Фредерик Марриет
Japhet in Search of a Father
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.”
“Ah, my lord! it is very well for you to argue who have had a father and mother, and never felt the want of them; but if you knew how my heart yearns after my parents, you would not be surprised at my perseverance.”
“I am surprised at nothing in this world, Mr Newland; everyone pursues happiness in his own way; your happiness appears to be centred in one feeling, and you are only acting as the world does in general; but recollect that the search after happiness ends in disappointment.”
“I grant it but too often does, my lord; but there is pleasure in the chase,” replied I.
“Well, go, and may you prosper. All I can say is this, Mr Newland; do not have that false pride not to apply to me when you need assistance. Recollect, it is much better to be under an obligation, if such you will consider it, than to do that which is wrong; and that it is a very false pride which would blush to accept a favour, and yet not blush to do what it ought to be ashamed of. Promise me, Mr Newland, that upon any reverse or exigence, you will apply to me.”
“I candidly acknowledge to your lordship, that I would rather be under an obligation to anyone but you; and I trust you will clearly appreciate my feelings. I have taken the liberty of refunding the one thousand pounds you were so kind as to place at my disposal as a loan. At the same time I will promise, that, if at any time I should require your assistance, I will again request leave to become your debtor.” I rose again to depart.
“Farewell, Newland; when I thought you had behaved ill, and I offered to better you, you only demanded my good opinion; you have it, and have it so firmly, that it will not easily be shaken.” His lordship then shook hands with me, and I took my leave.
On my return I found Emmanuel, the money-lender, who had accompanied Timothy, fancying that I was in want of more assistance, and but too willing to give it. His surprise was very great when I told him that I wished to repay the money I had borrowed.
“Vell, dis is very strange! I have lent my monish a tousand times, and never once they did offer it me back. Vell, I will take it, sar.”
“But how much must I give you, Mr Emmanuel, for the ten days’ loan?”
“How moch—vy you remember, you vill give de bond money—de fifteen hundred.”
“What! five hundred pounds interest for ten days, Mr Emmanuel; no, no, that’s rather too bad. I will, if you please, pay you back eleven hundred pounds, and that I think is very handsome.”
“I don’t want my monish, my good sar. I lend you one tousand pounds, on de condition that you pay me fifteen hundred when you come into your properties, which will be in very short time. You send for me, and tell me you vish to pay back de monish directly; I never refuse monish—if you wish to pay, I will take, but I will not take von farding less dan de monish on de bond.”
“Very well, Mr Emmanuel, just as you please; I offer you your money back, in presence of my servant, and one hundred pounds for the loan of it for ten days. Refuse it if you choose, but I earnestly recommend you to take it.”
“I will not have de monish, sar; dis is de child’s play,” replied the Jew. “I must have my fifteen hundred—all in goot time, sar—I am in no hurry—I vish you a very good morning, Mr Newland. Ven you vish for more monish to borrow, I shall be happy to pay my respects.” So saying, the Jew walked out of the room, with his arm behind his back as usual.
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.
