Japhet, In Search Of A Father by Frederick Marryat

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"Immediately," replied I.

"I cannot blame thee--the ties of nature are ever powerful. I trust that
thou wilt write to us, and that we soon shall see thee return."

"Yes, yes," said Cophagus, "see father--shake hands--come back--heh!--
settle here--and so on."

"I shall not be altogether my own master, perhaps," observed I. "If my
father desires that I remain with him, must not I obey? But I know
nothing at present. You shall hear from me. Timothy can take my place
in the--" I could not bear the idea of the word shop, and I stopped.
Susannah, for the first time, looked me earnestly in the face, but she
said nothing. Mr and Mrs Cophagus, who probably had been talking over
the subject of our conversation, and thought this a good opportunity to
allow me to have an _eclaircissement_ with Susannah, left the room,
saying they would look after my portmanteau and linen. "Susannah," said
I, "you do not appear to rejoice with me."

"Japhet Newland, I will rejoice at everything that may tend to thy
happiness, believe me; but I do not feel assured but that this trial may
prove too great, and that thou mayst fall away. Indeed, I perceive even
now that thou art excited with new ideas, and visions of pride."

"If I am wrong, forgive me. Susannah, you must know that the whole object
of my existence has been to find my father; and now that I have every
reason to suppose that my wish is obtained, can you be surprised, or
can you blame me, that I long to be pressed in his arms?"

"Nay, Japhet, for that filial feeling I do commend thee; but ask thy own
heart, is that the only feeling which now exciteth thee? Dost thou not
expect to find thy father one high in rank and power? Dost thou not
anticipate to join once more the world which thou hast quitted, yet still
hast sighed for? Dost thou not already feel contempt for thy honest
profession:--nay, more, dost thou not only long to cast off the plain
attire, and not only the attire, but the sect which in thy adversity
thou didst embrace the tenets of? Ask thy own heart, and reply if thou
wilt, but I press thee not so to do; for the truth would be painful,
and a lie, thou knowest, I do utterly abhor."

I felt that Susannah spoke the truth, and I would not deny it. I sat down
by her. "Susannah," said I, "it is not very easy to change at once. I
have mixed for years in the world, with you I have not yet lived two. I
will not deny but that the feelings you have expressed have risen in my
heart, but I will try to repress them; at least, for your sake, Susannah,
I would try to repress them, for I value your opinion more than that of
the whole world. You have the power to do with me as you please:--will
you exert that power?"

"Japhet," replied Susannah, "the faith which is not built upon a more
solid foundation than to win the favour of an erring being like myself
is but weak; that power over thee which thou expectest will fix thee in
the right path, may soon be lost, and what is then to direct thee? If no
purer motives than earthly affection are to be thy stay, most surely thou
wilt fall. But no more of this; thou hast a duty to perform, which is to
go to thy earthly father, and seek his blessing. Nay, more, I would that
thou shouldst once more enter into the world, there thou mayst decide.
Shouldst thou return to us, thy friends will rejoice, and not one of
them will be more joyful than Susannah Temple. Fare thee well, Japhet,
mayst thou prove superior to temptation. I will pray for thee--earnestly
I will pray for thee, Japhet," continued Susannah, with a quivering of
her lips and broken voice, and she left the room.

Chapter LXX

I return to London, and meet with Mr Masterton.

I went upstairs, and found that all was ready, and I took leave of Mr
and Mrs Cophagus, both of whom expressed their hopes that I would not
leave them for ever. "Oh, no," replied I, "I should indeed be base, if I
did." I left them, and with Ephraim following with my portmanteau, I
quitted the house. I had gone about twenty yards, when I recollected that
I had left on the table the newspaper with the advertisement containing
the direction whom to apply to, and desiring Ephraim to proceed, I
returned. When I entered the parlour, Susannah Temple was resting her
face in her hands and weeping. The opening of the door made her start
up; she perceived that it was I, and she turned away. "I beg your pardon,
I left the newspaper," said I, stammering. I was about to throw myself
at her feet, declare my sincere affection, and give up all idea of
finding my father until we were married, when she, without saying a
word, passed quickly by me and hastened out of the room. "She loves me
then," thought I; "thank God:--I will not go yet, I will speak to her
first." I sat down, quite overpowered with contending feelings. The
paper was in my hand, the paragraph was again read, I thought but
of my father, and I left the house.

In half an hour I had shaken hands with Timothy and quitted the town of
Reading. How I arrived in London, that is to say, what passed, or what we
passed, I know not; my mind was in such a state of excitement. I hardly
know how to express the state that I was in. It was a sort of mental
whirling which blinded me--round and round--from my father and the
expected meeting, then to Susannah, my departure, and her tears--castle
building of every description. After the coach stopped, there I remained
fixed on the top of it, not aware that we were in London until the
coachman asked me whether the spirit did not move me to get down. I
recollected myself, and calling a hackney-coach, gave orders to be
driven to the Piazza, Covent Garden.

"Piazza, Common Garden," said the waterman, "why that ban't an 'otel
for the like o' you, master. They'll torment you to death, them young
chaps."

I had forgotten that I was dressed as a Quaker. "Tell the coachman to
stop at the first cloth warehouse where they have ready-made cloaks,"
said I. The man did so; I went out and purchased a roquelaure, which
enveloped my whole person. I then stopped at a hatter's, and purchased
a hat according to the mode. "Now drive to the Piazza," said I, entering
the coach. I know not why, but I was resolved to go to that hotel. It
was the one I had stayed at when I first arrived in London, and I wished
to see it again. When the hackney coach stopped, I asked the waiter who
came out whether he had apartments, and answering me in the affirmative, I
followed him, and was shown into the same rooms I had previously occupied.

"These will do," said I, "now let me have something to eat, and send for
a good tailor." The waiter offered to remove my cloak, but I refused,
saying that I was cold. He left the room, and I threw myself on the
sofa, running over all the scenes which had passed in that room with
Carbonnell, Harcourt, and others. My thoughts were broken in upon by the
arrival of the tailor. "Stop a moment," said I, "and let him come in
when I ring." So ashamed was I of my Quaker's dress, that I threw off my
coat and waistcoat, and put on my cloak again before I rang the bell for
the tailor to come up. "Mr--," said I, "I must have a suit of clothes
ready by to-morrow at ten o'clock." "Impossible, sir."

"Impossible!" said I, "and you pretend to be a fashionable tailor. Leave
the room."

At this peremptory behaviour the tailor imagined that I must be somebody.

"I will do my possible, sir, and if I can only get home in time to stop
the workmen, I think it may be managed. Of course, you are aware of the
expense of night work."

"I am only aware of this, that if I give an order I am accustomed to
have it obeyed; I learnt that from my poor friend, Major Carbonnell."

The tailor bowed low; there was magic in the name, although the man
was dead.

"Here have I been masquerading in a Quaker's dress, to please a
puritanical young lady, and I am obliged to be off without any other
clothes in my portmanteau; so take my measure, and I expect the clothes
at ten precisely." So saying, I threw off my roquelaure, and desired him
to proceed. This accomplished, the tradesman took his leave. Shortly
afterwards, the door opened, and as I lay wrapped up in my cloak on the
sofa, in came the landlord and two waiters, each bearing a dish of my
supper. I wished them at the devil; but I was still more surprised when
the landlord made a low bow, saying, "Happy to see you returned, Mr
Newland; you've been away some time--another grand tour, I presume."

"Yes, Mr ----, I have had a few adventures since I was last here,"
replied I, carelessly, "but I am not very well. You may leave the supper,
and if I feel inclined, I will take a little by-and-bye,--no one need
wait."

The landlord and waiter bowed and went out of the room. I turned the key
of the door, put on my Quaker's coat, and made a hearty supper, for I
had had nothing since breakfast. When I had finished, I returned to the
sofa, and I could not help analysing my own conduct. "Alas," thought I,
"Susannah, how rightly did you judge me! I am not away from you more
than eighteen hours, and here I am ashamed of the dress which I have so
long worn, and been satisfied with, in your society. Truly did you say
that I was full of pride, and would joyfully re-enter the world of vanity
and vexation." And I thought of Susannah, and her tears after my supposed
departure, and I felt angry and annoyed at my want of strength of mind
and my worldly feelings.

I retired early to bed, and did not wake until late the next morning.
When I rang the bell, the chambermaid brought in my clothes from the
tailor's: I dressed, and I will not deny that I was pleased with the
alteration. After breakfast I ordered a coach, and drove to No. 16,
Throgmorton Court, Minories. The house was dirty outside, and the windows
had not been cleaned apparently for years, and it was with some
difficulty when I went in that I could decipher a tall, haggard-looking
man seated at the desk.

"Your pleasure, sir?" said he.

"Am I speaking to the principal?" replied I.

"Yes, sir, my name is Chatfield."

"I come to you, sir, relative to an advertisement which appeared in the
papers. I refer to this," continued I, putting the newspaper down on the
desk, and pointing to the advertisement.

"Oh, yes, very true: can you give us any information?"

"Yes, sir, I can, and the most satisfactory."

"Then, sir, I am sorry that you have had so much trouble, but you must
call at Lincoln's Inn upon a lawyer of the name of Masterton: the whole
affair is now in his hands."

"Can you, sir, inform me who is the party that is inquiring after this
young man?"

"Why, yes; it is a General De Benyon, who has lately returned from the
East Indies."

"Good God! is it possible!" thought I; "how strange that my own wild
fancy should have settled upon him as my father!"

I hurried away, threw myself into the hackney-coach, and desired the man
to drive to Lincoln's Inn. I hastened up to Mr Masterton's rooms: he was
fortunately at home, although he stood at the table with his hat and his
great coat on, ready to go out.

"My dear sir, have you forgotten me?" said I, in a voice choked with
emotion, taking his hand and squeezing it with rapture.

"By heavens, you are determined that I shall not forget you for some
minutes, at least," exclaimed he, wringing his hand with pain. "Who
the devil are you?"

Mr Masterton could not see without his spectacles, and my subdued voice
he had not recognised. He pulled them out, as I made no reply, and fixing
them across his nose--"Hah! why yes--it is Japhet, is it not?"

"It is indeed, sir," said I, again offering my hand, which he shook
warmly.

"Not quite so hard, my dear fellow, this time," said the old lawyer; "I
acknowledge your vigour, and that is sufficient. I am very glad to see
you, Japhet, I am indeed--you--you scamp--you ungrateful fellow. Sit
down--sit down--first help me off with my great coat: I presume the
advertisement has brought you into existence again. Well, it's all true;
and you have at last found your father, or, rather, he has found you.
And what's more strange, you hit upon the right person; that is
strange--very strange indeed."

"Where is he, sir?" interrupted I, "where is he--take me to him."

"No, rather be excused," replied Mr Masterton, "for he is gone to
Ireland, so you must wait."

"Wait, sir, oh no--I must follow him."

"That will only do harm; for he is rather a queer sort of an old
gentleman, and although he acknowledges that he left you as _Japhet_ and
has searched for you, yet he is so afraid of somebody else's brat being
put upon him, that he insists upon most undeniable proofs. Now, we
cannot trace you from the hospital unless we can find that fellow
Cophagus, and we have made every search after him, and no one can tell
where he is."

"But I left him but yesterday morning, sir," replied I.

"Good--very good; we must send for him or go to him; besides, he has
the packet intrusted to the care of Miss Maitland, to whom he was
executor, which proves the marriage of your father. Very strange--very
strange indeed, that you should have hit upon it as you did--almost
supernatural. However, all right now, my dear boy, and I congratulate
you. Your father is a very strange person: he has lived like a despot
among slaves all his life, and will not be thwarted, I can tell you.
If you say a word in contradiction he'll disinherit you:--terrible
old tiger, I must say. If it had not been for your sake, I should have
done with him long ago. He seems to think the world ought to be at his
feet. Depend upon it, Japhet, there is no hurry about seeing him;--and
see him you shall not, until we have every proof of your identity ready
to produce to him. I hope you have the bump of veneration strong, Japhet,
and plenty of filial duty, or you will be kicked out of the house in a
week. D--n me, if he didn't call me an old thief of a lawyer."

"Indeed, sir," replied I, laughing; "I must apologise to you for my
father's conduct."

"Never mind, Japhet; I don't care about a trifle; but why don't you ask
after your friends?"

"I have longed so to do, sir," replied I. "Lord Windermear--"

"Is quite well, and will be most happy to see you."

"Lady de Clare, and her daughter--"

"Lady de Clare has entered into society again, and her daughter, as you
call her--your Fleta, alias Cecilia de Clare--is the belle of the
metropolis. But now, sir, as I have answered all your interrogatories,
and satisfied you upon the most essential points, will you favour me
with a narrative of your adventures (for adventures I am sure you must
have had) since you ran away from us all in that ungrateful manner."

"Most certainly, sir, I will; and, as you say, I have had adventures.
But it really will be a long story."

"Then we'll dine here, and pass the evening together--so that's settled."

Chapter LXXI

In which I am let into more particulars relative to my father's
history.

I dismissed the coach, while Mr Masterton gave his orders for dinner, and
we then turned the key of the door to avoid intrusion, and I commenced.
It was nearly dinner-time before I had finished my story.

"Well, you really appear to be born for getting into scrapes, and getting
out of them again in a miraculous way," observed Mr Masterton. "Your
life would make a novel."

"It would indeed, sir," replied I. "I only hope, like all novels, it
will wind up well."

"So do I; but dinner's ready, Japhet, and after dinner we'll talk the
matter over again, for there are some points upon which I require some
explanation."

We sat down to dinner, and when we had finished, and the table had been
cleared, we drew to the fire, with our bottle of wine. Mr Masterton
tirred the fire, called for his slippers, and then crossing his legs
over the fender, resumed the subject.

"Japhet, I consider it most fortunate that we have met, previous to
our introduction to your father. You have so far to congratulate
yourself, that your family is undeniably good, there being, as you know,
an Irish peerage in it; of which, however, you have no chance, as the
present earl has a numerous offspring. You are also fortunate as far as
money is concerned, as I have every reason to believe that your father is
a very rich man, and, of course, you are his only child; but I must now
prepare you to meet with a very different person than perhaps the fond
anticipations of youth may have led you to expect. Your father has no
paternal feelings that I can discover; he has wealth, and he wishes to
leave it--he has therefore sought you out. But he is despotic, violent,
and absurd; the least opposition to his will makes him furious, and I am
sorry to add, that I am afraid that he is very mean. He suffered
severely when young from poverty, and his own father was almost as
authoritative and unforgiving as himself. And now I will state how it
was that you were left at the Asylum when an infant. Your grandfather
had procured for your father a commission in the army, and soon
afterwards procured him a lieutenancy. He ordered him to marry a young
lady of large fortune, whom he had never seen, and sent for him for that
purpose. I understand that she was very beautiful, and had your father
seen her, it is probable he would have made no objection, but he very
foolishly sent a peremptory refusal, for which he was dismissed for ever.
In a short time afterwards your father fell in love with a young lady of
great personal attractions, and supposed to possess a large fortune. To
deceive her, he pretended to be the heir to the earldom, and, after a
hasty courtship, they ran off, and were married. When they compared
notes, which they soon did, it was discovered that, on his side, he had
nothing but the pay of a subaltern, and on hers, that she had not one
shilling. Your father stormed, and called his wife an impostor; she
recriminated, and the second morning after the marriage was passed in
tears on her side, and oaths, curses, and revilings on his. The lady,
however, appeared the more sensible party of the two. Their marriage
was not known, she had run away on a pretence to visit a relative, and
it was actually supposed in the county town where she resided, that such
was the case. 'Why should we quarrel in this way?' observed she. 'You,
Edmund, wished to marry a fortune, and not me--I may plead guilty to the
same duplicity. We have made a mistake; but it is not too late. It is
supposed that I am on a visit to--, and that you are on furlough for a
few days. Did you confide your secret to any of your brother officers?'
'Not one,' muttered your father. 'Well, then, let us part as if nothing
had happened, and nobody will be the wiser. We are equally interested in
keeping the secret. Is it agreed?'--Your father immediately consented. He
accompanied your mother to the house at ----, where she was expected, and
she framed a story for her delay, by having met such a very polite young
man. Your father returned to his regiment, and thus did they, like two
privateers, who when they meet and engage, as soon as they find out their
mistake, hoist their colours, and sheer off by mutual consent."

"I can't say much for my mother's affection or delicacy," observed I.

"The less you say the better, Japhet--however, that is your father's
story. And now to proceed. It appears that, about two months afterwards,
your father received a letter from your mother, acquainting him that
their short intercourse had been productive of certain results, and
requesting that he would take the necessary steps to provide for the
child, and avoid exposure, or that she would be obliged to confess her
marriage. By what means they contrived to avoid exposure until the period
of her confinement, I know not, but your father states that the child was
born in a house in London, and by agreement, was instantly put into his
hands; that he, with the consent of his wife, left you at the door of
the Asylum, with the paper and the bank note, from which you received
the name of Newland. At the time, he had no idea of reclaiming you
himself, but the mother had, for heartless as she appears to have been,
yet a mother must feel for her child. Your father's regiment was then
ordered out to the East Indies, and he was rapidly promoted for his
gallantry and good conduct during the war in the Mysore territory. Once
only has he returned home on furlough, and then he did make inquiries
after you; not, it appears, with a view of finding you out on his own
account, but from a promise which he made your mother."

"My mother! what, have they met since?"

"Yes; your mother went out to India on speculation, passing off as a
single girl, and was very well married there, I was going to say;
however, she committed a very splendid bigamy."

"Good heavens! how totally destitute of principle!"

"Your father asserts that your mother was a freethinker, Japhet; her
father had made her one; without religion a woman has no stay. Your
father was in the up country during the time that your mother arrived,
and was married to one of the council of Calcutta. Your father says that
they met at a ball at Government House. She was still a very handsome
woman, and much admired. When your father recognised her, and was told
that she was lately married to the honourable Mr--, he was quite
electrified, and would have quitted the room; but she had perceived
him, and walking up to him with the greatest coolness, claimed him as an
old acquaintance in England, and afterwards they often met, but she never
adverted to what had passed between them, until the time for his
departure to England on leave, and she then sent for him, and begged that
he would make some enquiries after _you_, Japhet. He did so, and you know
the result. On his return to India he found that your mother had been
carried off by the prevailing pestilence. At that period, your father was
not rich, but he was then appointed to the chief command in the Carnatic,
and reaped a golden harvest in return for his success and bravery. It
appears, as far as I could obtain it from him, that as long as your
mother was alive, he felt no interest about you, but her death, and the
subsequent wealth which poured upon him, have now induced him to find out
an heir, to whom it may be bequeathed.

"Such, Japhet, are the outlines of your father's history; and I must
point out that he has no feelings of affection for you at present. The
conduct of your mother is ever before him, and if it were not that he
wishes an heir, I should almost say that his feelings are those of
dislike. You may create an interest in his heart, it is true: and he may
be gratified by your personal appearance; but you will have a very
difficult task, as you will have to submit to his caprices and fancies,
and I am afraid that, to a high spirit like yours, they will be almost
unbearable."

"Really, sir, I begin to feel that the fondest anticipations are seldom
realised, and almost to wish that I had not been sought for by my father.
I was happy and contented, and now I do not see any chance of having to
congratulate myself on the change."

"On one or two points I also wish to question you. It appears that you
have entered into the sect denominated Quakers. Tell me candidly, do you
subscribe heartily and sincerely to their doctrines? And I was going to
add, is it your intention to remain with them? I perceive much
difficulty in all this."

"The tenets of the sect I certainly do believe to be more in accordance
with the Christian religion than any other; and I have no hesitation in
asserting, from my knowledge of those who belong to that sect, that they,
generally speaking, lead better lives. There are some points connected
with their worship, which, at first, I considered ridiculous: the feeling
has, however, worn off. As to their quaint manner of speaking, that has
been grossly exaggerated. Their dress is a part of their religion."

"Why so, Japhet?"

"I can reply to you in the words of Susannah Temple, when I made the
same interrogatory. 'You think the peculiarity of our dress is an
outward form which is not required. It was put on to separate us from
others, and as a proof that we had discarded vanity. I am aware that it
is not a proof of our sincerity; but still, the discarding of the dress
is a proof of insincerity. We consider, that to admire the person is
vain, and our creed is humility. It is therefore an outward and visible
sign, that we would act up to those tenets which we profess. It is not
all who wear the dress who are Quakers in heart or conduct; but we know
that when it is put aside, the tenets of our persuasion are at the same
time renounced, therefore do we consider it essential. I do not mean to
say but that the heart may be as pure, and the faith continue as stedfast
without such signs outwardly, but it is a part of our creed, and we must
not choose, but either reject all or none.'"

"Very well argued by the little Quakeress; and now, Japhet, I should
like to put another question to you. Are you very much attached to this
young puritan?"

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