"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!"