Japhet in Search of a Father

As we drove along, leaning against the back of the carriage, my hand happened to touch that of Susannah, which lay beside her on the cushion, I could not resist taking it in mine, and it was not withdrawn. What my thoughts were, the reader may imagine: Susannah’s I cannot acquaint him with; but in that position we remained in silence until the carriage stopped at Cophagus’s door. I handed Susannah out of the carriage, and went up stairs for a few moments. Mrs Cophagus and her husband were out.

“Susannah, this is very kind of you, and I return you my thanks. I never felt more happy than when seated with you in that carriage.”

“I have received both amusement and instruction, Japhet, and ought to thank you. Do you know what passed in my mind at one time?”

“No—tell me.”

“When I first knew you, and you came among us, I was, as it were, the guide, a presumptuous one perhaps to you, and you listened to me—now it is reversed—now that we are removed and in the world, it is you that are the guide, and it is I who listen and obey.”

“Because, Susannah, when we first met I was much in error, and had thought too little of serious things, and you were fit to be my guide: now we are mixing in the world, with which I am better acquainted than yourself. You then corrected me, when I was wrong: I now point out to you where you are not rightly informed: but, Susannah, what you have learnt of me is as nought compared with the valuable precepts which I gained from your lips—precepts which, I trust, no collision with the world will ever make me forget.”

“Oh! I love to hear you say that; I was fearful that the world would spoil you, Japhet; but it will not—will it?”

“Not so long as I have you still with me, Susannah: but if I am obliged to mix again with the world, tell me, Susannah, will you reject me?—will you desert me?—will you return to your own people and leave me so exposed? Susannah, dearest, you must know how long, how dearly I have loved you:—you know that, if I had not been sent for and obliged to obey the message, I would have lived and died content with you. Will you not listen to me now, or do you reject me?”

I put my arm round her waist, her head fell upon my shoulder, and she burst into tears. “Speak, dearest, this suspense is torture to me,” continued I.

“I do love you, Japhet,” replied she at last, looking fondly at me through her tears; “but I know not whether this earthly love may not have weakened my affection towards Heaven. If so, may God pardon me, for I cannot help it.”

After this avowal, for a few minutes, which appeared seconds, we were in each other’s arms, when Susannah disengaged herself.

“Dearest Japhet, thy father will be much displeased.”

“I cannot help it,” replied I—“I shall submit to his displeasure.”

“Nay, but, Japhet, why risk thy father’s wrath?”

“Well, then,” replied I, attempting to reach her lips, “I will go.”

“Nay, nay—indeed, Japhet, you exact too much—it is not seemly.”

“Then I won’t go.”

“Recollect about thy father.”

“It is you who detain me, Susannah.”

“I must not injure thee with thy father, Japhet, it were no proof of my affection—but, indeed, you are self-willed.”

“God bless you, Susannah,” said I, as I gained the contested point, and hastened to the carriage.

My father was a little out of humour when I returned, and questioned me rather sharply as to where I had been. I half pacified him by delivering lord Windermear’s polite message; but he continued his interrogations: and although I had pointed out to him that a De Benyon would never be guilty of an untruth, I am afraid I told some half dozen, on this occasion; but I consoled myself with the reflection that, in the code of honour of a fashionable man, he is bound, if necessary, to tell falsehoods where a lady is concerned; so I said I had driven through the streets looking at the houses, and had twice stopped and had gone in to examine them. My father supposed that I had been looking out for a house for him, and was satisfied. Fortunately they were job horses; had they been his own I should have been in a severe scrape. Horses are the only part of an establishment for which the gentlemen have any consideration, and on which ladies have no mercy.

I had promised the next day to dine with Mr Masterton. My father had taken a great aversion to this old gentleman until I had narrated the events of my life, in which he had played such a conspicuous and friendly part. Then, to do my father justice, his heart warmed towards him.

“My dear sir, I have promised to dine out to-day.”

“With whom, Japhet?”

“Why, sir, to tell you the truth, with that ‘old thief of a lawyer.’”

“I am very much shocked at your using such an expression towards one who has been such a sincere friend, Japhet; and you will oblige me, sir, by not doing so again in my presence.”

“I really beg your pardon, general,” replied I, “but I thought to please you.”

“Please me! what do you think of me? please me, sir, by showing yourself ungrateful!—I am ashamed of you, sir.”

“My dear father, I borrowed the expression from you. You called Mr Masterton ‘an old thief of a lawyer’ to his face: he complained to me of the language before I had the pleasure of meeting you. I feel, and always shall feel, the highest respect, love, and gratitude towards him. Have I your permission to go?”

“Yes, Japhet,” replied my father, looking very grave, “and do me the favour to apologise for me to Mr Masterton for my having used such an expression in my unfortunate warmth of temper—I am ashamed of myself.”

“My dearest father, no man need be ashamed who is so ready to make honourable reparation:—we are all a little out of temper at times.”

“You have been a kind friend to me, Japhet, as well as a good son,” replied my father, with some emotion. “Don’t forget the apology at all events: I shall be unhappy until it be made.”

Part 3—Chapter XXIII

Treats of Apologies, and Love coming from Church—We finesse with the Nabob to win me a Wife—I am successful in my Suit, yet the Lawyer is still to play the Cards to enable me to win the Game.

I arrived at Mr Masterton’s, and walked into his room, when whom should I find in company with him but Harcourt.

“Japhet, I’m glad to see you: allow me to introduce you to Mr Harcourt—Mr De Benyon,” and the old gentleman grinned maliciously, but I was not to be taken aback.

“Harcourt,” said I, extending my hand, “I have to apologise to you for a rude reception and for unjust suspicions, but I was vexed at the time—if you will admit that as an excuse.”

“My dear Japhet,” replied Harcourt, taking my hand and shaking it warmly, “I have to apologise to you for much more unworthy behaviour, and it will be a great relief to my mind if you will once more enrol me in the list of your friends.”

“And now, Mr Masterton,” said I, “as apologies appear to be the order of the day, I bring you one from the general, who has requested me to make one to you for having called you ‘an old thief of a lawyer,’ of which he was totally ignorant until I reminded him of it to-day.”

Harcourt burst into a laugh.

“Well, Japhet, you may tell your old tiger, that I did not feel particularly affronted, as I took his expression professionally and not personally, and if he meant it in that sense, he was not far wrong. Japhet, to-morrow is Sunday; do you go to meeting or to church?”

“I believe, sir, that I shall go to church.”

“Well, then, come with me:—be here at half-past two—we will go to evening service at Saint James’s.”

“I have received many invitations, but I never yet received an invitation to go to church,” replied I.

“You will hear an extra lesson of the day—a portion of Susannah and the Elders.”

I took the equivoque, which was incomprehensible to Harcourt: I hardly need say, that the latter and I were on the best terms. When we separated, Harcourt requested leave to call upon me the next morning, and Mr Masterton said that he should also pay his respects to the tiger, as he invariably called my most honoured parent.

Harcourt was with me very soon after breakfast; and after I had introduced him to my “Governor,” we retired to talk without interruption.

“I have much to say to you, De Benyon,” commenced Harcourt: “first let me tell you, that after I rose from my bed, and discovered that you had disappeared, I resolved, if possible, to find you out and induce you to come back. Timothy, who looked very sly at me, would tell me nothing, but that the last that was heard of you was at Lady de Clare’s, at Richmond. Having no other clue, I went down there, introduced myself, and, as they will tell you, candidly acknowledged that I had treated you ill. I then requested that they would give me any clue by which you might be found, for I had an opportunity of offering to you a situation which was at my father’s disposal, and which any gentlemen might have accepted, although it was not very lucrative.”

“It was very kind of you, Harcourt.”