Although Mr Cophagus was very communicative in his own way, he had no
curiosity with regard to others, and the conversation dropped. The
other two had also asked all the questions which they wished, and we
all, as if by one agreement, fell back in our seats, and shut our eyes,
to court sleep. I was the only one who wooed it in vain. Day broke, my
companions were all in repose, and I discontinued my reveries, and
examined their physiognomies. Mr Cophagus was the first to whom I
directed my attention. He was much the same in face as when I had left
him, but considerably thinner in person. His head was covered with a
white nightcap, and he snored with emphasis. The professor of music was
a very small man, with mustachios: his mouth was wide open; and one
would have thought that he was in the full execution of a bravura. The
third person, who had stated himself to be an agent, was a heavy,
full-faced, coarse-looking personage, with his hat over his eyes, and
his head bent down on his chest, and I observed that he had a small
packet in one of his hands, with his forefinger twisted through the
string. I should not have taken further notice, had not the name of _T.
Iving_, in the corner of the side on which was the direction, attracted
my attention. It was the name of Melchior's London correspondent, who
had attempted to bribe Timothy. This induced me to look down and read
the direction of the packet, and I clearly deciphered, Sir Henry de
Clare, Bart., Mount Castle, Connemara. I took out my tablets, and wrote
down the address. I certainly had no reason for so doing, except that
nothing should be neglected, as there was no saying what might turn out.
I had hardly replaced my tablets when the party awoke, made a sort of
snatch at the packet, as if recollecting it, and wishing to ascertain if
it were safe, looked at it, took off his hat, let down the window, and
then looked round upon the other parties.
"Fine morning, sir," said he to me, perceiving that I was the only
person awake.
"Very," replied I, "very fine; but I had rather be walking over the
mountains of Connemara, than be shut up in this close and confined
conveyance."
"Hah! you know Connemara, then? I'm going there; perhaps you are also
bound to that part of the country? but you are not Irish."
"I was not born or bred in Ireland, certainly," replied I.
"So I should say Irish blood in your veins, I presume."
"I believe such to be the case," replied I, with a smile, implying
certainty.
"Do you know Sir Henry de Clare?"
"Sir Henry de Clare--of Mount Castle--is he not?"
"The same; I am going over to him. I am agent for his estates, among
others. A very remarkable man. Have you ever seen his wife?"
"I really cannot tell," replied I; "let me call to mind."
I had somehow or another formed an idea, that Sir Henry de Clare and
Melchior might be one and the same person; nothing was too absurd or
improbable for my imagination, and I had now means of bringing home my
suspicions. "I think," continued I, "I recollect her--that is, she is a
very tall, handsome woman, dark eyes and complexion."
"The very same," replied he.
My heart bounded at the information; it certainly was not any clue to my
own parentage, but it was an object of my solicitude, and connected with
the welfare of Fleta. "If I recollect right," observed I, "there are
some curious passages in the life of Sir Henry?"
"Nothing very particular," observed the agent, looking out of the
window.
"I thought that he had disappeared for some time."
"Disappeared! he certainly did not live in Ireland, because he had
quarrelled with his brother. He lived in England until his brother's
death."
"How did his brother die, sir?"
"Killed by a fall when hunting," replied the agent. "He was attempting
to clear a stone wall, the horse fell back on him, and dislocated his
spine. I was on the spot when the accident happened."
I recollected the imperfect communication of Fleta, who had heard the
gipsy say that "he was dead;" and also the word _horse_ made use of, and
I now felt convinced that I had found out Melchior. "Sir Henry, if I
recollect right, has no family," observed I.
"No; and I am afraid there is but little chance."
"Had the late baronet, his elder brother, any family?"
"What, Sir William? No; or Sir Henry would not have come into the
title."
"He might have had daughters," replied I.
"Very true; now I think of it, there was a girl, who died when young."
"Is the widow of Sir William alive?"
"Yes; and a very fine woman she is; but she has left Ireland since her
husband's death."
I did not venture to ask any more questions. Our conversation had
roused Mr Cophagus and the other passenger; and as I had reflected how
I should behave in case of recognition, I wished to be prepared for him.
"You have had a good nap, sir," said I, turning to him.
"Nap--yes--coach nap, bad--head sore--and so on. Why--bless me--
Japhet--Japhet New--yes--it is."
"Do you speak to me, sir?" inquired I, with a quiet air.
"Speak to you--yes--bad memory--hip! quite forgot--old master--shop in
Smithfield--mad bull--and so on."
"Really, sir," replied I, "I am afraid you mistake me for some other
person."
Mr Cophagus looked very hard at me, and perceiving that there was no
alteration in my countenance, exclaimed, "Very odd--same nose--same
face--same age too--very odd--like as two pills--beg pardon--made a
mistake--and so on."
Satisfied with the discomfiture of Mr Cophagus, I turned round, when I
perceived the Irish agent, with whom I had been in conversation, eyeing
me most attentively. As I said before, he was a hard-featured man, and
his small grey eye was now fixed upon me, as if it would have pierced me
through. I felt confused for a moment, as the scrutiny was unexpected
from that quarter; but a few moments' reflection told me, that if Sir
Henry de Clare and Melchior were the same person, and this man his
agent, in all probability he had not been sent to England for nothing;
that if he was in search of Fleta, he must have heard of my name, and
perhaps something of my history. "I appear to have a great likeness to
many people," observed I, to the agent, smiling. "It was but the other
day I was stopped in Bond Street as a Mr Rawlinson."
"Not a very common face either, sir," observed the agent: "if once seen
not easily forgotten, nor easily mistaken for another."
"Still such appears to be the case," replied I, carelessly. We now
stopped to take refreshment. I had risen from the table, and was going
into the passage, when I perceived the agent looking over the way-bill
with the guard. As soon as he perceived me, he walked out in front of
the inn. Before the guard had put up the bill, I requested to look at
it, wishing to ascertain if I had been booked in my own name. It was
so. The four names were, Newland, Cophagus, Baltzi, McDermott. I was
much annoyed at this circumstance. McDermott was, of course, the name
of the agent; and that was all the information I received in return for
my own exposure, which I now considered certain; I determined, however,
to put a good face on the matter, and when we returned to the coach,
again entered into conversation with Mr McDermott, but I found him
particularly guarded in his replies whenever I spoke about Sir Henry or
his family, and I could not obtain any further information. Mr
Cophagus could not keep his eyes off me--he peered into my face--then he
would fall back in the coach. "Odd--very odd--must be--no--says not--
um." In about another half hour, he would repeat his examination, and
mutter to himself. At last, as if tormented with his doubts, he
exclaimed, "Beg pardon--but--you have a name?"
"Yes," replied I, "I have a name."
"Well, then--not ashamed. What is it?"
"My name, sir," replied I, "is Newland;" for I had resolved to
acknowledge to my name, and fall back upon a new line of defence.
"Thought so--don't know me--don't recollect shop--Mr Brookes's--Tim--
rudiments--and so on."
"I have not the least objection to tell you my name; but I am afraid you
have the advantage in your recollection of me. Where may I have had the
honour of meeting you?"
"Meeting--what, quite forgot--Smithfield?"
"And pray, sir, where may Smithfield be?"
"Very odd--can't comprehend--same name, same face--don't recollect me,
don't recollect Smithfield?"
"It may be very odd, sir; but, as I am very well known in London, at the
west end, perhaps we have met there. Lord Windermear's, perhaps--Lady
Maelstrom's?"--and I continued mentioning about a dozen of the most
fashionable names. "At all events, you appear to have the advantage of
me; but I trust you will excuse my want of memory, as my acquaintance is
very extensive."
"I see--quite a mistake--same name, not same person--beg pardon, sir--
apologies--and so on," replied the apothecary, drawing in a long sigh.