Japhet in Search of a Father
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“I beg your pardon, Newland,” said the major, returning from his dressing-room, resplendent with chains and bijouterie; “but I must have your Christian name.”
“It’s rather a strange one,” replied I; “it is Japhet.”
“Japhet! by the immortal powers, I’d bring an action against my godfathers and godmothers; you ought to recover heavy damages.”
“Then I presume you would not have the name,” replied I, with a knowing look, “for a clear ten thousand a year.”
“Whew! that alters the case—it’s astonishing how well any name looks in large gold letters. Well, as the old gentleman, whoever he might have been, made you compensation, you must forgive and forget. Now where shall we go?”
“With your permission, as I came to town in these clothes, made by a German tailor—Darmstadt’s tailor, by-the-by—but still if tailor to a prince, not the prince of tailors—I would wish you to take me to your own: your dress appears very correct.”
“You show your judgment, Newland, it is correct; Stulz will be delighted to have your name on his books, and to do justice to that figure. Allons donc.”
We sauntered up Saint James’s Street, and before I had arrived at Stulz’s, I had been introduced to at least twenty of the young men about town. The major was most particular in his directions about the clothes, all of which he ordered; and as I knew that he was well acquainted with the fashion, I gave him carte blanche. When we left the shop, he said, “Now, my dear Newland, I have given you a proof of friendship, which no other man in England has had. Your dress will be the ne plus ultra. There are little secrets only known to the initiated, and Stulz is aware that this time I am in earnest. I am often asked to do the same for others, and I pretend so to do: but a wink from me is sufficient, and Stulz dares not dress them. Don’t you want some bijouterie? or have you any at home?”
“I may as well have a few trifles,” replied I.
We entered a celebrated jeweller’s, and he selected for me to the amount of about forty pounds. “That will do—never buy much; for it is necessary to change every three months at least. What is the price of this chain?”
“It is only fifteen guineas, major.”
“Well, I shall take it; but recollect,” continued the major, “I tell you honestly I never shall pay you.”
The jeweller smiled, bowed, and laughed; the major threw the chain round his neck, and we quitted the shop.
“At all events, major, they appear not to believe your word in that shop.”
“My dear fellow, that’s their own fault, not mine. I tell them honestly I never will pay them; and you may depend upon it, I intend most sacredly to keep my word. I never do pay anybody, for the best of all possible reasons, I have no money; but then I do them a service—I make them fashionable, and they know it.”
“What debts do you pay then, major?”
“Let me think—that requires consideration. Oh! I pay my washerwoman.”
“Don’t you pay your debts of honour?”
“Debts of honour! why I’ll tell you the truth; for I know that we shall hunt in couples. If I win I take the money: but if I lose—why then I forget to pay; and I always tell them so before I sit down to the table. If they won’t believe me, it’s not my fault. But what’s the hour? Come, I must make a few calls, and will introduce you.”
We sauntered on to Grosvenor Square, knocked, and were admitted into a large, elegantly-furnished mansion. The footman announced us—“My dear Lady Maelstrom, allow me the honour of introducing to you my very particular friend, Mr Newland, consigned to my charge by my Lord Windermear during his absence. He has just arrived from the Continent, where he has been making the grand tour.”
Her ladyship honoured me with a smile. “By-the-by, major, that reminds me—do me the favour to come to the window. Excuse us one moment, Mr Newland.”
The major and Lady Maelstrom walked to the window and exchanged a few sentences, and then returned. Her ladyship holding up her finger, and saying to him as they came towards me, “Promise me now that you won’t forget.”
“Your ladyship’s slightest wishes are to me imperative commands,” replied the major, with a graceful bow.
In a quarter of an hour, during which the conversation was animated, we rose to take our leave, when her ladyship came up to me, and offering her hand said, “Mr Newland, the friendship of Lord Windermear, and the introduction of Major Carbonnell, are more than sufficient to induce me to put your name down on my visiting list. I trust I shall see a great deal of you, and that we shall be great friends.”
I bowed to this handsome announcement, and we retired. As soon as we were out in the square, the major observed, “You saw her take me on one side—it was to pump. She has no daughters, but about fifty nieces, and match-making is her delight. I told her that I would stake my honour upon your possessing ten thousand a year; how much more I could not say. I was not far wrong, was I?”
I laughed. “What I may be worth, major, I really cannot say; but I trust that the event will prove that you are not far wrong. Say no more, my dear fellow.”
“I understand—you are not yet of age—of course, have not yet come into possession of your fortune.”
“That is exactly the case, major. I am now but little more than nineteen.”
“You look older; but there is no getting over baptismal registries with the executors. Newland, you must content yourself for the two next years in playing Moses, and only peep at the promised land.”
We made two or three more calls and then returned to Saint James’s Street. “Where shall we go now? By-the-by, don’t you want to go to your banker’s?”
“I will just stroll down with you, and see if they have paid any money in,” replied I, carelessly.
We called at Drummond’s, and I asked them if there was any money paid into the credit of Mr Newland.
“Yes, sir,” replied one of the clerks: “there is one thousand pounds paid in yesterday.”
“Very good,” replied I.
“How much do you wish to draw for?” inquired the major.
“I don’t want any,” replied I. “I have more money than I ought to have in my desk at this moment.”
“Well, then, let us go and order dinner; or perhaps you would like to stroll about a little more; if so, I will go and order the dinner. Here’s Harcourt, that’s lucky. Harcourt, my dear fellow, know Mr Newland, my very particular friend. I must leave you now; take his arm, Harcourt, for half an hour, and then join us at dinner at the Piazza.”
Mr Harcourt was an elegant young man of about five-and-twenty. Equally pleased with each other’s externals, we were soon familiar: he was witty, sarcastic, and well bred. After half an hour’s conversation he asked me what I thought of the major. I looked him in the face and smiled. “That look tells me that you will not be his dupe, otherwise I had warned you: he is a strange character; but if you have money enough to afford to keep him, you cannot do better, as he is acquainted with, and received by, everybody. His connections are good; and he once had a very handsome fortune, but it was soon run out, and he was obliged to sell his commission in the Guards. Now he lives upon the world; which, as Shakspeare says, is his oyster; and he has wit and sharpness enough to open it. Moreover, he has some chance of falling into a peerage; that prospect, and his amusing qualities, added to his being the most fashionable man about town, keeps his head above water. I believe Lord Windermear, who is his cousin, very often helps him.”
“It was Lord Windermear who introduced me to him,” observed I.
“Then he will not venture to play any tricks upon you further than eating your dinners, borrowing your money, and forgetting to pay it.”
“You must acknowledge,” said I, “he always tells you beforehand that he never will pay you.”
“And that is the only point in which he adheres to his word,” replied Harcourt, laughing; “but, tell me, am I to be your guest to-day?”
“If you will do me that honour.”
“I assure you I am delighted to come, as I shall have a further opportunity of cultivating your acquaintance.”
“Then we had better bend our steps towards the hotel for it is late,” replied I; and we did so accordingly.
Part 1—Chapter XXII
The real Simon Pure proves the worse of the two—I am found guilty, but not condemned; convicted, yet convince; and after having behaved the very contrary to, prove that I am, a Gentleman.
On our arrival, we found the table spread, champagne in ice under the sideboard, and apparently everything prepared for a sumptuous dinner, the major on the sofa giving directions to the waiter, and Timothy looking all astonishment.
“Major,” said I, “I cannot tell you how much I am obliged to you for your kindness in taking all this trouble off my hands, that I might follow up the agreeable introduction you have given me to Mr Harcourt.”
“My dear Newland, say no more; you will, I dare say, do the same for me if I require it, when I give a dinner. (Harcourt caught my eye, as if to say, ‘You may safely promise that.’) But, Newland, do you know that the nephew of Lord Windermear has just arrived? Did you meet abroad?”
“No,” replied I, somewhat confused; but I soon recovered myself. As for Tim, he bolted out of the room. “What sort of a person is he?”
“That you may judge for yourself, my dear fellow, for I asked him to join us, I must say, more out of compliment to Lord Windermear than anything else; for I am afraid that even I could never make a gentleman of him. But take Harcourt with you to your room, and by the time you have washed your hands, I will have dinner on the table. I took the liberty of desiring your valet to show me in about ten minutes ago. He’s a shrewd fellow that of yours—where did you pick him up?”
“By mere accident,” replied I: “come, Mr Harcourt.”
On our return we found the real Simon Pure, Mr Estcourt, sitting with the major, who introduced us, and dinner being served, we sat down to table.
Mr Estcourt was a young man, about my own age, but not so tall by two or three inches. His features were prominent, but harsh; and when I saw him, I was not at all surprised at Lord Windermear’s expressions of satisfaction, when he supposed that I was his nephew. His countenance was dogged and sullen, and he spoke little: he appeared to place an immense value upon birth, and hardly deigned to listen, except the aristocracy were the subject of discourse. I treated him with marked deference, that I might form an acquaintance, and found before we parted that night, that I had succeeded. Our dinner was excellent, and we were all, except Mr Estcourt, in high good humour. We sat late—too late to go to the theatre, and promising to meet the next day at noon, Harcourt and the major took their leave.
Mr Estcourt had indulged rather too much, and, after their departure, became communicative. I plied the bottle, and we sat up for more than an hour; he talked of nothing but his family and his expectations. I took this opportunity of discovering what his feelings were likely to be when he was made acquainted with the important secret which was in my possession. I put a case somewhat similar and asked him whether in such circumstances he would waive his right for a time, to save the honour of his family.
“No, by Gad!” replied he, “I never would. What! give up even for a day my right—conceal my true rank for the sake of relatives? never—nothing would induce me.”
I was satisfied, and then casually asked him if he had written to Lord Windermear to inform him of his arrival.
“No,” replied he; “I shall write to-morrow.” He soon after retired to his own apartment, and I rang for Timothy.
“Good heavens, sir!” cried Timothy, “what is all this—and what are you about? I am frightened out of my wits. Why, sir, our money will not last two months.”
“I do not expect it will last much longer, Tim; but it cannot be helped. Into society I must get—and to do so, must pay for it.”
“But, sir, putting the expense aside, what are we to do about this Mr Estcourt? All must be found out.”
“I intend that it shall be found out, Tim,” replied I; “but not yet. He will write to his uncle to-morrow; you must obtain the letter, for it must not go. I must first have time to establish myself, and then Lord Windermear may find out his error as soon as he pleases.”
“Upon my honour, Japhet, you appear to be afraid of nothing.”
“I fear nothing, Tim, when I am following up the object of my wishes. I will allow no obstacles to stand in my way, in my search after my father.”
“Really, you seem to be quite mad on that point, Japhet.”
“Perhaps I may be, Tim,” replied I, thoughtfully. “At all events, let us go to bed now, and I will tell you to-morrow morning, all the events of this day.”
Mr Estcourt wrote his letter, which Tim very officiously offered to put into the post, instead of which we put it between the bars of the grate.
I must now pass over about three weeks, during which I became very intimate with the major and Mr Harcourt, and was introduced by them to the clubs, and almost every person of fashion. The idea of my wealth, and my very handsome person and figure, insured me a warm reception, and I soon became one of the stars of the day. During this time, I also gained the entire confidence of Mr Estcourt, who put letter after letter into the hands of Timothy, who of course put them into the usual place. I pacified him as long as I could, by expressing my opinion, that his lordship was on a visit to some friends in the neighbourhood of his seat; but at last, he would remain in town no longer. You may go now, thought I, I feel quite safe.
It was about five days after his departure, as I was sauntering, arm and arm, with the major, who generally dined with me about five days in the week, that I perceived the carriage of Lord Windermear, with his lordship in it. He saw us, and pulling his check-string, alighted, and coming up to us, with the colour mounting to his forehead with emotion, returned the salute of the major and me.
“Major,” said he, “you will excuse me, but I am anxious to have some conversation with Mr Newland: perhaps,” continued his lordship, addressing me, “you will do me the favour to take a seat in my carriage?”
Fully prepared. I lost none of my self-possession, but, thanking his lordship, I bowed to him, and stepped in. His lordship followed, and, saying to the footman, “Home—drive fast,” fell back in the carriage, and never uttered one word until we had arrived, and had entered the dining-parlour. He then took a few steps up and down, before he said, “Mr Newland, or whatever your name may be, I perceive that you consider the possession of an important secret to be your safeguard. To state my opinion of your conduct is needless; who you are, and what you are, I know not; but,” continued he, no longer controlling his anger, “you certainly can have no pretensions to the character of a gentleman.”
“Perhaps your lordship,” replied I, calmly, “will inform me upon what you may ground your inference.”
“Did you not, in the first place, open a letter addressed to another?”
“My lord, I opened a letter brought to me with the initials of my name, and at the time I opened it I fully believed that it was intended for me.”
“We will grant that, sir; but after you had opened it you must have known that it was for some other person.”
“I will not deny that, my lord.”
“Notwithstanding which, you apply to my lawyer, representing yourself as another person, to obtain sealed papers.”
“I did, my lord; but allow me to say, that I never should have done so, had I not been warned by a dream.”
“By a dream?”
“Yes, my lord. I had determined not to go for them, when in a dream I was ordered so to do.”
“Paltry excuse! and then you break private seals.”
“Nay, my lord, although I did go for the papers, I could not, even with the idea of supernatural interposition, make up my mind to break the seals. If your lordship will recollect, it was you who broke the seals, and insisted upon my reading the papers.”
“Yes, sir, under your false name.”
“It is the name by which I go at present, although I acknowledge it is false; but that is not my fault—I have no other at present.”
“It is very true, sir, that in all I have now mentioned the law will not reach you; but recollect, that by assuming another person’s name—”
“I never did, my lord,” interrupted I.
“Well, I may say, by inducing me to believe that you were my nephew, you have obtained money under false pretences; and for that I now have you in my power.”
“My lord, I never asked you for the money; you yourself paid it into the banker’s hands to my credit, and to my own name. I appeal to you now, whether, if you so deceived yourself, the law can reach me?”
“Mr Newland, I will say, that much as I regret what has passed, I regret more than all the rest, that one so young, so prepossessing, so candid in appearance, should prove such an adept in deceit. Thinking you were my nephew, my heart warmed towards you; and I must confess, that since I have seen my real nephew, the mortification has been very great.”
“My lord, I thank you; but allow me to observe, that I am no swindler. Your thousand pounds you will find safe in the bank, for penury would not have induced me to touch it. But now that your lordship appears more cool, will you do me the favour to listen to me? When you have heard my life up to the present, and my motives for what I have done, you will then decide how far I am to blame.”
His lordship took a chair, and motioned to me to take another. I narrated what had occurred when I was left at the Foundling, and gave him a succinct account of my adventures subsequently—my determination to find my father—the dream which induced me to go for the papers—and all that the reader has already been acquainted with. His lordship evidently perceived the monomania which controlled me, and heard me with great attention.
“You certainly, Mr Newland, do not stand so low in my opinion as you did before this explanation, and I must make allowances for the excitement under which I perceive you to labour on one subject; but now, sir, allow me to put one question, and I beg that you will answer candidly. What price do you demand for your secrecy on this important subject?”
“My lord!” replied I, rising with dignity; “this is the greatest affront you have put upon me yet; still I will name the price by which I will solemnly bind myself, by all my future hopes of finding my father in this world, and of finding an eternal Father in the next, and that price, my lord, is a return of your good opinion.”
His lordship also rose, and walked up and down the room with much agitation in his manner. “What am I to make of you, Mr Newland?”
“My lord, if I were a swindler, I should have taken your money; if I had wished to avail myself of the secret, I might have escaped with all the documents, and made my own terms. I am, my lord, nothing more than an abandoned child, trying all he can to find his father.” My feelings overpowered me, and I burst into tears. As soon as I could recover myself, I addressed his lordship, who had been watching me in silence, and not without emotion. “I have one thing more to say to you, my lord.” I then mentioned the conversation between Mr Estcourt and myself, and pointed out the propriety of not making him a party to the important secret.
His lordship allowed me to proceed without interruption, and after a few moments’ thought said, “I believe that you are right, Mr Newland; and I now begin to think that it was better that this secret should have been intrusted to you than to him. You have now conferred an obligation on me, and may command me. I believe you to be honest, but a little mad, and I beg your pardon for the pain which I have occasioned you.”
“My lord, I am more than satisfied.”
“Can I be of any assistance to you, Mr Newland?”
“If, my lord, you could at all assist me, or direct me in my search—”
“There I am afraid I can be of little use; but I will give you the means of prosecuting your search, and in so doing, I am doing but an act of justice, for in introducing you to Major Carbonnell, I am aware that I must have very much increased your expenses. It was an error which must be repaired, and therefore, Mr Newland, I beg you will consider the money at the bank as yours, and make use of it to enable you to obtain your ardent wish.”
“My lord—”
“I will not be denied, Mr Newland; and if you feel any delicacy on the subject, you may take it as a loan, to be repaid when you find it convenient. Do not, for a moment, consider that it is given to you because you possess an important secret, for I will trust entirely to your honour on that score.”
“Indeed, my lord,” replied I, “your kindness overwhelms me, and I feel as if, in you, I had already almost found a father. Excuse me, my lord, but did your lordship ever—ever—”
“I know what you would say, my poor fellow: no, I never did. I never was blessed with children. Had I been, I should not have felt that I was disgraced by having one resembling you. Allow me to entreat you, Mr Newland, that you do not suffer the mystery of your birth to weigh so heavily on your mind; and now I wish you good morning, and if you think I can be useful to you, I beg that you will not fail to let me know.”
“May Heaven pour down blessings on your head,” replied I, kissing respectfully his lordship’s hand; “and may my father, when I find him, be as like unto you as possible.” I made my obeisance, and quitted the house.
Part 1—Chapter XXIII
The Major prevents the Landlord from imposing on me, but I gain nothing by his Interference—For economical Reasons I agree to live with him that he may live on me.
I returned to the hotel, for my mind had been much agitated, and I wished for quiet, and the friendship of Timothy. As soon as I arrived I told him all that had passed.
“Indeed,” replied Timothy, “things do now wear a pleasant aspect; for I am afraid, that without that thousand, we could not have carried on for a fortnight longer. The bill here is very heavy, and I’m sure the landlord wishes to see the colour of his money.”
“How much do you think we have left? It is high time, Timothy, that we now make up our accounts, and arrange some plans for the future,” replied I. “I have paid the jeweller and the tailor, by the advice of the major, who says, that you should always pay your first bills as soon as possible, and all your subsequent bills as late as possible; and if put off sine die, so much the better. In fact, I owe very little now, but the bill here—I will send for it to-night.”
Here we were interrupted by the entrance of the landlord. “O Mr Wallace, you are the very person I wished to see; let me have my bill, if you please.”
“It’s not of the least consequence, sir,” replied he; “but if you wish it, I have posted down to yesterday,” and the landlord left the room.
“You were both of one mind, at all events,” said Timothy, laughing; “for he had the bill in his hand, and concealed it the moment you asked for it.”
In about ten minutes the landlord re-appeared, and presenting the bill upon a salver, made his bow and retired. I looked it over: it amounted to 104 pounds; which, for little more than three weeks, was pretty well. Timothy shrugged up his shoulders, while I ran over the items. “I do not see that there is anything to complain of, Tim,” observed I, when I came to the bottom of it; “but I do see that living here, with the major keeping me an open house, will never do. Let us see how much money we have left.”
Tim brought the dressing-case in which our cash was deposited, and we found, that after paying the waiters, and a few small bills not yet liquidated, our whole stock was reduced to fifty shillings.
“Merciful Heaven! what an escape,” cried Timothy; “if it had not been for this new supply, what should we have done?”
“Very badly, Timothy; but the money is well spent, after all. I have now entrance into the first circles. I can do without Major Carbonnell; at all events, I shall quit this hotel, and take furnished apartments, and live at the clubs. I know how to put him off.”
I laid the money on the salver, and desired Timothy to ring for the landlord, when who should come up but the major and Harcourt. “Why, Newland! what are you going to do with that money?” said the major.