Japhet in Search of a Father

Part 2—Chapter XXIII

A friend in Need is a Friend in Deed—The Tables are turned, and so is the Key—The Issue is deep Tragedy.

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

“How do you feel, Japhet, to-day?”

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

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

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

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

“No; on my honour I will not, Melchior.”

“He will not trust to that.”

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

“Have you no other terms to propose?” replied Melchior.

“None.”

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

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

“Sir Henry will not accept of your terms. I thought not,” said Melchior: “I am sorry—very sorry.”

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

“Indeed,” replied Melchior; “perhaps you will explain?”

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

Melchior appeared astonished.

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

“No; rather a scoundrel.”

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

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

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

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

“Necklace!” cried Melchior.

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

“Damn her!” replied Melchior.

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

“Pray tell me more.”

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

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

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

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

“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 his feet.

Part 2—Chapter XXIV

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 McShane’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 McShane’s house. I went to the window of the bed-room 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 McShane 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 McShane and Kathleen, who were much shocked at the account.

“You had better wait till it is late, before you go on,” said Mrs McShane, “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 McShane’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 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 McShane: “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 Doctors’ 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 McShane. “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 McDermott 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 McDermott had given orders for no one to be let in on any account.

“Yours,

“Kathleen McShane.”

“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!”

Part 2—Chapter XXV

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 McShane, 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 hairbreadth 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 anyone 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?”