“What, Sir William? No; or Sir Henry would not have come into the title.”
“He might have had daughters,” replied I.
“Very true; now I think of it, there was a girl, who died when young.”
“Is the widow of Sir William alive?”
“Yes; and a very fine woman she is; but she has left Ireland since her husband’s death.”
I did not venture to ask any more questions. Our conversation had roused Mr Cophagus and the other passenger; and as I had reflected how I should behave in case of recognition, I wished to be prepared for him.
“You have had a good nap, sir,” said I, turning to him.
“Nap—yes—coach nap, bad—head sore—and so on. Why—bless me—Japhet—Japhet New—yes—it is.”
“Do you speak to me, sir?” inquired I, with a quiet air.
“Speak to you—yes—bad memory—hip! quite forgot—old master—shop in Smithfield—mad bull—and so on.”
“Really, sir,” replied I, “I am afraid you mistake me for some other person.”
Mr Cophagus looked very hard at me, and perceiving that there was no alteration in my countenance, exclaimed, “Very odd—same nose—same face—same age too—very odd—like as two pills—beg pardon—made a mistake—and so on.”
Satisfied with the discomfiture of Mr Cophagus, I turned round, when I perceived the Irish agent, with whom I had been in conversation, eyeing me most attentively. As I said before, he was a hard-featured man, and his small grey eye was now fixed upon me, as if it would have pierced me through. I felt confused for a moment, as the scrutiny was unexpected from that quarter; but a few moments’ reflection told me, that if Sir Henry de Clare and Melchior were the same person, and this man his agent, in all probability he had not been sent to England for nothing; that if he was in search of Fleta, he must have heard of my name, and perhaps something of my history. “I appear to have a great likeness to many people,” observed I, to the agent, smiling. “It was but the other day I was stopped in Bond Street as a Mr Rawlinson.”
“Not a very common face either, sir,” observed the agent: “if once seen not easily forgotten, nor easily mistaken for another.”
“Still such appears to be the case,” replied I, carelessly. We now stopped to take refreshment. I had risen from the table, and was going into the passage, when I perceived the agent looking over the way-bill with the guard. As soon as he perceived me, he walked out in front of the inn. Before the guard had put up the bill, I requested to look at it, wishing to ascertain if I had been booked in my own name. It was so. The four names were, Newland, Cophagus, Baltzi, McDermott. I was much annoyed at this circumstance. McDermott was, of course, the name of the agent; and that was all the information I received in return for my own exposure, which I now considered certain; I determined, however, to put a good face on the matter, and when we returned to the coach, again entered into conversation with Mr McDermott, but I found him particularly guarded in his replies whenever I spoke about Sir Henry or his family, and I could not obtain any further information. Mr Cophagus could not keep his eyes off me—he peered into my face—then he would fall back in the coach. “Odd—very odd—must be—no—says not—um.” In about another half hour, he would repeat his examination, and mutter to himself. At last, as if tormented with his doubts, he exclaimed, “Beg pardon—but—you have a name?”
“Yes,” replied I, “I have a name.”
“Well, then—not ashamed. What is it?”
“My name, sir,” replied I, “is Newland;” for I had resolved to acknowledge to my name, and fall back upon a new line of defence.
“Thought so—don’t know me—don’t recollect shop—Mr Brookes’s—Tim—rudiments—and so on.”
“I have not the least objection to tell you my name; but I am afraid you have the advantage in your recollection of me. Where may I have had the honour of meeting you?”
“Meeting—what, quite forgot—Smithfield?”
“And pray, sir, where may Smithfield be?”
“Very odd—can’t comprehend—same name, same face—don’t recollect me, don’t recollect Smithfield?”
“It may be very odd, sir; but, as I am very well known in London, at the west end, perhaps we have met there. Lord Windermear’s, perhaps—Lady Maelstrom’s?”—and I continued mentioning about a dozen of the most fashionable names. “At all events, you appear to have the advantage of me; but I trust you will excuse my want of memory, as my acquaintance is very extensive.”
“I see—quite a mistake—same name, not same person—beg pardon, sir—apologies—and so on,” replied the apothecary, drawing in a long sigh.
Part 2—Chapter XVII
I turn Lawyer.
I watched the countenance of the agent, who appeared at last to be satisfied that there had been some mistake; at least he became more communicative; and as I no longer put any questions to him relative to Sir Henry, we had a long conversation. I spoke to him about the De Benyons, making every inquiry that I could think of. He informed me that the deceased earl, the father of the present, had many sons, who were some of them married, and that the family was extensive. He appeared to know them all, the professions which they had been brought up to, and their careers in life. I treasured up this information, and, as soon as I had an opportunity, wrote down all which he had told me. On our arrival at Holyhead, the weather was very boisterous, and the packet was to depart immediately. Mr McDermott stated his intentions to go over, but Mr Cophagus and the professor declined; and, anxious as I was to proceed, I did not wish to be any longer in company with the agent, and, therefore, also declined going on board. Mr McDermott called for a glass of brandy and water, drank it off in haste, and then, followed by the porter, with his luggage, went down to embark.
As soon as he was gone, I burst into a fit of laughter. “Well, Mr Cophagus, acknowledge that it is possible to persuade a man out of his senses. You knew me, and you were perfectly right in asserting that I was Japhet, yet did I persuade you at last that you were mistaken. But I will explain to you why I did so.”
“All right,” said the apothecary, taking my proffered hand, “thought so—no mistake—handsome fellow—so you are—Japhet Newland—my apprentice—and so on.”
“Yes, sir,” replied I, laughing, “I am Japhet Newland.” (I turned round, hearing a noise, the door had been opened, and Mr McDermott had just stepped in; he had returned for an umbrella, which he had forgotten; he looked at me, at Mr Cophagus, who still held my hand in his, turned short round, said nothing, and walked out.) “This is unfortunate,” observed I: “my reason for not avowing myself was to deceive that very person, and now I have made the avowal to his face; however, it cannot be helped.”
I sat down with my old master, and as I knew that I could confide in him, gave him an outline of my life, and stated my present intentions.
“I see, Japhet, I see—done mischief—sorry for it—can’t be helped—do all I can—um—what’s to be done—be your friend—always like you—help all I can—and so on.”
“But what would you advise, sir?”
“Advice—bad as physic—nobody takes it—Ireland—wild place—no law—better go back—leave all to me—find out—and so on.”
This advice I certainly did not consent to follow.
We argued the matter over for some time, and then it was agreed that we should proceed together. I was informed by Mr Cophagus that he had retired with a very handsome fortune, and was living in the country, about ten miles from the metropolis; that he had been summoned to attend the funeral of a maiden aunt in Dublin, who had left him executor and residuary legatee, but that he knew nothing of her circumstances. He was still a bachelor, and amused himself in giving advice and medicines gratis to the poor people of the village in which he resided, there being no resident practitioner within some distance. He liked the country very much, but there was one objection to it—the cattle. He had not forgotten the mad bull. At a very late hour we retired to our beds: the next morning the weather had moderated, and, on the arrival of the mail, we embarked, and had a very good passage over. On my arrival at Dublin I directed my steps to the F—t Hotel, as the best place to make inquiries relative to Mr De Benyon. Mr Cophagus also put up at the same hotel, and we agreed to share a sitting-room.
“Waiter,” said I, “do you know a Mr De Benyon?”
“Yes, sir,” replied he; “there is one of the De Benyons at the hotel at this moment.”
“Is he a married man?”
“Yes—with a large family.”
“What is his Christian name?”
“I really cannot tell, sir; but I’ll find out for you by to-morrow morning.”
“When does he leave?”
“To-morrow, I believe.”
“Do you know where he goes?”
“Yes, sir, to his own seat.”
The waiter left the room. “Won’t do, Japhet,” said Cophagus. “Large family—don’t want more—hard times, and so on.”
“No,” replied I, “it does not exactly answer; but I may from him obtain further intelligence.”
“Won’t do, Japhet—try another way—large family—want all uncle’s money—um—never tell—good night.”