Japhet in Search of a Father

Part 2—Chapter XXIX

Become Principal instead of Second in a Duel, and risk my own and another’s Life, my own and others’ Happiness and Peace of Mind, because I have been punished as I deserved.

After Captain Atkinson had left me, I stated to Timothy what had passed. “And do you think you will have to fight a duel, sir?” cried Timothy with alarm.

“There is no doubt of it,” replied I.

“You never will find your father, sir, if you go on this way,” said Timothy, as if to divert my attention from such a purpose.

“Not in this world, perhaps, Tim; perhaps I may be sent the right road by a bullet, and find him in the next.”

“Do you think your father, if dead, has gone to heaven?”

“I hope so, Timothy.”

“Then what chance have you of meeting him, if you go out of the world attempting the life of your old friend?”

“That is what you call a poser, my dear Timothy, but I cannot help myself: this I can safely say, that I have no animosity against Mr Harcourt—at least, not sufficient to have any wish to take away his life.”

“Well, that’s something, to be sure; but do you know, Japhet, I’m not quite sure you hit the right road when you set up for a gentleman.”

“No, Timothy, no man can be in the right road who deceives: I have been all wrong; and I am afraid I am going from worse to worse: but I cannot moralise, I must go to sleep, and forget everything, if I can.”

The next morning, about eleven o’clock, a Mr Cotgrave called upon me on the part of Harcourt. I referred him to Captain Atkinson, and he bowed and quitted the room. Captain Atkinson soon called: he had remained at home expecting the message, and had made every arrangement with the second. He stayed with me the whole day. The major’s pistols were examined and approved of. We dined, drank freely, and he afterwards proposed that I should accompany him to one of the hells, as they are called. This I refused, as I had some arrangements to make; and as soon as he was gone I sent for Timothy.

“Tim,” said I, “if I should be unlucky to-morrow, you are my executor and residuary legatee. My will was made when in Dublin, and is in the charge of Mr Cophagus.”

“Japhet, I hope you will allow me one favour, which is, to go to the ground with you. I had rather be there than remain here in suspense.”

“Of course, my dear fellow, if you wish it,” replied I; “but I must go to bed, as I am to be called at four o’clock—so let’s have no sentimentalising or sermonising. Good night, God bless you.”

I was, at that time, in a state of mind which made me reckless of life or of consequences; stung by the treatment which I received, mad with the world’s contumely, I was desperate. True it was, as Mr Masterton said, I had not courage to buffet against an adverse gale. Timothy did not go to bed, and at four o’clock was at my side. I rose, dressed myself with the greatest care, and was soon joined by Captain Atkinson. We then set off in a hackney-coach to the same spot to which I had, but a few months before, driven with poor Carbonnell. His memory and his death came like a cloud over my mind, but it was but for a moment. I cared little for life. Harcourt and his second were on the ground a few minutes before us. Each party saluted politely, and the seconds proceeded to business. We fired, and Harcourt fell, with a bullet above his knee. I went up to him, and he extended his hand. “Newland,” said he, “I have deserved this. I was a coward, in the first place, to desert you as I did—and a coward, in the second, to fire at a man whom I had injured. Gentlemen,” continued he, appealing to the seconds, “recollect, I, before you, acquit Mr Newland of all blame, and desire, if any further accident should happen to me, that my relations will take no steps whatever against him.”

Harcourt was very pale, and bleeding fast. Without any answer I examined the wound, and found, by the colour of the blood, and its gushing, that an artery had been divided. My professional knowledge saved his life. I compressed the artery, while I gave directions to the others. A handkerchief was tied tight round his thigh, above the wound—a round stone selected, and placed under the handkerchief, in the femoral groove, and the ramrod of one of the pistols then made use of as a winch, until the whole acted as a tourniquet. I removed my thumbs, found that the haemorrhage was stopped, and then directed that he should be taken home on a door, and surgical assistance immediately sent for.

“You appear to understand these things, sir,” said Mr Cotgrave. “Tell me, is there any danger?”

“He must suffer amputation,” replied I, in a low voice, so that Harcourt could not hear me. “Pray watch the tourniquet carefully as he is taken home, for should it slip it will be fatal.”

I then bowed to Mr Cotgrave, and, followed by Captain Atkinson, stepped into the hackney-coach and drove home. “I will leave you now, Newland,” said Captain Atkinson: “it is necessary that I talk this matter over, so that it is properly explained.”

I thanked Captain Atkinson for his services, and was left alone; for I had sent Timothy to ascertain if Harcourt had arrived safe at his lodgings. Never did I feel more miserable; my anxiety for Harcourt was indescribable; true, he had not treated me well, but I thought of his venerable father, who pressed my hand so warmly when I left his hospitable roof—of his lovely sisters, and the kindness and affection which they had shown towards me, and our extreme intimacy. I thought of the pain which the intelligence would give them, and their indignation towards me, when their brother first made his appearance at his father’s house, mutilated; and were he to die—good God! I was maddened at the idea. I had now undone the little good I had been able to do. If I had made Fleta and her mother happy, had I not plunged another family into misery?

Part 2—Chapter XXX

This is a strange World; I am cut by a Man of no Character, because he is fearful that I should injure his character.

Timothy returned, and brought me consolation—the bleeding had not recommenced, and Harcourt was in tolerable spirits. An eminent surgeon had been sent for. “Go again, my dear Timothy, and as you are intimate with Harcourt’s servant, you will be able to find out what they are about.”

Timothy departed, and was absent about an hour, during which I lay on the sofa, and groaned with anguish. When he returned, I knew by his face that his intelligence was favourable.

“All’s right,” cried Timothy; “no amputation after all. It was only one of the smaller arteries which was severed, and they have taken it up.”

I sprang up from the sofa and embraced Timothy, so happy was I with the intelligence, and then I sat down again, and cried like a child. At last I became more composed. I had asked Captain Atkinson to dine with me, and was very glad when he came. He confirmed Timothy’s report, and I was so overjoyed, that I sat late at dinner, drinking very freely, and when he again proposed that we should go to the rouge et noir table, I did not refuse—on the contrary, flushed with wine, I was anxious to go, and took all the money that I had with me. On our arrival Atkinson played, but finding that he was not fortunate, he very soon left off. As I had followed his game, I also had lost considerably, and he entreated me not to play any more—but I was a gamester, it appeared, and I would not pay attention to him, and did not quit the table until I had lost every shilling in my pocket. I left the house in no very good humour, and Atkinson, who had waited for me, accompanied me home.

“Newland,” said he, “I don’t know what you may think of me—you may have heard that I’m a roué, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, but this I always do, which is, caution those who are gamesters from their hearts. I have watched you to-night, and I tell you, that you will be ruined if you continue to frequent that table. You have no command over yourself. I do not know what your means may be, but this I do know, that if you were a Croesus, you would be a beggar. I cared nothing for you while you were the Mr Newland, the admired, and leader of the fashion; but I felt for you when I heard that you were scouted from society, merely because it was found out that you were not so rich as you were supposed to be. I had a fellow feeling, as I told you. I did not make your acquaintance to win your money—I can win as much as I wish from the scoundrels who keep the tables, or from those who would not scruple to plunder others; and I now entreat you not to return to that place—and am sorry, very sorry, that ever I took you there. To me, the excitement is nothing—to you it is overpowering. You are a gamester, or rather, you have it in your disposition. Take, therefore, the advice of a friend, if I may so call myself, and do not go there again. I hope you are not seriously inconvenienced by what you have lost to-night.”

“Not the least,” replied I. “It was ready money. I thank you for your advice, and will follow it. I have been a fool to-night, and one folly is sufficient.”

Atkinson then left me. I had lost about two hundred and fifty pounds, which included my winnings of the night before. I was annoyed at it, but I thought of Harcourt’s safety, and felt indifferent. The reader may recollect that I had three thousand pounds, which Mr Masterton had offered to put out at mortgage for me, but until he could find an opportunity, by his advice I had bought stock in the three per cents. Since that time he had not succeeded, as mortgages in general are for larger sums, and it had therefore remained. My rents were not yet due, and I was obliged to have recourse to this money. I therefore went into the city, and ordered the broker to sell out two hundred pounds, intending to replace it as soon as I could—for I would not have liked that Mr Masterton should have known that I had lost money by gambling. When I returned from the city, I found Captain Atkinson in my apartments, waiting for me.

“Harcourt is doing well, and you are not doing badly, I have let all the world know that you intend to call out whoever presumes to treat you with indifference.”

“The devil you have! but that is a threat which may easier be made than followed up by deeds.”

“Shoot two or three more,” replied Atkinson, coolly, “and then, depend upon it, you’ll have it all your own way. As it is, I acknowledge there has been some show of resistance, and they talk of making a resolution not to meet you, on the score of your being an impostor.”

“And a very plausible reason, too,” replied I; “nor do I think I have any right—I am sure I have no intention of doing as you propose. Surely, people have a right to choose their acquaintance, and to cut me, if they think I have done wrong. I am afraid, Captain Atkinson, you have mistaken me; I have punished Harcourt for his conduct towards me—he deserved punishment. I had claims on him; but I have not upon the hundreds, whom, when in the zenith of my popularity, I myself, perhaps, was not over courteous to. I cannot run the muck which you propose, nor do I consider that I shall help my character by so doing. I may become notorious, but certainly, I shall not obtain that species of notoriety which will be of service to me. No, no; I have done too much, I may say, already; and, although not so much to blame as the world imagines, yet my own conscience tells me, that by allowing it to suppose that I was what I was not, I have, to say the least, been a party to the fraud, and must take the consequence. My situation now is very unpleasant, and I ought to retire, and, if possible, re-appear with real claims upon the public favour. I have still friends, thank God! and influential friends. I am offered a writership in India—a commission in the army—or to study the law. Will you favour me with your opinion?”

“You pay me a compliment by asking my advice. A writership in India is fourteen years’ transportation, returning with plenty to live on, but no health to enjoy it. In the army you might do well, and, moreover, as an officer in the army, none dare refuse to go out with you. At the same time, under your peculiar circumstances, I think if you were in a crack regiment, you would, in all probability, have to fight one half the mess, and be put in Coventry by the other. You must then exchange on half-pay, and your commission would be a great help to you. As for the law—I’d sooner see a brother of mine in his coffin. There, you have my opinion.”

“Not a very encouraging one, at all events,” replied I, laughing; “but there is much truth in your observations. To India I will not go, as it will interfere with the great object of my existence.”

“And pray, if it be no secret, may I ask what that is?”

“To find out who is my father.”

Captain Atkinson looked very hard at me. “I more than once,” said he, “have thought you a little cracked, but now I perceive you are mad—downright mad: don’t be angry, I couldn’t help saying so, and if you wish me to give you satisfaction, I shall most unwillingly oblige you.”

“No, no, Atkinson, I believe you are not very far wrong, and I forgive you—but to proceed. The army, as you say, will give me a position in society, from my profession being that of a gentleman, but as I do not wish to take the advantage which you have suggested from the position, I shrink from putting myself into one which may lead to much mortification. As for the law, although I do not exactly agree with you in your abhorrence of the profession, yet I must say, that I do not like the idea. I have been rendered unfit for it by my life up to the present. But I am permitted to select any other.”

“Without wishing to pry into your affairs, have you sufficient to live upon?”

“Yes, in a moderate way; about a younger brother’s portion, which will just keep me in gloves, cigars, and eau de cologne.”

“Then take my advice and be nothing. The only difference I can see between a gentleman and anybody else, is that one is idle and the other works hard. One is a useless, and the other a useful, member of society. Such is the absurdity of the opinions of the world.”

“Yes, I agree with you, and would prefer being a gentleman in that respect, and do nothing, if they would admit me in every other; but that they will not do. I am in an unfortunate position.”

“And will be until your feelings become blunted as mine have been,” replied Atkinson. “Had you acquiesced in my proposal you would have done better. As it is, I can be of no use to you; nay, without intending an affront, I do not know if we ought to be seen together, for your decision not to fight your way is rather awkward, as I cannot back one with my support who will not do credit to it. Do not be angry at what I say; you are your own master, and have a right to decide for yourself. If you think yourself not so wholly lost as to be able eventually to recover yourself by other means, I do not blame you, as I know it is only from an error in judgment, and not from want of courage.”

“At present I am, I acknowledge, lost, Captain Atkinson; but if I succeed in finding my father—”

“Good morning, Newland, good morning,” replied he, hastily. “I see how it is; of course we shall be civil to each other when we meet, for I wish you well, but we must not be seen together, or you may injure my character.”

“Injure your character, Captain Atkinson?”

“Yes, Mr Newland, injure my character. I do not mean to say but that there are characters more respectable, but I have a character which suits me, and it has the merit of consistency. As you are not prepared, as the Americans say, to go the whole hog, we will part good friends, and if I have said anything to annoy you, I beg your pardon.”

“Good-bye, then, Captain Atkinson; for the kindness you have shown me I am grateful.” He shook my hand, and walked out of the room. “And for having thus broken up our acquaintance, more grateful still,” thought I, as he went down stairs.

Part 3—Chapter I

I cut my new Acquaintance, but his Company, even in so short a Time, proves my Ruin—Notwithstanding I part with all my Property, I retain my Honesty.

In the mean time, the particulars of the duel had found their way into the papers, with various comments, but none of them very flattering to me; and I received a note from Mr Masterton, who, deceived by the representations of that class of people who cater for newspapers, and who are but too glad to pull, if they possibly can, everyone to their own level, strongly animadverted upon my conduct, and pointed out the folly of it; adding, that Lord Windermear wholly coincided with him in opinion, and had desired him to express his displeasure. He concluded by observing, “I consider this to be the most serious false step which you have hitherto made. Because you have been a party to deceiving the public, and because one individual, who had no objection to be intimate with a young man of fashion, station, and affluence, does not wish to continue the acquaintance with one of unknown birth and no fortune, you consider yourself justified in taking his life. Upon this principle, all society is at an end, all distinctions levelled, and the rule of the gladiator will only be overthrown by the stiletto of the assassin.”

I was but ill prepared to receive this letter. I had been deeply thinking upon the kind offers of Lord Windermear, and had felt that they would interfere with the primum mobile of my existence, and I was reflecting by what means I could evade their kind intentions, and be at liberty to follow my own inclinations, when this note arrived. To me it appeared to be the height of injustice. I had been arraigned and found guilty upon an ex-parte statement. I forgot, at the time, that it was my duty to have immediately proceeded to Mr Masterton, and have fully explained the facts of the case; and that, by not having so done, I left the natural impression that I had no defence to offer. I forgot all this, still I was myself to blame—I only saw that the letter in itself was unkind and unjust—and my feelings were those of resentment. What right have Lord Windermear and Mr Masterton thus to school and to insult me? The right of obligations conferred. But is not Lord Windermear under obligations to me? Have I not preserved his secret? Yes; but how did I obtain possession of it? By so doing, I was only making reparation for an act of treachery. Well, then, at all events, I have a right to be independent of them, if I please—anyone has a right to assert his independence if he chooses. Their offers or service only would shackle me, if I accepted of their assistance. I will have none of them. Such were my reflections; and the reader must perceive that I was influenced by a state of morbid irritability—a sense of abandonment which prostrated me. I felt that I was an isolated being without a tie in the whole world. I determined to spurn the world as it had spurned me. To Timothy I would hardly speak a word. I lay with an aching head, aching from increased circulation. I was mad, or nearly so. I opened the case of pistols, and thought of suicide—reflection alone restrained me. I could not abandon the search after my father.

Feverish and impatient, I wished to walk out, but I dared not meet the public eye. I waited till dark, and then I sallied forth, hardly knowing where I went. I passed the gaming house—I did pass it, but I returned and lost every shilling; not, however, till the fluctuations of the game had persuaded me, that had I had more money to carry it on, I should have won.

I went to bed, but not to sleep; I thought of how I had been caressed and admired, when I was supposed to be rich. Of what use then was the money I possessed? Little or none. I made up my mind that I would either gain a fortune, or lose that which I had. The next morning I went into the city, and sold out all the remaining stock. To Timothy I had not communicated my intentions. I studiously avoided speaking to him: he felt hurt at my conduct, I perceived, but I was afraid of his advice and expostulation.

At night-fall I returned to the hell—played with various success; at one time was a winner of three times my capital, and I ended at last with my pockets being empty. I was indifferent when it was all gone, although in the highest state of excitement while the chances were turning up.

The next day I went to a house-agent, and stated my wish to sell my house, for I was resolved to try fortune to the last. The agent undertook to find a ready purchaser, and I begged an advance, which he made, and continued to make, until he had advanced nearly half the value. He then found a purchaser (himself, as I believe) at two thirds of its value. I did not hesitate, I had lost every advance, one after another, and was anxious to retrieve my fortune or be a beggar. I signed the conveyance and received the balance, fifteen hundred and fifty pounds, and returned to the apartments, no longer mine, about an hour before dinner. I called Timothy, and ascertaining the amount of bills due, gave him fifty pounds, which left him about fifteen pounds as a residue. I then sat down to my solitary meal, but just as I commenced I heard a dispute in the passage.

“What is that, Timothy?” cried I, for I was nervous to a degree.

“It’s that fellow Emmanuel, sir, who says that he will come up.”

“Yesh, I vill go up, sar.”

“Let him come, Timothy,” replied I. Accordingly Mr Emmanuel ascended. “Well, Emmanuel, what do you want with me?” said I, looking with contempt at the miserable creature who entered as before, with his body bent double, and his hand lying over his back.

“I vash a little out of breath, Mr Newland—I vash come to say dat de monish is very scarce—dat I vill accept your offer, and vill take de hundred pounds and my tousand which I have lent you. You too mush gentleman not to help a poor old man, ven he ish in distress.”

“Rather say, Mr Emmanuel, that you have heard that I have not ten thousand pounds per annum, and that you are afraid that you have lost your money.”

“Loshe my monish!—no—loshe my tousand pound! Did you not say, dat you would pay it back to me, and give me hundred pounds for my trouble; dat vash de last arrangement.”

“Yes, but you refused to take it, so it is not my fault. You must now stick to the first, which is to receive fifteen hundred pounds when I come into my fortune.”