Фредерик Марриет
Japhet in Search of a Father
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.
“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.”
