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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns 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 G.o.d! Oh my G.o.d!"
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 t.i.tle 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 G.o.d! 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.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO.
AN UNKNOWN CORRESPONDENT.
After the atrocious cruelty that deprived him of a finger, two days more of gloomy imprisonment was pa.s.sed by Henry Harding in his prison. The coa.r.s.e fare by day and hard couch by night, even the loss he had sustained, were not to be compared with the anguish of his spirit.
In this lay the pangs of his captivity. The chagrin caused by his father"s refusal to ransom him was bitter to bear. His brother"s letter had placed the refusal in its worst light. He felt as if he had no friend--no father.
He suffered from a reflection less selfish, and yet more painful--an apprehension for the safety of his friend"s sister. There could be no mistaking what Corvino meant by the words whispered in his ear during that fearful scene; and he knew that the savage tragedy then enacted was but by way of preparation for the still more distressing episode that was to follow.
Every hour, almost every minute, the captive might have been seen standing by the window of his cell, scrutinising what might transpire outside--listening with keen ear, apprehensive that in each new arrival at the rendezvous, he might discover the presence of Lucetta Torreani.
Himself a prisoner, he was powerless to protect, even to give her a word of warning. Could he have sent her but one line to apprise her of the danger, he would have sacrificed not only another finger, but the hand by which it was written. He blamed himself for not having thought of writing to her father, at the time that he sent the letter to Luigi. It was an opportunity not likely to occur again. He could only hope that his letter to Luigi might be received in time--a slender reed to depend upon. He thought of trying to effect escape from his prison. Could he succeed in doing this, all might be well. But he had been thinking of it from the first--every hour during his confinement--thinking of it to no purpose. He made no attempt, simply because there was no means of making it. He had well examined the structure of his cell. The walls were stout masonwork of stone and stucco; the floor was a pavement of rough flags; the window a mere slit; the door strong enough to have withstood the blows of a trip-hammer. Besides, at night a brigand slept transversely across the entrance; while another kept sentry outside.
A bird worth 30,000 scudi was too precious to be permitted the chance of escaping from its cage. His eyes had often turned upwards. In that direction seemed the only chance of escape at all possible. It might have been practicable had he been but provided with two things--a knife in his hand and a stool to stand upon. Strong beams stretched horizontally across. Over these was a sheeting of roughly-hewn planks, as if there was a second story above. But he knew it could only be a garret; for the boards were damp and mildewed, from the leaking of the roof over them. They looked rotten enough to have been easily cut through, if there had been but a chisel or knife to accomplish it.
There was neither. Right and left, behind and before, below and above, egress appeared impracticable.
On the second night after losing his little finger, he had ceased to think of it; and, with his mutilated hand wrapped in a rag, torn from the sleeve of his shirt--the only surgical treatment it received--he lay upon the floor, endeavouring in sleep to find a temporary respite from his wretchedness.