Japhet in Search of a Father

Part 2—Chapter VI

The Major is very fortunate and very unfortunate—He receives a large Sum in Gold and one Ounce of Lead.

I dressed and went out, met Harcourt, dined with him, and on my return the major had not come home. It was then past midnight, and feeling little inclination to sleep, I remained in the drawing-room, waiting for his arrival. About three o’clock he came in, flushed in the face, and apparently in high good humour.

“Newland,” said he, throwing his pocket-book on the table, “just open that, and then you will open your eyes.”

I obeyed him, and to my surprise took out a bundle of bank notes; I counted up their value, and they amounted to 3500 pounds.

“You have been fortunate, indeed.”

“Yes,” replied the major; “knowing that in a short time I shall be certain of cash, one way or the other, I had resolved to try my luck with the 500 pounds. I went to the hazard table, and threw in seventeen times—hedged upon the deuce ace, and threw out with it—voilà. They won’t catch me there again in a hurry—luck like that only comes once in a man’s life; but, Japhet, there is a little drawback to all this. I shall require your kind attendance in two or three hours.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Merely an affair of honour. I was insulted by a vagabond, and we meet at six o’clock.”

“A vagabond—but surely, Carbonnell, you will not condescend—”

“My dear fellow, although as great a vagabond as there is on the face of the earth, yet he is a peer of the realm, and his title warrants the meeting—but, after all, what is it?”

“I trust it will be nothing, Carbonnell, but still it may prove otherwise.”

“Granted; and what then, my dear Newland? we all owe Heaven a death, and if I am floored, why then I shall no longer be anxious about title or fortune.”

“It’s a bad way of settling a dispute,” replied I, gravely.

“There is no other, Newland. How would society be held in check if it were not for duelling? We should all be a set of bears living in a bear-garden. I presume you have never been out?”

“Never,” replied I, “and had hoped that I never should have.”

“Then you must have better fortune, or better temper than most others, if you pass through life without an affair of this kind on your hands. I mean as principal, not as second. But, my dear fellow, I must give you a little advice, relative to your behaviour as a second; for I’m very particular on these occasions, and like that things should be done very correctly. It will never do, my dear Newland, that you appear on the ground with that melancholy face. I do not mean that you should laugh, or even smile, that would be equally out of character, but you should show yourself perfectly calm and indifferent. In your behaviour towards the other second, you must be most scrupulously polite, but, at the same time, never give up a point of dispute, in which my interest may be concerned. Even in your walk be slow, and move, as much as the ground will allow you, as if you were in a drawing-room. Never remain silent; offer even trivial remarks, rather than appear distrait. There is one point of great importance—I refer to choosing the ground, in which, perhaps, you will require my unperceived assistance. Any decided line behind me would be very advantageous to my adversary, such as the trunk of a tree, post, etcetera, even an elevated light or dark ground behind me is inadvisable. Choose, if you can, a broken light, as it affects the correctness of the aim; but as you will not probably be able to manage this satisfactorily, I will assist you. When on the ground, after having divided the sun fairly between us, I will walk about unconcernedly, and when I perceive a judicious spot, I will take a pinch of snuff and use my handkerchief, turning at the same time in the direction in which I wish my adversary to be placed. Take your cue from that, and with all suavity of manner insist as much as you can upon our being so placed. That must be left to your own persuasive powers. I believe I have now stated all that is necessary, and I must prepare my instruments.”

The major then went into his own room, and I never felt more nervous or more unhinged than after this conversation. I had a melancholy foreboding—but that I believe everyone has, when he, for the first time, has to assist at a mortal rencontre. I was in a deep musing when he returned with his pistols and all the necessary apparatus; and when the major pointed out to me, and made me once or twice practise the setting of the hair triggers, which is the duty of the second, an involuntary shudder came over me.

“Why, Newland, what is the matter with you? I thought that you had more nerve.”

“I probably should show more, Carbonnell, were I the principal instead of the second, but I cannot bear the reflection that some accident should happen to you. You are the only one with whom I have been on terms of friendship, and the idea of losing you is very, very painful.”

“Newland, you really quite unman me, and you may now see a miracle,” continued Carbonnell, as he pressed his hand to his eye, “the moisture of a tear on the cheek of a London roué, a man of the world, who has long lived for himself and for this world only. It never would be credited if asserted. Newland, there was a time when I was like yourself—the world took advantage of my ingenuousness and inexperience; my good feelings were the cause of my ruin, and then, by degrees, I became as callous and as hardened as the world itself. My dear fellow, I thought all affection, all sentiment, dried up within me, but it is not the case. You have made me feel that I have still a heart, and that I can love you. But this is all romance, and not fitted for the present time. It is now five o’clock, let us be on the ground early—it will give us an advantage.”

“I do not much like speaking to you on the subject, Carbonnell; but is there nothing that you might wish done in case of accident?”

“Nothing—why yes. I may as well. Give me a sheet of paper.” The major sat down and wrote for a few minutes. “Now, send Timothy and another here. Timothy, and you, sir, see me sign this paper, and put my seal to it. I deliver this as my act and deed. Put your names as witnesses.” They complied with his request, and then the major desired Timothy to call a hackney-coach. “Newland,” said the major, putting the paper, folded up, in my pocket, along with the bank notes, “take care of this for me till we come back.”

“The coach is at the door, sir,” said Timothy, looking at me, as if to say, “What can all this be about?”

“You may come with us and see,” said the major, observing Tim’s countenance, “and put that case into the coach.” Tim, who knew that it was the major’s case of pistols, appeared still more alarmed, and stood still without obeying the order. “Never mind, Tim, your master is not the one who is to use them,” said the major, patting him on the shoulder.

Timothy, relieved by this intelligence, went down stairs with the pistols; we followed him. Tim mounted on the box, and we drove to Chalk Farm. “Shall the coach wait?” inquired Timothy.

“Yes, by all means,” replied I, in a low voice. We arrived at the usual ground, where disputes of this kind were generally settled; and the major took a survey of it with great composure.

“Now observe, Japhet,” said he, “if you can contrive—; but here they are. I will give you the notice agreed upon.” The peer, whose title was Lord Tineholme, now came up with his second, whom he introduced to me as Mr Osborn. “Mr Newland,” replied the major, saluting Mr Osborn in return. We both took off our hats, bowed and then proceeded to our duty. I must do my adversary’s second the justice to say, that his politeness was fully equal to mine. There was no mention, on either side, of explanations and retractions—the insult was too gross, and the character of his lordship, as well as that of Major Carbonnell, was too well known. Twelve paces were proposed by Mr Osborn, and agreed to by me—the pistols of Major Carbonnell were gained by drawing lots—we had nothing more to do but to place our principals. The major took out his snuff-box, took a pinch, and blew his nose, turning towards a copse of beech trees.

“With your permission, I will mark out the ground, Mr Osborn,” said I, walking up to the major, and intending to pace twelve paces in the direction towards which he faced.

“Allow me to observe that I think a little more in this direction would be more fair for both parties,” said Mr Osborn.

“It would so, my dear sir,” replied I; “but, submitting to your superior judgment, perhaps it may not have struck you that my principal will have rather too much of the sun. I am incapable of taking any advantage, but I should not do my duty if I did not see every justice done to the major, who has confided to me in this unpleasant affair. I put it to you, sir, as a gentleman and man of honour, whether I am claiming too much?” A little amicable altercation took place on this point; but finding that I would not yield, and that at every reply I was more and more polite and bland in my deportment, Mr Osborn gave up the point. I walked the twelve paces, and Mr Osborn placed his principal. I observed that Lord Tineholme did not appear pleased; he expostulated with him, but it was then too late. The pistols had been already loaded—the choice was given to his lordship, and Major Carbonnell received the other from my hand, which actually trembled, while his was firm. I requested Mr Osborn to drop the handkerchief, as I could not make up my mind to give a signal which might be fatal to the major. They fired—Lord Tineholme fell immediately—the major remained on his feet for a second or two, and then sank down on the ground. I hastened up to him. “Where are you hurt?”

The major put his hand to his hip—“I am hit hard Newland, but not so hard as he is. Run and see.”

I left the major, and went up to where Lord Tineholme lay, his head raised on the knee of his second.

“It is all over with him, Mr Newland, the ball has passed through his brain.”

Part 2—Chapter VII

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 mean time, 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 haemorrhage. 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 pounds, 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 Saint James’s Street, the contents of his pocket-book intrusted to my care, and his personal effects, which, especially in bijouterie, were valuable. The house was worth about 4000 pounds, as he had told me. In his pocket-book were notes to the amount of 3500 pounds, and his other effects might be valued at 400 pounds. With all his debts and funeral expenses liquidated, and with my own money, I found myself in possession of about 8000 pounds—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 pounds 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.”

Part 2—Chapter VIII

A Chapter full of Morality, which ends in a Jew refusing upwards of 1000 Pounds, proving the Millennium 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.”