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.