“My dear fellow, you are not twenty-three years of age,” replied Mr Masterton, “and you have made two sincere friends, both powerful in their own way. I mean Lord Windermear and myself; and you have had the pleasure of making others happy. Believe me, that is much to have accomplished at so early an age. You have much to live for — live to gain more friends — live to gain reputation — live to do good — to be grateful for the benefits you have received, and to be humble when chastened by Providence. You have yet to learn where, and only where, true happiness is to be found. Since you are so much out of spirits, go down to Lady de Clare’s, see her happiness, and that of her little girl; and then, when you reflect that it was your own work, you will hardly say that you have lived in vain.” I was too much overpowered to speak. After a pause, Mr Masterton continued, “When did you see them last?”

  “I have never seen them, sir, since I was with you at their meeting.”

  “What! have you not called — now nearly two months? Japhet, you are wrong; they will be hurt at your neglect and want of kindness. Have you written or heard from them?”

  “I have received one or two pressing invitations, sir; but I have not been in a state of mind to avail myself of their politeness.”

  “Politeness! you are wrong — all wrong, Japhet. Your mind is cankered, or you never would have used that term. I thought you were composed of better materials; but it appears, that although you can sail with a fair wind, you cannot buffet against an adverse gale. Because you are no longer fooled and flattered by the interested and the designing, like many others, you have quarrelled with the world. Is it not so?”

  “Perhaps you are right, sir.”

  “I know that I am right, and that you are wrong. Now I shall be seriously displeased if you do not go down and see Lady de Clare and her daughter, as soon as you can.”

  “I will obey your orders, sir.”

  “My wishes, Japhet, not my orders. Let me see you when you return. You must no longer be idle. Consider, that you are about to recommence your career in life; that hitherto you have pursued the wrong path, from which you have nobly returned. You must prepare for exertions, and learn to trust to God and a good conscience. Lord Windermear and I had a long conversation relative to you yesterday evening; and when you come back, I will detail to you what are our views respecting your future advantage.”

  Chapter LII

  A new character appears, but not a very amiable one; but I attach myself to him, as drowning men catch at straws.

  I took my leave, more composed in mind, and the next day I went down to Lady de Clare’s. I was kindly received, more than kindly, I was affectionately and parentally received by the mother, and by Cecilia as a dear brother; but they perceived my melancholy, and when they had upbraided me for my long neglect, they inquired the cause. As I had already made Lady de Clare acquainted with my previous history, I had no secrets; in fact, it was a consolation to confide my griefs to them. Lord Windermear was too much above me — Mr Masterton was too matter-of-fact — Timothy was too inferior — and they were all men; but the kind soothing of a woman was peculiarly grateful, and after a sojourn of three days, I took my leave, with my mind much less depressed than when I arrived.

  On my return, I called upon Mr Masterton, who stated to me that Lord Windermear was anxious to serve me, and that he would exert his interest in any way which might be most congenial to my feelings; that he would procure me a commission in the army, or a writership to India; or, if I preferred it, I might study the law under the auspices of Mr Masterton. If none of these propositions suited me, I might state what would be preferred, and that, as far as his interest and pecuniary assistance could avail, I might depend upon it. “So now, Japhet, you may go home and reflect seriously upon these offers; and when you have made up your mind what course you will steer, you have only to let me know.”

  I returned my thanks to Mr Masterton, and begged that he would convey my grateful acknowledgments to his lordship. As I walked home, I met a Captain Atkinson, a man of very doubtful character, whom, by the advice of Carbonnell, I had always kept at a distance. He had lost a large fortune by gambling, and having been pigeoned, had, as is usual, ended by becoming a rook. He was a fashionable, well-looking man, of good family, suffered in society, for he had found out that it was necessary to hold his position by main force. He was a noted duellist, had killed his three or four men, and a cut direct from any person was, with him, sufficient grounds for sending a friend. Everybody was civil to him, because no one wished to quarrel with him.

  “My dear Mr Newland,” said he, offering his hand, “I am delighted to see you; I have heard at the clubs of your misfortune, and there were some free remarks made by some. I have great pleasure in saying that I put an immediate stop to them, by telling them that, if they were repeated in my presence, I should consider it as a personal quarrel.”

  Three months before, had I met Captain Atkinson, I should have returned his bow with studied politeness, and have left him; but how changed were my feelings! I took his hand, and shook it warmly.

  “My dear sir,” replied I, “I am very much obliged for your kind and considerate conduct; there are more who are inclined to calumniate than to defend.”

  “And always will be in this world, Mr Newland; but I have a fellow feeling. I recollect how I was received and flattered when I was introduced as a young man of fortune, and how I was deserted and neglected when I was cleaned out. I know now why they are so civil to me, and I value their civility at just as much as it is worth. Will you accept my arm: — I am going your way”

  I could not refuse; but I coloured when I took it, for I felt that I was not adding to my reputation by being seen in his company; and still I felt, that although not adding to my reputation, I was less likely to receive insult, and that the same cause which induced them to be civil to him, would perhaps operate when they found me allied with him. “Be it so,” thought I, “I will, if possible, extort politeness.”

  We were strolling down Bond Street, when we met a young man, well known in the fashionable circles, who had dropped my acquaintance, after having been formerly most pressing to obtain it. Atkinson faced him. “Good morning, Mr Oxberry.”

  “Good morning, Captain Atkinson,” replied Mr Oxberry.

  “I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?” observed Atkinson, rather fiercely.

  “Oh! really — I quite — I beg pardon. Good morning, Mr Newland; you have been long absent. I did not see you at Lady Maelstrom’s last night.”

  “No,” replied I, carelessly, “nor will you ever. When you next see her ladyship, ask her, with my compliments, whether she has had another fainting fit.”

  “I shall certainly have great pleasure in carrying your message, Mr Newland — good morning.”

  “That fool,” observed Atkinson, “will now run all over town, and you will see the consequence.”

  We met one or two others, and to them Atkinson put the same question, “I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?” At last, just as we arrived at my own house in St James’s Street, who should we meet but Harcourt. Harcourt immediately perceived me, and bowed low as he passed on, so that his bow would have served for both; but Atkinson stopped. “I must beg your pardon, Harcourt, for detaining you a moment, but what are the odds upon the Vestris colt for the Derby?”

  “Upon my word, Captain Atkinson, I was told, but I have forgotten.”

  “Your memory appears bad, for you have also forgotten your old friend, Mr Newland.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr Newland.”

  “There is no occasion to beg my pardon, Mr Harcourt,” interrupted I; “for I tell you plainly, that I despise you too much to ever wish to be acquainted with you. You will oblige me, sir, by never presuming to touch your hat, or otherwise notice me.”

  Harcourt coloured, and started back. “Such language, Mr Newland—”

  “Is what you deserve; ask your own conscience. Leave us, sir;” and I walked on with Captain Atkinson.

  “You have done well, Newland,” observed Atkinson; “he cannot submit to that language, for he knows that I have heard it. A meeting you will of course have no objection to. It will be of immense advantage to you.”

  “None whatever,” replied I; “for if there is any one man who deserves to be punished for his conduct towards me, it is Harcourt. Will you come up, Captain Atkinson; and, if not better engaged, take a quiet dinner and a bottle of wine with me?”

  Our conversation during dinner was desultory, but after the first bottle, Atkinson became communicative, and his history not only made me feel better inclined towards him, but afforded me another instance, as well as Carbonnell’s, how often it is that those who would have done well, are first plundered, and then driven to desperation by the heartlessness of the world. The cases, however, had this difference, that Carbonnell had always contrived to keep his reputation above water, while that of Atkinson was gone, and never to be re-established. We had just finished our wine when a note was brought from Harcourt, informing me that he should send a friend the next morning for an explanation of my conduct. I handed it over to Atkinson. “My dear sir, I am at your service,” replied he, “without you have anybody among your acquaintances whom you may prefer.”

  “Thank you,” replied I, “Captain Atkinson; it cannot be in better hands.”

  “That is settled, then; and now where shall we go?”

  “Wherever you please.”

  “Then I shall try if I can win a little money to-night; if you come you need not play — you can look on. It will serve to divert your thoughts, at all events.”

  I felt so anxious to avoid reflection, that I immediately accepted his offer, and, in a few minutes, we were in the well-lighted room, and in front of the rouge et noir table, covered with gold and bank notes. Atkinson did not commence his play immediately, but pricked the chances on a card as they ran. After half an hour he laid down his stakes, and was fortunate. I could no longer withstand the temptation, and I backed him; in less than an hour we both had won considerably.

  “That is enough,” said he to me, sweeping up his money; “we must not try the slippery dame too long.”

  I followed his example, and shortly afterwards we quitted the house. “I will walk home with you, Newland; never, if you can help it, especially if you have been a winner, leave a gaming house alone.”

  Going home, I asked Atkinson if he would come up; he did so, and then we examined our winnings. “I know mine,” replied he, “within twenty pounds, for I always leave off at a certain point. I have three hundred pounds, and something more.”

  He had won three hundred and twenty-five pounds. I had won ninety pounds. As we sat over a glass of brandy and water, I inquired whether he was always fortunate. “No, of course I am not,” replied Atkinson; “but on the whole, in the course of the year I am a winner of sufficient to support myself.”

  “Is there any rule by which people are guided who play? I observed many of those who were seated, pricking the chances with great care, and then staking their money at intervals.”

  “Rouge et noir I believe to be the fairest of all games,” replied Atkinson; “but where there is a per centage invariably in favour of the bank, although one may win and another lose, still the profits must be in favour of the bank. If a man were to play all the year round, he would lose the national debt in the end. As for martingales, and all those calculations, which you observed them so busy with, they are all useless. I have tried everything, and there is only one chance of success, but then you must not be a gambler?”

  “Not a gambler?”

  “No; you must not be carried away by the excitement of the game, or you will infallibly lose. You must have a strength of mind which few have, or you will be soon cleaned out.”

  “But you say that you win on the whole; have you no rule to guide you?”

  “Yes, I have; strange as the chances are, I have been so accustomed to them, that I generally put down my stake right; when I am once in a run of luck, I have a method of my own, but what it is I cannot tell; only this I know, that if I depart from it, I always lose my money. But that is what you may call good luck, or what you please — it is not a rule.”

  “Where, then, are your rules?”

  “Simply these two. The first it is not difficult to adhere to: I make a rule never to lose but a certain sum if I am unlucky when I commence — say twenty stakes, whatever may be the amount of the stake that you play. This rule is easily adhered to, by not taking more money with you; and I am not one of those to whom the croupier or porters will lend money. The second rule is the most difficult, and decides whether you are a gambler or not. I make a rule always to leave off when I have won a certain sum — or even before, if the chances of my game fluctuate. There is the difficulty; it appears very foolish not to follow up luck, but the fact is, fortune is so capricious, that if you trust her more than an hour, she will desert you. This is my mode of play, and with me it answers; but it does not follow that it would answer with another. But it is very late, or rather, very early — I wish you a good-night.”

  Chapter LIII

  I become principal instead of second in a duel, and risk my own and another’s life, my own and others’ happiness and peace of mind, because I have been punished as I deserved.

  After Captain Atkinson had left me, I stated to Timothy what had passed. “And do you think you will have to fight a duel, sir?” cried Timothy with alarm.

  “There is no doubt of it,” replied I.

  “You never will find your father, sir, if you go on this way,” said Timothy, as if to divert my attention from such a purpose.

  “Not in this world, perhaps, Tim; perhaps I may be sent the right road by a bullet, and find him in the next.”

  “Do you think your father, if dead, has gone to heaven?”

  “I hope so, Timothy.”

  “Then what chance have you of meeting him, if you go out of the world attempting the life of your old friend?”

  “That is what you call a poser, my dear Timothy, but I cannot help myself; this I can safely say, that I have no animosity against Mr Harcourt — at least, not sufficient to have any wish to take away his life.”

  “Well, that’s something, to be sure; but do you know, Japhet, I’m not quite sure you hit the right road when you set up for a gentleman.”

  “No, Timothy, no man can be in the right road who deceives; I have been all wrong; and I am afraid I am going from worse to worse: but I cannot moralise, I must go to sleep, and forget everything if I can.”

  The next morning, about eleven o’clock, a Mr Cotgrave called upon me on the part of Harcourt. I referred him to Captain Atkinson, and he bowed and quitted the room. Captain Atkinson soon called; he had remained at home expecting the message, and had made every arrangement with the second. He stayed with me the whole day; the Major’s pistols were examined and approved of; we dined, drank freely, and he afterwards proposed that I should accompany him to one of the hells, as they are called. This I refused, as I had some arrangements to make; and as soon as he was gone I sent for Timothy.

  “Tim,” said I, “if I should be unlucky to-morrow, you are my executor and residuary legatee. My will was made when in Dublin, and is in the charge of Mr Cophagus.”

  “Japhet, I hope you will allow me one favour, which is, to go to the ground with you. I had rather be there than remain here in suspense.”

  “Of course, my dear fellow, if you wish it,” replied I; “but I must go to bed, as I am to be called at four o’clock — so let’s have no sentimentalising or sermonising. Good-night, God bless you.”

  I was, at that time, in a state of mind which made me reckless of life or of consequences; stung by the treatment which I received, mad with the world’s contumely, I was desperate. True it was, as Mr Masterton said, I had not courage to buffet against an adverse gale. Timothy did not go to bed, and at four o’clock was at my side. I rose, dressed myself with the greatest care, and was soon joined by Captain Atkinson. We then set off in a hackney-coach to the same spot to which I had, but a few months before, driven with poor Carbonnell. His memory and his death came like a cloud over my mind, but it was but for a moment. I cared little for life. Harcourt and his second were on the ground a few minutes before us. Each party saluted politely, and the seconds proceeded to business. We fired, and Harcourt fell, with a bullet above his knee. I went up to him, and he extended his hand. “Newland,” said he, “I have deserved this. I was a coward, in the first place, to desert you as I did — and a coward, in the second, to fire at a man whom I had injured. Gentlemen,” continued he, appealing to the seconds, “recollect, I, before you, acquit Mr Newland of all blame, and desire, if any further accident should happen to me, that my relations will take no steps whatever against him.”

  Harcourt was very pale, and bleeding fast. Without any answer I examined the wound, and found, by the colour of the blood, and its gushing, that an artery had been divided. My professional knowledge saved his life. I compressed the artery, while I gave directions to the others. A handkerchief was tied tight round his thigh, above the wound — a round stone selected, and placed under the handkerchief, in the femoral groove, and the ramrod of one of the pistols then made use of as a winch, until the whole acted as a tourniquet. I removed my thumbs, found that the hemorrhage was stopped, and then directed that he should be taken home on a door, and surgical assistance immediately sent for.

  “You appear to understand these things, sir,” said Mr Cotgrave. “Tell me, is there any danger?”

  “He must suffer amputation,” replied I, in a low voice, so that Harcourt could not hear me. “Pray watch the tourniquet carefully as he is taken home, for should it slip it will be fatal.”

  I then bowed to Mr Cotgrave, and, followed by Captain Atkinson, stepped into the hackney-coach and drove home. “I will leave you now, Newland,” said Captain Atkinson; “it is necessary that I talk this matter over, so that it is properly explained.”