Part 33 (1/2)

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 a.s.serting that I was j.a.phet, 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--j.a.phet Newland--my apprentice--and so on.”

”Yes, sir,” replied I, laughing, ”I am j.a.phet 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, j.a.phet, 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--n.o.body 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 pract.i.tioner 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 pa.s.sage 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, j.a.phet,” 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, j.a.phet--try another way--large family--want all uncle's money--um--never tell--good night.”

This remark of Mr Cophagus gave me an idea, upon which I proceeded the next morning. I sent in my card requesting the honour of speaking to Mr De Benyon, stating that I had come over to Ireland on business of importance, but that, as I must be back if possible by term time, it would perhaps save much expense and trouble. The waiter took in the message.

”Back by term time--it must be some legal gentleman. Show him up,” said Mr De Benyon.

I walked in with a business-like air. ”Mr De Benyon, I believe?”

”Yes, sir; will you do me the favour to take a chair?”