The Finger of Fate: A Romance

Chapter Twenty

Writing to Dictation

These was at least relief in being left alone. The captive artist felt it so much, that his gaolers had scarcely drawn the key from out the lock, when he stretched himself along the floor and fell fast asleep. Some fern-leaves strewn over the stones served him for a couch, though he was too tired to care much for this.

He did not wake until sunlight, shooting in through the window, fell slanting upon his face. Then he rose to his feet, and took a survey of his chamber. A glance convinced him that he was inside the cell of a prison; for whatever may have been the original design of the room, its adaptability to this purpose was at once apparent. The window was high above the level of the floor, and so narrow that a cat could barely have passed through it. Besides, there was a strong bar set vertically into the sill, that rendered egress absolutely impossible. The door was alike forbidding; and ten minutes’ contemplation of the place told the prisoner there was no chance of escape – save in the corruptibility of his gaolers.

To Henry Harding there was no hope of this, and he did not even think of it. He saw no alternative but to wait the development of events.

He was hungry, and would have eaten anything. He listened, in hopes of hearing a footstep – the tread of a brigand bringing him his breakfast. He could hear a step; but it was that of the sentry outside his door. It came and went, and came and went again, but no sound of drawing bolt, or key turning in the lock. An hour was passed in this hungry uncertainty, and then the tread of the sentry became commingled with other footsteps. A short parley outside, the key was inserted, the bolt clicked back, and the door stood open.

“Good mornin’, Muster Hardin’. I hope ye ha’ passed a pleasant night o’t. Compliments o’ Captin, an’ wants ye to come an’ see him.”

Without further speech Doggy Dick seized the prisoner by the collar. Then, with a spiteful shake, such as might have been given by an irate policeman, dragged him out out of the cell, and on toward the quarters of the bandit chief. As a matter of course, these were in the best house of the place; but the young artist was not prepared to witness such splendour inside. Not only was the furniture well made, but there were articles of luxe in abundance – plate, pictures, looking-glasses, clocks, girandoles, épergnes, and the like, not very artistically arranged, but plenteous everywhere. It was a somewhat grotesque admixture of the ancient and modern, such as may be seen in a curiosity-shop, or the chambers of a London money-lender.

In the apartment to which the prisoner was introduced, there were two individuals seated amidst the glittering confusion. One was the brigand chief, whose name he now knew for the first time to be “Corvino.” He knew it from hearing him so addressed by the other occupant of the chamber, who was a woman, and who in her turn was called by the chief “Cara Popetta” – the “Cara” being merely a prefix of endearment.

Corvino, the chief, has been already delineated. Popetta, as being his spouse, also deserves a word. She was a large woman, nearly as tall as Corvino himself, and quite as picturesquely attired. Her dress was glittering with beads and bugles; and with her dark, almost chestnut-coloured skin and crow-black hair, she would have passed muster among the belles of an Indian encampment. She had once been beautiful, and her teeth were still so, when displayed in a smile; otherwise, they resembled the incisors of a tigress preparing to spring upon her prey. The beauty that had once shone in her countenance might still to some extent have remained – for Cara Popetta was scarce turned thirty – but for a scar of cadaverous hue, that traversed the left cheek. This turned what was once a fair face into one disfigured, even to ugliness. And if her eyes spoke truth, many a cicatrice had equally deformed her soul, for as she sat eyeing the prisoner on his entrance, there was that in her aspect that might have caused him to quail.

Just then he had no opportunity for scanning her very minutely. On the instant of his stepping inside the room he was accosted by the chief, and commanded in a hard tone to take a seat by the table.

“I need not ask you if you can write, signor artista,” said the bandit, pointing to the “materials” upon the table. “Such a skilled hand as you with the pencil cannot fail to be an adopt with the pen. Take hold of one of these, and set down what I indite – translating it, as I know you can, into your native tongue. Here is a sheet of paper that will serve for the purpose.”

As he said this, the brigand stretched forth his hand, and pointed to some letter-paper already spread out upon the table.

The prisoner took up the pen, without having the least idea of what was to be the subject of his first essay at secretaryship. Apparently it was to be a letter, but to whom was it to be written? He was not long kept in ignorance.

“The address first,” commanded the brigand.

“To whom?” asked the young Englishman making ready to write.

“Al Signor Generale Harding!” dictated the bandit.

“To General Harding!” translated Henry, dropping the pen and starting up from his seat. “My father! What know you of him?”

“Enough, signor pittore, for my purpose. Sit down again, and write what I dictate. That is all I want of you.”

Thus commanded, the artist resumed his seat; and once more taking up the pen, wrote the address thus dictated. As he did so, he thought of the last time he had penned the same words, when directing that angry letter from the roadside inn near to his father’s park. He had no time to give way to reminiscences, for the bandit exhibited great impatience to have the letter completed.

“Padre caro!” was the next phrase that required translation.

Again the secretary hesitated. Again went his memory back to the writing from the English inn, where he had commenced that letter without the prefix “Dear.” Was he now to use it at the dictation of a brigand?

The command was peremptory. The bandit, chafing at the delay, repeated it with a menace. His captive could only obey, and down went the words “Dear Father.”

“And now,” said Corvino, “continue your translation; don’t stop again. Another interruption may cost you your ears.”

This was said in a tone that told the speaker was in earnest. Of course, in the face of such a terrible alternative, the young artist could do no less than continue the writing of the letter to its end. When translated into his own tongue, it ran as follows: —

“Dear Father, —

“This is to inform you that I am a prisoner in the mountains of Italy, about forty miles from the city of Rome, and upon the borders of the Neapolitan territory. My captors are stern men, and, if I be not ransomed, will kill me. They only wait till I can hear from you; and for this purpose they send a messenger to you, upon whose safety while in England my life will depend. If you should cause him to be arrested, or otherwise hindered from returning here, they will retaliate upon me by a torture too horrible to think of. As the amount of my ransom, they demand thirty thousand scudi – about five thousand pounds. If the bearer bring this sum back with him in gold – a circular note on the Bank of Rome will do – they promise me my liberty; and I know they will keep their promise, for these men, although forced to become bandits by cruel persecution on the part of their government, have true principles of honesty and honour. If the money be not sent, then, dearest father, I can say with sad certainty, that you will never more see your son.”

“Now sign your name to it,” said the brigand, as the writing was completed.

Henry Harding once more started from his chair, and stood irresolute, still holding the pen in his hand. He had written the letter as dictated, and, while occupied in translating it into his native tongue, he had given but little heed to its true signification. But now he was called upon to append his name to this piteous appeal to his father. With the remembrance still vivid in his mind of the defiant epistle he had last penned to him, he felt something more than reluctance – he felt shame, and almost a determination to refuse.

“Sign your name!” commanded the brigand, half rising from his seat. “Sign it, I say!”

The young Englishman still hesitated.

“Lay down the pen again, without putting your firma to that letter, and, by the Holy Virgin, before the ink become dry, your blood will redden the floor at your feet. Cospetto! to be crossed by a poor devil of a pittore– a cur of an Inglese!”

“O signor,” interposed the brigand’s wife, who up to that moment had not spoken a word, “do as he bids you, buono cavaliére! It is only his way with every one who strays here from the great city. Sign it caro, and all will be well. You will be free again, and can return to your friends.”

While delivering this appeal, Popetta had risen up from her chair, and laid her hand upon the Englishman’s shoulder. The tone in which she spoke, with a certain expression detectable in her fiery eyes, did not seem altogether to please her sposo, who, rushing round the table, seized hold of the woman and swung her to the farthest corner of the room.

“Stay there!” he shouted, “and don’t interfere with what’s no concern of yours.”

Then suddenly turning upon his prisoner, and drawing a pistol from his belt, he once more vociferated, “Sign!”

The obstinacy that would have resisted such an appeal could be only true foolhardiness – a reckless indifference to life. There could be no mistaking the intent of the robber, for the click of his cocked pistol sounded sharp in the captive’s ear. For an instant the young Englishman, whose hands were for the time untied, thought of flinging himself upon his fierce antagonist and trying the chances of a struggle. But then outside there was Doggy Dick, with a score of others, ready to shoot him down in his first effort to escape. It was sheer madness to think of it. There was no alternative but to sign – at least none except dying upon the spot. The young artist was not inclined for this; and, stooping over the table, he added to what he had already written, the name “Henry Harding.”

Doggy Dick, styled “Signor Ricardo,” was called in and asked if he could read.

“I beant much o’ a scholard,” replied the renegade, “but I dar’ say I can make out that bit o’ scribble.”

The letter was slowly spelt over and pronounced “All right.” It was then enveloped and directed, Doggy Dick giving the correct address. After which, the next duty this Amphitryon was called upon to perform was the retying of his captive, and transporting him back to his cell.

That same night the epistle, that had come so near costing Henry Harding his life, was despatched by the peasant messenger to Rome, thence to be forwarded by a postman of a different character and kind.

Chapter Twenty One

Under the Cedar

The world had become just one year older from the day that Belle Mainwaring “refused” the young son of General Harding. The crake had returned to the cornfield, the cuckoo to the grove, and the nightingale once more filled the dells with its sweet nocturnal music.

As a tourist straying among the Chiltern Hills – with me almost an annual habit – I could perceive no change in their aspect. Nor did I find that much change had taken place in the “society” introduced in the early chapters of our story.

I met Miss Mainwaring at a private ball, that concluded an out-door archery meeting. She was still the reigning belle of the neighbourhood, though there were two or three young sprouts that promised soon to dispossess her. There was less talk of her becoming a bride than had been twelve months before; though she was followed by a train of admirers that appeared to have suffered but slight diminution – Henry Harding being the only one missing from the muster. I heard that his place had been supplied by his brother Nigel; though this was only whispered to me in conjecture by one that was present at the gathering, where was also Nigel Harding himself. Knowing somewhat of the nature of this young gentleman, I did not believe it true, but, strange enough, before leaving the ground I had convincing evidence that it was so.

These summer fêtes, when extended into the night, afford wonderful opportunities for flirtation – far more than the winter ball-room. The promenade which occurs during the intervals of the dance may be extended out of doors, along the gravelled walks, or over the soft grassy turf of the shrubbery. It is pleasant thus to escape from the heated air of the drawing-room – improvised for the night into a ball-room – especially pleasant when you take along with you your partner of the dance.

Strolling thus with one of the aforementioned maidens, I had halted by the side of a grand Deodara, whose drooping branches, palmately spread, swept the grass at our feet, forming around the trunk of the tree a tentlike canopy by day, by night a shadow of amorphous darkness. All at once a thought seemed to strike my companion.

“By the way,” said she, “I was wondering what I had done with my sunshade. Now I remember having left it under this very tree. You stay here,” she continued, disengaging herself from my arm, “while I go under and see if I can find it.”

“No,” said I, “permit me to go for it.”

“Nonsense,” replied my agile partner – she had proved herself such in the galop just ended – “I shall go myself. I know the exact spot where I laid it – on one of the great roots. Never mind; you stand here.”

Saying this, she disappeared under the shadow of the Deodara.

I could not think of such a young creature venturing all alone into such a dismal-looking place; and, not heeding her remonstrance, I bent under the branches, and followed her in.

After groping about for some time, we failed to find the parasol.

“Some of the servants may have taken it into the house?” she said. “No matter. I suppose it will turn up along with my hat and cloak.”

We were about returning to the open lawn, when we saw coming, through the same break in the branches under which we had entered, a pair of promenaders like ourselves. Their errand we could not guess. Though ours had been innocent enough, it occurred to me that it might have a compromising appearance.

I cannot tell if my companion had the same thought; but, whether or no, we stood still, as if by a mutual instinct, waiting for the other pair to pass out again. We supposed they had stepped under the tree actuated by curiosity, or some other caprice that would soon be satisfied.

In this we were mistaken. Instead of immediately returning into the light, faint as it was, and only springing from the glimmer of a starlit sky, they stopped and entered into a conversation that promised to be somewhat protracted. At the first words, I could tell it was only the resumption of one that had already made some progress between them.

“I know,” said the gentleman, “that you still bear him in your mind. It’s no use telling me you never cared for him. I know better than that, Miss Mainwaring.”

“Indeed, do you? What a wonderful knowledge you have, Mr Nigel Harding! You know more than I ever did myself, and more than your brother, did too; else why should I have refused him. Surely that might convince you there was nothing between us – at least, on my side there wasn’t.”

There was a short pause, as if the suitor was reflecting on what the lady had just said. My companion and I were puzzled as to what we should do. I knew it by the trembling of her arm, that spoke irresolution. By a similar sign I felt that we were agreed upon keeping silent, and hearing this strange dialogue to its termination. We had already heard enough to make discovering ourselves exceedingly awkward – to say nothing of our own compromising position. We kept our place then, standing still like a couple of linked statues.

“If that be true,” rejoined Nigel Harding, who appeared to have brought his reasoning process to a satisfactory conclusion, “and if also true that no other has your heart, may I ask, Miss Mainwaring, why you do not accept the offer I have laid before you? You have told me – I think you have said as much – that you could like me for a husband. Why not go farther, and say you will have me?”

“Because – because – Mr Nigel Harding, – do you really wish to know the reason?”

“If I did not, I should not have spent twelve months in asking – in pressing for it.”

“If you promise to be a good boy, then I will tell you.”

“I will promise anything. If it be a reason that I can remove, you may command me, and all the means in my power. My fortune – I won’t speak of that – my life, my body, my soul, are all at your service.”

The suitor spoke with a passionate enthusiasm I had not deemed him capable of.

“I shall be candid, then,” was the response, half-whispered, “and tell you the exact truth. Two things stand between you and me, either of which may prevent us becoming man and wife. First, there is my mother’s consent to be obtained; and without that I will not marry. To my dear mother I have given that promise – sworn it. Second, there is your father’s consent; without it I cannot marry you. I have equally sworn to that – my mother exacting the oath. Much, therefore, as I may like you, Nigel Harding, you know I cannot perjure myself. Come! we have talked of this too often. Let us return to the dancing, or our absence may be remarked.”