The Major pays the only debt of consequence he ever did pay, and I find myself a man of property.
I hastened back to the Major, to examine his wound, and, with the assistance of Timothy, I stripped him sufficiently to ascertain that the ball had entered his hip, and probing the wound with my finger, it appeared that it had glanced off in the direction of the intestines; the suffusion of blood was very trifling, which alarmed me still more.
"Could you bear removal, Major, in the coach?"
"I cannot tell, but we must try; the sooner I am home the better, Japhet," replied he faintly.
With the assistance of Timothy, I put him into the hackney-coach, and we drove off, after I had taken off my hat and made my obeisance to Mr Osborn, an effort of politeness which I certainly should have neglected, had I not been reminded of it by my principal. We set off, and the Major bore his journey very well, making no complaint, but, on our arrival he fainted as we lifted him out. As soon as he was on the bed, I despatched Timothy for a surgeon. On his arrival he examined the wound, and shook his head. Taking me into the next room, he declared his opinion, that the ball had passed into the intestines, which were severed, and that there was no hope. I sat down and covered up my face—the tears rolled down and trickled through my fingers—it was the first heavy blow I had yet received. Without kindred or connections, I felt that I was about to lose one who was dear to me. To another, not in my situation, it might have only produced a temporary grief at the near loss of a friend; but to me, who was almost alone in the world, the loss was heavy in the extreme. Whom had I to fly to for solace?—there were Timothy and Fleta—one who performed the duty of a servant to me, and a child. I felt that they were not sufficient, and my heart was chilled.
The surgeon had, in the meantime, returned to the Major, and dressed the wound. The Major, who had recovered from his weakness, asked him his candid opinion. "We must hope for the best, sir," replied the surgeon.
"That is to say, there is no hope," replied the Major; "and I feel that you are right. How long do you think that I may live?"
"If the wound does not take a favourable turn, about forty-eight hours, sir," replied the surgeon; "but we must hope for a more fortunate issue."
"In a death-bed case you medical men are like lawyers," replied the Major, "there is no getting a straightforward answer from you. Where is Mr Newland?"
"Here I am, Carbonnell," said I, taking his hand.
"My dear fellow, I know it is all over with me, and you, of course, know it as well as I do. Do not think that it is a source of much regret to me to leave this rascally world—indeed it is not; but I do feel sorry, very sorry, to leave you. The doctor tells me I shall live forty-eight hours; but I have an idea that I shall not live so many minutes. I feel my strength gradually failing me. Depend upon it, my dear Newland, there is an internal hemorrhage. My dear fellow, I shall not be able to speak soon. I have left you my executor and sole heir. I wish there was more for you—it will last you, however, till you come of age. That was a lucky hit last night, but a very unlucky one this morning. Bury me like a gentleman."
"My dear Carbonnell," said I, "would you not like to see somebody—a clergyman?"
"Newland, excuse me. I do not refuse it out of disrespect, or because I do not believe in the tenets of Christianity; but I cannot believe that my repentance at this late hour can be of any avail. If I have not been sorry for the life I have lived—if I have not had my moments of remorse—if I have not promised to amend, and intended to have so done, and I trust I have—what avails my repentance now? No, no, Japhet, as I have sown so must I reap, and trust to the mercy of Heaven. God only knows all our hearts, and I would fain believe that I may find more favour in the eyes of the Almighty, than I have in this world from those who—but we must not judge. Give me to drink, Japhet—I am sinking fast. God bless you, my dear fellow."
The Major sank on his pillow, after he had moistened his lips, and spoke no more. With his hand clasped in mine he gradually sank, and in a quarter of an hour his eyes were fixed, and all was over. He was right in his conjectures—an artery had been divided, and he had bled to death. The surgeon came again just before he was dead, for I had sent for him. "It is better as it is," said he to me. "Had he not bled to death, he would have suffered forty-eight hours of extreme agony from the mortification which must have ensued." He closed the Major's eyes and took his leave, and I hastened into the drawing-room and sent for Timothy, with whom I sate in a long conversation on this unfortunate occurrence, and my future prospects.
My grief for the death of the Major was sincere; much may indeed be ascribed to habit, from our long residence and companionship; but more to the knowledge that the Major, with all his faults, had redeeming qualities, and that the world had driven him to become what he had been. I had the further conviction, that he was attached to me, and, in my situation, anything like affection was most precious. His funeral was handsome, without being ostentatious, and I paid every demand upon him which I knew to be just—many, indeed, that were not sent in, from a supposition that any claim made would be useless. His debts were not much above £200, and these debts had never been expected to be liquidated by those who had given him credit. The paper he had written, and had been witnessed by Timothy and another, was a short will, in which he left me his sole heir and executor. The whole of his property consisted of his house in St James's Street, the contents of his pocket-book entrusted to my care, and his personal effects, which, especially in bijouterie, were valuable. The house was worth about £4000, as he had told me. In his pocket-book were notes to the amount of £3500, and his other effects might be valued at £400. With all his debts and funeral expenses liquidated, and with my own money, I found myself in possession of about £8000,—a sum which never could have been credited, for it was generally supposed that he died worth less than nothing, having lived for a long while upon a capital of a similar value.
"I cannot but say," observed Timothy, "but that this is very fortunate. Had the Major not persuaded you to borrow money, he never would have won so large a sum. Had he lived he would have squandered it away; but just in the nick of time he is killed, and makes you his heir."
"There is truth in your observation, Timothy; but now you must go to Mr Emmanuel, that I may pay him off. I will repay the £1000 lent me by Lord Windermear into his banker's, and then I must execute one part of the poor Major's will. He left his diamond solitaire as a memento to his lordship. Bring it to me, and I will call and present it."
A chapter full of morality, which ends in a Jew refusing upwards of £1000, proving the Millenium to be nearly at hand.
This conversation took place the day after the funeral, and, attired in deep mourning, I called upon his lordship, and was admitted. His lordship had sent his carriage to attend the funeral, and was also in mourning when he received me. I executed my commission, and after a long conversation with his lordship, in which I confided to him the contents of the will, and the amount of property of the deceased, I rose to take my leave.
"Excuse me, Mr Newland," said he, "but what do you now propose to do? I confess I feel a strong interest about you, and had wished that you had come to me oftener without an invitation. I perceive that you never will. Have you no intention of following up any pursuit?"
"Yes, my lord, I intend to search after my father; and I trust that, by husbanding my unexpected resources, I shall now be able."
"You have the credit, in the fashionable world, of possessing a large fortune."
"That is not my fault, my lord: it is through Major Carbonnell's mistake that the world is deceived. Still I must acknowledge myself so far participator, that I have never contradicted the report."
"Meaning, I presume, by some good match, to reap the advantage of the supposition."
"Not so, my lord, I assure you. People may deceive themselves, but I will not deceive them."
"Nor undeceive them, Mr Newland?"
"Undeceive them I will not; nay, if I did make the attempt, I should not be believed. They never would believe it possible that I could have lived so long with your relative, without having had a large supply of money. They might believe that I had run through my money, but not that I never had any."
"There is a knowledge of the world in that remark," replied his lordship; "but I interrupted you, so proceed."
"I mean to observe, my lord, and you, by your knowledge of my previous history, can best judge how far I am warranted in saying so; that I have as yet steered the middle course between that which is dishonest and honest. If the world deceives itself, you would say that, in strict honesty, I ought to undeceive it. So I would, my lord, if it were not for my peculiar situation; but at the same time I never will, if possible, be guilty of direct deceit; that is to say, I would not take advantage of my supposed wealth, to marry a young person of large fortune. I would state myself a beggar, and gain her affections as a beggar. A woman can have little confidence in a man who deceives her before marriage."
"Your secret will always be safe with me, Mr Newland; you have a right to demand it. I am glad to hear the sentiments which you have expressed; they are not founded, perhaps, upon the strictest code of morality; but there are many who profess more who do not act up to so much. Still, I wish you would think in what way I may be able to serve you, for your life at present is useless and unprofitable, and may tend to warp still more, ideas which are not quite so strict as they ought to be."
"My lord, I have but one object in allowing the world to continue in their error relative to my means, which is, that it procures for me an entrance into that society in which I have a moral conviction that I shall find my father. I have but one pursuit, one end to attain, which is, to succeed in that search. I return you a thousand thanks for your kind expressions and good-will; but I cannot, at present, avail myself of them. I beg your lordship's pardon, but did you ever meet the lady with the ear-rings?"
Lord Windermear smiled. "Really, Mr Newland, you are a very strange person; not content with finding out your own parents, you must also be searching after other people's; not that I do not commend your conduct in this instance; but I'm afraid, in running after shadows, you are too indifferent to the substance."
"Ah, my lord! it is very well for you to argue who have had a father and mother, and never felt the want of them; but if you knew how my heart yearns after my parents, you would not be surprised at my perseverance."
"I am surprised at nothing in this world, Mr Newland; every one pursues happiness in his own way; your happiness appears to be centred in one feeling, and you are only acting as the world does in general; but recollect that the search after happiness ends in disappointment."
"I grant it but too often does, my lord; but there is pleasure in the chase," replied I.
"Well, go, and may you prosper. All I can say is this, Mr Newland, do not have that false pride not to apply to me when you need assistance. Recollect, it is much better to be under an obligation, if such you will consider it, than to do that which is wrong; and that it is a very false pride which would blush to accept a favour, and yet not blush to do what it ought to be ashamed of. Promise me, Mr Newland, that upon any reverse or exigence, you will apply to me."
"I candidly acknowledge to your lordship, that I would rather be under an obligation to anyone but you; and I trust you will clearly appreciate my feelings. I have taken the liberty of refunding the one thousand pounds you were so kind as to place at my disposal as a loan. At the same time I will promise, that, if at any time I should require your assistance, I will again request leave to become your debtor." I rose again to depart.
"Farewell, Newland; when I thought you had behaved ill, and I offered to better you, you only demanded my good opinion; you have it, and have it so firmly, that it will not easily be shaken." His lordship then shook hands with me, and I took my leave.
On my return I found Emmanuel, the money-lender, who had accompanied Timothy, fancying that I was in want of more assistance, and but too willing to give it. His surprise was very great when I told him that I wished to repay the money I had borrowed.
"Vell, dis is very strange! I have lent my monish a tousand times, and never once they did offer it me back. Vell, I will take it, sar."
"But how much must I give you, Mr Emmanuel, for the ten days' loan?"
"How moch—vy you remember, you vill give de bond money—de fifteen hundred."
"What! five hundred pounds interest for ten days, Mr Emmanuel; no, no, that's rather too bad. I will, if you please, pay you back eleven hundred pounds, and that I think is very handsome."
"I don't want my monish, my good sar. I lend you one tousand pounds, on de condition that you pay me fifteen hundred when you come into your properties, which will be in very short time. You send for me, and tell me you vish to pay back de monish directly; I never refuse monish—if you wish to pay, I will take, but I will not take von farding less dan de monish on de bond."
"Very well, Mr Emmanuel, just as you please; I offer you your money back, in presence of my servant, and one hundred pounds for the loan of it for ten days. Refuse it if you choose, but I earnestly recommend you to take it."
"I will not have de monish, sar; dis is de child's play," replied the Jew. "I must have my fifteen hundred—all in goot time, sar—I am in no hurry—I vish you a very good morning, Mr Newland. Ven you vish for more monish to borrow, I shall be happy to pay my respects." So saying, the Jew walked out of the room, with his arm behind his back as usual.
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-bye, Timothy, here have I been, more than so many years out of the Foundling Hospital, and have never yet inquired if any one has ever been to reclaim me."
"Very true; and I think I'll step myself to the workhouse, at St Bridget's, and ask whether any one 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 St Bridget's also, if you please."
"As for St 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."
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 effect 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. Fair-fax is Saxon for light hair. Is it 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 every thing?"
"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 you can 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 cannnot 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—"
"Well, 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.
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 country 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 postmark, 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."
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 bedroom, 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 protege, and I may add the protege 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.