“Le bien nous le faisons: le mal c’est la Fortune. On a toujours raison, le Destin toujours tort.”—LA FONTAINE. [The Good, we effect ourselves; the Evil is the handiwork of Fortune. Mortals are always in the right, Destiny always in the wrong.]
Upon the early morning of the day commemorated by the historical events of our last chapter, two men were deposited by a branch coach at the inn of a hamlet about ten miles distant from the town in which Mr. Roger Morton resided. Though the hamlet was small, the inn was large, for it was placed close by a huge finger-post that pointed to three great roads: one led to the town before mentioned; another to the heart of a manufacturing district; and a third to a populous seaport. The weather was fine, and the two travellers ordered breakfast to be taken into an arbour in the garden, as well as the basins and towels necessary for ablution. The elder of the travellers appeared to be unequivocally foreign; you would have guessed him at once for a German. He wore, what was then very uncommon in this country, a loose, brown linen blouse, buttoned to the chin, with a leathern belt, into which were stuck a German meerschaum and a tobacco-pouch. He had very long flaxen hair, false or real, that streamed half-way down his back, large light mustaches, and a rough, sunburnt complexion, which made the fairness of the hair more remarkable. He wore an enormous pair of green spectacles, and complained much in broken English of the weakness of his eyes. All about him, even to the smallest minutiae, indicated the German; not only the large muscular frame, the broad feet, and vast though well-shaped hands, but the brooch—evidently purchased of a Jew in some great fair—stuck ostentatiously and superfluously into his stock; the quaint, droll-looking carpet-bag, which he refused to trust to the boots; and the great, massive, dingy ring which he wore on his forefinger. The other was a slender, remarkably upright and sinewy youth, in a blue frock, over which was thrown a large cloak, a travelling cap, with a shade that concealed all of the upper part of his face, except a dark quick eye of uncommon fire; and a shawl handkerchief, which was equally useful in concealing the lower part of the countenance. On descending from the coach, the German with some difficulty made the ostler understand that he wanted a post-chaise in a quarter of an hour; and then, without entering the house, he and his friend strolled to the arbour. While the maid-servant was covering the table with bread, butter, tea, eggs, and a huge round of beef, the German was busy in washing his hands, and talking in his national tongue to the young man, who returned no answer. But as soon as the servant had completed her operations the foreigner turned round, and observing her eyes fixed on his brooch with much female admiration, he made one stride to her.
“Der Teufel, my goot Madchen—but you are von var pretty—vat you call it?” and he gave her, as he spoke, so hearty a smack that the girl was more flustered than flattered by the courtesy.
“Keep yourself to yourself, sir!” said she, very tartly, for chambermaids never like to be kissed by a middle-aged gentleman when a younger one is by: whereupon the German replied by a pinch,—it is immaterial to state the exact spot to which that delicate caress was directed. But this last offence was so inexpiable, that the “Madchen” bounced off with a face of scarlet, and a “Sir, you are no gentleman—that’s what you arn’t!” The German thrust his head out of the arbour, and followed her with a loud laugh; then drawing himself in again, he said in quite another accent, and in excellent English, “There, Master Philip, we have got rid of the girl for the rest of the morning, and that’s exactly what I wanted to do—women’s wits are confoundedly sharp. Well, did I not tell you right, we have baffled all the bloodhounds!”
“And here, then, Gawtrey, we are to part,” said Philip, mournfully.
“I wish you would think better of it, my boy,” returned Mr. Gawtrey, breaking an egg; “how can you shift for yourself—no kith nor kin, not even that important machine for giving advice called a friend—no, not a friend, when I am gone? I foresee how it must end. [D—- it, salt butter, by Jove!]”
“If I were alone in the world, as I have told you again and again, perhaps I might pin my fate to yours. But my brother!”
“There it is, always wrong when we act from our feelings. My whole life, which some day or other I will tell you, proves that. Your brother—bah! is he not very well off with his own uncle and aunt?—plenty to eat and drink, I dare say. Come, man, you must be as hungry as a hawk—a slice of the beef? Let well alone, and shift for yourself. What good can you do your brother?”
“I don’t know, but I must see him; I have sworn it.”
“Well, go and see him, and then strike across the country to me. I will wait a day for you,—there now!”
“But tell me first,” said Philip, very earnestly, and fixing his dark eyes on his companion,—“tell me—yes, I must speak frankly—tell me, you who would link my fortunes with your own,—tell me, what and who are you?”
Gawtrey looked up.
“What do you suppose?” said he, dryly.
“I fear to suppose anything, lest I wrong you; but the strange place to which you took me the evening on which you saved me from pursuit, the persons I met there—”
“Well-dressed, and very civil to you?”
“True! but with a certain wild looseness in their talk that—But I have no right to judge others by mere appearance. Nor is it this that has made me anxious, and, if you will, suspicious.”
“What then?”
“Your dress—your disguise.”
“Disguised yourself!—ha! ha! Behold the world’s charity! You fly from some danger, some pursuit, disguised—you, who hold yourself guiltless—I do the same, and you hold me criminal—a robber, perhaps—a murderer it may be! I will tell you what I am: I am a son of Fortune, an adventurer; I live by my wits—so do poets and lawyers, and all the charlatans of the world; I am a charlatan—a chameleon. ‘Each man in his time plays many parts:’ I play any part in which Money, the Arch-Manager, promises me a livelihood. Are you satisfied?”
“Perhaps,” answered the boy, sadly, “when I know more of the world, I shall understand you better. Strange—strange, that you, out of all men, should have been kind to me in distress!”
“Not at all strange. Ask the beggar whom he gets the most pence from—the fine lady in her carriage—the beau smelling of eau de Cologne? Pish! the people nearest to being beggars themselves keep the beggar alive. You were friendless, and the man who has all earth for a foe befriends you. It is the way of the world, sir,—the way of the world. Come, eat while you can; this time next year you may have no beef to your bread.”
Thus masticating and moralising at the same time, Mr. Gawtrey at last finished a breakfast that would have astonished the whole Corporation of London; and then taking out a large old watch, with an enamelled back—doubtless more German than its master—he said, as he lifted up his carpet-bag, “I must be off—tempos fugit, and I must arrive just in time to nick the vessels. Shall get to Ostend, or Rotterdam, safe and snug; thence to Paris. How my pretty Fan will have grown! Ah, you don’t know Fan—make you a nice little wife one of these days! Cheer up, man, we shall meet again. Be sure of it; and hark ye, that strange place, as you call it, where I took you,—you can find it again?”
“Not I.”
“Here, then, is the address. Whenever you want me, go there, ask to see Mr. Gregg—old fellow with one eye, you recollect—shake him by the hand just so—you catch the trick—practise it again. No, the forefinger thus, that’s right. Say ‘blater,’ no more—‘blater;’—stay, I will write it down for you; and then ask for William Gawtrey’s direction. He will give it you at once, without questions—these signs understood; and if you want money for your passage, he will give you that also, with advice into the bargain. Always a warm welcome with me. And so take care of yourself, and good-bye. I see my chaise is at the door.”
As he spoke, Gawtrey shook the young man’s hand with cordial vigour, and strode off to his chaise, muttering, “Money well laid out—fee money; I shall have him, and, Gad, I like him,—poor devil!”
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