The Finger of Fate: A Romance

Chapter Eight

Father and Son

General Harding was accustomed to spend much time in his studio, or library it might be called – since it contained a goodly number of books. They were mostly volumes that related to Oriental subjects, more especially works upon India and its campaigns; but there were also many devoted to science and natural history, while scattered here and there upon tables were odd numbers of the Oriental Magazine, the Transactions of the Asiatic Society, and the Calcutta Englishman. There were also large pamphlets in blue parliamentary covers, that related only to the affairs of the Hon. E.I.C.

In poring over these volumes, the retired militaire was accustomed to pass much of his time. The subjects, with the descriptions attached, recalled scenes in his past life, the souvenirs of which gave him pleasure, enabling him to while away many an hour that, amidst the seclusion of the Chiltern Hills, might have otherwise hung rather heavily on his hands. Each new book about India was sure to find its way into the General’s library, and, though never a very keen sportsman, he could enjoy the descriptions of hunting scenes to be found in the pages of “Markham” and the “Old Shikaree,” since in both there is something to interest not only the sportsman but the student of Nature.

On a certain morning he had entered his studio, but with no intention of devoting himself to the tranquil study of his books. On the contrary, he did not even seat himself, but commenced pacing the floor with a quick step; while his clouded brow denoted agitation of mind. Every now and then he would stop, strike his clenched hand against his forehead, mutter a few words to himself, and then move on again. Among his mutterings could be distinguished some words that guided to the subject of his thoughts. The names “Nigel” and “Henry” constantly occurring, told that both his sons had a share in his cogitations, though chiefly the latter, whose cognomen was most frequently pronounced.

“This boy Henry has half driven me mad with his wild ways. And now, worse than all, his affair with this girl. From what I have heard, there can be no doubt that she’s entangled him; no doubt of its having become serious. It won’t do; must be broken off, cost what it will. She’s not the stuff to make an honest man’s wife out of. I’d care less if it were Nigel. But no, she won’t do for either – for no son of mine. I knew her mother too well. Poor Mainwaring! Many a dog’s day he spent with her in India. Like mother, like daughter. By heavens, it won’t do; and I shall put a stop to it! I think I know how,” continued he reflectingly. “If he’s mad, she isn’t; and therein I may find my means for saying the poor lad from the worst of all misfortunes – a wicked wife.”

The General made several turns in silence, as if maturing some plan.

“Yes; that’s the way to save him!” he at length joyfully exclaimed; “perhaps the only way. And there’s no time to be lost about it. While I’m thinking he may be acting – may have gone too far for me to get him out of the scrape. I shall see him at once – see and question him.”

The General stooped over the table; pressed upon a spring-bell; and then resumed his pacing.

The bell brought up the butler, a portly individual, who so far as could be judged by appearance, was as respectable as the General himself.

“Williams! I wish to see my son Henry; – find out if he’s upon the premises.”

“He’s on the premises, General. He’s down at the stables. Groom says he’s going to mount the brown filly.”

“The brown filly? Why she’s never been ridden before!”

“She never has, General. I think it very dangerous; but that’s just what Master Henry likes. I tried to persuade him against it, but then Master Nigel told me to mind my own business.”

“Send quick to the stable; tell him I forbid his riding the filly. Tell him to come hither. Haste, Williams, haste!”

“Ever running into danger, as if he loved it,” said the General, continuing his soliloquy; “so like what I was myself. The brown filly! Ah! I wish this was all. The Mainwaring damsel’s a worse danger than that.”

At this moment Henry made his appearance, breeched, booted, and spurred, as if for the hunting-field.

“Did you send for me, father?”

“Of course I did. You were going to mount the brown filly?”

“I am going. Have you any objection to my doing so?”

“Do you want your neck broken?”

“Ha, ha, ha! There’s not much fear of that. I think you make light of my horsemanship, papa.”

“You carry too much confidence, sir – far too much. You mount a vicious mare without consulting me. You do other and more important things without consulting me. I intend putting a stop to it.”

“What other things do you refer to, father?”

“Many other things. You spend money foolishly – like a madman; and, like a maniac, you are now rushing upon a danger of a still graver kind – upon destruction, sir – rank, absolute destruction.”

“Of what are you speaking, father? Do you mean by my mounting the filly?”

“No, sir. You may back her, and break your neck, for aught I care. I’m speaking of what’s far wickeder – a woman.”

The word woman caused the youth to turn pale. He had thought that, to his father at least, his love for Miss Mainwaring was still a secret. No other woman could be meant.

“I do not understand you, papa,” was his evasive response.

“But you do, sir – perfectly. If I gave you the name of this woman, you wouldn’t be any the wiser than you are now; you know it too well. I’ll tell you, for all that. I refer to Miss Belle Mainwaring.”

Henry made no reply, but stood blushing in the presence of his parent.

“And now, sir, about this woman I have only a few words to say —you must give her up.”

“Father!”

“I won’t listen to any of your love-sick appeals. Don’t make them – they’ll only be wasted on me. I repeat, sir, you must give Belle Mainwaring up – at once, absolutely, and for ever!”

“Father,” said the youth, in a firm tone, within his breast love pleading for justice, “you ask me to do what’s not in my power. I acknowledge that between myself and Miss Mainwaring there is something more than the affection of friendship. It has gone further than mere feeling. There have been words – I may say promises – between us. To break them, requires the consent of both parties; and for me to do so, without first consulting her, would be a cruel injustice, to which I cannot lend myself. No, father; not even with the alternative of incurring your displeasure.”

General Harding stood for a moment silent; pretending to reflect, but furtively contemplating his son. A superficial observer could have seen only anger at this filial defiance, where one clever in reading faces might have detected something like admiration mingling with the sentiment. If there was such, however, in his heart, his speech did not show it.

“Enough, sir! You have made up your mind to disobey me? Very well. Understand what this disobedience will cost you. I suppose you know the meaning of an entailed estate?”

The General paused, as if for an answer.

“I know nothing about it, papa. Something connected with a will, I believe.”

“The very reverse. An entailed estate has nothing to do with a will. Now, my estate is not entailed, and is connected with a will. It is about that I am going to talk to you. I can make one, giving my property to whomsoever I please; either to your brother Nigel or yourself. Marry Miss Mainwaring, and it shall be Nigel’s. Still, to you I shall leave just enough to carry you out of the country – that is one thousand pounds sterling. Now, sir, you hear what I have to say.”

“I hear it, father; and with sorrow. I shall be sorry to lose the inheritance I had reason to expect, but far more your esteem. Both, however, must be parted with, if there be no other consideration for my retaining them. Whether I am to marry Miss Mainwaring or not, must depend upon Miss Mainwaring herself. I think, father, you understand me?”

“Too well, sir – too well; and I answer by telling you that I have passed my word, and it shall be kept. You may go and mount the filly, and thank God she don’t do with your neck what you are likely to do with your father’s heart – break it. Begone, sir!”

Without saying a word, Henry walked out of the room, slowly and sadly.

“The image of his mother! Who could not help liking the lad, in spite of his rebellious spirit, and with all his wasteful habits? It won’t do to have such a noble heart sacrificed upon a worthless jade of a woman. He must be saved.”

Once more the General pressed upon the spring-bell, this time more violently than before. It brought the butler back in double quick time.

“Williams!”

“General?”

“My carriage, as soon as the horses can be put to?”

Williams disappeared to cause execution of the order.

A few more turns to and fro across the Turkey carpet, a few muttered soliloquies, and the carriage wheels grated upon the gravel outside.

Williams helped the General to his hat and gloves; saw him down-stairs; handed him into the carriage; and watched it rolling away, just as Henry, on the back of the brown filly, was fighting her across the green sward of the park, endeavouring to keep her head in the opposite direction.

Chapter Nine

The Checkmate

Mr Woolet sat in his office, which was separated from that of his solitary clerk by a thick wall and a narrow doorway between. But there was another wall of slighter dimensions, alongside Mr Woolet’s room, partitioning off a kind of cupboard enclosure, into which, when Mr Woolet required it, the said clerk could introduce himself, and there, standing cat-like and silent, hear what passed between his employer and any client whose conversation it was deemed necessary to make note of.

After this it is scarce necessary to add that Mr Woolet was an attorney; and though the scene of his practice was a quiet country town, in the shire of Bucks, this practice was carried on with as much sharpness and trickery, as if it lay among the low courts surrounding Newgate, or the slums of Clerkenwell.

The great city does not monopolise the plant called pettifogging. It thrives equally as strong in the county town. Even the village knows it to its cost; and the poor cottager, in his leaky shed at three shillings a week, is too often encompassed by its toils.

Of such small fry Mr Woolet had hooked his hundreds, and had prospered by their capture to the keeping of a carriage and pair; but, as yet, none of the big fish had entered his net – the largest being the widow Mainwaring, who had been caught while taking from him a lease of her cottage. The carriage had, therefore, been kept to no purpose, or less than none: since not being in accord with his position it only brought him ridicule. This, however, could not last for ever. The gentry could not always hold out against such a glittering attraction. Some swell must in time stand in need of Mr Woolet’s peculiar services, and enable him to achieve the much wished-for position. And so it seemed to turn out, as one day a carriage much grander than Mr Woolet’s own, with a coachman nearly a quarter of a ton in weight, and a powdered footman beside him, drove through the street of the little town in which Mr Woolet lived, and pulled up opposite his office.

Perhaps the lawyer was never more delighted in his life, than when his clerk protruded his phiz inside the office-door, and announced sotto voce the arrival of General Harding. In a moment after the same individual ushered the General into his presence. A masonic sign communicated to the clerk caused his disappearance; and the instant after that pale-faced familiar was skulking like a ghost within the cupboard enclosure.

“General Harding, I believe?” said the obsequious attorney, bowing to the lowest button of his visitor’s surtout.

“Yes,” bluffly responded the old soldier. “That is my name. Yours is – ”

“Woolet, General; E. Woolet, at your service.”

“Well, I want some service from you – if you’re not otherwise engaged.”

“Any engagement, General, must stand aside for you. What can I do to oblige you?”

“To oblige me, nothing. I want your services as an attorney. You are one, I believe?”

“My name is in the Law List, General. You can see it here.”

Mr Woolet took up a small volume, and was handing it to the General.

“Never mind about the Law List,” bluntly interrupted the soldier, “I see it on your sign; that’s enough for me. What I’m in search of is an attorney who can make a will. I suppose you can do that?”

“Well, General, although I cannot boast of my professional abilities, I think I can manage the making of a will.”

“Enough said; sit down and set about it.”

Considering that he kept a carriage himself, Mr Woolet might have felt a little offended by this brusque behaviour on the part of his new client. It was the first time he had ever been so treated in his own office; but then it was the first time he had ever had a client of such a class, and he knew better than to show feeling under the infliction.

Without saying another word, he sat down before his table, the General taking a seat on the opposite side, and waited for the latter to proceed.

“Write now as I dictate,” said the General, without even prefixing the word “please.”

The lawyer, still obsequious, signified assent, at the same time seizing a pen, and placing a sheet of blue foolscap before him.

“I hereby will and bequeath to my eldest son, Nigel Harding, all my real and personal estate, comprising my houses and lands, as also my stock in personal securities, excepting one thousand pounds, to be sold out of the last, and paid over to my other and youngest son, Henry Harding, as his sole legacy left from my estate.”

To this extent the lawyer finished the writing, and waited for his client to proceed.

“You have done, have you?” asked the General.

“So far as you dictated, General, I have.”

“Have you written down the date?”

“Not yet, General.”

“Then put it in.”

Woolet took up his pen, and complied.

“Have you a witness at hand? If not, I can bring in my footman.”

“You need not do that, General. My clerk will do for one witness.”

“Oh! it wants two, does it?”

“That is the law, General; but I myself can be the second.”

“All right, then; let me sign.”

And the General rose from his seat, and leaned towards the table.

“But, General,” interposed the lawyer, thinking the will a somewhat short one, “is this all? You have two sons?”

“Of course I have. Haven’t I said so in my will?”

“But, surely – ”

“Surely what?”

“You are not going to – ”

“I am going to sign my will, if you will allow me; if not, I must get it made elsewhere.”

Mr Woolet was too much a man of business to offer any further opposition. It was no affair of his beyond giving satisfaction to his new client; and to accomplish this he at once pushed the paper before the General, at the same time presenting him with the pen.

The General signed; the lawyer and his clerk – summoned from the cupboard – attested; and the will was complete.

“Now make me a copy of it,” demanded the General. “The original you may keep till called for.”

The copy was made; the General buttoned it up in the breast of his surtout; and then, without even cautioning the lawyer to secrecy, stepped back into his carriage, and was soon rolling along the four miles of road lying between the village and his own residence.

“There’s something queer about all this,” soliloquised the pettifogger, when left alone in his office. “Queer he should come to me, instead of going to his own solicitor; and queerer still he should disinherit the younger son – or next thing to it. His property cannot be worth less than a cool hundred thousand pounds, and all to go to that half-negro, while the other, as most people thought, would have a half share of it. After all, it’s not so strange. He’s angry with the younger son; and in making this will he comes to me instead of going to Lawson, who he knows might say something to dissuade him from his purpose. I have no doubt he will stick to it, unless the young scamp leaves off his idle ways. General Harding is not a man to be trifled with, even by his own son. But whether this will is to remain good or not, it’s my duty to make it known to a third party, who for certain reasons will be deeply interested in its contents; and who, whether she may ever be able to thank me for communicating them, will, at all events, keep the secret of my doing so. She shall hear of it within the hour.”

“Mr Robson!”

The pale face of the unarticled clerk appeared within the doorway – prompt as a stage spirit summoned through a trap.

“Tell the coachman to clap the horses into my carriage – quick as tinder.”

The spirit disappeared without making any reply, and just as his invoker had finished the folding of the lately attested will, and made a minute of what had transpired between him and the testator, carriage wheels were heard outside the door of the office.

In six seconds after Mr Woolet was in his “trap” – as he used condescendingly to call it – and rattling along a country road, the same taken ten minutes before by the more ostentatious equipage of the retired Indian officer.

Although driving the same way, the destination of the two vehicles was different. The chariot was bound for Beechwood Park, the “trap” for a less pretentious residence outside its enclosure – the villa-cottage occupied by the widow Mainwaring.

Chapter Ten

The Bait Taken

The relict of the late colonel, who had left his hones in the Punjaub and herself with only a slight maintenance, had nevertheless sufficient to maintain a “turn-out.” True it was but a pony and phaeton; but the pony was spirited, the phaeton a neat one, and with the charming Belle in it, hat on head, whip and ribbons in hand, it might have been termed stylish. The appearance was improved by a boy in buttons, who sat upon the back seat, well trained to sustain the dignity of the situation.

This choice little tableau of country life might have been seen at the gate of Mrs Mainwaring’s villa at eleven o’clock of that same day, on which the conversation already reported had passed between herself and her daughter in the breakfast-room.

It was an early hour for a drive; but it was to be a journey upon business to her lawyer. It was never made; for just as the sprightly Belle had taken her seat in the phaeton, adjusted her drapery, and commenced “catching flies” with her whip, what should appear coming up the road, and at a spanking pace, but the two-horse trap of that lawyer himself, Mr Woolet.

The trap was evidently en route for the widow’s residence, where more than once it had brought its owner upon matters of business. Its approach was a fortunate circumstance; so thought Mrs Mainwaring, so thought her daughter, neither of whom on that particular day desired to go to the town. It was not one that had been set apart for shopping; more important matters were on the tapis, and these could be arranged with Mr Woolet on the spot. The phaeton was at once abandoned, “Buttons” receiving orders to keep the pony by the gate, and the ladies, followed by the lawyer, returned into the cottage. The attorney was received in the drawing-room; but, as the business could have nothing to do with the beautiful Belle, her presence was excused, and she sauntered out again, leaving her mother alone with Mr Woolet.

Though there was still a certain obsequiousness about the lawyer’s manner, it was very different from that he had exhibited when dealing with General Harding. There was a vast distinction between a live General, possessed of a clear hundred thousand pounds, and a defunct colonel’s widow, with scarce so many pence. Still, Mrs Mainwaring was a lady of acknowledged social position, with a daughter who might at no distant day have the control of a gentleman who had a hundred thousand pounds, and who might become a profitable client of whoever chanced at the time to be her mother’s solicitor. Mr Woolet was a sharp, far-seeing individual, and this forecast had not escaped him. If he showed himself more at ease in the presence of the colonel’s widow than he had done in that of the General, it was simply because he recognised in the lady a nature like his own – less scrupulous upon points of honour or etiquette.