The Finger of Fate: A Romance

“Oh, for that matter, there was company enough – half of Bucks and Berkshire, I should think, to say nothing of a score of snobs from London.”

“Any of our neighbours?”

“Well – no – not exactly.”

“It’s a wonder the widow Mainwaring – ”

“Oh, yes, she was there. I didn’t think of her.”

“The daughter, of course, along with her?”

“Yes, the daughter was there, too. By the way, aunt,” continued the young man, with the design of changing the subject, “you haven’t asked me to join you in a glass of wine. And I’d like to have a morsel of something to eat. I feel as if I’d had nothing at all. I think I could eat a raw steak if I had it.”

“There was a roast duck for dinner,” suggested the aunt; “but it is cold now, dear Nigel, and so is the asparagus. Will you wait until it is warmed up, or perhaps you would prefer a slice of the cold boiled beef, with some West Indian pickles?”

“I don’t care what, so long as it’s something to eat.”

“Have a glass of port wine, Nigel,” said the General, while his sister was directing Williams as to the arrangement of the tray. “From what you say, I suppose you don’t want a nip of cognac to give you an appetite?”

“No, indeed. I’ve got that already. How late is it, father? Their clocks appear to be all wrong down the road, or else the trains are. It’s always the way with the Great Western. It’s a bad line to depend on for dining.”

“Ah, and a worse for dividends,” rejoined the General, the smile at his own pun being more than neutralised by a grin that told of his being holder of shares in the G.W.R.

With a laugh Nigel drank off his glass of port; and then sat down to his cold duck, boiled beef, and pickles.

Chapter Twenty Four

A Strange Visitor

General Harding’s butler, with the assistance of the footman had just carried out the supper-tray when there came a ring at the hall-door bell, succeeded by a double knock. Neither were of the kind which the butler would have called “obtropolous,” but rather bashful and subdued. For all that they were heard within the room where the General sat.

“Very odd, at this hour of night,” remarked the General. “Ten o’clock,” he said, consulting his chronometer. “Who can it be?”

No one made a reply, as all were engrossed in listening. They heard the opening of the door, and then a parley between Williams upon the step, and somebody outside in the porch. It lasted some time longer than need have been necessary for a visitor who was a friend of the family. The voice, too, answering the butler’s, was evidently that of a stranger, and, as the occupants of the dining-room thought, one who spoke with a foreign accent.

The General bethought him, whether it might not be some of his old chums freshly arrived home from India, and who had come down sans cérémonie by a late train. But, then, he could think of none of them with a foreign accent.

“Who is it, Williams?” asked he, as the latter appeared in the doorway of the dining-room.

“That I can’t tell, General. The gentleman, if I may so call ’im, will neither give his name nor his card. He says he has most important business, and must see you.”

“Very odd! What does he look like?”

“Like a furraner, and a rum ’un at that. Certain, General, he arn’t a gentleman; that can be seen plain enough.”

“Very odd!” again repeated the General. “Very odd! Says he must see me?”

“Sayed it over and over, that it’s important more to you than him. Shall I show him in, General, or will you speak to him at the door?”

“Door be damned!” testily replied the old soldier. “I’m not going out there to accommodate a stranger, without either name or card. May be some begging-letter impostor. Tell him I can’t see him to-night. He may come back in the morning.”

“I’ve told him so, General, already. He says no; you must see him to-night.”

“Must! The devil!”

“Well, General, if I’d be allowed to speak my opinion, he looks a good bit like that same gentleman you’ve mentioned.”

“Who the deuce can it be, Nigel?” said the old soldier, turning to his son.

“I haven’t the slightest idea myself,” was Nigel’s reply. “It wouldn’t be that Lawyer Woolet? He answers very well to the description Williams gives of his late intruder.”

“No, no, Master Nigel, it’s not Mr Woolet. It’s an article of hoomanity even uglier than him; though certain he have got something o’ a lawyer’s look about him. But then he be a furriner; I can swear to that.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the General, using one of his mildest asseverations. “I can’t think of any foreigner that can have business with me; but whether or no, I suppose I must see him. What say you, my son?”

“Oh, as for that,” answered the latter, “there can be no harm in it. I’ll stay in the room with you; and if he becomes troublesome, I suppose, with the help of Williams here and the footman, we may be able to eject him.”

“Lor, Master Nigel, he isn’t bigger than our page-boy. I could take him up in my arms, and swing him hallway across the shrubberies. You needn’t have no fear ’bout that.”

“Come, come, Williams,” said the General, “none of this idle talking. Tell the gentleman I’ll see him. Show him in.”

Then, turning to his sister, he added —

“Nelly dear, you may as well go up to the drawing-room. Nigel and I will join you as soon as we’ve given an interview to this unexpected guest.”

The spinster, gathering up some crochet-work that she had made a commencement on, sailed out of the room – leaving her brother and nephew to receive the nocturnal caller, who would not be denied.

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.