Chapter Sixty One.
An Unknown Host.
Up to the hour of leaving, I had never once heard the name of my host. That of his father-in-law had been often mentioned. He was Signor Francesco Torreani, a native of the Papal States, who some years before had come to the Argentine Republic—as many others of his countrymen—to better his condition. This, and not much more, of him or his had I learnt. To say the truth, our daily life during my short stay had been too much taken up with the pleasures of the present to dwell upon memories of the past—often painful.
In my case they were of this character, and appeared the same in that of my new acquaintances. Who, breathing the free, fresh air of the pampas, or bounding over them on the back of a half-wild horse, would care to remember the petty joys and sorrows of an effete and corrupt civilisation? Rather should one wish to forget them.
So was it with me; and so, too, I fancied with these emigrants from the classic land of Italy. I sought not to know the history of their past. Why should they have any interest in communicating it? They did not, any more than the few facts already stated, and these were revealed by chance, in the course of conversation. Little, however, as I had learnt of the Torreanis, still less was I informed of the antecedents of my own countryman. I stood upon the threshold of his house, about to bid him adieu, without even knowing his name!
This may appear strange, and requiring explanation. It is this. Among the people of Spanish America, the surname is but seldom heard—only the Christian cognomen, or, as they term it, apellido. This was all I had heard of my host—Henry being his baptismal appellation.
But for some reason, into which I had no right to inquire, I found him reticent whenever chance led us to converse upon English affairs; and, though he showed no prejudice against his native country, he appeared to take little interest in it—at times, as I thought, shunning the subject.
In my own mind, I had shaped out a theory to account for this indifference. Want of success in early life—perhaps something of social exclusion—though I could not put it upon that score. His manners and accomplishments proved, if not high birth, at least the training that appertains to it; and in our intercourse there had more than once cropped out the masonic signs of Eton and Oxford. I wondered who he could be, or whence he had sprung. Fearing it might not be relished, I had forborne asking the question.
It was only at the last moment, when I stood upon his doorstep, and was about bidding him adieu, that the thought of inquiring his name came into my head.
“You will excuse me,” I said, “if after having been for three days the recipient of a very pleasant and very undeserved hospitality, I am somewhat desirous to know the name of my host. It is not a matter of mere curiosity; but only that I may know to whom I am so largely indebted.”
“How very odd!” he said, answering me with a peal of laughter. “But is it really the fact that you have not yet learnt my name? I took it as a matter of course you had. Now I remember it, I have never heard you call me except by my Italian title of signore! What uncourteous negligence on my part! Three days in a man’s house without knowing his name! How very amusing, is it not? Altogether un-English. To make the best amends in my power, I shall adopt the English fashion of giving you my card. I think I have some left in an old card case. Let me see if there are.”
My host turned back into the house, leaving me to laugh over the circumstance with his sweet wife Lucetta.
Presently he came out again, the card case in his hand; as he approached, drawing out of it several enamelled cards that appeared spotted and mouldy with age. Selecting one, he placed it in my hand.
There was no need for scrutinising it just then; and merely glancing at the piece of cardboard, without staying to decipher the name, I bade him good-bye—I had already made my adieux to the lady—mounted my horse, and rode off.
I had not gone far before curiosity prompted me to acquaint myself with the name of my hospitable entertainer.
Taking out the card, I read—“Mr Henry Harding.”
A very good English name it was; and one I had reason to remember, though it then never occurred to me that the young estanciero of the Pampas could be any connection of the Hardings of Beechwood Park, in the county of Bucks, England. And without making any further reflection, I gave the spur to my horse, and continued my long-delayed journey.