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The Finger of Fate: A Romance

Chapter Twenty Two
A Queer Traveller

The swells who diurnally take their departure for Windsor and the West were one afternoon, in the year 18 – , called upon to use their eye-glasses upon a somewhat strange-looking traveller, who, coming from heaven knows where, made his appearance on the platform of the Paddington Station.

And yet there was nothing so very remarkable about the man – except on the Paddington platform. At London Bridge you might there have seen his like any day in the year: a personage of dark complexion, dressed in black, with a loose poncho-like garment hanging from his shoulders, and a hat upon his head, half wide-awake, but tending toward a steeple-crown – in short, a “Calabrian.”

Such was the costume of the individual who had caused the raising of eye-glasses on the Paddington platform. In an instant they were down again, the object of supercilious attention having dissipated scrutiny by diving into the interior of a second-class carriage.

“Demmed queer-looking fella!” was the remark, and with this he was forgotten.

At Slough he appeared again upon that gloomiest of platforms, commanded by a station-master possessing the loudest voice upon all the G.W.R. line. The strange traveller did not show himself until the swells, such of them as stopped, at Slough, had given up their tickets, and passed through the gate. Then, tumbling out of the carriage, the queer traveller, with a small portmanteau in his hand, placed himself in communication with the great Boanerges who directs the startings and departures at the Slough Station.

Between the two individuals thus accidentally coming together there was a contrast so striking that the most careless lounger on the platform could not have restrained himself from giving them attention. As they stood, en rapport, the very types of extremes – the negative and positive – the one a grand colossal form of true Saxon physiognomy, the other a diminutive specimen of Latinic humanity – for such the cloaked traveller appeared to be.

At the time, I myself chanced to be on the down platform, waiting for a down train. I was so struck with the tableau that I involuntarily drew nigh, to hear what the little dark man in the capote had to say to the giant in green frock and gilt buttons.

The first word that fell upon my ears was the name of General Harding! It was not pronounced in the ordinary way, but with an accent plainly foreign, and which I could easily tell to be Italian.

Listening a little longer, I could hear that the stranger was inquiring the direction to General Harding’s residence. I should have myself volunteered to give it him; but from the station-master’s reply I perceived that this functionary was directing him; and just then the down train, gliding alongside, admonished me to look out for myself.

Not till then did it occur to me, that I had stupidly forgotten to take my ticket, and I hastened into the office to procure one. As I came out again upon the platform I saw the strange traveller disappear within the doorway of a hackney coach; the driver of which, giving the whip to his horse, trundled off from the station.

In ten seconds after, I had taken my seat in the railway-carriage – an empty one – when an incident occurred that drove the queer traveller as completely out of my head as if he had never been in it.

The whistle had already screamed, and the train was about to move off, when the door was opened by the Titanic station-master, who was saying at the same time —

“This way ladies!”

The rustle of silk, with some hurried exclamation outside, told of the late arrival of at least two feminine passengers; and, the moment after, they entered the carriage, and took their seats nearly opposite me.

I had been cutting open the pages of Punch, and did not look up into their faces as they entered. But on finishing my inspection of the cartoon, I raised my eyes to see of what style were my two travelling companions, and beheld – Belle Mainwaring and her mother!

It was just about as awkward a position as I ever remembered occupying in my life. But I managed to sustain it, by appealing once more to the pages of Punch. Not even so much as a nod was exchanged between us; and had there been a stranger in the carriage he could not have told that Miss Mainwaring and I had ever met – much less danced together. I did Punch from beginning to end; and then, turning my attention to the advertisements on the back of the title-page, made myself acquainted with the qualities of “Gosnell’s Soap” and the mysteries of the “Sansflectum Crinoline.” Despite these studies, I found time to give an occasional side-glance at Miss Mainwaring, which I saw she was returning by a similar slant. What she may have seen in my eye I cannot tell, but in hers I read a light that, had my heart not been of the dulness of lead, might have set it on fire. It had at one time come very near melting under that same glance; but, after the cooling process experienced, it had become hardened to the temper of steel, and now passed through the crucible unscathed. When I had finished reading Punch’s three columns of advertisements, and for the hundredth time made an examination of Toby, with the procession of nymphs, dancing buffoons, and bacchantes, the train stopped at Reading.

Here my travelling companions got out. So did I. I had been asked to a park fête to be held at a gentleman’s residence in the neighbourhood – the same mentioned in a previous chapter. I suspected the Mainwarings were also bound for the place; and from the direction taken by the fly in which they drove off, I was made sure of it.

On arriving at my friend’s residence I found them upon the lawn; Miss Belle, as usual, surrounded by simpering swells, among whom, not to my surprise, I recognised Mr Nigel Harding. I noticed that, during the progress of the game of croquet which they were playing, he refrained from showing her any marked attention, leaving this for the others. For all that he was evidently uneasy, and stealthily watched her every glance and movement. Once or twice when they were apart, I could hear him say something to her in a low tone, with the green of jealousy in his eyes, and its pallor upon his lips.

On leaving the place, which the company did at an early hour, I saw that he accompanied her and her mother to the railway station. The three rode back in the same fly. We all returned to Slough in the same train; I going on to London. From the carriage in which I sat I could see Miss Mainwaring’s pony-phaeton, with the page at the pony’s head, and close by a dog-cart with a groom in the Harding livery. Before the train started I saw the ladies step into the phaeton, Nigel Harding climbing to the seat behind them, while “buttons” was dismissed to take his seat in the dog-cart. With their freight thus assorted, the two vehicles drove off, just as the train was slipping out of the station.

From what I had seen that day, and what I had heard under the great cedar tree, and, more than all, from what I knew of both parties to the suit, I had made up my mind before reaching London, that Belle Mainwaring was booked to be the better-half of Nigel Harding – if consent could be squeezed out of his father either by fraud or by force.

Chapter Twenty Three
Dissimulation

On that same night, as upon almost every other of the year, General Harding was seated in his dining-room with a decanter of crusted port on his right hand, a glass a little nearer, and a Phillipine cheroot between his teeth. His maiden sister was on his left, round a corner of the table, upon which stood before her another wine-glass, with an épergne of flowers, and a hand-dish containing fruit. It was the hour after dinner, the cloth had been removed, the dessert decanters set upon the table, and the butler and footmen had retired.

“It’s just nine,” said the General, consulting his chronometer-watch, “Nigel should be back by this. He wasn’t to stop for dinner – only luncheon – and the train leaves Reading at 7:16. I wonder if those Mainwarings were there?”

“Pretty sure to be,” replied the ancient spinster, who was shrewd at conjectures.

“Yes,” thoughtfully soliloquised the General, “pretty sure, I suppose. Well, it don’t much matter, I’ve no fear for Nigel; he’s not the sort to be humbugged by her blandishments, like that hot-headed simpleton, Hal. By my word, sister! it is very strange we’ve not heard a word from the lad since he left us.”

“You will, when he’s spent the thousand pounds you gave him. When that comes to an end, he’ll not be so sparing of his correspondence.”

“No doubt. Strange, though – not a scrape of his pen since that nasty epistle from the inn – not even to acknowledge the receipt of the money. I suppose he got it all right. I’ve not looked into my bank-book since I don’t know when.”

“Oh, you may be certain of his having got it. If he hadn’t you’d have heard from him long ago. Henry isn’t one to go without money, where money can be had. You’ve good reason to know that. I should say you needn’t trouble about him, brother; he’s not been living all this time upon air.”

“I wonder where he is? He said he was going abroad. I suppose he has done so.”

“Doubtful enough,” rejoined the spinster, with a shake of her head; “London will be the place for him, so long as his money lasts. When it is spent you’ll hear from him. He’ll write for a fresh supply. Of course, brother, you’ll send it?”

The interrogatory was spoken ironically and in a taunting tone, intended to produce an effect the very opposite to what it might seem to serve.

“Not a shilling!” said the General, determinedly setting his wine-glass down on the table with an emphatic clink. “Not a single shilling. If within twelve months he has succeeded in dissipating a thousand pounds, he shall go twelve years before he gets another thousand. Not a shilling before my death; and then only enough to keep him from starvation. No, Nelly dear, I’ve made up my mind about that. Nigel shall have all except a little something which will be left to yourself. I gave Hal every chance. He should have had half. Now, after what has happened – There are wheels upon the gravel. Nigel with the dog-cart, I suppose.”

It was; and in ten seconds more Nigel, without the dog-cart, stepped softly into the room.

“You’re a little late, Nigel?”

“Yes, papa. The train was behind time.”

This was a lie. The delay was caused by stoppage nearer home – at the widow Mainwaring’s cottage.

“Well, I hope you have had a pleasant party?”

“Passable.”

“That all? And such weather. Who was there?”

“Oh, for that matter, there was company enough – half of Bucks and Berkshire, I should think, to say nothing of a score of snobs from London.”

“Any of our neighbours?”

“Well – no – not exactly.”

“It’s a wonder the widow Mainwaring – ”

“Oh, yes, she was there. I didn’t think of her.”

“The daughter, of course, along with her?”

“Yes, the daughter was there, too. By the way, aunt,” continued the young man, with the design of changing the subject, “you haven’t asked me to join you in a glass of wine. And I’d like to have a morsel of something to eat. I feel as if I’d had nothing at all. I think I could eat a raw steak if I had it.”

“There was a roast duck for dinner,” suggested the aunt; “but it is cold now, dear Nigel, and so is the asparagus. Will you wait until it is warmed up, or perhaps you would prefer a slice of the cold boiled beef, with some West Indian pickles?”

“I don’t care what, so long as it’s something to eat.”

“Have a glass of port wine, Nigel,” said the General, while his sister was directing Williams as to the arrangement of the tray. “From what you say, I suppose you don’t want a nip of cognac to give you an appetite?”

“No, indeed. I’ve got that already. How late is it, father? Their clocks appear to be all wrong down the road, or else the trains are. It’s always the way with the Great Western. It’s a bad line to depend on for dining.”

“Ah, and a worse for dividends,” rejoined the General, the smile at his own pun being more than neutralised by a grin that told of his being holder of shares in the G.W.R.

With a laugh Nigel drank off his glass of port; and then sat down to his cold duck, boiled beef, and pickles.

Chapter Twenty Four
A Strange Visitor

General Harding’s butler, with the assistance of the footman had just carried out the supper-tray when there came a ring at the hall-door bell, succeeded by a double knock. Neither were of the kind which the butler would have called “obtropolous,” but rather bashful and subdued. For all that they were heard within the room where the General sat.

“Very odd, at this hour of night,” remarked the General. “Ten o’clock,” he said, consulting his chronometer. “Who can it be?”

No one made a reply, as all were engrossed in listening. They heard the opening of the door, and then a parley between Williams upon the step, and somebody outside in the porch. It lasted some time longer than need have been necessary for a visitor who was a friend of the family. The voice, too, answering the butler’s, was evidently that of a stranger, and, as the occupants of the dining-room thought, one who spoke with a foreign accent.

The General bethought him, whether it might not be some of his old chums freshly arrived home from India, and who had come down sans cérémonie by a late train. But, then, he could think of none of them with a foreign accent.

“Who is it, Williams?” asked he, as the latter appeared in the doorway of the dining-room.

“That I can’t tell, General. The gentleman, if I may so call ’im, will neither give his name nor his card. He says he has most important business, and must see you.”

“Very odd! What does he look like?”

“Like a furraner, and a rum ’un at that. Certain, General, he arn’t a gentleman; that can be seen plain enough.”

“Very odd!” again repeated the General. “Very odd! Says he must see me?”

“Sayed it over and over, that it’s important more to you than him. Shall I show him in, General, or will you speak to him at the door?”

“Door be damned!” testily replied the old soldier. “I’m not going out there to accommodate a stranger, without either name or card. May be some begging-letter impostor. Tell him I can’t see him to-night. He may come back in the morning.”

“I’ve told him so, General, already. He says no; you must see him to-night.”

“Must! The devil!”

“Well, General, if I’d be allowed to speak my opinion, he looks a good bit like that same gentleman you’ve mentioned.”

“Who the deuce can it be, Nigel?” said the old soldier, turning to his son.

“I haven’t the slightest idea myself,” was Nigel’s reply. “It wouldn’t be that Lawyer Woolet? He answers very well to the description Williams gives of his late intruder.”

“No, no, Master Nigel, it’s not Mr Woolet. It’s an article of hoomanity even uglier than him; though certain he have got something o’ a lawyer’s look about him. But then he be a furriner; I can swear to that.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the General, using one of his mildest asseverations. “I can’t think of any foreigner that can have business with me; but whether or no, I suppose I must see him. What say you, my son?”

“Oh, as for that,” answered the latter, “there can be no harm in it. I’ll stay in the room with you; and if he becomes troublesome, I suppose, with the help of Williams here and the footman, we may be able to eject him.”

“Lor, Master Nigel, he isn’t bigger than our page-boy. I could take him up in my arms, and swing him hallway across the shrubberies. You needn’t have no fear ’bout that.”

“Come, come, Williams,” said the General, “none of this idle talking. Tell the gentleman I’ll see him. Show him in.”

Then, turning to his sister, he added —

“Nelly dear, you may as well go up to the drawing-room. Nigel and I will join you as soon as we’ve given an interview to this unexpected guest.”

The spinster, gathering up some crochet-work that she had made a commencement on, sailed out of the room – leaving her brother and nephew to receive the nocturnal caller, who would not be denied.

Chapter Twenty Five
An Uncourteous Reception

The old soldier and his son stood in silent expectation; for the oddity of an interview thus authoritatively demanded had summoned both to their feet. Outside they could hear the resumed exchange of speech between Williams and the stranger, and their two sets of footsteps sounding along the flagged pavement of the hall. Some seconds after, the stranger was shown inside the room, and the three were left alone – Williams retiring at a sign from the General.

A more singular specimen of the genus homo, or one less in keeping with the place, had never made appearance inside the dining-hall of an English country gentleman.

As Williams had asserted, he was not much bigger than a page-boy; but for all that, he could not be less than forty years of age. In complexion he was dark as a gipsy, with long straight hair of crow’s-wing blackness, and eyes scintillating like chips of fresh-broken coal.

His face was of the Israelitish type, while his dress, with the exception of a sort of capote, which he still kept upon his shoulders, had something of a professional cut about it, such as might be seen about men of the law in the Latinic countries of Europe. He might be an avocato, or notary. In his hand he held a hat, a sort of wide-awake, or Calabrian, which on entering the dining-room he had the courtesy to take off. Beyond this there was not much politeness shown by him, either in aspect or action; for notwithstanding his diminutive person, he appeared the very picture of pluck – of that epitomised kind seen in the terrier or weasel. It showed itself not so much in swagger as in an air of self-reliance, that seemed to say, “I have come here on an errand that will be its own excuse, and I know you won’t send me back without giving me a satisfactory answer.”

“What is it?” asked the General, as if this very thought had just passed through his own mind.

The stranger looked towards Nigel, as much as to say, “Do you wish this young gentleman to be present?”

“That is my son,” continued the old soldier. “Anything you have to say need not be kept secret from him.”

“You have another son?” asked the stranger, speaking in a foreign accent, but in English sufficiently intelligible. “I think you have another son, Signor General.”

The question caused the General to start, while Nigel turned suddenly pale. The significant glance that accompanied the interrogatory told that the stranger knew something about Henry Harding.

“I have – or should have,” replied the General. “What do you want to say of him, and why do you speak of him?”

“Do you know where your other son is, Signor General?”

“Well, not exactly, at present. Do you know where he is? Who are you? and whence do you come?”

“Signor General, I shall be most happy to answer all three of your questions, if you only allow me to do it in the order, inverse to that in which you have put them.”

“Answer them in what order you please; but do it quickly. The hour is late, and I’ve no time to stand here talking to an entire stranger.”

“Signor General, I shall not detain you many minutes. My business is of a simple nature, and my time, like yours, is precious. First, then, I come from the city of Rome, which I need not tell you is in Italy. Second, I am un procuratore– an attorney you call it in English. Thirdly, and lastly, I do know where your other son is.”

The General again started, Nigel growing paler.

“Where is he?”

“This, Signor General, will inform you.”

As he spoke, the procuratore drew a letter from under his capote, and presented it to the General. It was that which had been written by Henry Harding in the mountains, under the dictation of Corvino, the bandit chief.

Putting on his spectacles, and drawing the light nearer to him, General Harding read the letter with a feeling of astonishment, tinctured with incredulity.

“This is nonsense!” said he, handing the document to Nigel. “Sheer nonsense! Read it, my son.”

Nigel did as he was desired.

“What do you make of it?” asked the General, addressing himself in an undertone to his son.

“That it’s just what you say, father – nonsense; or perhaps something worse. It looks to me like a trick to extort money.”

“Ah! But do you think, Nigel, that Henry has any hand in it?”

“I hardly know what to think, father,” answered Nigel, continuing the whispered conversation. “It grieves me to say what I think; but I must confess it looks against him. If he has fallen into the hands of brigands – which I cannot believe, and I hope is not true – how should they know where to send such a letter? How could they tell he has a father capable of paying such a ransom for him, unless he has put them up to it? It is probable enough that he’s in Rome, where this fellow says he has come from. That may all be. But a captive in the keeping of brigands! The thing is too preposterous!”

“Most decidedly it is. But what am I to make of this application?”

“To my mind,” pursued the insinuating councillor, “the explanation is easy enough. He’s run through his thousand pounds, as might have been expected, and he now wants more. I am sorry to believe such a thing, father, but it looks as if this is a tale got up to work upon your feelings, and get a fresh remittance of cash. At all events, he has not stinted himself in the sum asked for.”

“Five thousand pounds!” exclaimed the General, again glancing over the letter. “He must think me crazy. He shall not have as many pence – no, not if it were even true what he says about being with brigands.”

“Of course that part of the story is all stuff – although it’s clear he has written the letter. It’s in his own hand, and that’s his signature.”

“Certainly it is. My God! to think that this is the first I should hear from him since that other letter. A pretty way of seeking a reconciliation with me! Bah! the trick won’t take. I’m too old a soldier to be deceived by it.”

“I’m sorry he should have tried it. I fear, papa, he has not yet repented of his rash disobedience. But what do you mean to do with this fellow?”

“Ay, what?” echoed the General, now remembering the man who had been the bearer of the strange missive. “What would you advise to be done? Send over for the police, and give him in charge.”

“I don’t know about that,” answered Nigel reflectively. “It seems hardly worth while, and might lead to some unpleasantness to ourselves. Better the public should not know about the unfortunate affair of poor Henry. A police case would necessarily expose some things that you, father, I’m sure, don’t wish to be made public.”

“True – true. But something should be done to punish this impudent impostor. It’s too bad to be so bearded – almost bullied in one’s own home; and by a wretch like that.”

“Threaten him, then, before dismissing him. That may bring out some more information about the scheme. At all events, it can do no harm to give him a bit of your mind. It may do good to Henry, to know how you have received his petition so cunningly contrived.”