Фредерик Марриет
Japhet in Search of a Father
Part 2—Chapter XI
I repair the Damage, and make things worse—Plot and counterplot—Tim gains a Watch by setting Watch upon his Tongue.
I hardly knew how to act—if I called the servants, my interview would be at an end, and I was resolved to find out the truth—for the same reason, I did not like to ring for water. Some vases with flowers were on the table; I took out the flowers, and threw the water in her face, but they had been in the water some time, and had discoloured it green. Her ladyship’s dress was a high silk gown, of a bright slate colour, and was immediately spoiled; but this was no time to stand upon trifles. I seized hold of a glass bottle, fancying, in my hurry, it was eau de cologne, or some essence, and poured a little into her mouth; unfortunately, it was a bottle of marking ink, which her ladyship, who was very economical, had on the table in disguise. I perceived my error, and had recourse to another vase of flowers, pouring a large quantity of the green water down her throat. Whether the unusual remedies had an effect, or not, I cannot tell, but her ladyship gradually revived, and, as she leant back on the sofa, sobbing every now and then, convulsively, I poured into her ear a thousand apologies, until I thought she was composed enough to listen to me.
“Your ladyship’s maternal feelings,” said I.
“It’s all a calumny! a base lie, sir!” shrieked she.
“Nay, nay, why be ashamed of a youthful passion; why deny what was in itself creditable to your unsophisticated mind. Does not your heart, even now, yearn to embrace your son—will not you bless me, if I bring him to your feet—will not you bless your son, and receive him with delight?”
“It was a girl,” screamed her ladyship, forgetting herself, and again falling into hysterics.
“A girl!” replied I; “then I have lost my time, and it is no use my remaining here.”
Mortified at the intelligence which overthrew my hopes and castle buildings, I seized my hat, descended the stairs, and quitted the house; in my hurry and confusion quite forgetting to call the servants to her ladyship’s assistance. Fortunately I perceived the Misses Fairfax close to the iron railing of the garden. I crossed the road, wished them good-bye, and told them that I thought Lady Maelstrom looked very ill, and they had better go in to her. I then threw myself into the first hackney-coach, and drove home. I found Timothy had arrived before me, and I narrated all that had passed.
“You will never be able to go there again,” observed Timothy, “and depend upon it, she will be your enemy through life. I wish you had not said anything to her.”
“What is done cannot be undone; but recollect, that if she can talk, I can talk also.”
“Will she not be afraid?”
“Yes, openly, she will; and open attacks can be parried.”
“Very true.”
“But it will be as well to pacify her, if I can. I will write to her.” I sat down and wrote as follows:—
“My dear Lady Maelstrom,—I am so astonished and alarmed at the situation I put you in, by my impertinence and folly, that I hardly know how to apologise. The fact is, that looking over some of my father’s old letters, I found many from Warrender, in which he spoke of an affair with a young lady, and I read the name as your maiden name, and also discovered where the offspring was to be found. On re-examination, for your innocence was too evident at our meeting to admit of a doubt, I find that the name, although something like yours, is spelt very differently, and that I must have been led into an unpardonable error. What can I say except that I throw myself on your mercy? I dare not appear before you again. I leave town to-morrow; but if you can pardon my folly and impertinence, and allow me to pay my respects when London is full again, and time shall have softened down your just anger, write me one line to that effect, and you will relieve the burdened conscience of—
“Yours most truly,—
“J. Newland.”
“There, Tim,” said I, as I finished reading it over, “take that as a sop to the old Cerberus. She may think it prudent, as I have talked of letters, to believe me and make friends. I will not trust her, nevertheless.”
Tim went away, and very soon returned with an answer.
“You are a foolish mad-cap, and I ought to shut my doors against you; you have half killed me—spoilt my gown, and I am obliged to keep my bed. Remember, in future, to be sure of the right name before you make an assertion. As for forgiving you, I shall think of it, and when you return to town, you may call and receive my sentence. Cecilia was quite frightened, poor dear girl: what a dear affectionate child she is!—she is a treasure to me, and I don’t think I ever could part with her. She sends her regards.
“Yours,—
“C. Maelstrom.”
“Come, Timothy, at all events this is better than I expected—but now I’ll tell you what I propose to do. Harcourt was with me yesterday, and he wishes me to go down with him to —. There will be the assizes, and the county ball, and a great deal of gaiety, and I have an idea that it is just as well to beat the county as the town. I dine with Mr Masterton on Friday. On Saturday I will go down and see Fleta, and on Tuesday or Wednesday I will start with Harcourt to his father’s, where he has promised me a hearty welcome. Was there anything at Coleman Street?”
“Yes, sir; Mr Iving said that he had just received a letter from your correspondent, and that he wished to know if the little girl was well; I told him that she was. Mr Iving laid the letter down on the desk, and I read the post-mark, Dublin.”
“Dublin,” replied I. “I should like to find out who Melchior is—and so I will as soon as I can.”
“Well, sir, I have not finished my story. Mr Iving said, ‘My correspondent wishes to know whether the education of the little girl is attended to?’ ‘Yes,’ replied I, ‘it is.’ ‘Is she at school?’ ‘Yes, she has been at school ever since we have been in London.’ ‘Where is she at school?’ inquired he. Now, sir, as I never was asked that question by him before, I did not know whether I ought to give an answer, so I replied, ‘that I did not know.’ ‘You know whether she is in London or not, do you not?’ ‘How should I?’ replied I, ‘master had put her to school before I put on his liveries.’ ‘Does he never go to see her?’ inquired he. ‘I suppose so,’ said I. ‘Then you really know nothing about it?—then look you, my lad, I am anxious to find out where she is at school, and the name of the people, and if you will find out the direction for me, it will be money in your pocket, that’s all.’ ‘Um,’ replied I, ‘but how much?’ ‘Why, more than you think for, my man, it will be a ten-pound note.’ ‘That alters the case,’ replied I; ‘now I think again, I have an idea that I do remember seeing her address on a letter my master wrote to her.’ ‘Ay,’ replied Mr Iving, ‘it’s astonishing how money sharpens the memory. I’ll keep to my bargain; give me the address, and here’s the ten-pound note.’ ‘I’m afraid that my master will be angry,’ said I, as if I did not much like to tell him. ‘Your master will never know anything about it, and you may serve a long time before he gives you a ten-pound note above your wages.’ ‘That’s very true,’ said I, ‘sarvice is no inheritance. Well, then, give me the money, and I’ll write it down.’”
“And did you give it?” interrupted I.
“Stop a moment, sir, and you shall hear. I wrote down the address of that large school at Kensington, which we pass when we go to Mr Aubrey White’s.”
“What that tremendous large board with yellow letters—Mrs Let—what is it?”
“Mrs Lipscombe’s seminary—I always read the board every time I go up and down. I gave him the address, Miss Johnson, at Mrs Lipscombe’s seminary, Kensington. Well—and here’s the ten-pound note, sir, which I have fairly earned.”
“Fairly earned, Tim?”
“Yes, fairly earned; for it’s all fair to cheat those who would cheat you.”
“I cannot altogether agree with you on that point, Tim, but it certainly is no more than they deserve; but this is matter for reflection. Why should Melchior wish to find out her address without my knowledge?—depend upon it, there is something wrong.”
“That’s what I said to myself coming home; and I made up my mind, that, for some reason or another, he wishes to regain possession of her.”
“I entertain the same idea, Timothy, and I am glad you have disappointed him. I will take care that they shall not find her out, now that I am upon my guard.”
“But, sir, I wish to draw one good moral from this circumstance; which is, that if you had been served by any common footman, your interest would, in all probability, have been sacrificed to the ten-pound note; and that not only in this instance, but in many others, I did a very wise thing in taking my present situation.”
“I am but too well aware of that, Tim, my dear fellow,” said I, extending my hand, “and depend upon it, that if I rise, you do. You know me well enough by this time.”
“Yes, I do, Japhet, and had rather serve you than the first nobleman in the land. I’m going to purchase a watch with this ten-pound note, and I never shall look at it without remembering the advantage of keeping a watch over my tongue.”
Part 2—Chapter XII
I fall very much in Love with Honesty, because I find that it is well received in the World—And to prove my Honesty, inform the whole World that honest I have never been.
I proved the will of Major Carbonnell, in which there was no difficulty; and then I sat down to consider in what way I might best husband my resources. The house was in good repair, and well furnished. At the time that I lived with the major, we had our drawing-room, and his bed-room and another room equally large, used as his dressing-room, on the first floor. The second floor was appropriated to me, and the sitting-room was used as a dining-room when we dined at home, which was but seldom. The basement was let as a shop, at one hundred pounds per annum, but we had a private door, for entrance, and the kitchens and attics. I resolved to retain only the first floor, and let the remainder of the house; and I very soon got a tenant at sixty pounds per annum. The attics were appropriated to Timothy and the servants belonging to the lodger.
After having disposed of what was of no service to me, I found that, deducting the thousand pounds paid into the banker’s, for Lord Windermear, I had a little above three thousand pounds in ready money, and what to do with this I could not well decide. I applied to Mr Masterton, stating the exact amount of my finances, on the day that I dined with him, and he replied, “You have two good tenants, bringing you in one hundred and sixty pounds per annum—if this money is put out on mortgage, I can procure you five per cent, which will be one hundred and fifty pounds per annum. Now, the question is, do you think that you can live upon three hundred and ten pounds per annum? You have no rent to pay; and I should think that, as you are not at any great expense for a servant, you might, with economy, do very well. Recollect, that if your money is lent on mortgage you will not be able to obtain it at a moment’s warning. So reflect well before you decide.”
I consulted with Timothy, and agreed to lend the money reserving about two hundred pounds to go on with, until I should receive my rents and interest. On the Friday I went to dine with Mr Masterton, and narrated what had passed between me and Lady Maelstrom. He was very much diverted, and laughed immoderately. “Upon my faith, Mr Newland, but you have a singular species of madness; you first attack Lord Windermear, then a bishop, and, to crown all, you attack a dowager peeress. I must acknowledge, that if you do not find out your parents, it will not be for want of inquiry. Altogether, you are a most singular character; your history is most singular, and your good fortune is equally so. You have made more friends before you have come to age, than most people do in their whole lives. You commence the world with nothing, and here you are, with almost a competence—have paid off a loan of one thousand pounds, which was not required—and are moving in the best society. Now the only drawback I perceive in all this is, that you are in society under false colours, having made people suppose that you are possessed of a large fortune.”
“It was not exactly my assertion, sir.”
“No, I grant, not exactly; but you have been a party to it, and I cannot allow that there is any difference. Now, do you mean to allow this supposition to remain uncontradicted?”
“I hardly know what to say, sir; if I were to state that I have nothing but a bare competence, it will be only injurious to the memory of Major Carbonnell. All the world will suppose that he has ruined me, and that I had the fortune, whereas, on the contrary, it is to him that I am indebted for my present favourable position.”
“That may be very true, Mr Newland; but if I am to consider you as my protégé, and I may add, the protégé of Lord Windermear, I must make you quite honest—I will be no party to fraud in any shape. Are you prepared to resign your borrowed plumes, and appear before the world as you really are?”
“There is but one inducement, sir, for me to wish that the world may still deceive themselves. I may be thrown out of society, and lose the opportunity of discovering my parents.”
“And pray, Mr Newland, which do you think is more likely to tend to the discovery, a general knowledge that you are a foundling in search of your parents, or your present method, of taxing everybody upon suspicion. If your parents wish to reclaim you, they will then have their eyes directed towards you, from your position being known; and I will add, there are few parents who will not be proud of you as a son. You will have the patronage of Lord Windermear, which will always secure you a position in society, and the good wishes of all, although, I grant, that such worldly people as Lady Maelstrom may strike your name off their porter’s list. You will, moreover, have the satisfaction of knowing that the friends which you make have not been made under false colours and appearances, and a still further satisfaction, arising from a good conscience.”
“I am convinced, sir, and I thank you for your advice. I will now be guided by you in everything.”
“Give me your hand, my good lad, I now will be your friend to the utmost of my power.”
“I only wish, sir,” replied I, much affected, “that you were also my father.”
“Thank you for the wish, as it implies that you have a good opinion of me. What do you mean to do?”
“I have promised my friend Mr Harcourt to go down with him to his father’s.”
“Well.”
“And before I go I will undeceive him.”
“You are right; you will then find whether he is a friend to you or to your supposed ten thousand pounds per annum. I have been reflecting, and I am not aware that anything else can be done at present than acknowledging to the world who you really are, which is more likely to tend to the discovery of your parents than any other means, but at the same time I shall not be idle. All we lawyers have among us strange secrets, and among my fraternity, to whom I shall speak openly, I think it possible that something may be found out which may serve as a clue. Do not be annoyed at being cut by many, when your history is known; those who cut you are those whose acquaintance and friendship are not worth having; it will unmask your flatterers from your friends, and you will not repent of your having been honest; in the end, it is the best policy, even in a worldly point of view. Come to me as often as you please; I am always at home to you, and always your friend.”
Such was the result of my dinner with Mr Masterton which I narrated to Timothy as soon as I returned home. “Well, Japhet, I think you have found a real friend in Mr Masterton, and I am glad that you have decided upon following his advice. As for me, I am not under false colours, I am in my right situation, and wish no more.”
In pursuance of my promise to Mr Masterton, I called upon Harcourt the next morning, and after stating my intention to go down for a day or two into the country to see a little girl who was under my care, I said to him, “Harcourt, as long as we were only town acquaintances, mixing in society, and under no peculiar obligation to each other, I did not think it worth while to undeceive you on a point in which Major Carbonnell was deceived himself, and has deceived others; but now that you have offered to introduce me into the bosom of your family, I cannot allow you to remain in error. It is generally supposed that I am about to enter into a large property when I come of age; now, so far from that being the case, I have nothing in the world but a bare competence, and the friendship of Lord Windermear. In fact, I am a deserted child, ignorant of my parents, and most anxious to discover them, as I have every reason to suppose that I am of no mean birth. I tell you this candidly, and unless you renew the invitation, shall consider that it has not been given.”
Harcourt remained a short time without answering. “You really have astonished me, Newland; but,” continued he, extending his hand, “I admire—I respect you, and I feel that I shall like you better. With ten thousand pounds a year, you were above me—now we are but equals. I, as a younger brother, have but a bare competence, as well as you; and as for parents—for the benefit I now derive from them, I might as well have none. Not but my father is a worthy, fine old gentleman, but the estates are entailed; he is obliged to keep up his position in society, and he has a large family to provide for, and he can do no more. You have indeed an uncommon moral courage to have made this confession. Do you wish it to be kept a secret?”
“On the contrary, I wish the truth to be known.”
“I am glad that you say so, as I have mentioned you as a young man of large fortune to my father; but I feel convinced, when I tell him this conversation, he will be much more pleased in taking you by the hand, than if you were to come down and propose to one of my sisters. I repeat the invitation with double the pleasure that I gave it at first.”
“I thank you, Harcourt,” replied I; “some day I will tell you more. I must not expect, however, that everybody will prove themselves as noble in ideas as yourself.”
“Perhaps not, but never mind that. On Friday next, then, we start.”
“Agreed.” I shook hands and left him.
Part 2—Chapter XIII
I try back to recover the lost Scent, and discover to my Astonishment, that I have been transported for Forgery.
The behaviour of Harcourt was certainly a good encouragement, and had I been wavering in my promise to Mr Masterton, would have encouraged me to proceed. I returned home with a light heart and a pleasing satisfaction from the conviction that I had done right. The next morning I set off for —, and, as it was a long while since I had seen Fleta, our meeting was a source of delight on both sides. I found her very much grown and improved. She was approaching her fifteenth year, as nearly as we could guess—of course her exact age was a mystery. Her mind was equally expanded. Her mistress praised her docility and application, and wished to know whether I intended that she should be taught music and drawing, for both of which she had shown a decided taste. To this I immediately consented, and Fleta hung on my shoulder and embraced me for the indulgence. She was now fast approaching to womanhood, and my feelings towards her were more intense than ever. I took the chain of coral and gold beads from her neck, telling her that I must put it into a secure place, as much depended upon them. She was curious to know why, but I would not enter into the subject at that time. One caution I gave her, in case, by any chance, her retreat should be discovered by the companions of Melchior, which was, that without I myself came, she was, on no account, to leave the school, even if a letter from me was produced, requesting her to come, unless that letter was delivered by Timothy. I gave the same directions to her mistress, paid up her schooling and expenses, and then left her, promising not to be so long before I saw her again. On my return to town I deposited the necklace with Mr Masterton, who locked it up carefully in his iron safe.
On the Friday, as agreed, Harcourt and I, accompanied by Timothy and Harcourt’s servant, started on the outside of the coach, as younger brothers usually convey themselves, for his father’s seat in Blank shire, and arrived there in time for dinner. I was kindly received by old Mr Harcourt and his family, consisting of his wife and three amiable and beautiful girls. But on the second day, during which interval I presume Harcourt had an opportunity of undeceiving his father, I was delighted to perceive that the old gentleman’s warmth of behaviour towards me was increased. I remained there for a fortnight, and never was so happy. I was soon on the most intimate terms with the whole family, and was treated as if I belonged to it. Yet when I went to bed every night, I became more and more melancholy. I felt what a delight it must be to have parents, sisters, and friends—the bosom of a family to retire into, to share with it your pleasures and your pains; and the tears often ran down my cheeks, and moistened my pillow, when I had, not an hour before, been the happiest of the happy, and the gayest of the gay. In a family party, there is nothing so amusing as any little talent out of the general way, and my performances and tricks on cards, etcetera, in which Melchior had made me such an adept, were now brought forward as a source of innocent gratification. When I quitted, I had a general and hearty welcome to the house from the parents; and the eyes of the amiable girls, as well as mine, were not exactly dry, as we bade each other farewell.
“You told your father, Harcourt, did you not?”
“Yes, and the whole of them, Japhet; and you must acknowledge, that in their estimation you did not suffer. My father is pleased with our intimacy, and advises me to cultivate it. To prove to you that I am anxious so to do, I have a proposal to make. I know your house as well as you do, and that you have reserved only the first floor for yourself; but there are two good rooms on the first floor, and you can dispense with a dressing-room. Suppose we club together. It will be a saving to us both, as poor Carbonnell said when he took you in.”
“With all my heart: I am delighted with the proposal.” Harcourt then stated what it was his intention to offer for his share of the apartment; the other expenses to be divided, and his servant dismissed. I hardly need say, that we did not disagree, and before I had been a week in town, we were living together. My interview with Mr Masterton, and subsequent events, had made me forget to call on the governors of the Foundling Hospital, to ascertain whether there had been any inquiries after me. On my return to town I went there, and finding that there was a meeting to be held on the next day, I presented myself. I was introduced into the room where they were assembled.
“You wish to speak with the governors of the Hospital, I understand,” said the presiding governor.
“Yes, sir,” replied I; “I have come to ask whether an inquiry has been made after one of the inmates of this charity, of the name of Japhet Newland.”
“Japhet Newland!”
“If you recollect, sir, he was bound to an apothecary of the name of Cophagus, in consequence of some money which was left with him as an infant, enclosed in a letter, in which it was said that he would be reclaimed if circumstances permitted.”
“I recollect it perfectly well—it is now about six years back. I think there was some inquiry, was there not, Mr G—?”
“I think that there was, about a year and a half ago; but we will send for the secretary, and refer to the minutes.”
My heart beat quick, and the perspiration bedewed my forehead, when I heard this intelligence. At last, my emotion was so great, that I felt faint. “You are ill, sir,” said one of the gentlemen; “quick—a glass of water.”
The attendant brought a glass of water, which I drank, and recovered myself. “You appear to be much interested in this young man’s welfare.”
“I am, sir,” replied I; “no one can be more so.”
The secretary now made his appearance with the register, and after turning over the leaves, read as follows: “August the 16th,—a gentleman came to inquire after an infant left here, of the name of Japhet, with whom money had been deposited—Japhet, christened by order of the governors, Japhet Newland—referred to the shop of Mr Cophagus, Smithfield Market. He returned the next day, saying that Mr Cophagus had retired from business—that the parties in the shop knew nothing for certain, but believed that the said Japhet Newland had been transported for life for forgery, about a year before.”
“Good heavens! what an infamous assertion!” exclaimed I, clasping my hands.
“On reference back to the calendar, we observed that one J. Newland was transported for such an offence. Query?”
“It must have been some other person; but this has arisen from the vindictive feeling of those two scoundrels who served under Pleggit,” cried I.
“How can you possibly tell, sir?” mildly observed one of the governors.
“How can I tell, sir!” replied I, starting from my chair. “Why, I am Japhet Newland myself, sir.”
“You, sir,” replied the governor, surveying my fashionable exterior, my chains, and bijouterie.
“Yes, sir, I am the Japhet Newland brought up in the asylum, and who was apprenticed to Mr Cophagus.”
“Probably, then, sir,” replied the president, “you are the Mr Newland whose name appears at all the fashionable parties in high life?”
“I believe that I am the same person, sir.”
“I wish you joy upon your success in the world, sir. It would not appear that it can be very important to you to discover your parents.”
“Sir,” replied I, “you have never known what it is to feel the want of parents and friends. Fortunate as you may consider me to be—and I acknowledge I have every reason to be grateful for my unexpected rise in life—I would, at this moment, give up all that I am worth, resume my Foundling dress, and be turned out a beggar, if I could but discover the authors of my existence.”—I then bowed low to the governors, and quitted the room.
