Japhet in Search of a Father

“You owed me, I think, eighteen pounds.”

“Eighteen from one hundred and forty, leaves one hundred and twenty-two pounds, which I now owe you. You must, I’m afraid, allow me to be your debtor,” continued the major, in a most insinuating manner. “I did not come here with the intention of playing. I presume I shall find you here to-morrow night.”

The gentleman bowed, and appeared quite satisfied. Major Carbonnell’s partner paid me one hundred and forty pounds, which I put in my pocket-book, and we quitted the club.

End of the First Volume.

Part 2—Chapter I

We fund our Winnings, and consider to refund, a Work of Supererogation—In looking after my Father, I obey the old Adage, “Follow your Nose.”

As soon as we were in the street, I commenced an inquiry as to the major’s motives. “Not one word, my dear fellow, until we are at home,” replied he. As soon as we arrived, he threw himself in a chair, and crossing his legs, commenced: “You observe, Newland, that I am very careful that you should do nothing to injure your character. As for my own, all the honesty in the world will not redeem it; nothing but a peerage will ever set me right again in this world, and a coronet will cover a multitude of sins. I have thought it my duty to add something to our finances, and intend to add very considerably to them before we leave Cheltenham. You have won one hundred and twenty-eight pounds.”

“Yes,” replied I; “but you have lost it.”

“Granted; but, as in most cases, I never mean to pay my losses, you see that it must be a winning speculation as long as we play against each other.”

“I perceive,” replied I; “but am not I a confederate?”

“No; you paid when you lost, and took your money when you won. Leave me to settle my own debts of honour.”

“But you will meet him again to-morrow night.”

“Yes, and I will tell you why. I never thought it possible that we could have met two such bad players at the club. We must now play against them, and we must win in the long run: by which means I shall pay off the debt I owe him, and you will win and pocket the money.”

“Ah,” replied I, “if you mean to allow him a chance for his money, I have no objection—that will be all fair.”

“Depend upon it, Newland, when I know that people play as badly as they do, I will not refuse them; but when we sit down with others, it must be as it was before—we must play against each other, and I shall owe the money. I told the fellow that I never would pay him.”

“Yes; but he thought you were only joking.”

“That is his fault—I was in earnest. I could not have managed this had it not been that you are known to be a young man of ten thousand pounds per annum, and supposed to be my dupe. I tell you so candidly; and now good night.”

I turned the affair over in my mind as I undressed—it was not honest—but I paid when I lost, and I only took the money when I won,—still I did not like it; but the bank notes caught my eye as they lay on the table, and—I was satisfied. Alas! how easy are scruples removed when we want money! How many are there who, when in a state of prosperity and affluence, when not tried by temptation, would have blushed at the bare idea of a dishonest action, have raised and held up their hands in abhorrence, when they have heard that others have been found guilty; and yet, when in adversity, have themselves committed the very acts which before they so loudly condemned! How many of the other sex, who have expressed their indignation and contempt at those who have fallen, when tempted, have fallen themselves! Let us therefore be charitable; none of us can tell to what we may be reduced by circumstances; and when we acknowledge that the error is great, let us feel sorrow and pity rather than indignation, and pray that we also may not be “led into temptation.”

As agreed upon, the next evening we repaired to the club, and found the two gentlemen ready to receive us. This time the major refused to play unless it was with me, as I had such good fortune, and no difficulty was made by our opponents. We sat down and played till four o’clock in the morning. At first, notwithstanding our good play, fortune favoured our adversaries; but the luck soon changed, and the result of the evening was, that the major had a balance in his favour of forty pounds, and I rose a winner of one hundred and seventy-one pounds, so that in two nights we had won three hundred and forty-two pounds. For nearly three weeks this continued, the major not paying when not convenient, and we quitted Cheltenham with about eight hundred pounds in our pockets; the major having paid about one hundred and twenty pounds to different people who frequented the club; but they were Irishmen, who were not to be trifled with. I proposed to the major that we should pay those debts, as there still would be a large surplus: he replied, “Give me the money.” I did so. “Now,” continued he, “so far your scruples are removed, as you will have been strictly honest; but, my dear fellow, if you know how many debts of this sort are due to me, of which I never did touch one farthing, you would feel as I do—that it is excessively foolish to part with money. I have them all booked here, and may some day pay—when convenient; but at present, most decidedly, it is not so.” The major put the notes into his pocket, and the conversation was dropped.

The next morning we had ordered our horses, when Timothy came up to me, and made a sign, as we were at breakfast, for me to come out. I followed him.

“Oh! sir, I could not help telling you, but there is a gentleman with—”

“With what?” replied I, hastily.

“With your nose, sir, exactly—and in other respects very like you—just about the age your father should be.”

“Where is he, Timothy?” replied I, all my feelings in “search of my father” rushing into my mind.

“Down below, sir, about to set off in a post-chaise and four, now waiting at the door.”

I ran down with my breakfast napkin in my hand, and hastened to the portico of the hotel—he was in his carriage and the porter was then shutting the door. I looked at him. He was, as Timothy said, very like me, indeed, the nose exact. I was breathless, and I continued to gaze.

“All right,” cried the ostler.

“I beg your pardon, sir,—” said I, addressing the gentleman in the carriage, who perceiving a napkin in my hand, probably took me for one of the waiters, for he replied very abruptly, “I have remembered you;” and pulling up the glass, away whirled the chariot, the nave of the hind wheel striking me a blow on the thigh which numbed it so, that it was with difficulty I could limp up to our apartments, when I threw myself on the sofa in a state of madness and despair.

“Good heavens, Newland, what is the matter?” cried the major.

“Matter,” replied I, faintly. “I have seen my father.”

“Your father, Newland? you must be mad. He was dead before you could recollect him—at least so you told me. How then, even if it were his ghost, could you have recognised him?”

The major’s remarks reminded me of the imprudence I had been guilty of.

“Major,” replied I, “I believe I am very absurd; but he was so like me, and I have so often longed after my father, so long wished to see him face to face—that—I’m a great fool, that’s the fact.”

“You must go to the next world, my good fellow, to meet him face to face, that’s clear; and I presume, upon a little consideration, you will feel inclined to postpone your journey. Very often in your sleep I have heard you talk about your father, and wondered why you should think so much about him.”

“I cannot help it,” replied I. “From my earliest days my father has ever been in my thoughts.”

“I can only say, that very few sons are half so dutiful to their fathers’ memories—but finish your breakfast, and then we start for London.”

I complied with his request as well as I could, and we were soon on our road. I fell into a reverie—my object was to again find out this person, and I quietly directed Timothy to ascertain from the post-boys the directions he gave at the last stage. The major perceiving me not inclined to talk, made but few observations; one, however struck me. “Windermear,” said he, “I recollect one day, when I was praising you, said carelessly, ‘that you were a fine young man, but a little tête montée upon one point.’ I see now it must have been upon this.” I made no reply; but it certainly was a strange circumstance that the major never had any suspicions on this point—yet he certainly never had. We had once or twice talked over my affairs. I had led him to suppose that my father and mother died in my infancy, and that I should have had a large fortune when I came of age; but this had been entirely by indirect replies, not by positive assertions; the fact was, that the major, who was an adept in all deceit, never had an idea that he could have been deceived by one so young, so prepossessing, and apparently so ingenuous as myself. He had, in fact, deceived himself. His ideas of my fortune arose entirely from my asking him whether he would have refused the name of Japhet for ten thousand pounds per annum. Lord Windermear, after having introduced me, did not consider it at all necessary to acquaint the major with my real history, as it was imparted to him in confidence. He allowed matters to take their course, and me to work my own way in the world. Thus do the most cunning overreach themselves, and with their eyes open to any deceit on the part of others, prove quite blind when they deceive themselves.

Timothy could not obtain any intelligence from the people of the inn at the last stage, except that the chariot had proceeded to London. We arrived late at night, and, much exhausted, I was glad to go to bed.

Part 2—Chapter II

In following my Nose, I narrowly escaped being nosed by a Beak.

And as I lay in my bed, thinking that I was now nearly twenty years old, and had not yet made any discovery, my heart sank within me. My monomania returned with redoubled force, and I resolved to renew my search with vigour. So I told Timothy the next morning, when he came into my room, but from him I received little consolation; he advised me to look out for a good match in a rich wife, and leave time to develop the mystery of my birth; pointing out the little chance I ever had of success.

Town was not full, the season had hardly commenced, and we had few invitations or visits to distract my thoughts from their object. My leg became so painful, that for a week I was on the sofa, Timothy every day going out to ascertain if he could find the person whom we had seen resembling me, and every evening returning without success. I became melancholy and nervous. Carbonnell could not imagine what was the matter with me. At last I was able to walk, and I sallied forth, perambulating, or rather running through street after street, looking into every carriage, so as to occasion surprise to the occupants, who believed me mad; my dress and person were disordered, for I had become indifferent to it, and Timothy himself believed that I was going out of my senses.

At last, after we had been in town about five weeks, I saw the very object of my search, seated in a carriage, of a dark brown colour, arms painted in shades, so as not to be distinguishable but at a near approach; his hat was off, and he sat upright and formally. “That is he!” ejaculated I, and away I ran after the carriage. “It is the nose,” cried I, as I ran down the street, knocking everyone to the right and left. I lost my hat, but fearful of losing sight of the carriage, I hastened on, when I heard a cry of “Stop him, stop him!”—“Stop him,” cried I, also, referring to the gentleman in black in the carriage.

“That won’t do,” cried a man, seizing me by the collar; “I know a trick worth two of that.”

“Let me go,” roared I, struggling; but he only held me the faster. I tussled with the man until my coat and shirt were torn, but in vain; the crowd now assembled, and I was fast. The fact was, that a pickpocket had been exercising his vocation at the time that I was running past, and from my haste, and loss of my hat, I was supposed to be the criminal. The police took charge of me—I pleaded innocence in vain, and I was dragged before the magistrate at Marlborough Street My appearance, the disorder of my dress, my coat and shirt in ribands, with no hat, were certainly not at all in my favour, when I made my appearance, led in by two Bow Street officers.

“Whom have we here?” inquired the magistrate.

“A pickpocket, sir,” replied they.

“Ah! one of the swell mob,” replied he. “Are there any witnesses?”

“Yes, sir,” replied a young man, coming forward. “I was walking up Bond Street, when I felt a tug at my pocket, and when I turned round, this chap was running away.”

“Can you swear to his person?”