Japhet in Search of a Father

“If it is the Mr Harcourt I once knew,” replied I, “I certainly do.”

“Believe me it is the same, Newland,” said Harcourt, turning to me and offering his hand, which I took with pleasure.

“It is a long while since we met,” observed Cecilia, who felt it necessary to say something, but, at the same time, did not like to enter upon my affairs before Harcourt.

“It is, Miss de Clare,” replied I, for I was not exactly pleased at my reception; “but I have been fortunate since I had the pleasure of seeing you last.”

Cecilia and her mother looked earnestly, as much as to say, in what?—but did not like to ask the question.

“There is no one present who is not well acquainted with my history,” observed I, “that is, until the time that I left you and Lady de Clare, and I have no wish to create mystery. I have at last discovered my father.”

“I hope we are to congratulate you, Mr Newland,” said Lady de Clare.

“As far as respectability and family are concerned, I certainly have no reason to be ashamed,” replied I. “He is the brother of an earl, and a general in the army. His name I will not mention until I have seen him, and I am formally and openly acknowledged. I have also the advantage of being an only son, and if I am not disinherited, heir to considerable property,” continued I, smiling sarcastically. “Perhaps I may now be better received than I have been as Japhet Newland the Foundling: but, Lady de Clare, I am afraid that I have intruded unseasonably, and will now take my leave. Good morning;” and without waiting for a reply, I made a hasty retreat, and gained the door.

Flushed with indignation, I had nearly gained the bottom of the stairs, when I heard a light footstep behind me, and my arm was caught by Cecilia de Clare. I turned round, and she looked me reproachfully in the face, as the tear stood in her eye. “What have we done, Japhet, that you should treat us in this manner?” said she with emotion.

“Miss de Clare,” replied I, “I have no reproaches to make. I perceived that my presence was not welcome, and I would no further intrude.”

“Are you then so proud, now that you have found out that you are well born, Japhet?”

“I am much too proud to intrude where I am not wished for, Miss de Clare. As Japhet Newland, I came here to see the Fleta of former days. When I assume my real name, I shall always be most happy of an introduction to the daughter of Lady de Clare.”

“Oh! how changed,” exclaimed she, fixing her large blue eyes upon me.

“Prosperity changes us all, Miss de Clare. I wish you a very good morning;” and I turned away, and crossed the hall to the door.

As I went out I could not help looking back, and I perceived that Cecilia’s handkerchief was held to her eyes, as she slowly mounted the stairs. I walked home to the Piazza in no very pleasant humour. I was angry and disgusted at the coolness of my reception. I thought myself ill used, and treated with ingratitude. “So much for the world,” said I, as I sat down in my apartment, and spun my hat on the table. “She has been out two seasons, and is no longer the same person. Yet how lovely she has grown! But why this change—and why was Harcourt there? Could he have prejudiced them against me? Very possibly.” While these ideas were running in my mind, and I was making comparisons between Cecilia de Clare and Susannah Temple—not much in favour of the former—and looking forward prospectively to the meeting with my father, the doubts as to my reception in society colouring everything with the most sombre tints, the door opened, and in walked Harcourt, announced by the waiter.

“A chair for Mr Harcourt,” said I to the waiter, with formality.

“Newland,” said Harcourt, “I come for two reasons: in the first place I am commissioned by the ladies to assure you—”

“I beg your pardon, Mr Harcourt, for interrupting you, but I require no ambassador from the ladies in question. They may make you their confidant if they please, but I am not at all inclined to do the same. Explanation, after what I witnessed and felt this morning, is quite unnecessary. I surrender all claims upon either Lady de Clare or her daughter, if I ever was so foolhardy as to imagine that I had any. The first reason of your visit it is therefore useless to proceed with. May I ask the other reason which has procured me this honour?”

“I hardly know, Mr Newland,” replied Harcourt, colouring deeply, “whether after what you have now said I ought to proceed with the second—it related to myself.”

“I am all attention, Mr Harcourt,” replied I bowing politely.

“It was to say, Mr Newland, that I should have taken the earliest opportunity after my recovery, had you not disappeared so strangely, to have expressed my sorrow for my conduct towards you, and to have acknowledged that I had been deservedly punished: more perhaps by my own feelings of remorse, than by the dangerous wound I had received by your hand. I take even this opportunity, although not apparently a favourable one, of expressing what I consider it my duty, as a gentleman who has wronged another, to express. I certainly was going to add more, but there is so little chance of its being well received, that I had better defer it to some future opportunity. The time may come, and I certainly trust it will come, when I may be allowed to prove to you that I am not deserving of the coolness with which I am now received. Mr Newland, with every wish for your happiness, I will now take my leave; but I must say, it is with painful sentiments, as I feel that the result of this interview, will be the cause of great distress to those who are bound to you not only by gratitude, but sincere regard.”

Harcourt then bowed, and quitted the room.

“It’s all very well,” muttered I, “but I know the world, and am not to be soothed down by a few fine words. I trust that they will be sorry for their conduct, but see me again inside their doors they will not;” and I sat down, trying to feel satisfied with myself—but I was not; I felt that I had acted harshly, to say no more. I ought to have listened to an explanation sent by Cecilia and her mother, after her coming down stairs to expostulate. They were under great obligations to me, and by my quick resentment, I rendered the obligations more onerous. It was unkind of me—and I wished that Harcourt had not left the room. As for his conduct, I tried to find fault with it, but could not. It was gentlemanly and feeling. The fact was, I was in a very bad humour, and could not at the time discover the reason, which was neither more nor less than that I was more jealous of finding Harcourt so intimate at Lady de Clare’s, than I was at the unpalatable reception which I had me with. The waiter came in, and brought me a note from Mr Masterton.

“I have this morning received a summons from your father, who returned, it appears, two days ago, and is now at the Adelphi Hotel. I am sorry to say, that stepping out of his carriage when travelling, he missed his footing, and snapped his tendon Achilles. He is laid up on a couch, and, as you may suppose, his amiability is not increased by the accident, and the pain attending it. As he has requested me to bring forward immediate evidence as to your identity, and the presence of Mr Cophagus is necessary, I propose that we start for Reading to-morrow at nine o’clock. I have a curiosity to go down there, and having a leisure day or two, it will be a relaxation. I wish to see my old acquaintance Timothy, and your shop. Answer by bearer.

“J. Masterton.”

I wrote a few lines, informing Mr Masterton that I would be with him at the appointed hour, and then sat down to my solitary meal. How different from when I was last at this hotel! Now I knew nobody. I had to regain my footing in society, and that could only be accomplished by being acknowledged by my father; and, as soon as that was done, I would call upon Lord Windermear, who would quickly effect what I desired. The next morning I was ready at nine o’clock, and set off with post horses, with Mr Masterton, in his own carriage. I told him what had occurred the day before, and how disgusted I was at my reception.

“Upon my word, Japhet, I think you are wrong,” replied the old gentleman; “and if you had not told me of your affection for Miss Temple, to see whom, by-the-by, I confess to be one of the chief motives of my going down with you, I should almost suppose that you were blinded by jealousy. Does it not occur to you, that if Mr Harcourt was admitted to the ladies at such an early hour, there was preference shown him in that quarter? And now I recollect that I heard something about it. Harcourt’s elder brother died, and he’s come into the property, and I heard somebody say that he would in all probability succeed in gaining the handsomest girl in London with a large fortune—that it was said to be a match. Now, if such be the case, and you broke in upon a quiet reunion between two young people about to be united, almost without announcement, and so unexpectedly, after a lapse of so long a time, surely you cannot be surprised at there being a degree of confusion and restraint—more especially after what had passed between Harcourt and you. Depend upon it, that was the cause of it. Had Lady de Clare and her daughter been alone, your reception would have been very different; indeed, Cecilia’s following you down stairs proves that it was not from coolness towards you; and Harcourt calling upon you, and the conversation which took place, is another proof that you have been mistaken.”

“I never viewed it in that light, certainly, sir,” observed I. “I merely perceived that I was considered intrusive, and finding in the company one who had treated me ill, and had been my antagonist in the field, I naturally supposed that he had prejudiced them against me. I hope I may be wrong; but I have seen so much of the world, young as I am, that I have become very suspicious.”

“Then discard suspicion as fast as you can; it will only make you unhappy, and not prevent your being deceived. If you are suspicious, you will have the constant fear of deception hanging over you, which poisons existence.”

After these remarks I remained silent for some time; I was analysing my own feelings, and I felt that I had acted in a very absurd manner. The fact was, that one of my castle buildings had been, that I was to marry Fleta as soon as I had found my own father, and this it was which had actuated me, almost without my knowing it. I felt jealous of Harcourt, and that, without being in love with Miss de Clare, but actually passionately fond of another person; I felt as if I could have married her without loving her, and that I could give up Susannah Temple, whom I did love, rather than that a being, whom I considered as almost of my own creation, should herself presume to fall in love, or that another should dare to love her, until I had made up my mind whether I should take her myself; and this after so long an absence, and their having given up all hopes of ever seeing me again. The reader may smile at the absurdity, still more at the selfishness of this feeling; so did I, when I had reflected upon it, and I despised myself for my vanity and folly.

“What are you thinking of, Japhet?” observed Mr Masterton, tired with my long abstraction.

“That I have been making a most egregious fool of myself, sir,” replied I, “with respect to the de Clares.”

“I did not say so, Japhet; but to tell you the truth, I thought something very like it. Now tell me, were you not jealous at finding her in company with Harcourt?”

“Exactly so, sir.”

“I’ll tell Susannah Temple when see I her, that she may form some idea of your constancy,” replied Mr Masterton, smiling. “Why what a dog in the manger you must be—you can’t marry them both. Still, under the circumstances, I can analyse the feeling—it is natural, but all that is natural is not always creditable to human nature. Let us talk a little about Susannah, and all these vagaries will be dispersed. How old is she?”

Mr Masterton plied me with so many questions relative to Susannah, that her image alone soon filled my mind, and I recovered my spirits. “I don’t know what she will say, at my being in this dress, sir,” observed I. “Had I not better change it on my arrival?”

“By no means; I’ll fight your battle—I know her character pretty well, thanks to your raving about her.”

Part 3—Chapter XIX

Contains much learned Argument upon Broad Brims and Garments of grey—I get the best of it—The one great Wish of my Life is Granted—I meet my Father, and a cold Reception, very indicative of much After-Heat.

We arrived in good time at Reading, and, as soon as we alighted at the inn, we ordered dinner, and then walked down to the shop, where we found Timothy very busy tying down and labelling. He was delighted to see Mr Masterton; and perceiving that I had laid aside the Quaker’s dress, made no scruple of indulging in his humour, making a long face, and thee-ing and thou-ing Mr Masterton in a very absurd manner. We desired him to go to Mr Cophagus, and beg that he would allow me to bring Mr Masterton to drink tea, and afterwards to call at the inn and give us the answer. We then returned to our dinner.

“Whether they will ever make a Quaker of you, Japhet, I am very doubtful,” observed Mr Masterton, as we walked back; “but as for making one of that fellow Timothy, I’ll defy them.”

“He laughs at everything,” replied I, “and views everything in a ridiculous light—at all events, they never will make him serious.”

In the evening, we adjourned to the house of Mr Cophagus, having received a message of welcome. I entered the room first. Susannah came forward to welcome me, and then drew back, when she perceived the alteration in my apparel, colouring deeply. I passed her, and took the hand of Mrs Cophagus and her husband, and then introduced Mr Masterton.

“We hardly knew thee, Japhet,” mildly observed Mrs Cophagus.

“I did not think that outward garments would disguise me from my friends,” replied I; “but so it appeareth, for your sister hath not even greeted me in welcome.”

“I greet thee in all kindness, and all sincerity, Japhet Newland,” replied Susannah, holding out her hand. “Yet did I not imagine that, in so short a time, thou wouldst have dismissed the apparel of our persuasion, neither do I find it seemly.”

“Miss Temple,” interposed Mr Masterton, “it is to oblige those who are his sincere friends, that Mr Newland has laid aside his dress. I quarrel with no creed—everyone has a right to choose for himself, and Mr Newland has perhaps not chosen badly, in embracing your tenets. Let him continue steadfast in them. But, fair young lady, there is no creed which is perfect, and, even in yours, we find imperfection. Our religion preaches humility, and therefore we do object to his wearing the garb of pride.”

“Of pride, sayest thou? hath he not rather put off the garb of humility, and now appeareth in the garb of pride?”

“Not so, young madam: when we dress as all the world dress, we wear not the garb of pride; but when we put on a dress different from others, that distinguishes us from others, then we show our pride, and the worst of pride, for it is the hypocritical pride which apes humility. It is the Pharisee of the Scriptures, who preaches in high places, and sounds forth his charity to the poor; not the humility of the Publican, who says, ‘Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner.’ Your apparel of pretended humility is the garb of pride, and for that reason have we insisted that he discards it, when with us. His tenets we interfere not with. There can be no religion in dress; and that must indeed be weak in itself, which requires dress for its support.”

Susannah was astonished at this new feature of the case, so aptly put by the old lawyer. Mrs Cophagus looked at her husband, and Cophagus pinched my arm, evidently agreeing with him. When Mr Masterton had finished speaking, Susannah waited a few seconds, and then replied, “It becomes not one so young and weak as I am, to argue with thee, who art so much my senior. I cannot cavil at opinions which, if not correct, at least are founded on the holy writings; but I have been otherwise instructed.”