The Finger of Fate: A Romance

“Demanded for my son! Pooh! pooh! Demanded by my son, you mean!”

“I do not believe it, General. I am sorry to say I have reason to differ with you.”

“But I do believe it. I have not told you how he left home – in a ‘huff’ about a girl he wanted to get married to. I was determined he shouldn’t, and made use of a trick to prevent it. I shall some day tell you of this trick. It deceived a very tricky party – a pair of them for that matter. It was then I wrote to you to give him the thousand pounds. He’s spent it, I suppose, upon idle vagabonds like himself, who have put him up to this thing to get money. It’s a cunning scheme, but it won’t succeed.”

“Wrote to me to give him a thousand pounds!” exclaimed the old solicitor, half starting from his chair, and pulling the spectacles from his nose. “What do you mean, General Harding?”

“What should I mean, Mr Lawson? I mean the thousand pounds I directed you to draw from the bank, and pay over to my son Henry, whenever he should call for it.”

“When?”

“When! About twelve months ago. Let me see. Yes. Just twelve months ago. It was only a week or so after I saw you on my last visit to London. You told me in your letter, that he had been to your office about that time.”

“I did, and so he had – twice, I think, he called – but not to receive a thousand pounds, or money of any amount. He did not ask for it. If I remember aright, he only called to inquire if there was any message sent him by you. I did not see him myself – my head clerk did. He can tell what passed with your son. Shall I summon him?”

“Do so,” said the General, almost beside himself with astonishment. “Damme! it’s very strange – very strange, damme!”

A hand-bell was touched, and in an instant the head clerk came into the room.

“Jennings,” said the solicitor, “do you remember General Harding’s son – his younger son, Henry – you know him, I believe – having called here about twelve months ago?”

“Oh, yes!” responded the clerk; “I remember it very well. It is just twelve months ago. I can find the entry if you wish. He called twice – the second time a day or two after the first. Both visits were entered in the ‘call book.’”

“Bring in the call book,” commanded Mr Lawson.

The clerk hurried off into the front office, leaving General Harding once more alone with his solicitor.

Chapter Thirty Nine

The Call Book

The General could no longer keep his seat. At the unexpected information communicated by Mr Lawson, he had started up, and commenced pacing the floor in short irregular strides, at intervals exclaiming, “Strange, damme!”

“If I had known this,” he said more continuously – “If I had known this, all might yet have been well. Never got the thousand pounds, you say?”

“Never a penny of it, from me.”

“I’m so glad to hear it – so glad!”

“True, you should be. It’s no doubt so much money saved; that is, if you think it might have been spent foolishly.”

“Nothing of that kind, sir; nothing of the sort!”

“Pardon me, General, I did not mean – ”

The lawyer’s apology was interrupted by the re-entrance of his clerk carrying a large volume, on whose covering of vellum were the words “Call Book.”

Mr Lawson took hold of the book, glad to escape from further explanation.

“There it is,” said he, after turning over a number of pages. “Two entries of different dates, both relating to your son. The first on the 4th day of April; the other on the 6th. Shall I read them, General, or will you look at them yourself?”

“Read them to me.”

The solicitor, readjusting his spectacles, read aloud —

“April 4th, half-past 11 a.m.– Called at office, Mr Henry Harding, son of General Harding, of Beechwood Park, county Bucks. Business – to ask if any communication had been received from his father intended for self. Answer – None received.”

“April 6th, half-past 11 a.m.– Called again, Mr Henry Harding. Same question put, same answer given, as on April 4th. Young gentleman said nothing, but went away dissatisfied.”

“Of course, General,” said the lawyer apologetically, “we are obliged to make these remarks in the way of our profession. Are these the only entries, Mr Jennings – I mean that have reference to Mr Henry Harding?”

“There are no others in the book, sir – except one made six months ago, relating to a letter received from Mr Harding’s father. Shall I find it, sir?”

“No, that is not necessary; you can take the book away.”

“And so you never paid my son Henry that thousand pounds?” interrogated the General, after the clerk had gone out.

“Never– not a thousand pence; no money of any kind, as you see by the memoranda. He never asked for any. Of course, if he had done so, I should have been obliged to refuse him until I received your order. A thousand pounds, General, is too large a sum to be handed over to a young man – a minor, as your son then was – simply at his own request.”

“But, Mr Lawson, you astonish me still more. Do you mean to tell me you never received any letter authorising you to give him a cheque for that amount?”

“Never heard of such a letter. Never, until this moment.”

“Damme, this is strange! He may be among the brigands, after all.”

“I should be sorry if it were so.”

“And I should be glad of it.”

“Oh! General?”

“No, Lawson; you don’t understand me. I’d be glad of it for a good reason. It would prove that the boy might not be so bad, after all. I thought he had spent the thousand pounds. Is it possible there can be any truth in this letter from Rome? Damme, I hope it is true – every word of it!”

“But, General; you would not wish it true that your son is a captive in the hands of banditti?”

“Of course I would. Better that than the other. I hope he is. I’d willingly pay the five thousand pounds to think so. How shall we find it out? What’s to be done?”

“What became of the messenger – my professional brother from the dominions of the Pope?”

“Oh, him! He’s gone back, I suppose, to those who sent him – brigands, or whatever they were. I came nigh kicking him out of the house. I should have done so, or else given him in charge to the police, but refrained – solely to avoid creating a scandal. Think, Mr Lawson, what’s to be done. I suppose there’s no immediate danger?”

“I’m not so sure of that,” answered the lawyer reflectingly; “these Italian bandits are cruel ruffians. There is no knowing how far they may go in execution of their threat. Did the man leave no clue by which he could be communicated with – no address?”

“None whatever. He only said I should hear from my son again, as the letter says. My God! they surely don’t mean to carry out the threat it contains?”

“Let us hope not.”

“But what had I better do? Apply to the Foreign Secretary; get him to write to Rome, and make a demand on the Pope’s Government – that is, if the story of my boy’s captivity be true?”

“Certainly, General; of course. But would all that not be too late? When did you get the letter?”

“Eight days ago. You will see by the date, that it has been written more than two weeks.”

“Then I fear that any interference of the Government – either ours or that of Rome – would be too late to anticipate the steps that may have been taken, in the event of their having received your answer – I mean that sent by your son Nigel. There appears to be no alternative but wait till you get another communication from them. That will, at least, give you the means of writing to your son, and forwarding the ransom required. You could proceed with the other matter, all the same. Lay your case before the Government, and see what can be done.”

“I shall set about it this very day,” said the General. “This very day shall I go down to Downing Street. Can you go with me, Mr Lawson?”

“Of course,” replied the solicitor, rising from his desk and putting his spectacles into their case. “I’m at your service, General,” he added, as they walked towards the door; “I hope, after all, we shall not be called upon to have any dealings with brigands.”

“And I hope we shall,” returned the General, striking his Malacca cane upon the pavement; “better my boy be a captive of brigands than the plotter of a deception, such as I have been reproaching him with. May God forgive me, but I’d rather see his ears in the next letter sent me, than believe him capable of that.”

To this fervent speech from a father’s heart the solicitor made no answer; and the two walked side by side in silence.

Chapter Forty

A Furniture Picture

The man who can make his way out of Lincoln’s Inn Fields – whether to the east, west, north, or south – without travelling through some intricate courts and passages, must do it by mounting up into the air on wings, or ascending by means of a balloon. A splendid square – one of the largest and finest in the metropolis – gay with green trees, and showing some worn façades that might shame much of our modern architecture, it is nevertheless inaccessible, except by the dirtiest lanes in all London. Almost exclusively inhabited by lawyers who have attained to the highest eminence in their profession, these shabby approaches are emblematic of the means by which some of them have reached it.

In the purlieus that surround this great square, art struggles feebly for existence. Here and there is a picture shop, where the artist finds immortality in a cob-webbed window, or al fresco on stone flags outside the door. There is a particular passage where his works may be seen displayed with a conspicuousness, that if granted them by the rulers of the Royal Academy, fortune would be sure to follow.

Through this passage General Harding and his solicitor had to make their way, for the purpose of reaching the Strand, en route to Downing Street.

In this passage there is a woman, whose sharp glance and sharper voice has a tendency to keep it clear. On seeing the one, or hearing the other, the wayfarer will be disposed to hurry on. She is the proprietress of a furniture shop, of which the pictures in question are an adjunct – being usually what are called in the trade “furniture pictures.”

Neither General Harding, nor his solicitor had any idea of stopping to examine them. They were hurrying on through the passage, when one, so conspicuously placed that it could not escape observation, caught the attention of the old officer, causing him to halt with a suddenness that not only surprised his staid companion, but almost jerked the lawyer off his legs.

“What is it, General?” asked Mr Lawson. “Good God!” gasped the General. “Look there! Do you see that picture?”

“I do,” answered the astonished solicitor; “a sporting scene – two young fellows out shooting, accompanied by a gamekeeper. What do you see in it to surprise you?”

“Surprise me!” echoed the General; “the word is not strong enough. It astounds me!”

“I do not understand you, General,” said the lawyer, glancing towards the old soldier’s face to see whether he was still in his senses.

“The picture appears to be of very moderate merit – painted by some young hand, I take it; though certainly there is spirit in the conception, and the scene – what is it? One sportsman has his knife in his hand, and looks as if he intended to stab the dog with it; while the other seems protecting the poor brute. I can’t make out the meaning.”

“I can,” said the General, with a sigh, deeply breathed, while his frame seemed convulsed by some terrible agitation. “My God!” he continued, “it cannot be a coincidence; and yet how could that scene be here – here upon canvas? Surely I am dreaming!”

Once more Mr Lawson looked into the General’s face, doubtful whether he was not dreaming – either that or demented.

“No!” exclaimed the old soldier, bringing his cane down upon the pavement with an emphatic stroke. “There can be no mistake about it; it is the same scene. Alas! too real. Those figures, Mr Lawson, are portraits, or intended to be so. The costumes alone would enable me to recognise them. He, holding the knife, is my eldest son, Nigel, just as he was some five years ago; the other is Henry. The man in the background is, or was, my gamekeeper – since become a poacher and escaped convict. What can it mean? Who can have heard of the occurrence? Who painted the picture?”

“Perhaps,” suggested the solicitor, “this person can tell us something about it. I say, my good woman, how came you by this?”

“That picture ye mean? How should I come by it, but by buyin’ it? It’s a first-class paintin’; only thirty shillin’, an’ ’ud look spicy set in a frame. Dirt cheap, gentlemen.”

“Do you know who you bought it from?”

“In course I do. Oh, you needn’t be afeerd of its bein’ honestly come by, if that’s what you’re drivin’ at. I know all about its pedigree, for I know the painter as painted it; he’s a regular artist, he is.”

“What sort of a man is he?”

“He’s a young un; they’re both young uns, for there be two on ’em. One appear to be a furrener – a Italyin, I think. The other ain’t so old – he’s English, I should say. Don’t know which paints the pictures. Maybe both takes a hand at it, for both brings ’em to sell. I had some more o’ them, but they’re sold. I dare say the old un’s the one as is the artist.”

“Do you know his name?” asked the General, with an eagerness that caused the woman to look suspiciously at him, and hesitate about making reply. “I am interested,” he continued, “in whoever painted this picture. I admire it, and will buy it from you. I’ll take more from the same hand, if you can furnish me with the name and address.”

“Oh, that’s it. Well, then, the black complected chap – that is the old un – his name is a furren’ one, an’ I’ve heard it, but don’t recollect it. The other’s name I never heard, an’ as for him, I ’spect he’s gone away. I ha’n’t seen him here lately – not for months.”

“Do you know the address of either – where do they live?”

“In course I do. I’ve gone there to fetch away some pictures. It’s close by here – just the other side of the Fields. I can give it you on one of my bill-heads.”

“Do so,” said the General. “Here is the thirty shillings for the picture. You can send it round to Messrs Lawson and Son, Number – , Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

The woman took the money, praising the picture throughout the transaction, by characterising it as “dirt cheap,” and worth twice as much as she asked for it. Then scratching out with an indifferent pen upon a soiled scrap of paper the promised address, she handed it to her purchaser, who, folding it between his fingers, hurried off out of the passage, dragging Mr Lawson along with him. Instead of going on towards Downing Street, he turned sharply round, and re-traversed the court in the opposite direction.

“Where now, General?” inquired the solicitor.

“To see the painter,” was the reply. “He may throw some light on this strange, this mysterious affair. It still appears to me like a dream. Perhaps he can interpret it.”

He could have done so, had he been found. But he was not. The address, as given by the woman, was correct enough. The General and his companion easily found the place – a mean-looking lodging-house in one of the back streets of High Holborn. Three days before they would have found the artist in it – whose description answered to that given by the picture-dealer, and was recognised by the keeper of the lodging-house. Three days before he had gone off in a great hurry – altogether out of London, as his former landlady supposed. She came to this conclusion, from the fact that he had sold off all his pictures and things to a Jew dealer at a great sacrifice. She did not know his name, or where he had gone to. He had settled his account, and that was all she seemed to care about.

Had she ever had another lodger, and associate of the one she spoke of? Yes, there had been another – also a painter – a younger one. He was English; but she did not know his name either, as the foreigner paid the bill for both. The young one had gone off long ago – several months – and the foreigner had since kept the apartments himself. This was all the woman could tell, beyond giving a description of the younger artist.

“My son Henry!” said General Harding, as he stepped forth into the street. “He has been living in these wretched rooms, when I thought he was running riot on that thousand pounds! I fear, Mr Lawson, I have been outrageously wronging him.”

“It is not too late to make reparation, General.”

“I hope not – I hope not. Let us hasten on to Downing Street.”

The Foreign Office was reached; the Foreign Secretary seen; and the usual promises given to interfere with all despatch in an affair of such evident urgency.

Nothing more could be done for the time; and General Harding set out for his country seat, to prepare for any eventuality that might arise. He was now ready to send the ransom, if he only knew where to send it; and in hopes that a Roman letter might have arrived during his absence, he had hurried home directly after his visit to Downing Street. In this hope he was not disappointed. On reaching Beechwood he found several letters upon his table that had been for several days there awaiting him. There were two that bore the Roman postmark, though of different dates. One he recognised in the handwriting of his son Henry. He opened and read it.

“Thank heaven!” he exclaimed, as he came to its close. “Thank heaven, he is safe and well.”

The second foreign letter was conspicuous, both in size and shape. It carried a multiplicity of stamps, required by its greater weight. The General trembled as he took hold of it. Its “feel” told that it contained an enclosure. His hands felt feeble as he tore open the envelope. There was still another wrapper with something substantial inside – something in the shape of a packet. The covering was at length stripped off, and revealed to the sight an object of ashen colour, somewhat cylindrically shaped, and nearly two inches in length. It was a finger cut off at the second joint, and showing an old scar that, ran longitudinally to the end of the nail.

A cry escaped from the lips of the horrified father, as in the ghastly enclosure he recognised the finger of his son!

Chapter Forty One

A Terrible Threat

It would be impossible to depict the expression on General Harding’s face, or the horror that thrilled through his heart, as he stood holding his son’s finger in his hand. His eyes looked as if about to start from their sockets, while his frame shook as though he had become suddenly palsied. Not for long did he keep hold of the ghastly fragment; and as he attempted to lay it on the table, it dropped out of his now nerveless grasp.

It was some time before he could command sufficient calmness to peruse the epistle that had accompanied the painful present. He at length took it up, and spreading it before him, read: —

“Signore, —

“Enclosed you will find the finger of your son. You will easily recognise it by the scar. If, however, you still continue to doubt, and refuse to send the ransom by next post, the whole hand shall be remitted to you, and you can see whether the finger fits. You shall have ten days allowed for your answer. If, at the end of that time, it does not reach Rome, and 30,000 scudi along with it, the next post after will take the hand to you. If that fails to open your borsa we shall conclude you have no heart, and that you decline to negotiate for your son’s life. Do not, therefore, charge cruelty upon us, who, by unjust laws, have been forced to war with mankind. Tracked like wild beasts, we are compelled to adopt extreme means for obtaining a livelihood. In fine, and to close the correspondence, should the negotiation thus fall through, unsatisfactorily, we promise that your son’s body shall have Christian burial. As a reminder of your inhumanity, the head shall be cut off, and sent you by the next steamer that touches at Civita Vecchia. We have paid the post on the finger; we shall do the same with the hand; but we shall expect you to pay carriage on the head.

“And now, Signor General, in respect to the advice already given you. Don’t mistake what is herein written for an idle menace – it has no such meaning. Continue incredulous, and the threat will be carried out to the letter, as stated. Refuse the ransom, and, as sure as you are living, your son will be put to death.

“Il Capo (for himself and compagnos).

“Postscriptum. – If you send the money by post, direct to Signor Jacopi, Number 9, Strada Volturno. If by messenger, he can find our agent at the same place. Beware of treason: it cannot avail you.”

Such was the singular communication that had come into General Harding’s hands.

“My God! my God!” was his exclamation as he finished reading it – the same he had uttered before commencing.

He had no doubt about the truth of its contents. Lying on the table before his face was the fearful voucher – still apparently fresh – the gore scarce congealed upon it, as it came out of the wrapper in which it had been carefully enfolded.

With a trembling hand the General touched the table bell.

“My son Nigel!” he said to the footman who answered; “send him to me instantly.”

The servant went off wondering.

“My God!” once more ejaculated the sorrowing father, “this is terrible – horrible – who would have believed it? Who would have believed it? It is true – true beyond a doubt. My God!”

And bending down over the table, with eyes that showed the agony of his spirit, he once more scrutinised the ghastly object, as if afraid to take it up or touch it. Nigel came in.

“You sent for me, father?”

“I did. Look here – look at that!”

“That – what is it? An odd-looking object. What is it, papa?”

“Ah! you should know, Nigel.”

“What – why it looks like part of a finger! Is it that?”

“Alas, yes!”

“But whose? How did it come here?”

“Whose, Nigel! – whose!” said the General, his voice vibrating with emotion. “You should remember it. You have reason.”

Nigel turned pale as his eyes rested upon the cicatrice, showing like a whitish seam through the slight coating of blood. He did remember it, but said nothing.

“Now do you recognise it?” asked his father.

“As a human finger,” he answered evasively; “nothing more.”

“Nothing more! And you cannot tell to whom it once belonged.”

“Indeed I cannot – how should I know?”

“Better than anybody else. Alas, it is – it was – your brother’s!”

“My brother’s!” exclaimed Nigel, pretending both surprise and emotion – neither of which he felt.

“Yes; look at that scar. You surely remember that?”

Another pretended surprise, another feigned emotion, was all the answer.

“I do not wish to reproach you for it,” said the General, speaking of the scar; “it is a thing that should be forgotten, and has nothing to do with the misfortune now threatening us. What you see there was once poor Henry’s finger.”

“But how do you know, father? How came it here? How has it been cut off? And who – ”

“Read these letters; they will tell you all about it.”

Nigel took up the bandit’s letter, and ran through its contents – at intervals giving utterance to ejaculations that might be construed either as expressions of sympathy, surprise, or indignation. He then glanced at the other.

“You see,” said his father, as soon as he had finished, “it turns out to be true – too true. I had my fears when I read Henry’s first, poor lad. But, Nigel, you – How could any one have supposed such a thing as this?”

“Why, papa, it appears yet impossible.”

“Impossible!” echoed the General, glancing almost angrily at his son. “Look there upon that table! Look on the truth itself – the finger that points to it. Poor Henry! what will he think of his father – his hardhearted, cruel, unfeeling father? My God! Oh my God!”

And giving himself up to a paroxysm of self-reproach, the General commenced pacing to and fro in an excited manner.

“This epistle appears to have come from Rome,” said Nigel, examining the letter with as much coolness as if it had contained some ordinary communication.

“Of course it came from Rome,” replied the General, surprised, almost angered, at the indifference with which his son seemed to speak of it. “Don’t you see the Roman postmark upon it? And haven’t you read what’s inside? Perhaps you still think it a trick to extort money?”