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Japhet, In Search Of A Father by Frederick Marryat

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




When I had quitted for Ireland, it was still supposed that I was a young
man of large fortune--the truth had not been told. I had acceded to Mr
Masterton's suggestions, that I was no longer to appear under false
colours, and had requested Harcourt, to whom I made known my real
condition, that he would everywhere state the truth. News like this
flies like wildfire; there were too many whom, perhaps, when under the
patronage of Major Carbonnell, and the universal rapture from my
supposed wealth, I had treated with hauteur, glad to receive the
intelligence, and spread it far and wide. My _imposition_, as they
pleased to term it, was the theme of every party, and many were the
indignant remarks of the dowagers who had so often indirectly proposed
to me their daughters; and if there was anyone more virulent than the
rest, I hardly need say that it was Lady Maelstrom, who nearly killed
her job horses in driving about from one acquaintance to another, to
represent my unheard-of atrocity in presuming to deceive my betters.
Harcourt, who had agreed to live with me--Harcourt, who had praised my
magnanimity in making the disclosure--even Harcourt fell off; and about
a fortnight after I had arrived in town, told me that not finding the
lodgings so convenient as his former abode, he intended to return to it.
He took a friendly leave; but I perceived that if we happened to meet in
the streets, he often contrived to be looking another way; and at last,
a slight recognition was all that I received. Satisfied that it was
intended, I no longer noticed him; he followed but the example of others.
So great was the outcry raised by those who had hoped to have secured me
as a good match, that any young man of fashion who was seen with me, had,
by many, his name erased from their visiting lists. This decided my fate,
and I was alone. For some time I bore up proudly; I returned a glance
of defiance, but this could not last. The treatment of others received
a slight check from the kindness of Lord Windermear, who repeatedly asked
me to his table; but I perceived that even there, although suffered as a
proteg of his lordship, anything more than common civility was studiously
avoided, in order that no intimacy might result. Mr Masterton, upon whom
I occasionally called, saw that I was unwell and unhappy. He encouraged
me; but, alas! a man must be more than mortal, who, with fine feelings,
can endure the scorn of the world. Timothy, poor fellow, who witnessed
more of my unhappy state of mind than anybody else, offered in vain his
consolation. "And this," thought I, "is the reward of virtue and honesty.
Truly, virtue is its own reward, for it obtains no other. As long as I
was under false colours, allowing the world to deceive themselves, I was
courted and flattered. Now that I have thrown off the mask, and put on
the raiment of truth, I am a despised, miserable being. Yes; but is not
this my own fault? Did I not, by my own deception, bring all this upon
myself? Whether unmasked by others, or by myself, is it not equally true
that I have been playing false, and am now punished for it? What do the
world care for your having returned to truth? You have offended by
deceiving them, and that is an offence which your repentance will not
extenuate." It was but too true, I had brought it all on myself, and
this reflection increased my misery. For my dishonesty, I had been justly
and severely punished: whether I was ever to be rewarded for my
subsequent honesty still remained to be proved; but I knew very well
that most people would have written off such a reward as a bad debt.

Once I consulted with Mr Masterton as to the chance of there being any
information relative to my birth in the packet left in the charge of Mr
Cophagus. "I have been thinking over it, my dear Newland," said he, "and
I wish I could give you any hopes, but I cannot. Having succeeded with
regard to your little protege, you are now so sanguine with respect to
yourself, that a trifle light as air is magnified, as the poet says,
'into confirmation strong as holy writ.' Now, consider, somebody calls
at the Foundling to ask after you--which I acknowledge to be a
satisfactory point--his name is taken down by an illiterate brute, as
Derbennon; but how you can decide upon the real name, and assume it is
De Benyon, is really more than I can imagine, allowing every scope to
fancy. It is in the first instance, therefore, you are at fault, as
there are many other names which may have been given by the party who
called; nay, more, is it at all certain that the party, in a case like
this, would give his real name? Let us follow it up. Allowing the name
to have been De Benyon, you discover that one brother is not married,
and that there are some papers belonging to him in the possession of an
old woman who dies; and upon these slight grounds what would you attempt
to establish? that because that person was known not to have married,
therefore _he was married_ (for you are stated to have been born in
wedlock): and because there is a packet of papers belonging to him in the
possession of another party, that this packet of papers _must refer_ to
you. Do you not perceive how you are led away by your excited feelings
on the subject?"

I could not deny that Mr Masterton's arguments had demolished the whole
fabric which I had built up. "You are right, sir," replied I mournfully,
"I wish I were dead."

"Never speak in that way, Mr Newland, before me," replied the old lawyer
in an angry tone, "without you wish to forfeit my good opinion."

"I beg your pardon, sir; but I am most miserable. I am avoided by all
who know me--thrown out of all society--I have not a parent or a
relative. Isolated being as I am, what have I to live for?"

"My dear fellow, you are not twenty-three years of age," replied Mr
Masterton, "and you have made two sincere friends, both powerful in their
own way. I mean Lord Windermear and myself; and you have had the pleasure
of making others happy. Believe me, that is much to have accomplished at
so early an age. You have much to live for--live to gain more
friends--live to gain reputation--live to do good--to be grateful for
the benefits you have received, and to be humble when chastened by
Providence. You have yet to learn where, and only where, true happiness
is to be found. Since you are so much out of spirits, go down to Lady de
Clare's, see her happiness, and that of her little girl; and then, when
you reflect that it was your own work, you will hardly say that you have
lived in vain." I was too much overpowered to speak. After a pause, Mr
Masterton continued, "When did you see them last?"

"I have never seen them, sir, since I was with you at their meeting."

"What! have you not called--now nearly two months? Japhet, you are wrong;
they will be hurt at your neglect and want of kindness. Have you written
or heard from them?"

"I have received one or two pressing invitations, sir; but I have not been
in a state of mind to avail myself of their politeness."

"Politeness! you are wrong--all wrong, Japhet. Your mind is cankered, or
you never would have used that term. I thought you were composed of
better materials; but it appears, that although you can sail with a fair
wind, you cannot buffet against an adverse gale. Because you are no
longer fooled and flattered by the interested and the designing, like
many others, you have quarrelled with the world. Is it not so?"

"Perhaps you are right, sir."

"I know that I am right, and that you are wrong. Now I shall be seriously
displeased if you do not go down and see Lady de Clare and her daughter,
as soon as you can."

"I will obey your orders, sir."

"My wishes, Japhet, not my orders. Let me see you when you return. You
must no longer be idle. Consider, that you are about to recommence your
career in life; that hitherto you have pursued the wrong path, from
which you have nobly returned. You must prepare for exertions, and learn
to trust to God and a good conscience. Lord Windermear and I had a long
conversation relative to you yesterday evening; and when you come back,
I will detail to you what are our views respecting your future advantage."




Chapter LII

A new character appears, but not a very amiable one; but I attach
myself to him, as drowning men catch at straws.


I took my leave, more composed in mind, and the next day I went down to
Lady de Clare's. I was kindly received, more than kindly, I was
affectionately and parentally received by the mother, and by Cecilia as
a dear brother; but they perceived my melancholy, and when they had
upbraided me for my long neglect, they inquired the cause. As I had
already made Lady de Clare acquainted with my previous history, I had
no secrets; in fact, it was a consolation to confide my griefs to them.
Lord Windermear was too much above me--Mr Masterton was too
matter-of-fact--Timothy was too inferior--and they were all men; but the
kind soothing of a woman was peculiarly grateful, and after a sojourn of
three days, I took my leave, with my mind much less depressed than when
I arrived.

On my return, I called upon Mr Masterton, who stated to me that Lord
Windermear was anxious to serve me, and that he would exert his interest
in any way which might be most congenial to my feelings; that he would
procure me a commission in the army, or a writership to India; or, if I
preferred it, I might study the law under the auspices of Mr Masterton.
If none of these propositions suited me, I might state what would be
preferred, and that, as far as his interest and pecuniary assistance
could avail, I might depend upon it. "So now, Japhet, you may go home
and reflect seriously upon these offers; and when you have made up your
mind what course you will steer, you have only to let me know."

I returned my thanks to Mr Masterton, and begged that he would convey my
grateful acknowledgments to his lordship. As I walked home, I met a
Captain Atkinson, a man of very doubtful character, whom, by the advice
of Carbonnell, I had always kept at a distance. He had lost a large
fortune by gambling, and having been pigeoned, had, as is usual, ended
by becoming a _rook_. He was a fashionable, well-looking man, of good
family, suffered in society, for he had found out that it was necessary
to hold his position by main force. He was a noted duellist, had killed
his three or four men, and a cut direct from any person was, with him,
sufficient grounds for sending a friend. Everybody was civil to him,
because no one wished to quarrel with him.

"My dear Mr Newland," said he, offering his hand, "I am delighted to
see you; I have heard at the clubs of your misfortune, and there were
some free remarks made by some. I have great pleasure in saying that I
put an immediate stop to them, by telling them that, if they were
repeated in my presence, I should consider it as a personal quarrel."

Three months before, had I met Captain Atkinson, I should have returned
his bow with studied politeness, and have left him; but how changed were
my feelings! I took his hand, and shook it warmly.

"My dear sir," replied I, "I am very much obliged for your kind and
considerate conduct; there are more who are inclined to calumniate than
to defend."

"And always will be in this world, Mr Newland; but I have a fellow
feeling. I recollect how I was received and flattered when I was
introduced as a young man of fortune, and how I was deserted and
neglected when I was cleaned out. I know now _why_ they are so civil
to me, and I value their civility at just as much as it is worth. Will
you accept my arm:--I am going your way"

I could not refuse; but I coloured when I took it, for I felt that I
was not adding to my reputation by being seen in his company; and still
I felt, that although not adding to my reputation, I was less likely to
receive insult, and that the same cause which induced them to be civil
to him, would perhaps operate when they found me allied with him. "Be
it so," thought I, "I will, if possible, _extort_ politeness."

We were strolling down Bond Street, when we met a young man, well known
in the fashionable circles, who had dropped my acquaintance, after
having been formerly most pressing to obtain it. Atkinson faced him.
"Good morning, Mr Oxberry."

"Good morning, Captain Atkinson," replied Mr Oxberry.

"I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?" observed Atkinson, rather
fiercely.

"Oh! really--I quite--I beg pardon. Good morning, Mr Newland; you have
been long absent. I did not see you at Lady Maelstrom's last night."

"No," replied I, carelessly, "nor will you ever. When you next see her
ladyship, ask her, with my compliments, whether she has had another
fainting fit."

"I shall certainly have great pleasure in carrying your message, Mr
Newland--good morning."

"That fool," observed Atkinson, "will now run all over town, and you will
see the consequence."

We met one or two others, and to them Atkinson put the same question, "I
thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?" At last, just as we arrived at
my own house in St James's Street, who should we meet but Harcourt.
Harcourt immediately perceived me, and bowed low as he passed on, so
that his bow would have served for both; but Atkinson stopped. "I must
beg your pardon, Harcourt, for detaining you a moment, but what are the
odds upon the Vestris colt for the Derby?"

"Upon my word, Captain Atkinson, I was told, but I have forgotten."

"Your memory appears bad, for you have also forgotten your old friend,
Mr Newland."

"I beg your pardon, Mr Newland."

"There is no occasion to beg my pardon, Mr Harcourt," interrupted I;
"for I tell you plainly, that I despise you too much to ever wish to be
acquainted with you. You will oblige me, sir, by never presuming to touch
your hat, or otherwise notice me."

Harcourt coloured, and started back. "Such language, Mr Newland--"

"Is what you deserve; ask your own conscience. Leave us, sir;" and I
walked on with Captain Atkinson.

"You have done well, Newland," observed Atkinson; "he cannot submit to
that language, for he knows that I have heard it. A meeting you will of
course have no objection to. It will be of immense advantage to you."

"None whatever," replied I; "for if there is any one man who deserves to
be punished for his conduct towards me, it is Harcourt. Will you come up,
Captain Atkinson; and, if not better engaged, take a quiet dinner and a
bottle of wine with me?"

Our conversation during dinner was desultory, but after the first bottle,
Atkinson became communicative, and his history not only made me feel
better inclined towards him, but afforded me another instance, as well
as Carbonnell's, how often it is that those who would have done well,
are first plundered, and then driven to desperation by the heartlessness
of the world. The cases, however, had this difference, that Carbonnell
had always contrived to keep his reputation above water, while that of
Atkinson was gone, and never to be re-established. We had just finished
our wine when a note was brought from Harcourt, informing me that he
should send a friend the next morning for an explanation of my conduct.
I handed it over to Atkinson. "My dear sir, I am at your service,"
replied he, "without you have anybody among your acquaintances whom
you may prefer."

"Thank you," replied I, "Captain Atkinson; it cannot be in better hands."

"That is settled, then; and now where shall we go?"

"Wherever you please."

"Then I shall try if I can win a little money to-night; if you come you
need not play--you can look on. It will serve to divert your thoughts,
at all events."

I felt so anxious to avoid reflection, that I immediately accepted his
offer, and, in a few minutes, we were in the well-lighted room, and in
front of the _rouge et noir_ table, covered with gold and bank notes.
Atkinson did not commence his play immediately, but pricked the chances
on a card as they ran. After half an hour he laid down his stakes, and
was fortunate. I could no longer withstand the temptation, and I backed
him; in less than an hour we both had won considerably.

"That is enough," said he to me, sweeping up his money; "we must not try
the slippery dame too long."

I followed his example, and shortly afterwards we quitted the house. "I
will walk home with you, Newland; never, if you can help it, especially
if you have been a winner, leave a gaming house alone."

Going home, I asked Atkinson if he would come up; he did so, and then we
examined our winnings. "I know mine," replied he, "within twenty pounds,
for I always leave off at a certain point. I have three hundred pounds,
and something more."

He had won three hundred and twenty-five pounds. I had won ninety pounds.
As we sat over a glass of brandy and water, I inquired whether he was
always fortunate. "No, of course I am not," replied Atkinson; "but on
the whole, in the course of the year I am a winner of sufficient to
support myself."

"Is there any rule by which people are guided who play? I observed many
of those who were seated, pricking the chances with great care, and then
staking their money at intervals."

"_Rouge et noir_ I believe to be the fairest of all games," replied
Atkinson; "but where there is a per centage invariably in favour of the
bank, although one may win and another lose, still the profits must be
in favour of the bank. If a man were to play all the year round, he would
lose the national debt in the end. As for martingales, and all those
calculations, which you observed them so busy with, they are all useless.
I have tried everything, and there is only one chance of success, but
then you must not be a gambler?"

"Not a gambler?"

"No; you must not be carried away by the excitement of the game, or you
will infallibly lose. You must have a strength of mind which few have, or
you will be soon cleaned out."

"But you say that you win on the whole; have you no rule to guide you?"

"Yes, I have; strange as the chances are, I have been so accustomed to
them, that I generally put down my stake right; when I am once in a run
of luck, I have a method of my own, but what it is I cannot tell; only
this I know, that if I depart from it, I always lose my money. But that
is what you may call good luck, or what you please--it is not a rule."

"Where, then, are your rules?"

"Simply these two. The first it is not difficult to adhere to: I make a
rule never to lose but a certain sum if I am unlucky when I
commence--say twenty stakes, whatever may be the amount of the stake
that you play. This rule is easily adhered to, by not taking more money
with you; and I am not one of those to whom the croupier or porters will
lend money. The second rule is the most difficult, and decides whether
you are a gambler or not. I make a rule always to leave off when I have
won a certain sum--or even before, if the chances of my game fluctuate.
There is the difficulty; it appears very foolish not to follow up luck,
but the fact is, fortune is so capricious, that if you trust her more
than an hour, she will desert you. This is my mode of play, and with me
it answers; but it does not follow that it would answer with another.
But it is very late, or rather, very early--I wish you a good-night."




Chapter LIII

I become principal instead of second in a duel, and risk my own
and another's life, my own and others' happiness and peace of
mind, because I have been punished as I deserved.


After Captain Atkinson had left me, I stated to Timothy what had passed.
"And do you think you will have to fight a duel, sir?" cried Timothy
with alarm.

"There is no doubt of it," replied I.

"You never will find your father, sir, if you go on this way," said
Timothy, as if to divert my attention from such a purpose.

"Not in this world, perhaps, Tim; perhaps I may be sent the right road
by a bullet, and find him in the next."

"Do you think your father, if dead, has gone to heaven?"

"I hope so, Timothy."

"Then what chance have you of meeting him, if you go out of the world
attempting the life of your old friend?"

"That is what you call a poser, my dear Timothy, but I cannot help
myself; this I can safely say, that I have no animosity against Mr
Harcourt--at least, not sufficient to have any wish to take away his
life."

"Well, that's something, to be sure; but do you know, Japhet, I'm not
quite sure you hit the right road when you set up for a gentleman."

"No, Timothy, no man can be in the right road who deceives; I have been
all wrong; and I am afraid I am going from worse to worse: but I cannot
moralise, I must go to sleep, and forget everything if I can."

The next morning, about eleven o'clock, a Mr Cotgrave called upon me on
the part of Harcourt. I referred him to Captain Atkinson, and he bowed
and quitted the room. Captain Atkinson soon called; he had remained at
home expecting the message, and had made every arrangement with the
second. He stayed with me the whole day; the Major's pistols were
examined and approved of; we dined, drank freely, and he afterwards
proposed that I should accompany him to one of the hells, as they are
called. This I refused, as I had some arrangements to make; and as soon
as he was gone I sent for Timothy.

"Tim," said I, "if I should be unlucky to-morrow, you are my executor
and residuary legatee. My will was made when in Dublin, and is in the
charge of Mr Cophagus."

"Japhet, I hope you will allow me one favour, which is, to go to the
ground with you. I had rather be there than remain here in suspense."

"Of course, my dear fellow, if you wish it," replied I; "but I must go to
bed, as I am to be called at four o'clock--so let's have no
sentimentalising or sermonising. Good-night, God bless you."

I was, at that time, in a state of mind which made me reckless of life or
of consequences; stung by the treatment which I received, mad with the
world's contumely, I was desperate. True it was, as Mr Masterton said, I
had not courage to buffet against an adverse gale. Timothy did not go
to bed, and at four o'clock was at my side. I rose, dressed myself with
the greatest care, and was soon joined by Captain Atkinson. We then set
off in a hackney-coach to the same spot to which I had, but a few months
before, driven with poor Carbonnell. His memory and his death came like
a cloud over my mind, but it was but for a moment. I cared little for
life. Harcourt and his second were on the ground a few minutes before
us. Each party saluted politely, and the seconds proceeded to business.
We fired, and Harcourt fell, with a bullet above his knee. I went up to
him, and he extended his hand. "Newland," said he, "I have deserved
this. I was a coward, in the first place, to desert you as I did--and a
coward, in the second, to fire at a man whom I had injured. Gentlemen,"
continued he, appealing to the seconds, "recollect, I, before you, acquit
Mr Newland of all blame, and desire, if any further accident should
happen to me, that my relations will take no steps whatever against him."

Harcourt was very pale, and bleeding fast. Without any answer I examined
the wound, and found, by the colour of the blood, and its gushing, that
an artery had been divided. My professional knowledge saved his life. I
compressed the artery, while I gave directions to the others. A
handkerchief was tied tight round his thigh, above the wound--a round
stone selected, and placed under the handkerchief, in the femoral groove,
and the ramrod of one of the pistols then made use of as a winch, until
the whole acted as a tourniquet. I removed my thumbs, found that the
hemorrhage was stopped, and then directed that he should be taken home
on a door, and surgical assistance immediately sent for.

"You appear to understand these things, sir," said Mr Cotgrave. "Tell
me, is there any danger?"

"He must suffer amputation," replied I, in a low voice, so that Harcourt
could not hear me. "Pray watch the tourniquet carefully as he is taken
home, for should it slip it will be fatal."

I then bowed to Mr Cotgrave, and, followed by Captain Atkinson, stepped
into the hackney-coach and drove home. "I will leave you now, Newland,"
said Captain Atkinson; "it is necessary that I talk this matter over,
so that it is properly explained."

I thanked Captain Atkinson for his services, and was left alone; for I
had sent Timothy to ascertain if Harcourt had arrived safe at his
lodgings. Never did I feel more miserable; my anxiety for Harcourt was
indescribable; true, he had not treated me well, but I thought of his
venerable father, who pressed my hand so warmly when I left his
hospitable roof--of his lovely sisters, and the kindness and affection
which they had shown towards me, and our extreme intimacy. I thought
of the pain which the intelligence would give them, and their
indignation towards me, when their brother first made his appearance
at his father's house, mutilated; and were he to die--good God! I was
maddened at the idea. I had now undone the little good I had been able
to do. If I had made Fleta and her mother happy, had I not plunged
another family into misery?

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