Chapter Sixty.

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 anInglese.“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 otherestancia—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’ttheyhave 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 withbolasorlazo.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, theombu-trees, the wide-stretching pampas, the ostriches, the wild horses and other animals, thegauchosand 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 giganticombu-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 cockrheaappeared 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 weregauchos, 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 thegauchos, 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—anestanciaon 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 thesignoreandsignora, 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.

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 anInglese.

“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 otherestancia—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’ttheyhave 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 withbolasorlazo.

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, theombu-trees, the wide-stretching pampas, the ostriches, the wild horses and other animals, thegauchosand 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 giganticombu-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 cockrheaappeared 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 weregauchos, 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 thegauchos, 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—anestanciaon 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 thesignoreandsignora, 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 ofsignore! 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 youngestancieroof 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.

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 ofsignore! 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 youngestancieroof 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 theestanciaof 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 theestancia, 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 aTimes. Now, if you’d lived as long upon the pampas as I have, you’d not turn up your nose at aTimes, 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 theTimesadvertisement, 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 thesomethingto hisadvantage, 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 theestanciayou 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 oldTimes, 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.

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 theestanciaof 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 theestancia, 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 aTimes. Now, if you’d lived as long upon the pampas as I have, you’d not turn up your nose at aTimes, 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 theTimesadvertisement, 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 thesomethingto hisadvantage, 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 theestanciayou 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 oldTimes, 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.

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 theestanciaof 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 solitaryestanciawith 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 hostwasthe 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 theTimes—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 ofsomething to your advantage?”“Notmuch, 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 theseñorita, 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.

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 theestanciaof 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 solitaryestanciawith 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 hostwasthe 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 theTimes—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 ofsomething to your advantage?”

“Notmuch, 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 theseñorita, 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.

Chapter Sixty Four.A Hundred Thousand Pounds.Two months later, and I was under a sky unlike to that which canopies the region of Parana as lead to shining sapphires—in a room as different from that pleasantquartoin the South Americanestancia, as a Newgate cell to an apartment in Aladdin’s palace. I stood in the dingy office of a Lincoln’s Inn lawyer, by name Lawson, the firm Lawson and Son. It was the senior partner who received me; a gentleman with all the appearance, and, as I afterwards discovered, all the claims to respectability in his profession.“What is the nature of your business?” he politely asked, after examining the card which I handed him to introduce myself.“You will find it there,” I answered, placing before him an oldTimesnewspaper, and pointing to an advertisement marked in pencil. “I presume it is your firm, Mr Lawson, to which this application is to be made?”“It is,” he said, starting up from his office chair, as if I had presented a pistol at his head. “It is very long ago, but no matter for that. Do you know anything of the gentleman to whom it refers?”“Yes, something,” I replied, cautiously—not knowing how far I might be committing the interests of my South American friend.“He is still alive, then? I mean Mr Henry Harding?”“I have reason to think so. He was alive two months ago.”“By —!” exclaimed the lawyer, using a phrase evidently forced from him by the importance of the occasion. “This is serious, indeed. But, sir, are you quite sure? You will excuse me if I ask on which side you come. I know your name, sir. I believe I can trust you to speak candidly. Are you here as a friend of Mr Nigel Harding?”“If I had been, Mr Lawson, it is not likely I should have given you the information it has just been my pleasure to impart. From all I’ve heard, Mr Nigel Harding would be the last man to be gratified by learning that his brother is alive.”My speech had a magical effect on Mr Lawson. I could see at once he was upon our side, as he saw that I was upon his. Out of doors I had already heard, that he was no longer the trusted attorney of the Beechwood estate.“And you assure me heisalive?” was the question again put with an emphasis that showed its importance.“The best proof I can give you is this.”I handed over the letter written by Henry Harding, containing a requisition upon him for the legacy of a thousand pounds.“A thousand pounds!” exclaimed the lawyer, as soon as he had read. “A thousand pounds! A hundred thousand, every shilling of it! Yes! and the accumulated interest, and the mortgage already obtained, and the waste by that scoundrel Woolet! Ah! here’s a penalty for Mr Nigel Harding to pay, and his sweet spendthrift of a wife!”I was not prepared for this explosion; and as soon as it had to some extent subsided, I asked Mr Lawson to explain.“Explain!” he said, putting on his spectacles, and turning towards me with a businesslike air. “To you, sir, I shall have much pleasure in explaining. This letter tells me I can trust you. Thank God, the lad still lives!—the true son of my old friend Harding: as he told me on his dying-bed, and with his last breath. Thank God, he is still alive; and we shall yet be able to punish the usurpers, and that pettifogging Woolet as well! Oh, this is good news—a glorious revelation—a resurrection, one may call it!”“But what does it all mean, Mr Lawson? I came to you at the request of my friend, Mr Henry Harding, whom by chance I met while travelling in South America, on the Parana—as you will see by his letter. He has commissioned me, as you will also perceive, to call upon you, and make certain inquiries. He is under the impression that you hold in your hands a legacy of one thousand pounds left him by his father. If so, he has given me the authority to receive it.”“A thousand pounds! A thousand pence! Is Beechwood estate worth only a thousand pounds? Read this, sir—just run your eye over that document!”A grand sheet of parchment, pulled from out a tin case, was flung before me. I saw it was lettered as a will. I took it up, and spreading it upon the table, read what was written. I need not give its contents in detail. It stated that General Harding had revoked the terms of a former will, which left the whole of his estate to his eldest son, Nigel, with a legacy of one thousand pounds to his youngest, Henry; that this second will exactly transposed the conditions, leaving the estate to Henry, and the thousand-pound legacy to Nigel! It also contained ample instructions for the administration, Mr Lawson and his son being the appointed administrators. It was not to be made known to Nigel Harding himself, unless it should be ascertained that Henry was still alive. To determine this point, all due diligence was to be used, by advertisements in the papers, and such other means as the administrators should see fit. Meanwhile, Nigel was to retain possession of the estate, as by the terms of the former testament; and in the event of Henry’s death being proved, he was not only to be left undisturbed, but kept ignorant of the existence of the second will—which would then be null and void. There was a codicil—similar to one in the former will—by which the General’s sister was to have a life-interest out of the estate, amounting to two hundred pounds per annum. Such were the terms of the testament which the solicitor had laid before me.It is scarce necessary to say, that I perused the document containing these singular conditions with no slight astonishment, and certainly with a feeling of gratification. My hospitable host—the youngestancieroon the Parana—need no longer feel under any obligation to his worthy father-in-law; and, little as he professed to love England, I could not help thinking that possession of this fine paternal estate would do much to modify his prejudices against his native land.“By this will,” I said, addressing myself to the solicitor, “it appears that Henry Harding becomes the sole inheritor of the Beechwood property?”“It is certain,” answered he; “all but the thousand-pound legacy, and the life-annuity.”“It will be a surprise for Mr Nigel.”“Ah! and Mr Woolet too. They did all they could to keep me from advertising for the lost legatee. Of course, they supposed I did so in order to pay him the paltry thousand pounds. Mr Nigel may now have that, and see how far it will cover Woolet’s costs. My word! it will be an explosion! And now for the first steps towards bringing it about.”“How do you intend to proceed?”The lawyer looked at me, as if hesitating to answer the question.“Excuse me,” I said; “I asked rather out of curiosity than otherwise.”“There you are wrong, good sir. Pardon me for being plain with you. You have the legal authority to act for him.”“That,” I said, “was only under the supposition that he was to receive a legacy of a thousand pounds. With an estate, as you say, worth a hundred thousand pounds, the affair takes a different shape, and clearly goes beyond my discretionary powers. Though I cannot act as a principal in the matter, I am willing to help you every way I can. I feel sufficiently indebted to your client to do so.”“And that is just what I intended asking you. Hence my hesitation in replying to your question. I am glad to know that we can count on your assistance. No doubt, we shall need it. Men don’t yield up possession of a hundred thousand without showing fight. We may expect all that, and some questionable strategy besides, from such a fellow as Woolet—a thorough scoundrel—without one jot of principle!”“But how can they dispute this will?” I asked. “It seems clear enough, and of course you know it to have been the latest and last.”“Signed by General Harding the day before he died. Regularly and carefully attested—you see the names upon it. They cannot dispute the document.”“What then?”“Ah! what then? That is just the point I think it will turn upon theidentityof our claimant. By the way, what does the young fellow look like? Is he much altered in appearance since he left England?”“That question I cannot answer.”“Indeed! It is but two months since you have seen him.”“True; but I may almost say I then saw him for the first time. I had met him six years before, but only on one or two occasions, and had lost all remembrance of his looks.”“He was very young,” pursued the solicitor in soliloquy,—“a mere boy when that unfortunate affair occurred. After all, perhaps, not so unfortunate! No doubt, he will be much changed. A captivity among brigands—fighting on barricades—a beard—the tan of a South American sun—to say nothing of getting married—no doubt, the Henry Harding of to-day is entirely unlike the Henry Harding who left home six years ago. My word! there might be a difficulty in identifying him, and we may dread the worst. People nowadays can be had to swear anything—that black’s blue, or even white, if it’s wanted—and money enough to pay for the perjury. In this case there will be both money and a determination to use it. Woolet won’t stick at anything; nor will Mr Nigel Harding either—to say nothing of Mrs Nigel and her amiable mother. We’re sure to have a fight, sir—sure of it.”“You don’t appear to have much fear about the result?”I said this, noticing that the lawyer talked with an air of triumphant confidence, besides having used the conditional tense when speaking of the chances of his client being identified.“Not the slightest—not the slightest. I don’t apprehend any difficulty. There might have been; but I fancy I have a scheme to set all right. Never mind, sir; you shall be told of it in good time. And now for citing all parties into Court.”“But do you mean to do that now?”“Of course not; oh no. I was only speaking figuratively. The first thing is to get Mr Henry Harding here,—he must be sent for immediately. Let me see:Estancia Torreani, Rosario. Up the Parana River, you say. With your kind directions, sir, my own son shall start for South America at once. It’s a long way, but no matter for that. A hundred thousand pounds is worth going round the world for more than once. And now, sir, I will make request for two favours: one, that you will write to your friend, Mr Henry Harding, telling him what you have learnt. My son can carry your letter along with other instructions. The other favour I would ask is, that you give your word to keep this affair a secret until—well, until Mr Henry Harding himself appears upon the ground.”Of course the promise was given—as also the directions to serve Lawson junior on his Transatlantic itinerary; and leaving my address, so that Lawson senior could at any time communicate with me, I took my departure from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, rejoiced, as well as surprised, at the discovery I had made.

Two months later, and I was under a sky unlike to that which canopies the region of Parana as lead to shining sapphires—in a room as different from that pleasantquartoin the South Americanestancia, as a Newgate cell to an apartment in Aladdin’s palace. I stood in the dingy office of a Lincoln’s Inn lawyer, by name Lawson, the firm Lawson and Son. It was the senior partner who received me; a gentleman with all the appearance, and, as I afterwards discovered, all the claims to respectability in his profession.

“What is the nature of your business?” he politely asked, after examining the card which I handed him to introduce myself.

“You will find it there,” I answered, placing before him an oldTimesnewspaper, and pointing to an advertisement marked in pencil. “I presume it is your firm, Mr Lawson, to which this application is to be made?”

“It is,” he said, starting up from his office chair, as if I had presented a pistol at his head. “It is very long ago, but no matter for that. Do you know anything of the gentleman to whom it refers?”

“Yes, something,” I replied, cautiously—not knowing how far I might be committing the interests of my South American friend.

“He is still alive, then? I mean Mr Henry Harding?”

“I have reason to think so. He was alive two months ago.”

“By —!” exclaimed the lawyer, using a phrase evidently forced from him by the importance of the occasion. “This is serious, indeed. But, sir, are you quite sure? You will excuse me if I ask on which side you come. I know your name, sir. I believe I can trust you to speak candidly. Are you here as a friend of Mr Nigel Harding?”

“If I had been, Mr Lawson, it is not likely I should have given you the information it has just been my pleasure to impart. From all I’ve heard, Mr Nigel Harding would be the last man to be gratified by learning that his brother is alive.”

My speech had a magical effect on Mr Lawson. I could see at once he was upon our side, as he saw that I was upon his. Out of doors I had already heard, that he was no longer the trusted attorney of the Beechwood estate.

“And you assure me heisalive?” was the question again put with an emphasis that showed its importance.

“The best proof I can give you is this.”

I handed over the letter written by Henry Harding, containing a requisition upon him for the legacy of a thousand pounds.

“A thousand pounds!” exclaimed the lawyer, as soon as he had read. “A thousand pounds! A hundred thousand, every shilling of it! Yes! and the accumulated interest, and the mortgage already obtained, and the waste by that scoundrel Woolet! Ah! here’s a penalty for Mr Nigel Harding to pay, and his sweet spendthrift of a wife!”

I was not prepared for this explosion; and as soon as it had to some extent subsided, I asked Mr Lawson to explain.

“Explain!” he said, putting on his spectacles, and turning towards me with a businesslike air. “To you, sir, I shall have much pleasure in explaining. This letter tells me I can trust you. Thank God, the lad still lives!—the true son of my old friend Harding: as he told me on his dying-bed, and with his last breath. Thank God, he is still alive; and we shall yet be able to punish the usurpers, and that pettifogging Woolet as well! Oh, this is good news—a glorious revelation—a resurrection, one may call it!”

“But what does it all mean, Mr Lawson? I came to you at the request of my friend, Mr Henry Harding, whom by chance I met while travelling in South America, on the Parana—as you will see by his letter. He has commissioned me, as you will also perceive, to call upon you, and make certain inquiries. He is under the impression that you hold in your hands a legacy of one thousand pounds left him by his father. If so, he has given me the authority to receive it.”

“A thousand pounds! A thousand pence! Is Beechwood estate worth only a thousand pounds? Read this, sir—just run your eye over that document!”

A grand sheet of parchment, pulled from out a tin case, was flung before me. I saw it was lettered as a will. I took it up, and spreading it upon the table, read what was written. I need not give its contents in detail. It stated that General Harding had revoked the terms of a former will, which left the whole of his estate to his eldest son, Nigel, with a legacy of one thousand pounds to his youngest, Henry; that this second will exactly transposed the conditions, leaving the estate to Henry, and the thousand-pound legacy to Nigel! It also contained ample instructions for the administration, Mr Lawson and his son being the appointed administrators. It was not to be made known to Nigel Harding himself, unless it should be ascertained that Henry was still alive. To determine this point, all due diligence was to be used, by advertisements in the papers, and such other means as the administrators should see fit. Meanwhile, Nigel was to retain possession of the estate, as by the terms of the former testament; and in the event of Henry’s death being proved, he was not only to be left undisturbed, but kept ignorant of the existence of the second will—which would then be null and void. There was a codicil—similar to one in the former will—by which the General’s sister was to have a life-interest out of the estate, amounting to two hundred pounds per annum. Such were the terms of the testament which the solicitor had laid before me.

It is scarce necessary to say, that I perused the document containing these singular conditions with no slight astonishment, and certainly with a feeling of gratification. My hospitable host—the youngestancieroon the Parana—need no longer feel under any obligation to his worthy father-in-law; and, little as he professed to love England, I could not help thinking that possession of this fine paternal estate would do much to modify his prejudices against his native land.

“By this will,” I said, addressing myself to the solicitor, “it appears that Henry Harding becomes the sole inheritor of the Beechwood property?”

“It is certain,” answered he; “all but the thousand-pound legacy, and the life-annuity.”

“It will be a surprise for Mr Nigel.”

“Ah! and Mr Woolet too. They did all they could to keep me from advertising for the lost legatee. Of course, they supposed I did so in order to pay him the paltry thousand pounds. Mr Nigel may now have that, and see how far it will cover Woolet’s costs. My word! it will be an explosion! And now for the first steps towards bringing it about.”

“How do you intend to proceed?”

The lawyer looked at me, as if hesitating to answer the question.

“Excuse me,” I said; “I asked rather out of curiosity than otherwise.”

“There you are wrong, good sir. Pardon me for being plain with you. You have the legal authority to act for him.”

“That,” I said, “was only under the supposition that he was to receive a legacy of a thousand pounds. With an estate, as you say, worth a hundred thousand pounds, the affair takes a different shape, and clearly goes beyond my discretionary powers. Though I cannot act as a principal in the matter, I am willing to help you every way I can. I feel sufficiently indebted to your client to do so.”

“And that is just what I intended asking you. Hence my hesitation in replying to your question. I am glad to know that we can count on your assistance. No doubt, we shall need it. Men don’t yield up possession of a hundred thousand without showing fight. We may expect all that, and some questionable strategy besides, from such a fellow as Woolet—a thorough scoundrel—without one jot of principle!”

“But how can they dispute this will?” I asked. “It seems clear enough, and of course you know it to have been the latest and last.”

“Signed by General Harding the day before he died. Regularly and carefully attested—you see the names upon it. They cannot dispute the document.”

“What then?”

“Ah! what then? That is just the point I think it will turn upon theidentityof our claimant. By the way, what does the young fellow look like? Is he much altered in appearance since he left England?”

“That question I cannot answer.”

“Indeed! It is but two months since you have seen him.”

“True; but I may almost say I then saw him for the first time. I had met him six years before, but only on one or two occasions, and had lost all remembrance of his looks.”

“He was very young,” pursued the solicitor in soliloquy,—“a mere boy when that unfortunate affair occurred. After all, perhaps, not so unfortunate! No doubt, he will be much changed. A captivity among brigands—fighting on barricades—a beard—the tan of a South American sun—to say nothing of getting married—no doubt, the Henry Harding of to-day is entirely unlike the Henry Harding who left home six years ago. My word! there might be a difficulty in identifying him, and we may dread the worst. People nowadays can be had to swear anything—that black’s blue, or even white, if it’s wanted—and money enough to pay for the perjury. In this case there will be both money and a determination to use it. Woolet won’t stick at anything; nor will Mr Nigel Harding either—to say nothing of Mrs Nigel and her amiable mother. We’re sure to have a fight, sir—sure of it.”

“You don’t appear to have much fear about the result?”

I said this, noticing that the lawyer talked with an air of triumphant confidence, besides having used the conditional tense when speaking of the chances of his client being identified.

“Not the slightest—not the slightest. I don’t apprehend any difficulty. There might have been; but I fancy I have a scheme to set all right. Never mind, sir; you shall be told of it in good time. And now for citing all parties into Court.”

“But do you mean to do that now?”

“Of course not; oh no. I was only speaking figuratively. The first thing is to get Mr Henry Harding here,—he must be sent for immediately. Let me see:Estancia Torreani, Rosario. Up the Parana River, you say. With your kind directions, sir, my own son shall start for South America at once. It’s a long way, but no matter for that. A hundred thousand pounds is worth going round the world for more than once. And now, sir, I will make request for two favours: one, that you will write to your friend, Mr Henry Harding, telling him what you have learnt. My son can carry your letter along with other instructions. The other favour I would ask is, that you give your word to keep this affair a secret until—well, until Mr Henry Harding himself appears upon the ground.”

Of course the promise was given—as also the directions to serve Lawson junior on his Transatlantic itinerary; and leaving my address, so that Lawson senior could at any time communicate with me, I took my departure from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, rejoiced, as well as surprised, at the discovery I had made.

Chapter Sixty Five.The Finger of Fate.In less than six months from the date of my interview with the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer, there occurred in the London courts a trial of more than usual interest.It was a case of contested will—no very uncommon thing. But in that to which I refer, there were circumstances of a peculiar, I might say very peculiar, kind. These, with the position of the parties concerned, rendered the suit worthy of being placed among the records ofcauses célèbres.It was the case of “HardingversusHarding;” the defendant being Nigel Harding, Esq, of Beechwood Park, Buckinghamshire; the plaintiff, a Mr Henry Harding, who claimed to be his half-brother.The matter in dispute was an estate, valued at one hundred thousand pounds, of which defendant was in possession. He held it by a will—that of General Harding, his father, and former owner of the property—made some twelve months before the General’s death, and at the same time duly signed and attested.It had been drawn up by a country attorney, named Woolet; and signed by himself and his clerk, acting as witnesses to the testator.It gave the whole of General Harding’s estate to his elder son, Nigel, with the exception of one thousand pounds, to his other and younger son, Henry, and an annuity of two hundred to the General’s sister.So far the document seemed quite correct—except in the strangeness of the unequal distribution. But there were reasons for this; and no one disputed the genuineness of the instrument. The question was one of an alleged later testament; which, if also proved genuine, would have the effect of setting aside Woolet’s will, by a complete change of terms. By the second will, the estate was bestowed on the younger son, and the one thousand pounds given to the elder!The strange transposal was, however, coupled with a condition also strange. It appeared, by the citing of the second will, that the younger brother was abroad when it was made, and not only abroad, but supposed to be dead.A doubt of his death must have been in the testator’s mind, leading him to insert the condition: which was to the effect, that in the event of his younger son’s return he was to enter upon quiet possession of the property—all of it, excepting the aforesaid legacy of one thousand pounds!He had returned; at least, so alleged the plaintiff, who claimed to be Henry Harding, the legatee of the second will.But he was not admitted into “quiet possession,” according to the words of the will. On the contrary the case was going to be contested with all the legal strength and strategy that on both aides could be brought to bear upon it.On the part of the defence, there was no attempt to disprove the genuineness of the second will. It had been made by a lawyer of the highest respectability, who was ready to prove it.The point turned upon the question of identity; the defendant denying that the plaintiff was his half-brother, or in any way entitled to relationship.There was no proof that Henry Harding was dead—only the presumption; and to strengthen this, the defendant’s counsel—imprudently, as it afterwards turned out—exhibited certain letters written by the real Henry Harding as he called him—showing that he had been captive to a band of Italian brigands, who threatened to take his life, unless a ransom should be paid for him.It was proved that this ransom wasnotpaid; that it had been sent; but, as the defence alleged, too late. The plaintiff’s own witnesses were compelled to testify to this.The presumption, therefore, was that the bandits, speaking through their chief, Corvino, had carried out their threat.This was the impression produced upon “twelve men, good and true,” after an eloquent speech made by an eminent counsel, to whom the defendant’s solicitors had entrusted the conduct of their case.On the plaintiff’s side, a story had been told that appeared altogether incredible. It was preposterous to suppose—as thought twelve English tradesmen—that the son of an English gentleman of wealth and standing should voluntarily take to the profession of painting pictures, and afterwards exile himself to such a country as South America: there to stay, forgetting his fine estate at home, till the merest accident gave him cause to remember it! They could have believed in such self-banishment in one of their own sons; but the son of a general, a county squire, the owner of a large landed estate—the thing was not to be credited!They could give credence to the brigand part of the tale, though that too seemed queer to them. But the story of the self-exile—leaving an estate unclaimed! The plaintiff’s counsel might tell that to the marines!So stood the case, after several days spent in the questioning and cross-questioning of witnesses, and the trial was approaching its termination.All the testimony which the plaintiff’s counsel could produce was not sufficient to establish his identity. It could not convince a British jury, that the sun-embrowned and bearded young man, set forth as the claimant of Beechwood Park, was the son of its former proprietor; while the pale, silent gentleman, who now held possession of it, undoubtedly was.Possession has been said to be nine points of the law. Coupled with wealth, it is generally so in the eyes of legal gentlemen, and often of juries.The plaintiffs case appeared hopeless. Notwithstanding all that is known to the reader, it trembled on the edge of being decreed an attempt at usurpation, and he himself declared an attempted usurper and defrauder.The trial had reached this crisis, and was expected soon to terminate.But before the end came, the plaintiff’s counsel begged leave to call a witness, one who had already stood upon the stand, but on the side of the defendant. Then, he had been a witness against his own will—having to give testimony that seemed favourable to the plaintiff’s opponent.The witness was Mr Lawson, of the firm of Lawson and Son, solicitors, of Lincoln’s Inn. It was the senior partner, Mr Lawson himself, who was called. As he took his place in the box, there was a twinkle in the old lawyer’s eye; that, although comical, seemed to have meaning of mischief in it. The “twelve good men and true” could not guess at what it meant, though they understood it before the examining counsel had done with him.“You say General Harding received another letter from Italy?” questioned the latter, after Lawson senior had kissed the Book, and been put through the usual preliminaries of examination.“I do.”“I don’t mean either of those already submitted to the jury. The letter I refer to is one written, not by his son, but by the bandit chief, Corvino. Did General Harding receive such a letter?”“He did.”“You can prove that?”“I can prove it; from his having told me he did, and placed it in my hands for safe keeping.”“When did this occur?”“Shortly before the General’s death. In fact, on the same day he made the will.”“Which will?”“The one under which the plaintiff claims.”“You mean that was the date when he placed the letter in your hands?”“Yes.”“Can you tell when the General received it?”“I can. The postmark will show that: as also whence it came.”“Can you produce this letter?”“It is here.”The witness took an epistle out of his pocket, and handed it to the examining counsel; who, in turn, passed it up to the judge.It was a dingy-looking document, blotched over with postmarks, stained by travel, and a good deal embrowned by being kept several years in the atmosphere of a London law-office.“My Lord,” said the plaintiff’s counsel, “I have to request that that letter be read to the gentlemen of the jury.”“Certainly, let it be read,” was the response of his Lordship.It was read. It was the letter which the chief Corvino had addressed to the father of his captive, conveying the terrible threat and still more fearful enclosure.The reading caused “sensation in the court.”“Mr Lawson,” pursued the same questioner, after the excitement had a little subsided, “may I ask you to state to the jury what you know about the enclosure spoken of in this letter? Tell us all about it.”“I shall tell you what General Harding told me. He said he received in it a finger, which was that of his son. He recognised it by a scar well known to him: it was the scar of a cut given him by his elder brother, when they were boys out shooting together.”“Can you tell what became of that finger?”“I can. It is here. General Harding placed it in my hands, along with the letter in which it had been enclosed.”The witness then handed up the finger spoken of. It was a ghastly confirmation of his testimony, and produced a tremendous sensation in court; which continued, long after Mr Lawson had been noticed to leave the witness-box.“My Lord!” called out the plaintiff’s counsel, “I have one more witness to examine, and then we shall be done. This is Mr Henry Harding.”“The gentleman who so calls himself!” interposed one of the barristers who had been briefed by the party for the defence.“And who will so prove himself!” confidently retorted the plaintiff’s counsel.By consent of the judge, the claimant was put upon the stand, and became emphatically the cynosure of every eye in the crowded court.He was elegantly, though not foppishly dressed, wearing upon his hands a pair of stout dogskin gloves.“May I ask you, sir,” said his counsel, “to draw off your gloves? The left-hand one will be enough.”The request was complied with, the witness making no other answer.“Now, sir, have the goodness to hold out your hand, so that the jury may see it.”The hand was stretched forth.It wanted the little finger!Increased sensation in the court!“My Lord, and gentlemen of the jury, you perceive there is a finger missing?It is here.”As the counsel said this, he stepped towards the witness-box, holding the strange object in his hand. Then, quietly raising the hand of his client, he placed the missing finger in juxtaposition with the stump, from which it had long ago been so cruelly severed.There could be no doubt about the correspondence. The white cartilaginous seam that indicated the scar, commencing upon the back of the hand, and running longitudinally, was continued to the finger’s tip. The jury could not help being convinced.The claimant was Henry Harding.The sensation in court had now come to its climax; and so had the trial to its end.The case of “HardingversusHarding” was by an unanimous verdict decided in plaintiff’s favour—defendant “to pay costs in the suit!”

In less than six months from the date of my interview with the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer, there occurred in the London courts a trial of more than usual interest.

It was a case of contested will—no very uncommon thing. But in that to which I refer, there were circumstances of a peculiar, I might say very peculiar, kind. These, with the position of the parties concerned, rendered the suit worthy of being placed among the records ofcauses célèbres.

It was the case of “HardingversusHarding;” the defendant being Nigel Harding, Esq, of Beechwood Park, Buckinghamshire; the plaintiff, a Mr Henry Harding, who claimed to be his half-brother.

The matter in dispute was an estate, valued at one hundred thousand pounds, of which defendant was in possession. He held it by a will—that of General Harding, his father, and former owner of the property—made some twelve months before the General’s death, and at the same time duly signed and attested.

It had been drawn up by a country attorney, named Woolet; and signed by himself and his clerk, acting as witnesses to the testator.

It gave the whole of General Harding’s estate to his elder son, Nigel, with the exception of one thousand pounds, to his other and younger son, Henry, and an annuity of two hundred to the General’s sister.

So far the document seemed quite correct—except in the strangeness of the unequal distribution. But there were reasons for this; and no one disputed the genuineness of the instrument. The question was one of an alleged later testament; which, if also proved genuine, would have the effect of setting aside Woolet’s will, by a complete change of terms. By the second will, the estate was bestowed on the younger son, and the one thousand pounds given to the elder!

The strange transposal was, however, coupled with a condition also strange. It appeared, by the citing of the second will, that the younger brother was abroad when it was made, and not only abroad, but supposed to be dead.

A doubt of his death must have been in the testator’s mind, leading him to insert the condition: which was to the effect, that in the event of his younger son’s return he was to enter upon quiet possession of the property—all of it, excepting the aforesaid legacy of one thousand pounds!

He had returned; at least, so alleged the plaintiff, who claimed to be Henry Harding, the legatee of the second will.

But he was not admitted into “quiet possession,” according to the words of the will. On the contrary the case was going to be contested with all the legal strength and strategy that on both aides could be brought to bear upon it.

On the part of the defence, there was no attempt to disprove the genuineness of the second will. It had been made by a lawyer of the highest respectability, who was ready to prove it.

The point turned upon the question of identity; the defendant denying that the plaintiff was his half-brother, or in any way entitled to relationship.

There was no proof that Henry Harding was dead—only the presumption; and to strengthen this, the defendant’s counsel—imprudently, as it afterwards turned out—exhibited certain letters written by the real Henry Harding as he called him—showing that he had been captive to a band of Italian brigands, who threatened to take his life, unless a ransom should be paid for him.

It was proved that this ransom wasnotpaid; that it had been sent; but, as the defence alleged, too late. The plaintiff’s own witnesses were compelled to testify to this.

The presumption, therefore, was that the bandits, speaking through their chief, Corvino, had carried out their threat.

This was the impression produced upon “twelve men, good and true,” after an eloquent speech made by an eminent counsel, to whom the defendant’s solicitors had entrusted the conduct of their case.

On the plaintiff’s side, a story had been told that appeared altogether incredible. It was preposterous to suppose—as thought twelve English tradesmen—that the son of an English gentleman of wealth and standing should voluntarily take to the profession of painting pictures, and afterwards exile himself to such a country as South America: there to stay, forgetting his fine estate at home, till the merest accident gave him cause to remember it! They could have believed in such self-banishment in one of their own sons; but the son of a general, a county squire, the owner of a large landed estate—the thing was not to be credited!

They could give credence to the brigand part of the tale, though that too seemed queer to them. But the story of the self-exile—leaving an estate unclaimed! The plaintiff’s counsel might tell that to the marines!

So stood the case, after several days spent in the questioning and cross-questioning of witnesses, and the trial was approaching its termination.

All the testimony which the plaintiff’s counsel could produce was not sufficient to establish his identity. It could not convince a British jury, that the sun-embrowned and bearded young man, set forth as the claimant of Beechwood Park, was the son of its former proprietor; while the pale, silent gentleman, who now held possession of it, undoubtedly was.

Possession has been said to be nine points of the law. Coupled with wealth, it is generally so in the eyes of legal gentlemen, and often of juries.

The plaintiffs case appeared hopeless. Notwithstanding all that is known to the reader, it trembled on the edge of being decreed an attempt at usurpation, and he himself declared an attempted usurper and defrauder.

The trial had reached this crisis, and was expected soon to terminate.

But before the end came, the plaintiff’s counsel begged leave to call a witness, one who had already stood upon the stand, but on the side of the defendant. Then, he had been a witness against his own will—having to give testimony that seemed favourable to the plaintiff’s opponent.

The witness was Mr Lawson, of the firm of Lawson and Son, solicitors, of Lincoln’s Inn. It was the senior partner, Mr Lawson himself, who was called. As he took his place in the box, there was a twinkle in the old lawyer’s eye; that, although comical, seemed to have meaning of mischief in it. The “twelve good men and true” could not guess at what it meant, though they understood it before the examining counsel had done with him.

“You say General Harding received another letter from Italy?” questioned the latter, after Lawson senior had kissed the Book, and been put through the usual preliminaries of examination.

“I do.”

“I don’t mean either of those already submitted to the jury. The letter I refer to is one written, not by his son, but by the bandit chief, Corvino. Did General Harding receive such a letter?”

“He did.”

“You can prove that?”

“I can prove it; from his having told me he did, and placed it in my hands for safe keeping.”

“When did this occur?”

“Shortly before the General’s death. In fact, on the same day he made the will.”

“Which will?”

“The one under which the plaintiff claims.”

“You mean that was the date when he placed the letter in your hands?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell when the General received it?”

“I can. The postmark will show that: as also whence it came.”

“Can you produce this letter?”

“It is here.”

The witness took an epistle out of his pocket, and handed it to the examining counsel; who, in turn, passed it up to the judge.

It was a dingy-looking document, blotched over with postmarks, stained by travel, and a good deal embrowned by being kept several years in the atmosphere of a London law-office.

“My Lord,” said the plaintiff’s counsel, “I have to request that that letter be read to the gentlemen of the jury.”

“Certainly, let it be read,” was the response of his Lordship.

It was read. It was the letter which the chief Corvino had addressed to the father of his captive, conveying the terrible threat and still more fearful enclosure.

The reading caused “sensation in the court.”

“Mr Lawson,” pursued the same questioner, after the excitement had a little subsided, “may I ask you to state to the jury what you know about the enclosure spoken of in this letter? Tell us all about it.”

“I shall tell you what General Harding told me. He said he received in it a finger, which was that of his son. He recognised it by a scar well known to him: it was the scar of a cut given him by his elder brother, when they were boys out shooting together.”

“Can you tell what became of that finger?”

“I can. It is here. General Harding placed it in my hands, along with the letter in which it had been enclosed.”

The witness then handed up the finger spoken of. It was a ghastly confirmation of his testimony, and produced a tremendous sensation in court; which continued, long after Mr Lawson had been noticed to leave the witness-box.

“My Lord!” called out the plaintiff’s counsel, “I have one more witness to examine, and then we shall be done. This is Mr Henry Harding.”

“The gentleman who so calls himself!” interposed one of the barristers who had been briefed by the party for the defence.

“And who will so prove himself!” confidently retorted the plaintiff’s counsel.

By consent of the judge, the claimant was put upon the stand, and became emphatically the cynosure of every eye in the crowded court.

He was elegantly, though not foppishly dressed, wearing upon his hands a pair of stout dogskin gloves.

“May I ask you, sir,” said his counsel, “to draw off your gloves? The left-hand one will be enough.”

The request was complied with, the witness making no other answer.

“Now, sir, have the goodness to hold out your hand, so that the jury may see it.”

The hand was stretched forth.It wanted the little finger!

Increased sensation in the court!

“My Lord, and gentlemen of the jury, you perceive there is a finger missing?It is here.”

As the counsel said this, he stepped towards the witness-box, holding the strange object in his hand. Then, quietly raising the hand of his client, he placed the missing finger in juxtaposition with the stump, from which it had long ago been so cruelly severed.

There could be no doubt about the correspondence. The white cartilaginous seam that indicated the scar, commencing upon the back of the hand, and running longitudinally, was continued to the finger’s tip. The jury could not help being convinced.The claimant was Henry Harding.

The sensation in court had now come to its climax; and so had the trial to its end.

The case of “HardingversusHarding” was by an unanimous verdict decided in plaintiff’s favour—defendant “to pay costs in the suit!”

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