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Japhet, In Search Of A Father by Frederick Marryat

F >> Frederick Marryat >> Japhet, In Search Of A Father




For three weeks I continued to live with Harcourt, but I did not go out
much. Such was the state of my affairs, when Timothy came to my room
one morning, and said, "I do not know whether you have observed it, sir;
but there is a man constantly lurking about here, watching the house, I
believe. I think, but still I'm not quite sure, that I have seen his
face before; but where I cannot recollect."

"Indeed, what sort of a person may he be?"

"He is a very dark man, stout, and well made; and is dressed in a sort
of half-sailor, half-gentleman's dress; such as you see put on by those
who belong to the Funny Clubs on the river; but he is not at all a
gentleman himself--quite the contrary. It is now about a week that I
have seen him, every day; and I have watched him, and perceive that he
generally follows you as soon as you go out."

"Well," replied I, "we must find out what he wants--if we can. Point him
out to me; I will soon see if he is tracing my steps."

Timothy pointed him out to me after breakfast; I could not recollect the
face, and yet it appeared that I had seen it before. I went out, and
after passing half a dozen streets, I turned round and perceived that
the man was dodging me. I took no notice, but being resolved to try him
again, I walked to the White Horse Cellar, and took a seat inside a
Brentford coach about to start. On my arrival at Brentford I got out,
and perceived that the man was on the roof. Of a sudden it flashed on my
memory--it was the gipsy who had come to the camp with the communication
to Melchior, which induced him to quit it. I recollected him--and his
kneeling down by the stream and washing his face. The mystery was
solved--Melchior had employed him to find out the residence of Fleta. In
all probability they had applied to the false address given by Timothy,
and in consequence were trying, by watching my motions, to find out the
true one. "You shall be deceived, at all events," thought I, as I walked
on through Brentford until I came to a ladies' seminary. I rang the
bell, and was admitted, stating my wish to know the terms of the school
for a young lady, and contrived to make as long a stay as I could,
promising to call again, if the relatives of the young lady were as
satisfied as I professed to be. On my quitting the house, I perceived
that my gipsy attendant was not far off. I took the first stage back,
and returned to my lodgings. When I had told all that had occurred to
Timothy, he replied, "I think, sir, that if you could replace me for a
week or two, I could now be of great service. He does not know me, and
if I were to darken my face, and put on a proper dress, I think I should
have no difficulty in passing myself off as one of the tribe, knowing
their slang, and having been so much with them."

"But what good do you anticipate, Timothy?"

"My object is to find out where he puts up, and to take the same
quarters--make his acquaintance, and find out who Melchior is, and where
he lives. My knowledge of him and Nattee may perhaps assist me."

"You must be careful then, Timothy; for he may know sufficient of our
history to suspect you."

"Let me alone, sir. Do you like my proposal?"

"Yes, I do; you may commence your arrangements immediately."




Chapter XXXIX

I set off on a wild goose chase--and fall in with an old friend.


The next morning Timothy had procured me another valet, and throwing off
his liveries, made his appearance in the evening, sending up to say a
man wished to speak to me. He was dressed in highlow boots, worsted
stockings, greasy leather small clothes, a shag waistcoat, and a blue
frock overall. His face was stained of a dark olive, and when he was
ushered in, Harcourt, who was sitting at table with me, had not the
slightest recognition of him. As Harcourt knew all my secrets, I had
confided this; I had not told him what Timothy's intentions were, as I
wished to ascertain whether his disguise was complete. I had merely said
I had given Timothy leave for a few days.

"Perhaps you may wish me away for a short time," said Harcourt, looking
at Tim.

"Not at all, my dear Harcourt, why should I? There's nobody here but you
and Timothy."

"Timothy! excellent--upon my word, I never should have known him."

"He is going forth on his adventures."

"And if you please, sir, I will lose no time. It is now dark, and I know
where the gipsy hangs out."

"Success attend you then; but be careful, Tim. You had better write to
me, instead of calling."

"I had the same idea; and now I wish you a good evening."

When Timothy quitted the room, I explained our intentions to Harcourt.
"Yours is a strange adventurous sort of life, Newland; you are
constantly plotted against, and plotting in your turn--mines and
counter-mines. I have an idea that you will turn out some grand
personage after all; for if not, why should there be all this trouble
about you?"

"The trouble, in the present case, is all about Fleta; who must, by your
argument, turn out some grand personage."

"Well, perhaps she may. I should like to see that little girl, Newland."

"That cannot be just now, for reasons you well know; but some other time
it will give me great pleasure."

On the second day after Tim's departure, I received a letter from him by
the twopenny post. He had made the acquaintance of the gipsy, but had
not extracted any information, being as yet afraid to venture any
questions. He further stated that his new companion had no objection to
a glass or two, and that he had no doubt but that if he could contrive
to make him tipsy, in a few days he would have some important
intelligence to communicate. I was in a state of great mental agitation
during this time. I went to Mr Masterton, and narrated to him all that
had passed. He was surprised and amused, and desired me not to fail to
let him have the earliest intelligence of what came to light. He had not
received any answer as yet from his agent in Dublin.

It was not until eight days afterwards that I received further
communication from Timothy; and I was in a state of great impatience,
combined with anxiety, lest any accident should have happened. His
communication was important. He was on the most intimate footing with
the man, who had proposed that he should assist him to carry off a
little girl, who was at a school at Brentford. They had been consulting
how this should be done, and Timothy had proposed forging a letter,
desiring her to come up to town, and his carrying it as a livery
servant. The man had also other plans, one of which was to obtain an
entrance into the house by making acquaintance with the servants;
another, by calling to his aid some of the women of his fraternity to
tell fortunes: nothing was as yet decided, but that he was resolved to
obtain possession of the little girl, even if he were obliged to resort
to force. In either case Timothy was engaged to assist.

When I read this, I more than congratulated myself upon the man's being
on the wrong scent, and that Timothy had hit upon his scheme. Timothy
continued:--that they had indulged in very deep potations last night,
and that the man had not scrupled to say that he was employed by a
person of large fortune, who paid well, and whom it might not be
advisable to refuse, as he had great power. After some difficulty, he
asked Timothy if he had ever heard the name of Melchior in his tribe.
Timothy replied that he had, and that at the gathering he had seen him
and his wife. Timothy at one time thought that the man was about to
reveal everything, but of a sudden he stopped short, and gave evasive
answers. To a question put by Timothy, as to where they were to take the
child if they obtained possession of her, the man had replied, that she
would go over the water. Such were the contents of the letter, and I
eagerly awaited a further communication.

The next day I called at Long's Hotel upon a gentleman with whom I was
upon intimate terms. After remaining a short time with him, I was
leaving the hotel, when I was attracted by some trunks in the entrance
hall. I started when I read the address of--"A. De Benyon, Esq., to be
left at F----t Hotel, Dublin." I asked the waiter who was by, whether Mr
De Benyon had left the hotel. He replied that he had left it in his own
carriage that morning, and having more luggage than he could take with
him, had desired these trunks to be forwarded by the coach. I had by
that time resumed my serenity. I took out a memorandum-book, wrote down
the address on the trunks, saying that I was sorry not to have seen Mr
De Benyon, and that I would write to him.

But if I composed myself before the waiter, how did my heart throb as I
hastily passed through Bond Street to my home! I had made up my mind,
upon what very slight grounds the reader must be aware, that this Mr de
Benyon either must be my father, or, if not, was able to tell me who
was. Had not Mr Masterton said that there was a clue--had he not written
to Dublin? The case was to my excited imagination as clear as the
noon-day, and before I arrived at home, I had made up my mind in what
manner I should proceed. It was then about four o'clock. I hastily
packed up my portmanteau--took with me all my ready money, about sixty
pounds, and sent the servant to secure a place in the mail to Holyhead.
He returned, stating that there was a seat taken for me. I waited till
half-past five to see Harcourt, but he did not come home. I then wrote
him a short note, telling him where I was going, and promising to write
as soon as I arrived.

"Ireland is to be the ground of my future adventures, my dear
Harcourt. Call upon Mr Masterton, and tell him what I have done,
which he surely will approve. Open Timothy's letters, and let me
have their contents. I leave you to arrange and act for me in
every respect until I return. In the meantime believe me,

"Ever yours,

"J. Newland."

I gave the letter to the valet, and calling a coach drove to the office,
and in less than five minutes afterwards was rolling away to Holyhead,
felicitating myself upon my promptitude and decision, little imagining
to what the step I had taken was to lead.

It was a very dark night in November when I started on my expedition.
There were three other passengers in the mail, none of whom had yet
spoken a word, although we had made several miles of our journey.
Muffled up in my cloak, I indulged in my own reveries as usual, building
up castles which toppled over one after another as I built and rebuilt
again. At last one of the passengers blew his nose, as if to give
warning that he was about to speak; and then inquired of the gentleman
next him if he had seen the evening newspapers. The other replied in the
negative. "It would appear that Ireland is not in a very quiet state,
sir," observed the first.

"Did you ever read the history of Ireland?" inquired the other.

"Not very particularly."

"Then, sir, if you were to take that trouble, you will find that
Ireland, since it was first peopled, never has been in a quiet state,
nor perhaps ever will. It is a species of human volcano--always either
smoking, burning, or breaking out into eruptions and fire."

"Very true, sir," replied the other. "I am told the White Boys are
mustering in large numbers, and that some of the districts are quite
impassable."

"Sir, if you had travelled much in Ireland, you would have found out
that many of the districts are quite impassable, without the impediment
of the White Boys."

"You have been a great deal in Ireland then, sir," replied the other.

"Yes, sir," said the other with a consequential air, "I believe I may
venture to say that I am in charge of some of the most considerable
properties in Ireland."

"Lawyer--agent--five per cent.--and so on," muttered the third party,
who sate by me, and had not yet spoken.

There was no mistaking him--it was my former master, Mr Cophagus; and I
cannot say that I was very well pleased at this intimation of his
presence, as I took it for granted that he would recognise me as soon as
it was daylight. The conversation continued, without any remarks being
made upon this interruption on the part of Mr Cophagus. The agent, it
appeared, had been called to London on business, and was returning. The
other was a professor of music bound to Dublin on speculation. What
called Mr Cophagus in that direction I could not comprehend; but I
thought I would try and find out, I therefore, while the two others were
engaged in conversation, addressed him in a low tone of voice. "Can you
tell me, sir, if the College at Dublin is considered good for the
instruction of surgical pupils?"

"Country good, at all events plenty of practice--broken heads--and so
on."

"Have you ever been in Ireland, sir?"

"Ireland!--never--don't wish to go--must go--old women will
die--executor--botheration--and so on."

"I hope she has left you a good legacy, sir," replied I.

"Legacy--humph--can't tell--silver tea-pot--suit of black, and so on.
Long journey--won't pay--can't be helped--old women always troublesome
alive or dead--bury her, come back--and so on."




Chapter XL

I deny my master.


Although Mr Cophagus was very communicative in his own way, he had no
curiosity with regard to others, and the conversation dropped. The
other two had also asked all the questions which they wished, and we
all, as if by one agreement, fell back in our seats, and shut our eyes,
to court sleep. I was the only one who wooed it in vain. Day broke, my
companions were all in repose, and I discontinued my reveries, and
examined their physiognomies. Mr Cophagus was the first to whom I
directed my attention. He was much the same in face as when I had left
him, but considerably thinner in person. His head was covered with a
white night-cap, and he snored with emphasis. The professor of music was
a very small man, with mustachios; his mouth was wide open, and one
would have thought that he was in the full execution of a bravura. The
third person, who had stated himself to be an agent, was a heavy,
full-faced, coarse-looking personage, with his hat over his eyes, and
his head bent down on his chest, and I observed that he had a small
packet in one of his hands, with his forefinger twisted through the
string. I should not have taken further notice, had not the name of _T.
Iving_, in the corner of the side on which was the direction, attracted
my attention. It was the name of Melchior's London correspondent, who
had attempted to bribe Timothy. This induced me to look down and read
the direction of the packet, and I clearly deciphered, Sir Henry De
Clare, Bart., Mount Castle, Connemara. I took out my tablets, and wrote
down the address. I certainly had no reason for so doing, except that
nothing should he neglected, as there was no saying what might turn out.
I had hardly replaced my tablets when the party awoke, made a sort of
snatch at the packet, as if recollecting it, and wishing to ascertain if
it were safe, looked at it, took off his hat, let down the window, and
then looked round upon the other parties.

"Fine morning, sir," said he to me, perceiving that I was the only
person awake.

"Very," replied I, "very fine; but I had rather be walking over the
mountains of Connemara, than be shut up in this close and confined
conveyance."

"Hah! you know Connemara, then? I'm going there; perhaps you are also
bound to that part of the country? but you are not Irish."

"I was not born or bred in Ireland, certainly," replied I.

"So I should say. Irish blood in your veins, I presume."

"I believe such to be the case," replied I, with a smile, implying
certainty.

"Do you know Sir Henry de Clare?"

"Sir Henry de Clare--of Mount Castle--is he not?"

"The same; I am going over to him. I am agent for his estates, among
others. A very remarkable man. Have you ever seen his wife?"

"I really cannot tell," replied I; "let me call to mind."

I had somehow or another formed an idea, that Sir Henry de Clare and
Melchior might be one and the same person; nothing was too absurd or
improbable for my imagination, and I had now means of bringing home my
suspicions. "I think," continued I, "I recollect her--that is, she is a
very tall, handsome woman, dark eyes and complexion."

"The very same," replied he.

My heart bounded at the information; it certainly was not any clue to my
own parentage, but it was an object of my solicitude, and connected with
the welfare of Fleta. "If I recollect right," observed I, "there are
some curious passages in the life of Sir Henry?"

"Nothing very particular," observed the agent, looking out of the
window.

"I thought that he had disappeared for some time."

"Disappeared! he certainly did not live in Ireland, because he had
quarrelled with his brother. He lived in England until his brother's
death."

"How did his brother die, sir?"

"Killed by a fall when hunting," replied the agent. "He was attempting
to clear a stone wall, the horse fell back on him, and dislocated his
spine. I was on the spot when the accident happened."

I recollected the imperfect communication of Fleta, who had heard the
gipsy say that "he was dead;" and also the word _horse_ made use of, and
I now felt convinced that I had found out Melchior. "Sir Henry, if I
recollect right, has no family," observed I.

"No; and I am afraid there is but little chance."

"Had the late baronet, his elder brother, any family?"

"What, Sir William? No; or Sir Henry would not have come into the
title."

"He might have had daughters," replied I.

"Very true; now I think of it, there was a girl, who died when young."

"Is the widow of Sir William alive?"

"Yes; and a very fine woman she is; but she has left Ireland since her
husband's death."

I did not venture to ask any more questions. Our conversation had roused
Mr Cophagus and the other passenger; and as I had reflected how I should
behave in case of recognition, I wished to be prepared for him. "You
have had a good nap, sir," said I, turning to him.

"Nap--yes--coach nap, bad--head sore--and so on. Why--bless
me--Japhet--Japhet New--yes--it is."

"Do you speak to me, sir?" inquired I, with a quiet air.

"Speak to you--yes--bad memory--hip! quite forgot--old master--shop in
Smithfield--mad bull--and so on."

"Really, sir," replied I, "I am afraid you mistake me for some other
person."

Mr Cophagus looked very hard at me, and perceiving that there was no
alteration in my countenance, exclaimed, "Very odd--same nose--same
face--same age too--very odd--like as two pills--beg pardon--made a
mistake--and so on."

Satisfied with the discomfiture of Mr Cophagus, I turned round, when I
perceived the Irish agent, with whom I had been in conversation, eyeing
me most attentively. As I said before, he was a hard-featured man, and
his small grey eye was now fixed upon me, as if it would have pierced
me through. I felt confused for a moment, as the scrutiny was unexpected
from that quarter; but a few moments' reflection told me, that if Sir
Henry de Clare and Melchior were the same person, and this man his
agent, in all probability he had not been sent to England for nothing;
that if he was in search of Fleta, he must have heard of my name, and
perhaps something of my history. "I appear to have a great likeness to
many people," observed I, to the agent, smiling. "It was but the other
day I was stopped in Bond Street as a Mr Rawlinson"

"Not a very common face either, sir," observed the agent; "if once seen
not easily forgotten, nor easily mistaken for another."

"Still such appears to be the case," replied I, carelessly.

We now stopped to take refreshment. I had risen from the table, and was
going into the passage, when I perceived the agent looking over the
way-bill with the guard. As soon as he perceived me, he walked out in
front of the inn. Before the guard had put up the bill, I requested to
look at it, wishing to ascertain if I had been booked in my own name. It
was so. The four names were, Newland, Cophagus, Baltzi, M'Dermott. I was
much annoyed at this circumstance. M'Dermott was, of course, the name of
the agent; and that was all the information I received in return for my
own exposure, which I now considered certain; I determined, however, to
put a good face on the matter, and when we returned to the coach, again
entered into conversation with Mr M'Dermott, but I found him
particularly guarded in his replies whenever I spoke about Sir Henry or
his family, and I could not obtain any further information. Mr Cophagus
could not keep his eyes off me--he peered into my face--then he would
fall back in the coach. "Odd--very odd--must be--no--says not--um." In
about another half hour, he would repeat his examination, and mutter to
himself. At last, as if tormented with his doubts, he exclaimed, "Beg
pardon--but--you have a name?"

"Yes," replied I, "I have a name."

"Well, then--not ashamed. What is it?"

"My name, sir," replied I, "is Newland;" for I had resolved to
acknowledge to my name, and fall back upon a new line of defence.

"Thought so--don't know me--don't recollect shop--Mr
Brookes's--Tim--rudiments--and so on."

"I have not the least objection to tell you my name; but I am afraid you
have the advantage in your recollection of me. Where may I have had the
honour of meeting you?"

"Meeting--what, quite forgot--Smithfield?"

"And pray, sir, where may Smithfield be?"

"Very odd--can't comprehend--same name, same face--don't recollect me,
don't recollect Smithfield?"

"It may be very odd, sir; but, as I am very well known in London, at the
west end, perhaps we have met there. Lord Windermear's perhaps--Lady
Maelstrom's?"--and I continued mentioning about a dozen of the most
fashionable names. "At all events, you appear to have the advantage of
me; but I trust you will excuse my want of memory, as my acquaintance is
very extensive."

"I see--quite a mistake--same name, not same person--beg pardon,
sir--apologies--and so on," replied the apothecary, drawing in a long
sigh.




Chapter XLI

I turn lawyer.


I watched the countenance of the agent, who appeared at last to be
satisfied that there had been some mistake; at least he became more
communicative, and as I no longer put any questions to him relative to
Sir Henry, we had a long conversation. I spoke to him about the De
Benyons, making every inquiry that I could think of. He informed me that
the deceased earl, the father of the present, had many sons, who were
some of them married, and that the family was extensive. He appeared to
know them all, the professions which they had been brought up to, and
their careers in life. I treasured up his information, and, as soon as I
had an opportunity, wrote down all which he had told me. On our arrival
at Holyhead, the weather was very boisterous, and the packet was to
depart immediately. Mr M'Dermott stated his intentions to go over, but
Mr Cophagus and the professor declined, and, anxious as I was to
proceed, I did not wish to be any longer in company with the agent, and,
therefore, also declined going on board. Mr M'Dermott called for a glass
of brandy and water, drank it off in haste, and then, followed by the
porter, with his luggage, went down to embark.

As soon as he was gone, I burst into a fit of laughter. "Well, Mr
Cophagus, acknowledge that it is possible to persuade a man out of his
senses. You knew me, and you were perfectly right in asserting that I
was Japhet, yet did I persuade you at last that you were mistaken. But I
will explain to you why I did so."

"All right," said the apothecary, taking my proffered hand, "thought
so--no mistake--handsome fellow--so you are--Japhet Newland--my
apprentice--and so on."

"Yes, sir," replied I, laughing, "I am Japhet Newland." (I turned round,
hearing a noise, the door had been opened, and Mr M'Dermott had just
stepped in; he had returned for an umbrella, which he had forgotten; he
looked at me, at Mr Cophagus, who still held my hand in his, turned
short round, said nothing, and walked out.) "This is unfortunate,"
observed I, "my reason for not avowing myself, was to deceive that very
person, and now I have made the avowal to his face; however, it cannot
be helped."

I sat down with my old master, and as I knew that I could confide in
him, gave him an outline of my life, and stated my present intentions.

"I see, Japhet, I see--done mischief--sorry for it--can't be help'd--do
all I can--um--what's to be done?--be your friend--always like you--help
all I can--and so on."

"But what would you advise, sir?"

"Advice--bad as physic--nobody takes it--Ireland--wild place--no
law--better go back--leave all to me--find out--and so on."

This advice I certainly could not consent to follow.

We argued the matter over for some time, and then it was agreed that we
should proceed together. I was informed by Mr Cophagus that he had
retired with a very handsome fortune, and was living in the country,
about ten miles from the metropolis; that he had been summoned to attend
the funeral of a maiden aunt in Dublin, who had left him executor and
residuary legatee, but that he knew nothing of her circumstances. He was
still a bachelor, and amused himself in giving advice and medicines
gratis to the poor people of the village in which he resided, there
being no resident practitioner within some distance. He liked the
country very much, but there was one objection to it--the cattle. He had
not forgotten the _mad bull_. At a very late hour we retired to our
beds: the next morning the weather had moderated, and, on the arrival of
the mail we embarked, and had a very good passage over. On my arrival at
Dublin I directed my steps to the F----t Hotel, as the best place to make
inquiries relative to Mr De Benyon. Mr Cophagus also put up at the same
hotel, and we agreed to share a sitting-room.

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