Chapter Twenty Five.
An Uncourteous Reception.
The old soldier and his son stood in silent expectation; for the oddity of an interview thus authoritatively demanded had summoned both to their feet. Outside they could hear the resumed exchange of speech between Williams and the stranger, and their two sets of footsteps sounding along the flagged pavement of the hall. Some seconds after, the stranger was shown inside the room, and the three were left alone—Williams retiring at a sign from the General.
A more singular specimen of the genus homo, or one less in keeping with the place, had never made appearance inside the dining-hall of an English country gentleman.
As Williams had asserted, he was not much bigger than a page-boy; but for all that, he could not be less than forty years of age. In complexion he was dark as a gipsy, with long straight hair of crow’s-wing blackness, and eyes scintillating like chips of fresh-broken coal.
His face was of the Israelitish type, while his dress, with the exception of a sort of capote, which he still kept upon his shoulders, had something of a professional cut about it, such as might be seen about men of the law in the Latinic countries of Europe. He might be an avocato, or notary. In his hand he held a hat, a sort of wide-awake, or Calabrian, which on entering the dining-room he had the courtesy to take off. Beyond this there was not much politeness shown by him, either in aspect or action; for notwithstanding his diminutive person, he appeared the very picture of pluck—of that epitomised kind seen in the terrier or weasel. It showed itself not so much in swagger as in an air of self-reliance, that seemed to say, “I have come here on an errand that will be its own excuse, and I know you won’t send me back without giving me a satisfactory answer.”
“What is it?” asked the General, as if this very thought had just passed through his own mind.
The stranger looked towards Nigel, as much as to say, “Do you wish this young gentleman to be present?”
“That is my son,” continued the old soldier. “Anything you have to say need not be kept secret from him.”
“You have another son?” asked the stranger, speaking in a foreign accent, but in English sufficiently intelligible. “I think you have another son, Signor General.”
The question caused the General to start, while Nigel turned suddenly pale. The significant glance that accompanied the interrogatory told that the stranger knew something about Henry Harding.
“I have—or should have,” replied the General. “What do you want to say of him, and why do you speak of him?”
“Do you know where your other son is, Signor General?”
“Well, not exactly, at present. Do you know where he is? Who are you? and whence do you come?”
“Signor General, I shall be most happy to answer all three of your questions, if you only allow me to do it in the order, inverse to that in which you have put them.”
“Answer them in what order you please; but do it quickly. The hour is late, and I’ve no time to stand here talking to an entire stranger.”
“Signor General, I shall not detain you many minutes. My business is of a simple nature, and my time, like yours, is precious. First, then, I come from the city of Rome, which I need not tell you is in Italy. Second, I am un procuratore—an attorney you call it in English. Thirdly, and lastly, I do know where your other son is.”
The General again started, Nigel growing paler.
“Where is he?”
“This, Signor General, will inform you.”
As he spoke, the procuratore drew a letter from under his capote, and presented it to the General. It was that which had been written by Henry Harding in the mountains, under the dictation of Corvino, the bandit chief.
Putting on his spectacles, and drawing the light nearer to him, General Harding read the letter with a feeling of astonishment, tinctured with incredulity.
“This is nonsense!” said he, handing the document to Nigel. “Sheer nonsense! Read it, my son.”
Nigel did as he was desired.
“What do you make of it?” asked the General, addressing himself in an undertone to his son.
“That it’s just what you say, father—nonsense; or perhaps something worse. It looks to me like a trick to extort money.”
“Ah! But do you think, Nigel, that Henry has any hand in it?”
“I hardly know what to think, father,” answered Nigel, continuing the whispered conversation. “It grieves me to say what I think; but I must confess it looks against him. If he has fallen into the hands of brigands—which I cannot believe, and I hope is not true—how should they know where to send such a letter? How could they tell he has a father capable of paying such a ransom for him, unless he has put them up to it? It is probable enough that he’s in Rome, where this fellow says he has come from. That may all be. But a captive in the keeping of brigands! The thing is too preposterous!”
“Most decidedly it is. But what am I to make of this application?”
“To my mind,” pursued the insinuating councillor, “the explanation is easy enough. He’s run through his thousand pounds, as might have been expected, and he now wants more. I am sorry to believe such a thing, father, but it looks as if this is a tale got up to work upon your feelings, and get a fresh remittance of cash. At all events, he has not stinted himself in the sum asked for.”
“Five thousand pounds!” exclaimed the General, again glancing over the letter. “He must think me crazy. He shall not have as many pence—no, not if it were even true what he says about being with brigands.”
“Of course that part of the story is all stuff—although it’s clear he has written the letter. It’s in his own hand, and that’s his signature.”
“Certainly it is. My God! to think that this is the first I should hear from him since that other letter. A pretty way of seeking a reconciliation with me! Bah! the trick won’t take. I’m too old a soldier to be deceived by it.”
“I’m sorry he should have tried it. I fear, papa, he has not yet repented of his rash disobedience. But what do you mean to do with this fellow?”
“Ay, what?” echoed the General, now remembering the man who had been the bearer of the strange missive. “What would you advise to be done? Send over for the police, and give him in charge.”
“I don’t know about that,” answered Nigel reflectively. “It seems hardly worth while, and might lead to some unpleasantness to ourselves. Better the public should not know about the unfortunate affair of poor Henry. A police case would necessarily expose some things that you, father, I’m sure, don’t wish to be made public.”
“True—true. But something should be done to punish this impudent impostor. It’s too bad to be so bearded—almost bullied in one’s own home; and by a wretch like that.”
“Threaten him, then, before dismissing him. That may bring out some more information about the scheme. At all events, it can do no harm to give him a bit of your mind. It may do good to Henry, to know how you have received his petition so cunningly contrived.”