Japhet, In Search Of A Father by Frederick Marryat

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"It's Corny that will be the first to knock your brains out," replied
Kathleen, "unless I can stop him. I must go now, and I'll see what can
be done."

Kathleen would have departed without touching the gold; but I caught
her by the wrist, collected it, and put it into her hand. "That's not
like a tithe proctor, at all events," replied Kathleen; "but my heart
aches, and my head swims, and what's to be done I know not." So saying,
Kathleen quitted the room.

"Well," thought I, after she had left the room, "at all events, I have
not been on a wrong scent this time. Kathleen has proved to me that Fleta
is the daughter of the late Sir William; and if I escape this snare,
Melchior shall do her justice." Pleased with my having so identified
Melchior and Fleta, I fell into a train of thought, and for the first
time forgot my perilous situation; but I was roused from my meditations
by an exclamation from Kathleen. "No, no, Corny, nor any of ye--not
now--and mother and me to witness it--it shall not be. Corny, hear me,
as sure as blood's drawn, and we up to see it, so sure does Corny
O'Toole never touch this hand of mine." A pause, and whispering followed,
and again all appeared to be quiet. I unstrapped my portmanteau, took
out my pistols, which were loaded, re-primed them, and remained quiet,
determined to sell my life as dearly as possible.

It was more than half an hour before Kathleen returned; she looked pale
and agitated. "Keep quiet, and do not think of resistance," said she,
"it is useless. I have told my mother all, and she believes you, and
will risk her life to save him who has watched over the little girl whom
she nursed; but keep quiet, we shall soon have them all out of the house.
Corny dare not disobey me, and he will persuade the others."

She then went out again, and did not return for nearly an hour, when she
was accompanied by her mother.

"Kathleen has told me all, young sir," said she, "and do what we can, we
will; but we hardly know what to do. To go to the castle would be
madness."

"Yes," replied I; "but cannot you give me one of your horses to return
the way I came?"

"That was our intention; but I find that the O'Tooles have taken them all
out of the stable to prevent me; and the house is watched. They will come
at midnight and attack us, that I fully expect, and how to conceal you
puzzles my poor head."

"If they come, we can but persuade them that he has escaped," replied
Kathleen; "they will no longer watch the house, and he will then have
some chance."

"There is but one chance," replied the mother, who took Kathleen aside,
and whispered to her. Kathleen coloured to the forehead, and made no
reply.

"If your mother bids you, Kathleen, there can be no harm."

"Yes; but if Corny was--"

"He dare not," replied the mother; "and now put this light out, and do
you get into bed, sir, with your clothes on." They led me to a small
bedroom, a miserable affair; but in that part of the country considered
respectable. "Lie down there," said the mother, "and wait till we call
you." They took the light away, and left me to myself and my own
reflections, which were anything but pleasant. I lay awake, it might
be for two hours, when I heard the sound of feet, and then a whispering
under the window, and shortly afterwards a loud knocking at the door,
which they were attempting to burst open. Every moment I expected that
it would yield to the violence which was made use of, when the mother
came down half-dressed, with a light in her hand, hastened to me, and
desired me to follow her. I did so, and before she left my room, she
threw the window wide open. She led me up a sort of half-stairs,
half-ladder, to a small room, where I found Kathleen sitting up in her
bed, and half-dressed. "O mother! mother!" cried Kathleen.

"I bid ye do it, child," replied the mother, desiring me to creep into
her daughter's bed, and cover myself up on the side next the wall.

"Let me put on more clothes, mother."

"No, no, if you do, they will suspect, and will not hesitate to search.
Your mother bids you."

The poor girl was burning with shame and confusion.

"Nay," replied I, "if Kathleen does not wish it, I will not buy my safety
at the expense of her feelings."

"Yes, yes," replied Kathleen, "I don't mind now; those words of yours
are sufficient. Come in, quick."

Chapter XLV

Petticoat interest prevails, and I escape; but I put my head into
the lion's den.

There was no time for apology, and stepping over Kathleen, I buried
myself under the clothes by her side. The mother then hastened
downstairs, and arrived at the door just as they had succeeded in forcing
it open, when in pounced a dozen men armed, with their faces blackened.
"Holy Jesus! what is it that you want?" screamed the landlady.

"The blood of the tithe proctor, and that's what we'll have," replied
the O'Tooles.

"Not in my house--not in my house!" cried she. "Take him away, at all
events; promise me to take him away."

"So we will, honey darlint; we'll take him out of your sight, and out
of your hearing too, only show us where he may be."

"He's sleeping," replied the mother, pointing to the door of the bedroom,
where I had been lying down.

The party took the light from her hand, and went into the room, where
they perceived the bed empty and the window open. "Devil a bit of a
proctor here, anyhow," cried one of them, "and the window open. He's
off--hurrah! my lads, he can't be far."

"By the powers! it's just my opinion, Mrs M'Shane," replied the elder
O'Toole, "that he's not quite so far off; so with your lave, or by your
lave, or without your lave, we'll just have a look over the premises."

"O! and welcome, Mister Jerry O'Toole; if you think I'm the woman to hide
a proctor, look everywhere just as you please."

The party, headed by Jerry O'Toole, who had taken the light out of Mrs
M'Shane's hand, now ascended the ladder to the upper storey, and as I
lay by Kathleen, I felt that she trembled with fear. After examining
every nook and cranny they could think of, they came to Mrs M'Shane's
room, "O! go in--go in and look, Mr O'Toole; it's a very likely thing
to insinuate that I should have a tithe proctor in my bed. Search, pray,"
and Mrs M'Shane led the way into her own room.

Every part had been examined, except the small sleeping-room of Kathleen;
and the party paused before the door. "We must search," observed O'Toole
doggedly.

"Search my daughter's! very well, search if you please; it's a fine story
you'll have to tell, how six great men pulled a poor girl out of her bed
to look for a tithe proctor. It will be a credit to you anyhow; and you,
Corny O'Toole, you'll stand well in her good graces, when you come to
talk about the wedding day; and your wife that is to be, pulled out of
her bed by a dozen men. What will ye say to Kathleen, when you affront
her by supposing that a maiden girl has a tithe proctor in bed with her?
D'ye think that ye'll ever have the mother's consent or blessing?"

"No one goes into Kathleen's room," cried Corny O'Toole, roused by the
sarcasms of Mrs M'Shane.

"Yes, Corny," replied Mrs M'Shane, "it's not for a woman like me to be
suspected, at all events; so you, and you only, shall go into the room,
if that will content ye, Mr Jerry O'Toole."

"Yes!" replied the party, and Mrs M'Shane opened the door.

Kathleen rose up on her elbow, holding the bed clothes up to her throat,
and looking at them, as they entered, said, "O Corny! Corny! this to me?"

Corny never thought of looking for anybody, his eyes were rivetted upon
his sweetheart. "Murder, Kathleen, is it my fault? Jerry will have it."

"Are you satisfied, Corny?" said Mrs M'Shane.

"Sure enough I was satisfied before I came in, that Kathleen would not
have any one in her bedroom," replied Corny.

"Then good-night, Corny, and it's to-morrow that I'll talk with ye,"
replied Kathleen.

Mrs M'Shane then walked out of the room, expecting Corny to follow; but
he could not restrain himself, and he came to the bedside. Fearful that
if he put his arms round her, he would feel me, Kathleen raised herself,
and allowed him to embrace her. Fortunately the light was not in the
room, or I should have been discovered, as in so doing she threw the
clothes off my head and shoulders. She then pushed back Corny from her,
and he left the room, shutting the door after him. The party descended
the ladder, and as soon as Kathleen perceived that they were all down,
she sprang out of bed and ran into her mother's room. Soon after I heard
them depart. Mrs M'Shane made fast the door, and came up stairs. She
first went to her own room, where poor Kathleen was crying bitterly from
shame and excitement. I had got up when she came into Kathleen's room
for her clothes, and, in about five minutes, they returned together. I
was sitting on the side of the bed when they came in: the poor girl
coloured up when our eyes met. "Kathleen," said I, "you have, in all
probability, saved my life, and I cannot express my thanks. I am only
sorry that your modesty has been put to so severe a trial."

"If Corny was to find it out," replied Kathleen, sobbing again. "How
could I do such a thing!"

"Your mother bid you," replied Mrs M'Shane, "and that is sufficient."

"But what must you think of me, sir?" continued Kathleen.

"I think that you have behaved most nobly. You have saved an innocent man
at the risk of your reputation, and the loss of your lover. It is not now
that I can prove my gratitude."

"Yes, yes, promise me by all that's sacred, that you'll never mention it.
Surely you would not ruin one who has tried to serve you."

"I promise you that, and I hope to perform a great deal more," replied I.
"But now, Mrs M'Shane, what is to be done? Remain here I cannot."

"No; you must leave, and that very soon. Wait about ten minutes more, and
then they will give up their search and go home. The road to E----" (the
post I had lately come from) "is the best you can take; and you must
travel as fast as you can, for there is no safety for you here."

"I am convinced that rascal M'Dermott will not leave me till he has rid
himself of me." I then took out my purse, in which I still had nearly
twenty guineas. I took ten of them. "Mrs M'Shane, I must leave you in
charge of my portmanteau, which you may forward by-and-bye, when you
hear of my safety. If I should not be so fortunate, the money is better
in your hands than in the hands of those who will murder me. Kathleen,
God bless you! you are a good girl, and Corny O'Toole will be a happy
man if he knows your value."

I then wished Kathleen good-bye, and she allowed me to kiss her without
any resistance; but the tears were coursing down her cheeks as I left the
room with her mother. Mrs M'Shane looked carefully out of the windows,
holding the light to ascertain if there was anybody near, and, satisfied
with her scrutiny, she then opened the door, and calling down the saints
to protect me, shook hands with me, and I quitted the house. It was a
dark, cloudy night, and when I first went out, I was obliged to grope,
for I could distinguish nothing. I walked along with a pistol loaded in
each hand, and gained, as I thought, the high road to E----, but I made
a sad mistake; and puzzled by the utter darkness and turnings, I took,
on the contrary, the road to Mount Castle. As soon as I was clear of the
houses and the enclosure, there was more light, and I could distinguish
the road. I had proceeded about four or five miles, when I heard the
sound of horses' hoofs, and shortly afterwards two men rode by me. I
inquired if that was the way to E----. A pause ensued, and a whisper.
"All's right!" replied a deep voice. I continued my way, glad to find
that I had not mistaken it, and cogitating as to what must be the purpose
of two men being out at such an hour. About ten minutes afterwards I
thought I again heard the sound of horses' feet, and it then occurred
to me that they must be highwaymen, who had returned to rob me. I cocked
my pistols, determined to sell my life as dearly as I could, and awaited
their coming up with anxiety; but they appeared to keep at the same
distance, as the sound did not increase. After half an hour I came to
two roads, and was undecided which to take. I stopped and listened--the
steps of the horses were no longer to be heard. I looked round me to
ascertain if I could recognise any object so as to decide me, but I could
not. I took the road to the left, and proceeded, until I arrived at a
brook which crossed the road. There was no bridge, and it was too dark
to perceive the stepping stones. I had just waded about half way across,
when I received a blow on the head from behind, which staggered me. I
turned round, but before I could see my assailant, a second blow laid
me senseless in the water.

Chapter XLVI

Under ground but not yet dead and buried--The prospect anything
but pleasant.

When my recollection returned I found myself in the dark, but where, I
knew not. My head ached, and my brain reeled. I sat up for a moment to
collect my senses, but the effort was too painful, I fell back, and
remained in a state of half stupor. Gradually I recovered, and again sat
up. I perceived that I had been lying on a bed of straw, composed of two
or three trusses apparently. I felt with my extended arms on each side
of me, but touched nothing. I opened my eyes, which I had closed again,
and tried to pierce through the obscurity, but in vain--all was dark as
Erebus. I then rose on my feet, and extending my hands before me, walked
five or six steps on one side, till I was clear of the straw, and came
to a wall. I followed the wall about twenty feet, and then touched wood;
groping about, I found it was a door. I then made the circuit of the
walls, and discovered that the other side was built with bins for wine,
which were empty, and I then found myself again at the straw upon which
I had been laid. It was in a cellar no longer used--but where? Again I
lay down upon the straw, and, as it may be imagined, my reflections
were anything but pleasing. "Was I in the power of M'Dermott or
Melchior?" I felt convinced that I was; but my head was too painful for
long thought, and after half an hour's reflection, I gave way to a
sullen state of half-dreaming, half-stupor, in which the forms of
M'Dermott, Kathleen, Melchior, and Fleta, passed in succession before
me. How long I remained in this second species of trance I cannot say,
but I was roused by the light of a candle, which flashed in my eyes.
I started up, and beheld Melchior in his gipsy's dress, just as when I
had taken leave of him.

"It is to you, then, that I am indebted for this treatment?" replied I.

"No; not to me," replied Melchior. "I do not command here; but I knew
you when they brought you in insensible, and being employed in the
castle, I have taken upon myself the office of your gaoler, that I
might, if possible, serve you."

I felt, I knew this to be false, but a moment's reflection told me that
it was better at present to temporise.

"Who then does the castle belong to, Melchior?"

"To Sir Henry de Clare."

"And what can be his object in treating me thus?"

"That I can tell you, because I am a party concerned. You remember the
little girl, Fleta, who left the gipsy camp with you--she is now
somewhere under your care?"

"Well, I grant it; but I was answerable only to you about her."

"Very true, but I was answerable to Sir Henry; and when I could only say
that she was well, he was not satisfied, for family reasons now make him
very anxious that she should return to him; and, indeed, it will be for
her advantage, as she will in all probability be his heir, for he has
satisfactorily proved that she is a near relative."

"Grant all that, Melchior; but why did not Sir Henry de Clare write to
me on the subject, and state his wishes, and his right to demand his
relative? And why does he treat me in this way? Another question--how
is it that he has recognised me to be the party who has charge of the
little girl? Answer me those questions, Melchior, and then I may talk
over the matter."

"I will answer the last question first. He knew your name from me, and
it so happened, that a friend of his met you in the coach as you were
coming to Ireland: the same person also saw you at the post-house, and
gave information. Sir Henry, who is a violent man, and here has almost
regal sway, determined to detain you till you surrendered up the child.
You recollect, that you refused to tell his agent, the person whose
address I gave you, where she was to be found, and, vexed at this, he
has taken the law into his own hands."

"For which he shall smart, one of these days," replied I, "if there is
law in this country."

"There is a law in England, but very little, and none that will harm
Sir Henry in this part of the country. No officer would venture within
five miles of the castle, I can assure you; for he knows very well that
it would cost him his life; and Sir Henry never quits it from one year's
end to the other. You are in his power, and all that he requires is
information where the child may be found, and an order for her being
delivered to him. You cannot object to this, as he is her nearest
relative. If you comply, I do not doubt but Sir Henry will make you
full amends for this harsh treatment, and prove a sincere friend ever
afterwards."

"It requires consideration," replied I; "at present, I am too much
hurt to talk."

"I was afraid so," replied Melchior, "that was one reason why I obtained
leave to speak to you. Wait a moment."

Melchior then put the candle down on the ground, and went out, and
turned the key. I found, on looking round, that I was right in my
conjectures. I was in a cellar, which, apparently, had long been in
disuse. Melchior soon returned, followed by an old crone, who carried
a basket and a can of water. She washed the blood off my head, put some
alve upon the wounds, and bound them up. She then went away, leaving
the basket.

"There is something to eat and drink in that basket," observed Melchior;
"but I think, Japhet, you will agree with me, that it will be better to
yield to the wishes of Sir Henry, and not remain in this horrid hole."

"Very true, Melchior," replied I; "but allow me to ask you a question or
two. How came you here? where is Nattee, and how is it, that after
leaving the camp, I find you so reduced in circumstances, as to be
serving such a man as Sir Henry De Clare?"

"A few words will explain that," replied he. "In my early days I was
wild, and I am, to tell you the truth, in the power of this man; nay,
I will tell you honestly, my life is in his power; he ordered me to come,
and I dare not disobey him--and he retains me here."

"And Nattee?"

"Is quite well, and with me, but not very happy in her present situation;
but he is a dangerous, violent, implacable man, and I dare not disobey
him. I advise you as a friend, to consent to his wishes."

"That requires some deliberation," replied I, "and I am not one of those
who are to be driven. My feelings towards Sir Henry, after this treatment,
are not the most amicable; besides, how am I to know that Fleta is his
relative?"

"Well, I can say no more, Japhet. I wish you well out of his hands."

"You have the power to help me, if that is the case," said I.

"I dare not."

"Then you are not the Melchior that you used to be," replied I.

"We must submit to fate. I must not stay longer; you will find all that
you want in the basket, and more candles, if you do not like being in
the dark. I do not think I shall be permitted to come again, till
to-morrow."

Melchior then went out, locked the door after him, and I was left to
my meditations.

Chapter XLVII

A friend in need is a friend in deed--The tables are turned and
so is the key--The issue in deep tragedy.

Was it possible that which Melchior said was true? A little reflection
told me that it was all false, and that he was himself Sir Henry de Clare.
I was in his power, and what might be the result? He might detain me, but
he dare not murder me. Dare not! My heart sank when I considered where I
was, and how easy would it be for him to despatch me, if so inclined,
without any one ever being aware of my fate. I lighted a whole candle,
that I might not find myself in the dark when I rose, and exhausted in
body and mind, was soon fast asleep. I must have slept many hours, for
when I awoke I was in darkness--the candle had burnt out. I groped for
the basket, and examined the contents with my hands, and found a
tinder-box. I struck a light, and then feeling hungry and weak, refreshed
myself with the eatables it contained, which were excellent, as well as
the wine. I had replaced the remainder, when the key again turned in the
door, and Melchior made his appearance.

"How do you feel, Japhet, to-day?"

"To-day!" replied I; "day and night are the same to me."

"That is your own fault," replied he. "Have you considered what I
proposed to you yesterday?"

"Yes," replied I; "and I will agree to this. Let Sir Henry give me
my liberty, come over to England, prove his relationship to Fleta,
and I will give her up. What can he ask for more?"

"He will hardly consent to that," replied Melchior; "for, once in
England, you will take a warrant out against him."

"No; on my honour I will not, Melchior."

"He will not trust to that."

"Then he must judge of others by himself," replied I.

"Have you no other terms to propose," replied Melchior.

"None."

"Then I will carry your message, and give you his answer to-morrow."

Melchior then brought in another basket, and took away the former, and
did not make his appearance till the next day. I now had recovered my
strength, and determined to take some decided measures, but how to act
I knew not. I reflected all night, and the next morning (that is,
according to my supposition) I attacked the basket. Whether it was that
ennui or weakness occasioned it, I cannot tell, but either way, I drank
too much wine, and was ready for any daring deed, when Melchior again
the door.

"Sir Henry will not accept of your terms. I thought not," said Melchior,
"I am sorry--very sorry."

"Melchior," replied I, starting up; "let us have no more of this
duplicity. I am not quite so ignorant as you suppose. I know who Fleta
is, and who you are."

"Indeed," replied Melchior; "perhaps you will explain?"

"I will. You, Melchior, are Sir Henry de Clare; you succeeded to your
estates by the death of your elder brother, from a fall when hunting."

Melchior appeared astonished.

"Indeed!" replied he; "pray go on. You have made a gentleman of me."

"No; rather a scoundrel."

"As you please; now will you make a lady of Fleta?"

"Yes, I will. She is your niece." Melchior started back. "Your agent,
M'Dermott, who was sent over to find out Fleta's abode, met me in the
coach, and he has tracked me here, and risked my life, by telling the
people that I was a tithe proctor."

"Your information is very important," replied Melchior, "You will find
some difficulty to prove all you say."

"Not the least," replied I, flushed with anger and with wine, "I have
proof positive. I have seen her mother, and I can identify the child by
the necklace which was on her neck when you stole her."

"Necklace!" cried Melchior.

"Yes, the necklace put into my hands by your own wife when we parted."

"Damn her!" replied Melchior.

"Do not damn her; damn yourself for your villany, and its being brought
to light. Have I said enough, or shall I tell you more?"

"Pray tell me more."

"No, I will not, for I must commit others, and that will not do,"
replied I; for I felt I had already said too much.

"You have committed yourself, at all events," replied Melchior; "and now
I tell you, that until--never mind," and Melchior hastened away.

The door was again locked, and I was once more alone.

I had time to reflect upon my imprudence. The countenance of Melchior,
when he left me, was that of a demon. Something told me to prepare for
death; and I was not wrong. The next day Melchior came not, nor the next;
my provisions were all gone. I had nothing but a little wine and water
left. The idea struck me, that I was to die of starvation. Was there no
means of escape? None; I had no weapon, no tool, not even a knife. I
had expended all my candles. At last, it occurred to me, that, although
I was in a cellar, my voice might be heard, and I resolved, as a last
effort, to attempt it. I went to the door of the cellar, and shouted at
the top of my lungs, "Murder--murder!" I shouted again and again as loud
as I could, until I was exhausted. As it afterwards appeared, this plan
did prevent my being starved to death, for such was Melchior's villanous
intention. About an hour afterwards I repeated my cries of
"Murder--murder!" and they were heard by the household, who stated to
Melchior, that there was some one shouting murder in the vaults below.
That night, and all the next day, I repeated my cries occasionally. I
was now quite exhausted, I had been nearly two days without food, and my
wine and water had all been drunk. I sat down with a parched mouth and
heated brain, waiting till I could sufficiently recover my voice to
repeat my cries, when I heard footsteps approaching. The key was again
turned in the door, and a light appeared, carried by one of two men
armed with large sledge hammers.

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