Japhet in Search of a Father

“My dear sir,” replied I, “I am very much obliged for your kind and considerate conduct; there are more who are inclined to calumniate than to defend.”

“And always will be in this world, Mr Newland; but I have a fellow feeling. I recollect how I was received and flattered when I was introduced as a young man of fortune, and how I was deserted and neglected when I was cleaned out. I know now why they are so civil to me, and I value their civility at just as much as it is worth. Will you accept my arm:—I am going your way.”

I could not refuse; but I coloured when I took it, for I felt that I was not adding to my reputation by being seen in his company; and still I felt, that although not adding to my reputation, I was less likely to receive insult, and that the same cause which induced them to be civil to him, would perhaps operate when they found me allied with him. “Be it so,” thought I, “I will, if possible, extort politeness.”

We were strolling down Bond Street, when we met a young man, well known in the fashionable circles, who had dropped my acquaintance, after having been formerly most pressing to obtain it. Atkinson faced him.

“Good morning, Mr Oxberry.”

“Good morning, Captain Atkinson,” replied Mr Oxberry.

“I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?” observed Atkinson, rather fiercely.

“Oh! really—I quite—I beg pardon. Good morning, Mr Newland; you have been long absent. I did not see you at Lady Maelstrom’s last night.”

“No,” replied I, carelessly, “nor will you ever. When you next see her ladyship, ask her, with my compliments, whether she has had another fainting fit.”

“I shall certainly have great pleasure in carrying your message, Mr Newland—good morning.”

“That fool,” observed Atkinson, “will now run all over town, and you will see the consequence.”

We met one or two others, and to them Atkinson put the same question, “I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?” At last, just as we arrived at my own house in Saint James’s Street, who should we meet but Harcourt. Harcourt immediately perceived me, and bowed low as he passed on; so that his bow would have served for both; but Atkinson stopped. “I must beg your pardon, Harcourt, for detaining you a moment, but what are the odds upon the Vestris colt for the Derby?”

“Upon my word, Captain Atkinson, I was told, but I have forgotten.”

“Your memory appears bad, for you have also forgotten your old friend, Mr Newland.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr Newland.”

“There is no occasion to beg my pardon, Mr Harcourt,” interrupted I; “for I tell you plainly, that I despise you too much to ever wish to be acquainted with you. You will oblige me, sir, by never presuming to touch your hat, or otherwise notice me.” Harcourt coloured, and started back. “Such language, Mr Newland—”

“Is what you deserve: ask your own conscience. Leave us, sir;” and I walked on with Captain Atkinson. “You have done well, Newland,” observed Atkinson: “he cannot submit to that language, for he knows that I have heard it. A meeting you will of course have no objection to. It will be of immense advantage to you.”

“None whatever,” replied I; “for if there is any one man who deserves to be punished for his conduct towards me, it is Harcourt. Will you come up, Captain Atkinson, and, if not better engaged, take a quiet dinner and a bottle of wine with me?”

Our conversation during dinner was desultory; but after the first bottle, Atkinson became communicative, and his history not only made me feel better inclined towards him, but afforded me another instance, as well as Carbonnell’s, how often it is that those who would have done well are first plundered, and then driven to desperation by the heartlessness of the world. The cases, however, had this difference, that Carbonnell had always contrived to keep his reputation above water, while that of Atkinson was gone and never to be re-established. We had just finished our wine when a note was brought from Harcourt, informing me that he should send a friend the next morning for an explanation of my conduct. I handed it over to Atkinson. “My dear sir, I am at your service,” replied he, “without you have anybody among your acquaintances whom you may prefer.”

“Thank you,” replied I, “Captain Atkinson: it cannot be in better hands.”

“That is settled, then; and now where shall we go?”

“Wherever you please.”

“Then I shall try if I can win a little money to-night: if you come you need not play—you can look on. It will serve to divert your thoughts, at all events.”

I felt so anxious to avoid reflection, that I immediately accepted his offer; and, in a few minutes, we were in the well-lighted room, and in front of the rouge et noir table, covered with gold and bank notes. Atkinson did not commence his play immediately, but pricked the chances on a card as they ran. After half an hour he laid down his stakes, and was fortunate. I could no longer withstand the temptation, and I backed him; in less than an hour we both had won considerably.

“That is enough,” said he to me, sweeping up his money; “we must not try the slippery dame too long.”

I followed his example, and shortly afterwards we quitted the house. “I will walk home with you, Newland: never, if you can help it, especially if you have been a winner, leave a gaming house alone.”

Going home, I asked Atkinson if he would come up; he did so, and then we examined our winnings. “I know mine,” replied he, “within twenty pounds, for I always leave off at a certain point. I have three hundred pounds, and something more.”

He had won three hundred and twenty-five pounds. I had won ninety pounds. As we sat over a glass of brandy and water, I inquired whether he was always fortunate. “No, of course I am not,” replied Atkinson; “but on the whole, in the course of the year, I am a winner of sufficient to support myself.”

“Is there any rule by which people are guided who play? I observed many of those who were seated pricking the chances with great care, and then staking their money at intervals.”

“Rouge et noir I believe to be the fairest of all games,” replied Atkinson; “but where there is a percentage invariably in favour of the bank, although one may win and another lose, still the profits must be in favour of the bank. If a man were to play all the year round, he would lose the national debt in the end. As for martingales, and all those calculations, which you observed them so busy with, they are all useless. I have tried everything, and there is only one chance of success, but then you must not be a gambler.”

“Not a gambler?”

“No; you must not be carried away by the excitement of the game, or you will infallibly lose. You must have a strength of mind which few have, or you will be soon cleaned out.”

“But you say that you win on the whole: have you no rule to guide you?”

“Yes, I have: strange as the chances are, I have been so accustomed to them, that I generally put down my stake right: when I am once in a run of luck, I have a method of my own, but what it is I cannot tell; only this I know, that if I depart from it, I always lose my money. But that is what you may call good luck, or what you please—it is not a rule.”

“Where, then, are your rules?”

“Simply these two. The first it is not difficult to adhere to: I make a rule never to lose but a certain sum if I am unlucky when I commence—say twenty stakes, whatever may be the amount of the stake that you play. This rule is easily adhered to, by not taking more money with you; and I am not one of those to whom the croupier or porters will lend money. The second rule is the most difficult, and decides whether you are a gambler or not. I make a rule always to leave off when I have won a certain sum—or even before, if the chances of my game fluctuate. There is the difficulty: it appears very foolish not to follow up luck; but the fact is, fortune is so capricious, that if you trust her more than an hour, she will desert you. This is my mode of play, and with me it answers but it does not follow that it would answer with another. But it is very late, or, rather, very early—I wish you a good night.”

Part 2—Chapter XXIX

Become Principal instead of Second in a Duel, and risk my own and another’s Life, my own and others’ Happiness and Peace of Mind, because I have been punished as I deserved.

After Captain Atkinson had left me, I stated to Timothy what had passed. “And do you think you will have to fight a duel, sir?” cried Timothy with alarm.

“There is no doubt of it,” replied I.

“You never will find your father, sir, if you go on this way,” said Timothy, as if to divert my attention from such a purpose.

“Not in this world, perhaps, Tim; perhaps I may be sent the right road by a bullet, and find him in the next.”

“Do you think your father, if dead, has gone to heaven?”

“I hope so, Timothy.”

“Then what chance have you of meeting him, if you go out of the world attempting the life of your old friend?”

“That is what you call a poser, my dear Timothy, but I cannot help myself: this I can safely say, that I have no animosity against Mr Harcourt—at least, not sufficient to have any wish to take away his life.”

“Well, that’s something, to be sure; but do you know, Japhet, I’m not quite sure you hit the right road when you set up for a gentleman.”

“No, Timothy, no man can be in the right road who deceives: I have been all wrong; and I am afraid I am going from worse to worse: but I cannot moralise, I must go to sleep, and forget everything, if I can.”

The next morning, about eleven o’clock, a Mr Cotgrave called upon me on the part of Harcourt. I referred him to Captain Atkinson, and he bowed and quitted the room. Captain Atkinson soon called: he had remained at home expecting the message, and had made every arrangement with the second. He stayed with me the whole day. The major’s pistols were examined and approved of. We dined, drank freely, and he afterwards proposed that I should accompany him to one of the hells, as they are called. This I refused, as I had some arrangements to make; and as soon as he was gone I sent for Timothy.

“Tim,” said I, “if I should be unlucky to-morrow, you are my executor and residuary legatee. My will was made when in Dublin, and is in the charge of Mr Cophagus.”