Part 2—Chapter IX.
I decide upon Honesty as the best Policy, and what is more strange, receive legal Advice upon this important Point.
Timothy and I burst into laughter. “Really, Timothy,” observed I, “it appears that very little art is necessary to deceive the world, for in every instance they will deceive themselves. The Jew is off my conscience, at all events, and now he never will be paid, until—”
“Until when, Japhet?”
“Until I find out my father,” replied I.
“Everything is put off till that time arrives, I observe,” said Timothy. “Other people will soon be as interested in the search as yourself.”
“I wish they were; unfortunately it is a secret, which cannot be divulged.”
A ring at the bell called Timothy down stairs; he returned with a letter, it was from Lord Windermear, and ran as follows:—
“My dear Newland,—I have been thinking about you ever since you left me this morning, and as you appear resolved to prosecute your search, it has occurred to me that you should go about it in a more systematic way. I do not mean to say that what I now propose will prove of any advantage to you, but still it may, as you will have a very old, and very clever head to advise with. I refer to Mr Masterton, my legal adviser, from whom you had the papers which led to our first acquaintance. He is aware that you were (I beg your pardon) an impostor, as he has since seen Mr Estcourt. The letter enclosed is for him, and with that in your hand you may face him boldly, and I have no doubt but that he will assist you all in his power, and put you to no expense. Narrate your whole history to him, and then you will hear what he may propose. He has many secrets, much more important than yours. Wishing you every success that your perseverance deserves, Believe me,—
“Yours very truly,—
“Windermear.”
“I believe the advice to be good,” said I, after reading the letter. “I am myself at fault, and hardly know how to proceed. I think I will go at once to the old gentleman, Timothy.”
“It can do no harm, if it does no good. Two heads are better than one,” replied Timothy. “Some secrets are too well kept, and deserting a child is one of those which is confided but to few.”
“By-the-by, Timothy, here have I been, more than so many years out of the Foundling Hospital, and have never yet inquired if anyone has ever been to reclaim me.”
“Very true; and I think I’ll step myself to the workhouse, at Saint Bridget’s, and ask whether anyone has asked about me,” replied Timothy, with a grin.
“There is another thing that I have neglected,” observed I, “which is, to inquire at the address in Coleman Street, if there is any letter from Melchior.”
“I have often thought of him,” replied Timothy. “I wonder who he can be—there is another mystery there. I wonder whether we shall ever fall in with him again—and Nattée, too?”
“There’s no saying, Timothy. I wonder where that poor fool, Philotas, and our friend Jumbo, are now?”
The remembrance of the two last personages made us both burst out a laughing.
“Timothy, I’ve been reflecting that my intimacy with poor Carbonnell has rather hindered than assisted me in my search. He found me with a good appearance, and he has moulded me into a gentleman, so far as manners, and appearance are concerned; but the constant vortex, in which I have been whirled in his company has prevented me from doing anything. His melancholy death has perhaps been fortunate for me. It has left me more independent in circumstances and more free. I must now really set to in earnest.”
“I beg your pardon, Japhet, but did not you say the same when we first set off on our travels, and yet remain more than a year with the gipsies? Did not you make the same resolution when we arrived in town, with our pockets full of money, and yet, once into fashionable society, think but little, and occasionally, of it? Now you make the same resolution, and how long will you keep it?”
“Nay, Timothy, that remark is hardly fair; you know that the subject is ever in my thoughts.”
“In your thoughts, I grant, very frequently; but you have still been led away from the search.”
“I grant it, but I presume that arises from not knowing how to proceed. I have a skein to unravel, and cannot find out an end to commence with.”
“I always thought people commenced with the beginning,” replied Tim, laughing.
“At all events, I will now try back, and face the old lawyer. Do you call at Coleman Street, Tim, and at Saint Bridget’s also, if you please.”
“As for Saint Bridget’s, I’m in no particular hurry about my mother; if I stumble upon her I may pick her up, but I never make diligent search after what, in every probability, will not be worth the finding.”
Leaving Timothy to go his way, I walked to the house at Lincoln’s Inn, which I had before entered upon the memorable occasion of the papers of Estcourt. As before, I rang the bell, the door swang open, and I was once more in the presence of Mr Masterton.
“I have a letter, sir,” said I, bowing, and presenting the letter from Lord Windermear.
The old gentleman peered at me through his spectacles. “Why! we have met before—bless me—why you’re the rogue that—”
“You are perfectly right, sir,” interrupted I. “I am the rogue who presented the letter from Lord Windermear, and who presents you with another from the same person; do me the favour to read it, while I take a chair.”
“Upon my soul—you impudent—handsome dog, I must say—great pity—come for money, I suppose. Well, it’s a sad world,” muttered the lawyer as he broke open the letter of Lord Windermear.
I made no reply, but watched his countenance, which changed to that of an expression of surprise. “Had his lordship sent me a request to have you hanged, if possible,” said Mr Masterton, “I should have felt no surprise; but in this letter he praises you, and desires me to render you all the service in my power. I can’t understand it.”
“No, sir; but if you have leisure to listen to me, you will then find that, in this world, we may be deceived by appearances.”
“Well, and so I was, when I first saw you; I never could have believed you to be—but never mind.”
“Perhaps, sir, in an hour or two you will again alter your opinion. Are you at leisure, or will you make an appointment for some future day?”
“Mr Newland, I am not at leisure—I never was more busy; and if you had come on any legal business, I should have put you off for three or four days, at least; but my curiosity is so raised, that I am determined that I will indulge it at the expense of my interest. I will turn the key, and then you will oblige me by unravelling, what, at present, is to me as curious as it is wholly incomprehensible.”
Part 2—Chapter X.
I attempt to profit by Intelligence I receive, and throw a Lady into Hysterics.
In about three hours I had narrated the history of my life, up to the very day, almost as much detailed as it has been to the reader. “And now, Mr Masterton,” said I, as I wound up my narrative, “do you think that I deserve the title of rogue, which you applied to me when I came in?”
“Upon my word, Mr Newland, I hardly know what to say; but I like to tell the truth. To say that you have been quite honest, would not be correct—a rogue, to a certain degree, you have been, but you have been the rogue of circumstances. I can only say this, that there are greater rogues than you, whose characters are unblemished in the world—that most people in your peculiar situation would have been much greater rogues; and, lastly, that rogue or not rogue, I have great pleasure in taking you by the hand, and will do all I possibly can to serve you—and that for your own sake. Your search after your parents I consider almost tantamount to a wild-goose chase; but still, as your happiness depends upon it, I suppose it must be carried on; but you must allow me time for reflection. I will consider what may be the most judicious method of proceeding. Can you dine tête-à-tête with me here on Friday, and we then will talk over the matter?”
“On Friday, sir; I am afraid that I am engaged to Lady Maelstrom; but that is of no consequence—I will write an excuse to her ladyship.”
“Lady Maelstrom! how very odd that you should bring up her name after our conversation.”
“Why so, my dear sir?”
“Why!” replied Mr Masterton, chuckling; “because—recollect, it is a secret, Mr Newland—I remember some twenty years ago, when she was a girl of eighteen, before she married, she had a little faux pas, and I was called in about a settlement, for the maintenance of the child.”
“Is it possible, sir?” replied I, anxiously.
“Yes, she was violently attached to a young officer, without money, but of good family; some say it was a private marriage, others, that he was—a rascal. It was all hushed up; but he was obliged by the friends, before he left for the West Indies, to sign a deed of maintenance, and I was the party called in. I never heard any more about it. The officer’s name was Warrender: he died of the yellow fever, I believe, and after his death she married Lord Maelstrom.”
“He is dead, then?” replied, I mournfully.
“Well, that cannot affect you, my good fellow. On Friday, then, at six o’clock precisely. Good afternoon, Mr Newland.”
I shook hands with the old gentleman, and returned home, but my brain whirled with the fear of a confirmation, of that which Mr Masterton had so carelessly conveyed. Anything like a possibility, immediately was swelled to a certainty in my imagination, so ardent and heated on the one subject; and as soon as I regained my room, I threw myself on the sofa, and fell into a deep reverie. I tried to approximate the features of Lady Maelstrom to mine, but all the ingenuity in the world could not affect that; but still, I might be like my father—but my father was dead, and that threw a chill over the whole glowing picture which I had, as usual, conjured up; besides, it was asserted that I was born in wedlock, and there was a doubt relative to the marriage of her ladyship.
After a long cogitation I jumped up, seized my hat, and set off for Grosvenor Square, determining to ask a private interview with her ladyship, and at once end my harassing doubts and surmises. I think there could not be a greater proof of my madness than my venturing to attack a lady of forty upon the irregularities of her youth, and to question her upon a subject which had been confided but to two or three, and she imagined had been long forgotten: but this never struck me; all considerations were levelled in my ardent pursuit. I walked through the streets at a rapid pace, the crowd passed by me as shadows, I neither saw nor distinguished them; I was deep in reverie as to the best way of breaking the subject to her ladyship, for, notwithstanding my monomania, I perceived it to be a point of great delicacy. After having overturned about twenty people in my mad career, I arrived at the door and knocked. My heart beat almost as hard against my ribs with excitement.
“Is her ladyship at home?”
“Yes, sir.”
I was ushered into the drawing-room, and found her sitting with two of her nieces, the Misses Fairfax.
“Mr Newland, you have been quite a stranger,” said her ladyship, as I walked up to her and made my obeisance. “I did intend to scold you well; but I suppose that sad affair of poor Major Carbonnell’s has been a heavy blow to you—you were so intimate—lived together, I believe, did you not? However, you have not so much cause to regret, for he was not a very proper companion for young men like you: to tell you the truth, I consider it as a fortunate circumstance that he was removed, for he would, by degrees, have led you into all manner of mischief, and have persuaded you to squander your fortune. I did at one time think of giving you a hint, but it was a delicate point. Now that he is gone, I tell you very candidly that you have had an escape. A young man like you, Mr Newland, who could command an alliance into the highest, yes, the very highest families—and let me tell you, Mr Newland, that there is nothing like connection—money is of no consequence to you, but connection, Mr Newland, is what you should look for—connection with some high family, and then you will do well. I should like to see you settled—well settled, I mean, Mr Newland. Now that you are rid of the major, who has ruined many young men in his time, I trust you will seriously think of settling down into a married man. Cecilia, my dear, show your tambour work to Mr Newland, and ask him his opinion. Is it not beautiful, Mr Newland?”
“Extremely beautiful, indeed, ma’am,” replied I, glad at last that her ladyship allowed me to speak a word.
“Emma, my dear, you look pale, you must go out into the air. Go, children, put your bonnets on and take a turn in the garden; when the carriage comes round I will send for you.”
The young ladies quitted the room. “Nice innocent girls, Mr Newland; but you are not partial to blondes, I believe?”
“Indeed, Lady Maelstrom, I infinitely prefer the blonde to the brunette.”
“That proves your taste, Mr Newland. The Fairfaxes are of a very old family—Saxon, Mr Newland. Fairfax is Saxon for light hair. Is is not remarkable that they should be blondes to this day? Pure blood, Mr Newland. You, of course, have heard of General Fairfax in the time of Cromwell. He was their direct ancestor—an excellent family and highly connected, Mr Newland. You are aware that they are my nieces. My sister married Mr Fairfax.”
I paid the Misses Fairfax the compliments which I thought they really deserved, for they were very pretty amiable girls, and required no puffing on the part of her ladyship; and then I commenced. “Your ladyship has expressed such kind wishes towards me, that I cannot be sufficiently grateful; but, perhaps, your ladyship may think me romantic, I am resolved never to marry, except for love.”
“A very excellent resolve, Mr Newland; there are few young men who care about love now-a-days, but I consider that love is a great security for happiness in the wedded state.”
“True, madam, and what can be more delightful than a first attachment? I appeal to your ladyship, was not your first attachment the most delightful—are not the reminiscences most lasting—do you not, even now, call to mind those halcyon days when love was all and everything?”
“My days of romance are long past, Mr Newland,” replied her ladyship; “indeed I never had much romance in my composition. I married Lord Maelstrom for the connection, and I loved him pretty well, that is, soberly, Mr Newland. I mean, I loved him quite enough to marry him, and to obey my parents, that is all.”
“But, my dear Lady Maelstrom, I did not refer to your marriage with his lordship; I referred to your first love.”
“My first love, Mr Newland; pray what do you mean?” replied her ladyship, looking very hard at me.
“Your ladyship need not be ashamed of it. Our hearts are not in our own keeping, nor can we always control our passions. I have but to mention the name of Warrender.”
“Warrender!” shrieked her ladyship. “Pray, Mr Newland,” continued her ladyship, recovering herself, “who gave you that piece of information?”
“My dear Lady Maelstrom, pray do not be displeased with me, but I am very particularly interested in this affair. Your love for Mr Warrender, long before your marriage, is well known to me; and it is to that love, to which I referred, when I asked you if it was not most delightful.”
“Well, Mr Newland,” replied her ladyship, “how you have obtained the knowledge I know not, but there was, I acknowledge, a trifling flirtation with Edward Warrender and me—but I was young, very young at that time.”
“I grant it; and do not, for a moment, imagine that I intend to blame your ladyship; but, as I before said, madam, I am much interested in the business.”
“What interest can you have with a little flirtation of mine, which took place before you were born, I cannot imagine, Mr Newland.”
“It is because it took place before I was born, that I feel so much interest.”
“I cannot understand you, Mr Newland, and I think we had better change the subject.”
“Excuse me, madam, but I must request to continue it a little longer. Is Mr Warrender dead or not? Did he die in the West Indies?”
“You appear to be very curious on this subject, Mr Newland; I hardly can tell. Yes, now I recollect, he did die of the yellow fever, I think—but I have quite forgotten all about it—and I shall answer no more questions; if you were not a favourite of mine, Mr Newland, I should say that you were very impertinent.”
“Then, your ladyship, I will put but one more question, and that one I must put with your permission.”
“I should think, after what I have said, Mr Newland, that you might drop the subject.”
“I will, your ladyship, immediately; but pardon me the question—”
“Mr Newland—?”
“Do not be angry with me—”
“Well?” exclaimed her ladyship, who appeared alarmed.
“Nothing but the most important and imperative reasons could induce me to ask the question,” (her ladyship gasped for breath, and could not speak,)—I stammered, but at last I brought it out. “What has become of—of—of the sweet pledge of your love, Lady Maelstrom?”
Her ladyship coloured up with rage, raised up her clenched hand, and then fell back in violent hysterics.
Part 2—Chapter XI.
I repair the Damage, and make things worse—Plot and counterplot—Tim gains a Watch by setting Watch upon his Tongue.
I hardly knew how to act—if I called the servants, my interview would be at an end, and I was resolved to find out the truth—for the same reason, I did not like to ring for water. Some vases with flowers were on the table; I took out the flowers, and threw the water in her face, but they had been in the water some time, and had discoloured it green. Her ladyship’s dress was a high silk gown, of a bright slate colour, and was immediately spoiled; but this was no time to stand upon trifles. I seized hold of a glass bottle, fancying, in my hurry, it was eau de cologne, or some essence, and poured a little into her mouth; unfortunately, it was a bottle of marking ink, which her ladyship, who was very economical, had on the table in disguise. I perceived my error, and had recourse to another vase of flowers, pouring a large quantity of the green water down her throat. Whether the unusual remedies had an effect, or not, I cannot tell, but her ladyship gradually revived, and, as she leant back on the sofa, sobbing every now and then, convulsively, I poured into her ear a thousand apologies, until I thought she was composed enough to listen to me.
“Your ladyship’s maternal feelings,” said I.
“It’s all a calumny! a base lie, sir!” shrieked she.
“Nay, nay, why be ashamed of a youthful passion; why deny what was in itself creditable to your unsophisticated mind. Does not your heart, even now, yearn to embrace your son—will not you bless me, if I bring him to your feet—will not you bless your son, and receive him with delight?”
“It was a girl,” screamed her ladyship, forgetting herself, and again falling into hysterics.
“A girl!” replied I; “then I have lost my time, and it is no use my remaining here.”
Mortified at the intelligence which overthrew my hopes and castle buildings, I seized my hat, descended the stairs, and quitted the house; in my hurry and confusion quite forgetting to call the servants to her ladyship’s assistance. Fortunately I perceived the Misses Fairfax close to the iron railing of the garden. I crossed the road, wished them good-bye, and told them that I thought Lady Maelstrom looked very ill, and they had better go in to her. I then threw myself into the first hackney-coach, and drove home. I found Timothy had arrived before me, and I narrated all that had passed.
“You will never be able to go there again,” observed Timothy, “and depend upon it, she will be your enemy through life. I wish you had not said anything to her.”
“What is done cannot be undone; but recollect, that if she can talk, I can talk also.”
“Will she not be afraid?”
“Yes, openly, she will; and open attacks can be parried.”
“Very true.”
“But it will be as well to pacify her, if I can. I will write to her.” I sat down and wrote as follows:—
“My dear Lady Maelstrom,—I am so astonished and alarmed at the situation I put you in, by my impertinence and folly, that I hardly know how to apologise. The fact is, that looking over some of my father’s old letters, I found many from Warrender, in which he spoke of an affair with a young lady, and I read the name as your maiden name, and also discovered where the offspring was to be found. On re-examination, for your innocence was too evident at our meeting to admit of a doubt, I find that the name, although something like yours, is spelt very differently, and that I must have been led into an unpardonable error. What can I say except that I throw myself on your mercy? I dare not appear before you again. I leave town to-morrow; but if you can pardon my folly and impertinence, and allow me to pay my respects when London is full again, and time shall have softened down your just anger, write me one line to that effect, and you will relieve the burdened conscience of—
“Yours most truly,—
“J. Newland.”
“There, Tim,” said I, as I finished reading it over, “take that as a sop to the old Cerberus. She may think it prudent, as I have talked of letters, to believe me and make friends. I will not trust her, nevertheless.”
Tim went away, and very soon returned with an answer.
“You are a foolish mad-cap, and I ought to shut my doors against you; you have half killed me—spoilt my gown, and I am obliged to keep my bed. Remember, in future, to be sure of the right name before you make an assertion. As for forgiving you, I shall think of it, and when you return to town, you may call and receive my sentence. Cecilia was quite frightened, poor dear girl: what a dear affectionate child she is!—she is a treasure to me, and I don’t think I ever could part with her. She sends her regards.
“Yours,—
“C. Maelstrom.”
“Come, Timothy, at all events this is better than I expected—but now I’ll tell you what I propose to do. Harcourt was with me yesterday, and he wishes me to go down with him to —. There will be the assizes, and the county ball, and a great deal of gaiety, and I have an idea that it is just as well to beat the county as the town. I dine with Mr Masterton on Friday. On Saturday I will go down and see Fleta, and on Tuesday or Wednesday I will start with Harcourt to his father’s, where he has promised me a hearty welcome. Was there anything at Coleman Street?”
“Yes, sir; Mr Iving said that he had just received a letter from your correspondent, and that he wished to know if the little girl was well; I told him that she was. Mr Iving laid the letter down on the desk, and I read the post-mark, Dublin.”
“Dublin,” replied I. “I should like to find out who Melchior is—and so I will as soon as I can.”
“Well, sir, I have not finished my story. Mr Iving said, ‘My correspondent wishes to know whether the education of the little girl is attended to?’ ‘Yes,’ replied I, ‘it is.’ ‘Is she at school?’ ‘Yes, she has been at school ever since we have been in London.’ ‘Where is she at school?’ inquired he. Now, sir, as I never was asked that question by him before, I did not know whether I ought to give an answer, so I replied, ‘that I did not know.’ ‘You know whether she is in London or not, do you not?’ ‘How should I?’ replied I, ‘master had put her to school before I put on his liveries.’ ‘Does he never go to see her?’ inquired he. ‘I suppose so,’ said I. ‘Then you really know nothing about it?—then look you, my lad, I am anxious to find out where she is at school, and the name of the people, and if you will find out the direction for me, it will be money in your pocket, that’s all.’ ‘Um,’ replied I, ‘but how much?’ ‘Why, more than you think for, my man, it will be a ten-pound note.’ ‘That alters the case,’ replied I; ‘now I think again, I have an idea that I do remember seeing her address on a letter my master wrote to her.’ ‘Ay,’ replied Mr Iving, ‘it’s astonishing how money sharpens the memory. I’ll keep to my bargain; give me the address, and here’s the ten-pound note.’ ‘I’m afraid that my master will be angry,’ said I, as if I did not much like to tell him. ‘Your master will never know anything about it, and you may serve a long time before he gives you a ten-pound note above your wages.’ ‘That’s very true,’ said I, ‘sarvice is no inheritance. Well, then, give me the money, and I’ll write it down.’”
“And did you give it?” interrupted I.
“Stop a moment, sir, and you shall hear. I wrote down the address of that large school at Kensington, which we pass when we go to Mr Aubrey White’s.”
“What that tremendous large board with yellow letters—Mrs Let—what is it?”
“Mrs Lipscombe’s seminary—I always read the board every time I go up and down. I gave him the address, Miss Johnson, at Mrs Lipscombe’s seminary, Kensington. Well—and here’s the ten-pound note, sir, which I have fairly earned.”
“Fairly earned, Tim?”
“Yes, fairly earned; for it’s all fair to cheat those who would cheat you.”
“I cannot altogether agree with you on that point, Tim, but it certainly is no more than they deserve; but this is matter for reflection. Why should Melchior wish to find out her address without my knowledge?—depend upon it, there is something wrong.”
“That’s what I said to myself coming home; and I made up my mind, that, for some reason or another, he wishes to regain possession of her.”
“I entertain the same idea, Timothy, and I am glad you have disappointed him. I will take care that they shall not find her out, now that I am upon my guard.”
“But, sir, I wish to draw one good moral from this circumstance; which is, that if you had been served by any common footman, your interest would, in all probability, have been sacrificed to the ten-pound note; and that not only in this instance, but in many others, I did a very wise thing in taking my present situation.”
“I am but too well aware of that, Tim, my dear fellow,” said I, extending my hand, “and depend upon it, that if I rise, you do. You know me well enough by this time.”
“Yes, I do, Japhet, and had rather serve you than the first nobleman in the land. I’m going to purchase a watch with this ten-pound note, and I never shall look at it without remembering the advantage of keeping a watch over my tongue.”
Part 2—Chapter XII.
I fall very much in Love with Honesty, because I find that it is well received in the World—And to prove my Honesty, inform the whole World that honest I have never been.
I proved the will of Major Carbonnell, in which there was no difficulty; and then I sat down to consider in what way I might best husband my resources. The house was in good repair, and well furnished. At the time that I lived with the major, we had our drawing-room, and his bed-room and another room equally large, used as his dressing-room, on the first floor. The second floor was appropriated to me, and the sitting-room was used as a dining-room when we dined at home, which was but seldom. The basement was let as a shop, at one hundred pounds per annum, but we had a private door, for entrance, and the kitchens and attics. I resolved to retain only the first floor, and let the remainder of the house; and I very soon got a tenant at sixty pounds per annum. The attics were appropriated to Timothy and the servants belonging to the lodger.
After having disposed of what was of no service to me, I found that, deducting the thousand pounds paid into the banker’s, for Lord Windermear, I had a little above three thousand pounds in ready money, and what to do with this I could not well decide. I applied to Mr Masterton, stating the exact amount of my finances, on the day that I dined with him, and he replied, “You have two good tenants, bringing you in one hundred and sixty pounds per annum—if this money is put out on mortgage, I can procure you five per cent, which will be one hundred and fifty pounds per annum. Now, the question is, do you think that you can live upon three hundred and ten pounds per annum? You have no rent to pay; and I should think that, as you are not at any great expense for a servant, you might, with economy, do very well. Recollect, that if your money is lent on mortgage you will not be able to obtain it at a moment’s warning. So reflect well before you decide.”
I consulted with Timothy, and agreed to lend the money reserving about two hundred pounds to go on with, until I should receive my rents and interest. On the Friday I went to dine with Mr Masterton, and narrated what had passed between me and Lady Maelstrom. He was very much diverted, and laughed immoderately. “Upon my faith, Mr Newland, but you have a singular species of madness; you first attack Lord Windermear, then a bishop, and, to crown all, you attack a dowager peeress. I must acknowledge, that if you do not find out your parents, it will not be for want of inquiry. Altogether, you are a most singular character; your history is most singular, and your good fortune is equally so. You have made more friends before you have come to age, than most people do in their whole lives. You commence the world with nothing, and here you are, with almost a competence—have paid off a loan of one thousand pounds, which was not required—and are moving in the best society. Now the only drawback I perceive in all this is, that you are in society under false colours, having made people suppose that you are possessed of a large fortune.”
“It was not exactly my assertion, sir.”
“No, I grant, not exactly; but you have been a party to it, and I cannot allow that there is any difference. Now, do you mean to allow this supposition to remain uncontradicted?”
“I hardly know what to say, sir; if I were to state that I have nothing but a bare competence, it will be only injurious to the memory of Major Carbonnell. All the world will suppose that he has ruined me, and that I had the fortune, whereas, on the contrary, it is to him that I am indebted for my present favourable position.”
“That may be very true, Mr Newland; but if I am to consider you as my protégé, and I may add, the protégé of Lord Windermear, I must make you quite honest—I will be no party to fraud in any shape. Are you prepared to resign your borrowed plumes, and appear before the world as you really are?”
“There is but one inducement, sir, for me to wish that the world may still deceive themselves. I may be thrown out of society, and lose the opportunity of discovering my parents.”
“And pray, Mr Newland, which do you think is more likely to tend to the discovery, a general knowledge that you are a foundling in search of your parents, or your present method, of taxing everybody upon suspicion. If your parents wish to reclaim you, they will then have their eyes directed towards you, from your position being known; and I will add, there are few parents who will not be proud of you as a son. You will have the patronage of Lord Windermear, which will always secure you a position in society, and the good wishes of all, although, I grant, that such worldly people as Lady Maelstrom may strike your name off their porter’s list. You will, moreover, have the satisfaction of knowing that the friends which you make have not been made under false colours and appearances, and a still further satisfaction, arising from a good conscience.”
“I am convinced, sir, and I thank you for your advice. I will now be guided by you in everything.”
“Give me your hand, my good lad, I now will be your friend to the utmost of my power.”
“I only wish, sir,” replied I, much affected, “that you were also my father.”
“Thank you for the wish, as it implies that you have a good opinion of me. What do you mean to do?”
“I have promised my friend Mr Harcourt to go down with him to his father’s.”
“Well.”
“And before I go I will undeceive him.”
“You are right; you will then find whether he is a friend to you or to your supposed ten thousand pounds per annum. I have been reflecting, and I am not aware that anything else can be done at present than acknowledging to the world who you really are, which is more likely to tend to the discovery of your parents than any other means, but at the same time I shall not be idle. All we lawyers have among us strange secrets, and among my fraternity, to whom I shall speak openly, I think it possible that something may be found out which may serve as a clue. Do not be annoyed at being cut by many, when your history is known; those who cut you are those whose acquaintance and friendship are not worth having; it will unmask your flatterers from your friends, and you will not repent of your having been honest; in the end, it is the best policy, even in a worldly point of view. Come to me as often as you please; I am always at home to you, and always your friend.”
Such was the result of my dinner with Mr Masterton which I narrated to Timothy as soon as I returned home. “Well, Japhet, I think you have found a real friend in Mr Masterton, and I am glad that you have decided upon following his advice. As for me, I am not under false colours, I am in my right situation, and wish no more.”
In pursuance of my promise to Mr Masterton, I called upon Harcourt the next morning, and after stating my intention to go down for a day or two into the country to see a little girl who was under my care, I said to him, “Harcourt, as long as we were only town acquaintances, mixing in society, and under no peculiar obligation to each other, I did not think it worth while to undeceive you on a point in which Major Carbonnell was deceived himself, and has deceived others; but now that you have offered to introduce me into the bosom of your family, I cannot allow you to remain in error. It is generally supposed that I am about to enter into a large property when I come of age; now, so far from that being the case, I have nothing in the world but a bare competence, and the friendship of Lord Windermear. In fact, I am a deserted child, ignorant of my parents, and most anxious to discover them, as I have every reason to suppose that I am of no mean birth. I tell you this candidly, and unless you renew the invitation, shall consider that it has not been given.”
Harcourt remained a short time without answering. “You really have astonished me, Newland; but,” continued he, extending his hand, “I admire—I respect you, and I feel that I shall like you better. With ten thousand pounds a year, you were above me—now we are but equals. I, as a younger brother, have but a bare competence, as well as you; and as for parents—for the benefit I now derive from them, I might as well have none. Not but my father is a worthy, fine old gentleman, but the estates are entailed; he is obliged to keep up his position in society, and he has a large family to provide for, and he can do no more. You have indeed an uncommon moral courage to have made this confession. Do you wish it to be kept a secret?”
“On the contrary, I wish the truth to be known.”
“I am glad that you say so, as I have mentioned you as a young man of large fortune to my father; but I feel convinced, when I tell him this conversation, he will be much more pleased in taking you by the hand, than if you were to come down and propose to one of my sisters. I repeat the invitation with double the pleasure that I gave it at first.”
“I thank you, Harcourt,” replied I; “some day I will tell you more. I must not expect, however, that everybody will prove themselves as noble in ideas as yourself.”
“Perhaps not, but never mind that. On Friday next, then, we start.”
“Agreed.” I shook hands and left him.
Part 2—Chapter XIII.
I try back to recover the lost Scent, and discover to my Astonishment, that I have been transported for Forgery.
The behaviour of Harcourt was certainly a good encouragement, and had I been wavering in my promise to Mr Masterton, would have encouraged me to proceed. I returned home with a light heart and a pleasing satisfaction from the conviction that I had done right. The next morning I set off for —, and, as it was a long while since I had seen Fleta, our meeting was a source of delight on both sides. I found her very much grown and improved. She was approaching her fifteenth year, as nearly as we could guess—of course her exact age was a mystery. Her mind was equally expanded. Her mistress praised her docility and application, and wished to know whether I intended that she should be taught music and drawing, for both of which she had shown a decided taste. To this I immediately consented, and Fleta hung on my shoulder and embraced me for the indulgence. She was now fast approaching to womanhood, and my feelings towards her were more intense than ever. I took the chain of coral and gold beads from her neck, telling her that I must put it into a secure place, as much depended upon them. She was curious to know why, but I would not enter into the subject at that time. One caution I gave her, in case, by any chance, her retreat should be discovered by the companions of Melchior, which was, that without I myself came, she was, on no account, to leave the school, even if a letter from me was produced, requesting her to come, unless that letter was delivered by Timothy. I gave the same directions to her mistress, paid up her schooling and expenses, and then left her, promising not to be so long before I saw her again. On my return to town I deposited the necklace with Mr Masterton, who locked it up carefully in his iron safe.
On the Friday, as agreed, Harcourt and I, accompanied by Timothy and Harcourt’s servant, started on the outside of the coach, as younger brothers usually convey themselves, for his father’s seat in Blank shire, and arrived there in time for dinner. I was kindly received by old Mr Harcourt and his family, consisting of his wife and three amiable and beautiful girls. But on the second day, during which interval I presume Harcourt had an opportunity of undeceiving his father, I was delighted to perceive that the old gentleman’s warmth of behaviour towards me was increased. I remained there for a fortnight, and never was so happy. I was soon on the most intimate terms with the whole family, and was treated as if I belonged to it. Yet when I went to bed every night, I became more and more melancholy. I felt what a delight it must be to have parents, sisters, and friends—the bosom of a family to retire into, to share with it your pleasures and your pains; and the tears often ran down my cheeks, and moistened my pillow, when I had, not an hour before, been the happiest of the happy, and the gayest of the gay. In a family party, there is nothing so amusing as any little talent out of the general way, and my performances and tricks on cards, etcetera, in which Melchior had made me such an adept, were now brought forward as a source of innocent gratification. When I quitted, I had a general and hearty welcome to the house from the parents; and the eyes of the amiable girls, as well as mine, were not exactly dry, as we bade each other farewell.
“You told your father, Harcourt, did you not?”
“Yes, and the whole of them, Japhet; and you must acknowledge, that in their estimation you did not suffer. My father is pleased with our intimacy, and advises me to cultivate it. To prove to you that I am anxious so to do, I have a proposal to make. I know your house as well as you do, and that you have reserved only the first floor for yourself; but there are two good rooms on the first floor, and you can dispense with a dressing-room. Suppose we club together. It will be a saving to us both, as poor Carbonnell said when he took you in.”
“With all my heart: I am delighted with the proposal.” Harcourt then stated what it was his intention to offer for his share of the apartment; the other expenses to be divided, and his servant dismissed. I hardly need say, that we did not disagree, and before I had been a week in town, we were living together. My interview with Mr Masterton, and subsequent events, had made me forget to call on the governors of the Foundling Hospital, to ascertain whether there had been any inquiries after me. On my return to town I went there, and finding that there was a meeting to be held on the next day, I presented myself. I was introduced into the room where they were assembled.
“You wish to speak with the governors of the Hospital, I understand,” said the presiding governor.
“Yes, sir,” replied I; “I have come to ask whether an inquiry has been made after one of the inmates of this charity, of the name of Japhet Newland.”
“Japhet Newland!”
“If you recollect, sir, he was bound to an apothecary of the name of Cophagus, in consequence of some money which was left with him as an infant, enclosed in a letter, in which it was said that he would be reclaimed if circumstances permitted.”
“I recollect it perfectly well—it is now about six years back. I think there was some inquiry, was there not, Mr G—?”
“I think that there was, about a year and a half ago; but we will send for the secretary, and refer to the minutes.”
My heart beat quick, and the perspiration bedewed my forehead, when I heard this intelligence. At last, my emotion was so great, that I felt faint. “You are ill, sir,” said one of the gentlemen; “quick—a glass of water.”
The attendant brought a glass of water, which I drank, and recovered myself. “You appear to be much interested in this young man’s welfare.”
“I am, sir,” replied I; “no one can be more so.”
The secretary now made his appearance with the register, and after turning over the leaves, read as follows: “August the 16th,—a gentleman came to inquire after an infant left here, of the name of Japhet, with whom money had been deposited—Japhet, christened by order of the governors, Japhet Newland—referred to the shop of Mr Cophagus, Smithfield Market. He returned the next day, saying that Mr Cophagus had retired from business—that the parties in the shop knew nothing for certain, but believed that the said Japhet Newland had been transported for life for forgery, about a year before.”
“Good heavens! what an infamous assertion!” exclaimed I, clasping my hands.
“On reference back to the calendar, we observed that one J. Newland was transported for such an offence. Query?”
“It must have been some other person; but this has arisen from the vindictive feeling of those two scoundrels who served under Pleggit,” cried I.
“How can you possibly tell, sir?” mildly observed one of the governors.
“How can I tell, sir!” replied I, starting from my chair. “Why, I am Japhet Newland myself, sir.”
“You, sir,” replied the governor, surveying my fashionable exterior, my chains, and bijouterie.
“Yes, sir, I am the Japhet Newland brought up in the asylum, and who was apprenticed to Mr Cophagus.”
“Probably, then, sir,” replied the president, “you are the Mr Newland whose name appears at all the fashionable parties in high life?”
“I believe that I am the same person, sir.”
“I wish you joy upon your success in the world, sir. It would not appear that it can be very important to you to discover your parents.”
“Sir,” replied I, “you have never known what it is to feel the want of parents and friends. Fortunate as you may consider me to be—and I acknowledge I have every reason to be grateful for my unexpected rise in life—I would, at this moment, give up all that I am worth, resume my Foundling dress, and be turned out a beggar, if I could but discover the authors of my existence.”—I then bowed low to the governors, and quitted the room.
Part 2—Chapter XIV.
Mischief brewing—Timothy and I set our Wits to work, and he resumes his old Profession of a Gipsy.
I hastened home with feelings too painful to be described. I had a soreness at my heart, an oppression on my spirits, which weighed me down. I had but one wish—that I was dead. I had already imparted to Harcourt the history of my life; and when I came in, I threw myself upon the sofa in despair, and relieved my agonised heart with a flood of tears. As soon as I could compose myself, I stated what had occurred.
“My dear Newland, although it has been an unfortunate occurrence in itself, I do not see that you have so much cause to grieve, for you have this satisfaction, that it appears there has been a wish to reclaim you.”
“Yes,” replied I, “I grant that; but have they not been told, and have they not believed, that I have been ignominiously punished for a capital crime? Will they ever seek me more?”
“Probably not; you must now seek them. What I should recommend is, that you repair to-morrow to the apothecary’s shop, and interrogate relative to the person who called to make inquiries after you. If you will allow me, I will go with you.”
“And be insulted by those malignant scoundrels?”
“They dare not insult you. As an apothecary’s apprentice they would, but as a gentleman they will quail; and if they do not, their master will most certainly be civil, and give you all the information which he can. We may as well, however, not do things by halves; I will borrow my aunt’s carriage for the morning, and we will go in style.”
“I think I will call this evening upon Mr Masterton, and ask his advice.”
“Ask him to accompany us, Newland, and he will frighten them with libel, and defamation of character.”
I called upon Mr Masterton, that evening, and told my story. “It is indeed very provoking, Newland; but keep your courage up, I will go with you to-morrow, and will see what we can make of it. At what time do you propose to start?”
“Will it suit you, sir, if we call at one o’clock?”
“Yes; so good night, my boy, for I have something here which I must contrive to get through before that time.”
Harcourt had procured the carriage, and we picked up Masterton at the hour agreed, and proceeded to Smithfield. When we drove up to the door of Mr Pleggit’s shop, the assistants at first imagined that it was a mistake; few handsome carriages are to be seen stopping in this quarter of the metropolis. We descended and entered the shop, Mr Masterton inquiring if Mr Pleggit was at home. The shopmen, who had not recognised me, bowed to the ground in their awkward way; and one ran to call Mr Pleggit, who was up stairs. Mr Pleggit descended, and we walked into the back parlour. Mr Masterton then told him the object of our calling, and requested to know why the gentleman, who had inquired after me, had been sent away with the infamous fabrication that I had been transported for forgery. Mr Pleggit protested innocence—recollected, however, that a person had called—would make every inquiry of his shopmen. The head man was called in and interrogated—at first he appeared to make a joke of it, but when threatened by Mr Masterton became humble—acknowledged that they had said that I was transported, for they had read it in the newspapers—was sorry for the mistake; said that the gentleman was a very tall person, very well-dressed, very much of a gentleman—could not recollect his exact dress—was a large built man, with a stern face—but seemed very much agitated when he heard that I had been transported. Called twice, Mr Pleggit was not in at first—left his name—thinks the name was put down on the day-book—when he called a second time, Mr Pleggit was at home, and referred him to them, not knowing what had become of me. The other shopman was examined, and his evidence proved similar to that of the first. The day-book was sent for, and the day in August—referred to; there was a name written down on the side of the page, which the shopman said he had no doubt, indeed he could almost swear, was the gentleman’s name, as there was no other name put down on that day. The name, as taken down, was Derbennon. This was all the information we could obtain, and we then quitted the shop, and drove off without there being any recognition of me on the part of Mr Pleggit and his assistants.
“I never heard that name before,” observed Harcourt to Mr Masterton.
“It is, in all probability, De Benyon,” replied the lawyer: “we must make allowances for their ignorance. At all events, this is a sort of clue to follow up. The De Benyons are Irish.”
“Then I will set off for Ireland to-morrow morning, sir,” said I.
“You will do no such thing,” replied the lawyer; “but you will call upon me to-morrow evening, and perhaps I may have something to say to you.”
I did not fail to attend Mr Masterton, who stated that he had made every inquiry relative to the De Benyons; as he had said, they were an Irish family of the highest rank, and holding the peerage of De Beauvoir; but that he had written to his agent in Dublin, giving him directions to obtain for him every possible information in his power relative to all the individuals composing it. Till this had been received, all that I could do was to remain quiet. I then narrated to him the behaviour of the agent, Mr Iving, to Timothy. “There is some mystery there, most assuredly,” observed Mr Masterton: “when do you go again to—?”
I replied, that it was not my intention to go there for some time, unless he would wish to see the little girl.
“I do, Newland. I think I must take her under my protection as well as you. We will go down to-morrow. Sunday is the only day I can spare; but it must be put down as a work of charity.”
The next day we went down to —. Fleta was surprised to see me so soon, and Mr Masterton was much struck with the elegance and classical features of my little protégée. He asked her many questions, and, with his legal tact, contrived to draw from her many little points relative to her infant days, which she had, till he put his probing questions, quite forgotten. As we returned to town, he observed, “You are right, Japhet; that is no child of humble origin. Her very appearance contradicts it; but we have, I think, a chance of discovering who she is—a better one, I’m afraid, than at present we have for your identification. But never mind, let us trust to perseverance.”
For three weeks I continued to live with Harcourt, but I did not go out much. Such was the state of my affairs, when Timothy came to my room one morning, and said, “I do not know whether you have observed it, sir; but there is a man constantly lurking about here, watching the house, I believe. I think, but still I’m not quite sure, that I have seen his face before; but where I cannot recollect.”
“Indeed, what sort of a person may he be?”
“He is a very dark man, stout, and well made; and is dressed in a sort of half-sailor, half-gentleman’s dress, such as you see put on by those who belong to the Funny Clubs on the river; but he is not at all a gentleman himself—quite the contrary. It is now about a week that I have seen him, every day; and I have watched him, and perceive that he generally follows you as soon as you go out.”
“Well,” replied I, “we must find out what he wants—if we can. Point him out to me; I will soon see if he is tracing my steps.”
Timothy pointed him out to me after breakfast; I could not recollect the face, and yet it appeared that I had seen it before. I went out, and after passing half a dozen streets, I turned round and perceived that the man was dodging me. I took no notice, but being resolved to try him again, I walked to the White Horse Cellar, and took a seat inside a Brentford coach about to start. On my arrival at Brentford I got out, and perceived that the man was on the roof. Of a sudden it flashed on my memory—it was the gipsy who had come to the camp with the communication to Melchior, which induced him to quit it. I recollected him—and his kneeling down by the stream and washing his face. The mystery was solved—Melchior had employed him to find out the residence of Fleta. In all probability they had applied to the false address given by Timothy, and in consequence were trying, by watching my motions, to find out the true one. “You shall be deceived, at all events,” thought I, as I walked on through Brentford until I came to a ladies’ seminary. I rang the bell, and was admitted, stating my wish to know the terms of the school for a young lady, and contrived to make as long a stay as I could, promising to call again, if the relatives of the young lady were as satisfied as I professed to be. On my quitting the house, I perceived that my gipsy attendant was not far off. I took the first stage back, and returned to my lodgings. When I had told all that had occurred to Timothy, he replied, “I think, sir, that if you could replace me for a week or two, I could now be of great service. He does not know me, and if I were to darken my face, and put on a proper dress, I think I should have no difficulty in passing myself off as one of the tribe, knowing their slang, and having been so much with them.”
“But what good do you anticipate, Timothy?”
“My object is to find out where he puts up, and to take the same quarters—make his acquaintance, and find out who Melchior is, and where he lives. My knowledge of him and Nattée may perhaps assist me.”
“You must be careful, then, Timothy; for he may know sufficient of our history to suspect you.”
“Let me alone, sir. Do you like my proposal?”
“Yes, I do; you may commence your arrangements immediately.”