"I'm glad of that," said Timothy, "for now I mean to sell my own medicine."

"Your medicine, Mr Dionysius! what do you mean by that?"

"Mean, sir; I mean to say that I've got a powder of my own contriving, which is a sovereign remedy."

"Remedy, sir, for what?"

"Why, it's a powder to kill fleas, and what's more, it's just as infallible as your own."

"Have you, indeed; and pray, sir, how did you hit upon the invention?"

"Sir, I discovered it in my sleep by accident; but I have proved it, and I will say, if properly administered, it is quite as infallible as any of yours. Ladies and gentlemen, I pledge you my honour that it will have the effect desired, and all I ask is sixpence a powder."

"But how is it to be used, sir?"

"Used—why, like all other powders; but I won't give the directions till I have sold some; promising, however, if my method does not succeed, to return the money."

"Well, that is fair, Mr Dionysius; and I will take care that you keep your bargain. Will anybody purchase the fool's powder for killing fleas."

"Yes, I will," replied a man on the broad grin, "here's sixpence. Now, then, fool, how am I to use it?"

"Use it," said Timothy, putting the sixpence in his pocket; "I'll explain to you. You must first catch the flea, hold him so tight between the forefinger and thumb as to force him to open his mouth; when his mouth is open you must put a very little of this powder into it, and it will kill him directly."

"Why, when I have the flea as tight as you state, I may as well kill him myself."

"Very true, so you may, if you prefer it; but if you do not, you may use this powder, which upon my honour is infallible."

This occasioned a great deal of mirth among the bystanders. Timothy kept his sixpence, and our exhibition for this day ended, very much to the satisfaction of Melchior, who declared he had taken more than ever he had done before in a whole week. Indeed, the whole sum amounted to L17, 10s., all taken in shillings and sixpences, for articles hardly worth the odd shillings in the account; so we sat down to supper with anticipations of a good harvest, and so it proved. We stayed four days at this town, and then proceeded onwards, when the like success attended us, Timothy and I being obliged to sit up nearly the whole night to label and roll up pills, and mix medicines, which we did in a very scientific manner. Nor was it always that Melchior presided; he would very often tell his audience that business required his attendance elsewhere, to visit the sick, and that he left the explanation of his medicines and their properties to his pupil, who was far advanced in knowledge. With my prepossessing appearance, I made a great effect, more especially among the ladies, and Timothy exerted himself so much when with me, that we never failed to bring home to Melchior a great addition to his earnings—so much so, that at last he only showed himself, pretended that he was so importuned to visit sick persons, that he could stay no longer, and then left us, after the first half hour, to carry on the business for him. After six weeks of uninterrupted success, we returned to the camp, which, as usual, was not very far off.



Chapter XVI

Important news, but not communicated—A dissolution of partnership takes place.

Melchior's profits had been much more than he anticipated, and he was very liberal to Timothy and myself; indeed, he looked upon me as his right hand, and became more intimate and attached every day. We were, of course, delighted to return to the camp, after our excursion. There was so much continued bustle and excitement in our peculiar profession, that a little quiet was delightful; and I never felt more happy than when Fleta threw herself into my arms, and Nattee came forward with her usual dignity and grace, but with more than usual condescendence and kindness, bidding me welcome home. Home—alas! it was never meant for my home, or poor Fleta's—and that I felt. It was our sojourn for a time, and no more.

We had been more than a year exercising our talents in this lucrative manner, when one day, as I was sitting at the entrance to the tent, with a book in my hand, out of which Fleta was reading to me, a gipsy not belonging to our gang made his appearance. He was covered with dust, and the dew drops hanging on his dark forehead, proved that he had travelled fast. He addressed Nattee, who was standing by, in their own language, which I did not understand; but I perceived that he asked for Melchior. After an exchange of a few sentences, Nattee expressed astonishment and alarm, put her hands over her face, and removed them as quickly, as if derogatory in her to show emotion, and then remained in deep thought. Perceiving Melchior approaching, the gipsy hastened to him, and they were soon in animated conversation. In ten minutes it was over: the gipsy went to the running brook, washed his face, took a large draught of water, and then hastened away and was soon out of sight.

Melchior, who had watched the departure of the gipsy, slowly approached us. I observed him and Nattee, as they met, as I was certain that something important had taken place. Melchior fixed his eyes upon Nattee—she looked at him mournfully—folded her arms, and made a slight bow as if in submission, and in a low voice, quoted from the Scriptures, "Whither thou goest, I will go—thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." He then walked away with her: they sat down apart, and were in earnest conversation for more than an hour.

"Japhet," said Melchior to me, after he had quitted his wife, "what I am about to tell you will surprise you. I have trusted you with all I dare trust any one, but there are some secrets in every man's life which had better be reserved for himself and her who is bound to him by solemn ties. We must now part. In a few days this camp will be broken up, and these people will join some other division of the tribe. For me, you will see me no more. Ask me not to explain, for I cannot."

"And Nattee," 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 Nattee 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, I 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 Nattee, and re-commenced a conversation with her, while I hastened to Fleta.

"Fleta, do you know that the camp is to be broken up, and Melchior and Nattee 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 Nattee quit the gipsy tents for ever."

Fleta looked round to ascertain if any one 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 Nattee wanted to know what he wanted, he answered that, 'he was dead;' then Nattee 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 her's."

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 inclose an address where you may be heard of, and also intelligence as to Fleta's welfare and health."

"To that I gave 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. Nattee 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 Nattee.

"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 Nattee, 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. Nattee 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 Nattee and Melchior. Fleta went up to the former, and crossing her arms, bent her head. Nattee 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.



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, &c., 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's liveries, as well as a fit-out 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 in 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.



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 Nattee 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 meantime, she would be able, perhaps, by association, to call up some passage of her infancy connected with it.

I had inquired of a gentleman who sat near me on the coach, which was the best hotel for a young man of fashion. He recommended the Piazza, in Covent Garden, and to that we accordingly repaired. I selected handsome apartments, and ordered a light supper. When the table was laid, Timothy made his appearance, in his livery, and cut a very smart, dashing figure. I dismissed the waiter, and as soon as we were alone, I burst into a fit of laughter. "Really, Timothy, this is a good farce; come, sit down, and help me to finish this bottle of wine."

"No, sir," replied Timothy; "with your permission, I prefer doing as the rest of my fraternity. You only leave the bottle on the sideboard, and I will steal as much as I want; but as for sitting down, that will be making too free, and if we were seen, would be, moreover, very dangerous. We must both keep up our characters. They have been plying me with all manner of questions below, as to who you were—your name, &c. I resolved that I would give you a lift in the world, and I stated that you had just arrived from making a grand tour—which is not a fib, after all—and as for your name, I said that you were at present incog."

"But why did you make me incog.?"

"Because it may suit you so to be; and it certainly is the truth, for you don't know your real name."

We were here interrupted by the waiter bringing in a letter upon a salver. "Here is a letter addressed to 'I, or J.N., on his return from his tour,' sir," said he; "I presume it is for you?"

"You may leave it," said I, with nonchalance.

The waiter laid the letter on the table, and retired.

"How very odd, Timothy—this letter cannot be for me; and yet they are my initials. It is as much like a J as an I. Depend upon it, it is some fellow who has just gained this intelligence below, and has written to ask for a subscription to his charity list, imagining that I am flush of money, and liberal."

"I suppose so," replied Tim; "however, you may just as well see what he says."

"But if I open it he will expect something. I had better refuse it."

"O no, leave that to me; I know how to put people off."

"After all, it is a fine thing to be a gentleman, and be petitioned."

I broke open the seal, and found that the letter contained an inclosure addressed to another person. The letter was as follows:—

"My dear Nephew,—['Bravo, sir,' said Timothy; 'you've found an uncle already—you'll soon find a father.'] From the great uncertainty of the post, I have not ventured to do more than hint at what has come to light during this last year, but as it is necessary that you should be acquainted with the whole transaction; and as you had not decided when you last wrote, whether you would prosecute your intended three months trip to Sicily, or return from Milan, you may probably arrive when I am out of town; I therefore enclose you a letter to Mr Masterton, directing him to surrender to you a sealed packet, lodged in his hands, containing all the particulars, the letters which bear upon them, and what has been proposed to avoid exposure; which you may peruse at your leisure, should you arrive before my return to town. There is no doubt but that the affair may be hushed up, and we trust that you will see the prudence of the measure; as, once known, it will be very discreditable to the family escutcheon. ('I always had an idea you were of good family,' interrupted Tim.) I wish you had followed my advice, and had not returned; but as you were positive on that point, I beg you will now consider the propriety of remaining incognito, as reports are already abroad, and your sudden return will cause a great deal of surmise. Your long absence at the Gottingen University, and your subsequent completion of your grand tour, will have effaced all remembrance of your person, and you can easily be passed off as a particular friend of mine, and I can introduce you everywhere as such. Take, then, any name you may please, provided it be not Smith or Brown, or such vulgarisms; and on the receipt of this letter, write a note, and send it to my house in Portman Square, just saying, 'so and so is arrived.' This will prevent the servants from obtaining any information by their prying curiosity; and as I have directed all my letters to be forwarded to my seat in Worcestershire, I shall come up immediately that I receive it, and by your putting the name which you mean to assume, I shall know whom to ask for when I call at the hotel.

"Your affectionate Uncle,

"Windermear."

"One thing is very clear, Timothy," said I, laying the letter on the table, "that it cannot be intended for me."

"How do you know, sir, that this lord is not your uncle? At all events, you must do as he bids you."

"What—go for the papers! most certainly I shall not."

"Then how in the name of fortune do you expect to find your father, when you will not take advantage of such an opportunity of getting into society? It is by getting possession of other people's secrets, that you will worm out your own."

"But it is dishonest, Timothy."

"A letter is addressed to you, in which you have certain directions; you break the seal with confidence, and you read what you find is possibly not for you; but, depend upon it, Japhet, that a secret obtained is one of the surest roads to promotion. Recollect your position; cut off from the world, you have to re-unite yourself with it, to recover your footing, and create an interest. You have not those who love you to help you—you must not scruple to obtain your object by fear."

"That is a melancholy truth, Tim," replied I; "and I believe I must put my strict morality in my pocket."

"Do, sir, pray, until you can afford to be moral; it's a very expensive virtue that; a deficiency of it made you an outcast from the world, you must not scruple at a slight deficiency on your own part, to regain your position."

There was so much shrewdness, so much of the wisdom of the serpent in the remarks of Timothy, that, added to my ardent desire to discover my father, which since my quitting the gipsy camp had returned upon me with two-fold force, my scruples were overcome, and I resolved that I would not lose such an opportunity. Still I hesitated, and went up into my room, that I might reflect upon what I should do. I went to bed, revolving the matter in my mind, and turning over from one position to the other, at one time deciding that I would not take advantage of the mistake, at another quite as resolved that I would not throw away such an opening for the prosecution of my search; at last I fell into an uneasy slumber, and had a strange dream. I thought that I was standing upon an isolated rock, with the waters raging around me; the tide was rising, and at last the waves were roaring at my feet. I was in a state of agony, and expected that, in a short time, I should be swallowed up. The main land was not far off, and I perceived well-dressed people in crowds, who were enjoying themselves, feasting, dancing, and laughing in merry peals. I held out my hands—I shouted to them—they saw, and heard me, but heeded me not. My horror at being swept away by the tide was dreadful. I shrieked as the water rose. At last I perceived something unroll itself from the main land, and gradually advancing to the inland, form a bridge by which I could walk over and be saved. I was about to hasten over, when "Private, and no thoroughfare," appeared at the end nearest me, in large letters of fire. I started back with amazement, and would not, dared not pass them. When all of a sudden, a figure in white appeared by my side, and said to me, pointing to the bridge, "Self-preservation is the first law of nature."

I looked at the person who addressed me; gradually the figure became darker and darker, until it changed to Mr Cophagus, with his stick up to his nose. "Japhet, all nonsense—very good bridge—um—walk over—find father—and so on." I dashed over the bridge, which appeared to float on the water, and to be composed of paper, gained the other side, and was received with shouts of congratulation, and the embraces of the crowd. I perceived an elderly gentleman come forward; I knew it was my father, and I threw myself into his arms. I awoke, and found myself rolling on the floor, embracing the bolster with all my might. Such was the vivid impression of this dream, that I could not turn my thoughts away from it, and at last I considered that it was a divine interposition. All my scruples vanished, and before the day had dawned I determined that I would follow the advice of Timothy. An enthusiast is easily led to believe what he wishes, and he mistakes his own feelings for warnings; the dreams arising from his daily contemplations for the interference of Heaven. He thinks himself armed by supernatural assistance, and warranted by the Almighty to pursue his course, even if that course should be contrary to the Almighty's precepts. Thus was I led away by my own imaginings, and thus was my monomania increased to an impetus which forced before it all consideration of what was right or wrong.



Chapter XIX

An important chapter—I make some important acquaintances, obtain some important papers which I am importunate to read through.

The next morning I told my dream to Timothy, who laughed very heartily at my idea of the finger of Providence. At last, perceiving that I was angry with him, he pretended to be convinced. When I had finished my breakfast, I sent to inquire the number in the square of Lord Windermear's town house, and wrote the following simple note to his lordship, "Japhet Newland has arrived from his tour at the Piazza, Covent Garden." This was confided to Timothy, and I then set off with the other letter to Mr Masterton, which was addressed to Lincoln's Inn. By reading the addresses of the several legal gentlemen, I found out that Mr Masterton was located on the first floor. I rang the bell, which had the effect of "Open, Sesame," as the door appeared to swing to admit me without any assistance. I entered an ante-room, and from thence found myself in the presence of Mr Masterton—a little old man, with spectacles on his nose, sitting at a table covered with papers. He offered me a chair, and I presented the letter.

"I see that I am addressing Mr Neville," said he, after he had perused the letter. "I congratulate you on your return. You may not, perhaps, remember me?"

"Indeed, sir, I cannot say that I do, exactly."

"I could not expect it, my dear sir, you have been so long away. You have very much improved in person, I must say; yet still, I recollect your features as a mere boy. Without compliment, I had no idea that you would ever have made so handsome a man." I bowed to the compliment. "Have you heard from your uncle?"

"I had a few lines from Lord Windermear, enclosing your letter."

"He is well, I hope?"

"Quite well, I believe."

Mr Masterton then rose, went to an iron safe, and brought out a packet of papers, which he put into my hands. "You will read these with interest, Mr Neville. I am a party to the whole transaction, and must venture to advise you not to appear in England under your own name, until all is settled. Your uncle, I perceive, has begged the same."

"And I have assented, sir. I have taken a name instead of my real one."

"May I ask what it is?"

"I call myself Mr Japhet Newland."

"Well, it is singular, but perhaps as good as any other. I will take it down, in case I have to write to you. Your address is—"

"Piazza—Covent Garden."

Mr Masterton took my name and address, I took the papers, and then we both took leave of one another, with many expressions of pleasure and good-will.

I returned to the hotel, where I found Timothy waiting for me, with impatience. "Japhet," said he, "Lord Windermear has not yet left town. I have seen him, for I was called back after I left the house, by the footman, who ran after me—he will be here immediately."

"Indeed," replied I. "Pray what sort of person is he, and what did he say to you?"

"He sent for me in the dining-parlour, where he was at breakfast, asked when you arrived, whether you were well, and how long I had been in your service. I replied that I had not been more than two days, and had just put on my liveries. He then desired me to tell Mr Newland that he would call upon him in about two hours. Then, my lord," replied I, "I had better go and tell him to get out of bed."

"The lazy dog!" said he, "nearly one o'clock, and not out of bed; well, go then, and get him dressed as fast as you can."

Shortly afterwards a handsome carriage with greys drew up to the door. His lordship sent in his footman to ask whether Mr Newland was at home. The reply of the waiter was, that there was a young gentleman who had been there two or three days, who had come from making a tour, and his name did begin with an N. "That will do, James; let down the steps." His lordship alighted, was ushered up stairs, and into my room. There we stood, staring at each other.

"Lord Windermear, I believe," said I, extending my hand.

"You have recognised me first, John," said he, taking my hand, and looking earnestly in my face. "Good heavens! is it possible that an awkward boy should have grown up into so handsome a fellow? I shall be proud of my nephew. Did you remember me when I entered the room?"

"To tell the truth, my lord, I did not; but expecting you, I took it for granted that it must be you."

"Nine years make a great difference, John;—but I forget, I must now call you Japhet. Have you been reading the Bible lately, that you fixed upon that strange name?"

"No, my lord, but this hotel is such a Noah's ark, that it's no wonder I thought of it."

"You're an undutiful dog, not to ask after your mother, sir."

"I was about—"

"I see—I see," interrupted his lordship; "but recollect, John, that she still is your mother. By-the-by, have you read the papers yet?"

"No, sir," replied I, "there they are," pointing to them on the side table. "I really do not like to break the seals."

"That they will not contain pleasant intelligence, I admit," replied his lordship; "but until you have read them, I do not wish to converse with you on the subject, therefore," said he, taking up the packet, and breaking the seals, "I must now insist that you employ this forenoon in reading them through. You will dine with me at seven, and then we will talk the matter over."

"Certainly, sir, if you wish it, I will read them."

"I must insist upon it, John; and am rather surprised at your objecting, when they concern you so particularly."

"I shall obey your orders, sir."

"Well, then, my boy, I shall wish you good morning, that you may complete your task before you come to dinner. To-morrow, if you wish it—but recollect, I never press young men on these points, as I am aware that they sometimes feel it a restraint—if you wish it, I say, you may bring your portmanteaus, and take up your quarters with me. By-the-bye," continued his lordship, taking hold of my coat, "who made this?"

"The tailor to his Serene Highness the Prince of Darmsradt had that honour, my lord," replied I.

"Humph! I thought they fitted better in Germany; it's not quite the thing—we must consult Stulz, for with that figure and face, the coat ought to be quite correct. Adieu, my dear fellow, till seven."

His lordship shook hands with me, and I was left alone. Timothy came in as soon as his lordship's carriage had driven off. "Well, sir," said he, "was your uncle glad to see you?"

"Yes," replied I; "and look, he has broken open the seals, and has insisted upon my reading the papers."

"It would be very undutiful in you to refuse, so I had better leave you to your task," said Timothy, smiling, as he quitted the room.



Chapter XX

I open an account with my bankers, draw largely upon credulity, and am prosperous without a check.

I sat down and took up the papers. I was immediately and strangely interested in all that I read. A secret!—it was, indeed, a secret, involving the honour and reputation of the most distinguished families. One that, if known, the trumpet of scandal would have blazoned forth to the disgrace of the aristocracy. It would have occasioned bitter tears to some, gratified the petty malice of many, satisfied the revenge of the vindictive, and bowed with shame the innocent as well as the guilty. It is not necessary, nor, indeed, would I, on any account, state any more. I finished the last paper, and then fell into a reverie. This is, indeed, a secret, thought I; one that I would I never had possessed. In a despotic country my life would be sacrificed to the fatal knowledge—here, thank God, my life as well as my liberty are safe.

The contents of the papers told me all that was necessary to enable me to support the character which I had assumed. The reason why the party, whom I was supposed to be, was intrusted with it, was, that he was in a direct line, eventually heir, and the question was whether he would waive his claim with the others, and allow death to bury crime in oblivion. I felt that were I in his position I should so do—and therefore was prepared to give an answer to his lordship. I sealed up the papers, dressed myself, and went to dinner; and after the cloth was removed, Lord Windermear, first rising and turning the key in the door, said to me, in a low voice, "You have read the papers, and what those, nearly as much interested as you are in this lamentable business, have decided upon. Tell me, what is your opinion?"

"My opinion, my lord, is, that I wish I had never known what has come to light this day—that it will be most advisable never to recur to the subject, and that the proposals made are, in my opinion, most judicious, and should be acted upon."

"That is well," replied his lordship; "then all are agreed, and I am proud to find you possessed of such honour and good feeling. We now drop the subject for ever. Are you inclined to leave town with me, or what do you intend to do?"

"I prefer remaining in town, if your lordship will introduce me to some of the families of your acquaintance. Of course I know no one now."

"Very true; I will introduce you, as agreed, as Mr Newland. It may be as well that you do not know any of our relations, whom I have made to suppose, that you are still abroad—and it would be awkward, when you take your right name by-and-bye. Do you mean to see your mother?"

"Impossible, my lord, at present; by-and-bye I hope to be able."

"Perhaps it's all for the best. I will now write one note to Major Carbonnell, introducing you as my particular friend, and requesting that he will make London agreeable. He knows everybody, and will take you everywhere."

"When does your lordship start for the country?"

"To-morrow; so we may as well part to-night. By-the-by, you have credit at Drummond's, in the name of Newland, for a thousand pounds; the longer you make it last you the better."

His lordship gave me the letter of introduction. I returned to him the sealed packet, shook hands with him, and took my departure.

"Well, sir," said Timothy, rubbing his hands, as he stood before me, "what is the news; for I am dying to hear it—and what is this secret?"

"With regard to the secret, Tim, a secret it must remain. I dare not tell it even to you." Timothy looked rather grave at this reply. "No, Timothy, as a man of honour, I cannot." My conscience smote me when I made use of the term; for, as a man of honour, I had no business to be in possession of it. "My dear Timothy, I have done wrong already, do not ask me to do worse."

"I will not, Japhet; but only tell me what has passed, and what you intend to do?"

"That I will, Timothy, with pleasure;" and I then stated all that had passed between his lordship and me.

"And now, you observe, Timothy, I have gained what I desired, an introduction into the best society."

"And the means of keeping up your appearance," echoed Timothy, rubbing his hands. "A thousand pounds will last a long while."

"It will last a very long while, Tim, for I never will touch it; it would be swindling."

"So it would," replied Tim, his countenance falling; "well, I never thought of that."

"I have thought of much more, Tim; recollect I must, in a very short time, be exposed to Lord Windermear, for the real Mr Neville will soon come home."

"Good heavens! what will become of us?" replied Timothy, with alarm in his countenance.

"Nothing can hurt you, Tim, the anger will be all upon me; but I am prepared to face it, and I would face twice as much for the distant hope of finding my father. Whatever Lord Windermear may feel inclined to do, he can do nothing; and my possession of the secret will ensure even more than my safety; it will afford me his protection, if I demand it."

"I hope it may prove so," replied Timothy, "but I feel a little frightened."

"I do not; to-morrow I shall give my letter of introduction, and then I will prosecute my search. So now, my dear Tim, good-night."

The next morning, I lost no time in presenting my letter of introduction to Major Carbonnell. He lived in apartments on the first floor in St James's Street, and I found him at breakfast, in a silk dressing gown. I had made up my mind that a little independence always carries with it an air of fashion. When I entered, therefore, I looked at him with a knowing air, and dropping the letter down on the table before him, said, "There's something for you to read, Major; and, in the meantime, I'll refresh myself on this chair;" suiting the action to the word, I threw myself on a chair, amusing myself with tapping the sides of my boots with a small cane which I carried in my hand.

Major Carbonnell, upon whom I cast a furtive eye more than once during the time that he was reading the letter, was a person of about thirty-five years of age, well-looking, but disfigured by the size of his whiskers, which advanced to the corners of his mouth, and met under his throat. He was tall and well made, and with an air of fashion about him that was undeniable. His linen was beautifully, clean and carefully arranged, and he had as many rings on his fingers, and, when he was dressed, chains and trinkets, as ever were put on by a lady.

"My dear sir, allow me the honour of making at once your most intimate acquaintance," said he, rising from his chair, and offering his hand, as soon as he had perused the letter. "Any friend of Lord Windermear's would be welcome, but when he brings such an extra recommendation in his own appearance, he becomes doubly so."

"Major Carbonnell," replied I, "I have seen you but two minutes, and I have taken a particular fancy to you, in which I, no doubt, have proved my discrimination. Of course, you know that I have just returned from making a tour?"

"So I understand from his lordship's letter. Mr Newland, my time is at your service. Where are you staying?"

"At the Piazza."

"Very good; I will dine with you to-day; order some mulligatawny, they are famous for it. After dinner we will go to the theatre."

I was rather surprised at his cool manner of asking himself to dine with me and ordering my dinner, but a moment's reflection made me feel what sort of person I had to deal with.

"Major, I take that as almost an affront. You will dine with me to-day! I beg to state that you must dine with me every day that we are not invited elsewhere; and what's more, sir, I shall be most seriously displeased, if you do not order the dinner every time that you do dine with me, and ask whoever you may think worthy of putting their legs under our table, Let's have no doing things by halves, Major; I know you now as well as if we had been intimate for ten years."

The Major seized me by the hand. "My dear Newland, I only wish we had known one another ten years, as you say—the loss has been mine; but now—you have breakfasted, I presume?"

"Yes; having nothing to do, and not knowing a soul after my long absence, I advanced my breakfast about two hours, that I might find you at home; and now I'm at your service."

"Say rather I am at yours. I presume you will walk. In ten minutes I shall be ready. Either take up the paper, or whistle an air or two, or anything else you like, just to kill ten minutes—and I shall be at your command."



Chapter XXI

I come out under a first-rate chaperon, and at once am established into the regions of fashion—Prove that I am deserving of my promotion.

"I beg your pardon, Newland," said the Major, returning from his dressing-room, resplendent with chains and bijouterie; "but I must have your Christian name."

"It's rather a strange one," replied I; "it is Japhet."

"Japhet! by the immortal powers, I'd bring an action against my godfathers and godmothers; you ought to recover heavy damages."

"Then I presume you would not have the name," replied I, with a knowing look, "for a clear ten thousand a year."

"Whew! that alters the case—it's astonishing how well any name looks in large gold letters. Well, as the old gentleman, whoever he might have been, made you compensation, you must forgive and forget. Now where shall we go?"

"With your permission, as I came to town in these clothes, made by a German tailor—Darmstadt's tailor by-the-bye—but still if tailor to a prince, not the prince of tailors—I would wish you to take me to your own: your dress appears very correct."

"You show your judgment, Newland, it is correct; Stulz will be delighted to have your name on his books, and to do justice to that figure. Allons donc."

We sauntered up St James's Street, and before I had arrived at Stulz's, I had been introduced to at least twenty of the young men about town. The Major was most particular in his directions about the clothes, all of which he ordered; and as I knew that he was well acquainted with the fashion, I gave him carte blanche. When we left the shop, he said, "Now, my dear Newland, I have given you a proof of friendship, which no other man in England has had. Your dress will be the ne plus ultra. There are little secrets only known to the initiated, and Stulz is aware that this time I am in earnest. I am often asked to do the same for others, and I pretend so to do; but a wink from me is sufficient, and Stulz dares not dress them. Don't you want some bijouterie? or have you any at home?"

"I may as well have a few trifles," replied I.

We entered a celebrated jeweller's, and he selected for me to the amount of about forty pounds. "That will do—never buy much; for it is necessary to change every three months at least. What is the price of this chain?"

"It is only fifteen guineas, Major."

"Well, I shall take it; but recollect," continued the Major; "I tell you honestly, I never shall pay you."

The jeweller smiled, bowed, and laughed; the Major threw the chain round his neck, and we quitted the shop.

"At all events, Major, they appear not to believe your word in that shop."

"My dear fellow, that's their own fault, not mine. I tell them honestly I never will pay them; and you may depend upon it, I intend most sacredly to keep my word. I never do pay anybody, for the best of all possible reasons, I have no money; but then I do them a service—I make them fashionable, and they know it."

"What debts do you pay then, Major?"

"Let me think—that requires consideration. Oh! I pay my washer-woman."

"Don't you pay your debts of honour?"

"Debts of honour! why I'll tell you the truth; for I know that we shall hunt in couples. If I win I take the money: but if I lose—why then I forget to pay; and I always tell them so before I set down to the table. If they won't believe me, it's not my fault. But what's the hour? Come, I must make a few calls, and will introduce you."

We sauntered on to Grosvenor Square, knocked, and were admitted into a large, elegantly-furnished mansion. The footman announced us—"My dear Lady Maelstrom, allow me the honour of introducing to you my very particular friend, Mr Newland, consigned to my charge by my Lord Windermear during his absence. He has just arrived from the continent, where he has been making the grand tour."

Her ladyship honoured me with a smile. "By-the-bye, Major, that reminds me—do me the favour to come to the window. Excuse us one moment, Mr Newland."

The Major and Lady Maelstrom walked to the window, and exchanged a few sentences, and then returned. Her ladyship holding up her finger, and saying to him as they came towards me, "Promise me now that you won't forget."

"Your ladyship's slightest wishes are to me imperative commands," replied the Major, with a graceful bow.

In a quarter of an hour, during which the conversation was animated, we rose to take our leave, when her ladyship came up to me, and offering her hand, said, "Mr Newland, the friendship of Lord Windermear, and the introduction of Major Carbonnell, are more than sufficient to induce me to put your name down on my visiting list. I trust I shall see a great deal of you, and that we shall be great friends."

I bowed to this handsome announcement, and we retired. As soon as we were out in the square, the Major observed, "You saw her take me on one side—it was to pump. She has no daughters, but about fifty nieces, and match-making is her delight. I told her that I would stake my honour upon your possessing ten thousand a year; how much more I could not say. I was not far wrong, was I?"

I laughed. "What I may be worth, Major, I really cannot say; but I trust that the event will prove that you are not far wrong. Say no more, my dear fellow."

"I understand—you are not yet of age—of course, have not yet come into possession of your fortune."

"That is exactly the case, Major. I am now but little more than nineteen."

"You look older; but there is no getting over baptismal registries with the executors. Newland, you must content yourself for the two next years in playing Moses, and only peep at the promised land."

We made two or three more calls, and then returned to St James's Street. "Where shall we go now? By-the-bye, don't you want to go to your banker's?"

"I will just stroll down with you, and see if they have paid any money in," replied I, carelessly.

We called at Drummond's, and I asked them if there was any money paid in to the credit of Mr Newland.

"Yes, sir," replied one of the clerks: "there is one thousand pounds paid in yesterday."

"Very good," replied I.

"How much do you wish to draw for?" inquired the Major.

"I don't want any," replied I. "I have more money than I ought to have in my desk at this moment."

"Well, then, let us go and order dinner; or perhaps you would like to stroll about a little more; if so, I will go and order the dinner. Here's Harcourt, that's lucky. Harcourt my dear fellow, know Mr Newland, my very particular friend. I must leave you now; take his arm, Harcourt, for half an hour, and then join us at dinner at the Piazza."

Mr Harcourt was an elegant young man of about five-and-twenty. Equally pleased with each other's externals, we were soon familiar: he was witty, sarcastic, and wellbred. After half an hour's conversation he asked me what I thought of the Major. I looked him in the face and smiled. "That look tells me that you will not be his dupe, otherwise I had warned you: he is a strange character: but if you have money enough to afford to keep him, you cannot do better, as he is acquainted with, and received by, everybody. His connections are good; and he once had a very handsome fortune, but it was soon run out, and he was obliged to sell his commission in the Guards. Now he lives upon the world; which as Shakespeare says, is his oyster; and he has wit and sharpness enough to open it. Moreover, he has some chance of falling into a peerage; that prospect, and his amusing qualities, added to his being the most fashionable man about town, keeps his head above water. I believe Lord Windermear, who is his cousin, very often helps him."

"It was Lord Windermear who introduced me to him," observed I.

"Then he will not venture to play any tricks upon you, further than eating your dinners, borrowing your money, and forgetting to pay it."

"You must acknowledge," said I, "he always tells you beforehand that he never will pay you."

"And that is the only point in which he adheres to his word," replied Harcourt, laughing; "but, tell me, am I to be your guest to-day?"

"If you will do me that honour."

"I assure you I am delighted to come, as I shall have a further opportunity of cultivating your acquaintance."

"Then we had better bend our steps towards the hotel, for it is late," replied I; and we did so accordingly.



Chapter XXII

The real Simon Pure proves the worse of the two—I am found guilty, but not condemned; convicted, yet convince; and after having behaved the very contrary to, prove that I am, a gentleman.

On our arrival, we found the table spread, champagne in ice under the sideboard, and apparently everything prepared for a sumptuous dinner, the Major on the sofa giving directions to the waiter, and Timothy looking all astonishment.

"Major," said I, "I cannot tell you how much I am obliged to you for your kindness in taking all this trouble off my hands, that I might follow up the agreeable introduction you have given me to Mr Harcourt."

"My dear Newland, say no more; you will, I dare say, do the same for me if I require it, when I give a dinner. (Harcourt caught my eye, as if to say, "You may safely promise that.") But, Newland, do you know that the nephew of Lord Windermear has just arrived? Did you meet abroad?"

"No," replied I, somewhat confused; but I soon recovered myself. As for Tim, he bolted out of the room. "What sort of a person is he?"

"That you may judge for yourself, my dear fellow, for I asked him to join us, I must say, more out of compliment to Lord Windermear than anything else; for I am afraid that, even I could never make a gentleman of him. But take Harcourt with you to your room, and by the time you have washed your hands, I will have dinner on the table. I took the liberty of desiring your valet to show me in about ten minutes ago. He's a shrewd fellow that of your's—where did you pick him up?"

"By mere accident," replied I; "come, Mr Harcourt."

On our return, we found the real Simon Pure, Mr Estcourt, sitting with the major, who introduced us, and dinner being served, we sat down to table.

Mr Estcourt was a young man, about my own age, but not so tall by two or three inches. His features were prominent, but harsh; and when I saw him, I was not at all surprised at Lord Windermear's expressions of satisfaction, when he suppossd that I was his nephew. His countenance was dogged and sullen, and he spoke little; he appeared to place an immense value upon birth, and hardly deigned to listen, except the aristocracy were the subject of discourse. I treated him with marked deference, that I might form an acquaintance, and found before we parted that night, that I had succeeded. Our dinner was excellent, and we were all, except Mr Estcourt, in high good humour. We sat late—too late to go to the theatre, and promising to meet the next day at noon, Harcourt and the Major took their leave.

Mr Estcourt had indulged rather too much, and, after their departure, became communicative. I plied the bottle and we sat up for more than an hour; he talked of nothing but his family and his expectations. I took this opportunity of discovering what his feelings were likely to be when he was made acquainted with the important secret which was in my possession. I put a case somewhat similar, and asked him whether in such circumstances he would waive his right for a time, to save the honour of his family.

"No, by G—d!" replied he, "I never would. What! give up even for a day my right—conceal my true rank for the sake of relatives? never—nothing would induce me."

I was satisfied, and then casually asked him if he had written to Lord Windermear to inform him of his arrival.

"No," replied he; "I shall write to-morrow." He soon after retired to his own apartment, and I rang for Timothy.

"Good heavens, sir!" cried Timothy, "what is all this—and what are you about? I am frightened out of my wits. Why, sir, our money will not last two months."

"I do not expect it will last much longer, Tim; but it cannot be helped. Into society I must get—and to do so, must pay for it."

"But, sir, putting the expense aside, what are we to do about this Mr Estcourt? All must be found out."

"I intend that it shall be found out, Tim," replied I; "but not yet. He will write to his uncle to-morrow; you must obtain the letter, for it must not go. I must first have time to establish myself, and then Lord Windermear may find out his error as soon as he pleases."

"Upon my honour, Japhet, you appear to be afraid of nothing."

"I fear nothing, Tim, when I am following up the object of my wishes. I will allow no obstacles to stand in my way, in my search after my father."

"Really, you seem to be quite mad on that point, Japhet."

"Perhaps I may be, Tim," replied I, thoughtfully. "At all events, let us go to bed now, and I will tell you to-morrow morning, all the events of this day."

Mr Estcourt wrote his letter, which Tim very officiously offered to put into the post, instead of which we put it between the bars of the grate.

I must now pass over about three weeks, during which I became very intimate with the Major and Mr Harcourt, and was introduced by them to the clubs, and almost every person of fashion. The idea of my wealth, and my very handsome person and figure, ensured me a warm reception, and I soon became one of the stars of the day. During this time, I also gained the entire confidence of Mr Estcourt, who put letter after letter into the hands of Timothy, who of course put them into the usual place. I pacified him as long as I could, by expressing my opinion, that his lordship was on a visit to some friends in the neighbourhood of his seat; but at last, he would remain in town no longer. You may go now, thought I, I feel quite safe.

It was about five days after his departure, as I was sauntering, arm in arm with the Major, who generally dined with me about five days in the week, that I perceived the carriage of Lord Windermear, with his lordship in it. He saw us, and pulling his check-string, alighted, and coming up to us, with the colour mounting to his forehead with emotion, returned the salute of the Major and me.

"Major," said he, "you will excuse me, but I am anxious to have some conversation with Mr Newland; perhaps," continued his lordship, addressing me, "you will do me the favour to take a seat in my carriage?"

Fully prepared, I lost none of my self-possession, but, thanking his lordship, I bowed to him, and stepped in.

His lordship followed, and, saying to the footman, "Home—drive fast," fell back in the carriage, and never uttered one word until we had arrived, and had entered the dining-parlour. He then took a few steps up and down, before he said, "Mr Newland, or whatever your name may be, I perceive that you consider the possession of an important secret to be your safeguard. To state my opinion of your conduct is needless; who you are, and what you are, I know not; but," continued he, no longer controlling his anger; "you certainly can have no pretensions to the character of a gentleman."

"Perhaps your lordship," replied I, calmly, "will inform me upon what you may ground your inference."

"Did you not, in the first place, open a letter addressed to another?"

"My lord, I opened a letter brought to me with the initials of my name, and at the time I opened it I fully believed that it was intended for me."

"We will grant that, sir; but after you had opened it you must have known that it was for some other person."

"I will not deny that, my lord."

"Notwithstanding which, you apply to my lawyer, representing yourself as another person, to obtain sealed papers."

"I did, my lord; but allow me to say, that I never should have done so, had I not been warned by a dream."

"By a dream?"

"Yes, my lord. I had determined not to go for them, when in a dream I was ordered so to do."

"Paltry excuse! and then you break private seals."

"Nay, my lord, although I did go for the papers, I could not, even with the idea of supernatural interposition, make up my mind to break the seals. If your lordship will recollect, it was you who broke the seals, and insisted upon my reading the papers."

"Yes, sir, under your false name."

"It is the name by which I go at present, although I acknowledge it is false; but that is not my fault—I have no other at present."

"It is very true, sir, that in all I have now mentioned, the law will not reach you; but recollect, that by assuming another person's name—"

"I never did, my lord," interrupted I.

"Well, I may say, by inducing me to believe that you were my nephew, you have obtained money under false pretences; and for that I now have you in my power."

"My lord, I never asked you for the money; you yourself paid it into the banker's hands to my credit, and to my own name. I appeal to you now, whether, if you so deceived yourself, the law can reach me?"

"Mr Newland, I will say, that much as I regret what has passed, I regret more than all the rest, that one so young, so prepossessing, so candid in appearance, should prove such an adept in deceit. Thinking you were my nephew, my heart warmed towards you, and I must confess, that since I have seen my real nephew, the mortification has been very great."

"My lord, I thank you; but allow me to observe, that I am no swindler. Your thousand pounds you will find safe in the bank, for penury would not have induced me to touch it. But now that your lordship appears more cool, will you do me the favour to listen to me? When you have heard my life up to the present, and my motives for what I have done, you will then decide how far I am to blame."

His lordship took a chair, and motioned to me to take another. I narrated what had occurred when I was left at the Foundling, and gave him a succinct account of my adventures subsequently—my determination to find my father—the dream which induced me to go for the papers—and all that the reader has already been acquainted with. His lordship evidently perceived the monomania which controlled me, and heard me with great attention.

"You certainly, Mr Newland, do not stand so low in my opinion as you did before this explanation, and I must make allowances for the excitement under which I perceive you to labour on one subject; but now, sir, allow me to put one question, and I beg that you will answer candidly. What price do you demand for your secrecy on this important subject?"

"My lord!" replied I, rising with dignity; "this is the greatest affront you have put upon me yet; still I will name the price by which I will solemnly bind myself, by all my future hopes of finding my father in this world, and of finding an eternal Father in the next, and that price, my lord, is a return of your good opinion."

His lordship also rose, and walked up and down the room with much agitation in his manner. "What am I to make of you, Mr Newland?"

"My lord, if I were a swindler, I should have taken your money; if I had wished to avail myself of the secret, I might have escaped with all the documents, and made my own terms. I am, my lord, nothing more than an abandoned child, trying all he can to find his father" My feelings overpowered me, and I burst into tears. As soon as I could recover myself, I addressed his lordship, who had been watching me in silence, and not without emotion. "I have one thing more to say to you, my lord." I then mentioned the conversation between Mr Estcourt and myself, and pointed out the propriety of not making him a party to the important secret.

His lordship allowed me to proceed without interruption, and after a few moments' thought said, "I believe that you are right, Mr Newland; and I now begin to think that it was better that this secret should have been entrusted to you than to him. You have now conferred an obligation on me, and may command me. I believe you to be honest, but a little mad, and I beg your pardon for the pain which I have occasioned you."

"My lord, I am more than satisfied."

"Can I be of any assistance to you, Mr Newland?"

"If, my lord, you could at all assist me, or direct me in my search—"

"There I am afraid I can be of little use; but I will give you the means of prosecuting your search, and in so doing, I am doing but an act of justice, for in introducing you to Major Carbonnell, I am aware that I must have very much increased your expenses. It was an error which must be repaired, and therefore, Mr Newland, I beg you will consider the money at the bank as yours, and make use of it to enable you to obtain your ardent wish."

"My lord—"

"I will not be denied, Mr Newland; and if you feel any delicacy on the subject, you may take it as a loan, to be repaid when you find it convenient. Do not, for a moment, consider that it is given to you because you possess an important secret, for I will trust entirely to your honour on that score."

"Indeed, my lord," replied I, "your kindness overwhelms me, and I feel as if, in you, I had already almost found a father. Excuse me, my lord, but did your lordship ever—ever—"

"I know what you would say, my poor fellow: no, I never did. I never was blessed with children. Had I been, I should not have felt that I was disgraced by having one resembling you. Allow me to entreat you, Mr Newland, that you do not suffer the mystery of your birth to weigh so heavily on your mind; and now I wish you good morning, and if you think I can be useful to you, I beg that you will not fail to let me know."

"May Heaven pour down blessings on your head," replied I, kissing respectfully his lordship's hand; "and may my father, when I find him, be as like unto you as possible." I made my obeisance, and quitted the house.



Chapter XXIII

The Major prevents the landlord from imposing on me, but I gain nothing by his interference—For economical reasons I agree to live with him that he may live on me.

I returned to the hotel, for my mind had been much agitated, and I wished for quiet, and the friendship of Timothy. As soon as I arrived I told him all that had passed.

"Indeed," replied Timothy, "things do now wear a pleasant aspect; for I am afraid, that without that thousand, we could not have carried on for a fortnight longer. The bill here is very heavy, and I'm sure the landlord wishes to see the colour of his money."

"How much do you think we have left? It is high time, Timothy, that we now make up our accounts, and arrange some plans for the future," replied I. "I have paid the jeweller and the tailor, by the advice of the Major, who says, that you should always pay your first bills as soon as possible, and all your subsequent bills as late as possible; and if put off sine die, so much the better. In fact, I owe very little now, but the bill here, I will send for it to-night."

Here we were interrupted by the entrance of the landlord. "O Mr Wallace, you are the very person I wished to see; let me have my bill, if you please."

"It's not of the least consequence, sir," replied he; "but if you wish it, I have posted down to yesterday," and the landlord left the room.

"You were both of one mind, at all events," said Timothy, laughing; "for he had the bill in his hand, and concealed it the moment you asked for it."

In about ten minutes the landlord re-appeared, and presenting the bill upon a salver, made his bow and retired. I looked it over, it amounted to L104, which, for little more than three weeks, was pretty well. Timothy shrugged up his shoulders, while I ran over the items. "I do not see that there is anything to complain of, Tim," observed I, when I came to the bottom of it; "but I do see that living here, with the Major keeping me an open house, will never do. Let us see how much money we have left."

Tim brought the dressing-case in which our cash was deposited, and we found, that after paying the waiters, and a few small bills not yet liquidated, our whole stock was reduced to fifty shillings.

"Merciful Heaven! what an escape," cried Timothy; "if it had not been for this new supply, what should we have done?"

"Very badly, Timothy; but the money is well spent, after all. I have now entrance into the first circles. I can do without Major Carbonnell; at all events, I shall quit this hotel, and take furnished apartments, and live at the clubs. I know how to put him off."

I laid the money on the salver, and desired Timothy to ring for the landlord, when who should come up but the Major and Harcourt. "Why, Newland! what are you going to do with that money?" said the Major.

"I am paying my bill, Major."

"Paying your bill, indeed; let us see—L104. O this is a confounded imposition. You mustn't pay this." At this moment the landlord entered. "Mr Wallace," said the Major, "my friend Mr Newland was about, as you may see, to pay you the whole of your demand; but allow me to observe, that being my very particular friend, and the Piazza having been particularly recommended by me, I do think that your charges are somewhat exorbitant. I shall certainly advise Mr Newland to leave the house to-morrow, if you are not more reasonable."

"Allow me to observe, Major, that my reason for sending for my bill, was to pay it before I went into the country, which I must do to-morrow, for a few days."

"Then I shall certainly recommend Mr Newland not to come here when he returns, Mr Wallace, for I hold myself, to a certain degree, after the many dinners we have ordered here, and of which I have partaken, as I may say, particeps criminis, or in other words, as having been a party to this extortion. Indeed, Mr Wallace, some reduction must be made, or you will greatly hurt the credit of your house."

Mr Wallace declared, that really he had made nothing but the usual charges; that he would look over the bill again, and see what he could do.

"My dear Newland," said the Major, "I have ordered your dinners, allow me to settle your bill. Now, Mr Wallace, suppose we take off one-third?"

"One-third, Major Carbonnell! I should be a loser."

"I am not exactly of your opinion; but let me see—now take your choice. Take off L20, or you lose my patronage, and that of all my friends. Yes or no?"

The landlord, with some expostulation, at last consented, he receipted the bill, and leaving L20 of the money on the salver, made his bow, and retired.

"Rather fortunate that I supped in, my dear Newland; now there are L20 saved. By-the-bye, I'm short of cash. You've no objection to let me have this? I shall never pay you, you know."

"I do know you never will pay me, Major; nevertheless, as I should have paid it to the landlord had you not interfered, I will lend it to you."

"You are a good fellow, Newland," said the Major, pocketing the money. "If I had borrowed it, and you had thought you would have had it repaid, I should not have thanked you; but as you lend it me with your eyes open, it is nothing more than a very delicate manner of obliging me, and I tell you candidly, that I will not forget it. So you really are off to-morrow?"

"Yes," replied I, "I must go, for I find that I am not to make ducks and drakes of my money, until I come into possession of my property."

"I see, my dear fellow. Executors are the very devil; they have no feeling. Never mind; there's a way of getting to windward of them. I dine with Harcourt, and he has come to ask you to join us."

"With pleasure."

"I shall expect you at seven, Newland," said Harcourt, as he quitted the room with the Major.

"Dear me, sir, how could you let that gentleman walk off with your money?" cried Timothy. "I was just rubbing my hands with the idea that we were L20 better off than we thought, and away it went, like smoke."

"And will never come back again, Tim; but never mind that, it is important that I make a friend of him, and his friendship is only to be bought. I shall have value received. And now, Tim, we must pack up, for I leave this to-morrow morning. I shall go down to ——, and see little Fleta."

I dined with Harcourt. The Major was rather curious to know what it was which appeared to flurry Lord Windermear, and what had passed between us. I told him that his lordship was displeased on money matters, but that all was right, only that I must be more careful for the future. "Indeed, Major, I think I shall take lodgings. I shall be more comfortable, and better able to receive my friends."

Harcourt agreed with me, that it was a much better plan, when the Major observed, "Why, Newland, I have a room quite at your service; suppose you come and live with me?"

"I am afraid I shall not save by that," replied I, laughing, "for you will not pay your share of the bills."

"No, upon my honour I will not; so I give you fair warning; but as I always dine with you when I do not dine elsewhere, it will be a saving to you—for you will have your lodgings, Newland; and you know the house is my own, and I let off the rest of it; so as far as that bill is concerned, you will be safe."

"Make the best bargain you can, Newland," said Harcourt; "accept his offer, for depend upon it, it will be a saving in the end."

"It certainly deserves consideration," replied I; "and the Major's company must be allowed to have its due weight in the scale; if Carbonnell will promise to be a little more economical—"

"I will, my dear fellow—I will act as your steward, and make your money last as long as I can, for my own sake, as well as yours. Is it a bargain? I have plenty of room for your servant, and if he will assist me a little, I will discharge my own." I then consented to the arrangement.



Chapter XXIV

The Major teaches me how to play Whist, so as never to lose, which is by playing against each other, and into each other's hands.

The next day I went to the banker's, drew out L150, and set off with Timothy for ——. Fleta threw herself into my arms, and sobbed with joy. When I told her Timothy was outside, and wished to see her, she asked why he did not come in; and, to show how much she had been accustomed to see, without making remarks, when he made his appearance in his livery, she did not, by her countenance, express the least surprise, nor, indeed, did she put any questions to me on the subject. The lady who kept the school praised her very much for docility and attention, and shortly after left the room. Fleta then took the chain from around her neck into her hand, and told me that she did recollect something about it, which was, that the lady whom she remembered, wore a long pair of ear-rings, of the same make and materials. She could not, however, call to mind anything else. I remained with the little girl for three hours, and then returned to London—taking my luggage from the hotel, and installed myself into the apartments of Major Carbonnell.

The Major adhered to his promise; we certainly lived well, for he could not live otherwise; but in every other point, he was very careful not to add to expense. The season was now over, and everybody of consequence quitted the metropolis. To remain in town would be to lose caste, and we had a conference where we should proceed.

"Newland," said the Major, "you have created a sensation this season, which has done great honour to my patronage; but I trust, next spring, that I shall see you form a good alliance; for, believe me, out of the many heartless beings we have mingled with, there are still not only daughters, but mothers, who are not influenced by base and sordid views."

"Why, Carbonnell, I never heard you venture upon so long a moral speech before."

"True, Newland, and it may be a long while before I do so again; the world is my oyster, which I must open, that I may live; but recollect, I am only trying to recover my own, which the world has swindled me out of. There was a time when I was even more disinterested, more confiding, and more innocent than you were when I first took you in hand. I suffered, and was ruined by my good qualities; and I now live and do well by having discarded them. We must fight the world with its own weapons; but still, as I said before, there is some good in it, some pure ore amongst the dross; and it is possible to find high rank and large fortune, and at the same time an innocent mind. If you do marry, I will try hard but you shall possess both; not that fortune can be of much consequence to you."

"Depend upon it, Carbonnell, I never will marry without fortune."

"I did not know that I had schooled you so well; be it so—it is but fair that you should expect it; and it shall be an item in the match, if I have anything to do with it."

"But why are you so anxious that I should marry, Carbonnell?"

"Because I think you will, in all probability, avoid the gaming-table, which I should have taken you to myself had you been in possession of your fortune when I first knew you, and have had my share of your plucking; but now I do know you, I have that affection for you that I think it better you should not lose your all; for observe, Newland, my share of your spoliation would not be more than what I have, and may still receive, from you; and if you marry and settle down, there will always be a good house and a good table for me, as long as I find favour with your wife; and, at all events, a friend in need, that I feel convinced of. So now you have my reasons; some smack of the disinterestedness of former days, others of my present worldliness; you may believe which you please." And the Major laughed as he finished his speech.

"Carbonnell," replied I, "I will believe that the better feelings predominate—that the world has made you what you are; and that had you not been ruined by the world, you would have been disinterested and generous; even now, your real nature often gains the ascendency, and I am sure that in all that you have done, which is not defensible, your poverty, and not your will, has consented. Now, blunted by habit and time, the suggestion of conscience do not often give you any uneasiness."