Part 44 (1/2)
PART THREE, CHAPTER TWO.
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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.sistance or company. I was determined to forget all that had pa.s.sed, 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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. G.o.d bless you--and believe me always and gratefully yours,--
”j.a.phet 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 a.s.sure him that my feelings towards him will always be those of grat.i.tude 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, a.s.sist 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,--
”j.a.phet 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, j.a.phet, 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 circ.u.mstances may occur which may separate us.”
”I cannot imagine such circ.u.mstances, 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.”
I mentally exclaimed, ”I have, I think I have, been a fool, a great fool, but the die is cast. I will sow in sorrow, and may I reap a harvest in joy. I feel,” thought I (and I did feel), ”I feel a delightful conviction, that we shall meet again, and all this misery of parting will be but a subject of future garrulity.”
”Yes, Tim,” said I in a loud Voice, ”all is right.”
”All's right, sir; I never thought anything was wrong, except your annoyance at people not paying you the attention which they used to do, when they supposed you a man of fortune.”
”Very true; and Tim, recollect that if Mr Masterton speaks to you about me, which he may after I am gone to Richmond, you tell him that before I left, I paid that old scoundrel Emmanuel every farthing that I had borrowed of him, and you know (and in fact so does Mr Masterton) how it was borrowed.”