Japhet in Search of a Father

“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 insure 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 Saint 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 mean time, 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.”

Part 1—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-by—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 Saint 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 washerwoman.”

“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 sit 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-by, 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.”