Ambrose Fecit, or, The peer and the printer :: :: University of Virginia Library

The sensations of a provincial on
his first entry into the metropolis, soon
change. At the beginning there is an
impression of vastness, of hurry, of
bewilderment, and the apprehension
that his dress, person and manner, are
the subject of the crowd's contemptuous
observation; but this is soon followed
by a sense of dullness, the novelty
wears off, indifference follows,
and the self-assurance that the glances
around have no meaning, and that he
is in some measure invisible to those
who have no time to spare from their
own affairs by wasting a thought on
him.

I found no trouble in regard to lodgings,
readily engaging a scantily furnished
room in an obscure and quiet
street. After making the necessary
arrangements about coal and candles,
I went to bed early, and enjoyed a
quiet sleep.

I started early in the morning to
seek employment. I found printing-houses
enough, but no vacancy at a
case, and became rather disheartened.
As I was wandering along I came to
Rathbone Place, and looking up saw
that I was at No. 38. I saw the sign
of Winsor & Newton, the leading artists'
colormen in London, and in fact
in all Europe. As I knew that Paul
Bagby used their tube colors in preference
to all others, it occurred to me
that he might deal there direct, so I
went in and asked his address. One
of the shopmen was kind enough to
write down the street and number for
me, and to tell me the distance, and
by what omnibuses I would reach nearest
the spot. I set off, and in the course
of a half hour was at Paul's studio.

It was situated on the first floor of
a rather handsome house, in a fashionable
thoroughfare. I climbed the
stairs, and seeing the words, “Mr. P.
Bagby, Artist,” on a door, knocked.
The summons not being answered, I
repeated it, when the door suddenly
opened. A tall man, his face nearly
covered with a thick beard, grasped
the door-knob with one hand, and held
his palette, brushes and mahl-stick
with the other.

The bearded gentleman, whom I did
not at all know, inquired my business
by the monosyllable, sharply uttered,
“Well?”

I was about to apologize, and state
whom I expected to find there, when
he released the door-knob, grasped me
by the hand, and dragged me into the
room.

“Why, what wind blew you here,
Ambrose?” he asked, as we mutually
recognized each other. “You're the
last one I expected to see.”

“I'll tell you that,” I answered,
“when I am quite sure this is Mr Paul
Bagby, and not el Conde O'Samayer.”

He laughed.

“All your provincial friends shave,
I suppose; but London just now is
visited with an overflow of beard.
Esau is a man-about-town. But you
shall dine with me to-day. As the dinner
hour is some time off, we'll have a
famous confabulation first.”

He turned the key in the door.

“There, bring yourself to an anchor
in that easy chair. I won't see any
one until we've had our talk out, that's

flat. Tell me what brought you here,
and I'll listen while I work away on
the face of this fat dowager. It would
be a superb portrait, only it lacks color—on
the nose. If I only dared to
paint her grace's proboscis in all its
radiant glory, it would it would illuminate
the place like ten wax candles.
But, proceed. As my Yankee friend
and patron, Archbold, would say, `Go
a-head!”'

“Do you know my early history?”

“Bits of it. Found like Moses in
the bulrushes, or something—wasn't
it?”

“I'd better begin at the beginning,
so you'll understand what follows”

“By all means. Begin at the beginning,
and Cousin Sally Dilliard it as
little as you can.”

“What's that?”

“Oh, one of Archbold's queer stories.
I'll recite it for you at another time.
Commencez. mon ami!”

I narrated briefly the main points of
my life, he commenting from time to
time. When I came to my parting
shot at the earl, and expressed my regret
at my folly, he said:

“Don't concern yourself. He and I
are no more friends, and I defy him.”

“Now,” said I, when I had closed,
“What do you think of it all?”

“Think! why that you would have
been a mine of wealth to Mrs. Radcliffe.
You are no doubt the long-lost
heir to the crown of China, and I expect,
on your accession to the throne
of your august ancestors, to be appointed
court-painter, with an income
of a million a minute. Seriously, I
see no mode at present of fathoming
the mystery. If we had that packet.
As this new play of Richelieu says,
`your witness must be that same dis
patch.' But I can possibly assist you
a little. Have you a copy of those inscriptions
with you?”

“I have the things themselves with
me, that is, the ring and brooch.”

Very absurd that; leave them here
or you may lose them. Let me see—
yes, copy them on that slip of paper
for me. I remember `Bugunda Jawa'
—let me have the others. I know a
sort of Dr. Dryasdust who knows several
times more languages than you—
can talk fluently in fifty tongues or
more, and yet in general he hasn't
words enough to throw at a dog. I'll
make it my special business to see him
to-night, and force him to translate.
But where are you staying?”

I told him. He knew the place very
well, apparently, for he curled his lip,
and said:

“Miserable locality. You must have
better lodgings.”

“They're fully as good as prudence
warrants at present.”

“Oh, no, they're not. Bring your
traps—they're portable enough, I fancy—here.
There is a good bed in the
other room, which is principally used
by friends of mine—late gentlemen,
benighted on this side of town. There
is a chest of drawers for your clothes,
a small drawer in it, with a lock and
key, for your papers and trinkets.
Stay with me until you get settled employment,
and as long after as you
like.”

“You are very kind, and I thank
you; but a poor printer shouldn't lodge
with a fashionable artist.”

“Printer! why, man, it is an art
imperial; the monarch of all crafts
and mysteries. If I were not an artist,
I would be a printer. Then, you're
the heir to the empire of China, you

know and, if your majesty will deign—
but you must come. If you don't, you
shan't see Zara.”

“Zara!”

“Ha!” I thought I should bring you.
Fetch your things to-morrow, and take
possession, and you shall see the pretty
Spaniard.”

“Where is she? Tell me about her
—and him.”

“About her—very easy. About him
—impossible! Zara is at a ladies'
school in the suburbs—a parlor boarder.
She is under the joint guardianship
of another and myself. Several months
after I saw Espinel in the Park—as I
wrote you, you know—I met him at a
conversazione. I found that he was
very intimate with the Duke of Sillingbourne,
one of my patrons. He declared
that he did not recognize me,
when he saw me in the Park, and I had
no reason to doubt his word. We became
intimate. I soon learned that he
was a Spanish nobleman, and had been
a monk, but had been released from
his vows, for family reasons, shortly
before he came to England. I cannot
tell you his object here, nor who Zara
really is; for that is a secret confined
to two others beside himself—that is,
to the Duke and me. All that I can
tell you is, that she is his niece.”

“Then your old conjecture proved
to be right after all.”

“Precisely so. Just previous to my
last letter to you, Espinel went from
his lodgings one day for a stroll, and
never returned. We have traced him
to a certain part of London, where he
was met by a person, whose description
tallies with that of Osborne; but
your information that he was so many
miles off on that day has relieved
him.”

“I am not so sure,” I said, “but what,
from my friendship to you, the object
of my inquiries, carelessly made though
they were, may have been suspected;
and I may have been intentionally misinformed.”

“That must be looked to. I thought
you wrote to me from personal knowledge.
But come here early in the
morning, and we'll see Zara.”

About ten o'clock next morning I removed
my scanty luggage to Paul's
apartments, and took possession of the
chamber assigned to me. I had no
more than locked up Sharp's letter and
my trinkets in one of the drawers, befor
Paul called me into the studio.
There I saw a tall, thin and sickly-looking,
but nevertheless commanding
old gentleman, who scanned with earnest
but not offensive curiosity.

“Ambrose,” said Paul, “I wish to
present you to the Duke of Sillingbourne.
This, your grace, is Mr. Fecit,
of whom I spoke.”

The Duke shook my hand.

“I am glad to meet you, young gentleman,”
said his grace. “I may as
well mention that it is not merely your
singular history, which Mr. Bagby has
confidentially mentioned, which interests
me; but the acquirements which
he tells me that you possess, and your
general character.”

I bowed; I, a poor young printer,
and a foundling, complimented by a
duke. It was like a dream.

“I have had my Œdipus at work on
your riddle,” said Paul. “The words
of the Countess were Malay. `Baganda
Jawa,' mean literally, `The Prince
of Java.' The inscriptions, the Professor
says, are in the Korinchi character,
though they give Malay words.
The Malays, it appears, use the Arabic

characters, but it is supposed that
they formerly used the Korinchi letters.
The words on the ring are,
`chinchin baganda,' meaning `the
prince's ring;' and the letters on the
brooch stand for `piniti baganda,' `the
prince's pin.' After all, it does not
amount to much.”

“It is a step in the investigation,”
remarked the Duke.

“Can it be possible,” I inquired
“that I am Javanese?”

“Quite impossible, I should say,” answered
Paul. “The Javanese face belongs
to a peculiarly marked race; its
features are as distinctive as those of
the Mongolian or African. Yours bears
no resemblance to it whatever. Your
face is as thoroughly European as
mine. But we must visit Zara, and
you had better get ready.”

It was not long before I made the
necessary changes in my dress, and
rejoined them. As we were going
down stairs, I said apart to Paul:

“Do you know that I have been
thinking a deal about the old Countess
noticing my ear.”

“Poh! don't let that mislead you.
Your ear is slightly malformed; the
back of the lobe is drawn tightly to
the jaw. She has a quick eye, and
was attracted by an unusual trifle.
The oddity of the thing struck her—
that was all.”

“The Earl, you know,” I suggested,
“asked me if I were quite sure I was
born in England.”

“Merely because he didn't know
what else to say.”

I had great confidence in Paul's
judgment, but I weighed all these little
things in my mind a great deal.

We soon reached the “Home Seminary,”
and on sending up our names,
the principal, a formal and precise middle-aged
maiden lady, joined us. With
a triple air, compounded of deference
to the Duke, courtesy to Paul, and graciousness
to me, she engaged us in conversation
while Zara was summoned
from the school-room.

Presently the door opened—Zara
made her appearance, hesitated at the
sight of a stranger, and then advancing,
laid her hands in those of the
duke and Paul.

She had grown in height, but had
not changed in features. Though not
yet fourteen years of age, she had
reached the height of woman, and had
a woman's form, although lacking in
roundness of outline. And she was
so beautiful. I fairly drank in her
wondrous beauty, as I had done between
three and four years before on
the high road to Puttenham.

“You don't recognize old friends,
Zara,” said Paul, smiling. “Have you
forgotten Ambrose Fecit?”

Her eyes dilated, the blood rushed
to her face—a single glance, and she
sprang to me impulsively, and grasping
both of my hands, carried them to
her lips.

She recovered herself presently, and
seeing the scandalized look of the lady
principal, said, with the slightest
amount of foreign accent in her speech:

“It is my good adopted brother,
Madame; and my dear uncle loved
him so much.”

“Come, Mr. Bagby,', said the Duke,
“we will leave these youngsters to talk
awhile. They havn't seen each other
for so long, that an hour will be little
enough for their conversation. Miss
Myrtle, I have heard much in praise
of the perfect arrangement of this institution.
Will you honor me by taking

my arm, and accompany us over
the house and grounds?”

Miss Myrtle was only too much delighted
to oblige his grace, and so
Zara and myself were left together.

It was delightful to sit there and
listen to the dear child, as with her
dark, lustrous eyes beaming with pleasure,
she told me the simple story of
her life from the time we parted until
then. I returned this with much of
what had happened to me, and there
we both chatted with full hearts—both
children of mystery—both feathers
blown hither and thither by the brseze,
ignorant of our origin, and uncertain
of the future. What a dear memory
that hour is even now! We could
scarcely believe our hour had passed
when the Duke and Miss Myrtle, followed
by Paul, returned.

“Now, Zara,” said his grace, “I
have made arrangements with Miss
Myrtle, by which Ambrose will spend
an hour with you on every Saturday
afternoon; and you must continue to
be a good girl as Miss Myrtle says you
have been hitherto.”

“She is very docile, your grace, and
all her teachers and school-mates are
delighted with her. I hope, the Count,
her father, is well.”

The Duke bowed to avoid an answer,
and Zara's lip quivered. She knew,
then, of her uncle's disappearance.

As we retired, Zara and I were somewhat
in the rear of the others—Miss
Myrtle relaxing her dignity so far in
favor of a duke as to attend his grace
to the door—and I bent over and kissed
Zara on the forehead. She drew
down my head gently, pressed her lips
to my cheek, and then, frightened at
her own temerity, glided blushingly
away.

Miss Myrtle was horrified to find
that Miss Espinel had gone in without
bidding her noble guardian a respectful
farewell.

The Duke undertook to set us down
at the studio. On our way there, he
said to me:

“Mr. Fecit, you must really abandon
your tr— business for the present.”

“How shall I live, your grace, without
a mortifying sense of dependence
on others?”

“That is easily arranged, sir, without
the necessity of your incurring
any obligation. I have at present no
secretary. It is the situation of a gentleman.
We shall not disagree about
the amount of salary attached. Will
you accept the position?”

Young as I was I had the power of
prompt decision, but the proffer was
one I could not well refuse; so I answered:

“I think I understand your grace.
I accept your kindness gratefully, and
shall not forget the obligation.”

I was soon installed as his grace's
secretary. It was merely a delicate
way of providing for my support. The
Duke had very little correspondence,
was not in public life beyond his duties
as a peer of the realm, and lived
retired from the busy world. His financial
affairs were under his steward's
supervision, and I had next to nothing
to do. The greater part of my time
was spent with Paul Bagby, in whose
charge my papers and trinkets remained,
with the exception of hours devoted
to my favorite study, and the
pleasant ones passed with Zara on the
afternoon of each Saturday.