Part 2—Chapter XXVIII.
A new Character appears, but not a very amiable one; but I attach myself to him, as drowning Men catch at Straws.
I took my leave, more composed in mind, and the next day I went down to Lady de Clare’s. I was kindly received, more than kindly, I was affectionately and parentally received by the mother, and by Cecilia as a dear brother; but they perceived my melancholy, and when they had upbraided me for my long neglect, they inquired the cause. As I had already made Lady de Clare acquainted with my previous history, I had no secrets; in fact, it was a consolation to confide my griefs to them. Lord Windermear was too much above me—Mr Masterton was too matter-of-fact—Timothy was too inferior—and they were all men; but the kind soothing of a woman was peculiarly grateful, and after a sojourn of three days, I took my leave, with my mind much less depressed than when I arrived.
On my return, I called upon Mr Masterton, who stated to me that Lord Windermear was anxious to serve me, and that he would exert his interest in any way which might be most congenial to my feelings; that he would procure me a commission in the army, or a writership to India; or, if I preferred it, I might study the law under the auspices of Mr Masterton. If none of these propositions suited me, I might state what would be preferred, and that, as far as his interest and pecuniary assistance could avail, I might depend on it. “So now, Japhet, you may go home and reflect seriously upon these offers; and when you have made up your mind what course you will steer, you have only to let me know.”
I returned my thanks to Mr Masterton, and begged that he would convey my grateful acknowledgments to his lordship. As I walked home, I met a Captain Atkinson, a man of very doubtful character, whom, by the advice of Carbonnell, I had always kept at a distance. He had lost a large fortune by gambling, and having been pigeoned, had, as is usual, ended by becoming a rook. He was a fashionable, well-looking man, of good family, suffered in society, for he had found out that it was necessary to hold his position by main force. He was a noted duellist, had killed his three or four men, and a cut direct from any person was, with him, sufficient grounds for sending a friend. Everybody was civil to him, because no one wished to quarrel with him.
“My dear Mr Newland,” said he, offering his hand, “I am delighted to see you; I have heard at the clubs of your misfortune, and there were some free remarks made by some. I have great pleasure in saying that I put an immediate stop to them, by telling them that, if they were repeated in my presence, I should consider it as a personal quarrel.”
Three months before, had I met Captain Atkinson, I should have returned his bow with studied politeness, and have left him; but how changed were my feelings! I took his hand, and shook it warmly.
“My dear sir,” replied I, “I am very much obliged for your kind and considerate conduct; there are more who are inclined to calumniate than to defend.”
“And always will be in this world, Mr Newland; but I have a fellow feeling. I recollect how I was received and flattered when I was introduced as a young man of fortune, and how I was deserted and neglected when I was cleaned out. I know now why they are so civil to me, and I value their civility at just as much as it is worth. Will you accept my arm:—I am going your way.”
I could not refuse; but I coloured when I took it, for I felt that I was not adding to my reputation by being seen in his company; and still I felt, that although not adding to my reputation, I was less likely to receive insult, and that the same cause which induced them to be civil to him, would perhaps operate when they found me allied with him. “Be it so,” thought I, “I will, if possible, extort politeness.”
We were strolling down Bond Street, when we met a young man, well known in the fashionable circles, who had dropped my acquaintance, after having been formerly most pressing to obtain it. Atkinson faced him.
“Good morning, Mr Oxberry.”
“Good morning, Captain Atkinson,” replied Mr Oxberry.
“I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?” observed Atkinson, rather fiercely.
“Oh! really—I quite—I beg pardon. Good morning, Mr Newland; you have been long absent. I did not see you at Lady Maelstrom’s last night.”
“No,” replied I, carelessly, “nor will you ever. When you next see her ladyship, ask her, with my compliments, whether she has had another fainting fit.”
“I shall certainly have great pleasure in carrying your message, Mr Newland—good morning.”
“That fool,” observed Atkinson, “will now run all over town, and you will see the consequence.”
We met one or two others, and to them Atkinson put the same question, “I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?” At last, just as we arrived at my own house in Saint James’s Street, who should we meet but Harcourt. Harcourt immediately perceived me, and bowed low as he passed on; so that his bow would have served for both; but Atkinson stopped. “I must beg your pardon, Harcourt, for detaining you a moment, but what are the odds upon the Vestris colt for the Derby?”
“Upon my word, Captain Atkinson, I was told, but I have forgotten.”
“Your memory appears bad, for you have also forgotten your old friend, Mr Newland.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr Newland.”
“There is no occasion to beg my pardon, Mr Harcourt,” interrupted I; “for I tell you plainly, that I despise you too much to ever wish to be acquainted with you. You will oblige me, sir, by never presuming to touch your hat, or otherwise notice me.” Harcourt coloured, and started back. “Such language, Mr Newland—”
“Is what you deserve: ask your own conscience. Leave us, sir;” and I walked on with Captain Atkinson. “You have done well, Newland,” observed Atkinson: “he cannot submit to that language, for he knows that I have heard it. A meeting you will of course have no objection to. It will be of immense advantage to you.”
“None whatever,” replied I; “for if there is any one man who deserves to be punished for his conduct towards me, it is Harcourt. Will you come up, Captain Atkinson, and, if not better engaged, take a quiet dinner and a bottle of wine with me?”
Our conversation during dinner was desultory; but after the first bottle, Atkinson became communicative, and his history not only made me feel better inclined towards him, but afforded me another instance, as well as Carbonnell’s, how often it is that those who would have done well are first plundered, and then driven to desperation by the heartlessness of the world. The cases, however, had this difference, that Carbonnell had always contrived to keep his reputation above water, while that of Atkinson was gone and never to be re-established. We had just finished our wine when a note was brought from Harcourt, informing me that he should send a friend the next morning for an explanation of my conduct. I handed it over to Atkinson. “My dear sir, I am at your service,” replied he, “without you have anybody among your acquaintances whom you may prefer.”
“Thank you,” replied I, “Captain Atkinson: it cannot be in better hands.”
“That is settled, then; and now where shall we go?”
“Wherever you please.”
“Then I shall try if I can win a little money to-night: if you come you need not play—you can look on. It will serve to divert your thoughts, at all events.”
I felt so anxious to avoid reflection, that I immediately accepted his offer; and, in a few minutes, we were in the well-lighted room, and in front of the rouge et noir table, covered with gold and bank notes. Atkinson did not commence his play immediately, but pricked the chances on a card as they ran. After half an hour he laid down his stakes, and was fortunate. I could no longer withstand the temptation, and I backed him; in less than an hour we both had won considerably.
“That is enough,” said he to me, sweeping up his money; “we must not try the slippery dame too long.”
I followed his example, and shortly afterwards we quitted the house. “I will walk home with you, Newland: never, if you can help it, especially if you have been a winner, leave a gaming house alone.”
Going home, I asked Atkinson if he would come up; he did so, and then we examined our winnings. “I know mine,” replied he, “within twenty pounds, for I always leave off at a certain point. I have three hundred pounds, and something more.”
He had won three hundred and twenty-five pounds. I had won ninety pounds. As we sat over a glass of brandy and water, I inquired whether he was always fortunate. “No, of course I am not,” replied Atkinson; “but on the whole, in the course of the year, I am a winner of sufficient to support myself.”
“Is there any rule by which people are guided who play? I observed many of those who were seated pricking the chances with great care, and then staking their money at intervals.”
“Rouge et noir I believe to be the fairest of all games,” replied Atkinson; “but where there is a percentage invariably in favour of the bank, although one may win and another lose, still the profits must be in favour of the bank. If a man were to play all the year round, he would lose the national debt in the end. As for martingales, and all those calculations, which you observed them so busy with, they are all useless. I have tried everything, and there is only one chance of success, but then you must not be a gambler.”
“Not a gambler?”
“No; you must not be carried away by the excitement of the game, or you will infallibly lose. You must have a strength of mind which few have, or you will be soon cleaned out.”
“But you say that you win on the whole: have you no rule to guide you?”
“Yes, I have: strange as the chances are, I have been so accustomed to them, that I generally put down my stake right: when I am once in a run of luck, I have a method of my own, but what it is I cannot tell; only this I know, that if I depart from it, I always lose my money. But that is what you may call good luck, or what you please—it is not a rule.”
“Where, then, are your rules?”
“Simply these two. The first it is not difficult to adhere to: I make a rule never to lose but a certain sum if I am unlucky when I commence—say twenty stakes, whatever may be the amount of the stake that you play. This rule is easily adhered to, by not taking more money with you; and I am not one of those to whom the croupier or porters will lend money. The second rule is the most difficult, and decides whether you are a gambler or not. I make a rule always to leave off when I have won a certain sum—or even before, if the chances of my game fluctuate. There is the difficulty: it appears very foolish not to follow up luck; but the fact is, fortune is so capricious, that if you trust her more than an hour, she will desert you. This is my mode of play, and with me it answers but it does not follow that it would answer with another. But it is very late, or, rather, very early—I wish you a good night.”
Part 2—Chapter XXIX.
Become Principal instead of Second in a Duel, and risk my own and another’s Life, my own and others’ Happiness and Peace of Mind, because I have been punished as I deserved.
After Captain Atkinson had left me, I stated to Timothy what had passed. “And do you think you will have to fight a duel, sir?” cried Timothy with alarm.
“There is no doubt of it,” replied I.
“You never will find your father, sir, if you go on this way,” said Timothy, as if to divert my attention from such a purpose.
“Not in this world, perhaps, Tim; perhaps I may be sent the right road by a bullet, and find him in the next.”
“Do you think your father, if dead, has gone to heaven?”
“I hope so, Timothy.”
“Then what chance have you of meeting him, if you go out of the world attempting the life of your old friend?”
“That is what you call a poser, my dear Timothy, but I cannot help myself: this I can safely say, that I have no animosity against Mr Harcourt—at least, not sufficient to have any wish to take away his life.”
“Well, that’s something, to be sure; but do you know, Japhet, I’m not quite sure you hit the right road when you set up for a gentleman.”
“No, Timothy, no man can be in the right road who deceives: I have been all wrong; and I am afraid I am going from worse to worse: but I cannot moralise, I must go to sleep, and forget everything, if I can.”
The next morning, about eleven o’clock, a Mr Cotgrave called upon me on the part of Harcourt. I referred him to Captain Atkinson, and he bowed and quitted the room. Captain Atkinson soon called: he had remained at home expecting the message, and had made every arrangement with the second. He stayed with me the whole day. The major’s pistols were examined and approved of. We dined, drank freely, and he afterwards proposed that I should accompany him to one of the hells, as they are called. This I refused, as I had some arrangements to make; and as soon as he was gone I sent for Timothy.
“Tim,” said I, “if I should be unlucky to-morrow, you are my executor and residuary legatee. My will was made when in Dublin, and is in the charge of Mr Cophagus.”
“Japhet, I hope you will allow me one favour, which is, to go to the ground with you. I had rather be there than remain here in suspense.”
“Of course, my dear fellow, if you wish it,” replied I; “but I must go to bed, as I am to be called at four o’clock—so let’s have no sentimentalising or sermonising. Good night, God bless you.”
I was, at that time, in a state of mind which made me reckless of life or of consequences; stung by the treatment which I received, mad with the world’s contumely, I was desperate. True it was, as Mr Masterton said, I had not courage to buffet against an adverse gale. Timothy did not go to bed, and at four o’clock was at my side. I rose, dressed myself with the greatest care, and was soon joined by Captain Atkinson. We then set off in a hackney-coach to the same spot to which I had, but a few months before, driven with poor Carbonnell. His memory and his death came like a cloud over my mind, but it was but for a moment. I cared little for life. Harcourt and his second were on the ground a few minutes before us. Each party saluted politely, and the seconds proceeded to business. We fired, and Harcourt fell, with a bullet above his knee. I went up to him, and he extended his hand. “Newland,” said he, “I have deserved this. I was a coward, in the first place, to desert you as I did—and a coward, in the second, to fire at a man whom I had injured. Gentlemen,” continued he, appealing to the seconds, “recollect, I, before you, acquit Mr Newland of all blame, and desire, if any further accident should happen to me, that my relations will take no steps whatever against him.”
Harcourt was very pale, and bleeding fast. Without any answer I examined the wound, and found, by the colour of the blood, and its gushing, that an artery had been divided. My professional knowledge saved his life. I compressed the artery, while I gave directions to the others. A handkerchief was tied tight round his thigh, above the wound—a round stone selected, and placed under the handkerchief, in the femoral groove, and the ramrod of one of the pistols then made use of as a winch, until the whole acted as a tourniquet. I removed my thumbs, found that the haemorrhage was stopped, and then directed that he should be taken home on a door, and surgical assistance immediately sent for.
“You appear to understand these things, sir,” said Mr Cotgrave. “Tell me, is there any danger?”
“He must suffer amputation,” replied I, in a low voice, so that Harcourt could not hear me. “Pray watch the tourniquet carefully as he is taken home, for should it slip it will be fatal.”
I then bowed to Mr Cotgrave, and, followed by Captain Atkinson, stepped into the hackney-coach and drove home. “I will leave you now, Newland,” said Captain Atkinson: “it is necessary that I talk this matter over, so that it is properly explained.”
I thanked Captain Atkinson for his services, and was left alone; for I had sent Timothy to ascertain if Harcourt had arrived safe at his lodgings. Never did I feel more miserable; my anxiety for Harcourt was indescribable; true, he had not treated me well, but I thought of his venerable father, who pressed my hand so warmly when I left his hospitable roof—of his lovely sisters, and the kindness and affection which they had shown towards me, and our extreme intimacy. I thought of the pain which the intelligence would give them, and their indignation towards me, when their brother first made his appearance at his father’s house, mutilated; and were he to die—good God! I was maddened at the idea. I had now undone the little good I had been able to do. If I had made Fleta and her mother happy, had I not plunged another family into misery?
Part 2—Chapter XXX.
This is a strange World; I am cut by a Man of no Character, because he is fearful that I should injure his character.
Timothy returned, and brought me consolation—the bleeding had not recommenced, and Harcourt was in tolerable spirits. An eminent surgeon had been sent for. “Go again, my dear Timothy, and as you are intimate with Harcourt’s servant, you will be able to find out what they are about.”
Timothy departed, and was absent about an hour, during which I lay on the sofa, and groaned with anguish. When he returned, I knew by his face that his intelligence was favourable.
“All’s right,” cried Timothy; “no amputation after all. It was only one of the smaller arteries which was severed, and they have taken it up.”
I sprang up from the sofa and embraced Timothy, so happy was I with the intelligence, and then I sat down again, and cried like a child. At last I became more composed. I had asked Captain Atkinson to dine with me, and was very glad when he came. He confirmed Timothy’s report, and I was so overjoyed, that I sat late at dinner, drinking very freely, and when he again proposed that we should go to the rouge et noir table, I did not refuse—on the contrary, flushed with wine, I was anxious to go, and took all the money that I had with me. On our arrival Atkinson played, but finding that he was not fortunate, he very soon left off. As I had followed his game, I also had lost considerably, and he entreated me not to play any more—but I was a gamester, it appeared, and I would not pay attention to him, and did not quit the table until I had lost every shilling in my pocket. I left the house in no very good humour, and Atkinson, who had waited for me, accompanied me home.
“Newland,” said he, “I don’t know what you may think of me—you may have heard that I’m a roué, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, but this I always do, which is, caution those who are gamesters from their hearts. I have watched you to-night, and I tell you, that you will be ruined if you continue to frequent that table. You have no command over yourself. I do not know what your means may be, but this I do know, that if you were a Croesus, you would be a beggar. I cared nothing for you while you were the Mr Newland, the admired, and leader of the fashion; but I felt for you when I heard that you were scouted from society, merely because it was found out that you were not so rich as you were supposed to be. I had a fellow feeling, as I told you. I did not make your acquaintance to win your money—I can win as much as I wish from the scoundrels who keep the tables, or from those who would not scruple to plunder others; and I now entreat you not to return to that place—and am sorry, very sorry, that ever I took you there. To me, the excitement is nothing—to you it is overpowering. You are a gamester, or rather, you have it in your disposition. Take, therefore, the advice of a friend, if I may so call myself, and do not go there again. I hope you are not seriously inconvenienced by what you have lost to-night.”
“Not the least,” replied I. “It was ready money. I thank you for your advice, and will follow it. I have been a fool to-night, and one folly is sufficient.”
Atkinson then left me. I had lost about two hundred and fifty pounds, which included my winnings of the night before. I was annoyed at it, but I thought of Harcourt’s safety, and felt indifferent. The reader may recollect that I had three thousand pounds, which Mr Masterton had offered to put out at mortgage for me, but until he could find an opportunity, by his advice I had bought stock in the three per cents. Since that time he had not succeeded, as mortgages in general are for larger sums, and it had therefore remained. My rents were not yet due, and I was obliged to have recourse to this money. I therefore went into the city, and ordered the broker to sell out two hundred pounds, intending to replace it as soon as I could—for I would not have liked that Mr Masterton should have known that I had lost money by gambling. When I returned from the city, I found Captain Atkinson in my apartments, waiting for me.
“Harcourt is doing well, and you are not doing badly, I have let all the world know that you intend to call out whoever presumes to treat you with indifference.”
“The devil you have! but that is a threat which may easier be made than followed up by deeds.”
“Shoot two or three more,” replied Atkinson, coolly, “and then, depend upon it, you’ll have it all your own way. As it is, I acknowledge there has been some show of resistance, and they talk of making a resolution not to meet you, on the score of your being an impostor.”
“And a very plausible reason, too,” replied I; “nor do I think I have any right—I am sure I have no intention of doing as you propose. Surely, people have a right to choose their acquaintance, and to cut me, if they think I have done wrong. I am afraid, Captain Atkinson, you have mistaken me; I have punished Harcourt for his conduct towards me—he deserved punishment. I had claims on him; but I have not upon the hundreds, whom, when in the zenith of my popularity, I myself, perhaps, was not over courteous to. I cannot run the muck which you propose, nor do I consider that I shall help my character by so doing. I may become notorious, but certainly, I shall not obtain that species of notoriety which will be of service to me. No, no; I have done too much, I may say, already; and, although not so much to blame as the world imagines, yet my own conscience tells me, that by allowing it to suppose that I was what I was not, I have, to say the least, been a party to the fraud, and must take the consequence. My situation now is very unpleasant, and I ought to retire, and, if possible, re-appear with real claims upon the public favour. I have still friends, thank God! and influential friends. I am offered a writership in India—a commission in the army—or to study the law. Will you favour me with your opinion?”
“You pay me a compliment by asking my advice. A writership in India is fourteen years’ transportation, returning with plenty to live on, but no health to enjoy it. In the army you might do well, and, moreover, as an officer in the army, none dare refuse to go out with you. At the same time, under your peculiar circumstances, I think if you were in a crack regiment, you would, in all probability, have to fight one half the mess, and be put in Coventry by the other. You must then exchange on half-pay, and your commission would be a great help to you. As for the law—I’d sooner see a brother of mine in his coffin. There, you have my opinion.”
“Not a very encouraging one, at all events,” replied I, laughing; “but there is much truth in your observations. To India I will not go, as it will interfere with the great object of my existence.”
“And pray, if it be no secret, may I ask what that is?”
“To find out who is my father.”
Captain Atkinson looked very hard at me. “I more than once,” said he, “have thought you a little cracked, but now I perceive you are mad—downright mad: don’t be angry, I couldn’t help saying so, and if you wish me to give you satisfaction, I shall most unwillingly oblige you.”
“No, no, Atkinson, I believe you are not very far wrong, and I forgive you—but to proceed. The army, as you say, will give me a position in society, from my profession being that of a gentleman, but as I do not wish to take the advantage which you have suggested from the position, I shrink from putting myself into one which may lead to much mortification. As for the law, although I do not exactly agree with you in your abhorrence of the profession, yet I must say, that I do not like the idea. I have been rendered unfit for it by my life up to the present. But I am permitted to select any other.”
“Without wishing to pry into your affairs, have you sufficient to live upon?”
“Yes, in a moderate way; about a younger brother’s portion, which will just keep me in gloves, cigars, and eau de cologne.”
“Then take my advice and be nothing. The only difference I can see between a gentleman and anybody else, is that one is idle and the other works hard. One is a useless, and the other a useful, member of society. Such is the absurdity of the opinions of the world.”
“Yes, I agree with you, and would prefer being a gentleman in that respect, and do nothing, if they would admit me in every other; but that they will not do. I am in an unfortunate position.”
“And will be until your feelings become blunted as mine have been,” replied Atkinson. “Had you acquiesced in my proposal you would have done better. As it is, I can be of no use to you; nay, without intending an affront, I do not know if we ought to be seen together, for your decision not to fight your way is rather awkward, as I cannot back one with my support who will not do credit to it. Do not be angry at what I say; you are your own master, and have a right to decide for yourself. If you think yourself not so wholly lost as to be able eventually to recover yourself by other means, I do not blame you, as I know it is only from an error in judgment, and not from want of courage.”
“At present I am, I acknowledge, lost, Captain Atkinson; but if I succeed in finding my father—”
“Good morning, Newland, good morning,” replied he, hastily. “I see how it is; of course we shall be civil to each other when we meet, for I wish you well, but we must not be seen together, or you may injure my character.”
“Injure your character, Captain Atkinson?”
“Yes, Mr Newland, injure my character. I do not mean to say but that there are characters more respectable, but I have a character which suits me, and it has the merit of consistency. As you are not prepared, as the Americans say, to go the whole hog, we will part good friends, and if I have said anything to annoy you, I beg your pardon.”
“Good-bye, then, Captain Atkinson; for the kindness you have shown me I am grateful.” He shook my hand, and walked out of the room. “And for having thus broken up our acquaintance, more grateful still,” thought I, as he went down stairs.
Part 3—Chapter I.
I cut my new Acquaintance, but his Company, even in so short a Time, proves my Ruin—Notwithstanding I part with all my Property, I retain my Honesty.
In the mean time, the particulars of the duel had found their way into the papers, with various comments, but none of them very flattering to me; and I received a note from Mr Masterton, who, deceived by the representations of that class of people who cater for newspapers, and who are but too glad to pull, if they possibly can, everyone to their own level, strongly animadverted upon my conduct, and pointed out the folly of it; adding, that Lord Windermear wholly coincided with him in opinion, and had desired him to express his displeasure. He concluded by observing, “I consider this to be the most serious false step which you have hitherto made. Because you have been a party to deceiving the public, and because one individual, who had no objection to be intimate with a young man of fashion, station, and affluence, does not wish to continue the acquaintance with one of unknown birth and no fortune, you consider yourself justified in taking his life. Upon this principle, all society is at an end, all distinctions levelled, and the rule of the gladiator will only be overthrown by the stiletto of the assassin.”
I was but ill prepared to receive this letter. I had been deeply thinking upon the kind offers of Lord Windermear, and had felt that they would interfere with the primum mobile of my existence, and I was reflecting by what means I could evade their kind intentions, and be at liberty to follow my own inclinations, when this note arrived. To me it appeared to be the height of injustice. I had been arraigned and found guilty upon an ex-parte statement. I forgot, at the time, that it was my duty to have immediately proceeded to Mr Masterton, and have fully explained the facts of the case; and that, by not having so done, I left the natural impression that I had no defence to offer. I forgot all this, still I was myself to blame—I only saw that the letter in itself was unkind and unjust—and my feelings were those of resentment. What right have Lord Windermear and Mr Masterton thus to school and to insult me? The right of obligations conferred. But is not Lord Windermear under obligations to me? Have I not preserved his secret? Yes; but how did I obtain possession of it? By so doing, I was only making reparation for an act of treachery. Well, then, at all events, I have a right to be independent of them, if I please—anyone has a right to assert his independence if he chooses. Their offers or service only would shackle me, if I accepted of their assistance. I will have none of them. Such were my reflections; and the reader must perceive that I was influenced by a state of morbid irritability—a sense of abandonment which prostrated me. I felt that I was an isolated being without a tie in the whole world. I determined to spurn the world as it had spurned me. To Timothy I would hardly speak a word. I lay with an aching head, aching from increased circulation. I was mad, or nearly so. I opened the case of pistols, and thought of suicide—reflection alone restrained me. I could not abandon the search after my father.
Feverish and impatient, I wished to walk out, but I dared not meet the public eye. I waited till dark, and then I sallied forth, hardly knowing where I went. I passed the gaming house—I did pass it, but I returned and lost every shilling; not, however, till the fluctuations of the game had persuaded me, that had I had more money to carry it on, I should have won.
I went to bed, but not to sleep; I thought of how I had been caressed and admired, when I was supposed to be rich. Of what use then was the money I possessed? Little or none. I made up my mind that I would either gain a fortune, or lose that which I had. The next morning I went into the city, and sold out all the remaining stock. To Timothy I had not communicated my intentions. I studiously avoided speaking to him: he felt hurt at my conduct, I perceived, but I was afraid of his advice and expostulation.
At night-fall I returned to the hell—played with various success; at one time was a winner of three times my capital, and I ended at last with my pockets being empty. I was indifferent when it was all gone, although in the highest state of excitement while the chances were turning up.
The next day I went to a house-agent, and stated my wish to sell my house, for I was resolved to try fortune to the last. The agent undertook to find a ready purchaser, and I begged an advance, which he made, and continued to make, until he had advanced nearly half the value. He then found a purchaser (himself, as I believe) at two thirds of its value. I did not hesitate, I had lost every advance, one after another, and was anxious to retrieve my fortune or be a beggar. I signed the conveyance and received the balance, fifteen hundred and fifty pounds, and returned to the apartments, no longer mine, about an hour before dinner. I called Timothy, and ascertaining the amount of bills due, gave him fifty pounds, which left him about fifteen pounds as a residue. I then sat down to my solitary meal, but just as I commenced I heard a dispute in the passage.
“What is that, Timothy?” cried I, for I was nervous to a degree.
“It’s that fellow Emmanuel, sir, who says that he will come up.”
“Yesh, I vill go up, sar.”
“Let him come, Timothy,” replied I. Accordingly Mr Emmanuel ascended. “Well, Emmanuel, what do you want with me?” said I, looking with contempt at the miserable creature who entered as before, with his body bent double, and his hand lying over his back.
“I vash a little out of breath, Mr Newland—I vash come to say dat de monish is very scarce—dat I vill accept your offer, and vill take de hundred pounds and my tousand which I have lent you. You too mush gentleman not to help a poor old man, ven he ish in distress.”
“Rather say, Mr Emmanuel, that you have heard that I have not ten thousand pounds per annum, and that you are afraid that you have lost your money.”
“Loshe my monish!—no—loshe my tousand pound! Did you not say, dat you would pay it back to me, and give me hundred pounds for my trouble; dat vash de last arrangement.”
“Yes, but you refused to take it, so it is not my fault. You must now stick to the first, which is to receive fifteen hundred pounds when I come into my fortune.”
“Your fortune, but you av no fortune.”
“I am afraid not; and recollect, Mr Emmanuel, that I never told you that I had.”
“Vill you pay me my monish, Mr Newland, or vill you go to prison?”
“You can’t put me in prison for an agreement,” replied I.
“No; but I can prosecute you for a swindler.”
“No, you confounded old rascal, you cannot; try, and do your worst,” cried I, enraged at the word swindler.
“Vell, Mr Newland, if you have not de ten tousand a year, you have de house and de monish; you vill not cheat a poor man like me.”
“I have sold my house.”
“You have sold de house—den you have neither de house or de monish. Oh! my monish, my monish! Sare, Mr Newland, you are one damned rascal;” and the old wretch’s frame quivered with emotion; his hand behind his back shaking as much as the other which, in his rage, he shook in my face.
Enraged myself at being called such an opprobrious term, I opened the door, twisted him round, and applying my foot to a nameless part, he flew out and fell down the stairs, at the turning of which he lay, groaning in pain.
“Mine Got, mine Got, I am murdered,” cried he. “Fader Abraham, receive me.” My rage was appeased, and I turned pale at the idea of having killed the poor wretch. With the assistance of Timothy, whom I summoned, we dragged the old man up stairs, and placed him in a chair, and found that he was not very much hurt. A glass of wine was given to him, and then, as soon as he could speak, his ruling passion broke out again. “Mishter Newland—ah, Mishter Newland, cannot you give me my monish—cannot you give me de tousand pound, without de interest? you are very welcome to de interest. I only lend it to oblige you.”
“How can you expect a damned rascal to do any such thing?” replied I.
“Damned rascal! Ah! it vash I who vash a rascal, and vash a fool to say the word. Mishter Newland, you vash a gentleman, you vill pay me my monish. You vill pay me part of my monish. I have de agreement in my pocket, all ready to give up.”
“If I have not the money, how can I pay you?”
“Fader Abraham, if you have not de monish—you must have some monish; den you will pay me a part. How much vill you pay me?”
“Will you take five hundred pounds, and return the agreement?”
“Five hundred pounds—lose half—oh! Mr Newland—it was all lent in monish, not in goods; you will not make me lose so much as dat?”
“I’m not sure that I will give you five hundred pounds; your bond is not worth two-pence, and you know it.”
“Your honour, Mishter Newland, is worth more dan ten tousand pounds: but if you have not de monish, den you shall pay me de five hundred pounds which you offer, and I will give up de paper.”
“I never offered five hundred pounds.”
“Not offer; but you mention de sum, dat quite enough.”
“Well, then, for five hundred pounds, you will give up the paper?”
“Yes; I vash content to loshe all de rest, to please you.”
I went to my desk, and took out five hundred pounds in notes. “Now, there is the money, which you may put your hands on when you give up the agreement.” The old man pulled out the agreement and laid it on the table, catching up the notes. I looked at the paper to see if it was all right, and then tore it up. Emmanuel put the notes, with a heavy sigh, into his inside coat pocket, and prepared to depart. “Now, Mr Emmanuel, I will show that I have a little more honour than you think for. This is all the money I have in the world,” said I, taking out of my desk the remaining thousand pounds, “and half of it I give to you, to pay you the whole money which you lent me. Here is five hundred pounds more, and now we are quits.”
The eyes of the old man were fixed upon me in astonishment, and from my face they glanced upon the notes; he could, to use a common expression, neither believe his eyes nor his ears. At last he took the money, again unbuttoned, and pulled out his pocket-book, and with a trembling hand stowed them away as before.
“You vash a very odd gentleman, Mishter Newland,” said he; “you kick me down stairs, and—but dat is noting.”
“Good-bye, Mr Emmanuel,” said I, “and let me eat my dinner.”
Part 3—Chapter II.
I resolve to begin the World again, and to seek my Fortune in the next Path—I take Leave of all my old Friends.
The Jew retired, and I commenced my meal, when the door again slowly opened, and Mr Emmanuel crawled up to me.
“Mishter Newland, I vash beg your pardon, but vill you not pay me de interest of de monish?”
I started up from my chair, with my rattan in my hand. “Begone, you old thief,” cried I; and hardly were the words out of my mouth, before Mr Emmanuel travelled out of the room, and I never saw him afterwards. I was pleased with myself for having done this act of honesty and for the first time for a long while I ate my dinner with some zest. After I had finished, I took a twenty pound note, and laid it in my desk, the remainder of the five hundred pounds I put in my pocket, to try my last chance. In an hour I quitted the hell penniless. When I returned home I had composed myself a little after the dreadful excitement which I had been under. I felt a calm, and a degree of negative happiness. I knew my fate—there was no more suspense. I sat down to reflect upon what I should do. I was to commence the world again—to sink down at once into obscurity—into poverty—and I felt happy, I had severed the link between myself and my former condition—I was again a beggar, but I was independent—and I resolved so to be. I spoke kindly to Timothy, went to bed, and having arranged in my own mind how I should act, I fell sound asleep.
I never slept better, or awoke more refreshed. The next morning I packed up my portmanteau, taking with me only the most necessary articles; all the details of the toilet, further than cleanliness was concerned, I abjured. When Timothy came in, I told him that I was going down to Lady de Clare’s, which I intended to do. Poor Timothy was overjoyed at the change in my manner, little thinking that he was so soon to lose me—for, reader, I had made up my mind that I would try my fortunes alone; and, painful as I felt would be the parting with so valued a friend, I was determined that I would no longer have even his assistance or company. I was determined to forget all that had passed, and commence the world anew. I sat down while Timothy went out to take a place in the Richmond coach, and wrote to him the following letter:—
“My dear Timothy,—Do not think that I undervalue your friendship, or shall ever forget your regard for me, when I tell you that we shall probably never meet again. Should fortune favour me, I trust we shall—but of that there is little prospect. I have lost almost everything: my money is all gone, my house is sold, and all is gambled away. I leave you, with only my clothes in my portmanteau and twenty pounds. For yourself, there is the furniture, which you must sell, as well as every other article left behind. It is all yours, and I hope you will find means to establish yourself in some way. God bless you—and believe me always and gratefully yours,—
“Japhet Newland.”
This letter I reserved to put in the post when I quitted Richmond. My next letter was to Mr Masterton.
“Sir,—Your note I received, and I am afraid that unwittingly, you have been the occasion of my present condition. That I did not deserve the language addressed to me, you may satisfy yourself by applying to Mr Harcourt. Driven to desperation, I have lost all I had in the world, by adding gaming to my many follies. I now am about to seek my fortune, and prosecute my search after my father. You will, therefore, return my most sincere acknowledgments to Lord Windermear, for his kind offers and intentions, and assure him that my feelings towards him will always be those of gratitude and respect. For yourself accept my warmest thanks for the friendly advice and kind interest which you have shown in my welfare, and believe me, when I say, that my earnest prayers shall be offered up for your happiness. If you can, in any way, assist my poor friend, Timothy, who will, I have no doubt, fall upon you in his distress, you will confer an additional favour on.
“Yours, ever gratefully,—
“Japhet Newland.”
I sealed this letter, and when Timothy returned, I told him that I wished him, after my departure, to take it to Mr Masterton’s, and not wait for an answer. I then, as I had an hour to spare, before the coach started, entered into a conversation with Timothy. I pointed out to him the unfortunate condition in which I found myself, and my determination to quit the metropolis.
Timothy agreed with me. “I have seen you so unhappy of late—I may say, so miserable—that I have neither eaten nor slept. Indeed, Japhet, I have laid in bed and wept, for my happiness depends upon yours. Go where you will, I am ready to follow and to serve you, and as long as I see you comfortable, I care for nothing else.”
These words of Timothy almost shook my resolution, and I was near telling him all; but when I recollected, I refrained. “My dear Timothy,” said I, “in this world we must expect to meet with a checkered existence; we may laugh at one time, but we must cry at others. I owe my life to you, and I never shall forget you, wherever I may be.”
“No,” replied Timothy, “you are not likely to forget one who is hardly an hour out of your sight.”
“Very true, Timothy; but circumstances may occur which may separate us.”
“I cannot imagine such circumstances, nor do I believe, that bad as things may turn out, that they will ever be so bad as that. You have your money and your house; if you leave London, you will be able to add to your income by letting your own apartments furnished, so we never shall want; and we may be very happy running about the world, seeking what we wish to find.”
My heart smote me when Timothy said this, for I felt, by his devotion and fidelity, he had almost the same claim to the property I possessed as myself. He had been my partner, playing the inferior game, for the mutual benefit. “But the time may come, Timothy, when we may find ourselves without money, as we were when we first commenced our career, and shared three-pence halfpenny each, by selling the old woman the embrocation.”
“Well, sir, and let it come. I should be sorry for you, but not for myself, for then Tim would be of more importance, and more useful, than as valet with little or nothing to do.”
I mentally exclaimed, “I have, I think I have, been a fool, a great fool, but the die is cast. I will sow in sorrow, and may I reap a harvest in joy. I feel,” thought I (and I did feel), “I feel a delightful conviction, that we shall meet again, and all this misery of parting will be but a subject of future garrulity.”
“Yes, Tim,” said I in a loud Voice, “all is right.”
“All’s right, sir; I never thought anything was wrong, except your annoyance at people not paying you the attention which they used to do, when they supposed you a man of fortune.”
“Very true; and Tim, recollect that if Mr Masterton speaks to you about me, which he may after I am gone to Richmond, you tell him that before I left, I paid that old scoundrel Emmanuel every farthing that I had borrowed of him, and you know (and in fact so does Mr Masterton) how it was borrowed.”
“Well, sir, I will, if he does talk to me, but he seldom says much to me.”
“But he may, perhaps, Tim; and I wish him to know that I have paid every debt I owe in the world.”
“One would think that you were going to the East Indies, instead of to Richmond, by the way you talk.”
“No, Tim; I was offered a situation in the East Indies, and I refused it; but Mr Masterton and I have not been on good terms lately, and I wish him to know that I am out of debt. You know, for I told you all that passed between Emmanuel and myself, how he accepted five hundred pounds, and I paid him the thousand; and I wish Mr Masterton should know it too, and he will then be better pleased with me.”
“Never fear, sir,” said Tim, “I can tell the whole story with flourishes.”
“No, Tim, nothing but the truth; but it is time I should go. Farewell, my dear fellow. May God bless you and preserve you.” And, overcome by my feelings, I dropped my face on Timothy’s shoulder, and wept.
“What is the matter? What do you mean, Japhet? Mr Newland—pray, sir, what is the matter?”
“Timothy—it is nothing,” replied I, recovering myself, “but I have been ill; nervous lately, as you well know, and even leaving the last and only friend I have, I may say for a few days, annoys and overcomes me.”
“Oh! sir—dear Japhet, do let us leave this house, and sell your furniture, and be off.”
“I mean that it shall be so, Tim. God bless you, and farewell.” I went down stairs, the hackney-coach was at the door. Timothy put in my portmanteau, and mounted the box. I wept bitterly. My readers may despise me, but they ought not; let them be in my situation, and feel that they have one sincere faithful friend, and then they will know the bitterness of parting. I recovered myself before I arrived at the coach, and shaking hands with Timothy, I lost sight of him; for how long, the reader will find out in the sequel of my adventures.
I arrived at Lady de Clare’s, and hardly need say that I was well received. They expressed their delight at my so soon coming again, and made a hundred inquiries—but I was unhappy and melancholy, not at my prospects, for in my infatuation I rejoiced at my anticipated beggary—but I wished to communicate with Fleta, for so I still call her. Fleta had known my history, for she had been present when I had related it to her mother, up to the time that I arrived in London; further than that she knew little. I was determined that before I quitted she should know—all. I dared not trust the last part to her when I was present, but I resolved that I would do it in writing.
Lady de Clare made no difficulty whatever of leaving me with Fleta. She was now a beautiful creature, of between fifteen and sixteen, bursting into womanhood, and lovely as the bud of the moss-rose; and she was precocious beyond her years in intellect. I staid there three days, and had frequent opportunities of conversing with her; I told her that I wished her to be acquainted with my whole life, and interrogated her as to what she knew: I carefully filled up the chasms, until I brought it down to the time at which I placed her in the arms of her mother. “And now, Fleta,” said I, “you have much more to learn—you will learn that much at my departure. I have dedicated hours every night in writing it out; and, as you will find, have analysed my feelings, and have pointed out to you where I have been wrong. I have done it for my amusement, as it may be of service even to a female.”
On the third day I took my leave, and requesting the pony chaise of Lady de Clare, to take me over to —, that I might catch the first coach that went westward, for I did not care which. I put into Fleta’s hands the packet which I had written, containing all that had passed, and I bid her farewell.
“Lady de Clare, may you be happy,” said I. “Fleta—Cecilia, I should say, may God bless and preserve you, and sometimes think of your sincere friend, Japhet Newland.”
“Really, Mr Newland,” said Lady de Clare, “one would think we were never to see you again.”
“I hope that will not be the case, Lady de Clare, for I know nobody to whom I am more devoted.”
“Then, sir, recollect we are to see you very soon.”
I pressed her ladyship’s hand, and left the house. Thus did I commence my second pilgrimage.