Japhet in Search of a Father

“Yes,” replied Cophagus, forgetting his Quakership; “take oath—bring Bible—kiss book—and so on.”

“You, then, as a Quaker, have no objection to swear to the identity of this person?”

“Swear,” cried Cophagus, “yes, swear—swear now—not Japhet!—I’m damned—go to hell—and so on.”

The other parties present could not help laughing at this explosion from Cophagus, neither could I. Mr Masterton then asked the general if he required any more proofs.

“No,” replied the general discourteously; and speaking in Hindostanee to his attendants, they walked to the door and opened it. The hint was taken, Mr Masterton saying to the others in an ironical tone, “After so long a separation, gentlemen, it must be natural that the general should wish to be left alone, that he may give vent to his paternal feelings.”

Part 3—Chapter XX

Father and I grow warm in our Argument—Obliged to give him a little Schooling to show my Affection—Takes it at last very kindly, and very dutifully owns himself a Fool.

In the mean time, I was left standing in the middle of the room: the gentlemen departed, and the two native servants resumed their stations on each side of the sofa. I felt humiliated and indignant, but waited in silence; at last, my honoured parent, who had eyed me for some time, commenced:—

“If you think, young man, to win my favour by your good looks, you are very much mistaken: you are too like your mother, whose memory is anything but agreeable.”

The blood mounted to my forehead at this cruel observation; I folded my arms and looked my father steadfastly in the face, but made no reply. The choler of the gentleman was raised.

“It appears that I have found a most dutiful son.”

I was about to make an angry answer, when I recollected myself, and I courteously replied, “My dear general, depend upon it that your son will always be ready to pay duty to whom duty is due; but excuse me, in the agitation of this meeting you have forgotten those little attentions which courtesy demands: with your permission I will take a chair, and then we may converse more at our ease. I hope your leg is better.”

I said this with the blandest voice and the most studied politeness, and drawing a chair towards the table, I took my seat; as I expected, it put my honoured father in a tremendous rage.

“If this is a specimen, sir, of your duty and respect, sir, I hope to see no more of them. To whom your duty is due, sir!—and pray to whom is it due, sir, if not to the author of your existence?” cried the general, striking the table before him with his enormous fist, so as to make the ink fly out of the stand some inches high and bespatter the papers near it.

“My dear father, you are perfectly correct: duty, as you say, is due to the author of our existence. If I recollect right, the commandment says, ‘Honour your father and your mother;’ but at the same time, if I may venture to offer an observation, are there not such things as reciprocal duties—some which are even more paramount in a father than the mere begetting of a son?”

“What do you mean, sir, by these insolent remarks?” interrupted my father.

“Excuse me, my dear father, I may be wrong, but if so, I will bow to your superior judgment; but it does appear to me, that the mere hanging me in a basket at the gate of the Foundling Hospital, and leaving me a bank note of fifty pounds to educate and maintain me until the age of twenty-four, are not exactly all the duties incumbent upon a parent. If you think that they are, I am afraid that the world, as well as myself, will be of a different opinion. Not that I intend to make any complaint, as I feel assured that now circumstances have put it in your power, it is your intention to make me amends for leaving me so long in a state of destitution, and wholly dependent upon my own resources.”

“You do, do you, sir? well, now, I’ll tell you my resolution, which is—There is the door—go out, and never let me see your face again.”

“My dear father, as I am convinced this is only a little pleasantry on your part, or perhaps a mere trial whether I am possessed of the spirit and determination of a De Benyon, I shall, of course, please you by not complying with your humorous request.”

“Won’t you, by Gad?” roared my father; then turning to his two native servants, he spoke to them in Hindostanee. They immediately walked to the door, threw it wide open, and then coming back to me, were about to take me by the arms. I certainly felt my blood boil, but I recollected how necessary it was to keep my temper. I rose from my chair, and advancing to the side of the sofa I said—

“My dear father, as I perceive that you do not require your crutches at this moment, you will not perhaps object to my taking one. These foreign scoundrels must not be permitted to insult you through the person of your only son.”

“Turn him out,” roared my father.

The natives advanced, but I whirled the crutch round my head, and in a moment they were both prostrate. As soon as they gained their feet, I attacked them again, until they made their escape out of the room; I then shut the door and turned the key.

“Thank you, my dear sir,” said I, returning the crutch to where it was before. “Many thanks for thus permitting me to chastise the insolence of these black scoundrels, whom, I take it for granted, you will immediately discharge;” and I again took my seat in the chair, bringing it closer to him.

The rage of the general was now beyond all bounds; the white foam was spluttered out of his mouth, as he in vain endeavoured to find words. Once he actually rose from the sofa, to take the law in his own hands, but the effort seriously injured his leg, and he threw himself down in pain and disappointment.

“My dear father, I am afraid that, in your anxiety to help me, you have hurt your leg again,” said I, in a soothing voice.

“Sirrah, sirrah,” exclaimed he at last, “if you think that this will do, you are very much mistaken. You don’t know me. You may turn out a couple of cowardly blacks, but now I’ll show you that I am not to be played with. I discard you for ever—I disinherit—I disacknowledge you. You may take your choice, either to quit this room, or be put into the hands of the police.”

“The police, my dear sir! What can the police do? I may call in the police for the assault just committed by your servants, and have them up to Bow Street, but you cannot charge me with an assault.”

“But I will, by Gad, sir, true or not true.”

“Indeed you would not, my dear father. A De Benyon would never be guilty of a lie. Besides, if you were to call in the police;—I wish to argue this matter coolly, because I ascribe your present little burst of ill-humour to your sufferings from your unfortunate accident. Allowing, then, my dear father, that you were to charge me with an assault, I should immediately be under the necessity of charging you also, and then we must both go to Bow Street together. Were you ever at Bow Street, general?” The general made no reply, and I proceeded. “Besides, my dear sir, only imagine how very awkward it would be when the magistrate put you on your oath, and asked you to make your charge. What would you be obliged to declare? That you had married when young, and finding that your wife had no fortune, had deserted her the second day after your marriage. That you, an officer in the army, and the Honourable Captain De Benyon, had hung up your child at the gates of the Foundling Hospital—that you had again met your wife, married to another, and had been an accomplice in concealing her capital offence of bigamy, and had had meetings with her, although she belonged to another. I say meetings, for you did meet her, to receive her directions about me. I am charitable, and suspect nothing—others will not be so. Then, after her death, you come home and inquire about your son. His identity is established,—and what then? not only you do not take him by the hand, in common civility, I might say, but you first try to turn him out of the house, and to give him in charge of the police; and then you will have to state for what. Perhaps you will answer me that question, for I really do not know.”

By this time, my honoured father’s wrath had, to a certain degree, subsided: he heard all I had to say, and he felt how very ridiculous would have been his intended proceedings, and, as his wrath subsided, so did his pain increase: he had seriously injured his leg, and it was swelling rapidly—the bandages tightened in consequence, and he was suffering under the acutest pain. “Oh, oh!” groaned he.

“My dear father, can I assist you?”

“Ring the bell, sir.”

“There is no occasion to summon assistance while I am here, my dear general. I can attend you professionally, and if you will allow me, will soon relieve your pain. Your leg has swollen from exertion, and the bandages must be loosened.”

He made no reply, but his features were distorted with extreme pain. I went to him, and proceeded to unloose the bandages, which gave him considerable relief. I then replaced them, secundum artem, and with great tenderness, and going to the sideboard, took the lotion which was standing there with the other bottles, and wetted the bandages. In a few minutes he was quite relieved. “Perhaps, sir,” said I, “you had better try to sleep a little. I will take a book, and shall have great pleasure in watching by your side.”

Exhausted with pain and violence, the general made no reply; he fell back on the sofa, and, in a short time, he snored most comfortably. “I have conquered you,” thought I, as I watched him as he lay asleep. “If I have not yet, I will, that I am resolved.” I walked gently to the door, unlocked it, and opening it without waking him, ordered some broth to be brought up immediately, saying that the general was asleep, and that I would wait for it outside. I accomplished this little manoeuvre, and reclosed the door without waking my father, and then I took my seat in the chair, and resumed my book, having placed the broth on the side of the fire grate to keep it warm. In about an hour he awoke, and looked around him.

“Do you want anything, my dearest father?” inquired I.

The general appeared undecided as to whether to recommence hostilities; but at last he said, “I wish the attendance of my servants, sir.”

“The attendance of a servant can never be equal to that of your own son, general,” replied I, going to the fire, and taking the basin of broth, which I replaced upon the tray containing the et cetera on a napkin. “I expected you would require your broth, and I have had it ready for you.”

“It was what I did require, sir, I must acknowledge,” replied my father, and without further remark he finished the broth.

I removed the tray, and then went for the lotion, and again wetted the bandages on his leg. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” said I.

“Nothing—I am very comfortable.”

“Then, sir,” replied I, “I will now take my leave. You have desired me to quit your presence for ever; and you attempted force. I resisted that, because I would not allow you to have the painful remembrance that you had injured one who had strong claims upon you, and had never injured you. I resented it also, because I wished to prove to you that I was a De Benyon, and had spirit to resist an insult. But, general, if you imagine that I have come here with a determination of forcing myself upon you, you are much mistaken. I am too proud, and happily am independent by my own exertions, so as not to require your assistance. Had you received me kindly, believe me, you would have found a grateful and affectionate heart to have met that kindness. You would have found a son, whose sole object, through life has been to discover a father, after whom he has yearned, who would have been delighted to have administered to his wants, to have yielded to his wishes, to have soothed him in his pain, and to have watched him in his sickness. Deserted as I have been for so many years, I trust that I have not disgraced you, General De Benyon; and if ever I have done wrong, it has been from a wish to discover you. I can appeal to Lord Windermear for the truth of that assertion. Allow me to say, that it is a very severe trial—an ordeal which few pass through with safety—to be thrown as I have been upon the world, with no friend, no parent to assist or to advise me, to have to bear up against the contingency of being of unacknowledged and perhaps disgraceful birth. It is harder still, when I expected to find my dearest wishes realised, that, without any other cause than that of my features resembling those of my mother, I am to be again cast away. One thing, General De Benyon, I request, and I trust it will not be denied, which is, that I may assume the name which I am entitled to. I pledge you that I never will disgrace it. And now, sir, asking and expecting no more, I take my leave, and you may be assured, that neither poverty, privation, nor affliction of any kind, will ever induce me to again intrude into your presence. General De Benyon, farewell for ever.” I made my father a profound bow, and was quitting the room.

“Stop, sir,” said the general. “Stop one moment, if you please.” I obeyed.

“Why did you put me out of temper? Answer me that.”

“Allow me to observe, sir, that I did not put you out of temper; and what is more, that I never lost my own temper during the insult and injury which I so undeservedly and unexpectedly have received.”

“But that very keeping your temper made me more angry, sir.”

“That is very possible; but surely I was not to blame. The greatest proof of a perfect gentleman is, that he is able to command his temper, and I wished you to acknowledge that I was not without such pretensions.”

“That is as much as to say that your father is no gentleman; and this, I presume, is a specimen of your filial duty,” replied the general, warmly.

“Far from it, sir; there are many gentlemen who, unfortunately, cannot command their tempers, and are more to be pitied than blamed for it; but, sir, when such happens to be the case, they invariably redeem their error, and amply so, by expressing their sorrow, and offering an apology.”