Japhet in Search of a Father

I laid them on one side, and we proceeded in our search when Mr Cophagus took up a sealed packet. “Heh! what’s this—De Benyon again? Japhet, look here.”

I took the packet; it was seated and tied with red tape. “Papers belonging to Lieutenant William De Benyon, to be returned to him at my decease.”

“Alice Maitland, with great care,” was written at the bottom of the envelope.

“This is it, my dear sir,” cried I, jumping up and embracing Mr Cophagus; “these are the papers which I require. May I keep them?”

“Mad—quite mad—go to Bedlam—strait waistcoat—head shaved—and so on.”

Part 2—Chapter XIX

I am not content with minding my own Business, but must have a Hand in that of Others, by which Means I put my Foot in it.

He then, after his own fashion, told me, that, as executor he must retain those papers; pointed out to me the little probability there was of their containing any information relative to my birth, even allowing that a person of the name of De Benyon did call at the Foundling to ask for me, which was only a supposition; and, finally, overthrew all the hopes which had been, for so many days, buoying me up. When he had finished, I threw myself upon the sofa in despair, and wished, at the moment, that I had never been born. Still hope again rose uppermost, and I would have given all I possessed to have been able to break open the seals of that packet, and have read the contents. At one moment I was so frantic, that I was debating whether I should not take them from Mr Cophagus by force, and run off with them. At last I rose, and commenced reading the letters which I had put aside, but there was nothing in them but the trifling communications of two young women, who mentioned what was amusing to them, but uninteresting to those who were not acquainted with the parties.

When we had finished, Mr Cophagus collected all together, and putting them into a box, we returned in a coach to the hotel. The next day Mr Cophagus had completed all his arrangements, and the day following had determined to return to England. I walked with him down to the vessel, and watched it for an hour after it had sailed, for it bore away a packet of papers, which I could not help imagining were to discover the secret which I was so eager in pursuit of. A night’s sleep made me more rational, and I now resolved to ascertain where Sir Henry de Clare, or Melchior, as I felt certain he must be, was to be found. I sent for the waiter, and asked him if he could inform me. He immediately replied in the affirmative, and gave his address, Mount Castle, Connemara, asking me when I intended to set out. It did not strike me till afterwards, that it was singular that he should be so well acquainted with the address, and that he should have produced a card with it written upon it; or, moreover, that he should know that it was my intention to go there. I took the address, and desired that I might have horses ready very early the next morning. I then sat down and wrote a letter to Harcourt, informing him of my proceedings, also one to Mr Masterton much more explicit, lastly to Timothy, to the care of Harcourt, requesting him to let me know what had occurred between him and the gipsies. After dinner, I packed up ready for my journey, and having settled my bill, I was not sorry to retire to my bed.

At daylight I was, as I requested, called by the waiter; and taking with me only a very small portmanteau, having left the rest of my effects in the charge of the people who kept the hotel, I set off in a post-chaise on my expedition. I was soon clear of the city, and on a fine smooth road, and, as I threw myself back in the corner of the chaise, I could not help asking myself the question—what was the purport of my journey? As the reader will perceive, I was wholly governed by impulses, and never allowed reason or common sense to stand in the way of my feelings. “What have I to do?” replied I to myself; “to find out if Melchior and Sir Henry de Clare be not one and the same person. And what then? What then?—why then I may find out something relative to Fleta’s parentage. Nay, but is that likely—if, as you suppose, Melchior is Sir Henry de Clare—if, as you suppose, it is he who is now trying to find out and carry off Fleta—is it probable that you will gain any information from him? I have no idea that Fleta is the little girl said to have died, who was the child of his elder brother. Why so? What interest could Melchior have in stealing his own niece? That I cannot tell. Why did Nattée give me the necklace? I cannot tell; she would hardly betray her husband. At all events, there is a mystery, and it can only be unravelled by being pulled at; and I may learn something by meeting Melchior, whereas I shall learn nothing by remaining quiet.” This last idea satisfied me; and for many hours I remained in a train of deep thought, only checked by paying for the horses at the end of every stage.

It was now past twelve o’clock, when I found that it was necessary to change the chaise at every post. The country also, as well as the roads, had changed much for the worse. Cultivation was not so great, the roads were mountainous, and civilisation generally disappeared. It was nearly dark when I arrived at the last post, from whence I was to take horses to Mount Castle. As usual, the chaise also was to be changed; and I could not help observing that each change was from bad to worse. Rope harness was used, and the vehicles themselves were of the most crazy condition. Still I had travelled very fairly; for an Irish postilion knows how to make an Irish horse go very fair pace. I descended from the chaise, and ordered another out immediately. To this there was no reply, except, “Wait, your honour; step in a moment, and rest from your fatigue a little.” Presuming this was merely to give them time to get ready, I walked into the room of the inn, which indeed was very little better than a hovel, and sat down by the turf fire in company with some others, whom I could hardly distinguish for smoke. I paid the chaise and postilion, and soon afterwards heard it drive off, on its way back. After a few minutes I inquired if the chaise was getting ready.

“Is it the chaise your honour means?” said the landlady.

“Yes,” replied I; “a chaise on to Mount Castle.”

“Then I am sorry that your honour must wait a little for our chaise, and the only one which we have, is gone to the castle, and won’t be back till long after the moon is up. What will your honour please to take?”

“Not back till moonlight!” replied I; “why did you not say so? and I would have gone on with the other.”

“Is it with the other you mane, your honour? Then if Teddy Driscoll could make his horses go one step farther than our door, may I never have a soul to be saved. Will your honour please to sit in the little room? Kathleen shall light a fire.”

Vexed as I was with the idea of passing the night in this horrid place, there was no help for it; so I took up my portmanteau, and followed the landlady to a small room, if it deserved the appellation, which had been built after the cottage, and a door broken through the wall into it. Ceiling there was none; it had only lean-to rafters, with tiles overhead. I took a seat on the only stool that was in the room, and leant my elbow on the table in no very pleasant humour, when I heard the girl say, “And why don’t you let him go on to the castle? Sure the chaise is in the yard, and the horses are in the stable.”

“There’s orders ’gainst it, Kathleen,” replied the landlady. “Mr McDermott was here this blessed day, and who can deny him?”

“Who is he then?” replied the girl.

“An attorney with a warrant against Sir Henry; and, moreover, they say that he’s coming to ’strain upon the cattle of Jerry O’Toole for the tithes.”

“He’s a bould young chap, at all events,” replied the girl, “to come here all by himself.”

“Oh! but it’s not till to-morrow morning, and then we’ll have the troops here to assist him.”

“And does Jerry O’Toole know of this?”

“Sure enough he does; and I hope there’ll be no murder committed in my house this blessed night. But what can a poor widow do when McDermott holds up his finger? Now, go light the fire, Kathleen, and see if the poor young man wants anything; it’s a burning pity that he shouldn’t have something to comfort him before his misfortunes fall upon him.”

Kathleen made no reply. The horror that I felt at this discourse may easily be imagined. That it was intended that I should meet with foul play was certain, and I knew very well that, in such a desolate part of the country, the murder of an individual, totally unknown, would hardly be noticed. That I had been held up to the resentment of the inhabitants as a tithe collector, and an attorney with a warrant, was quite sufficient, I felt conscious, to induce them to make away with me. How to undeceive them was the difficulty.

Part 2—Chapter XX

No Hopes of rising next Morning alive—At a last chance I get into Bed.

Kathleen came in with fuel to light the fire, and looking rather hard at me, passed by, and was soon busy blowing up the turf. She was a very handsome dark-eyed girl, about nineteen years of age, stout, and well made. “What is your name?” said I.

“Kathleen, at your service, sir.”

“Listen to me, Kathleen,” said I, in a low voice. “You are a woman, and all women are kind-hearted. I have overheard all that passed between your mistress and you, and that McDermott has stated that I am a tithe collector and an attorney, with a warrant. I am no such thing. I am a gentleman who wish to speak to Sir Henry de Clare on a business which he does not like to be spoken to about; and to shew you what I say is the truth, it is about the daughter of his elder brother, who was killed when hunting, and who is supposed to be dead. I am the only evidence to the contrary; and, therefore, he and McDermott have spread this report that I may come to harm.”

“Is she alive, then?” replied Kathleen, looking up to me with wonder.

“Yes; and I will not tell Sir Henry where she is, and that is the reason of their enmity.”

“But I saw her body,” replied the girl in a low voice, standing up, and coming close to me.

“It was not hers, depend upon it,” replied I, hardly knowing what to answer to this assertion.

“At all events, it was dressed in her clothes; but it was so long before it was discovered, that we could make nothing of the features. Well, I knew the poor little thing, for my mother nursed her. I was myself brought up at the castle, and lived there till after Sir William was killed; then we were all sent away.”

“Kathleen! Kathleen!” cried the landlady.

“Call for everything you can think of one after another,” whispered Kathleen, leaving the room.

“I cannot make the peat burn,” said she to the landlady, after she had quitted the little room; “and the gentleman wants some whisky.”

“Go out then, and get some from the middle of the stack, Kathleen, and be quick; we have others to attend besides the tithe proctor. There’s the O’Tooles all come in, and your own Corny is with them.”

“My Corny, indeed!” replied Kathleen; “he’s not quite so sure of that.”

In a short time Kathleen returned, and brought some dry peat and a measure of whisky. “If what you say is true,” said Kathleen, “and sure enough you’re no Irish, and very young for a tithe proctor, who must grow old before he can be such a villain, you are in no very pleasant way. The O’Tooles are here, and I’ve an idea they mean no good; for they sit with all their heads together, whispering to each other, and all their shillelaghs by their sides.”

“Tell me, Kathleen, was the daughter of Sir William a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl?”

“To be sure she was,” replied Kathleen, “and like a little mountain fairy.”

“Now, Kathleen, tell me if you recollect if the little girl or her mother ever wore a necklace of red beads mixed with gold.”

“Yes, that my lady did; and it was on the child’s neck when it was lost, and when the body was found it was not with it. Well I recollect that, for my mother said the child must have been drowned or murdered for the sake of the gold beads.”

“Then you have proved all I wished, Kathleen; and now I tell you that this little girl is alive, and that I can produce the necklace which was lost with her; and more, that she was taken away by Sir Henry himself.”

“Merciful Jesus!” replied Kathleen; “the dear little child that we cried over so much.”

“But now, Kathleen, I have told you this, to prove to you that I am not what McDermott has asserted, no doubt, with the intention that my brains shall be knocked out this night.”

“And so they will, sure enough,” replied Kathleen, “if you do not escape.”

“But how am I to escape? and will you assist me?”