Japhet, In Search Of A Father by Frederick Marryat

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"Waiter," said I, "do you know a Mr De Benyon?"

"Yes, sir," replied he; "there is one of the De Benyons at the hotel at
this moment."

"Is he a married man?"

"Yes--with a large family."

"What is his Christian name?"

"I really cannot tell, sir; but I'll find out for you by to-morrow
morning."

"When does he leave?"

"To-morrow, I believe."

"Do you know where he goes?"

"Yes, sir, to his own seat."

The waiter left the room. "Won't do, Japhet," said Cophagus. "Large
family--don't want more--hard times, and so on."

"No," replied I, "it does not exactly answer; but I may from him obtain
further intelligence."

"Won't do, Japhet--try another way--large family--want all uncle's
money--um--never tell--good night."

This remark of Mr Cophagus gave me an idea, upon which I proceeded the
next morning. I sent in my card, requesting the honour of speaking to Mr
De Benyon, stating that I had come over to Ireland on business of
importance, but that, as I must be back if possible by _term_ time, it
would perhaps save much expense and trouble. The waiter took in the
message. "Back by term time--it must be some legal gentleman. Show him
up," said Mr De Benyon.

I walked in with a business-like air. "Mr De Benyon, I believe?"

"Yes, sir; will you do me the favour to take a chair?"

I seated myself, and drew out my memorandum-book.

"My object, Mr De Benyon, in troubling you, is to ascertain a few
particulars relative to your family, which we cannot so easily find out
in England. There is a _property_ which it is supposed may be claimed by
one of the De Benyons, but which we cannot ascertain until we have a
little search into the genealogical tree."

"Is the property large?" inquired Mr De Benyon.

"Not very large," replied I; "but still a very handsome property, I am
told." The reader may surmise that the property referred to was my own
pretty self. "May I ask you a few particulars relative to the present
earl and his brothers?"

"Most certainly, sir," replied Mr De Benyon; "any information I can give
you will be at your service. The Earl has four brothers. The eldest
Maurice."

"Is he married?"

"Yes, and has two children. The next is William."

"Is he married?"

"No; nor has he ever been. He is a general in the army. The third is
myself, Henry."

"You are married, I believe, sir?"

"Yes, with a large family."

"May I request you will proceed, sir?"

"Arthur is the fourth brother. He is lately married, and has two
children."

"Sir, I feel much obliged to you; it is a curious and intricate affair.
As I am here, I may as well ask one question, although not of great
consequence. The earl is married, I perceive, by the peerage, but I do
not find that he has any children."

"On the contrary, he has two--and prospects of more. May I now request
the particulars connected with this property?"

"The exact particulars, sir, I cannot well tell you, as I am not
acquainted with them myself; but the property in question, I rather
think, depends upon a _name_. May I venture to ask the names of all your
children?"

Mr De Benyon gave me a list _seriatim_, which I put down with great
gravity.

"Of course, there is no doubt of your second brother not being married.
I believe we ought to have a certificate. Do you know his address?"

"He has been in the East Indies for many years. He returned home on
furlough, and has now just sailed again for Calcutta."

"That is unfortunate; we must forward a letter through the India Board.
May I also be favoured with your address, as in all probability it may
be advisable?"

Mr De Benyon gave me his address. I rose, promised to give him all the
particulars as soon as they were known to me, bowed, and made my exit.
To one who was in his sober senses, there certainly was not any
important information gained; but to me, it was evident that the Mr De
Benyon who was a general in the army was to be interrogated, and I had
almost made up my mind to set off for Calcutta.

Chapter XLII

I affront an Irish gentleman, and make a handsome apology, which
is accepted.

Before I had gained my own room, I informed Mr Cophagus, who had just
returned from a visit to his maiden aunt's house, of what had passed.

"Can't see anything in it, Japhet--wild goose chase?--who told
you?--oh! Pleggit's men--sad liars--De Benyon not name, depend upon
it--all stuff, and so on."

And when I reflected, I could but acknowledge that the worthy
apothecary might be right, and, that I was running after shadows;
but this was only in my occasional fits of despondency. I soon
rallied, and was as sanguine as ever. Undecided how to proceed, and
annoyed by what Cophagus had said, I quitted the hotel, to walk out,
in no very good humour. As I went out, I perceived the agent M'Dermott
speaking to the people in the bar, and the sight of him reminded me of
what, for a moment, I had forgotten, which was, to ascertain whether
Melchior and Sir Henry de Clare were one and the same person. As I
passed a crossing, a man in tattered habiliments, who was sweeping
it, asked for alms, but being in no very charitable humour, I walked
on. He followed me, pestering me so much, that I gave him a tap
with the cane in my hand, saying to him, "Be off, you scoundrel."

"Oh! very well. Be off, is it you mane? By the blood of the
O'Rourkes but you'll answer for that same, anyhow."

I passed on, and having perambulated the city of Dublin for some
time, returned to the hotel. A few minutes afterwards, I was told
by the waiter that a Mr O'Donaghan wished to speak to me. "I have
not the honour of his acquaintance," replied I, "but you may show
him up."

Mr O'Donaghan entered, a tall, thick-whiskered personage, in a
shabby--genteel dress, evidently not made for him, a pair of
white cotton gloves, and a small stick. "I believe that I have the
honour of spaking to the gentleman who crossed over the street
about two hours ago?"

"Upon my word, sir," replied I, "that is so uncertain a definition,
that I can hardly pretend to say whether I am the person you mean;
indeed, from not having the pleasure of any one's acquaintance
in Dublin, I rather think there must be some mistake."

"The devil a bit of a mistake, at all at all; for there's the
little bit of cane with which you paid my friend, Mr O'Rourke, the
compliment over his shoulders."

"I really am quite mystified, sir, and do not understand you; will
you favour me with an explanation?"

"With all the pleasure in life, for then we shall come to a right
understanding. You were crossing the street, and a gentleman, a
particular friend of mine, with a broom which he carries for his own
amusement, did himself the honour to address you, whereupon of that
same little stick of yours, you did him the honour to give him a
slight taste."

"What do you mean? do you refer to the sweeper, who was so importunate
when I crossed over the road?"

"Then, by the powers, you've just hit it, as you did him. That's my
particular friend, Thaddeus O'Rourke, gentleman."

"Gentleman!" exclaimed I.

"And with as good and as true Milesian blood as any in Ireland. If you
think, sir, that because my friend, just for his own amusement, thinks
proper to put on the worst of his clothes and carry a broom, just by
way of exercise, to prevent his becoming too lusty, he is therefore to
be struck like a hound, it's a slight mistake, that's all; and here, sir,
is his card, and you will oblige me by mentioning any friend of yours
with whom I may settle all the little points necessary before the
meeting of two gentlemen."

I could hardly refrain from laughing at this Irish gentleman and his
friend, but I thought it advisable to retain my countenance. "My dear
sir," replied I, "it grieves me to the heart that I should have committed
such an error, in not perceiving the gentility of your friend; had I not
been so careless, I certainly should have requested him to do me the
honour to accept a shilling, instead of having offered him the insult.
I hope it is not now too late?"

"By the powers, I'm not one of those harum-scarum sort, who would make up
a fight when there's no occasion for it, and as your 'haviour is that of
a gentleman, I think it will perhaps be better to shake hands upon it,
and forget it altogether. Suppose, now, we'll consider that it was all
a mistake? You give the shilling, as you intended to do, I'll swear,
only you were in so great a hurry--and then, perhaps, you'll not object
to throw in another shilling for that same tap with the cane, just to
wipe off the insult as it were, as we do our sins, when we fork out the
money, and receive absolution from the padre; and then, perhaps, you will
not think it too much if I charge another shilling for my time and
trouble, for carrying a message between two gentlemen."

"On the contrary, Mr O'Donaghan, I think all your demands are reasonable.
Here is the money."

Mr O'Donaghan took the three shillings. "Then, sir, and many thanks to
you, I'll wish you a good evening, and Mr O'Rourke shall know from me
that you have absolution for the whole, and that you have offered every
satisfaction which one gentleman could expect from another." So saying,
Mr O'Donaghan put his hat on with a firm cock, pulled on his gloves,
manoeuvred his stick, and, with a flourishing bow, took his departure.

I had hardly dismissed this gentleman, and was laughing to myself at the
ridiculous occurrence, when Mr Cophagus returned, first putting his cane
up to his nose with an arch look, and then laying it down on the table
and rubbing his hands. "Good--warm old lady. No--dead and cold? but left
some thousands--only one legacy--old Tom cat--physic him to-morrow--soon
die, and so on."

On a more full explanation, I found that the old lady had left about nine
thousand pounds in the funds and bank securities, all of which, with the
exception of twenty pounds per annum to a favourite cat, was left to Mr
Cophagus. I congratulated him upon this accession of fortune. He stated
that the lease of the house and the furniture were still to be disposed
of, and that afterwards he should have nothing more to do; but he wished
me very much to assist him in rummaging over the various cabinets
belonging to the old lady, and which were full of secret drawers; that
in one cabinet alone he had found upwards of fifty pounds in various gold
coins, and that if not well examined, they would probably be sold with
many articles of consequence remaining in them.

As my only object in Ireland was to find out Sir Henry de Clare, and
identify him (but, really, why I could not have said, as it would have
proved nothing after all), I willingly consented to devote a day to
assist Mr Cophagus in his examination. The next morning after breakfast,
we went together to the house of the old lady, whose name had been
Maitland, as Mr Cophagus informed me. Her furniture was of the most
ancient description, and in every room in the house there was an ormolu,
or Japan cabinet; some of them were very handsome, decorated with
pillars, and silver ornaments. I can hardly recount the variety of
articles, which in all probability had been amassed during the whole of
the old lady's life, commencing with her years of childhood, and ending
with the day of her death. There were antique ornaments, some of
considerable value, miniatures, fans, etuis, notes, of which the ink,
from time, had turned to a light red, packages of letters of her various
correspondents in her days of hope and anticipation, down to those of
solitude and age. We looked over some of them, but they appeared to both
of us to be sacred, and they were, after a slight examination, committed
to the flames.

After we had examined all the apparent receptacles in these cabinets, we
took them up between us, and shook them, and in most cases found out that
there were secret drawers containing other treasures. There was one
packet of letters which caught my eye, it was from a Miss De Benyon. I
seized it immediately, and showed the inscription to Mr Cophagus.
"Pooh--nothing at all--her mother was a De Benyon."

"Have you any objection to my looking at these letters?"

"No--read--nothing in them."

I laid them on one side, and we proceeded in our search, when Mr Cophagus
took up a sealed packet. "Heh! what's this--De Benyon again? Japhet, look
here."

I took the packet; it was sealed, and tied with red tape. "Papers
belonging to Lieutenant William De Benyon, to be returned to him at my
decease." "Alice Maitland, _with great_ care," was written at the bottom
of the envelope.

"This is it, my dear sir," cried I, jumping up and embracing Mr Cophagus
"these are the papers which I require. May I keep them?"

"Mad--quite mad--go to Bedlam--strait waistcoat--head shaved, and so on."

Chapter XLIII

I am not content with minding my own business, but must have a
hand in that of others, by which means I put my foot in it.

He then, after his own fashion, told me, that as executor, he must
retain those papers; pointed out to me the little probability there
was of their containing any information relative to my birth, even
allowing that a person of the name of De Benyon did call at the
Foundling to ask for me, which was only a supposition; and, finally,
overthrew all the hopes which had been, for so many days, buoying me
up. When he had finished, I threw myself upon the sofa in despair, and
wished, at the moment, that I had never been born. Still hope again
rose uppermost, and I would have given all I possessed to have been
able to break open the seals of that packet, and have read the contents.
At one moment I was so frantic, that I was debating whether I should not
take them from Mr Cophagus by force, and run off with them. At last I
rose, and commenced reading the letters which I had put aside, but there
was nothing in them but the trifling communications of two young women,
who mentioned what was amusing to them, but uninteresting to those who
were not acquainted with the parties.

When we had finished, Mr Cophagus collected all together, and putting
them into a box, we returned in a coach to the hotel. The next day Mr
Cophagus had completed all his arrangements, and the day following had
determined to return to England. I walked with him down to the vessel,
and watched it for an hour after it had sailed, for it bore away a packet
of papers, which I could not help imagining were to discover the secret
which I was so eager in pursuit of. A night's sleep made me more
rational, and I now resolved to ascertain where Sir Henry de Clare, or
Melchior, as I felt certain he must be, was to be found. I sent for the
waiter, and asked him if he could inform me. He immediately replied in
the affirmative, and gave his address, Mount Castle, Connemara, asking
me when I intended to set out. It did not strike me till afterwards,
that it was singular that he should be so well acquainted with the
address, and that he should have produced a card with it written upon
it; or, moreover, that he should know that it was my intention to go
there. I took the address, and desired that I might have horses ready
very early the next morning. I then sat down and wrote a letter to
Harcourt, informing him of my proceedings, also one to Mr Masterton
much more explicit, lastly to Timothy, to the care of Harcourt,
requesting him to let me know what had occurred between him and the
gipsies. After dinner, I packed up ready for my journey, and having
settled my bill, I was not sorry to retire to my bed.

At daylight I was, as I requested, called by the waiter, and taking with
me only a very small portmanteau, having left the rest of my effects in
the charge of the people who kept the hotel, I set off in a post-chaise
on my expedition. I was soon clear of the city, and on a fine smooth road,
and, as I threw myself back in the corner of the chaise, I could not help
asking myself the question--what was the purport of my journey? As the
reader will perceive, I was wholly governed by impulses, and never
allowed reason or common sense to stand in the way of my feelings. "What
have I to do?" replied I to myself; "to find out if Melchior and Sir
Henry de Clare be not one and the same person. And what then?" What
then?--why then I may find out something relative to Fleta's parentage.
Nay, but is that likely--if, as you suppose, Melchior is Sir Henry de
Clare--if, as you suppose, it is he who is now trying to find out and
carry off Fleta--is it probable that you will gain any information from
him? I have an idea that Fleta is the little girl said to have died, who
was the child of his elder brother. Why so? What interest could Melchior
have in stealing his own niece? That I cannot tell. Why did Nattee give
me the necklace? I cannot tell; she would hardly betray her husband.
At all events, there is a mystery, and it can only be unravelled by
being pulled at; and I may learn something by meeting Melchior, whereas,
I shall learn nothing by remaining quiet. This last idea satisfied me,
and for many hours I remained in a train of deep thought, only checked
by paying for the horses at the end of every stage.

It was now past twelve o'clock, when I found that it was necessary to
change the chaise at every post. The country also, as well as the roads,
had changed much for the worse. Cultivation was not so great, the roads
were mountainous, and civilisation generally disappeared. It was nearly
dark when I arrived at the last post, from whence I was to take horses
to Mount Castle. As usual, the chaise also was to be changed; and I
could not help observing that each change was from bad to worse. Rope
harness was used, and the vehicles themselves were of the most crazy
condition. Still I had travelled very fairly, for an Irish postillion
knows how to make an Irish horse go a very fair pace. I descended from
the chaise, and ordered another out immediately. To this there was no
reply, except, "Wait, your honour; step in a moment, and rest from your
fatigue a little." Presuming this was merely to give them time to get
ready, I walked into the room of the inn, which indeed was very little
better than a hovel, and sat down by the turf fire in company with some
others, whom I could hardly distinguish for smoke. I paid the chaise and
postillion, and soon afterwards heard it drive off, on its way back.
After a few minutes I inquired if the chaise was getting ready.

"Is it the chaise your honour means?" said the landlady.

"Yes," replied I, "a chaise on to Mount Castle."

"Then I am sorry that your honour must wait a little; for our chaise, and
the only one which we have, is gone to the castle, and won't be back till
long after the moon is up. What will your honour please to take?"

"Not back till moonlight," replied I; "why did you not say so? and I
would have gone on with the other."

"Is it with the other you mane, your honour? Then if Teddy Driscoll could
make his horses go one step farther than our door, may I never have a
soul to be saved. Will your honour please to sit in the little room
Kathleen shall light a fire."

Vexed as I was with the idea of passing the night in this horrid place,
there was no help for it: so I took up my portmanteau and followed the
landlady to a small room, if it deserved the appellation, which had been
built after the cottage, and a door broken through the wall into it.
Ceiling there was none, it had only lean-to rafters, with tiles over
head. I took a seat on the only stool that was in the room, and leant
my elbow on the table in no very pleasant humour, when I heard the girl
say, "And why don't you let him go on to the castle? Sure the chaise is
in the yard, and the horses are in the stable."

"There's orders 'gainst it, Kathleen," replied the landlady. "Mr
M'Dermott was here this blessed day, and who can deny him?"

"Who is he then?" replied the girl.

"An attorney with a warrant against Sir Henry; and, moreover, they say
that he's coming to'strain upon the cattle of Jerry O'Toole for the
tithes."

"He's a bould young chap, at all events," replied the girl, "to come
here all by himself."

"Oh! but it's not till to-morrow morning, and then we'll have the
troops here to assist him."

"And does Jerry O'Toole know of this?"

"Sure enough he does; and I hope there'll be no murder committed in my
house this blessed night. But what can a poor widow do when M'Dermott
holds up his finger? Now, go light the fire, Kathleen, and see if the
poor young man wants anything; it's a burning pity that he shouldn't
have something to comfort him before his misfortunes fall upon him."

Kathleen made no reply. The horror that I felt at this discourse may
easily be imagined. That it was intended that I should meet with foul
play was certain, and I knew very well that, in such a desolate part
of the country, the murder of an individual, totally unknown, would
hardly be noticed. That I had been held up to the resentment of the
inhabitants as a tithe collector and an attorney with a warrant, was
quite sufficient, I felt conscious, to induce them to make away with me.
How to undeceive them was the difficulty.

Chapter XLIV

No hopes of rising next morning alive, as a last chance--I get
into bed.

Kathleen came in with fuel to light the fire, and looking rather hard at
me, passed by, and was soon, busy blowing up the turf. She was a very
handsome dark-eyed girl, about nineteen years of age, stout and well
made. "What is your name?" said I.

"Kathleen, at your service, sir."

"Listen to me, Kathleen," said I, in a low voice. "You are a woman,
and all women are kind-hearted. I have overheard all that passed between
your mistress and you, and that M'Dermott has stated that I am a tithe
collector and an attorney, with a warrant. I am no such thing. I am a
gentleman who wishes to speak to Sir Henry de Clare on a business which
he does not like to be spoken to about; and to show you what I say is
the truth, it is about the daughter of his elder brother, who was
killed when hunting, and who is supposed to be dead. I am the only
evidence to the contrary; and, therefore, he and M'Dermott have spread
this report that I may come to harm."

"Is she alive, then?" replied Kathleen, looking up to me with wonder.

"Yes; and I will not tell Sir Henry where she is, and that is the
reason of their enmity."

"But I saw her body," replied the girl in a low voice, standing up,
and coming close to me.

"It was not hers, depend upon it," replied I, hardly knowing what to
answer to this assertion.

"At all events, it was dressed in her clothes; but it was so long before
it was discovered, that we could make nothing of the features. Well,
I knew the poor little thing, for my mother nursed her. I was myself
brought up at the castle, and lived there till after Sir William was
killed; then we were all sent away."

"Kathleen! Kathleen!" cried the landlady.

"Call for everything you can think of one after another," whispered
Kathleen, leaving the room.

"I cannot make the peat burn," said she to the landlady, after she had
quitted the little room; "and the gentleman wants some whisky."

"Go out then, and get some from the middle of the stack, Kathleen, and
be quick; we have others to attend besides the tithe proctor. There's
the O'Tooles all come in, and your own Corny is with them."

"My Corny, indeed!" replied Kathleen; "he's not quite so sure of that."

In a short time Kathleen returned, and brought some dry peat and a
measure of whisky. "If what you say is true," said Kathleen, "and sure
enough you're no Irish, and very young for a tithe proctor, who must
grow old before he can be such a villain, you are in no very pleasant
way. The O'Tooles are here, and I've an idea they mean no good; for
they sit with all their heads together, whispering to each other, and
all their shillelaghs by their sides."

"Tell me, Kathleen, was the daughter of Sir William a fair-haired,
blue-eyed girl?"

"To be sure she was," replied Kathleen, "and like a little mountain
fairy."

"Now, Kathleen, tell me if you recollect if the little girl or her
mother ever wore a necklace of red beads mixed with gold."

"Yes, that my lady did; and it was on the child's neck when it was lost,
and when the body was found, it was not with it. Well I recollect that,
for my mother said the child must have been drowned or murdered for
the sake of the gold beads."

"Then you have proved all I wished, Kathleen; and now I tell you that
this little girl is alive, and that I can produce the necklace which was
lost with her; and more, that she was taken away by Sir Henry himself."

"Merciful Jesus!" replied Kathleen; "the dear little child that we
cried over so much."

"But now, Kathleen, I have told you this, to prove to you that I am not
what M'Dermott has asserted, no doubt, with the intention that my brains
shall be knocked out this night."

"And so they will, sure enough," replied Kathleen, "if you do not
escape."

"But how am I to escape? and will you assist me?" And I laid down on the
table ten guineas from my purse, "Take that, Kathleen, and it will help
you and Corny. Now will you assist me?"

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