The Finger of Fate: A Romance

Chapter Fifty Seven

A Fruitless Search

What was the next thing to be done? This was the inquiry which Lawson junior put to himself, as he sat reflecting in his locanda.

Should he go back to London, carrying his bag of sovereigns untouched, and along with it the news of the failure of his mission? This course might be fatal in its consequences. The letter of the brigand chief, which of course he had brought with him, plainly stated the conditions. After ten days from its date the hand of Henry Harding would be sent to his father, enclosed as had been the finger. Nine of these had already elapsed. Only one intervened. And now that the go-between, Jacopi, was no longer in existence, how was he to communicate with those who had threatened the horrible amputation? “A band of brigands on the Neapolitan frontier – about fifty miles from Rome.” This extract from Henry Harding’s first letter was all the clue he had to guide him to the whereabouts of the bandits. But the description might apply to the whole frontier, from the Tyrrhenian to the north-western angle of the Abruzzi – a line that, from all that he could learn, contained as many bands of brigands as there were leagues in its extent. For the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer to make a tour along it, discover the locality of each band, and ascertain which of them held his young countryman in captivity, might possibly have been done at the hourly risk of being made captive himself. But even if successful in the search, it could not be accomplished in time.

In thinking it over, Lawson junior felt himself in a dilemma. Never in his life had his father’s firm undertaken such a case. It bristled with difficulties, or, to speak more correctly, impossibilities.

What was he to do? He bethought himself of the application that had been made to the Foreign Office in Downing Street, and the promises there given to communicate with the Papal Government. Had these promises been kept? Had any action been taken in the matter? He rushed to the Vatican to inquire. But the Vatican was now a thing of the past – the régime of Rome was now in Republican hands. And, to his inquiries made in official quarters, he could only obtain the answer, that nothing was known of the matter.

Besides, the new rulers were too busy with their own affairs to take any interest in his. What was the liberty of one person to that of a whole nation, threatened by the approach of the two allied armies – Neapolitan and French – now hastening towards Rome for the destruction of the Republic? Every one was busy upon the barricades. There was no time to spare for the chastisement of a score or two of brigands.

The representative of Lawson and Son was terribly perplexed as to his course of action. It would be no use writing to London for instructions. His communication could not reach in time. Perhaps by the same steamer that would carry his letter, another might be despatched with a packet containing the bloody hand of Henry Harding. It would be a fearful consummation. But how was it to be shunned? He could think of no means; and to wait for a return letter of advice from England seemed like abandoning the captive to his fate. Still there was no help for it; and he commenced writing the letter – in firm belief that the return post would bring him the sad news of the brigands having carried out their atrocious threat. It was less with the hope of hindering this, than the other menace of a still more terrible event, that induced him to indite the letter. Before he had finished writing it, a new idea came into his mind, causing him to desist. What if his letter should be miscarried? In such times could the post be relied upon? Besides, why write at all? Why not go himself? He would reach London as soon as a letter could; and a matter of such importance should not be entrusted to chance. Further reflection convinced him that he had best go back; and, tearing up the unfinished despatch, he at once set out on his return to London.

He had some difficulty in getting through the lines set against the approach of the hostile forces, that were every hour expected to arrive before the gates of Rome. But gold, with a good English passport, smoothed the way; and he at length succeeded in reaching Civita Vecchia, from which the steamer transported him to Marseilles.

Not much was gained by the return of the emissary to England. Fresh inquiries were made at the lodgings formerly occupied by the Italian artist; but no new facts were elicited. Of his later residence there was nothing known.

There could be nothing done but to despatch the junior partner once more to Rome; and to Rome he went. But not to enter it. The Holy City was now besieged by the hireling host of France, acting under Oudinot; and the London lawyer had to stay outside. He was thus deprived of the chance of prosecuting his inquiries. Twice were the invaders repulsed, amidst scenes of carnage, in which the streets of Rome ran blood – the blood of her gallant Republican defenders, led by that now world-renowned chief, Garibaldi, who in this struggle first made himself conspicuous on the page of European history.

But the unequal conflict could not last; the Republicans were defeated by a base betrayal. When at length the French took possession of the city, the London solicitor became free to renew his search. He then succeeded in discovering that a young Englishman had been captured by a band of brigands under a noted chief named Corvino; that he had afterwards made his escape from them; that the band had been nearly annihilated, and its chief killed by a party of Republican volunteers; that his late captive, acting along with the latter, had returned with them to the town of Val di Orno, and thence proceeded to Rome, in the defence of which city he was supposed to have taken part. Whether he fell, among the slain Revolutionists in the carnage that ensued, there was no one who could tell. This appeared to have been his fate; since, beyond the fact of his having returned to Rome along with the Revolutionists, no trace of him could be discovered.

Even thus far General Harding did not live to learn the history of his son. From the day on which that epistle had been put into his hands – the one containing the hideous enclosure – his life had been one continuous misery. It became intensified on the return of young Lawson to announce the failure of his first attempt. From that hour the General lived in a state of excitement bordering upon insanity. He trembled at each post, expecting by it an epistle with more painful details – and a still more horrible packet. He even fancied that the second parcel might have miscarried, and the third would be that containing his son’s head!

The ghastly apprehension, acting upon his excited imagination, threw him into a brain fever. From this he only recovered to linger a few days in a state of bodily prostration, and die accusing himself of having killed his son. With this self-reproach he departed from life. It could hardly have been a conviction, since the last words spoken by him were instructions to his solicitor, Mr Lawson, that the search was to be continued, regardless of cost, until his son’s fate should be ascertained; and, if dead, that the body should be sought for, brought home, and buried beside his own.

What were to be the conditions if he were found living no one knew, except Mr Lawson; but that there were conditions might well be supposed.

The solicitor faithfully carried out the instructions of the deceased General; and expended a large sum, that had been left him for prosecuting the search, both upon agents and advertisements.

It was all to no purpose. Beyond what had already been discovered at Rome, Mr Lawson could get no further intelligence of Henry Harding – whether living or dead – and in due time the emissaries were dismissed, and the advertising abandoned.

Chapter Fifty Eight

The New Squire of Beechwood

On the death of General Harding, his son Nigel became master of Beechwood, and soon after – almost indecently soon – the husband, though not the master, of Belle Mainwaring.

To the former, no one thought of questioning his claim. He was the eldest son; and, as most people now believed, the only one. The report that the younger had met his death among the Revolutionists of Rome soon got abroad, and was generally credited. But even had it been supposed that he was living, one-half the world knew no better than that General Harding’s estate was entailed; and that, therefore, Nigel was entitled as the heir. If the other half wanted to know better, and would take the trouble to inquire of Mr Woolet – the new solicitor to the estate – that gentleman could assure them of the soundness of his client’s title, by reference to a document of a certain date, which he kept in a large tin case conspicuously lettered. The case itself had the honour of the most conspicuous position upon his shelves; so that no client could commune with Mr Woolet without seeing that he was alongside the solicitor who had in his custody the title deeds, and other legal documents, of Nigel Harding, Esq, Beechwood Park, Bucks. So said the lettering on the case. About the ownership of the property, then, there was no question or dispute. In times past there had been a talk about its having been divided between the brothers. Afterwards came out the will, leaving all to the elder; and, now that the younger had disappeared, and was deemed dead, the point was no longer discussed.

Indeed, remembrance of the latter was almost dead. He had been already more than twelve months out of sight; and, with such associates as he used to keep, out of sight is soon out of mind. He was remembered as a generous, somewhat reckless youth, not likely to make much way in the world – either to fame or fortune.

But he was now dead; that was an end of him; and his brother Nigel was looked upon as one of the luckiest fellows in England, as also one of the most prosperous squires in the shire of Buckingham.

He was, at all events, likely to be one of the most conspicuous; for the husband of Belle Mainwaring could not be hidden under a cloud. If he should choose to lead an unsocial life, she was not the lady to become the companion of his solitude; and it was not long before he made this discovery. The tranquillity of Beechwood Park ceased upon the same day that Miss Belle Mainwaring became the mistress of its mansion; and the drowsy solemnity of its old trees, hitherto disturbed only by the cawing of the rook, or the soft cooing of the wood-quest, was now constantly assailed by the sound of human voices, gay and jocund.

Under the rule of its new mistress – for she ruled – Beechwood Park became the centre of festivities; while the élite of the neighbourhood were only too happy to accept of its hospitalities, as they would those of a retired knacker, provided he could dispense them with sufficient profuseness.

But neither in the host nor hostess of the Beechwood was there any question of retired knacker; and everything was therefore en règle: select parties for out-door sports – archery in summer – hunting spreads in winter – dining and dancing at all seasons of the year.

Belle Mainwaring had obtained the reward of her great beauty, as her mother the recompense of her consummate skill; for the widow of the Indian colonel had found a snug corner in the establishment of her son-in-law. It was not shared either by the sister of the late proprietor. The spinster aunt had disappeared previous to the nuptials of Nigel. She was still knitting that eternal stocking; but in a humble abode proportioned to the allowance left by her brother’s will. Her chair was now occupied by the widow Mainwaring, though not set in a corner.

And so for a period of years passed the gay, grand life at Beechwood Park; while the outside world took part in it, or looked on admiringly – not a few feeling envy. How could it be otherwise, where two young people, both gifted with good looks – for Nigel Harding was far from being personally plain – lived in the enjoyment of so many advantages – property, position – in short, everything that should make life desirable?

The world is not very discriminative; else it might have seen, under all this apparent joy, something that resembled sorrow.

I did, though not at Beechwood Park, since after my unfortunate contretemps at the county ball, I was not likely to have the opportunity. But there were other houses still open to me; and at these I not unfrequently came in contact with the distinguished couple, as also the interesting individual to whom I had been indebted for getting my name scratched from the dancing-card. And the more I now saw, the more I felt thankful for that lucky deliverance. Perhaps but for it, I should have been one of the broken-hearted bees who, with scorched and shrivelled wings, still continued to buzz around Belle Mainwaring – long after she became a wife.

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.

Chapter Fifty Nine

In the Campo

Five years spent in foreign travel, confined to the continent of America, found me in the southern division of it – on the banks of the River La Plata.

Choice and chance combining – a little business with the prospect of a large amount of pleasure – had conducted me into the Argentine Republic; and the same had carried me into one of its upper provinces, bordering upon the Parana.

I was journeying through the campo about twenty miles north of Rosario, from which place I had taken my departure. My object was to reach the estancia of an English colonist – an old college friend – who had established himself as a cattle-breeder and wool-grower some fifty miles from Rosario.

I went on horseback, and alone. I had failed in engaging a guide; but, knowing that my friend’s house stood near the banks of the river, I fancied there could be no difficulty in finding it. There were other estancias along the route; sparsely scattered, it is true; but still thick enough to give me a chance of inquiring the way. Besides, the river itself should guide me to a certain extent; at all events, it would keep me from going many miles astray. My horse was an excellent roadster; and I was expecting to do the fifty miles – a mere bagatelle to a South American steed – before sunset. And in all likelihood I should have succeeded, if in the kingdom of animated nature there had been no such creature as a biscacha. But, unluckily, there is – an animal whose habit is to honeycomb the campo with holes, in places forming most treacherous traps for the traveller’s horse. In one of these, while traversing a stretch of pampa, my steed was imprudent enough to plant his hoof; when first sinking, and then stumbling, he rolled over upon the plain; and, of course, his rider along with him. The rider was but slightly injured, but the horse very seriously. On getting him upon his feet, I found he could scarce stand – much less carry me the thirty miles that still separated us from my friend’s estancia. He had injured one of his forelegs, and was just able to limp after me as I led him from the spot. I felt that I had got into a dilemma, and would have to walk the rest of the way, besides making a second day of it. Perhaps not, I reflected, on seeing before me, at no great distance, some signs of a habitation.

There was a clump of trees, most of which appeared to be peaches. This of itself would not have proved the proximity of a dwelling, for in many parts of the Argentine territory the peach-trees grow wild. But I saw something more; – a bit of white wall gleaming through the green foliage, with something like smoke ascending. Around all was a stretch of stockade fence, indicating an enclosure.