Japhet in Search of a Father

Part 2—Chapter IX

I decide upon Honesty as the best Policy, and what is more strange, receive legal Advice upon this important Point.

Timothy and I burst into laughter. “Really, Timothy,” observed I, “it appears that very little art is necessary to deceive the world, for in every instance they will deceive themselves. The Jew is off my conscience, at all events, and now he never will be paid, until—”

“Until when, Japhet?”

“Until I find out my father,” replied I.

“Everything is put off till that time arrives, I observe,” said Timothy. “Other people will soon be as interested in the search as yourself.”

“I wish they were; unfortunately it is a secret, which cannot be divulged.”

A ring at the bell called Timothy down stairs; he returned with a letter, it was from Lord Windermear, and ran as follows:—

“My dear Newland,—I have been thinking about you ever since you left me this morning, and as you appear resolved to prosecute your search, it has occurred to me that you should go about it in a more systematic way. I do not mean to say that what I now propose will prove of any advantage to you, but still it may, as you will have a very old, and very clever head to advise with. I refer to Mr Masterton, my legal adviser, from whom you had the papers which led to our first acquaintance. He is aware that you were (I beg your pardon) an impostor, as he has since seen Mr Estcourt. The letter enclosed is for him, and with that in your hand you may face him boldly, and I have no doubt but that he will assist you all in his power, and put you to no expense. Narrate your whole history to him, and then you will hear what he may propose. He has many secrets, much more important than yours. Wishing you every success that your perseverance deserves, Believe me,—

“Yours very truly,—

“Windermear.”

“I believe the advice to be good,” said I, after reading the letter. “I am myself at fault, and hardly know how to proceed. I think I will go at once to the old gentleman, Timothy.”

“It can do no harm, if it does no good. Two heads are better than one,” replied Timothy. “Some secrets are too well kept, and deserting a child is one of those which is confided but to few.”

“By-the-by, Timothy, here have I been, more than so many years out of the Foundling Hospital, and have never yet inquired if anyone has ever been to reclaim me.”

“Very true; and I think I’ll step myself to the workhouse, at Saint Bridget’s, and ask whether anyone has asked about me,” replied Timothy, with a grin.

“There is another thing that I have neglected,” observed I, “which is, to inquire at the address in Coleman Street, if there is any letter from Melchior.”

“I have often thought of him,” replied Timothy. “I wonder who he can be—there is another mystery there. I wonder whether we shall ever fall in with him again—and Nattée, too?”

“There’s no saying, Timothy. I wonder where that poor fool, Philotas, and our friend Jumbo, are now?”

The remembrance of the two last personages made us both burst out a laughing.

“Timothy, I’ve been reflecting that my intimacy with poor Carbonnell has rather hindered than assisted me in my search. He found me with a good appearance, and he has moulded me into a gentleman, so far as manners, and appearance are concerned; but the constant vortex, in which I have been whirled in his company has prevented me from doing anything. His melancholy death has perhaps been fortunate for me. It has left me more independent in circumstances and more free. I must now really set to in earnest.”

“I beg your pardon, Japhet, but did not you say the same when we first set off on our travels, and yet remain more than a year with the gipsies? Did not you make the same resolution when we arrived in town, with our pockets full of money, and yet, once into fashionable society, think but little, and occasionally, of it? Now you make the same resolution, and how long will you keep it?”

“Nay, Timothy, that remark is hardly fair; you know that the subject is ever in my thoughts.”

“In your thoughts, I grant, very frequently; but you have still been led away from the search.”

“I grant it, but I presume that arises from not knowing how to proceed. I have a skein to unravel, and cannot find out an end to commence with.”

“I always thought people commenced with the beginning,” replied Tim, laughing.

“At all events, I will now try back, and face the old lawyer. Do you call at Coleman Street, Tim, and at Saint Bridget’s also, if you please.”

“As for Saint Bridget’s, I’m in no particular hurry about my mother; if I stumble upon her I may pick her up, but I never make diligent search after what, in every probability, will not be worth the finding.”

Leaving Timothy to go his way, I walked to the house at Lincoln’s Inn, which I had before entered upon the memorable occasion of the papers of Estcourt. As before, I rang the bell, the door swang open, and I was once more in the presence of Mr Masterton.

“I have a letter, sir,” said I, bowing, and presenting the letter from Lord Windermear.

The old gentleman peered at me through his spectacles. “Why! we have met before—bless me—why you’re the rogue that—”

“You are perfectly right, sir,” interrupted I. “I am the rogue who presented the letter from Lord Windermear, and who presents you with another from the same person; do me the favour to read it, while I take a chair.”

“Upon my soul—you impudent—handsome dog, I must say—great pity—come for money, I suppose. Well, it’s a sad world,” muttered the lawyer as he broke open the letter of Lord Windermear.

I made no reply, but watched his countenance, which changed to that of an expression of surprise. “Had his lordship sent me a request to have you hanged, if possible,” said Mr Masterton, “I should have felt no surprise; but in this letter he praises you, and desires me to render you all the service in my power. I can’t understand it.”

“No, sir; but if you have leisure to listen to me, you will then find that, in this world, we may be deceived by appearances.”

“Well, and so I was, when I first saw you; I never could have believed you to be—but never mind.”

“Perhaps, sir, in an hour or two you will again alter your opinion. Are you at leisure, or will you make an appointment for some future day?”

“Mr Newland, I am not at leisure—I never was more busy; and if you had come on any legal business, I should have put you off for three or four days, at least; but my curiosity is so raised, that I am determined that I will indulge it at the expense of my interest. I will turn the key, and then you will oblige me by unravelling, what, at present, is to me as curious as it is wholly incomprehensible.”

Part 2—Chapter X

I attempt to profit by Intelligence I receive, and throw a Lady into Hysterics.

In about three hours I had narrated the history of my life, up to the very day, almost as much detailed as it has been to the reader. “And now, Mr Masterton,” said I, as I wound up my narrative, “do you think that I deserve the title of rogue, which you applied to me when I came in?”

“Upon my word, Mr Newland, I hardly know what to say; but I like to tell the truth. To say that you have been quite honest, would not be correct—a rogue, to a certain degree, you have been, but you have been the rogue of circumstances. I can only say this, that there are greater rogues than you, whose characters are unblemished in the world—that most people in your peculiar situation would have been much greater rogues; and, lastly, that rogue or not rogue, I have great pleasure in taking you by the hand, and will do all I possibly can to serve you—and that for your own sake. Your search after your parents I consider almost tantamount to a wild-goose chase; but still, as your happiness depends upon it, I suppose it must be carried on; but you must allow me time for reflection. I will consider what may be the most judicious method of proceeding. Can you dine tête-à-tête with me here on Friday, and we then will talk over the matter?”

“On Friday, sir; I am afraid that I am engaged to Lady Maelstrom; but that is of no consequence—I will write an excuse to her ladyship.”

“Lady Maelstrom! how very odd that you should bring up her name after our conversation.”

“Why so, my dear sir?”

“Why!” replied Mr Masterton, chuckling; “because—recollect, it is a secret, Mr Newland—I remember some twenty years ago, when she was a girl of eighteen, before she married, she had a little faux pas, and I was called in about a settlement, for the maintenance of the child.”

“Is it possible, sir?” replied I, anxiously.

“Yes, she was violently attached to a young officer, without money, but of good family; some say it was a private marriage, others, that he was—a rascal. It was all hushed up; but he was obliged by the friends, before he left for the West Indies, to sign a deed of maintenance, and I was the party called in. I never heard any more about it. The officer’s name was Warrender: he died of the yellow fever, I believe, and after his death she married Lord Maelstrom.”

“He is dead, then?” replied, I mournfully.

“Well, that cannot affect you, my good fellow. On Friday, then, at six o’clock precisely. Good afternoon, Mr Newland.”

I shook hands with the old gentleman, and returned home, but my brain whirled with the fear of a confirmation, of that which Mr Masterton had so carelessly conveyed. Anything like a possibility, immediately was swelled to a certainty in my imagination, so ardent and heated on the one subject; and as soon as I regained my room, I threw myself on the sofa, and fell into a deep reverie. I tried to approximate the features of Lady Maelstrom to mine, but all the ingenuity in the world could not affect that; but still, I might be like my father—but my father was dead, and that threw a chill over the whole glowing picture which I had, as usual, conjured up; besides, it was asserted that I was born in wedlock, and there was a doubt relative to the marriage of her ladyship.

After a long cogitation I jumped up, seized my hat, and set off for Grosvenor Square, determining to ask a private interview with her ladyship, and at once end my harassing doubts and surmises. I think there could not be a greater proof of my madness than my venturing to attack a lady of forty upon the irregularities of her youth, and to question her upon a subject which had been confided but to two or three, and she imagined had been long forgotten: but this never struck me; all considerations were levelled in my ardent pursuit. I walked through the streets at a rapid pace, the crowd passed by me as shadows, I neither saw nor distinguished them; I was deep in reverie as to the best way of breaking the subject to her ladyship, for, notwithstanding my monomania, I perceived it to be a point of great delicacy. After having overturned about twenty people in my mad career, I arrived at the door and knocked. My heart beat almost as hard against my ribs with excitement.

“Is her ladyship at home?”

“Yes, sir.”

I was ushered into the drawing-room, and found her sitting with two of her nieces, the Misses Fairfax.

“Mr Newland, you have been quite a stranger,” said her ladyship, as I walked up to her and made my obeisance. “I did intend to scold you well; but I suppose that sad affair of poor Major Carbonnell’s has been a heavy blow to you—you were so intimate—lived together, I believe, did you not? However, you have not so much cause to regret, for he was not a very proper companion for young men like you: to tell you the truth, I consider it as a fortunate circumstance that he was removed, for he would, by degrees, have led you into all manner of mischief, and have persuaded you to squander your fortune. I did at one time think of giving you a hint, but it was a delicate point. Now that he is gone, I tell you very candidly that you have had an escape. A young man like you, Mr Newland, who could command an alliance into the highest, yes, the very highest families—and let me tell you, Mr Newland, that there is nothing like connection—money is of no consequence to you, but connection, Mr Newland, is what you should look for—connection with some high family, and then you will do well. I should like to see you settled—well settled, I mean, Mr Newland. Now that you are rid of the major, who has ruined many young men in his time, I trust you will seriously think of settling down into a married man. Cecilia, my dear, show your tambour work to Mr Newland, and ask him his opinion. Is it not beautiful, Mr Newland?”

“Extremely beautiful, indeed, ma’am,” replied I, glad at last that her ladyship allowed me to speak a word.

“Emma, my dear, you look pale, you must go out into the air. Go, children, put your bonnets on and take a turn in the garden; when the carriage comes round I will send for you.”

The young ladies quitted the room. “Nice innocent girls, Mr Newland; but you are not partial to blondes, I believe?”

“Indeed, Lady Maelstrom, I infinitely prefer the blonde to the brunette.”

“That proves your taste, Mr Newland. The Fairfaxes are of a very old family—Saxon, Mr Newland. Fairfax is Saxon for light hair. Is is not remarkable that they should be blondes to this day? Pure blood, Mr Newland. You, of course, have heard of General Fairfax in the time of Cromwell. He was their direct ancestor—an excellent family and highly connected, Mr Newland. You are aware that they are my nieces. My sister married Mr Fairfax.”

I paid the Misses Fairfax the compliments which I thought they really deserved, for they were very pretty amiable girls, and required no puffing on the part of her ladyship; and then I commenced. “Your ladyship has expressed such kind wishes towards me, that I cannot be sufficiently grateful; but, perhaps, your ladyship may think me romantic, I am resolved never to marry, except for love.”

“A very excellent resolve, Mr Newland; there are few young men who care about love now-a-days, but I consider that love is a great security for happiness in the wedded state.”

“True, madam, and what can be more delightful than a first attachment? I appeal to your ladyship, was not your first attachment the most delightful—are not the reminiscences most lasting—do you not, even now, call to mind those halcyon days when love was all and everything?”

“My days of romance are long past, Mr Newland,” replied her ladyship; “indeed I never had much romance in my composition. I married Lord Maelstrom for the connection, and I loved him pretty well, that is, soberly, Mr Newland. I mean, I loved him quite enough to marry him, and to obey my parents, that is all.”

“But, my dear Lady Maelstrom, I did not refer to your marriage with his lordship; I referred to your first love.”

“My first love, Mr Newland; pray what do you mean?” replied her ladyship, looking very hard at me.

“Your ladyship need not be ashamed of it. Our hearts are not in our own keeping, nor can we always control our passions. I have but to mention the name of Warrender.”

“Warrender!” shrieked her ladyship. “Pray, Mr Newland,” continued her ladyship, recovering herself, “who gave you that piece of information?”

“My dear Lady Maelstrom, pray do not be displeased with me, but I am very particularly interested in this affair. Your love for Mr Warrender, long before your marriage, is well known to me; and it is to that love, to which I referred, when I asked you if it was not most delightful.”

“Well, Mr Newland,” replied her ladyship, “how you have obtained the knowledge I know not, but there was, I acknowledge, a trifling flirtation with Edward Warrender and me—but I was young, very young at that time.”

“I grant it; and do not, for a moment, imagine that I intend to blame your ladyship; but, as I before said, madam, I am much interested in the business.”

“What interest can you have with a little flirtation of mine, which took place before you were born, I cannot imagine, Mr Newland.”

“It is because it took place before I was born, that I feel so much interest.”

“I cannot understand you, Mr Newland, and I think we had better change the subject.”

“Excuse me, madam, but I must request to continue it a little longer. Is Mr Warrender dead or not? Did he die in the West Indies?”

“You appear to be very curious on this subject, Mr Newland; I hardly can tell. Yes, now I recollect, he did die of the yellow fever, I think—but I have quite forgotten all about it—and I shall answer no more questions; if you were not a favourite of mine, Mr Newland, I should say that you were very impertinent.”

“Then, your ladyship, I will put but one more question, and that one I must put with your permission.”

“I should think, after what I have said, Mr Newland, that you might drop the subject.”

“I will, your ladyship, immediately; but pardon me the question—”

“Mr Newland—?”

“Do not be angry with me—”

“Well?” exclaimed her ladyship, who appeared alarmed.

“Nothing but the most important and imperative reasons could induce me to ask the question,” (her ladyship gasped for breath, and could not speak,)—I stammered, but at last I brought it out. “What has become of—of—of the sweet pledge of your love, Lady Maelstrom?”

Her ladyship coloured up with rage, raised up her clenched hand, and then fell back in violent hysterics.

Part 2—Chapter XI

I repair the Damage, and make things worse—Plot and counterplot—Tim gains a Watch by setting Watch upon his Tongue.

I hardly knew how to act—if I called the servants, my interview would be at an end, and I was resolved to find out the truth—for the same reason, I did not like to ring for water. Some vases with flowers were on the table; I took out the flowers, and threw the water in her face, but they had been in the water some time, and had discoloured it green. Her ladyship’s dress was a high silk gown, of a bright slate colour, and was immediately spoiled; but this was no time to stand upon trifles. I seized hold of a glass bottle, fancying, in my hurry, it was eau de cologne, or some essence, and poured a little into her mouth; unfortunately, it was a bottle of marking ink, which her ladyship, who was very economical, had on the table in disguise. I perceived my error, and had recourse to another vase of flowers, pouring a large quantity of the green water down her throat. Whether the unusual remedies had an effect, or not, I cannot tell, but her ladyship gradually revived, and, as she leant back on the sofa, sobbing every now and then, convulsively, I poured into her ear a thousand apologies, until I thought she was composed enough to listen to me.

“Your ladyship’s maternal feelings,” said I.

“It’s all a calumny! a base lie, sir!” shrieked she.

“Nay, nay, why be ashamed of a youthful passion; why deny what was in itself creditable to your unsophisticated mind. Does not your heart, even now, yearn to embrace your son—will not you bless me, if I bring him to your feet—will not you bless your son, and receive him with delight?”

“It was a girl,” screamed her ladyship, forgetting herself, and again falling into hysterics.

“A girl!” replied I; “then I have lost my time, and it is no use my remaining here.”

Mortified at the intelligence which overthrew my hopes and castle buildings, I seized my hat, descended the stairs, and quitted the house; in my hurry and confusion quite forgetting to call the servants to her ladyship’s assistance. Fortunately I perceived the Misses Fairfax close to the iron railing of the garden. I crossed the road, wished them good-bye, and told them that I thought Lady Maelstrom looked very ill, and they had better go in to her. I then threw myself into the first hackney-coach, and drove home. I found Timothy had arrived before me, and I narrated all that had passed.

“You will never be able to go there again,” observed Timothy, “and depend upon it, she will be your enemy through life. I wish you had not said anything to her.”

“What is done cannot be undone; but recollect, that if she can talk, I can talk also.”

“Will she not be afraid?”

“Yes, openly, she will; and open attacks can be parried.”

“Very true.”

“But it will be as well to pacify her, if I can. I will write to her.” I sat down and wrote as follows:—

“My dear Lady Maelstrom,—I am so astonished and alarmed at the situation I put you in, by my impertinence and folly, that I hardly know how to apologise. The fact is, that looking over some of my father’s old letters, I found many from Warrender, in which he spoke of an affair with a young lady, and I read the name as your maiden name, and also discovered where the offspring was to be found. On re-examination, for your innocence was too evident at our meeting to admit of a doubt, I find that the name, although something like yours, is spelt very differently, and that I must have been led into an unpardonable error. What can I say except that I throw myself on your mercy? I dare not appear before you again. I leave town to-morrow; but if you can pardon my folly and impertinence, and allow me to pay my respects when London is full again, and time shall have softened down your just anger, write me one line to that effect, and you will relieve the burdened conscience of—