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Japhet, In Search Of A Father by Frederick Marryat

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




"I will not deny but that I am. I love her sincerely."

"Does your love carry you so far, that you would, for her sake, continue
a Quaker, and marry her?"

"I have asked myself that question at least a hundred times during the
last twenty-four hours, and I cannot decide. If she would dress as others
do, and allow me to do the same, I would marry her to-morrow; whether I
shall ever make up my mind to adhere to the persuasion, and live and die
a Quaker for her sake, is quite another matter--but I am afraid not--I
am too worldly-minded. The fact is, I am in a very awkward position with
respect to her. I have never acknowledged my affection, or asked for a
return, but she knows I love her, and I know that she loves me."

"Like all vain boys, you flatter yourself."

"I leave you to judge, sir," replied I, repeating to him our parting
_tete-a-tete_, and how I had returned, and found her in tears.

"All that certainly is very corroborative evidence; but tell me, Japhet,
do you think she loves you well enough to abandon all for your sake?"

"No, nor ever will, sir, she is too high principled, too high-minded.
She might suffer greatly, but she never would swerve from what she
thought was right."

"She must be a fine character, Japhet, but you will be in a dilemma:
indeed, it appears to me, that your troubles are now commencing instead
of ending, and that you would have been much happier where you were, than
you will be by being again brought out into the world. Your prospect is
not over cheerful. You have an awkward father to deal with: you will be
under a strong check, I've a notion, and I am afraid you will find that,
notwithstanding you will be once more received into society, all is
vanity and vexation of spirit."

"I am afraid you are right, sir," replied I, "but, at all events, it
will be something gained, to be acknowledged to the world by a father of
good family, whatever else I may have to submit to. I have been the sport
of fortune all my life, and probably she has not yet done playing with
me; but it is late, and I will now wish you good-night."

"Good-night, Japhet; if I have any intelligence I will let you know. Lady
de Clare's address is No. 13, Park Street. You will, of course, go there
as soon as you can."

"I will, sir, after I have written my letters to my friends at Reading."




Chapter LXXII

I am a little jealous, and, like the immortal William[A] Bottom,
inclined to enact more parts than one.--With a big effort my
hankering after bigamy is mastered by Mr Masterton--and by my own
good sense.

[Footnote A: Or rather Nick--Ed.]


I returned home to reflect upon what Mr Masterton had told me, and I must
say that I was not very well pleased with his various information. His
account of my mother, although she was no more, distressed me, and, from
the character which he gave of my father, I felt convinced that my
happiness would not be at all increased by my having finally attained
the long-desired object of my wishes. Strange to say, I had no sooner
discovered my father, but I wished that he had never turned up; and when
I compared the peaceful and happy state of existence which I had lately
enjoyed, with the prospects of what I had in future to submit to, I
bitterly repented that the advertisement had been seen by Timothy; still,
on one point, I was peculiarly anxious, without hardly daring to
anatomise my feelings; it was relative to Cecilia de Clare, and what Mr
Masterton had mentioned in the course of our conversation. The next
morning I wrote to Timothy and to Mr Cophagus, giving them a shortdetail
of what I had been informed by Mr Masterton, and expressing a wish, which
I then really did feel, that I had never been summoned away from them.

Having finished my letters, I set off to Park Street, to call upon Lady
de Clare and Cecilia. It was rather early, but the footman who opened the
door recognised me, and I was admitted upon his own responsibility. It
was now more than eighteen months since I had quitted their house at
Richmond, and I was very anxious to know what reception I might have. I
followed the servant up stairs, and when he opened the door walked in,
as my name was announced.

Lady de Clare rose in haste, so did Cecilia, and so did a third person,
whom I had not expected to have met--Harcourt. "Mr Newland," exclaimed
Lady de Clare, "this is indeed unexpected." Cecilia also came forward,
blushing to the forehead. Harcourt held back, as if waiting for the
advances to be made on my side. On the whole, I never felt more
awkwardly, and I believe my feelings were reciprocated by the whole
party. I was evidently _de trop_.

"Do you know Mr Harcourt?" at last said Lady de Clare.

"If it is the Mr Harcourt I once knew," replied I, "I certainly do."

"Believe me it is the same, Newland," said Harcourt, coming to me and
offering his hand, which I took with pleasure.

"It is a long while since we met," observed Cecilia, who felt it
necessary to say something, but, at the same time, did not like to enter
upon my affairs before Harcourt.

"It is, Miss de Clare," replied I, for I was not exactly pleased at my
reception; "but I have been fortunate since I had the pleasure of seeing
you last."

Cecilia and her mother looked earnestly, as much as to say, "in
what?"--but did not like to ask the question.

"There is no one present who is not well acquainted with my history,"
observed I, "that is, until the time that I left you and Lady de
Clare, and I have no wish to create mystery. I have at last discovered
my father."

"I hope we are to congratulate you, Mr Newland," said Lady de Clare.

"As far as respectability and family are concerned, I certainly have no
reason to be ashamed," replied I. "He is the brother of an earl, and a
general in the army. His name I will not mention until I have seen him,
and I am formally and openly acknowledged. I have also the advantage of
being an only son, and if I am not disinherited, heir to considerable
property," continued I, smiling sarcastically. "Perhaps I may now be
better _received_ than I have been as Japhet Newland the Foundling: but,
Lady de Clare, I am afraid that I have intruded unseasonably, and will
now take my leave. Good morning;" and without waiting for a reply, I
made a hasty retreat, and gained the door.

Flushed with indignation, I had nearly gained the bottom of the stairs,
when I heard a light footstep behind me, and my arm was caught by
Cecilia de Clare. I turned round, and she looked me reproachfully in the
face, as the tear stood in her eye.

"What have we done, Japhet, that you should treat us in this manner?"
said she, with emotion.

"Miss de Clare," replied I, "I have no reproaches to make. I perceived
that my presence was not welcome, and I would no further intrude."

"Are you then so proud, now that you have found out that you are well
born, Japhet?"

"I am much too proud to intrude where I am not wished for, Miss de
Clare. As Japhet Newland, I came here to see the Fleta of former days.
When I assume my real name, I shall always be most happy of an
introduction to the daughter of Lady de Clare."

"Oh! how changed," exclaimed she, fixing her large blue eyes upon me.

"Prosperity changes us all, Miss de Clare. I wish you a very good
morning;" and I turned away, and crossed the hall to the door.

As I went out I could not help looking back, and I perceived that
Cecilia's handkerchief was held to her eyes, as she slowly mounted the
stairs. I walked home to the Piazza in no very pleasant humour. I was
angry and disgusted at the coolness of my reception. I thought myself ill
used, and treated with ingratitude. "So much for the world," said I, as
I sat down in my apartment, and spun my hat on the table. "She has been
out two seasons, and is no longer the same person. Yet how lovely she has
grown! But why this change--and why was Harcourt there? Could he have
prejudiced them against me? Very possibly." While these ideas were
running in my mind, and I was making comparisons between Cecilia de
Clare and Susannah Temple--not much in favour of the former--and looking
forward prospectively to the meeting with my father, the doubts as to my
reception in society colouring everything with the most sombre tints, the
door opened, and in walked Harcourt, announced by the waiter.

"A chair for Mr Harcourt," said I to the waiter, with formality.

"Newland," said Harcourt, "I come for two reasons: in the first place,
I am commissioned by the ladies, to assure you--"

"I beg your pardon, Mr Harcourt, for interrupting you, but I require no
ambassador from the ladies in question. They may make you their
confidant if they please, but I am not at all inclined to do the same.
Explanation, after what I witnessed and felt this morning, is quite
unnecessary. I surrender all claims upon either Lady de Clare or her
daughter, if I ever was so foolhardy as to imagine that I had any. The
first reason of your visit it is therefore useless to proceed with. May
I ask the other reason which has procured me this honour?"

"I hardly know, Mr Newland," replied Harcourt, colouring deeply,
"whether, after what you have now said, I ought to proceed with the
second--it related to myself."

"I am all attention, Mr Harcourt," replied I, bowing politely.

"It was to say, Mr Newland, that I should have taken the earliest
opportunity after my recovery, had you not disappeared so strangely, to
have expressed my sorrow for my conduct towards you, and to have
acknowledged that I had been deservedly punished: more perhaps by my own
feelings of remorse, than by the dangerous wound I had received by your
hand. I take even this opportunity, although not apparently a favourable
one, of expressing what I consider it my duty, as a gentleman who has
wronged another, to express. I certainly was going to add more, but there
is so little chance of its being well received, that I had better defer it
to some future opportunity. The time may come, and I certainly trust it
will come, when I may be allowed to prove to you that I am not deserving
of the coolness with which I am now received. Mr Newland, with every wish
for your happiness, I will now take my leave; but I must say, it is with
painful sentiments, as I feel that the result of this interview will be
the cause of great distress to those who are bound to you, not only by
gratitude, but sincere regard."

Harcourt then bowed, and quitted the room. "It's all very well," muttered
I, "but I know the world, and am not to be soothed down by a few fine
words. I trust that they will be sorry for their conduct, but see me
again inside their doors they will not," and I sat down, trying to feel
satisfied with myself--but I was not; I felt that I had acted harshly, to
say no more. I ought to have listened to an explanation sent by Cecilia
and her mother, after her coming down stairs to expostulate. They were
under great obligations to me, and by my quick resentment, I rendered the
obligations more onerous. It was unkind of me--and I wished that Harcourt
had not left the room. As for his conduct, I tried to find fault with it,
but could not. It was gentlemanly and feeling. The fact was, I was in a
very bad humour, and could not, at the time, discover the reason, which
was neither more nor less than that I was more jealous of finding
Harcourt so intimate at Lady de Clare's, than I was at the unpalatable
reception which I had met with. The waiter came in, and brought me a note
from Mr Masterton.

"I have this morning received a summons from your father, who
returned, it appears, two days ago, and is now at the Adelphi
Hotel. I am sorry to say, that stepping out of his carriage when
travelling, he missed his footing, and has snapped his tendon
Achilles. He is laid up on a couch, and, as you may suppose, his
amiability is not increased by the accident, and the pain
attending it. As he has requested me to bring forward immediate
evidence as to your identity, and the presence of Mr Cophagus is
necessary, I propose that we start for Reading to-morrow at nine
o'clock. I have a curiosity to go down there, and having a
leisure day or two, it will be a relaxation. I wish to see my old
acquaintance Timothy, and your shop. Answer by bearer.

J. MASTERTON."

I wrote a few lines, informing Mr Masterton that I would be with him at
the appointed hour, and then sat down to my solitary meal. How different
from when I was last at this hotel! Now I knew nobody. I had to regain my
footing in society, and that could only be accomplished by being
acknowledged by my father; and, as soon as that was done, I would call
upon Lord Windermear, who would quickly effect what I desired. The next
morning I was ready at nine o'clock, and set off with post horses, with
Mr Masterton, in his own carriage. I told him what had occurred the day
before, and how disgusted I was at my reception.

"Upon my word, Japhet, I think you are wrong," replied the old gentleman;
"and if you had not told me of your affection for Miss Temple, to see
whom, by-the-bye, I confess to be one of the chief motives of my going
down with you, I should almost suppose that you were blinded by jealousy.
Does it not occur to you, that, if Mr Harcourt was admitted to the
ladies at such an early hour, there is preference shown him in that
quarter? And now I recollect that I heard something about it. Harcourt's
elder brother died, and he's come into the property, and I heard somebody
say that he would in all probability succeed in gaining the handsomest
girl in London, with a large fortune--that it was said to be a match.
Now, if such be the case, and you broke in upon a quiet reunion between
two young people about to be united, almost without announcement, and so
unexpectedly, after a lapse of so long a time, surely you cannot be
surprised at there being a degree of confusion and restraint--more
especially after what had passed between Harcourt and you. Depend upon
it, that was the cause of it. Had Lady de Clare and her daughter been
alone, your reception would have been very different; indeed, Cecilia's
following you down stairs, proves that it was not from coolness towards
you; and Harcourt calling upon you, and the conversation which took
place, is another proof that you have been mistaken."

"I never viewed it in that light, certainly, sir," observed I. "I merely
perceived that I was considered intrusive, and finding in the company one
who had treated me ill, and had been my antagonist in the field, I
naturally supposed that he had prejudiced them against me. I hope I may
be wrong; but I have seen so much of the world, young as I am, that I
have become very suspicious."

"Then discard suspicion as fast as you can, it will only make you
unhappy, and not prevent your being deceived. If you are suspicious,
you will have the constant fear of deception hanging over you, which
poisons existence."

After these remarks I remained silent for some time; I was analysing my
own feelings, and I felt that I had acted in a very absurd manner. The
fact was, that one of my castle buildings had been, that I was to marry
Fleta as soon as I had found my own father, and this it was which had
actuated me, almost without my knowing it. I felt jealous of Harcourt,
and that, without being in love with Miss de Clare, but actually
passionately fond of another person; I felt as if I could have married
her without loving her, and that I could give up Susannah Temple, whom
I did love, rather than that a being whom I considered as almost of my
own creation, should herself presume to fall in love, or that another
should dare to love her, until I had made up my mind whether I should
take her myself: and this after so long an absence, and their having
given up all hopes of ever seeing me again. The reader may smile at the
absurdity, still more at the selfishness of this feeling; so did I, when
I had reflected upon it, and I despised myself for my vanity and folly.

"What are you thinking of, Japhet?" observed Mr Masterton, tired with my
long abstraction.

"That I have been making a most egregious fool of myself, sir," replied
I, "with respect to the De Clares."

"I did not say so, Japhet; but, to tell you the truth, I thought
something very like it. Now tell me, were you not jealous at finding her
in company with Harcourt?"

"Exactly so, sir."

"I'll tell Susannah Temple when I see her, that she may form some idea
of your constancy," replied Mr Masterton, smiling. "Why, what a dog in
the manger you must be--you can't marry them both. Still, under the
circumstances, I can analyse the feeling--it is natural, but all that is
natural is not always creditable to human nature. Let us talk a little
about Susannah, and then all these vagaries will be dispersed. How old
is she?"

Mr Masterton plied me with so many questions relative to Susannah, that
her image alone soon filled my mind, and I recovered my spirits. "I
don't know what she will say, at my being in this dress, sir," observed
I. "Had I not better change it on my arrival?"

"By no means; I'll fight your battle--I know her character pretty well,
thanks to your raving about her."




Chapter LXXIII

Contains much learned argument upon broad-brims and garments of
grey--I get the best of it--The one great wish of my life is
granted--I meet my father, and a cold reception very indicative
of much after-heat.


We arrived in good time at Reading, and, as soon as we alighted at the
inn, we ordered dinner, and then walked down to the shop, where we found
Timothy very busy tying down and labelling. He was delighted to see Mr
Masterton, and perceiving that I had laid aside the Quaker's dress, made
no scruple of indulging in his humour, making a long face, and _thee_-ing
and _thou_-ing Mr Masterton in a very absurd manner. We desired him to go
to Mr Cophagus, and beg that he would allow me to bring Mr Masterton to
drink tea, and afterwards to call at the inn and give us the answer. We
then returned to our dinner.

"Whether they will ever make a Quaker of you, Japhet, I am very
doubtful," observed Mr Masterton, as we walked back; "but as for making
one of that fellow Timothy, I'll defy them."

"He laughs at everything," replied I: "and views everything in a
ridiculous light--at all events, they never will make him serious."

In the evening, we adjourned to the house of Mr Cophagus, having received
a message of welcome. I entered the room first. Susannah came forward to
welcome me, and then drew back, when she perceived the alteration in my
apparel, colouring deeply. I passed her, and took the hand of Mrs
Cophagus and her husband, and then introduced Mr Masterton.

"We hardly knew thee, Japhet," mildly observed Mrs Cophagus.

"I did not think that outward garments would disguise me from my
friends," replied I; "but so it appeareth, for your sister hath not even
greeted me in welcome."

"I greet thee in all kindness, and all sincerity, Japhet Newland,"
replied Susannah, holding out her hand. "Yet did I not imagine that, in
so short a time, thou wouldst have dismissed the apparel of our
persuasion, neither do I find it seemly."

"Miss Temple," interposed Mr Masterton, "it is to oblige those who are
his sincere friends, that Mr Newland has laid aside his dress. I quarrel
with no creed--every one has a right to choose for himself, and Mr
Newland has perhaps not chosen badly, in embracing your tenets. Let him
continue steadfast in them. But, fair young lady, there is no creed
which is perfect, and, even in yours, we find imperfection. Our religion
preaches humility, and therefore we do object to his wearing the garb
of pride."

"Of pride, sayest thou? hath he not rather put off the garb of humility,
and now appeareth in the garb of pride?"

"Not so, young madam: when we dress as all the world dress, we wear not
the garb of pride; but when we put on a dress different from others,
that distinguishes us from others, then we show our pride, and the worst
of pride, for it is the hypocritical pride which apes humility. It is
the Pharisee of the Scriptures, who preaches in high places, and sounds
forth his charity to the poor; not the humility of the Publican, who
says, 'Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner.' Your apparel of pretended
humility is the garb of pride, and for that reason have we insisted that
he discards it, when with us. His tenets we interfere not with. There
can be no religion in dress; and that must indeed be weak in itself,
which requires dress for its support."

Susannah was astonished at this new feature of the case, so aptly put
by the old lawyer. Mrs Cophagus looked at her husband, and Cophagus
pinched my arm, evidently agreeing with him. When Mr Masterton had
finished speaking, Susannah waited a few seconds, and then replied,
"It becomes not one so young and weak as I am, to argue with thee,
who art so much my senior. I cannot cavil at opinions which, if not
correct, at least are founded on the holy writings; but I have been
otherwise instructed."

"Then let us drop the argument, Miss Susannah, and let me tell you, that
Japhet wished to resume his Quaker's dress, and I would not permit him.
If there is any blame, it is to be laid to me; and it's no use being angry
with an old man like myself."

"I have no right to be angry with anyone," replied Susannah.

"But you were angry with me, Susannah," interrupted I.

"I cannot say that it was anger, Japhet Newland: I hardly know what the
feeling might have been; but I was wrong, and I must request thy
forgiveness;" and Susannah held out her hand.

"Now you must forgive me too, Miss Temple," said old Masterton, and
Susannah laughed against her wishes.

The conversation then became general. Mr Masterton explained to Mr
Cophagus what he required of him, and Mr Cophagus immediately acceded.
It was arranged that he should go to town by the mail the next day. Mr
Masterton talked a great deal about my father, and gave his character in
its true light, as he considered it would be advantageous to me so to do.
He then entered into conversation upon a variety of topics, and was
certainly very amusing. Susannah laughed very heartily before the evening
was over, and Mr Masterton retired to the hotel, for I had resolved to
sleep in my own bed.

I walked home with Mr Masterton: I then returned to the house, and found
them all in the parlour. Mrs Cophagus was expressing her delight at the
amusement she had received, when I entered with a grave face. "I wish
that I had not left you," said I to Mrs Cophagus; "I am afraid to meet my
father; he will exact the most implicit obedience. What am I to do. Must
not I obey him?"

"In all things lawful," replied Susannah, "most certainly, Japhet."

"In all things lawful, Susannah! now tell me, in the very case of my
apparel; Mr Masterton says, that he never will permit me to wear the
dress. What am I to do?"

"Thou hast thy religion and thy Bible for thy guide, Japhet."

"I have; and in the Bible I find written on tablets of stone by the
prophet of God, 'Honour thy father and thy mother;' there is a positive
commandment; but I find no commandment to wear this or that dress. What
think you?" continued I, appealing to them all.

"I should bid thee honour thy father, Japhet," replied Mrs Cophagus,
"and you, Susannah--"

"I shall bid thee good-night, Japhet."

At this reply we all laughed, and I perceived there was a smile on
Susannah's face as she walked away. Mrs Cophagus followed her, laughing
as she went, and Cophagus and I were alone.

"Well, Japhet--see old gentleman--kiss--shake hands--and blessing--and
so on."

"Yes, sir," replied I, "but if he treats me ill, I shall probably come
down here again. I am afraid that Susannah is not very well pleased with
me."

"Pooh, nonsense--wife knows all--die for you--Japhet, do as you
please--dress yourself--dress her--any dress--no dress like Eve--sly
puss--won't lose you--all right--and so on."

I pressed Mr Cophagus to tell me all he knew, and I found from him that
his wife had questioned Susannah soon after my departure, had found her
weeping, and that she had gained from her the avowal of her ardent
affection for me. This was all I wanted, and I wished him good-night, and
went to bed happy. I had an interview with Susannah Temple before I left
the next morning, and, although I never mentioned love, had every reason
to be satisfied. She was kind and affectionate; spoke to me in her usual
serious manner, warned me against the world, acknowledged that I should
have great difficulties to surmount, and even made much allowance for my
peculiar situation. She dared not advise, but she would pray for me.
There was a greater show of interest and confidence towards me than I
had ever yet received from her. When I parted from her I said, "Dear
Susannah, whatever change may take place in my fortunes or in my dress,
believe me, my heart shall not be changed, and I shall ever adhere to
those principles which have been instilled into me since I have been in
your company."

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