Chapter Thirty Eight.
The Family Solicitor.
Though living but an hour, by rail, from London, General Harding rarely visited the metropolis more than once a year. Once, however, it was his custom to go—less to keep up his acquaintance with the great world, than with his old Indian associates met at the “Oriental.” He would stay at some hotel for a couple of weeks—spending most of his time in the streets or at the club—and then return to his retirement among the Chilterns, with souvenirs sufficient to last him for the remainder of the year. During this annual sojourn in the city, he did not waste his time in mere gossiping with his ancient comrades in arms. He gave some portion of it to the management of affairs connected with his estate; which, of course, included a call upon his solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The time of his annual visit to the metropolis was in the “season,” when all London, and a goodly number of its “country cousins” are in town. The “House” is then sitting, concerts are the rage, and the “Row” affords its varied attractions. It was not any of these allurements, however, that called the old Indian officer from his country seat; but simply because he would then meet, men in London who, like himself, could not be encountered there at any other period of the year.
It was on one of the earliest days of the London season, when the dark-visaged messenger—who declared himself to have come from the dominions of the Pope—had made his appearance at Beechwood Park; and a few days later General Harding made his annual trip to London. This visit to the metropolis had nothing to do with the strange communication he had received through that very strange individual. It remained in his mind only from the painful impression it had made. He grieved that his son could be capable of practising such deception. Otherwise he thought very little about the matter, or, if so, it was not with a belief that there was any truth in the story about brigands. He believed it to be a very skilful concoction; and it was this that gave him pain—revealing on the part of his son a singular talent for chicanery.
How Henry had spent his time during the twelve months that had elapsed he had not the slightest idea. He had not heard a word of him, or from him. He had written once to his solicitor to make an inquiry; but it was simply whether the lawyer had seen him. The answer had been “Yes.” Henry Harding had called at the solicitor’s office, some twelve months before. There was nothing said about the payment of the thousand pounds; for the question had not been asked in the General’s letter; and the formal old lawyer, habituated to laconic exactness, had limited the terms of his response to such inquiries as had been made.
Henry, in his parting letter, had spoken of going abroad. This would to some extent account for his not being heard of in London; and there was no reason why he should not find his way to Rome, or any other Continental capital. The General had the idea that it would serve him for a tour of travel, and, perhaps, keep him out of worse company at home. He would have been satisfied enough to hear of his son being in Rome, but for the contents of that strange letter that brought the information. In it there was proof that, if not actually in the hands of brigands, he had fallen into company almost, if not altogether, as bad.
Such were the reflections of the General as he meandered through the streets of the metropolis; reminded of his son’s existence only by knowing that he had been there; but not with any expectation of meeting him. Henry, he no longer doubted, was in the city of Rome, and not among the Neapolitan mountains, as the letter alleged. The supposed falsehood also much embittered his father’s remembrance of him.
After having made the rounds of the clubs, the General, as usual, called on his solicitors—“Lawson and Son,” Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
“Have you heard anything of my son since I last wrote you?” he asked. The question was put after his other business had been transacted.
“No,” said Lawson the elder, to whom the inquiry was directed, Lawson the younger having gone out of the way.
“I have had a singular letter from him—there it is—you are at liberty to read it; you may put it among my papers. It’s a document that has a good deal grieved me. I don’t wish it lying in my own desk.”
Mr Lawson adjusted his spectacles; and perused the epistle that had been dictated by the brigand chief.
“This is strange, General! How did it reach you?” he asked on finishing. “There does not appear to be a postmark.”
“That is perhaps the strangest part of it; it came by hand, and was delivered to me in my own house.”
“By whom?”
“An odd-looking creature of a Jew, or Italian, or something of the kind. He proclaimed himself to be one of your own craft, Mr Lawson. A procuratore, he said; which I believe in the Italian lingo means an attorney, or solicitor.”
“What answer did you send your son?”
“I sent no answer at all; I didn’t believe a word of what was in the letter. I saw, and so did my son Nigel, that it was a scheme to extract money. Nigel, I believe, answered it.”
“Ah! your son Nigel answered this letter. What did he write, General? You will excuse me for asking the question.”
“Of course, I’ll excuse you. But I can’t tell you for all that. I don’t know what was in my eldest son’s letter; something, I think, to the effect, that I saw through his deception, and also a word to reproach him for the attempt at playing such a trick upon his own father. Nigel thought this might have some effect on him—perhaps shame him, if there is any shame left; though I fear, poor fellow, he has fallen into bad hands, and it will take a more severe lesson to reclaim him.”
“You don’t believe, then, that he has fallen into the hands of brigands?”
“Brigands! Bah! Surely, Mr Lawson, you’re not serious in thinking such a thing possible—with your experience?”
“It’s just my experience, General, that suggests not only its possibility, but its probability. It is now some years since, during one of my vacations, I made what is usually called the Italian tour. I learnt, while in Italy, some strange facts about the bandits of Naples and Rome. I could not have believed what I heard, but for a circumstantial testimony almost equal to the evidence of my own eyes. It was about a gentleman having fallen into their clutches, and who had to pay ransom to get clear. Indeed, it was by the merest accident I escaped myself being taken prisoner at the same time. I owed the immunity to the lucky break-down of a post-chaise, in which I was travelling over the horrid roads of the Romagna. The trouble caused my return to Rome; whereas, had I gone five miles farther, the house of Lawson and Son, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, might have had to pay ransom for my person—just as this that is now demanded for that of your son.”
“Demanded for my son! Pooh! pooh! Demanded by my son, you mean!”
“I do not believe it, General. I am sorry to say I have reason to differ with you.”
“But I do believe it. I have not told you how he left home—in a ‘huff’ about a girl he wanted to get married to. I was determined he shouldn’t, and made use of a trick to prevent it. I shall some day tell you of this trick. It deceived a very tricky party—a pair of them for that matter. It was then I wrote to you to give him the thousand pounds. He’s spent it, I suppose, upon idle vagabonds like himself, who have put him up to this thing to get money. It’s a cunning scheme, but it won’t succeed.”
“Wrote to me to give him a thousand pounds!” exclaimed the old solicitor, half starting from his chair, and pulling the spectacles from his nose. “What do you mean, General Harding?”
“What should I mean, Mr Lawson? I mean the thousand pounds I directed you to draw from the bank, and pay over to my son Henry, whenever he should call for it.”
“When?”
“When! About twelve months ago. Let me see. Yes. Just twelve months ago. It was only a week or so after I saw you on my last visit to London. You told me in your letter, that he had been to your office about that time.”
“I did, and so he had—twice, I think, he called—but not to receive a thousand pounds, or money of any amount. He did not ask for it. If I remember aright, he only called to inquire if there was any message sent him by you. I did not see him myself—my head clerk did. He can tell what passed with your son. Shall I summon him?”
“Do so,” said the General, almost beside himself with astonishment. “Damme! it’s very strange—very strange, damme!”
A hand-bell was touched, and in an instant the head clerk came into the room.
“Jennings,” said the solicitor, “do you remember General Harding’s son—his younger son, Henry—you know him, I believe—having called here about twelve months ago?”
“Oh, yes!” responded the clerk; “I remember it very well. It is just twelve months ago. I can find the entry if you wish. He called twice—the second time a day or two after the first. Both visits were entered in the ‘call book.’”
“Bring in the call book,” commanded Mr Lawson.
The clerk hurried off into the front office, leaving General Harding once more alone with his solicitor.