Japhet in Search of a Father

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 Saint James’s Street. “Where shall we go now? By-the-by, 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 into 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 well bred. 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 Shakspeare 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.

Part 1—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 yours—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 supposed 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 Gad!” 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, insured 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 and 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?”