Майн Рид
The Finger of Fate: A Romance
Chapter Forty Four
Again in Prison
About two weeks had elapsed since the Papal soldiers first quartered themselves in the village of Val di Orno.
The sun had sunk quietly down into the blue bosom of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the villagers were most of them indoors. They were not desirous to encounter their military guests upon the streets by night, lest in the darkness the latter should mistake them for the enemy, and make free with any little pocket cash they might have, acquired during the tradings of the day.
The captain of the protecting force was at the time seated in the best sitting-room of the sindico’s house, making himself as agreeable as he could to the sindico’s daughter – the father himself being present.
The conversation, that had been carried on upon various themes, at length reverted to the brigands – as may be supposed, a stock topic in the village of Val di Orno. On this occasion it was special, relating to the captive Inglese; of whom, as a matter of course, Captain Count Guardiola had heard – having been officially furnished with the particulars of the affair on his first arrival in the town.
“Povero!” half soliloquised Lucetta; “I wonder what has happened to him. Do you think, papa, they have set him free?”
“I fear not, figlia mia. They will only do so when the riscatta reaches them.”
“Ah, me! How much do you think they will require?”
“You speak, signorina,” interposed the Captain Count, “as if you had a mind to send the ransom yourself.”
“Willingly – if I were able. That would I.”
“You seem greatly interested in the Inglese. Uno povero pittore!”
The last words were uttered in a tone of sneering contempt.
“Uno povero pittore!” repeated the girl, her eyes kindling with indignation. “Know, Signor Count Guardiola, that my brother is uno povero pittore; and proud of it too, as so am I, his sister.”
“A thousand pardons, signorina; I did not know that your brother was an artist. I only meant that this poor devil of an Inglese after all may be no artist, but a spy of that monster Mazzini! The thing isn’t at all improbable. Our last news tell us, that the arch-impostor has arrived in Genoa, whither he has come almost direct from England. This fellow may be one of his pilot fish, sent in advance to spy out the land. Perhaps he’s been rather fortunate in having fallen into the hands of the brigands. Should he come into my clutches, and I find any trace of the spy about him, I won’t wait for any riscatta before consigning his neck to a halter.”
The indignation which was rising still higher in the breast of Lucetta Torreani, became more perceptible in the pallor of her cheeks and the quick flashing of her eyes. She was hindered from declaring it in speech. Before she could reply, a voice was heard outside the door, accompanied by a knock, as of some one seeking admission. This was granted; less by the host of the house than his military guest, who had by this this grown to regard himself as its master.
The door was opened, and a sergeant stepped into the room, saluting as he did so. He was the orderly of the troop.
“What is it?” inquired the officer.
“A prisoner,” replied the man, making a second obeisance.
“One of the bandits?”
“No, signor captain; on the contrary, a man who pretends to have been their prisoner, and who says he has just escaped from them.”
“What sort of man?”
“A young fellow in the dress of a citiadino – un Inglese, I take him to be; though he speaks our tongue as well as myself.”
The sindico rose from his chair. Lucetta had already started from hers, with a joyous exclamation, at the word Inglese. The escaped captive could be no other than he of whom they had been lately speaking, and of whom also she had been long thinking.
“Signor Torreani,” said the captain, turning towards his host with an air which showed that he too was gratified by the announcement, “I do not wish to disturb you in the performance of my duty. I shall go down-stairs to examine this prisoner my men have taken.”
“It is not necessary,” said the sindico; “you are welcome to bring him up here.”
“Oh, do!” added Lucetta. “Let him come in here. If you wish, I shall retire.”
“Certainly not, signorina; that is, if you are not afraid to look upon one who has been a prisoner among banditti. If I mistake not, this is the povero pittore in whom you have expressed yourself so much interested. Shall I order him to be brought in here?”
It was evident that Guardiola wished it; so did Lucetta, from a different motive. The former intended to display his power in the presence of a prisoner, degraded by double captivity; the latter was inspired with an instinct for the stranger’s protection, and a secret partiality which she herself scarce understood.
It ended by the sergeant conducting his prisoner into the room, who proved to be Henry Harding.
The young Englishman seemed little surprised at the company to which he was introduced. But having just escaped from the keeping of brigands, he could ill comprehend why he should again be taken prisoner. That it was so, he had already been made aware by some rough treatment received at the hands of his new captors, who gave no heed either to his story or protestations.
He saw that he was now in the presence of their commander. No doubt the interview would end in his being released.
At a glance he had recognised the other occupants of the apartment. The sindico he had seen when passing through as the captive of the brigands. He well remembered him; but still better his daughter.
And she remembered the captive. His bare head, for he was hatless, the brown locks tossed over his temples, the tattered surtout and trousers, his small feet almost shoeless – all this délabrement of dress and person did not conceal from the eyes of Lucetta Torreani the handsome face and manly form she had once before looked upon, and with an interest that had made a lasting impression upon her memory. Even in his rags he looked noble as ever. The very scantiness of his garments displayed the fine symmetry of his figure; while his face, flushed with defiant indignation, gave him the look of a young lion chafing at the toils once more cast around him. He was not tied, but he was not at liberty.
At the same time he might have had reason to suppose himself in the presence of friends. He knew that the gentleman in civilian costume was the father of his friend Luigi; that the young lady was Luigi’s sister – that “little Lucetta,” of the increase in whose stature the letter had conjecturally spoken. And truly was she well grown, stately, statuesque – a fully-developed woman.
Of course neither father nor daughter could know him. They had but seen him as a stranger – a captive to banditti.
In presence of such company it was not the time to declare himself; though in a glance exchanged with Lucetta as he entered the room, he felt gratified to think that the sympathy once silently shown for him had not passed away.
Chapter Forty Five
Consequential Swagger
Quickly and surreptitiously as was that glance exchanged between them – Henry Harding and the sindico’s daughter – it did not escape the notice of Captain Guardiola. Warned by the conversation that had passed, he was watching for it. It gave him the cue for a swaggering exercise of his authority.
“Where have you taken this ragged fellow?” asked he of the sergeant, nodding superciliously towards the prisoner.
“We found him skulking into the town.”
“Skulking!” cried the young Englishman, turning upon the man a look that caused him to quail. “And if I am a ragged fellow,” he continued, directing his speech to the officer, “it is not to your credit – much less that you should taunt me for it. If you and your valiant followers were to perform your duty a little more efficiently, there would have been less chance of my getting my clothes torn.”
“Zitti! zitti!” hissed out the officer. “We don’t want such talk from you, fellow. Reserve your speech till you are questioned.”
“It is my place to ask the first question. Why am I here a prisoner?”
“That remains to be seen. Have you a passport?”
“A rational interrogatory to put to a man who has just escaped out of the clutches of brigands!”
“How are we to know that, signore?”
“Well,” said the young man, “I assert it. And,” he continued, looking quizzically towards his own person, “I think my appearance should corroborate the assertion. But, if not, I shall make my appeal to the signorina here; whom, if I mistake not, I have had the honour of seeing before. She, perhaps, may remember me, since for some hours I had the misfortune to furnish her with a melancholy spectacle while stretched upon the pavement underneath her balcony.”
“I do remember you! – I do, signore! Yes, papa, it is the same.”
“And I also saw him, Captain Guardiola. He was carried through here by the bandits. He is the English artist of whom we have been just speaking.”
“That may be,” rejoined Guardiola, with an incredulous smile. “Englishman, artist, and prisoner to the banditti – all these in one. But the gentleman may still have another character, not yet declared.”
“What other?” demanded the gentleman in question. “Una spia.”
“Spy!” echoed the prisoner. “For whom – and what purpose?”
“Ah! that is just the question!” sarcastically rejoined Guardiola. “It is for me to discover it. If you’ll be frank, and declare yourself, you may perhaps get better treatment; besides, it may shorten the term of your imprisonment.”
“My imprisonment! By what right, sir, do you talk to me of imprisonment? I am an Englishman; and you, I take it, are an officer in the Pope’s army – not a captain of banditti. Make me a prisoner, and it shall cost you dear.”
“Cost what it may, signore, you are my prisoner; and shall remain so till I can ascertain in what character you have been travelling through these parts. Your story is suspicious. You have passed yourself off for an artist.”
“I have not passed myself off for one, though I am so – in an humble sense. What has that to do with the affair?”
“Much. Why should you, ‘un povero pittore’” – this was said sneeringly – “be straying out here in the mountains? If you are an English artist, as you say, you must have come to Italy to paint ruins and sculptures, not rocks and trees. What then is your errand up here? Answer me that, signore!”
The young artist hesitated. Should he make a clean breast of it, and declare his errand? Had the time come? Why should he not? He was in a dilemma, out of which he might escape more easily than he had done from the brigands’ den. Why should he prolong the continuance of his second captivity? – for it was clear that the officer intended continuing it. A word would release him – so, at least, he presumed. There seemed no reason why it should not be spoken. After a moment’s reflection, he determined on speaking it.
“Signor Captain,” said he, “if in the execution of your duty you must necessarily know why I am here, you shall be welcome to the information. Perhaps my answer may give surprise to the Signor Francesco Torreani, and also to the Signorina Lucetta!”
“What! Signor Inglese!” exclaimed the sindico’s daughter, “you know our names then?”
“I do, signorina.”
“From whom have you heard them?” inquired the father.
“From your son.”
“My son! He is in London.”
“Just so; and it was there I first heard of the Signor Francesco Torreani and his daughter, the Signorina Lucetta.”
“You astonish us. You know Luigi then?”
“As well as one man may know another who for twelve months has been his daily companion; who has shared his apartment and his studio, who – ”
“Saved his purse – perhaps his life,” interrupted the sindico, approaching the Englishman, and warmly grasping his hand. “If I mistake not, you are the young gentleman who rescued my son from thieves, London bandits. It is you of whom Luigi has often written to us. Am I right in my conjecture, signore?”
“Oh yes!” exclaimed Lucetta, also coming nearer, and contemplating the stranger with renewed interest. “I’m sure it is, papa. He is so like the description brother Luigi has given of him.”
“Thanks, signorina,” answered the young artist, with a smile. “I hope you except my habiliments. As for my identity, Signor Torreani, I might have been better able to establish that, but for my kind friend Corvino; who, not satisfied with taking the little cash I had, has also stripped me of the letter of introduction I brought from your son. I intended to have presented it in person, but have been hindered by the circumstances of which you are already aware.”
“But why did you not make yourself known to me while you were here?”
“I did not then know you, signore. I was even ignorant of the name of the town into which my captors had carried me. I had not then the slightest idea that its chief magistrate was the father of Luigi Torreani – much less that the fair young lady I saw standing in a balcony was the sister of my dearest friend.”
At the conclusion of this complimentary speech, Lucetta’s cheek showed a slight tinge of red – as if from some souvenir of that balcony scene.
“What a pity,” said the sindico, “I did not know this before! I might have done something to get you off.”
“Thanks, Signor Torreani. But it would have cost you dearly – at least 30,000 scudi.”
“Thirty thousand scudi!” exclaimed the company.
“You put a high price upon yourself, signor pittore?” sneeringly insinuated the officer.
“It is the exact sum fixed by Corvino.”
“He must have mistaken you for some milord. I suppose he has discovered his error, and let you off scot free?”
“Yes; and finger free too,” rejoined the escaped captive in a jovial tone – as he said so presenting his left hand to the gaze of the company.
Lucetta screamed; while her father leant forward, and examined the mutilated hand with a compassionate air.
“Yes,” he said; “this is indeed a proof that I could have done little for you. But tell us, signore! How did you escape from those cruel wretches?”
“Time enough for that to-morrow,” interposed Guardiola, who seemed stung with the sympathy the stranger was receiving. “Sergeant!” he continued, turning to the soldier, “this interview has lasted long enough, and to little profit. You can take your prisoner back to the guard-house. I shall examine him more minutely in the morning.”
“Prisoner still?” was the surprised interrogatory of the sindico and his daughter.
“I warn you against what you are doing,” said the Englishman, addressing himself to the officer. “You will find that even your master, the Pope, will not be able to screen you from punishment for this outrage on a British subject.”
“And your master, Giuseppe Mazzini, will not be able to protect you for acting as a revolutionary spy, Signore Inglese.”
“Mazzini! Revolutionary spy! What do you mean?”
“I think, Captain Guardiola,” interposed the sindico, “you are altogether mistaken about this young man. He is no spy; but an honest English galantuomo– the friend of my son, Luigi. I shall be answerable for him.”
“I must do my duty, Signor Torreani. Sergeant! do yours. Take your prisoner back to the guard, and see that you bring him before me in the morning.”
The order was obeyed. The prisoner offered no resistance to it. There were other soldiers outside the door; and, as any attempt to escape would have been idle, Henry Harding had to submit to this additional degradation. He did not leave the room before exchanging a look with Lucetta that consoled him for the insult, and another with Captain Count Guardiola, that disturbed his countship’s equanimity for the remainder of the evening.
Chapter Forty Six
Alone with Lucetta Torreani
Next morning Captain Guardiola was in a somewhat different frame of mind. On examination of the prisoner, he could find no proof of the latter being a spy; on the contrary, there was ample evidence of his story being true. A score of the townsmen could identify him as having been in the hands of the banditti. Indeed, this was not doubted by any one; and the fact of his being an Inglese was in his favour. Why should an Englishman be meddling in the political affairs of the country?
The commandant saw that to detain him might end in trouble to himself. He was too intelligent not to understand the power of the English Government, even in the affairs of Italy; and, looking forward to future events, thought it safe upon the whole to release the artist; which he at length did, under pretence of doing an act of grace to the sindico, who had renewed his intercession on the young Englishman’s behalf.
Henry Harding was once more free. Not a little to the disgust of Guardiola, he became the sindico’s guest. But there was no help for it, unless by an act of authority too arbitrary to be passed over without investigation; and the Captain Count was compelled to swallow his chagrin with the best grace he could.
By chance there was a spare suit of clothes, left by Luigi on his setting out for England. They were of the cacciatore cut, too fantastic for the streets of London; for this reason they had been left behind. They were just the sort for the mountains of the Romagna, and of a size to suit the young Englishman, fitting him as if he had been measured for them by the Italian tailor who made them.
The Signor Torreani insisted upon his receiving them. He could not well refuse, considering the state of dilapidation to which his own had been reduced, and the necessity of making a decent appearance as guest of the donor. An hour after his release from the guard-house he was seen in velvet jacket, buttoned breeches, and gaiters of cacciatore cut, with a plumed Calabrian hat upon his head – bearing resemblance in almost everything, except physiognomy, to a brigand!
The costume became him. Lucetta smiled at seeing him in his new dress. She was pleased with his appearance. He reminded her of brother Luigi. And then he was called upon for the story of his adventures among the bandits – from the date of his capture to that of his second arrival in the town. Of course only such details were given as were fitted for the ear of a young lady. The mode of his escape from the cell was particularly inquired into, and related. Some expressions in the destroyed letter of Tommaso, and which Henry Harding intended soon to communicate to the sindico himself, were kept back – along with that other intelligence which had been his chief motive for making escape.
His auditors – there were both father and daughter present at this interview – were strangely interested when he spoke of the mysterious interference on his behalf. Who could have helped him to the knife? Who could have written the letter of instructions? He did not say anything to assist them in their conjectures, nor even mention the name of Tommaso. All that was for the ears of the sindico himself, and at another time.
He merely described the cutting his passage through the floor above his cell – his dropping from the dormer window – the alarm caused to the sentinels, and its instant subsidence. He told them, too, how he had succeeded in passing the first vidette, stationed at the top of the gorge, by crawling on his hands and knees; how he had got so close to the other as to perceive that passing him in the same way would be impossible; how, knife in hand, he had stood for a time half determined to take the man’s life; how he had recoiled from the shedding of blood; how, concealing himself in some bushes, he had remained wakeful till daylight; had seen the second sentry pass up the hill; and then, unseen himself, had continued his retreat. As good luck would have it, a filmy haze was hanging over the valley, under the curtain of which he had escaped. Otherwise he would have been seen, either by the vidette above, or the night-sentinel on his return to the rendezvous. He could not tell whether he had been pursued – of course he had been, though not immediately. It was not likely he was missed till an advanced hour in the morning, and then he was far on his way. Fortunately, he remembered the road by which the brigands had taken him, and kept along with eager celerity, inspired not only by the peril of his own situation, but that of those to whom he was now describing his escape. He had finally reached the skirts of the town a little after nightfall, once more to be made a prisoner. And, once more released, he was in a fair way of again getting into chains, somewhat less irksome to endure. This, however, did not form part of his confession.
The conversation now turned upon Luigi; but this was in a dialogue between the young Englishman and Lucetta – the sindico having gone out on business of the town.
Need we say that Lucetta Torreani was very fond of her only brother? How was Luigi in health? How did he like Inglaterra? Was he making much progress in his profession? These, with a score of like questions, were rapidly asked and answered; and then a detailed description had to be given of that episode which had introduced the two young men to one another, with something of their after association. And then there was a sly inquiry as to what Luigi thought of the English ladies, with their blonde complexions and bright golden hair, so different from the daughters of Italia. And there was a hint about a young lady in Rome, a sort of semi-cousin of the Torreanis to whom Luigi ought to be true. Would it be right for a young man to marry away out of his own country? And did the signore believe that there was any sin in marriages between people of his own faith – he had confessed himself a Protestant – and those of Holy Church?
These and other topics – perhaps few so pleasant – were talked of; the young Italian girl asking questions, and giving answers, with that naïveté so charming to the listener.
It so charmed Henry Harding, that, before he had passed a single day in her company, he could look back on Buckinghamshire and Belle Mainwaring without a shadow of regret. He was in a fair way of forgetting both.
That same night the escaped prisoner completed the revelation he had to make to the sindico alone; first telling him what he had learnt about the designs of Corvino upon his daughter, as also how he had learnt it; then of the letter he had himself written to Luigi, urging the latter to hasten home.
The sindico, though pained, was not much surprised by the first part of this strange communication. As is known, he had already received warning. It was the letter to his son, written under such circumstances, that filled him alike with surprise and gratitude. With warm words, he thanked the young Englishman for his generous and thoughtful interference.
During the explanation, a point that had hitherto puzzled the escaped captive found a presumptive solution. He had all along wondered who could have been his mysterious protector. Who had furnished the knife, with the chapter of instructions that accompanied it? At the mention of the name of Tommaso, the sindico started, as if having guessed the hidden hand that had interfered in their favour. On a further description of the man, he felt sure of it. An old retainer of the Torreanis, who had held service in the Pontifical army; had fallen into evil ways; had been thrown into a Roman dungeon from which he had escaped; and no doubt had afterwards found an asylum among the mountain bands. This was the probable explanation of Tommaso’s conduct – a long-remembered gratitude for services the sindico had rendered him.
The latter now acknowledged the danger in which his daughter was placed, and the necessity of steps being taken to avert it. He had already determined on removing from the place, and taking his penates along with him. In truth, he had that very day concluded the sale of his estate; and was now free to go in quest of a new home – to whatever part of the world where it might be found.
Meanwhile, there was no immediate danger; the Papal soldiers intended staying some time in the town. The sindico could retain his situation of chief magistrate, and await the arrival of his son, who, if the post kept true to time, might be expected in a day or two.
To hear that Luigi was coming home was news to his sister. How had her father heard it? There had been no letter from London – no message from Rome. It was a mystery to Lucetta; and for reasons was permitted to remain so. But why need she care to unravel it, so long as he was coming home? And so soon too! And the time would not seem long, since his friend was there, and she could talk to him about Luigi. It had become pleasant to converse about her dear brother, with her dear brother’s friend; and once again were the same questions asked, as to how Luigi looked, and lived, and prospered at his painting; and whether he was given to admiring the English girls; and would it be wrong for him, a Catholic, to marry one, or would it be wrong the other way? and so were the artless interrogatories repeated.
These were pleasant conversations, but it was not pleasant to have them interrupted, as they usually were, by Captain Guardiola. Why should the officer force himself into their company – as he daily, hourly did? Why did he not take his soldiers – as he ought to have done – and go after the brigands? He could easily have found their hiding-place among the hills. Their late captive, still burning with indignation at the treatment he had endured – frantic when he looked at his left hand – would have gladly guided him to the spot. He proposed doing this. His proposal was not only received with coldness, but repelled with an insolence that kept the blood warm and bad between Guardiola and himself. From that time there was no communication between them – even when brought together in attendance upon Lucetta.
Both were with her, upon the ridge that rose directly over the town. There was a cave upon the summit of the hill, that had once been the abode of an anchorite. It was one of the curiosities of the neighbourhood; and the young lady, at her father’s suggestion, had invited her father’s English guest to go up with her and see it. The invitation was not extended to the other guest – the Captain Count. For all that he invited himself, under pretence of lending his protection to the signorina. His escort, though not asked for, could not well be refused; and the three proceeded to climb the hill.
Guardiola was beside himself with jealousy. In his heart he was cursing the young Englishman; and could he have found an excuse for pushing him over a cliff, or running him through with the sword that hung by his side, he would have done either on the instant.
