talents.”
“If you wish it, madam,” said I, bowing respectfully.
“You have camphor julep ready made up, have you not?”
“Yes, madam,” replied I.
“Then do me the favour to send the boy with a bottle to my house directly.” I handed down the bottle, she paid for it, and putting it into Timothy’s hands, desired him to take it to the direction which she gave him. Timothy put on his hat, cocked his eye at me, and left us alone.
“What is your name?” said she, in the same melodious voice.
“Japhet Newland, madam,” replied I.
“Japhet—it is a good, a scriptural name,” said the lady, musing in half soliloquy, “Newland—that sounds of mammon.”
“This mystery is unravelled,” thought I, and I was right in my conjectures. “She is some fanatical methodist;” but I looked at her again, and her dress disclaimed the idea, for in it there was much taste displayed.
“Who gave you that name?” said she, after a pause.
The question was simple enough, but it stirred up a host of annoying recollections; but not wishing to make a confidant of her, I gently replied, as I used to do in the Foundling Hospital on Sunday morning—“My godfathers and godmothers in my baptism, ma’am.”
“My dear sir, I am very ill,” said she, after a pause; “will you feel my pulse?”
I touched a wrist, and looked at a hand that was worthy of being admired. What a pity, thought I, that she should be old, ugly, and half crazy!
“Do you not think that this pulse of mine exhibits considerable nervous excitement? I reckoned it this morning, it was at a hundred and twenty.”
“It certainly beats quick,” replied I, “but perhaps the camphor julep may prove beneficial.”
“I thank you for your advice, Mr Newland,” said she laying down a guinea, “and if I am not better, I will call again, or send for you. Good night.”
She walked out of the shop, leaving me in no small astonishment. What could she mean? I was lost in reverie, when Timothy returned. The guinea remained on the counter.
“I met her going home,” said he. “Bless me—a guinea—why, Japhet!” I recounted all that had passed. “Well, then, it has turned out well for us instead of ill, as I expected.”
The us reminded me that we shared profits on these occasions, and I offered Timothy his half; but Tim, with all his espièglerie was not selfish, and he stoutly refused to take his share. He dubbed me an M.D., and said I had beaten Mr Cophagus already, for he had never taken a physician’s fee.
“I cannot understand it, Timothy,” said I, after a few minutes’ thought.
“I can,” replied Timothy. “She has looked in at the window until she has fallen in love with your handsome face; that’s it, depend upon it.” As I could find no other cause, and Tim’s opinion was backed by my own vanity, I imagined that such must be the case. “Yes, ’tis so,” continued Timothy,—“as the saying is, there’s money bid for you.”
“I wish that it had not been by so ill-favoured a person, at all events, Tim,” replied I; “I cannot return her affection.”
“Never mind that, so long as you don’t return the money.”
The next evening she made her appearance, bought, as before, a bottle of camphor julep—sent Timothy home with it, and asking my advice, paid me another guinea.
“Really, madam,” said I, putting it back towards her, “I am not entitled to it.”
“Yes, you are,” replied she. “I know you have no friends, and I also know that you deserve them. You must purchase books, you must study, or you never will be a great man.” She then sat down, entered into conversation, and I was struck with the fire and vigour of the remarks, which were uttered in such a melodious tone.
Her visits, during a month, were frequent, and every time did she press upon me a fee. Although not in love with her person, I certainly felt very grateful, and moreover was charmed with the superiority of her mind. We were now on the most friendly and confiding terms. One evening she said to me, “Japhet, we have now been friends some time. Can I trust you?”
“With your life, if it were necessary,” replied I.
“I believe it,” said she. “Then can you leave the shop and come to me to-morrow evening?”
“Yes, if you will send your maid for me, saying that you are not well.”
“I will, at eight o’clock. Farewell, then, till to-morrow.”
Part 1—Chapter V
My Vanity receives a desperate Wound, but my Heart remains unscathed—An Anomaly in Woman, one who despises Beauty.
The next evening I left Timothy in charge, and repaired to her house; it was very respectable in outward appearance, as well as its furniture. I was not, however, shown up into the first floor, but into the room below.
“Miss Judd will come directly, sir,” said a tall, meagre, puritanical looking maid, shutting the door upon me. In a few minutes, during which my pulse beat quick, (for I could not but expect some disclosure; whether it was to be one of love or murder, I hardly knew which,) Miss Aramathea Judd, for such was her Christian name, made her appearance, and sitting down on the sofa, requested me to take a seat by her.
“Mr Newland,” said she, “I wish to—and I think I can entrust you with a secret most important to me. Why I am obliged to do it, you will perfectly comprehend when you have heard my story. Tell me, are you attached to me?”
This was a home question to a forward lad of sixteen. I took her by the hand, and when I looked down on it, I felt as if I was. I looked up into her face, and felt that I was not. And, as I now was close to her, I perceived that she must have some aromatic drug in her mouth, as it smelt strongly—this gave me the supposition that the breath which drew such melodious tones was not equally sweet, and I felt a certain increased degree of disgust.
“I am very grateful, Miss Judd,” replied I; “I hope I shall prove that I am attached when you confide in me.”
“Swear then, by all that’s sacred, you will not reveal what I do confide.”
“By all that’s sacred I will not,” replied I, kissing her hand with more fervour than I expected from myself.
“Do me then the favour to excuse me one minute.” She left the room, and in a very short time, there returned, in the same dress, and in every other point the same person, but with a young and lively face of not more, apparently, than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. I started as if I had seen an apparition. “Yes,” said she, smiling, “you now see Aramathea Judd without disguise; and you are the first who has seen that face for more than two years. Before I proceed further, again I say, may I trust you—swear!”
“I do swear,” replied I, and took her hand for the book, which this time I kissed with pleasure, over and over again. Like a young jackass as I was, I still retained her hand, throwing as much persuasion as I possibly could in my eyes.
