Майн Рид
The Finger of Fate: A Romance
Chapter Fifty Nine
In the Campo
Five years spent in foreign travel, confined to the continent of America, found me in the southern division of it – on the banks of the River La Plata.
Choice and chance combining – a little business with the prospect of a large amount of pleasure – had conducted me into the Argentine Republic; and the same had carried me into one of its upper provinces, bordering upon the Parana.
I was journeying through the campo about twenty miles north of Rosario, from which place I had taken my departure. My object was to reach the estancia of an English colonist – an old college friend – who had established himself as a cattle-breeder and wool-grower some fifty miles from Rosario.
I went on horseback, and alone. I had failed in engaging a guide; but, knowing that my friend’s house stood near the banks of the river, I fancied there could be no difficulty in finding it. There were other estancias along the route; sparsely scattered, it is true; but still thick enough to give me a chance of inquiring the way. Besides, the river itself should guide me to a certain extent; at all events, it would keep me from going many miles astray. My horse was an excellent roadster; and I was expecting to do the fifty miles – a mere bagatelle to a South American steed – before sunset. And in all likelihood I should have succeeded, if in the kingdom of animated nature there had been no such creature as a biscacha. But, unluckily, there is – an animal whose habit is to honeycomb the campo with holes, in places forming most treacherous traps for the traveller’s horse. In one of these, while traversing a stretch of pampa, my steed was imprudent enough to plant his hoof; when first sinking, and then stumbling, he rolled over upon the plain; and, of course, his rider along with him. The rider was but slightly injured, but the horse very seriously. On getting him upon his feet, I found he could scarce stand – much less carry me the thirty miles that still separated us from my friend’s estancia. He had injured one of his forelegs, and was just able to limp after me as I led him from the spot. I felt that I had got into a dilemma, and would have to walk the rest of the way, besides making a second day of it. Perhaps not, I reflected, on seeing before me, at no great distance, some signs of a habitation.
There was a clump of trees, most of which appeared to be peaches. This of itself would not have proved the proximity of a dwelling, for in many parts of the Argentine territory the peach-trees grow wild. But I saw something more; – a bit of white wall gleaming through the green foliage, with something like smoke ascending. Around all was a stretch of stockade fence, indicating an enclosure.
Turning directly towards it, I led on my lame horse, in the hope of the chance to exchange him for one better able to bear me to the end of the journey.
Even if I could not make such an exchange, it would be wiser to leave him, and proceed onward afoot.
On approaching a little nearer to the place, I could see that it promised at least a shelter for my crippled quadruped; and getting still closer, I began to indulge the hope of being able to obtain a remount.
The house gradually becoming disclosed, through the shrubbery by which it was beset, if not a grand mansion, had all the appearance of a well-to-do estancia. There was a comfortable dwelling, with verandah in front, in style not unlike an Italian villa; and at the back were out-buildings, apparently in good repair, standing inside an enclosure. There were enough of these to predicate a stable containing a spare horse.
With the one belonging to me, I was soon standing before a gate. It was that of a railed parterre that fronted the dwelling.
I made my presence known by striking the butt-end of my whip against the rails.
Whilst waiting for an answer to my summons, I took a survey of the place.
It did not exactly resemble the dwelling of a Criollo, or native. There was evidence of care about the garden and the rose-trellised verandah, that bespoke European culture. The owner might be English, French, German, or Italian; for, in the Argentine Provinces, all are allowed to colonise without prejudice or distinction. Which nationality would respond to my summons? With curious interest I awaited to see.
I was not kept very long. A man, who appeared to issue from behind the house, came forward to the gate. His thick black head and eagle glance, with white teeth, and nose prominently aquiline, were all Italian. An organ upon his abdomen, and a monkey upon his shoulder, would not more unquestionably have declared his national origin. I knew it before he opened his lips to put the interrogatory, “Chi è, signore?”
Despite the man’s blackness, there was nothing forbidding in his aspect. On the contrary, the impression made upon me was that I had fallen among good Samaritans. As the luck would have it, I could talk Italian, or at least “smatter” it, so as to be understood.
“My horse!” I said, pointing to the quadruped, which stood with his forefoot suspended six inches from the ground; “he has had an accident, as you see; and can carry me no further. I am desirous of leaving him in your care until I can send for him. I shall pay you for the trouble, and perhaps,” I continued, nodding towards the buildings at the back, “you would have no objection to lend me a nag in his place? Anything capable of carrying me to the house of a friend farther on.”
The man looked at me for a moment with a puzzled air – then at my horse – and then back at myself – and at length turned his eyes toward the house, as if from it he designed drawing the inspiration of his answer.
He could scarce have sought it at a shrine more like the celestial.
As I stood to catch his reply, the door of the dwelling was opened from within, and a woman stepped forth into the verandah – a creature who might have been mistaken for an angel; but still only a woman, and for that not the less beautiful. Coming forward to the trellis, and looking through the roses, that appeared to form a chaplet around her brow, she repeated the question already asked by the man, adding to it his own name – for to him was the interrogatory directed – “Chi è, Tommaso?”
Tommaso in answer gave a literal translation of what I had said to him; and then waited for instructions.
“Tell the stranger,” responded the sweet voice from the verandah, “tell him he can leave his horse, and have another to continue his journey. But if he will come inside, and wait till my husband returns home, he is welcome. Perhaps that would be the best thing, Tommaso!”
Tommaso thought it would; and, I need scarce say, I quite agreed with him.
The man took the horse out of my hands, and led him towards the stable.
I was left free to enter the house; and, availing myself of the gracious invitation, I stepped straight across the threshold, and was soon seated inside – in converse with one of the most charming creatures it had ever been my privilege to speak with.
Chapter Sixty
Pleasant Hospitality
I sat enraptured with my fair hostess; rejoicing at the accident that had thrown me into such pleasant company.
Who was she? Who could she be? An Italian, she had told me at first; and in this language we conversed. But she could also speak a little English, which was soon explained by her telling me that her husband was an Inglese.
“He will be so glad to see you,” she said, “for it is not often he meets any of his own countrymen, as most of the English live further down. Henry will soon be home. It can’t be long now. He only went over to the other estancia– I mean papa’s. I fancy he and brother Luigi are gone ostrich-hunting. But that must be over now, as they don’t chase the birds after midday, on account of the shadows. I am sure he will soon be back. Meanwhile, how are you to be amused? Perhaps you will look at these pictures? They are landscapes of the country here. Some of them are by my husband – some by brother Luigi. Try if you can kill a little time over them while I go look after something for you to eat.”
“Pray don’t think of that. I do not feel in any need of eating.”
“That may be, signore; but then there are the ostrich-hunters. Likely enough Luigi will come along with my husband, and won’t they have an appetite! I must see and have dinner ready for them.”
So saying, my fair hostess glided out of the room; leaving me to an impatience, that had very little to do with the return of the ostrich-hunters.
To “kill time,” as I had been requested, I commenced an inspection of the pictures. There were about a dozen of them, hanging against the walls of the apartment, otherwise but sparely furnished – as might be expected of a country house in a remote province on the Parana. As she had said, they were all scenes of the country, and for this reason to me more interesting. Most of them related to the chase or some act of native industry. There were pictures of jaguar-hunting, flamingo-shooting, running wild horses, and capturing them with bolas or lazo.
I was at first only struck with the remarkable truthfulness of their details – the faithfulness displayed in regard of both scenery and costumes. How like to reality were the gigantic thistles, the ombu-trees, the wide-stretching pampas, the ostriches, the wild horses and other animals, the gauchos and their costumes – in short, everything delineated. This was all evident at a glance. But I was not prepared for what I discovered on closer, examination – that the pictures, at least a large number of them, were paintings of high art – fit for any exhibition in the world! It would have been a surprise to me meeting with such paintings upon the remote plains of the Parana; it was something more, to know that they had been painted there.
Before I had ceased wondering at this unexpected discovery, cheerful voices heard outside caused me to suspend the examination, and walk up to the window. On looking forth, I had before me a real scene similar to the painted ones I had just been scrutinising. Under the shadow of a gigantic ombu-tree, standing near, four horsemen had made halt, and were in the act of dismounting.
I could have no doubt as to who they were – clearly the ostrich-hunters, as a large cock rhea appeared upon the croup of one of the saddles, and a hen-bird on the other. A third spoil of the chase was seen, in the spotted skin of a jaguar, strapped behind one of the horsemen, who still kept his saddle.
Two of the party were gauchos, evidently attendants – the other two as evidently the husband and brother of my fair hostess.
The latter – easily distinguished by his Italian face – seemed undecided about dismounting, as if half inclined to go further; while the Englishman was urging him to stay. Just then the beautiful mistress of the mansion stepped out into the verandah, and gliding on to the gate, added her solicitations, intimating to her brother that there was a stranger in the house. Yielding to these, the young man sprang out of the stirrup, and surrendered the rein to Tommaso, who had come round from the stables, and who, with the gauchos, at once led the horses away.
The two gentlemen having entered, the lady of the house introduced them as her husband and brother. Beyond this, no name was pronounced; and before I could give my own, she had commenced explaining my presence and the nature of the request I had made.
“Most certainly,” exclaimed the Englishman, as soon as he had heard the explanation. “We can lend you a horse, sir, and welcome. But why not stay with us a day or two? Perhaps by that time your own will have recovered sufficiently to carry you on to the end of your journey.”
“It is very kind of you,” I answered, feeling very much inclined to accept the invitation. On second thoughts, however, it occurred to me that the hospitality proffered might be of the character common in South American countries, “mia casa a su disposicion, señor,” a mere expression of courtesy; which I was about declining under some colourable excuses, when a second solicitation from my host – in which he was joined by his young wife – convinced me of its sincerity. I could hold out no longer, and declared my willingness to remain the “day or two.”
I made it three – and of the pleasantest days I ever spent in my life. They were not all passed under the roof of my countryman and his brother-in-law. The latter had a house of his own – an estancia on a larger scale, of which that of my host was only an offshoot. Into this I was also introduced; finding in it another fair hostess, a young South American lady, who had lately become its mistress; as also Luigi’s own father, a venerable Italian gentleman, who was in reality the head of the whole circle. The two establishments were but half a mile apart; and what with passing between one and the other, breakfasting and dining alternately at both – with an ostrich chase at intervals – the time passed so pleasantly I could scarce believe the days to be twenty-four hours in length.
I was rather displeased with Tommaso for having so speedily cured my horse. An odd-looking creature this same Tommaso appeared to me. Had I met him on the mountains of Italy, instead of by the banks of the Parana, I should certainly have taken him for a brigand. Not that the resemblance went beyond mere personal appearance; that picturesqueness we attach, to the Italian bandit. Otherwise, the man looked honest; was certainly cheerful; and, above all, faithfully devoted to the signore and signora, in whose service he lived.
I confess to some chagrin when Tommaso pronounced my steed once more sound. But there was no concealing the fact; and, although still urged, both by host and hostess, to prolong my stay, I felt there should be some limit to such trusting hospitality, and prepared to continue my journey. I was the less loath at leaving these new friends, from an understanding, that on my return towards Rosario I was to take their house on the way. Only on this promise would they consent to my going so soon; and I need scarce say that the prospect of renewing such a pleasant intercourse rendered it less painful to take my departure.
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.
Chapter Sixty Two
A Lost Legatee
The reader may perhaps think it strange – the fact of my not recognising Mr Henry Harding as an old acquaintance. But in reality he was not so. I had seen him only once, when a beardless youth, home from his college vacation. But even had I known him more intimately, it is not likely that, sun-browned and bearded as he now was – speaking and looking Italian much better than he either spoke or looked English – I should have remembered the young collegian, unless some circumstance had occurred to recall him to my memory. Had I learnt his name sooner, such might have been the case. As it was, I went my way – simply reflecting what a fine young fellow was my late host, and how fortunate in having such a treasure of a wife.
As to the others of my late entertainers, the reader must remember that he is already acquainted with much more of their history than I was then. All I knew of them was what I had learnt during the three days’ intercourse just ended; and in it nothing had occurred in any way to connect them in my mind with the personages of English nationality who have figured in this tale.
The name “Mr Henry Harding” on a card gave me no other thought than that of his being a fellow-countryman of whom I might feel proud, and to whom I did feel grateful.
On reaching the estancia of my friend, I found him somewhat anxious about my tardy arrival. He had, of course, expected me three days sooner; and but that the “thistles” were not yet sufficiently advanced in growth, he would have supposed that I had either lost my way among those gigantic weeds, or fallen into the hands of robbers, who are to be apprehended only after this singular herbage has attained full height. On explaining the cause of my delay – telling him where I had spent the intervening time, as also how pleasantly I had spent it – my friend suddenly interrupted me with the question —
“Did you ever know a General Harding, of the county of Bucks?”
“A General Harding, of Bucks?”
“Yes. I know you’ve been a good deal down in that part of England. The General Harding I speak of died some five or six years ago.”
“I knew a General Harding, of Beechwood Park, not a great way from Windsor. I had only a slight acquaintance with him. He died about the time you say. Would he be the man you mean?”
“By Jove! the very same. Beechwood! That I think is the name; but we shall soon see. It’s very odd,” continued my friend, rising from his seat, and going towards a secretary that stood in a corner of the room. “Very odd, indeed. I have been myself half in the mind of riding over to the estancia, where you have been so well entertained. I should have done so this very day, but that I was waiting for you. I may as well tell you what would have been my errand. I know very little of my English neighbour, Mr Harding. His intercourse is mostly among Italians and Argentines; so that we English don’t see much of him. He’s said to be a first-rate fellow, for all that.”
“I’m glad to hear him so spoken of. It’s just the impression he has made upon me. But what has this to do with your inquiries about General Harding?”
I need hardly say that, by this time, my own curiosity was aroused – so much so, that I had once more taken the card out of my pocket, and was submitting it to a fresh scrutiny.
“Well,” said my friend, returning to the original subject of discourse, “while looking out for you, I could not well leave the house; and having no other way of amusing myself, I took to reading some old English newspapers. We don’t have them very new here at any time. These were dated several years ago, and one of them was a Times. Now, if you’d lived as long upon the pampas as I have, you’d not turn up your nose at a Times, however ancient its date; nor would you leave a paragraph unread, even to the advertisements. I was poring over these, when my eye fell upon one, which I leave you to read for yourself. There it is.”
I took the paper handed me by my friend, and read the advertisement he had pointed out. It ran thus: —
“Henry Harding. – If Mr Henry Harding, son of the late General Harding, of Beechwood Park, in the county of Buckingham, will apply to Messrs Lawson and Sons, solicitors, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, he will hear of something to his advantage. Mr Harding was last heard of in Rome, at the time of the revolutionary struggle, and is supposed to have taken part in the defence of that city by Garibaldi. Any one giving information of his present address, or, if dead, stating the time and circumstances of his death, will be handsomely rewarded.”
“What do you think of it?” asked my friend, as soon as I had finished reading the advertisement.
“I remember having seen it before,” was my reply. “It was inserted in the papers repeatedly, several years ago, and at the time caused much talk. Of course, everybody knew that young Harding had gone away from home – no one knowing where. That was some time before his father’s death. There was some story afloat about his having been jilted by a girl. I knew something of the young lady myself. Also, of his having gone to Italy, and fallen into the hands of brigands, or joined the partisans of Mazzini. No one knew the truth, as General Harding was a man in the habit of keeping his family secrets to himself. It was after his death that the talk was. When these advertisements appeared, the young fellow had been a considerable time out of sight; and for that reason they attracted less attention. It was said that the father had left him a legacy, and that was why the solicitor was advertising for him.”
“Just what I thought. But do you think he ever turned up?”
“That I can’t tell. I never heard the result. About that time I left England myself, and have been abroad ever since.”
“Does it not occur to you,” inquired my friend, “that this Henry Harding of the Times advertisement, and the gentleman who has been entertaining you, may be one and the same man?”
“It is quite possible – indeed, it seems probable. This states that Henry Harding was last heard of at Rome. Now the family into which this gentleman has married came from Rome. That much they told me. He may be the same. He may have answered the advertisement too, and got the something to his advantage, whatever it was; though I am under the impression it was not much. It was generally known that the bulk of General Harding’s property was willed to his eldest son Nigel; and that Henry, the youngest, was left a bare thousand pounds. If my late host be he, in all likelihood he has had the money before now. Might it not have been with it he has so comfortably established himself?”
“No; I can answer for that,” said my friend. “He was settled here long before the date of this advertisement, and has never been out of the country since – certainly never so far as England.”
“It would not be necessary for him to go to England to obtain the legacy of a thousand pounds. All that might have been transacted by letter of attorney.”
“True, but I have good reason to know that he is only a tenant of the estancia you found him in. His Italian father-in-law is the real owner of both properties; and this was the state of affairs from the first – long before the advertisement could have appeared. In my opinion, he has never seen it; and if he be the individual referred to, it might be worth his while to know of it. As I’ve said, I had thoughts of riding over and asking him myself. Although we’ve had very little intercourse, I’ve heard a very good account of him – though not as a very successful sheep-keeper. He’s too fond of hunting for that; and I fancy he hasn’t added much to his wife’s dowry or his father-in-law’s fortune. Indeed, I’ve heard say that he is himself a little sore about this; and if there should be a legacy for him, still unlifted, it might be very welcome and very convenient to him. A thousand pounds isn’t much in London, but it would go a long way out upon the pampas here.”
“True,” I replied mechanically, absorbed in reflecting whether the rejected lover of Miss Belle Mainwaring was the man whom I had met – now married to a wife worth ten thousand of her sort.
“I’ll tell you what you can do,” said my friend; “you say they’ve invited you to stop there on your way back to Rosario?”
“I am under a promise to do so.”
“Lucky fellow! to have made such a brace of beautiful acquaintances; for the Argentine lady is not thought so far behind her Italian sister-in-law. All by the stumbling of a horse, too! By Jove, I’d risk the breaking of my neck every day in the year for such a chance! You were always fortunate in that sort of thing.”
It was rather amusing to hear my friend talk in such a fashion. He, a confirmed old bachelor, who, I verily believe, would not have surrendered even to the charms of the lovely Lucetta! Such was the name I had heard given to my late hostess.
“What were you going to propose?” I asked.
“That you take back with you this old Times, and show the advertisement to Mr Harding himself. I’ll ride so far with you, if you wish. But since you have made their acquaintance, and know more about this matter than I, it will be better for you to introduce it. What say you to that course?”
“I have no objection to it.”
“All right then. And now to see how I can entertain you. No doubt, my bachelor quarters will be dull enough to you, coming from such company. A dose of Purgatory after Paradise! Ha! ha! ha!”
I could not help thinking there was some truth in what my friend said; though I did all I could to conceal my thoughts, by joining heartily in his laughter.
