated according to the rules of the Insurance societies. A thousand pounds at your death – which I hope may be far distant – would scarce be worth waiting for. Now, it would serve my purpose, since I am determined to go abroad and seek fortune under some more propitious sky than that which extends over the Chiltern Hills. But if I do not find the sum at your London lawyer’s within three days, subject to my order, I shall make my way abroad all the same. I am not likely ever to ask for it again. So, father, you may choose in this matter, whether to oblige me or not; and perhaps my kind brother Nigel, whose counsels you are so ready to take, may help you in determining the choice.

“Henry Harding.”

The General sprang from his chair, long before he had finished reading the letter. He had read it by fits and starts, while striding about the room, and stamping his feet upon the floor, until the glasses jingled upon the table.

“My heavens!” he at length ejaculated, “what is the meaning of this?”

“Of what, dear father?” asked the obsequious Nigel. “You have received some unpleasant news?”

“News! news! worse than news!”

“From whom, may I ask?”

“From Henry – the scamp – the ungrateful – Here, read this!”

Nigel took the note and read. “It is indeed an unpleasant communication; unfeeling of Henry – insulting, I should say. But what does it all mean?”

“No matter what it means. Enough for me to know that. Enough to think that he is gone. I know the boy well. He will keep his word. He’s too like myself about that. Gone! O God – gone!”

The General groaned as he traversed the Turkey carpet. The maiden aunt said nothing, but sat by the table, quietly sipping port wine and munching walnuts. The storm raged on.

“After all,” put in Nigel, with the pretence of tranquillising it, “he means nothing with this strange talk. He’s young – foolish – ”

“Means nothing!” roared the General in a fresh burst of excitement. “Does it mean nothing to write such a letter as this – in which every word is a slight to my authority – a defiance?”

“True enough,” said Nigel, “I know not what can have possessed him to speak as he has done. He’s evidently angry about something – something I don’t understand. But he’ll get over it in time, though one cannot forgive him so easily.”

“Never! I will never forgive him. He has tried my temper too often; but this will be the last time. Disobedience such as his shall be overlooked no longer – to say nothing of the levity, the positive defiance, that accompanies it. By my faith, he shall be punished for it!”

“In that regard,” interposed the unctuous elder son, “since he has spoken of my giving you advice, it would be to leave him to himself – at least for a time. Perhaps after he has passed some months without the extravagant support you have hitherto so generously afforded him, he may feel less independent, and more prone to penitence. I think the thousand pounds he speaks of your having promised him, and which I know nothing about, should be kept back.”

“He shan’t have a shilling of it – not till my death.”

“For your sake, dear father, a long time, I hope; and for his, perhaps, it may be all the better so.”

“Better or worse, he shan’t have a shilling of it – not a shilling. Let him starve till he comes to his senses.”

“The best thing to bring him to his senses,” chimed in Nigel; “and take my word for it, father, it will do that before long – you’ll see.”

This counsel seemed to tranquillise the perturbed spirit of the irate General, at least for a time. He returned to the table and to his port; over which he sat alone, and to a much later hour than was his usual custom. The mellow wine may have made him more merciful; but whether it was this or not, before going to bed he returned to his studio, and wrote, in a somewhat unsteady hand, a letter to his London lawyer – directing the latter to pay to his son Henry, on demand, a cheque for the sum of 1,000 pounds.

He despatched the letter by a groom, to be in time for the morning post; and all this he did with an air of caution, as if he intended to do good by stealth. But what appears caution to the mind of a man obfuscated with over a bottle of port, may seem carelessness to those who are around him. There was one who looked upon it in this light. Nigel knew all about the writing of the letter, guessed its contents, and was privy to its despatch for the post. Outside the hall-door it was taken from the hands of the groom to whom it had been intrusted, and transferred to the charge of another individual, who was said to be going past the village post-office. It was Master Nigel who caused the transference to be made. And from him the new messenger received certain instructions, in consequence of which the letter never reached its destination.