Chapter Sixty Three.
“Something to his Advantage.”
The entertainments provided for me by my old college acquaintance were far from being dull, and I kept his company for nearly a week. At the end of this time I was on my way back to Rosario, intending to stop, as promised, at the estancia of Mr Henry Harding; who, if he should prove to be the son of the old Indian General, I could no longer look upon in the light of a stranger.
As proposed, my friend accompanied me, and I had the pleasure of promoting an intimacy between two of my countrymen who were worthy to know one another better than they had hitherto done.
The Signora Lucetta was beautiful and amiable as ever; and we had soon assembled under one roof the two kindred families. For several days we were entertained with a hospitality that became rather difficult to escape from; and my bachelor friend, I believe, went back to his own solitary estancia with strong resolutions of not letting much time elapse before becoming a Benedict.
For my part, I was no longer treated as a stranger. My South American host was the son of General Harding, of Beechwood Park—the very man who had been advertised for; and, as I now learnt, up to that hour in vain.
In a conversation that occurred during my second visit I was made acquainted with his whole history, as detailed in these pages.
“And this?” I said, pointing to the advertisement in the Times—the paper lying upon the table before us.
“Never saw it; never heard of it till now!” was his reply.
“You heard of your father’s death, I suppose?”
“Oh yes; I saw that in the papers shortly after it occurred. My poor father! Perhaps I acted rashly and wrongly. But it is too late to talk of it now.”
I saw that it pained him to speak of his father, and I passed on to another subject.
“Your brother’s marriage—you heard also of that, I suppose?”
“No!” he answered, to my surprise. “Is he married?”
“Long since. It was also in the papers; and somewhat conspicuously. Strange you didn’t see it.”
“Oh! the papers! I never looked at an English newspaper since that containing the account of my father’s death. I hated the sight of them, and everything else that was English. I have not even associated with my own countrymen here, as you may have learnt. And upon whom has Mr Nigel Harding bestowed his name? You know the lady, I suppose?”
“He married a Miss Belle Mainwaring,” I answered, with a counterfeit air of innocence, and not without some fear that the communication might give pain.
I watched his countenance for the effect, but could discover no indication of the sort.
“I knew something of the lady,” he said, with just the shadow of a sneer; “she and my brother ought to make each other very happy. Their dispositions, I think, were suitable.”
I did not say how thoroughly I understood the meaning of his remark.
“But,” I said, returning to the subject of the advertisement, “what do you intend doing about this? You see, it speaks of something to your advantage?”
“Not much, I fancy. I think I know all about it. It is a question of a thousand pounds, which my father promised to leave me at his death. It was so stated in his will—that will—” Here a bitter expression came quickly over his features. “Well,” he continued, his countenance as suddenly clearing again, “I ought rather to rejoice at it, though it did disinherit me. But for that, signore,” he said, forgetting that he was talking to a countryman, “I might never have seen my dear Lucetta; and I think you will say, that never to have seen her would be the greatest misfortune a man could have.”
It was an odd appeal to me—a stranger; but I could not help responding to it.
He would have gone on conversing upon this pleasant theme; but the time was drawing nigh for us to join the ladies—Lucetta herself being one; and I re-directed his attention to the subject that had taken us apart.
“Even a thousand pounds,” I said, “it is worth looking after.”
“Quite true,” he replied, “and I had several times thoughts of doing so—that is, lately. At first, I was too angry with all that had happened at home; and had made up my mind to refuse even the paltry pittance that had been left for me. But to tell the truth, I have not made much money here; and I begin to feel myself rather a pensioner upon my worthy father-in-law. With a thousand pounds of my own money, I should stand a little higher in my own estimation.”
“What will you do then? Come with me to England and get it?”
“Not for ten thousand! No; I wouldn’t leave this happy home, and forsake my free South American life, for ten times the amount! It will not be necessary to go to England. If there be a thousand pounds lying for me in the hands of Messrs Lawson and Son, which I suppose there is, I must extract it from them by a lawyer’s letter or something of the sort. By the way, you are soon going home, are you not?”
“I intend taking this next steamer for England.”
“Well then, why—But I am asking too much. You have your own affairs to attend to.”
“My affairs are not so very onerous. I can find time to attend to any business you may choose to entrust me with; if you will only allow me to consider as my commission the hospitality, for which I feel myself your debtor.”
“Oh, don’t talk of hospitality! Besides, it is not mine. It was Lucetta who first received you. If I’d been at home myself, seeing you were an Englishman, I should, perhaps, have lent you a horse and let you ride on. And, being myself an Englishman, in all likelihood I should have jockeyed you out of that fine steed of yours, and given you a screw in exchange! Ha! ha! ha!”
I joined him in the laugh, well knowing that his sardonism was but slightly felt.
“But to be serious,” he continued; “you can do me this service, better than any scamp of a lawyer! Go to Mr Lawson, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields—I know something of the old fellow, and his son, too. They are not a bad sort—that is, for solicitors. If there be money left for me, in their hands, I shall likely get it. Let me give you a letter to receive it, and you can send it to some bank in Buenos Ayres. Then it may reach me through the bank agency at Rosario. You can do this for me, and will?”
“With pleasure.”
“Enough! The ladies are longing for us to rejoin them. You are fond of the guitar, I believe. I hear Lucetta tuning the strings. Luigi can sing like a second Mario; and the señorita, as he calls his South American wife, is a perfect nightingale. Hear! They are calling for us! Come!”
It needed no pressing on his part. I was but too eager to respond to the silvery voices commanding our presence in the adjoining apartment.