Part 2—Chapter XV.
I set off on a wild-goose chase—And fall in with an old Friend.
The next morning Timothy had procured me another valet, and throwing off his liveries, made his appearance in the evening, sending up to say a man wished to speak to me. He was dressed in high-low boots, worsted stockings, greasy leather small clothes, a shag waistcoat, and a blue frock overall. His face was stained of a dark olive, and when he was ushered in, Harcourt, who was sitting at table with me, had not the slightest recognition of him. As Harcourt knew all my secrets, I had confided this; I had not told him what Timothy’s intentions were, as I wished to ascertain whether his disguise was complete. I had merely said I had given Timothy leave for a few days.
“Perhaps you may wish me away for a short time,” said Harcourt, looking at Tim.
“Not at all, my dear Harcourt, why should I? There’s nobody here but you and Timothy.”
“Timothy! excellent—upon my word, I never should have known him.”
“He is going forth on his adventures.”
“And if you please, sir, I will lose no time. It is now dark, and I know where the gipsy hangs out.”
“Success attend you then; but be careful Tim. You had better write to me, instead of calling.”
“I had the same idea: and now I wish you a good evening.”
When Timothy quitted the room, I explained our intentions to Harcourt.
“Yours is a strange adventurous sort of life, Newland; you are constantly plotted against, and plotting in your turn—mines and counter-mines. I have an idea that you will turn out some grand personage after all; for if not, why should there be all this trouble about you?”
“The trouble, in the present case, is all about Fleta; who must, by your argument, turn out some grand personage.”
“Well, perhaps she may. I should like to see that little girl, Newland.”
“That cannot be, just now, for reasons you well know; but some other time it will give me great pleasure.”
On the second day after Tim’s departure, I received a letter from him by the twopenny post. He had made the acquaintance of the gipsy, but had not extracted any information, being as yet afraid to venture any questions. He further stated that his new companion had no objection to a glass or two, and that he had no doubt but that if he could contrive to make him tipsy, in a few days he would have some important intelligence to communicate. I was in a state of great mental agitation during this time. I went to Mr Masterton, and narrated to him all that had passed. He was surprised and amused, and desired me not to fail to let him have the earliest intelligence of what came to light. He had not received any answer as yet from his agent in Dublin.
It was not until eight days afterwards that I received further communication from Timothy; and I was in a state of great impatience, combined with anxiety, lest any accident should have happened. His communication was important. He was on the most intimate footing with the man, who had proposed that he should assist him to carry off a little girl, who was at a school at Brentford. They had been consulting how this should be done, and Timothy had proposed forging a letter, desiring her to come up to town, and his carrying it as a livery servant. The man had also other plans, one of which was to obtain an entrance into the house by making acquaintance with the servants; another, by calling to his aid some of the women of his fraternity to tell fortunes: nothing was as yet decided, but that he was resolved to obtain possession of the little girl, even if he were obliged to resort to force. In either case Timothy was engaged to assist.
When I read this, I more than congratulated myself upon the man’s being on the wrong scent, and that Timothy had hit upon his scheme. Timothy continued;—that they had indulged in very deep potations last night, and that the man had not scrupled to say that he was employed by a person of large fortune, who paid well, and whom it might not be advisable to refuse, as he had great power. After some difficulty, he asked Timothy if he had ever heard the name of Melchior in his tribe. Timothy replied that he had, and that at the gathering he had seen him and his wife. Timothy at one time thought that the man was about to reveal everything, but of a sudden he stopped short, and gave evasive answers. To a question put by Timothy, as to where they were to take the child if they obtained possession of her, the man had replied, that she would go over the water. Such were the contents of the letter, and I eagerly awaited a further communication.
The next day I called at Long’s Hotel upon a gentleman with whom I was upon intimate terms. After remaining a short time with him, I was leaving the hotel, when I was attracted by some trunks in the entrance hall. I started when I read the address of—“A. De Benyon, Esquire, to be left at F—t Hotel, Dublin.” I asked the waiter who was by, whether Mr De Benyon had left the hotel. He replied that he had left it in his own carriage that morning, and having more luggage than he could take with him, had desired these trunks to be forwarded by the coach. I had by that time resumed my serenity. I took out a memorandum book, wrote down the address on the trunks, saying that I was sorry not to have seen Mr De Benyon, and that I would write to him.
But if I composed myself before the waiter, how did my heart throb as I hastily passed through Bond Street to my home! I had made up my mind, upon what very slight grounds the reader must be aware, that this Mr De Benyon either must be my father, or, if not, was able, to tell me who was. Had not Mr Masterton said that there was a clue—had he not written to Dublin? The case was to my excited imagination as clear as the noon-day, and before I arrived at home, I had made up my mind in what manner I should proceed. It was then about four o’clock. I hastily packed up my portmanteau—took with me all my ready money, about sixty pounds, and sent the servant to secure a place in the mail to Holyhead. He returned, stating that there was a seat taken for me. I waited till half-past five to see Harcourt, but he did not come home. I then wrote him a short note, telling him where I was going, and promising to write as soon as I arrived.
“Ireland is to be the ground of my future adventures, my dear Harcourt. Call upon Mr Masterton, and tell him what I have done, which he surely will approve. Open Timothy’s letters, and let me have their contents. I leave you to arrange and act for me in every respect until I return. In the mean time believe me,—
“Ever yours,—
“J. Newland.”
I gave the letter to the valet, and calling a coach drove to the office, and in less than five minutes afterwards was rolling away to Holyhead, felicitating myself upon my promptitude and decision, little imagining to what the step I had taken was to lead.
It was a very dark night in November when I started on my expedition. There were three other passengers in the mail, none of whom had yet spoken a word, although we had made several miles of our journey. Muffled up in my cloak, I indulged in my own reveries as usual, building up castles which toppled over one after another as I built and rebuilt again. At last one of the passengers blew his nose, as if to give warning that he was about to speak; and then inquired of the gentleman next him if he had seen the evening newspapers. The other replied in the negative. “It would appear that Ireland is not in a very quiet state, sir,” observed the first.
“Did you ever read the history of Ireland?” inquired the other.
“Not very particularly.”
“Then, sir, if you were to take that trouble, you will find that Ireland, since it was first peopled, never has been in a quiet state, nor perhaps ever will. It is a species of human volcano—always either smoking, burning, or breaking out into eruptions and fire.”
“Very true, sir,” replied the other. “I am told the White Boys are mustering in large numbers, and that some of the districts are quite impassable.”
“Sir, if you had travelled much in Ireland, you would have found out that many of the districts are quite impassable, without the impediment of the White Boys.”
“You have been a great deal in Ireland then, sir,” replied the other.
“Yes, sir,” said the other with a consequential air, “I believe I may venture to say that I am in charge of some of the most considerable properties in Ireland.”
“Lawyer—agent—five per cent—and so on,” muttered the third party, who sate by me, and had not yet spoken.
There was no mistaking him—it was my former master, Mr Cophagus; and I cannot say that I was very well pleased at this intimation of his presence, as I took it for granted that he would recognise me as soon as it was daylight. The conversation continued, without any remarks being made upon this interruption on the part of Mr Cophagus. The agent, it appeared, had been called to London on business, and was returning. The other was a professor of music, bound to Dublin on speculation. What called Mr Cophagus in that direction I could not comprehend; but I thought I would try and find out. I therefore, while the two others were engaged in conversation, addressed him in a low tone of voice. “Can you tell me, sir, if the College at Dublin is considered good for the instruction of surgical pupils?”
“Country good, at all events plenty of practice—broken heads—and so on.”
“Have you ever been in Ireland, sir?”
“Ireland!—never—don’t wish to go—must go—old women will die—executor—botheration—and so on.”
“I hope she has left you a good legacy, sir,” replied I.
“Legacy—humph—can’t tell—silver tea-pot—suit of black, and so on. Long journey—won’t pay—can’t be helped—old women always troublesome alive or dead—bury her, come back—and so on.”
Part 2—Chapter XVI.
I deny my Master.
Although Mr Cophagus was very communicative in his own way, he had no curiosity with regard to others, and the conversation dropped. The other two had also asked all the questions which they wished, and we all, as if by one agreement, fell back in our seats, and shut our eyes, to court sleep. I was the only one who wooed it in vain. Day broke, my companions were all in repose, and I discontinued my reveries, and examined their physiognomies. Mr Cophagus was the first to whom I directed my attention. He was much the same in face as when I had left him, but considerably thinner in person. His head was covered with a white nightcap, and he snored with emphasis. The professor of music was a very small man, with mustachios: his mouth was wide open; and one would have thought that he was in the full execution of a bravura. The third person, who had stated himself to be an agent, was a heavy, full-faced, coarse-looking personage, with his hat over his eyes, and his head bent down on his chest, and I observed that he had a small packet in one of his hands, with his forefinger twisted through the string. I should not have taken further notice, had not the name of T. Iving, in the corner of the side on which was the direction, attracted my attention. It was the name of Melchior’s London correspondent, who had attempted to bribe Timothy. This induced me to look down and read the direction of the packet, and I clearly deciphered, Sir Henry de Clare, Bart., Mount Castle, Connemara. I took out my tablets, and wrote down the address. I certainly had no reason for so doing, except that nothing should be neglected, as there was no saying what might turn out. I had hardly replaced my tablets when the party awoke, made a sort of snatch at the packet, as if recollecting it, and wishing to ascertain if it were safe, looked at it, took off his hat, let down the window, and then looked round upon the other parties.
“Fine morning, sir,” said he to me, perceiving that I was the only person awake.
“Very,” replied I, “very fine; but I had rather be walking over the mountains of Connemara, than be shut up in this close and confined conveyance.”
“Hah! you know Connemara, then? I’m going there; perhaps you are also bound to that part of the country? but you are not Irish.”
“I was not born or bred in Ireland, certainly,” replied I.
“So I should say Irish blood in your veins, I presume.”
“I believe such to be the case,” replied I, with a smile, implying certainty.
“Do you know Sir Henry de Clare?”
“Sir Henry de Clare—of Mount Castle—is he not?”
“The same; I am going over to him. I am agent for his estates, among others. A very remarkable man. Have you ever seen his wife?”
“I really cannot tell,” replied I; “let me call to mind.”
I had somehow or another formed an idea, that Sir Henry de Clare and Melchior might be one and the same person; nothing was too absurd or improbable for my imagination, and I had now means of bringing home my suspicions. “I think,” continued I, “I recollect her—that is, she is a very tall, handsome woman, dark eyes and complexion.”
“The very same,” replied he.
My heart bounded at the information; it certainly was not any clue to my own parentage, but it was an object of my solicitude, and connected with the welfare of Fleta. “If I recollect right,” observed I, “there are some curious passages in the life of Sir Henry?”
“Nothing very particular,” observed the agent, looking out of the window.
“I thought that he had disappeared for some time.”
“Disappeared! he certainly did not live in Ireland, because he had quarrelled with his brother. He lived in England until his brother’s death.”
“How did his brother die, sir?”
“Killed by a fall when hunting,” replied the agent. “He was attempting to clear a stone wall, the horse fell back on him, and dislocated his spine. I was on the spot when the accident happened.”
I recollected the imperfect communication of Fleta, who had heard the gipsy say that “he was dead;” and also the word horse made use of, and I now felt convinced that I had found out Melchior. “Sir Henry, if I recollect right, has no family,” observed I.
“No; and I am afraid there is but little chance.”
“Had the late baronet, his elder brother, any family?”
“What, Sir William? No; or Sir Henry would not have come into the title.”
“He might have had daughters,” replied I.
“Very true; now I think of it, there was a girl, who died when young.”
“Is the widow of Sir William alive?”
“Yes; and a very fine woman she is; but she has left Ireland since her husband’s death.”
I did not venture to ask any more questions. Our conversation had roused Mr Cophagus and the other passenger; and as I had reflected how I should behave in case of recognition, I wished to be prepared for him.
“You have had a good nap, sir,” said I, turning to him.
“Nap—yes—coach nap, bad—head sore—and so on. Why—bless me—Japhet—Japhet New—yes—it is.”
“Do you speak to me, sir?” inquired I, with a quiet air.
“Speak to you—yes—bad memory—hip! quite forgot—old master—shop in Smithfield—mad bull—and so on.”
“Really, sir,” replied I, “I am afraid you mistake me for some other person.”
Mr Cophagus looked very hard at me, and perceiving that there was no alteration in my countenance, exclaimed, “Very odd—same nose—same face—same age too—very odd—like as two pills—beg pardon—made a mistake—and so on.”
Satisfied with the discomfiture of Mr Cophagus, I turned round, when I perceived the Irish agent, with whom I had been in conversation, eyeing me most attentively. As I said before, he was a hard-featured man, and his small grey eye was now fixed upon me, as if it would have pierced me through. I felt confused for a moment, as the scrutiny was unexpected from that quarter; but a few moments’ reflection told me, that if Sir Henry de Clare and Melchior were the same person, and this man his agent, in all probability he had not been sent to England for nothing; that if he was in search of Fleta, he must have heard of my name, and perhaps something of my history. “I appear to have a great likeness to many people,” observed I, to the agent, smiling. “It was but the other day I was stopped in Bond Street as a Mr Rawlinson.”
“Not a very common face either, sir,” observed the agent: “if once seen not easily forgotten, nor easily mistaken for another.”
“Still such appears to be the case,” replied I, carelessly. We now stopped to take refreshment. I had risen from the table, and was going into the passage, when I perceived the agent looking over the way-bill with the guard. As soon as he perceived me, he walked out in front of the inn. Before the guard had put up the bill, I requested to look at it, wishing to ascertain if I had been booked in my own name. It was so. The four names were, Newland, Cophagus, Baltzi, McDermott. I was much annoyed at this circumstance. McDermott was, of course, the name of the agent; and that was all the information I received in return for my own exposure, which I now considered certain; I determined, however, to put a good face on the matter, and when we returned to the coach, again entered into conversation with Mr McDermott, but I found him particularly guarded in his replies whenever I spoke about Sir Henry or his family, and I could not obtain any further information. Mr Cophagus could not keep his eyes off me—he peered into my face—then he would fall back in the coach. “Odd—very odd—must be—no—says not—um.” In about another half hour, he would repeat his examination, and mutter to himself. At last, as if tormented with his doubts, he exclaimed, “Beg pardon—but—you have a name?”
“Yes,” replied I, “I have a name.”
“Well, then—not ashamed. What is it?”
“My name, sir,” replied I, “is Newland;” for I had resolved to acknowledge to my name, and fall back upon a new line of defence.
“Thought so—don’t know me—don’t recollect shop—Mr Brookes’s—Tim—rudiments—and so on.”
“I have not the least objection to tell you my name; but I am afraid you have the advantage in your recollection of me. Where may I have had the honour of meeting you?”
“Meeting—what, quite forgot—Smithfield?”
“And pray, sir, where may Smithfield be?”
“Very odd—can’t comprehend—same name, same face—don’t recollect me, don’t recollect Smithfield?”
“It may be very odd, sir; but, as I am very well known in London, at the west end, perhaps we have met there. Lord Windermear’s, perhaps—Lady Maelstrom’s?”—and I continued mentioning about a dozen of the most fashionable names. “At all events, you appear to have the advantage of me; but I trust you will excuse my want of memory, as my acquaintance is very extensive.”
“I see—quite a mistake—same name, not same person—beg pardon, sir—apologies—and so on,” replied the apothecary, drawing in a long sigh.
Part 2—Chapter XVII.
I turn Lawyer.
I watched the countenance of the agent, who appeared at last to be satisfied that there had been some mistake; at least he became more communicative; and as I no longer put any questions to him relative to Sir Henry, we had a long conversation. I spoke to him about the De Benyons, making every inquiry that I could think of. He informed me that the deceased earl, the father of the present, had many sons, who were some of them married, and that the family was extensive. He appeared to know them all, the professions which they had been brought up to, and their careers in life. I treasured up this information, and, as soon as I had an opportunity, wrote down all which he had told me. On our arrival at Holyhead, the weather was very boisterous, and the packet was to depart immediately. Mr McDermott stated his intentions to go over, but Mr Cophagus and the professor declined; and, anxious as I was to proceed, I did not wish to be any longer in company with the agent, and, therefore, also declined going on board. Mr McDermott called for a glass of brandy and water, drank it off in haste, and then, followed by the porter, with his luggage, went down to embark.
As soon as he was gone, I burst into a fit of laughter. “Well, Mr Cophagus, acknowledge that it is possible to persuade a man out of his senses. You knew me, and you were perfectly right in asserting that I was Japhet, yet did I persuade you at last that you were mistaken. But I will explain to you why I did so.”
“All right,” said the apothecary, taking my proffered hand, “thought so—no mistake—handsome fellow—so you are—Japhet Newland—my apprentice—and so on.”
“Yes, sir,” replied I, laughing, “I am Japhet Newland.” (I turned round, hearing a noise, the door had been opened, and Mr McDermott had just stepped in; he had returned for an umbrella, which he had forgotten; he looked at me, at Mr Cophagus, who still held my hand in his, turned short round, said nothing, and walked out.) “This is unfortunate,” observed I: “my reason for not avowing myself was to deceive that very person, and now I have made the avowal to his face; however, it cannot be helped.”
I sat down with my old master, and as I knew that I could confide in him, gave him an outline of my life, and stated my present intentions.
“I see, Japhet, I see—done mischief—sorry for it—can’t be helped—do all I can—um—what’s to be done—be your friend—always like you—help all I can—and so on.”
“But what would you advise, sir?”
“Advice—bad as physic—nobody takes it—Ireland—wild place—no law—better go back—leave all to me—find out—and so on.”
This advice I certainly did not consent to follow.
We argued the matter over for some time, and then it was agreed that we should proceed together. I was informed by Mr Cophagus that he had retired with a very handsome fortune, and was living in the country, about ten miles from the metropolis; that he had been summoned to attend the funeral of a maiden aunt in Dublin, who had left him executor and residuary legatee, but that he knew nothing of her circumstances. He was still a bachelor, and amused himself in giving advice and medicines gratis to the poor people of the village in which he resided, there being no resident practitioner within some distance. He liked the country very much, but there was one objection to it—the cattle. He had not forgotten the mad bull. At a very late hour we retired to our beds: the next morning the weather had moderated, and, on the arrival of the mail, we embarked, and had a very good passage over. On my arrival at Dublin I directed my steps to the F—t Hotel, as the best place to make inquiries relative to Mr De Benyon. Mr Cophagus also put up at the same hotel, and we agreed to share a sitting-room.
“Waiter,” said I, “do you know a Mr De Benyon?”
“Yes, sir,” replied he; “there is one of the De Benyons at the hotel at this moment.”
“Is he a married man?”
“Yes—with a large family.”
“What is his Christian name?”
“I really cannot tell, sir; but I’ll find out for you by to-morrow morning.”
“When does he leave?”
“To-morrow, I believe.”
“Do you know where he goes?”
“Yes, sir, to his own seat.”
The waiter left the room. “Won’t do, Japhet,” said Cophagus. “Large family—don’t want more—hard times, and so on.”
“No,” replied I, “it does not exactly answer; but I may from him obtain further intelligence.”
“Won’t do, Japhet—try another way—large family—want all uncle’s money—um—never tell—good night.”
This remark of Mr Cophagus gave me an idea, upon which I proceeded the next morning. I sent in my card requesting the honour of speaking to Mr De Benyon, stating that I had come over to Ireland on business of importance, but that, as I must be back if possible by term time, it would perhaps save much expense and trouble. The waiter took in the message.
“Back by term time—it must be some legal gentleman. Show him up,” said Mr De Benyon.
I walked in with a business-like air. “Mr De Benyon, I believe?”
“Yes, sir; will you do me the favour to take a chair?”
I seated myself, and drew out my memorandum book. “My object, Mr De Benyon, in troubling you, is to ascertain a few particulars relative to your family, which we cannot so easily find out in England. There is a property which it is supposed may be claimed by one of the De Benyons, but which we cannot ascertain until we have a little search into the genealogical tree.”
“Is the property large?” inquired Mr De Benyon.
“Not very large,” replied I; “but still a very handsome property, I am told.” The reader may surmise that the property referred to was my own pretty self. “May I ask you a few particulars relative to the present earl and his brothers?”
“Most certainly, sir,” replied Mr De Benyon; “any information I can give you will be at your service. The earl has four brothers. The eldest Maurice.”
“Is he married?”
“Yes, and has two children. The next is William.”
“Is he married?”
“No; nor has he ever been. He is a general in the army. The third is myself, Henry.”
“You are married, I believe, sir?”
“Yes, with a large family.”
“May I request you will proceed, sir?”
“Arthur is the fourth brother. He is lately married, and has two children.”
“Sir, I feel much obliged to you; it is a curious and intricate affair. As I am here, I may as well ask one question, although not of great consequence. The earl is married, I perceive, by the peerage, but I do not find that he has any children.”
“On the contrary, he has two—and prospects of more. May I now request the particulars connected with this property?”
“The exact particulars, sir, I cannot well tell you, as I am not acquainted with them myself; but the property in question, I rather think, depends upon a name. May I venture to ask the names of all your children?”
Mr De Benyon gave me a list seriatim, which I put down with great gravity.
“Of course, there is no doubt of your second brother not being married. I believe we ought to have a certificate. Do you know his address?”
“He has been in the East Indies for many years. He returned home on furlough, and has now just sailed again for Calcutta.”
“That is unfortunate; we must forward a letter through the India Board. May I also be favoured with your address, as in all probability it may be advisable?”
Mr De Benyon gave me his address. I rose, promised to give him all the particulars as soon as they were known to me, bowed, and made my exit. To one who was in his sober senses, there certainly was not any important information gained; but to me, it was evident that the Mr De Benyon who was a general in the army was to be interrogated, and I had almost made up my mind to set off for Calcutta.
Part 2—Chapter XVIII.
I affront an Irish Gentleman and make a handsome Apology, which is accepted.
Before I had gained my own room, I informed Mr Cophagus, who had just returned from a visit to his maiden aunt’s house, of what had passed.
“Can’t see anything in it, Japhet—wild-goose chase—who told you?—oh! Pleggit’s men—sad liars—De Benyon not name, depend upon it—all stuff, and so on.”
And when I reflected, I could but acknowledge that the worthy apothecary might be right, and that I was running after shadows; but this was only in my occasional fits of despondency: I soon rallied, and was as sanguine as ever. Undecided how to proceed, and annoyed by what Cophagus had said, I quitted the hotel, to walk out in no very good humour. As I went out, I perceived the agent McDermott speaking to the people in the bar, and the sight of him reminded me of what, for a moment, I had forgotten, which was, to ascertain whether Melchior and Sir Henry de Clare were one and the same person. As I passed a crossing, a man in tattered habiliments, who was sweeping it, asked for alms, but being in no very charitable humour, I walked on. He followed me, pestering me so much, that I gave him a tap with the cane in my hand, saying to him, “Be off, you scoundrel.”
“Oh! very well. Be off, is it you mane? By the blood of the O’Rourkes but you’ll answer for that same, anyhow.”
I passed on, and having perambulated the city of Dublin for some time, returned to the hotel. A few minutes afterwards, I was told by the waiter that a Mr O’Donaghan wished to speak to me. “I have not the honour of his acquaintance,” replied I, “but you may show him up.”
Mr O’Donaghan entered, a tall, thick-whiskered personage, in a shabby-genteel dress, evidently not made for him, a pair of white cotton gloves, and a small stick. “I believe that I have the honour of spaking to the gentleman who crossed over the street about two hours ago?”
“Upon my word, sir,” replied I, “that is so uncertain a definition that I can hardly pretend to say whether I am the person you mean; indeed, from not having the pleasure of anyone’s acquaintance in Dublin, I rather think there must be some mistake.”
“The devil a bit of a mistake, at all at all; for there’s the little bit of a cane with which you paid my friend, Mr O’Rourke, the compliment over his shoulders.”
“I really am quite mystified, sir, and do not understand you; will you favour me with an explanation?”
“With all the pleasure in life, for then we shall come to a right understanding. You were crossing the street, and a gentleman, a particular friend of mine, with a broom which he carries for his own amusement, did himself the honour to address you, whereupon, of that same little stick of yours, you did him the honour to give him a slight taste.”
“What do you mean? do you refer to the sweeper, who was so importunate when I crossed over the road?”
“Then, by the powers, you’ve just hit it, as you did him. That’s my particular friend, Thaddeus O’Rourke, gentleman.”
“Gentleman!” exclaimed I.
“And with as good and as true Milesian blood as any in Ireland. If you think, sir, that because my friend, just for his own amusement, thinks proper to put on the worst of his clothes and carry a broom, just by way of exercise, to prevent his becoming too lusty, he is therefore to be struck like a hound, it’s a slight mistake, that’s all; and here sir, is his card, and you will oblige me by mentioning any friend of yours with whom I may settle all the little points necessary before the meeting of two gentleman.”
I could hardly refrain from laughing at this Irish gentleman and his friend, but I thought it advisable to retain my countenance. “My dear sir,” replied I, “it grieves me to the heart that I should have committed such an error, in not perceiving the gentility of your friend; had I not been so careless, I certainly should have requested him to do me the honour to accept a shilling, instead of having offered him the insult. I hope it is not now too late?”
“By the powers, I’m not one of those harum-scarum sort, who would make up a fight when there’s no occasion for it, and as your ’haviour is that of a gentleman, I think it will perhaps be better to shake hands upon it, and forget it altogether. Suppose now, we’ll consider that it was all a mistake? You give the shilling as you intended to do, I’ll swear only you were in so great a hurry—and then, perhaps, you’ll not object to throw in another shilling for that same tap with the cane, just to wipe off the insult as it were, as we do our sins, when we fork out the money, and receive absolution from the padre; and then, perhaps, you will not think it too much if I charge another shilling for my time and trouble, for carrying a message between two gentlemen.”
“On the contrary, Mr O’Donaghan, I think all your demands are reasonable. Here is the money.”
Mr O’Donaghan took the three shillings. “Then, sir, and many thanks to you, I’ll wish you a good evening, and Mr O’Rourke shall know from me that you have absolution for the whole, and that you have offered every satisfaction which one gentleman could expect from another.” So saying Mr O’Donaghan put his hat on with a firm cock, pulled on his gloves, manoeuvred his stick, and, with a flourishing bow, took his departure.
I had hardly dismissed this gentleman, and was laughing to myself at the ridiculous occurrence, when Mr Cophagus returned, first putting his cane up to his nose with an arch look, and then laying it down on the table and rubbing his hands. “Good—warm old lady. No—dead and cold—but left some thousands—only one legacy—old Tom cat—physic him to-morrow—soon die, and so on.”
On a more full explanation, I found that the old lady had left about nine thousand pounds in the funds and bank securities, all of which, with the exception of twenty pounds per annum to a favourite cat, was left to Mr Cophagus. I congratulated him upon this accession of fortune. He stated that the lease of the house and the furniture were still to be disposed of, and that afterwards he should have nothing more to do; but he wished me very much to assist him in rummaging over the various cabinets belonging to the old lady, and which were full of secret drawers; that in one cabinet alone he had found upwards of fifty pounds in various gold coins, and that if not well examined, they would probably be sold with many articles of consequence remaining in them.
As my only object in Ireland was to find out Sir Henry de Clare, and identify him, (but, really, why I could not have said, as it would have proved nothing after all,) I willingly consented to devote a day to assist Mr Cophagus in his examination. The next morning after breakfast, we went together to the house of the old lady, whose name had been Maitland, as Mr Cophagus informed me. Her furniture was of the most ancient description, and in every room in the house there was an ormolu, or Japan cabinet; some of them were very handsome, decorated with pillars, and silver ornaments. I can hardly recount the variety of articles, which in all probability had been amassed during the whole of the old lady’s life, commencing with her years of childhood, and ending with the day of her death. There were antique ornaments, some of considerable value, miniatures, fans, etuis, notes, of which the ink, from time, had turned to a light red, packages of letters of her various correspondents in her days of hope and anticipation, down to those of solitude and age. We looked over some of them, but they appeared to both of us to be sacred, and they were, after a slight examination, committed to the flames.
After we had examined all the apparent receptacles in these cabinets, we took them up between us, and shook them, and in most cases found out that there were secret drawers containing other treasures. There was one packet of letters which caught my eye; it was from a Miss De Benyon. I seized it immediately, and showed the inscription to Mr Cophagus. “Pooh—nothing at all—her mother was a De Benyon.”
“Have you any objection to my looking at these letters?”
“No—read—nothing in them.”
I laid them on one side, and we proceeded in our search when Mr Cophagus took up a sealed packet. “Heh! what’s this—De Benyon again? Japhet, look here.”
I took the packet; it was seated and tied with red tape. “Papers belonging to Lieutenant William De Benyon, to be returned to him at my decease.”
“Alice Maitland, with great care,” was written at the bottom of the envelope.
“This is it, my dear sir,” cried I, jumping up and embracing Mr Cophagus; “these are the papers which I require. May I keep them?”
“Mad—quite mad—go to Bedlam—strait waistcoat—head shaved—and so on.”
Part 2—Chapter XIX.
I am not content with minding my own Business, but must have a Hand in that of Others, by which Means I put my Foot in it.
He then, after his own fashion, told me, that, as executor he must retain those papers; pointed out to me the little probability there was of their containing any information relative to my birth, even allowing that a person of the name of De Benyon did call at the Foundling to ask for me, which was only a supposition; and, finally, overthrew all the hopes which had been, for so many days, buoying me up. When he had finished, I threw myself upon the sofa in despair, and wished, at the moment, that I had never been born. Still hope again rose uppermost, and I would have given all I possessed to have been able to break open the seals of that packet, and have read the contents. At one moment I was so frantic, that I was debating whether I should not take them from Mr Cophagus by force, and run off with them. At last I rose, and commenced reading the letters which I had put aside, but there was nothing in them but the trifling communications of two young women, who mentioned what was amusing to them, but uninteresting to those who were not acquainted with the parties.
When we had finished, Mr Cophagus collected all together, and putting them into a box, we returned in a coach to the hotel. The next day Mr Cophagus had completed all his arrangements, and the day following had determined to return to England. I walked with him down to the vessel, and watched it for an hour after it had sailed, for it bore away a packet of papers, which I could not help imagining were to discover the secret which I was so eager in pursuit of. A night’s sleep made me more rational, and I now resolved to ascertain where Sir Henry de Clare, or Melchior, as I felt certain he must be, was to be found. I sent for the waiter, and asked him if he could inform me. He immediately replied in the affirmative, and gave his address, Mount Castle, Connemara, asking me when I intended to set out. It did not strike me till afterwards, that it was singular that he should be so well acquainted with the address, and that he should have produced a card with it written upon it; or, moreover, that he should know that it was my intention to go there. I took the address, and desired that I might have horses ready very early the next morning. I then sat down and wrote a letter to Harcourt, informing him of my proceedings, also one to Mr Masterton much more explicit, lastly to Timothy, to the care of Harcourt, requesting him to let me know what had occurred between him and the gipsies. After dinner, I packed up ready for my journey, and having settled my bill, I was not sorry to retire to my bed.
At daylight I was, as I requested, called by the waiter; and taking with me only a very small portmanteau, having left the rest of my effects in the charge of the people who kept the hotel, I set off in a post-chaise on my expedition. I was soon clear of the city, and on a fine smooth road, and, as I threw myself back in the corner of the chaise, I could not help asking myself the question—what was the purport of my journey? As the reader will perceive, I was wholly governed by impulses, and never allowed reason or common sense to stand in the way of my feelings. “What have I to do?” replied I to myself; “to find out if Melchior and Sir Henry de Clare be not one and the same person. And what then? What then?—why then I may find out something relative to Fleta’s parentage. Nay, but is that likely—if, as you suppose, Melchior is Sir Henry de Clare—if, as you suppose, it is he who is now trying to find out and carry off Fleta—is it probable that you will gain any information from him? I have no idea that Fleta is the little girl said to have died, who was the child of his elder brother. Why so? What interest could Melchior have in stealing his own niece? That I cannot tell. Why did Nattée give me the necklace? I cannot tell; she would hardly betray her husband. At all events, there is a mystery, and it can only be unravelled by being pulled at; and I may learn something by meeting Melchior, whereas I shall learn nothing by remaining quiet.” This last idea satisfied me; and for many hours I remained in a train of deep thought, only checked by paying for the horses at the end of every stage.
It was now past twelve o’clock, when I found that it was necessary to change the chaise at every post. The country also, as well as the roads, had changed much for the worse. Cultivation was not so great, the roads were mountainous, and civilisation generally disappeared. It was nearly dark when I arrived at the last post, from whence I was to take horses to Mount Castle. As usual, the chaise also was to be changed; and I could not help observing that each change was from bad to worse. Rope harness was used, and the vehicles themselves were of the most crazy condition. Still I had travelled very fairly; for an Irish postilion knows how to make an Irish horse go very fair pace. I descended from the chaise, and ordered another out immediately. To this there was no reply, except, “Wait, your honour; step in a moment, and rest from your fatigue a little.” Presuming this was merely to give them time to get ready, I walked into the room of the inn, which indeed was very little better than a hovel, and sat down by the turf fire in company with some others, whom I could hardly distinguish for smoke. I paid the chaise and postilion, and soon afterwards heard it drive off, on its way back. After a few minutes I inquired if the chaise was getting ready.
“Is it the chaise your honour means?” said the landlady.
“Yes,” replied I; “a chaise on to Mount Castle.”
“Then I am sorry that your honour must wait a little for our chaise, and the only one which we have, is gone to the castle, and won’t be back till long after the moon is up. What will your honour please to take?”
“Not back till moonlight!” replied I; “why did you not say so? and I would have gone on with the other.”
“Is it with the other you mane, your honour? Then if Teddy Driscoll could make his horses go one step farther than our door, may I never have a soul to be saved. Will your honour please to sit in the little room? Kathleen shall light a fire.”
Vexed as I was with the idea of passing the night in this horrid place, there was no help for it; so I took up my portmanteau, and followed the landlady to a small room, if it deserved the appellation, which had been built after the cottage, and a door broken through the wall into it. Ceiling there was none; it had only lean-to rafters, with tiles overhead. I took a seat on the only stool that was in the room, and leant my elbow on the table in no very pleasant humour, when I heard the girl say, “And why don’t you let him go on to the castle? Sure the chaise is in the yard, and the horses are in the stable.”
“There’s orders ’gainst it, Kathleen,” replied the landlady. “Mr McDermott was here this blessed day, and who can deny him?”
“Who is he then?” replied the girl.
“An attorney with a warrant against Sir Henry; and, moreover, they say that he’s coming to ’strain upon the cattle of Jerry O’Toole for the tithes.”
“He’s a bould young chap, at all events,” replied the girl, “to come here all by himself.”
“Oh! but it’s not till to-morrow morning, and then we’ll have the troops here to assist him.”
“And does Jerry O’Toole know of this?”
“Sure enough he does; and I hope there’ll be no murder committed in my house this blessed night. But what can a poor widow do when McDermott holds up his finger? Now, go light the fire, Kathleen, and see if the poor young man wants anything; it’s a burning pity that he shouldn’t have something to comfort him before his misfortunes fall upon him.”
Kathleen made no reply. The horror that I felt at this discourse may easily be imagined. That it was intended that I should meet with foul play was certain, and I knew very well that, in such a desolate part of the country, the murder of an individual, totally unknown, would hardly be noticed. That I had been held up to the resentment of the inhabitants as a tithe collector, and an attorney with a warrant, was quite sufficient, I felt conscious, to induce them to make away with me. How to undeceive them was the difficulty.
Part 2—Chapter XX.
No Hopes of rising next Morning alive—At a last chance I get into Bed.
Kathleen came in with fuel to light the fire, and looking rather hard at me, passed by, and was soon busy blowing up the turf. She was a very handsome dark-eyed girl, about nineteen years of age, stout, and well made. “What is your name?” said I.
“Kathleen, at your service, sir.”
“Listen to me, Kathleen,” said I, in a low voice. “You are a woman, and all women are kind-hearted. I have overheard all that passed between your mistress and you, and that McDermott has stated that I am a tithe collector and an attorney, with a warrant. I am no such thing. I am a gentleman who wish to speak to Sir Henry de Clare on a business which he does not like to be spoken to about; and to shew you what I say is the truth, it is about the daughter of his elder brother, who was killed when hunting, and who is supposed to be dead. I am the only evidence to the contrary; and, therefore, he and McDermott have spread this report that I may come to harm.”
“Is she alive, then?” replied Kathleen, looking up to me with wonder.
“Yes; and I will not tell Sir Henry where she is, and that is the reason of their enmity.”
“But I saw her body,” replied the girl in a low voice, standing up, and coming close to me.
“It was not hers, depend upon it,” replied I, hardly knowing what to answer to this assertion.
“At all events, it was dressed in her clothes; but it was so long before it was discovered, that we could make nothing of the features. Well, I knew the poor little thing, for my mother nursed her. I was myself brought up at the castle, and lived there till after Sir William was killed; then we were all sent away.”
“Kathleen! Kathleen!” cried the landlady.
“Call for everything you can think of one after another,” whispered Kathleen, leaving the room.
“I cannot make the peat burn,” said she to the landlady, after she had quitted the little room; “and the gentleman wants some whisky.”
“Go out then, and get some from the middle of the stack, Kathleen, and be quick; we have others to attend besides the tithe proctor. There’s the O’Tooles all come in, and your own Corny is with them.”
“My Corny, indeed!” replied Kathleen; “he’s not quite so sure of that.”
In a short time Kathleen returned, and brought some dry peat and a measure of whisky. “If what you say is true,” said Kathleen, “and sure enough you’re no Irish, and very young for a tithe proctor, who must grow old before he can be such a villain, you are in no very pleasant way. The O’Tooles are here, and I’ve an idea they mean no good; for they sit with all their heads together, whispering to each other, and all their shillelaghs by their sides.”
“Tell me, Kathleen, was the daughter of Sir William a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl?”
“To be sure she was,” replied Kathleen, “and like a little mountain fairy.”
“Now, Kathleen, tell me if you recollect if the little girl or her mother ever wore a necklace of red beads mixed with gold.”
“Yes, that my lady did; and it was on the child’s neck when it was lost, and when the body was found it was not with it. Well I recollect that, for my mother said the child must have been drowned or murdered for the sake of the gold beads.”
“Then you have proved all I wished, Kathleen; and now I tell you that this little girl is alive, and that I can produce the necklace which was lost with her; and more, that she was taken away by Sir Henry himself.”
“Merciful Jesus!” replied Kathleen; “the dear little child that we cried over so much.”
“But now, Kathleen, I have told you this, to prove to you that I am not what McDermott has asserted, no doubt, with the intention that my brains shall be knocked out this night.”
“And so they will, sure enough,” replied Kathleen, “if you do not escape.”
“But how am I to escape? and will you assist me?”
And I laid down on the table ten guineas from my purse.
“Take that, Kathleen, and it will help you and Corny. Now will you assist me?”
“It’s Corny that will be the first to knock your brains out,” replied Kathleen, “unless I can stop him. I must go now, and I’ll see what can be done.”
Kathleen would have departed without touching the gold; but I caught her by the wrist, collected it, and put it into her hand.
“That’s not like a tithe proctor, at all events,” replied Kathleen; “but my heart aches and my head swims, and what’s to be done I know not.” So saying, Kathleen quitted the room.
“Well,” thought I, after she had left the room, “at all events I have not been on a wrong scent this time. Kathleen has proved to me that Fleta is the daughter of the late Sir William; and if I escape this snare, Melchior shall do her justice.” Pleased with my having so identified Melchior and Fleta, I fell into a train of thought, and for the first time forgot my perilous situation, but I was roused from my meditations by an exclamation from Kathleen. “No, no, Corny, nor any of ye—not now—and mother and me to witness it—it shall not be, Corny, hear me, as sure as blood’s drawn, and we up to see it, so sure does Corny O’Toole never touch this hand of mine.” A pause, and whispering followed, and again all appeared to be quiet. I unstrapped my portmanteau, took out my pistols, which were loaded, re-primed them, and remained quiet, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible.
It was more than half an hour before Kathleen returned; she looked pale and agitated. “Keep quiet, and do not think of resistance,” said she; “it is useless. I have told my mother all, and she believes you, and will risk her life to save him who has watched over the little girl whom she nursed; but keep quiet, we shall soon have them all out of the house. Corny dare not disobey me, and he will persuade the others.”
She then went out again, and did not return for nearly an hour, when she was accompanied by her mother. “Kathleen has told me all, young sir,” said she, “and do what we can, we will; but we hardly know what to do. To go to the castle would be madness.”
“Yes,” replied I: “but cannot you give me one of your horses to return the way I came?”
“That was our intention; but I find that the O’Tooles have taken them all out of the stable to prevent me; and the house is watched. They will come at midnight and attack us, that I fully expect, and how to conceal you puzzles my poor head.”
“If they come, we can but persuade them that he has escaped,” replied Kathleen; “they will no longer watch the house, and he will then have some chance.”
“There is but one chance,” replied the mother, who took Kathleen aside, and whispered to her. Kathleen coloured to the forehead, and made no reply. “If your mother bids you, Kathleen, there can be no harm.”
“Yes; but if Corny was—”
“He dare not,” replied the mother; “and now put this light out, and do you get into bed, sir, with your clothes on.” They led me to a small bed-room, a miserable affair; but in that part of the country considered respectable. “Lie down there,” said the mother, “and wait till we call you.” They took the light away, and left me to myself and my own reflections, which were anything but pleasant. I lay awake, it might be for two hours, when I heard the sound of feet, and then a whispering under the window, and shortly afterwards a loud knocking at the door, which they were attempting to burst open. Every moment I expected that it would yield to the violence which was made use of, when the mother came down half-dressed, with a light in her hand, hastened to me, and desired me to follow her. I did so, and before she left my room, she threw the window wide open. She led me up a sort of half-stairs, half-ladder, to a small room, where I found Kathleen sitting up in her bed, and half-dressed. “O mother! mother!” cried Kathleen.
“I bid ye do it, child,” replied the mother, desiring me to creep into her daughter’s bed, and cover myself up on the side next the wall.
“Let me put on more clothes, mother.”
“No, no, if you do, they will suspect, and will not hesitate to search. Your mother bids you.”
The poor girl was burning with shame and confusion.
“Nay,” replied I, “if Kathleen does not wish it, I will not buy my safety at the expense of her feelings.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Kathleen, “I don’t mind now; those words of yours are sufficient. Come in, quick.”