Japhet, In Search Of A Father by Frederick Marryat

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"It is then all over with me," cried I; "and I never shall find out who
is my father. Come on, murderers, and do your work. Do it quickly."

The two men advanced without speaking a word; the foremost, who carried
the lantern, laid it down at his feet, and raised his hammer with both
hands, when the other behind him raised his weapon--and the foremost
fell dead at his feet.

Chapter XLVIII

Is full of perilous adventures, and in which, the reader may be
assured, there is much more than meets the eye.

"Silence," said a voice that I well knew, although his face was
completely disguised. It was _Timothy!_ "Silence, Japhet," again
whispered Timothy; "there is yet much danger, but I will save you,
or die. Take the hammer. Melchior is waiting outside." Timothy put the
lantern in the bin, so as to render it more dark, and led me towards the
door, whispering, "when he comes in, we will secure him."

Melchior soon made his appearance, and as he entered the cellar, "Is it
all right?" said he, going up to Timothy, and passing me.

With one blow I felled him to the ground, and he lay insensible. "That
will do," replied Timothy; "now we must be off."

"Not till he takes my place," replied I, as I shut the door, and locked
it. "Now he may learn what it is to starve to death."

I then followed Timothy, by a passage which led outside of the castle,
through which he and his companion had been admitted. "Our horses are
close by," said Timothy; "for we stipulated upon leaving the country
after it was done."

It was just dark when we were safe out of the castle. We mounted our
horses, and set off with all speed. We followed the high road to the post
town to which I had been conveyed, and I determined to pull up at Mrs
M'Shane's, for I was so exhausted that I could go no further. This was
a measure which required precaution, and as there was moonlight, I turned
off the road before I entered the town, or village, as it ought to have
been called, so that we dismounted at the back of Mrs M'Shane's house.
I went to the window of the bedroom where I had lain down, and tapped
gently, again and again, and no answer. At last, Kathleen made her
appearance.

"Can I come in, Kathleen?" said I; "I am almost dead with fatigue and
exhaustion."

"Yes," replied she, "I will open the back-door; there is no one here
to-night--it is too early for them."

I entered, followed by Timothy, and, as I stepped over the threshold,
I fainted. As soon as I recovered, Mrs M'Shane led me up stairs into her
room for security, and I was soon able to take the refreshment I so much
required. I stated what had passed to Mrs M'Shane and Kathleen, who were
much shocked at the account.

"You had better wait till it is late, before you go on," said Mrs
M'Shane, "it will be more safe; it is now nine o'clock, and the people
will all be moving till eleven. I will give your horses some corn, and
when you are five miles from here, you may consider yourselves as safe.
Holy saints! what an escape!"

The advice was too good not to be followed, and I was so exhausted, that
I was glad that prudence was on the side of repose. I lay down on Mrs
M'Shane's bed, while Timothy watched over me. I had a short slumber,
and then was awakened by the good landlady, who told me that it was
time for us to quit. Kathleen then came up to me, and said, "I would
ask a favour of you, sir, and I hope you will not refuse it."

"Kathleen, you may ask anything of me, and depend upon it, I will not
refuse it, if I can grant it."

"Then, sir," replied the good girl, "you know how I overcame my feelings
to serve you, will you overcome yours for me? I cannot bear the idea
that anyone, bad as he may be, of the family who have reared me, should
perish in so miserable a manner; and I cannot bear that any man, bad as
he is, even if I did not feel obliged to him, should die so full of
guilt, and without absolution. Will you let me have the key, that Sir
Henry de Clare may be released after you are safe and away? I know he
does not deserve any kindness from you; but it is a horrid death, and
a horrid thing to die so loaded with crime."

"Kathleen," replied I, "I will keep my word with you. Here is the key;
take it up to-morrow morning, and give it to Lady de Clare; tell her
Japhet Newland sent it."

"I will, and God bless you, sir."

"Good-bye, sir," said Mrs M'Shane, "you have no time to lose."

"God bless you, sir," said Kathleen, who now put her arms round me and
kissed me. We mounted our horses and set off.

We pressed our horses, or rather ponies, for they were very small, till
we had gained about six miles, when we considered that we were,
comparatively speaking, safe, and then drew up, to allow them to recover
their wind. I was very much exhausted myself, and hardly spoke one word
until we arrived at the next post town, when we found everybody in bed.
We contrived, however, to knock them up, and Timothy having seen that
our horses were put into the stable, we lay down till the next morning
upon a bed which happened to be unoccupied. Sorry as were the
accommodations, I never slept so soundly, and woke quite refreshed. The
next morning I stated my intention of posting to Dublin, and asked Tim
what we should do with the horses.

"They belong to the castle," replied he.

"Then in God's name, let the castle have them, for I wish for nothing
from that horrid place."

We stated to the landlord that the horses were to be sent back, and that
the man who took them would be paid for his trouble; and then it occurred
to me, that it would be a good opportunity of writing to Melchior,
_alias_ Sir Henry. I do not know why, but certainly my animosity against
him had subsided, and I did not think of taking legal measures against
him. I thought it, however, right to frighten him. I wrote, therefore,
as follows:--

SIR HENRY,--I send you back your horses with thanks, as they have
enabled Timothy and me to escape from your clutches. Your
reputation and your life now are in my power, and I will have
ample revenge. The fact of your intending murder, will be fully
proved by my friend Timothy, who was employed by you in disguise,
and accompanied your gipsy. You cannot escape the sentence of the
law. Prepare yourself, then, for the worst, as it is not my
intention that you shall escape the disgraceful punishment due to
your crimes.

Yours, JAPHET NEWLAND.

Having sealed this, and given it to the lad who was to return with the
horses, we finished our breakfast, and took a post-chaise on for Dublin,
where we arrived late in the evening. During our journey I requested
Timothy to narrate what had passed, and by what fortunate chance he had
been able to come so opportunely to my rescue.

"If you recollect, Japhet," replied Timothy, "you had received one or
two letters from me, relative to the movements of the gipsy, and stating
his intention to carry off the little girl from the boarding-school. My
last letter, in which I had informed you that he had succeeded in gaining
an entrance into the ladies' school at Brentford, could not have reached
you, as I found by your note that you had set off the same evening. The
gipsy, whom I only knew by the name of _Will_, inquired of me the name
by which the little girl was known, and my answer was, Smith; as I took
it for granted that, in a large seminary, there must be one, if not more,
of that name. Acting upon this, he made inquiries of the maid-servant to
whom he paid his addresses, and made very handsome presents, if there was
a Miss Smith in the school; she replied, that there were two, one a young
lady of sixteen, and the other about twelve years old. Of course the one
selected was the younger. Will had seen me in my livery, and his plan was
to obtain a similar one, hire a chariot, and go down to Brentford, with a
request that Miss Smith might be sent up with him immediately, as you
were so ill that you were not expected to live; but previous to his
taking this step, he wrote to Melchior, requesting his orders as to how
he was to proceed when he had obtained the child. The answer from
Melchior arrived. By this time, he had discovered that you were in
Ireland, and intended to visit him; perhaps he had you in confinement,
for I do not know how long you were there, but the answer desired Will
to come over immediately, as there would be in all probability work for
him, that would be well paid for. He had now become so intimate with me,
that he disguised nothing; he showed me the letter, and I asked him what
it meant; he replied that there was somebody to put out of the way, that
was clear. It immediately struck me, that you must be the person if such
was the case, and I volunteered to go with him, to which, after some
difficulty, he consented. We travelled outside the mail, and in four
days we arrived at the castle. Will went up to Melchior, who told him
what it was that he required. Will consented, and then stated he had
another hand with him, which might be necessary, vouching for my doing
anything that was required. Melchior sent for me, and I certainly was
afraid that he would discover me, but my disguise was too good. I had
prepared for it still further, by wearing a wig of light hair, he asked
me some questions, and I replied in a surly, dogged tone, which satisfied
him. The reward was two hundred pounds, to be shared between us; and, as
it was considered advisable that we should not be seen after the affair
was over, by the people about the place, we had the horses provided for
us. The rest you well know. I was willing to make sure that it was you
before I struck the scoundrel, and the first glimpse from the lantern,
and your voice, convinced me."

"Thank God, Japhet, but I have been of some use to you, at all events."

"My dear Tim, you have indeed, and you know me too well to think I shall
ever forget it; but now I must first ascertain where the will of the late
Sir William is to be found. We can read it for a shilling, and then I may
discover what are the grounds of Melchior's conduct, for, to me, it is
still inexplicable."

"Are wills made in Ireland registered here, or at Doctor's Commons in
London?"

"In Dublin, I should imagine."

But on my arrival at Dublin I felt so ill, that I was obliged to retire
to bed, and before morning I was in a violent fever. Medical assistance
was sent for, and I was nursed by Timothy with the greatest care, but it
was ten days before I could quit my bed. For the first time, I was
sitting in an easy chair by the fire, when Timothy came in with the
little portmanteau I had left in the care of Mrs M'Shane. "Open it,
Timothy," said I, "and see if there be anything in the way of a note
from them." Timothy opened the portmanteau, and produced one, which was
lying on the top. It was from Kathleen, and as follows:--

Dear Sir,--They say there is terrible work at the castle, and
that Sir Henry has blown out his brains, or cut his throat, I
don't know which. Mr M'Dermott passed in a great hurry, but said
nothing to anybody here. I will send you word of what has taken
place as soon as I can. The morning after you went away, I walked
up to the castle and gave the key to the lady, who appeared in a
great fright at Sir Henry not having been seen for so long a
while. They wished to detain me after they had found him in the
cellar with the dead man, but after two hours I was desired to go
away, and hold my tongue. It was after the horses went back that
Sir Henry is said to have destroyed himself. I went up to the
castle, but M'Dermott had given orders for no one to be let in on
any account.

Yours Kathleen M'Shane.

"This is news indeed," said I, handing the letter to Timothy. "It must
have been my threatening letter which has driven him to this mad act."

"Very likely," replied Timothy; "but it was the best thing the scoundrel
could do, after all."

"The letter was not, however, written, with that intention. I wished to
frighten him, and have justice done to little Fleta--poor child! how glad
I shall be to see her!"

Chapter XLIX

Another investigation relative to a child which in the same way
as the former one, ends by the Lady going off in a fit.

The next day the newspapers contained a paragraph, in which Sir Henry de
Clare was stated to have committed suicide. No reason could be assigned
for this rash act, was the winding up of the intelligence. I also
received another letter from Kathleen M'Shane, confirming the previous
accounts; her mother had been sent for to assist in laying out the body.
There was now no further doubt, and as soon as I could venture out, I
hastened to the proper office, where I read the will of the late Sir
William. It was very short, merely disposing of his personal property to
his wife, and a few legacies; for, as I discovered, only a small portion
of the estates were entailed with the title, and the remainder was not
only to the heirs male, but the eldest female, should there be no male
heir, with the proviso, that should she marry, the husband was to take
upon himself the name of De Clare. Here, then, was the mystery explained,
and why Melchior had stolen away his brother's child. Satisfied with my
discovery, I determined to leave for England immediately, find out the
dowager Lady de Clare, and put the whole case into the hands of Mr
Masterton. Fortunately, Timothy had money with him sufficient to pay all
expenses, and take us to London, or I should have been obliged to wait
for remittances, as mine was all expended before I arrived at Dublin.
We arrived safe, and I immediately proceeded to my house, where I found
Harcourt, who had been in great anxiety about me. The next morning I
went to my old legal friend, to whom I communicated all that had happened.

"Well done, Newland," replied he, after I had finished. "I'll bet ten
to one that you find out your father. Your life already would not make
a bad novel. If you continue your hair-breadth adventures in this way,
it will be quite interesting."

Although satisfied in my own mind that I had discovered Fleta's
parentage, and anxious to impart the joyful intelligence, I resolved not
to see her until everything should be satisfactorily arranged. The
residence of the dowager Lady de Clare was soon discovered by Mr
Masterton; it was at Richmond, and thither he and I proceeded. We were
ushered into the drawing-room, and, to my delight, upon her entrance, I
perceived that it was the same beautiful person in whose ears I had seen
the coral and gold ear-rings matching the necklace belonging to Fleta. I
considered it better to allow Mr Masterton to break the subject.

"You are, madam, the widow of the late Sir William de Clare." The lady
bowed. "You will excuse me, madam, but I have most important reasons for
asking you a few questions, which otherwise may appear to be intrusive.
Are you aware of the death of his brother, Sir Henry de Clare?"

"Indeed I was not," replied she. "I seldom look at a paper, and I have
long ceased to correspond with any one in Ireland. May I ask you what
occasioned his death?"

"He fell by his own hands, madam."

Lady de Clare covered up her face. "God forgive him!" said she, in a low
voice.

"Lady de Clare, upon what terms were your husband and the late Sir Henry?
It is important to know."

"Not on the very best, sir. Indeed, latterly, for years, they never met
or spoke: we did not know what had become of him."

"Were there any grounds for ill-will?"

"Many, sir, on the part of the elder brother; but none on that of Sir
Henry, who was treated with every kindness, until he--" Lady de Clare
stopped--"until he behaved very ill to him."

As we afterwards discovered, Henry de Clare had squandered away the small
portion left him by his father, and had ever after that been liberally
supplied by his eldest brother, until he had attempted to seduce Lady de
Clare, upon which he was dismissed for ever.

"And now, madam, I must revert to a painful subject. You had a daughter
by your marriage?"

"Yes," replied the lady, with a deep sigh.

"How did you lose her? Pray do not think I am creating this distress on
your part without strong reasons."

"She was playing in the garden, and the nurse, who thought it rather
cold, ran in for a minute to get a handkerchief to tie round her neck.
When the nurse returned, the child had disappeared." Lady de Clare put
her handkerchief up to her eyes.

"Where did you find her afterwards?"

"It was not until three weeks afterwards that her body was found in a
pond about a quarter of a mile off."

"Did the nurse not seek her when she discovered that she was not in
the garden?"

"She did, and immediately ran in that direction. It is quite strange
that the child could have got so far without the nurse perceiving her."

"How long is it ago?"

"It is now nine years."

"And the age of the child at the time?"

"About six years old."

"I think, Newland, you may now speak to Lady de Clare."

"Lady de Clare, have you not a pair of ear-rings of coral and gold of
very remarkable workmanship?"

"I have, sir," replied she, with surprise.

"Had you not a necklace of the same? and if so, will you do me the
favour to examine this?" I presented the necklace.

"Merciful heaven!" cried Lady de Clare, "it is the very necklace!--it
was on my poor Cecilia when she was drowned, and it was not found with
the body. How came it into your possession, sir? At one time," continued
Lady de Clare, weeping, "I thought that it was possible that the
temptation of the necklace, which has a great deal of gold in it, must,
as it was not found on her corpse, have been an inducement for the
gipsies, who were in the neighbourhood, to drown her; but Sir William
would not believe it, rather supposing that in her struggles in the
water she must have broken it, and that it had thus been detached from
her neck. Is it to return this unfortunate necklace that you have come
here?"

"No, madam, not altogether. Had you two white ponies at the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was there a mulberry tree in the garden?"

"Yes, sir," replied the astonished lady.

"Will you do me the favour to describe the appearance of your child as
she was, at the time that you lost her?"

"She was--but all mothers are partial, and perhaps I may also be so--a
very fair, lovely little girl."

"With light hair, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. But why these questions? Surely you cannot ask them for
nothing," continued she hurriedly. "Tell me, sir, why all these
questions?"

Mr Masterton replied, "Because, madam, we have some hopes that you have
been deceived, and that it is possible that your daughter was not
drowned."

Lady de Clare, breathless, and her mouth open, fixed her eyes upon Mr
Masterton, and exclaimed, "Not drowned! O my God! my head!" and then
she fell back insensible.

"I have been too precipitate," said Mr Masterton, going to her
assistance; "but joy does not kill. Ring for some water, Japhet."

Chapter L

In which, if the reader does not sympathise with the parties, he
had better shut the book.

In a few minutes Lady de Clare was sufficiently recovered to hear the
outline of our history; and as soon as it was over, she insisted upon
immediately going with us to the school where Fleta was domiciled, as
she could ascertain, by several marks known but to a nurse or mother,
if more evidence was required, whether Fleta was her child or not. To
allow her to remain in such a state of anxiety was impossible, Mr
Masterton agreed, and we posted to ----, where we arrived in the evening.
"Now, gentlemen, leave me but one minute with the child, and when I
ring the bell, you may enter." Lady de Clare was in so nervous and
agitated a state, that she could not walk into the parlour without
assistance. We led her to a chair, and in a minute Fleta was called
down. Perceiving me in the passage, she ran to me. "Stop, my dear Fleta,
there is a lady in the parlour, who wishes to see you."

"A lady, Japhet?"

"Yes, my dear, go in."

Fleta obeyed, and in a minute we heard a scream, and Fleta hastily opened
the door, "Quick! quick! the lady has fallen down."

We ran in and found Lady de Clare on the floor, and it was some time
before she returned to her senses. As soon as she did, she fell down
on her knees, holding up her hands as in prayer, and then stretched
her arms out to Fleta. "My child! my long-lost child! it is--it is
indeed!" A flood of tears poured forth on Fleta's neck relieved her,
and we then left them together; old Masterton observing, as we took our
seats in the back parlour,

"By G--, Japhet, you deserve to find your own father!"

In about an hour Lady de Clare requested to see us. Fleta rushed into my
arms and sobbed, while her mother apologised to Mr Masterton for the
delay and excusable neglect towards him. "Mr Newland, madam, is the
person to whom you are indebted for your present happiness. I will now,
if you please, take my leave, and will call upon you to-morrow."

"I will not detain you, Mr Masterton; but Mr Newland will, I trust, come
home with Cecilia and me; I have much to ask of him." I consented, and Mr
Masterton went back to town; I went to the principal hotel to order a
chaise and horses, while Fleta packed up her wardrobe.

In half an hour we set off, and it was midnight before we arrived at
Richmond. During my journey I narrated to Lady de Clare every particular
of our meeting with Fleta. We were all glad to go to bed, and the kind
manner in which Lady de Clare wished me good-night, with "God bless you,
Mr Newland!" brought the tears into my eyes.

I breakfasted alone the next morning, Lady de Clare and her daughter
remaining up stairs. It was nearly twelve o'clock when they made their
appearance, both so apparently happy, that I could not help thinking,
"When shall I have such pleasure--when shall I find out who is my
father?" My brow was clouded as the thought entered my mind, when Lady
de Clare requested that I would inform her who it was to whom she and
her daughter were under such eternal obligations. I had then to relate
my own eventful history, most of which was as new to Cecilia (as she now
must be called) as it was to her mother. I had just terminated the
escape from the castle, when Mr Masterton's carriage drove up to the
door. As soon as he had bowed to Lady de Clare, he said to me, "Japhet,
here is a letter directed to you, to my care, from Ireland, which I have
brought for you."

"It is from Kathleen M'Shane, sir," replied I, and requesting leave, I
broke the seal. It contained another. I read Kathleen's, and then hastily
opened the other. It was from Nattee, or Lady H. de Clare, and ran as
follows:--

"Japhet Newland,--Fleta is the daughter of Sir William de Clare.
Dearly has my husband paid for his act of folly and wickedness,
and to which you must know I never was a party.

Yours,

Nattee."

The letter from Kathleen added more strange information. Lady de Clare,
after the funeral of her husband, had sent for the steward, made every
necessary arrangement, discharged the servants, and then had herself
disappeared, no one knew whither; but it was reported that somebody very
much resembling her had been seen travelling south in company with a
gang of gipsies. I handed both letters over to Lady de Clare and Mr
Masterton.

"Poor Lady de Clare!" observed the mother.

"Nattee will never leave her tribe," observed Cecilia quietly.

"You are right, my dear," replied I. "She will be happier with her tribe
where she commands as a queen, than ever she was at the castle."

Mr Masterton then entered into a detail with Lady de Clare as to what
steps ought immediately to be taken, as the heirs-at-law would otherwise
give some trouble; and having obtained her acquiescence, it was time to
withdraw. "Mr Newland, I trust you will consider us as your warmest
friends. I am so much in your debt, that I never can repay you; but I am
also in your debt in a pecuniary way--that, at least, you must permit me
to refund."

"When I require it, Lady de Clare, I will accept it. Do not, pray, vex
me by the proposition. I have not much happiness as it is, although I am
rejoiced at yours and that of your daughter."

"Come, Lady de Clare, I must not allow you to tease my protege, you do
not know how sensitive he is. We will now take our leave."

"You will come soon," said Cecilia, looking anxiously at me.

"You have your mother, Cecilia," replied I; "what can you wish for more?
I am a--nobody--without a parent."

Cecilia burst into tears; I embraced her, and Mr Masterton and I left
the room.

Chapter LI

I return to the gay world, but am not well received; I am quite
disgusted with it and honesty, and everything else.

How strange, now that I had succeeded in the next dearest object of my
wishes, after ascertaining my own parentage, that I should have felt so
miserable; but it was the fact, and I cannot deny it. I could hardly
answer Mr Masterton during our journey to town; and when I threw myself
on the sofa in my own room, I felt as if I was desolate and deserted.
I did not repine at Cecilia's happiness; so far from it, I would have
sacrificed my life for her; but she was a creature of my own--one of the
objects in this world to which I was endeared--one that had been
dependent on me and loved me. Now that she was restored to her parent,
she rose above me, and I was left still more desolate. I do not know
that I ever passed a week of such misery as the one which followed a
_denouement_ productive of so much happiness to others, and which had
been sought with so much eagerness, and at so much risk, by myself. It
was no feeling of envy, God knows; but it appeared to me as if everyone
in the world was to be made happy except myself. But I had more to bear
up against.

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