Japhet in Search of a Father
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“And Nattée,” said I.
“Will follow my fortunes, whatever they may be—you will see her no more.”
“For myself I care not, Melchior; the world is before me, and remain with the gipsies without you I will not: but answer me one question—what is to become of little Fleta? Is she to remain with the tribe, to which she does not belong, or does she go with you?”
Melchior hesitated. “I hardly can answer; but what consequence can the welfare of a soldier’s brat be to you?”
“Allowing her to be what you assert, Melchior, I am devotedly attached to that child, and could not bear that she should remain here. I am sure that you deceived me in what you stated; for the child remembers, and has told me, anecdotes of her infancy, which proves that she is of no mean family, and that she has been stolen from her friends.”
“Indeed, is her memory so good?” replied Melchior, firmly closing his teeth. “To Nattée or to me she has never hinted so much.”
“That is very probable; but a stolen child she is, Melchior, and she must not remain here.”
“Must not!”
“Yes; must not, Melchior: when you quit the tribe, you will no longer have any power, nor can you have any interest about her. She shall then choose—if she will come with me, I will take her, and nothing shall prevent me; and in so doing I do you no injustice, nor do I swerve in my fidelity.”
“How do you know that? I may have my secret reasons against it.”
“Surely you can have no interest in a soldier’s brat, Melchior?”
Melchior appeared confused and annoyed. “She is no soldier’s brat: I acknowledge, Japhet, that the child was stolen; but you must not, therefore, imply that the child was stolen by me or by my wife.”
“I never accused you, or thought you capable of it; and that is the reason why I am now surprised at the interest you take in her. If she prefers to go with you, have no more to say, but if not, I claim her; and if she consents, will resist your interference.”
“Japhet,” replied Melchior after a pause, “we must not quarrel now that we are about to part. I will give you an answer in half an hour.”
Melchior returned to Nattée, and recommenced a conversation with her, while I hastened to Fleta.
“Fleta, do you know that the camp is to be broken up, and Melchior and Nattée leave it together?”
“Indeed!” replied she with surprise. “Then what is to become of you and Timothy?”
“We must of course seek our fortunes where we can.”
“And of me?” continued she, looking me earnestly in the face with her large blue eyes. “Am I to stay here?” continued she—with alarm in her countenance.
“Not if you do not wish it, Fleta: as long as I can support you I will—that is, if you would like to live with me in preference to Melchior.”
“If I would like, Japhet! you must know I would like,—who has been so kind to me as you? Don’t leave me, Japhet.”
“I will not, Fleta; but on condition that you promise to be guided by me, and to do all I wish.”
“To do what you wish is the greatest pleasure that I have, Japhet—so I may safely promise that. What has happened?”
“That I do not know more than yourself: but Melchior tells me that he and Nattée quit the gipsy tents for ever.”
Fleta looked round to ascertain if anyone was near us, and then in a low tone said, “I understand their language, Japhet, that is, a great deal of it, although they do not think so, and I overheard what the gipsy said in part, although he was at some distance. He asked for Melchior; and when Nattée wanted to know what he wanted, he answered that he was dead; then Nattée covered up her face. I could not hear all the rest, but there was something about a horse.”
He was dead. Had then Melchior committed murder, and was obliged to fly the country? This appeared to me to be the most probable, when I collected the facts in my possession; and yet I could not believe it: for except that system of deceit necessary to carry on his various professions, I never found anything in Melchior’s conduct which could be considered as criminal. On the contrary, he was kind, generous, and upright in his private dealings, and in many points proved that he had a good heart. He was a riddle of inconsistency, it was certain; professionally he would cheat anybody, and disregard all truth and honesty but in his private character he was scrupulously honest, and with the exception of the assertion relative to Fleta’s birth and parentage, he had never told me a lie, that I could discover. I was summing up all these reflections in my mind, when Melchior again came up to me, and desiring the little girl to go away, he said, “Japhet, I have resolved to grant your request with respect to Fleta, but it must be on conditions.”
“Let me hear them.”
“First, then, Japhet, as you always have been honest and confiding with me, tell me now what are your intentions. Do you mean to follow up the profession which you learnt under me, or what do you intend to do?”
“Honestly, then, Melchior, I do not intend to follow up that profession, unless driven to it by necessity. I intend to seek my father.”
“And if driven to it by necessity, do you intend that Fleta shall aid you by her acquirements? In short, do you mean to take her with you as a speculation, to make the most of her, to let her sink, when she arrives at the age of woman, into vice and misery?”
“I wonder at your asking me that question, Melchior; it is the first act of injustice I have received at your hands. No; if obliged to follow up the profession, I will not allow Fleta so to do. I would sooner that she were in her grave. It is to rescue her from that very vice and misery, to take her out of a society in which she never ought to have been placed, that I take her with me.”
“And this upon your honour?”
“Yes, upon my honour. I love her as my sister, and cannot help indulging in the hope that in seeking my father I may chance to stumble upon hers.”
Melchior bit his lips. “There is another promise I must exact from you, Japhet, which is, that to a direction which I will give you, every six months you will enclose an address where you may be heard of, and also intelligence as to Fleta’s welfare and health.”
“To that I give my cheerful promise; but, Melchior, you appear to have taken, all at once, a strange interest in this little girl.”
“I wish you now to think that I do take an interest in her, provided you seek not to inquire the why and the wherefore. Will you accept of funds for her maintenance?”
“Not without necessity compels me; and then I should be glad to find, when I can no longer help her, that you are still her friend.”
“Recollect, that you will always find what is requisite by writing to the address which I shall give you before we part. That point is now settled, and on the whole I think the arrangement is good.”
Timothy had been absent during the events of the morning—when he returned, I communicated to him what had passed, and was about to take place.
“Well, Japhet, I don’t know—I do not dislike our present life, yet I am not sorry to change it; but what are we to do?”
“That remains to be considered: we have a good stock of money, fortunately, and we must husband it till we find what can be done.”
We took our suppers all together for the last time, Melchior telling us that he had determined to set off the next day. Nattée looked very melancholy, but resigned; on the contrary, little Fleta was so overjoyed, that her face, generally so mournful, was illuminated with smiles whenever our eyes met. It was delightful to see her so happy. The whole of the people in the camp had retired, and Melchior was busy making his arrangements in the tent. I did not feel inclined to sleep; I was thinking and revolving in my mind my prospects for the future; sitting, or rather lying down, for I was leaning on my elbow, at a short distance from the tents. The night was dark but clear, and the stars were brilliant. I had been watching them, and I thought upon Melchior’s ideas of destiny, and dwelling on the futile wish that I could read mine, when I perceived the approach of Nattée.
“Japhet,” said she, “you are to take the little girl with you, I find—will you be careful of her? for it would be on my conscience if she were left to the mercy of the world. She departs rejoicing, let not her joy end in tears. I depart sorrowing. I leave my people, my kin, my habits, and customs, my influence, all—but it must be so, it is my destiny. She is a good child, Japhet—promise me that you will be a friend to her—and give her this to wear in remembrance of me, but—not yet—not till we are gone—” She hesitated. “Japhet, do not let Melchior see it in your possession; he may not like me having given it away.” I took the piece of paper containing the present, and having promised all she required, “This is the last—yes—the very last time that I may behold this scene,” continued Nattée, surveying the common, the tents, and the animals browsing. “Be it so; Japhet, good night, may you prosper!” She then turned away and entered her tent; and soon afterwards I followed her example.
The next day, Melchior was all ready. What he had packed up was contained in two small bundles. He addressed the people belonging to the gang, in their own language. Nattée did the same, and the whole of them kissed her hand. The tents, furniture, and the greatest part of his other property, were distributed among them. Jumbo and Num were made over to two of the principal men. Timothy, Fleta, and I were also ready, and intended to quit at the same time as Melchior and his wife.
“Japhet,” said Melchior, “there is yet some money due to you for our last excursion—(this was true,)—here it is—you and Timothy keep but one purse, I am aware. Good-bye, and may you prosper!”
We shook hands with Nattée and Melchior. Fleta went up to the former, and, crossing her arms, bent her head. Nattée kissed the child, and led her to Melchior. He stooped down, kissed her on the forehead, and I perceived a sign of strongly suppressed emotion as he did so. Our intended routes lay in a different direction; and when both parties had arrived to either verge of the common, we waved our hands as a last farewell, and resumed our paths again. Fleta burst into tears as she turned away from her former guardians.
Part 1—Chapter XVII
A Cabinet Council—I resolve to set up as a Gentleman, having as Legitimate Pretensions to the Rank of one as many others.
I led the little sobbing girl by the hand, and we proceeded for some time in silence. It was not until we gained the high road that Timothy interrupted my reverie, by observing, “Japhet, have you at all made up your mind what you shall do?”
“I have been reflecting, Timothy. We have lost a great deal of time. The original intention with which I left London has been almost forgotten; but it must be so no longer. I now have resolved that as soon as I have placed this poor little girl in safety, that I will prosecute my search, and never be diverted from it.”
“I cannot agree with you that we have lost time, Japhet? we had very little money when we started upon our expedition, and now we have sufficient to enable you to prosecute your plans for a long time. The question is, in what direction? We quitted London, and travelled west, in imitation, as we thought, of the wise men. With all deference, in my opinion, it was like two fools.”
“I have been thinking upon that point also, Tim, and I agree with you, I expect, from several causes, which you know as well as I do, to find my father among the higher classes of society; and the path we took when we started has led us into the very lowest. It appears to me that we cannot do better than retrace our steps. We have the means now to appear as gentlemen, and to mix in good company; and London is the very best place for us to repair to.”
“That is precisely my opinion, Japhet, with one single exception, which I will mention to you: but first tell me, have you calculated what our joint purses may amount to? It must be a very considerable sum.”
I had not examined the packet in which was the money which Melchior had given me at parting. I now opened it, and found, to my surprise, that there were Bank notes to the amount of one hundred pounds. I felt that he had given me this large sum that it might assist me in Fleta’s expenses. “With this sum,” said I, “I cannot have much less than two hundred and fifty pounds.”
“And I have more than sixty,” said Timothy. “Really, the profession was not unprofitable.”
“No,” replied I, laughing; “but recollect, Tim, that we had no outlay. The public provided us with food, our lodging cost us nothing. We have had no taxes to pay; and at the same time have taxed folly and credulity to a great extent.”
“That’s true, Japhet; and although I am glad to have the money, I am not sorry that we have abandoned the profession.”
“Nor am I, Tim; if you please, we will forget it altogether. But tell me, what was the exception you were about to make?”
“Simply this. Although upwards of three hundred pounds may be a great deal of money, yet, if we are to support the character and appearance of gentlemen, it will not last for ever. For instance, we must have our valets. What an expense that will be! Our clothes too—we shall soon lose our rank and station in society, without we obtain a situation under government.”
“We must make it last as long as we can, Timothy; and trust to good fortune to assist us.”
“That’s all very well, Japhet; but I had rather trust to our own prudence. Now hear what I have to say. You will be as much assisted by a trusty valet as by any other means. I shall, as a gentleman, be only an expense and an incumbrance; but as a valet I shall be able to play into your hands, at the same time more than one half the expense will be avoided. With your leave, therefore, I will take my proper situation, put on your livery, and thereby make myself of the greatest use.”
I could not help acknowledging the advantages to be derived from this proposal of Timothy’s; but I did not like to accept it.
“It is very kind of you, Timothy,” replied I; “but I can only look upon you as a friend and an equal.”
“There you are right and are wrong in the same breath. You are right in looking upon me as a friend, Japhet; and you would be still more right in allowing me to prove my friendship as I propose; but you are wrong in looking upon me as an equal, for I am not so either in personal appearance, education, or anything else. We are both foundlings, it is true; but you were christened after Abraham Newland, and I after the workhouse pump. You were a gentleman foundling, presenting yourself with a fifty-pound note, and good clothes. I made my appearance in rags and misery. If you find your parents, you will rise in the world; if I find mine, I shall, in all probability, have no reason to be proud of them. I therefore must insist upon having my own choice in the part I am to play in the drama, and I will prove to you that it is my right to choose. You forget that, when we started, your object was to search after your father, and I told you mine should be to look after my mother. You have selected high life as the expected sphere in which he is to be found, and I select low life as that in which I am most likely to discover the object of my search. So you perceive,” continued Tim, laughing, “that we must arrange so as to suit the views of both without parting company. Do you hunt among bag-wigs, amber-headed canes, silks and satins—I will burrow among tags and tassels, dimity and mob caps; and probably we shall both succeed in the object of our search. I leave you to hunt in the drawing-rooms, while I ferret in the kitchen. You may throw yourself on a sofa and exclaim—‘Who is my father?’ while I will sit in the cook’s lap, and ask her if she may happen to be my mother.”
This sally of Timothy’s made even Fleta laugh; and after a little more remonstrance, I consented that he should perform the part of my valet. Indeed, the more I reflected upon it, the greater appeared the advantages which might accrue from the arrangement. By the time that this point had been settled, we had arrived at the town to which we directed our steps, and took up our quarters at an inn of moderate pretensions, but of very great external cleanliness. My first object was to find out some fitting asylum for little Fleta. The landlady was a buxom, good-tempered young woman, and I gave the little girl into her charge, while Timothy and I went out on a survey. I had made up my mind to put her to some good, but not very expensive, school, if such were to be found in the vicinity. I should have preferred taking her with me to London, but I was aware how much more expensive it would be to provide for her there; and as the distance from the metropolis was but twenty miles, I could easily run down to see her occasionally. I desired the little girl to call me her brother, as such I intended to be to her in future, and not to answer every question they might put to her. There was, however, little occasion for this caution; for Fleta was, as I before observed, very unlike children in general. I then went out with Timothy to look for a tailor, that I might order our clothes, as what we had on were not either of the very best taste, or in the very best condition. We walked up the main street, and soon fell in with a tailor’s shop, over which was written in large letters—“Feodor Shneider, Tailor to his Royal Highness the Prince of Darmstadt.”
“Will that do, Japhet?” said Timothy, pointing to the announcement.
“Why yes,” replied I; “but how the deuce the Prince of Darmstadt should have employed a man in a small country town as his tailor, is to me rather a puzzle.”
“Perhaps he made his clothes when he was in Germany,” replied Tim.
“Perhaps he did; but, however, he shall have the honour of making mine.”
We entered the shop, and I ordered a suit of the most fashionable clothes, choosing my colours, and being very minute in my directions to the foreman, who measured me; but as I was leaving the shop the master, judging by my appearance, which was certainly not exactly that of a gentleman, ventured to observe that it was customary with gentlemen, whom they had not the honour of knowing, to leave a deposit. Although the very proposal was an attack upon my gentility, I made no reply; but pulling out a handful of guineas, laid down two on the counter and walked away, that I might find another shop at which we might order the livery of Timothy; but this was only as a reconnoitre, as I did not intend to order his liveries until I could appear in my own clothes, which were promised on the afternoon of the next day. There were, however, several other articles to be purchased, such as a trunk, portmanteau, hat, gloves, etcetera, all which we procured, and then went back to the inn. On my return I ordered dinner. Fleta was certainly clad in her best frock, but bad was the best; and the landlady, who could extract little from the child, could not imagine who we could be. I had, however, allowed her to see more than sufficient money to warrant our expenses; and so far her scruples were, although her curiosity was not, removed.
That evening I had a long conversation with Fleta. I told her that we were to part, that she must go to school, and that I would very often come down to see her. At first, she was inconsolable at the idea; but I reasoned with her, and the gentle, intelligent creature acknowledged that it was right. The next day my clothes came home, and I dressed myself. “Without flattery, Japhet,” said Timothy, “you do look very much like a gentleman.” Fleta smiled, and said the same. I thought so too, but said nothing. Putting on my hat and gloves, and accompanied by Timothy, I descended to go out and order Tim liveries, as well as a fitout for Fleta.
After I was out in the street I discovered that I had left my handkerchief, and returned to fetch it. The landlady, seeing a gentleman about to enter the inn, made a very low courtesy, and it was not until I looked hard at her that she recognised me. Then I was satisfied; it was an involuntary tribute to my appearance, worth all the flattering assertions in the world. We now proceeded to the other tailor’s in the main street. I entered the shop with a flourishing, important air, and was received with many bows. “I wish,” said I, “to have a suit of livery made for this young man, who is about to enter into my service. I cannot take him up to town this figure.” The livery was chosen, and as I expressed my wish to be off the next evening, it was promised to be ready by an hour appointed.
I then went to a milliner’s, and desired that she would call at the inn to fit out a little girl for school, whose wardrobe had been left behind by mistake. On the fourth day all was ready. I had made inquiries, and found out a very respectable school, kept by a widow lady. I asked for references, which were given, and I was satisfied. The terms were low—twenty pounds per annum. I paid the first half year in advance, and lodged fifty guineas more in the hands of a banker, taking a receipt for it, and giving directions that it was to be paid to the schoolmistress as it became due. I took this precaution, that should I be in poverty myself, at all events Fleta might be provided in clothes and schooling for three years at least. The poor child wept bitterly at the separation, and I could with difficulty detach her little arms from my neck; and I felt when I left her as if I had parted with the only valuable object to me on earth.
All was now ready; but Timothy did not, as yet, assume his new clothes. It would have appeared strange that one who sat at my table should afterwards put on my livery; and as in a small town there is always plenty of scandal, for Fleta’s sake, if for no other reason, it was deferred until our arrival in London. Wishing the landlady good-bye, who I really believed would have given up her bill to have known who we could possibly be, we got on the outside of the stage-coach, and in the evening arrived at the metropolis. I have been particular in describing all these little circumstances, as it proves how very awkward it is to jump, without observation, from one station in society to another.
Part 1—Chapter XVIII
I receive a Letter from my Uncle, by which I naturally expect to find out who is my Father—Like other Outcasts I am warned by a Dream.
But I have omitted to mention a circumstance of great importance which occurred at the inn the night before I placed Fleta at the boarding-school. In looking over my portmanteau, I perceived the present of Nattée to Fleta, which I had quite forgotten. I took it to Fleta, and told her from whom it came. On opening the paper, it proved to contain a long chain of round coral and gold beads, strung alternately; the gold beads were not so large as the coral, but still the number of them, and the purity of the metal, made them of considerable value. Fleta passed the beads through her fingers, and then threw it round her neck, and sat in deep thought for some minutes. “Japhet,” said she at last, “I have seen this—I have worn this before—I recollect that I have; it rushes into my memory as an old friend, and I think that before morning it will bring to my mind something that I shall recollect about it.”
“Try all you can Fleta, and let me know to-morrow.”
“It’s no use trying; if I try, I never can recollect anything. I must wear it to-night, and then I shall have something come into my mind all of a sudden; or perhaps I may dream something. Good night.”
It immediately occurred to me that it was most probable that the chain had been on Fleta’s neck at the time that she was stolen from her parents, and might prove the means of her being identified. It was no common chain—apparently had been wrought by people in a state of semi-refinement. There was too little show for its value—too much sterling gold for the simple effect produced; and I very much doubted whether another like it could be found.
The next morning Fleta was too much affected at parting with me, to enter into much conversation. I asked whether she had recollected anything, and she replied, “No; that she had cried all night at the thoughts of our separation.” I cautioned her to be very careful of the chain, and I gave the same caution to the schoolmistress; and after I had left the town, I regretted that I had not taken it away, and deposited it in some place of security. I resolved to do so when I next saw Fleta; in the mean time she would be able, perhaps, by association, to call up some passage of her infancy connected with it.