Part 44 (2/2)
”Well, sir, I will, if he does talk to me, but he seldom says much to me.”
”But he may, perhaps, Tim; and I wish him to know that I have paid every debt I owe in the world.”
”One would think that you were going to the East Indies, instead of to Richmond, by the way you talk.”
”No, Tim; I was offered a situation in the East Indies, and I refused it; but Mr Masterton and I have not been on good terms lately, and I wish him to know that I am out of debt. You know, for I told you all that pa.s.sed between Emmanuel and myself, how he accepted five hundred pounds, and I paid him the thousand; and I wish Mr Masterton should know it too, and he will then be better pleased with me.”
”Never fear, sir,” said Tim, ”I can tell the whole story with flourishes.”
”No, Tim, nothing but the truth; but it is time I should go. Farewell, my dear fellow. May G.o.d bless you and preserve you.” And, overcome by my feelings, I dropped my face on Timothy's shoulder, and wept.
”What is the matter? What do you mean, j.a.phet? Mr Newland--pray, sir, what is the matter?”
”Timothy--it is nothing,” replied I, recovering myself, ”but I have been ill; nervous lately, as you well know, and even leaving the last and only friend I have, I may say for a few days, annoys and overcomes me.”
”Oh! sir--dear j.a.phet, do let us leave this house, and sell your furniture, and be off.”
”I mean that it shall be so, Tim. G.o.d bless you, and farewell.” I went down stairs, the hackney-coach was at the door. Timothy put in my portmanteau, and mounted the box. I _wept bitterly_. My readers may despise me, but they ought not; let them be in my situation, and feel that they have one sincere faithful friend, and then they will know the bitterness of parting. I recovered myself before I arrived at the coach, and shaking hands with Timothy, I lost sight of him; for how long, the reader will find out in the sequel of my adventures.
I arrived at Lady de Clare's, and hardly need say that I was well received. They expressed their delight at my so soon coming again, and made a hundred inquiries--but I was unhappy and melancholy, not at my prospects, for in my infatuation I rejoiced at my antic.i.p.ated beggary-- but I wished to communicate with Fleta, for so I still call her. Fleta had known my history, for she had been present when I had related it to her mother, up to the time that I arrived in London; further than that she knew little. I was determined that before I quitted she should know--all. I dared not trust the last part to her when I was present, but I resolved that I would do it in writing.
Lady de Clare made no difficulty whatever of leaving me with Fleta. She was now a beautiful creature, of between fifteen and sixteen, bursting into womanhood, and lovely as the bud of the moss-rose; and she was precocious beyond her years in _intellect_. I staid there three days, and had frequent opportunities of conversing with her; I told her that I wished her to be acquainted with my whole life, and interrogated her as to what she knew: I carefully filled up the chasms, until I brought it down to the time at which I placed her in the arms of her mother. ”And now, Fleta,” said I, ”you have much more to learn--you will learn that much at my departure. I have dedicated hours every night in writing it out; and, as you will find, have a.n.a.lysed my feelings, and have pointed out to you where I have been wrong. I have done it for my amus.e.m.e.nt, as it may be of service even to a female.”
On the third day I took my leave, and requesting the pony chaise of Lady de Clare, to take me over to --, that I might catch the first coach that went westward, for I did not care which. I put into Fleta's hands the packet which I had written, containing all that had pa.s.sed, and I bid her farewell.
”Lady de Clare, may you be happy,” said I. ”Fleta--Cecilia, I should say, may G.o.d bless and preserve you, and sometimes think of your sincere friend, j.a.phet Newland.”
”Really, Mr Newland,” said Lady de Clare, ”one would think we were never to see you again.”
”I hope that will not be the case, Lady de Clare, for I know n.o.body to whom I am more devoted.”
”Then, sir, recollect we are to see you very soon.”
I pressed her ladys.h.i.+p's hand, and left the house. Thus did I commence my second pilgrimage.
PART THREE, CHAPTER THREE.
MY NEW CAREER IS NOT VERY PROSPEROUS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT--I AM ROBBED, AND ACCUSED OF BEING A ROBBER--I BIND UP WOUNDS, AND AM ACCUSED OF HAVING INFLICTED THEM--I GET INTO A HORSE-POND, AND OUT OF IT INTO GAOL.
I had proceeded half a mile from the house, when I desired the servant to turn into a cross-road so as to gain Brentford; and, so soon as I arrived, the distance being only four miles, I ordered him to stop at a public-house, saying that I would wait till the coach should pa.s.s by. I then gave him half-a-crown, and ordered him to go home. I went into the inn with my portmanteau, and was shown into a small back parlour; there I remained about half an hour reflecting upon the best plan that I could adopt.
Leaving the ale that I had called for untasted, I paid for it, and, with the portmanteau on my shoulder, I walked away until I arrived at an old clothes' shop. I told the Jew who kept it, that I required some clothes, and also wanted to dispose of my own portmanteau and all my effects. I had a great rogue to deal with; but after much chaffering, for I now felt the value of money, I purchased from him two pair of corduroy trowsers, two waistcoats, four common s.h.i.+rts, four pairs of stockings, a smock frock, a pair of high-lows, and a common hat. For these I gave up all my portmanteau, with the exception of six silk hand kerchiefs, and received fifty s.h.i.+llings, when I ought to have received, at least, ten pounds but I could not well help myself, and I submitted to the extortion. I dressed myself in my more humble garments, securing my money in the pocket of my trowsers un.o.bserved by the Jew, made up a bundle of the rest, and procured a stick from the Jew to carry it on, however not without paying him three-pence for it, he observing that the stick ”wash not in de bargain.” Thus attired, I had the appearance of a countryman well to do, and I set off through the long dirty main street of Brentford, quite undecided and indifferent as to the direction I should take. I walked about a mile, when I thought that it was better to come to some decision previous to my going farther; and perceiving a bench in front of a public-house, I went to it and sat down. I looked around, and it immediately came to my recollection that I was sitting on the very bench on which Timothy and I had stopped to eat our meal of pork, at our first outset upon our travels. Yes, it was the very same!
Here sat I, and there sat Timothy, two heedless boys, with the paper containing the meat, the loaf of bread, and the pot of beer between us.
Poor Timothy! I conjured up his unhappiness when he had received my note acquainting him with our future separation. I remembered his fidelity, his courage in defence, and his preservation of my life in Ireland, and a tear or two coursed down my cheek.
I remained some time in a deep reverie, during which the various circ.u.mstances and adventures of my life pa.s.sed in a rapid panorama before me. I felt that I had little to plead in my own favour, much to condemn--that I had pa.s.sed a life of fraud and deceit. I also could not forget that when I had returned to honesty, I had been scouted by the world. ”And here I am,” thought I, ”once more with the world before me; and it is just that I should commence again, for I started in a wrong path. At least, now I can satisfactorily a.s.sert that I am deceiving n.o.body, and can deservedly receive no contumely. I am j.a.phet Newland, and not in disguise.” I felt happy with this reflection, and made a determination, whatever my future lot might be, that, at least, I would pursue the path of honesty. I then began to reflect upon another point, which was, whither I should bend my steps, and what I should do to gain my livelihood.
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