Japhet in Search of a Father

“Rather say, Mr Emmanuel, that you have heard that I have not ten thousand pounds per annum, and that you are afraid that you have lost your money.”

“Loshe my monish!—no—loshe my tousand pound! Did you not say, dat you would pay it back to me, and give me hundred pounds for my trouble; dat vash de last arrangement.”

“Yes, but you refused to take it, so it is not my fault. You must now stick to the first, which is to receive fifteen hundred pounds when I come into my fortune.”

“Your fortune, but you av no fortune.”

“I am afraid not; and recollect, Mr Emmanuel, that I never told you that I had.”

“Vill you pay me my monish, Mr Newland, or vill you go to prison?”

“You can’t put me in prison for an agreement,” replied I.

“No; but I can prosecute you for a swindler.”

“No, you confounded old rascal, you cannot; try, and do your worst,” cried I, enraged at the word swindler.

“Vell, Mr Newland, if you have not de ten tousand a year, you have de house and de monish; you vill not cheat a poor man like me.”

“I have sold my house.”

“You have sold de house—den you have neither de house or de monish. Oh! my monish, my monish! Sare, Mr Newland, you are one damned rascal;” and the old wretch’s frame quivered with emotion; his hand behind his back shaking as much as the other which, in his rage, he shook in my face.

Enraged myself at being called such an opprobrious term, I opened the door, twisted him round, and applying my foot to a nameless part, he flew out and fell down the stairs, at the turning of which he lay, groaning in pain.

“Mine Got, mine Got, I am murdered,” cried he. “Fader Abraham, receive me.” My rage was appeased, and I turned pale at the idea of having killed the poor wretch. With the assistance of Timothy, whom I summoned, we dragged the old man up stairs, and placed him in a chair, and found that he was not very much hurt. A glass of wine was given to him, and then, as soon as he could speak, his ruling passion broke out again. “Mishter Newland—ah, Mishter Newland, cannot you give me my monish—cannot you give me de tousand pound, without de interest? you are very welcome to de interest. I only lend it to oblige you.”

“How can you expect a damned rascal to do any such thing?” replied I.

“Damned rascal! Ah! it vash I who vash a rascal, and vash a fool to say the word. Mishter Newland, you vash a gentleman, you vill pay me my monish. You vill pay me part of my monish. I have de agreement in my pocket, all ready to give up.”

“If I have not the money, how can I pay you?”

“Fader Abraham, if you have not de monish—you must have some monish; den you will pay me a part. How much vill you pay me?”

“Will you take five hundred pounds, and return the agreement?”

“Five hundred pounds—lose half—oh! Mr Newland—it was all lent in monish, not in goods; you will not make me lose so much as dat?”

“I’m not sure that I will give you five hundred pounds; your bond is not worth two-pence, and you know it.”

“Your honour, Mishter Newland, is worth more dan ten tousand pounds: but if you have not de monish, den you shall pay me de five hundred pounds which you offer, and I will give up de paper.”

“I never offered five hundred pounds.”

“Not offer; but you mention de sum, dat quite enough.”

“Well, then, for five hundred pounds, you will give up the paper?”

“Yes; I vash content to loshe all de rest, to please you.”

I went to my desk, and took out five hundred pounds in notes. “Now, there is the money, which you may put your hands on when you give up the agreement.” The old man pulled out the agreement and laid it on the table, catching up the notes. I looked at the paper to see if it was all right, and then tore it up. Emmanuel put the notes, with a heavy sigh, into his inside coat pocket, and prepared to depart. “Now, Mr Emmanuel, I will show that I have a little more honour than you think for. This is all the money I have in the world,” said I, taking out of my desk the remaining thousand pounds, “and half of it I give to you, to pay you the whole money which you lent me. Here is five hundred pounds more, and now we are quits.”

The eyes of the old man were fixed upon me in astonishment, and from my face they glanced upon the notes; he could, to use a common expression, neither believe his eyes nor his ears. At last he took the money, again unbuttoned, and pulled out his pocket-book, and with a trembling hand stowed them away as before.

“You vash a very odd gentleman, Mishter Newland,” said he; “you kick me down stairs, and—but dat is noting.”

“Good-bye, Mr Emmanuel,” said I, “and let me eat my dinner.”

Part 3—Chapter II

I resolve to begin the World again, and to seek my Fortune in the next Path—I take Leave of all my old Friends.

The Jew retired, and I commenced my meal, when the door again slowly opened, and Mr Emmanuel crawled up to me.

“Mishter Newland, I vash beg your pardon, but vill you not pay me de interest of de monish?”

I started up from my chair, with my rattan in my hand. “Begone, you old thief,” cried I; and hardly were the words out of my mouth, before Mr Emmanuel travelled out of the room, and I never saw him afterwards. I was pleased with myself for having done this act of honesty and for the first time for a long while I ate my dinner with some zest. After I had finished, I took a twenty pound note, and laid it in my desk, the remainder of the five hundred pounds I put in my pocket, to try my last chance. In an hour I quitted the hell penniless. When I returned home I had composed myself a little after the dreadful excitement which I had been under. I felt a calm, and a degree of negative happiness. I knew my fate—there was no more suspense. I sat down to reflect upon what I should do. I was to commence the world again—to sink down at once into obscurity—into poverty—and I felt happy, I had severed the link between myself and my former condition—I was again a beggar, but I was independent—and I resolved so to be. I spoke kindly to Timothy, went to bed, and having arranged in my own mind how I should act, I fell sound asleep.

I never slept better, or awoke more refreshed. The next morning I packed up my portmanteau, taking with me only the most necessary articles; all the details of the toilet, further than cleanliness was concerned, I abjured. When Timothy came in, I told him that I was going down to Lady de Clare’s, which I intended to do. Poor Timothy was overjoyed at the change in my manner, little thinking that he was so soon to lose me—for, reader, I had made up my mind that I would try my fortunes alone; and, painful as I felt would be the parting with so valued a friend, I was determined that I would no longer have even his assistance or company. I was determined to forget all that had passed, and commence the world anew. I sat down while Timothy went out to take a place in the Richmond coach, and wrote to him the following letter:—

“My dear Timothy,—Do not think that I undervalue your friendship, or shall ever forget your regard for me, when I tell you that we shall probably never meet again. Should fortune favour me, I trust we shall—but of that there is little prospect. I have lost almost everything: my money is all gone, my house is sold, and all is gambled away. I leave you, with only my clothes in my portmanteau and twenty pounds. For yourself, there is the furniture, which you must sell, as well as every other article left behind. It is all yours, and I hope you will find means to establish yourself in some way. God bless you—and believe me always and gratefully yours,—

“Japhet Newland.”

This letter I reserved to put in the post when I quitted Richmond. My next letter was to Mr Masterton.

“Sir,—Your note I received, and I am afraid that unwittingly, you have been the occasion of my present condition. That I did not deserve the language addressed to me, you may satisfy yourself by applying to Mr Harcourt. Driven to desperation, I have lost all I had in the world, by adding gaming to my many follies. I now am about to seek my fortune, and prosecute my search after my father. You will, therefore, return my most sincere acknowledgments to Lord Windermear, for his kind offers and intentions, and assure him that my feelings towards him will always be those of gratitude and respect. For yourself accept my warmest thanks for the friendly advice and kind interest which you have shown in my welfare, and believe me, when I say, that my earnest prayers shall be offered up for your happiness. If you can, in any way, assist my poor friend, Timothy, who will, I have no doubt, fall upon you in his distress, you will confer an additional favour on.

“Yours, ever gratefully,—

“Japhet Newland.”

I sealed this letter, and when Timothy returned, I told him that I wished him, after my departure, to take it to Mr Masterton’s, and not wait for an answer. I then, as I had an hour to spare, before the coach started, entered into a conversation with Timothy. I pointed out to him the unfortunate condition in which I found myself, and my determination to quit the metropolis.

Timothy agreed with me. “I have seen you so unhappy of late—I may say, so miserable—that I have neither eaten nor slept. Indeed, Japhet, I have laid in bed and wept, for my happiness depends upon yours. Go where you will, I am ready to follow and to serve you, and as long as I see you comfortable, I care for nothing else.”

These words of Timothy almost shook my resolution, and I was near telling him all; but when I recollected, I refrained. “My dear Timothy,” said I, “in this world we must expect to meet with a checkered existence; we may laugh at one time, but we must cry at others. I owe my life to you, and I never shall forget you, wherever I may be.”

“No,” replied Timothy, “you are not likely to forget one who is hardly an hour out of your sight.”

“Very true, Timothy; but circumstances may occur which may separate us.”

“I cannot imagine such circumstances, nor do I believe, that bad as things may turn out, that they will ever be so bad as that. You have your money and your house; if you leave London, you will be able to add to your income by letting your own apartments furnished, so we never shall want; and we may be very happy running about the world, seeking what we wish to find.”

My heart smote me when Timothy said this, for I felt, by his devotion and fidelity, he had almost the same claim to the property I possessed as myself. He had been my partner, playing the inferior game, for the mutual benefit. “But the time may come, Timothy, when we may find ourselves without money, as we were when we first commenced our career, and shared three-pence halfpenny each, by selling the old woman the embrocation.”

“Well, sir, and let it come. I should be sorry for you, but not for myself, for then Tim would be of more importance, and more useful, than as valet with little or nothing to do.”