Japhet in Search of a Father

This remark of Mr Cophagus gave me an idea, upon which I proceeded the next morning. I sent in my card requesting the honour of speaking to Mr De Benyon, stating that I had come over to Ireland on business of importance, but that, as I must be back if possible by term time, it would perhaps save much expense and trouble. The waiter took in the message.

“Back by term time—it must be some legal gentleman. Show him up,” said Mr De Benyon.

I walked in with a business-like air. “Mr De Benyon, I believe?”

“Yes, sir; will you do me the favour to take a chair?”

I seated myself, and drew out my memorandum book. “My object, Mr De Benyon, in troubling you, is to ascertain a few particulars relative to your family, which we cannot so easily find out in England. There is a property which it is supposed may be claimed by one of the De Benyons, but which we cannot ascertain until we have a little search into the genealogical tree.”

“Is the property large?” inquired Mr De Benyon.

“Not very large,” replied I; “but still a very handsome property, I am told.” The reader may surmise that the property referred to was my own pretty self. “May I ask you a few particulars relative to the present earl and his brothers?”

“Most certainly, sir,” replied Mr De Benyon; “any information I can give you will be at your service. The earl has four brothers. The eldest Maurice.”

“Is he married?”

“Yes, and has two children. The next is William.”

“Is he married?”

“No; nor has he ever been. He is a general in the army. The third is myself, Henry.”

“You are married, I believe, sir?”

“Yes, with a large family.”

“May I request you will proceed, sir?”

“Arthur is the fourth brother. He is lately married, and has two children.”

“Sir, I feel much obliged to you; it is a curious and intricate affair. As I am here, I may as well ask one question, although not of great consequence. The earl is married, I perceive, by the peerage, but I do not find that he has any children.”

“On the contrary, he has two—and prospects of more. May I now request the particulars connected with this property?”

“The exact particulars, sir, I cannot well tell you, as I am not acquainted with them myself; but the property in question, I rather think, depends upon a name. May I venture to ask the names of all your children?”

Mr De Benyon gave me a list seriatim, which I put down with great gravity.

“Of course, there is no doubt of your second brother not being married. I believe we ought to have a certificate. Do you know his address?”

“He has been in the East Indies for many years. He returned home on furlough, and has now just sailed again for Calcutta.”

“That is unfortunate; we must forward a letter through the India Board. May I also be favoured with your address, as in all probability it may be advisable?”

Mr De Benyon gave me his address. I rose, promised to give him all the particulars as soon as they were known to me, bowed, and made my exit. To one who was in his sober senses, there certainly was not any important information gained; but to me, it was evident that the Mr De Benyon who was a general in the army was to be interrogated, and I had almost made up my mind to set off for Calcutta.

Part 2—Chapter XVIII

I affront an Irish Gentleman and make a handsome Apology, which is accepted.

Before I had gained my own room, I informed Mr Cophagus, who had just returned from a visit to his maiden aunt’s house, of what had passed.

“Can’t see anything in it, Japhet—wild-goose chase—who told you?—oh! Pleggit’s men—sad liars—De Benyon not name, depend upon it—all stuff, and so on.”

And when I reflected, I could but acknowledge that the worthy apothecary might be right, and that I was running after shadows; but this was only in my occasional fits of despondency: I soon rallied, and was as sanguine as ever. Undecided how to proceed, and annoyed by what Cophagus had said, I quitted the hotel, to walk out in no very good humour. As I went out, I perceived the agent McDermott speaking to the people in the bar, and the sight of him reminded me of what, for a moment, I had forgotten, which was, to ascertain whether Melchior and Sir Henry de Clare were one and the same person. As I passed a crossing, a man in tattered habiliments, who was sweeping it, asked for alms, but being in no very charitable humour, I walked on. He followed me, pestering me so much, that I gave him a tap with the cane in my hand, saying to him, “Be off, you scoundrel.”

“Oh! very well. Be off, is it you mane? By the blood of the O’Rourkes but you’ll answer for that same, anyhow.”

I passed on, and having perambulated the city of Dublin for some time, returned to the hotel. A few minutes afterwards, I was told by the waiter that a Mr O’Donaghan wished to speak to me. “I have not the honour of his acquaintance,” replied I, “but you may show him up.”

Mr O’Donaghan entered, a tall, thick-whiskered personage, in a shabby-genteel dress, evidently not made for him, a pair of white cotton gloves, and a small stick. “I believe that I have the honour of spaking to the gentleman who crossed over the street about two hours ago?”

“Upon my word, sir,” replied I, “that is so uncertain a definition that I can hardly pretend to say whether I am the person you mean; indeed, from not having the pleasure of anyone’s acquaintance in Dublin, I rather think there must be some mistake.”

“The devil a bit of a mistake, at all at all; for there’s the little bit of a cane with which you paid my friend, Mr O’Rourke, the compliment over his shoulders.”

“I really am quite mystified, sir, and do not understand you; will you favour me with an explanation?”

“With all the pleasure in life, for then we shall come to a right understanding. You were crossing the street, and a gentleman, a particular friend of mine, with a broom which he carries for his own amusement, did himself the honour to address you, whereupon, of that same little stick of yours, you did him the honour to give him a slight taste.”

“What do you mean? do you refer to the sweeper, who was so importunate when I crossed over the road?”

“Then, by the powers, you’ve just hit it, as you did him. That’s my particular friend, Thaddeus O’Rourke, gentleman.”

“Gentleman!” exclaimed I.

“And with as good and as true Milesian blood as any in Ireland. If you think, sir, that because my friend, just for his own amusement, thinks proper to put on the worst of his clothes and carry a broom, just by way of exercise, to prevent his becoming too lusty, he is therefore to be struck like a hound, it’s a slight mistake, that’s all; and here sir, is his card, and you will oblige me by mentioning any friend of yours with whom I may settle all the little points necessary before the meeting of two gentleman.”

I could hardly refrain from laughing at this Irish gentleman and his friend, but I thought it advisable to retain my countenance. “My dear sir,” replied I, “it grieves me to the heart that I should have committed such an error, in not perceiving the gentility of your friend; had I not been so careless, I certainly should have requested him to do me the honour to accept a shilling, instead of having offered him the insult. I hope it is not now too late?”

“By the powers, I’m not one of those harum-scarum sort, who would make up a fight when there’s no occasion for it, and as your ’haviour is that of a gentleman, I think it will perhaps be better to shake hands upon it, and forget it altogether. Suppose now, we’ll consider that it was all a mistake? You give the shilling as you intended to do, I’ll swear only you were in so great a hurry—and then, perhaps, you’ll not object to throw in another shilling for that same tap with the cane, just to wipe off the insult as it were, as we do our sins, when we fork out the money, and receive absolution from the padre; and then, perhaps, you will not think it too much if I charge another shilling for my time and trouble, for carrying a message between two gentlemen.”

“On the contrary, Mr O’Donaghan, I think all your demands are reasonable. Here is the money.”

Mr O’Donaghan took the three shillings. “Then, sir, and many thanks to you, I’ll wish you a good evening, and Mr O’Rourke shall know from me that you have absolution for the whole, and that you have offered every satisfaction which one gentleman could expect from another.” So saying Mr O’Donaghan put his hat on with a firm cock, pulled on his gloves, manoeuvred his stick, and, with a flourishing bow, took his departure.

I had hardly dismissed this gentleman, and was laughing to myself at the ridiculous occurrence, when Mr Cophagus returned, first putting his cane up to his nose with an arch look, and then laying it down on the table and rubbing his hands. “Good—warm old lady. No—dead and cold—but left some thousands—only one legacy—old Tom cat—physic him to-morrow—soon die, and so on.”

On a more full explanation, I found that the old lady had left about nine thousand pounds in the funds and bank securities, all of which, with the exception of twenty pounds per annum to a favourite cat, was left to Mr Cophagus. I congratulated him upon this accession of fortune. He stated that the lease of the house and the furniture were still to be disposed of, and that afterwards he should have nothing more to do; but he wished me very much to assist him in rummaging over the various cabinets belonging to the old lady, and which were full of secret drawers; that in one cabinet alone he had found upwards of fifty pounds in various gold coins, and that if not well examined, they would probably be sold with many articles of consequence remaining in them.

As my only object in Ireland was to find out Sir Henry de Clare, and identify him, (but, really, why I could not have said, as it would have proved nothing after all,) I willingly consented to devote a day to assist Mr Cophagus in his examination. The next morning after breakfast, we went together to the house of the old lady, whose name had been Maitland, as Mr Cophagus informed me. Her furniture was of the most ancient description, and in every room in the house there was an ormolu, or Japan cabinet; some of them were very handsome, decorated with pillars, and silver ornaments. I can hardly recount the variety of articles, which in all probability had been amassed during the whole of the old lady’s life, commencing with her years of childhood, and ending with the day of her death. There were antique ornaments, some of considerable value, miniatures, fans, etuis, notes, of which the ink, from time, had turned to a light red, packages of letters of her various correspondents in her days of hope and anticipation, down to those of solitude and age. We looked over some of them, but they appeared to both of us to be sacred, and they were, after a slight examination, committed to the flames.

After we had examined all the apparent receptacles in these cabinets, we took them up between us, and shook them, and in most cases found out that there were secret drawers containing other treasures. There was one packet of letters which caught my eye; it was from a Miss De Benyon. I seized it immediately, and showed the inscription to Mr Cophagus. “Pooh—nothing at all—her mother was a De Benyon.”

“Have you any objection to my looking at these letters?”

“No—read—nothing in them.”