Japhet in Search of a Father

“Wait, sir, oh no—I must follow him.”

“That will only do harm; for he is rather a queer sort of an old gentleman, and although he acknowledges that he left you as Japhet and has searched for you, yet he is so afraid of somebody else’s brat being put upon him, that he insists upon most undeniable proofs. Now, we cannot trace you from the hospital unless we can find that fellow Cophagus, and we have made every search after him, and no one can tell where he is.”

“But I left him but yesterday morning, sir,” replied I.

“Good—very good; we must send for him or go to him; besides, he has the packet intrusted to the care of Miss Maitland, to whom he was executor, which proves the marriage of your father. Very strange—very strange indeed, that you should have hit upon it as you did—almost supernatural. However, all right now, my dear boy, and I congratulate you. Your father is a very strange person: he has lived like a despot among slaves all his life, and will not be thwarted, I can tell you. If you say a word in contradiction he’ll disinherit you:—terrible old tiger, I must say. If it had not been for your sake, I should have done with him long ago. He seems to think the world ought to be at his feet. Depend upon it, Japhet, there is no hurry about seeing him;—and see him you shall not, until we have every proof of your identity ready to produce to him, I hope you have the bump of veneration strong, Japhet, and plenty of filial duty, or you will be kicked out of the house in a week. Damn me, if he didn’t call me an old thief of a lawyer.”

“Indeed, sir,” replied I, laughing; “I must apologise to you for my father’s conduct.”

“Never mind, Japhet; I don’t care about a trifle; but why don’t you ask after your friends?”

“I have longed so to do, sir,” replied I. “Lord Windermear—”

“Is quite well, and will be most happy to see you.”

“Lady de Clare, and her daughter—”

“Lady de Clare has entered into society again, and her daughter, as you call her—your Fleta, alias Cecilia de Clare—is the belle of the metropolis. But now, sir, as I have answered all your interrogatories, and satisfied you upon the most essential points, will you favour me with a narrative of your adventures, (for adventures I am sure you must have had,) since you ran away from us all in that ungrateful manner.”

“Most certainly, sir, I will; and, as you say, I have had adventures. But it really will be a long story.”

“Then we’ll dine here, and pass the evening together—so that’s settled.”

Part 3—Chapter XVII

In which I am let into more Particulars relative to my Father’s History.

I dismissed the coach, while Mr Masterton gave his orders for dinner, and we then turned the key of the door to avoid intrusion, and I commenced. It was nearly dinner-time before I had finished my story.

“Well, you really appear to be born for getting into scrapes, and getting out of them again in a miraculous way,” observed Mr Masterton. “Your life would make a novel.”

“It would indeed, sir,” replied I. “I only hope, like all novels, it will wind up well.”

“So do I; but dinner’s ready, Japhet, and after dinner we’ll talk the matter over again, for there are some points upon which I require some explanation.”

We sat down to dinner, and when we had finished, and the table had been cleared, we drew to the fire, with our bottle of wine. Mr Masterton stirred the fire, called for his slippers, and then crossing his legs over the fender, resumed the subject.

“Japhet, I consider it most fortunate that we have met, previous to your introduction to your father. You have so far to congratulate yourself, that your family is undeniably good, there being, as you know, an Irish peerage in it; of which, however, you have no chance, as the present earl has a numerous offspring. You are also fortunate as far as money is concerned, as I have every reason to believe that your father is a very rich man, and, of course, you are his only child; but I must now prepare you to meet with a very different person than perhaps the fond anticipations of youth may have led you to expect. Your father has no paternal feelings that I can discover; he has wealth, and he wishes to leave it—he has therefore sought you out. But he is despotic, violent, and absurd; the least opposition to his will makes him furious, and I am sorry to add, that I am afraid that he is very mean. He suffered severely when young from poverty, and his own father was almost as authoritative and unforgiving as himself. And now I will state how it was that you were left at the Asylum when an infant. Your grandfather had procured for your father a commission in the army, and soon afterwards procured him a lieutenancy. He ordered him to marry a young lady of large fortune, whom he had never seen, and sent for him for that purpose. I understand that she was very beautiful, and had your father seen her, it is probable he would have made no objection; but he very foolishly sent a peremptory refusal, for which he was dismissed for ever. In a short time afterwards your father fell in love with a young lady of great personal attractions, and supposed to possess a large fortune. To deceive her, he pretended to be the heir to the earldom, and, after a hasty courtship, they ran off, and were married. When they compared notes, which they soon did, it was discovered that, on his side, he had nothing but the pay of a subaltern, and on hers, that she had not one shilling. Your father stormed, and called his wife an impostor; she recriminated, and the second morning after the marriage was passed in tears on her side, and oaths, curses, and revilings on his. The lady, however, appeared the more sensible party of the two. Their marriage was not known, she had run away on a pretence to visit a relative, and it was actually supposed in the county town where she resided, that such was the case. ‘Why should we quarrel in this way?’ observed she. ‘You, Edmund, wished to marry a fortune, and not me—I may plead guilty to the same duplicity. We have made a mistake; but it is not too late. It is supposed that I am on a visit to —, and that you are on furlough for a few days. Did you confide your secret to any of your brother officers?’ ‘Not one,’ muttered your father. ‘Well, then, let us part as if nothing had happened, and nobody will be the wiser. We are equally interested in keeping the secret. Is it agreed?’—Your father immediately consented. He accompanied your mother to the house at —, where she was expected, and she framed a story for her delay, by having met such a very polite young man. Your father returned to his regiment, and thus did they like two privateers, who, when they meet and engage, as soon as they find out their mistake, hoist their colours, and sheer off by mutual consent.”

“I can’t say much for my mother’s affection or delicacy,” observed I.

“The less you say the better, Japhet—however, that is your father’s story. And how to proceed. It appears that, about two months afterwards, your father received a letter from your mother, acquainting him that their short intercourse had been productive of certain results, and requesting that he would take the necessary steps to provide for the child, and avoid exposure, or that she would be obliged to confess her marriage. By what means they contrived to avoid exposure until the period of her confinement, I know not, but your father states that the child was born in a house in London, and, by agreement, was instantly put into his hands; that he, with the consent of his wife, left you at the door of the Asylum, with the paper and the bank note, from which you received the name of Newland. At the time, he had no idea of reclaiming you himself; but the mother had; for, heartless as she appears to have been, yet a mother must feel for her child. Your father’s regiment was then ordered out to the East Indies, and he was rapidly promoted for his gallantry and good conduct during the war in the Mysore territory. Once only has he returned home on furlough, and then he did make inquiries after you; not, it appears, with a view of finding you out on his own account, but from a promise which he made your mother.”

“My mother! what, have they met since?”

“Yes; your mother went out to India on speculation, passing off as a single girl, and was very well married there, I was going to say; however, she committed a very splendid bigamy.”

“Good heavens! how totally destitute of principle!”

“Your father asserts that your mother was a freethinker, Japhet; her father had made her one; without religion a woman has no stay. Your father was in the up country during the time that your mother arrived, and was married to one of the council of Calcutta. Your father says that they met at a ball at Government House. She was still a very handsome woman, and much admired. When your father recognised her, and was told that she was lately married to the honourable Mr —, he was quite electrified, and would have quitted the room; but she had perceived him, and walking up to him with the greatest coolness, claimed him as an old acquaintance in England, and afterwards they often met, but she never adverted to what had passed between them, until the time for his departure to England on leave, and she then sent for him, and begged that he would make some inquiries after you, Japhet. He did so, and you know the result. On his return to India he found that your mother had been carried off by the prevailing pestilence. At that period, your father was not rich, but he was then appointed to the chief command in the Carnatic, and reaped a golden harvest in return for his success and bravery. It appears, as far as I could obtain it from him, that as long as your mother was alive, he felt no interest about you; but her death, and the subsequent wealth which poured upon him, have now induced him to find out an heir, to whom it may be bequeathed.

“Such, Japhet, are the outlines of your father’s history; and I must point out that he has no feelings of affection for you at present. The conduct of your mother is ever before him, and if it were not that he wishes an heir, I should almost say that his feelings are those of dislike. You may create an interest in his heart, it is true: and he may be gratified by your personal appearance; but you will have a very difficult task, as you will have to submit to his caprices and fancies, and I am afraid that, to a high spirit like yours, they will be almost unbearable.”

“Really, sir, I begin to feel that the fondest anticipations are seldom realised, and almost to wish that I had not been sought for by my father. I was happy and contented, and now I do not see any chance of having to congratulate myself on the change.”

“On one or two points I also wish to question you. It appears that you have entered into the sect denominated Quakers. Tell me candidly, do you subscribe heartily and sincerely to their doctrines? And I was going to add, is it your intention to remain with them? I perceive much difficulty in all this.”

“The tenets of the sect I certainly do believe to be more in accordance with the Christian religion than any other; and I have no hesitation in asserting, from my knowledge of those who belong to this sect, that they, generally speaking, lead better lives. There are some points connected with their worship, which, at first, I considered ridiculous: the feeling has, however, worn off. As to their quaint manner of speaking, that has been grossly exaggerated. Their dress is a part of their religion.”

“Why so, Japhet?”

“I can reply to you in the words of Susannah Temple, when I made the same interrogatory. ‘You think the peculiarity of our dress is an outward form which is not required. It was put on to separate us from others, and as a proof of our sincerity; but still, the discarding of the dress is a proof of sincerity. We consider, that to admire the person is vain, and our creed is humility. It is therefore an outward and visible sign, that we would act up to those tenets which we profess. It is not all who wear the dress who are Quakers in heart or conduct; but we know that when it is put aside, the tenets of our persuasion are at the same time renounced, therefore do we consider it essential. I do not mean to say but that the heart may be as pure, and the faith continue as steadfast, without such signs outwardly, but it is a part of our creed, and we must not choose, but either reject all or none.’”

“Very well argued by the little Quakeress; and now Japhet, I should like to put another question to you. Are you very much attached to this young puritan?”

“I will not deny but that I am. I love her sincerely.”

“Does your love carry you so far, that you would, for her sake, continue a Quaker, and marry her?”

“I have asked myself that question at least a hundred times during the last twenty-four hours, and I cannot decide. If she would dress as others do, and allow me to do the same, I would marry her to-morrow; whether I shall ever make up my mind to adhere to the persuasion, and live and die a Quaker for her sake, is quite another matter—but I am afraid not—I am too worldly-minded. The fact is, I am in a very awkward position with respect to her. I have never acknowledged my affection, or asked for a return, but she knows I love her, and I know that she loves me.”

“Like all vain boys, you flatter yourself.”

“I leave you to judge, sir,” replied I, repeating to him our parting tête-à-tête, and how I had returned, and found her in tears.

“All that certainly is very corroborative evidence; but tell me, Japhet, do you think she loves you well enough to abandon all for your sake?”

“No, nor ever will, sir, she is too high-principled, too high-minded. She might suffer greatly, but she never would swerve from what she thought was right.”

“She must be a fine character, Japhet, but you will be in a dilemma: indeed, it appears to me, that your troubles are now commencing instead of ending, and that you would have been much happier where you were, than you will be by being again brought out into the world. Your prospect is not over-cheerful. You have an awkward father to deal with: you will be under a strong check, I’ve a notion, and I am afraid you will find that, notwithstanding you will be once more received into society, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.”

“I am afraid you are right, sir,” replied I, “but at all events, it will be something gained, to be acknowledged to the world by a father of good family, whatever else I may have to submit to. I have been the sport of Fortune all my life, and probably she has not yet done playing with me; but it is late, and I will now wish you good night.”

“Good night, Japhet; if I have any intelligence I will let you know. Lady de Clare’s address is Number 13, Park Street. You will, of course, go there as soon as you can.”

“I will, sir, after I have written my letters to my friends at Reading.”

Part 3—Chapter XVIII

I am a little jealous, and, like the immortal William Bottom, inclined to enact more Parts than one—With a big Effort my hankering after Bigamy is mastered by Mr Masterton—And by my own good Sense.

I returned home to reflect upon what Mr Masterton had told me, and I must say that I was not very well pleased with his various information. His account of my mother, although she was no more, distressed me, and, from the character which he gave of my father, I felt convinced that my happiness would not be at all increased by my having finally attained the long-desired object of my wishes. Strange to say, I had no sooner discovered my father, but I wished that he had never turned up; and when I compared the peaceful and happy state of existence which I had lately enjoyed, with the prospects of what I had in future to submit to, I bitterly repented that the advertisement had been seen by Timothy; still, on one point, I was peculiarly anxious, without hardly daring to anatomise my feelings; it was relative to Cecilia de Clare, and what Mr Masterton had mentioned in the course of our conversation. The next morning I wrote to Timothy and to Mr Cophagus, giving them a short detail of what I had been informed by Mr Masterton, and expressing a wish, which I then really did feel, that I had never been summoned away from them.

Having finished my letters, I set off to Park Street, to call upon Lady de Clare and Cecilia. It was rather early, but the footman who opened the door recognised me, and I was admitted upon his own responsibility. It was now more than eighteen months since I had quitted their house at Richmond, and I was very anxious to know what reception I might have. I followed the servant up stairs, and when he opened the door walked in, as my name was announced.

Lady de Clare rose in haste; so did Cecilia, and so did a third person, whom I had not expected to have met—Harcourt. “Mr Newland,” exclaimed Lady de Clare, “this is indeed unexpected.” Cecilia also came forward, blushing to the forehead. Harcourt held back, as if waiting for the advances to be made on my side. On the whole, I never felt more awkwardly, and I believe my feelings were reciprocated by the whole party. I was evidently de trop.

“Do you know Mr Harcourt?” at last said Lady de Clare.