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?"
"No, no, father!" hastily rejoined Nigel, perceiving that he had
committed himself; "I was only thinking how it had best be answered."
"There's but one way for that; the letter itself tells how."
"What way, papa?"
"Why send the money at once; that's the only way to save him. I can
tell by the talk of the scoundrel--what's his name?"
"He here signs his name `Il Capo.' That is only his title as chief of
the band."
"It's clear, from what the ruffian writes, that he cares for no
government--no law, human or divine. This, lying upon the table, is
proof sufficient that nothing will deter the scoundrels from carrying
out their threat. Clearly nothing will prevent them but the payment of
the money."
"Five thousand pounds!" muttered Nigel; "it is a large sum."
"A large sum! And if it were ten thousand, should we hesitate about
sending it? Is your brother's life not worth that? Ay, one finger of
his hand is. Poor boy!"
"Oh! I did not mean that, papa. Only it occurred to me that if the
money should be sent, and, after all done, the brigands should refuse to
give him up. There will needs be caution in dealing with such fellows."
"What caution can there be? There is no time. Within ten days the
answer is required. My God! what if the post has been delayed? Look--
what is the date of the postmark on the letter?"
"Roma, 12th," said Nigel, reading from the stamp on the envelope. "It
is now the 16th; there are still six days to the good."
"Six days!--six days are nothing to send a messenger all the way to
Rome. Besides, there is everything to be arranged--the money--though, I
thank heaven, that need not cause any delay. But there is the going to
London, to see Lawson, who may not be at home. There's not a moment to
be lost; I must start at once. Quick, Nigel, give orders for the
carriage to be got ready without delay."
Nigel, pretending an alacrity he was far from feeling, rushed out of the
door, leaving his father alone.
"Where's `Bradshaw'?" the General asked of himself, glancing around the
library in search of the well-known "guide." Then, laying his hand upon
it, he commenced a traverse of its puzzling pages, in search of the
Great Western Railway.
The carriage, not very speedily brought to the door, was yet ready
before he had become quite certain about the exact time of a suitable
train. This was at length ascertained; and then, flinging aside the
book, and permitting the old butler to array him in proper travelling
habiliments--not forgetting to put into his large pocket-book the
strange epistle, with its still stranger enclosure--he stepped inside
the chariot, and was driven towards Slough.
The General's carriage had scarce cleared the gates of Beechwood Park,
when a pedestrian appeared upon the gravelled drive going in the same
direction.
It was his son, Nigel. He also seemed in a state of agitation; though
its cause was very different from that which had taken his father in
such haste along the road to the railway station.
Nigel had no intention of going so far; nor was he at the moment even
thinking of the peril in which his brother was placed.
His thoughts were given to one nearer home--one far dearer to him than
that brother. He was simply proceeding to the residence of the Widow
Mainwaring, where for three months--partly owing to a taboo which his
father had placed on it--he had been but an occasional and clandestine
visitor.