Chapter XVIII
I receive a letter from my uncle by which I naturally expect to find out who is my father—Like other outcasts, I am warned by a dream.
But I have omitted to mention a circumstance of great importance, which occurred at the inn the night before I placed Fleta at the boarding-school. In looking over my portmanteau, I perceived the present of Nattée to Fleta, which I had quite forgotten. I took it to Fleta, and told her from whom it came. On opening the paper, it proved to contain a long chain of round coral and gold beads, strung alternately; the gold beads were not so large as the coral, but still the number of them, and the purity of the metal, made them of considerable value. Fleta passed the beads through her fingers, and then threw it round her neck, and sat in deep thought for some minutes. "Japhet," said she at last, "I have seen this—I have worn this before—I recollect that I have; it rushes into my memory as an old friend, and I think that before morning it will bring to my mind something that I shall recollect about it."
"Try all you can, Fleta, and let me know to-morrow."
"It's no use trying; if I try, I never can recollect anything. I must wear it to-night, and then I shall have something come into my mind all of a sudden; or perhaps I may dream something. Good-night."
It immediately occurred to me that it was most probable that the chain had been on Fleta's neck at the time that she was stolen from her parents, and might prove the means of her being identified. It was no common chain—apparently had been wrought by people in a state of semi-refinement. There was too little show for its value—too much sterling gold for the simple effect produced; and I very much doubted whether another like it could be found.
The next morning Fleta was too much affected at parting with me, to enter into much conversation. I asked whether she had recollected anything, and she replied, "No; that she had cried all night at the thoughts of our separation." I cautioned her to be very careful of the chain, and I gave the same caution to the schoolmistress; and after I had left the town, I regretted that I had not taken it away, and deposited it in some place of security. I resolved to do so when I next saw Fleta; in the meantime, she would be able, perhaps, by association, to call up some passage of her infancy connected with it.
I had inquired of a gentleman who sat near me on the coach, which was the best hotel for a young man of fashion. He recommended the Piazza, in Covent Garden, and to that we accordingly repaired. I selected handsome apartments, and ordered a light supper. When the table was laid, Timothy made his appearance, in his livery, and cut a very smart, dashing figure. I dismissed the waiter, and as soon as we were alone, I burst into a fit of laughter. "Really, Timothy, this is a good farce; come, sit down, and help me to finish this bottle of wine."
"No, sir," replied Timothy; "with your permission, I prefer doing as the rest of my fraternity. You only leave the bottle on the sideboard, and I will steal as much as I want; but as for sitting down, that will be making too free, and if we were seen, would be, moreover, very dangerous. We must both keep up our characters. They have been plying me with all manner of questions below, as to who you were—your name, &c. I resolved that I would give you a lift in the world, and I stated that you had just arrived from making a grand tour—which is not a fib, after all—and as for your name, I said that you were at present incog."
"But why did you make me incog.?"
"Because it may suit you so to be; and it certainly is the truth, for you don't know your real name."
We were here interrupted by the waiter bringing in a letter upon a salver. "Here is a letter addressed to 'I, or J.N., on his return from his tour,' sir," said he; "I presume it is for you?"
"You may leave it," said I, with nonchalance.
The waiter laid the letter on the table, and retired.
"How very odd, Timothy—this letter cannot be for me; and yet they are my initials. It is as much like a J as an I. Depend upon it, it is some fellow who has just gained this intelligence below, and has written to ask for a subscription to his charity list, imagining that I am flush of money, and liberal."
"I suppose so," replied Tim; "however, you may just as well see what he says."
"But if I open it he will expect something. I had better refuse it."
"O no, leave that to me; I know how to put people off."
"After all, it is a fine thing to be a gentleman, and be petitioned."
I broke open the seal, and found that the letter contained an inclosure addressed to another person. The letter was as follows:—
"My dear Nephew,—['Bravo, sir,' said Timothy; 'you've found an uncle already—you'll soon find a father.'] From the great uncertainty of the post, I have not ventured to do more than hint at what has come to light during this last year, but as it is necessary that you should be acquainted with the whole transaction; and as you had not decided when you last wrote, whether you would prosecute your intended three months trip to Sicily, or return from Milan, you may probably arrive when I am out of town; I therefore enclose you a letter to Mr Masterton, directing him to surrender to you a sealed packet, lodged in his hands, containing all the particulars, the letters which bear upon them, and what has been proposed to avoid exposure; which you may peruse at your leisure, should you arrive before my return to town. There is no doubt but that the affair may be hushed up, and we trust that you will see the prudence of the measure; as, once known, it will be very discreditable to the family escutcheon. ('I always had an idea you were of good family,' interrupted Tim.) I wish you had followed my advice, and had not returned; but as you were positive on that point, I beg you will now consider the propriety of remaining incognito, as reports are already abroad, and your sudden return will cause a great deal of surmise. Your long absence at the Gottingen University, and your subsequent completion of your grand tour, will have effaced all remembrance of your person, and you can easily be passed off as a particular friend of mine, and I can introduce you everywhere as such. Take, then, any name you may please, provided it be not Smith or Brown, or such vulgarisms; and on the receipt of this letter, write a note, and send it to my house in Portman Square, just saying, 'so and so is arrived.' This will prevent the servants from obtaining any information by their prying curiosity; and as I have directed all my letters to be forwarded to my seat in Worcestershire, I shall come up immediately that I receive it, and by your putting the name which you mean to assume, I shall know whom to ask for when I call at the hotel.
"Your affectionate Uncle,
"Windermear."
"One thing is very clear, Timothy," said I, laying the letter on the table, "that it cannot be intended for me."
"How do you know, sir, that this lord is not your uncle? At all events, you must do as he bids you."
"What—go for the papers! most certainly I shall not."
"Then how in the name of fortune do you expect to find your father, when you will not take advantage of such an opportunity of getting into society? It is by getting possession of other people's secrets, that you will worm out your own."
"But it is dishonest, Timothy."
"A letter is addressed to you, in which you have certain directions; you break the seal with confidence, and you read what you find is possibly not for you; but, depend upon it, Japhet, that a secret obtained is one of the surest roads to promotion. Recollect your position; cut off from the world, you have to re-unite yourself with it, to recover your footing, and create an interest. You have not those who love you to help you—you must not scruple to obtain your object by fear."
"That is a melancholy truth, Tim," replied I; "and I believe I must put my strict morality in my pocket."
"Do, sir, pray, until you can afford to be moral; it's a very expensive virtue that; a deficiency of it made you an outcast from the world, you must not scruple at a slight deficiency on your own part, to regain your position."
There was so much shrewdness, so much of the wisdom of the serpent in the remarks of Timothy, that, added to my ardent desire to discover my father, which since my quitting the gipsy camp had returned upon me with two-fold force, my scruples were overcome, and I resolved that I would not lose such an opportunity. Still I hesitated, and went up into my room, that I might reflect upon what I should do. I went to bed, revolving the matter in my mind, and turning over from one position to the other, at one time deciding that I would not take advantage of the mistake, at another quite as resolved that I would not throw away such an opening for the prosecution of my search; at last I fell into an uneasy slumber, and had a strange dream. I thought that I was standing upon an isolated rock, with the waters raging around me; the tide was rising, and at last the waves were roaring at my feet. I was in a state of agony, and expected that, in a short time, I should be swallowed up. The main land was not far off, and I perceived well-dressed people in crowds, who were enjoying themselves, feasting, dancing, and laughing in merry peals. I held out my hands—I shouted to them—they saw, and heard me, but heeded me not. My horror at being swept away by the tide was dreadful. I shrieked as the water rose. At last I perceived something unroll itself from the main land, and gradually advancing to the inland, form a bridge by which I could walk over and be saved. I was about to hasten over, when "Private, and no thoroughfare," appeared at the end nearest me, in large letters of fire. I started back with amazement, and would not, dared not pass them. When all of a sudden, a figure in white appeared by my side, and said to me, pointing to the bridge, "Self-preservation is the first law of nature."
I looked at the person who addressed me; gradually the figure became darker and darker, until it changed to Mr Cophagus, with his stick up to his nose. "Japhet, all nonsense—very good bridge—um—walk over—find father—and so on." I dashed over the bridge, which appeared to float on the water, and to be composed of paper, gained the other side, and was received with shouts of congratulation, and the embraces of the crowd. I perceived an elderly gentleman come forward; I knew it was my father, and I threw myself into his arms. I awoke, and found myself rolling on the floor, embracing the bolster with all my might. Such was the vivid impression of this dream, that I could not turn my thoughts away from it, and at last I considered that it was a divine interposition. All my scruples vanished, and before the day had dawned I determined that I would follow the advice of Timothy. An enthusiast is easily led to believe what he wishes, and he mistakes his own feelings for warnings; the dreams arising from his daily contemplations for the interference of Heaven. He thinks himself armed by supernatural assistance, and warranted by the Almighty to pursue his course, even if that course should be contrary to the Almighty's precepts. Thus was I led away by my own imaginings, and thus was my monomania increased to an impetus which forced before it all consideration of what was right or wrong.