Japhet in Search of a Father

Part 3—Chapter XV

I am unsettled by unexpected Intelligence, and again yearn after the World of Fashion.

I knew that he was mocking me in this reply, but I paid no attention to that; I was satisfied that he consented. I now made him assist me, and under my directions he made up the prescriptions. I explained to him the nature of every medicine; and I made him read many books of physic and surgery. In short, after two or three months, I could trust to Timothy as well as if I were in the shop myself; and having an errand boy, I had much more leisure, and I left him in charge after dinner. The business prospered, and I was laying up money. My leisure time, I hardly need say, was spent with Mr Cophagus and his family, and my attachment to Susannah Temple increased every day. Indeed, both Mr and Mrs Cophagus considered that it was to be a match, and often joked with me when Susannah was not present. With respect to Susannah, I could not perceive that I was farther advanced in her affections than after I had known her two months. She was always kind and considerate, evidently interested in my welfare, always checking in me anything like levity—frank and confiding in her opinions—and charitable to all, as I thought, except to me. But I made no advance that I could perceive. The fact was, that I dared not speak to her as I might have done to another who was not so perfect. And yet she smiled, as I thought, more kindly when I returned than at other times, and never appeared to be tired of my company. If I did sometimes mention the marriage of another, or attentions paid which would, in all probability, end in marriage, it would create no confusion or blushing on her part; she would talk over that subject as composedly as any other. I was puzzled; and I had been a year and nine months constantly in her company, and had never dared to tell her that I loved her. But one day Mr Cophagus brought up the subject when we were alone. He commenced by stating how happy he had been as a married man; that he had given up all hopes of a family, and that he should like to see Susannah Temple, his sister-in-law, well married, that he might leave his property to her children; and then he put the very pertinent question—“Japhet—verily—thou hast done well—good business—money coming in fast—settle, Japhet—marry—have children—and so on. Susannah—nice girl—good wife—pop question—all right—sly puss—won’t say no—um—what d’ye say?—and so on.” I replied that I was very much attached to Susannah; but that I was afraid that the attachment was not mutual, and therefore hesitated to propose. Cophagus then said that he would make his wife sound his sister, and let me know the result.

This was in the morning just before I was about to walk over to the shop, and I left the house in a state of anxiety and suspense. When I arrived at the shop, I found Tim there as usual; but the colour in his face was heightened as he said to me, “Read this, Japhet,” and handed to me the “Reading Mercury.” I read an advertisement as follows:—

“If Japhet Newland, who was left at the Foundling Asylum, and was afterwards for some time in London, will call at Number 16, Throgmorton Court, Minories, he will hear of something very much to his advantage, and will discover that of which he has been so long in search. Should this reach his eye, he is requested to write immediately to the above address, with full particulars of his situation. Should anyone who reads this be able to give any information relative to the said J.N., he will be liberally rewarded.”

I sank down on the chair. “Merciful Heaven! this can be no mistake—‘he will discover the object of his search.’ Timothy, my dear Timothy, I have at last found out my father.”

“So I should imagine, my dear Japhet,” replied Timothy, “and I trust it will not prove a disappointment.”

“They never would be so cruel, Timothy,” replied I.

“But still it is evident that Mr Masterton is concerned in it,” observed Timothy.

“Why so?” inquired I.

“How otherwise should it appear in the Reading newspaper? He must have examined the post-mark of my letter.”

To explain this, I must remind the reader that Timothy had promised to write to Mr Masterton when he found me; and he requested my permission shortly after we had met again. I consented to his keeping his word, but restricted him to saying any more than “that he had found me, and that I was well and happy.” There was no address in the letter as a clue to Mr Masterton as to where I might be, and it could only have been from the post-mark that he could have formed any idea. Timothy’s surmise was therefore very probable; but I would not believe that Mr Masterton would consent to the insertion of that portion of the advertisement, if there was no foundation for it.

“What will you do, Japhet?”

“Do,” replied I, recovering from my reverie, for the information had again roused up all my dormant feelings—“Do,” replied I, “why, I shall set off for town this very morning.”

“In that dress, Japhet?”

“I suppose I must,” replied I, “for I have no time to procure another;” and all my former ideas of fashion and appearance were roused, and in full activity—my pride recovered its ascendency.

“Well,” replied Timothy, “I hope you will find your father all that you could wish.”

“I’m sure of it, Tim—I’m sure of it,” replied I; “you must run and take a place in the first coach.”

“But you are not going without seeing Mr and Mrs Cophagus, and—Miss Temple,” continued Tim, laying an emphasis upon the latter name.

“Of course not,” replied I, colouring deeply. “I will go at once. Give me the newspaper, Tim.”

I took the newspaper, and hastened to the house of Mr Cophagus. I found them all three sitting in the breakfast parlour, Mr Cophagus, as usual, reading, with his spectacles on his nose, and the ladies at work.

“What is the matter, friend Japhet?” exclaimed Mr Cophagus, as I burst into the room, my countenance lighted up with excitement.

“Read that, sir,” said I to Mr Cophagus.

Mr Cophagus read it. “Hum—bad news—lose Japhet—man of fashion—and so on,” said Cophagus, pointing out the paragraph to his wife, as he handed over the paper.

In the mean time I watched the countenance of Susannah—a slight emotion, but instantly checked, was visible at Mr Cophagus’s remark. She then remained quiet until her sister, who had read the paragraph, handed the paper to her. “I give thee joy, Japhet, at the prospect of finding out thy parent,” said Mrs Cophagus. “I trust thou wilt find in him one who is to be esteemed as a man. When departest thou?”

“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 éclaircissement 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.

Part 3—Chapter XVI

I return to London, and meet with Mr Masterton.

I went up stairs, 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-by,—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 Number 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 decypher 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. Damn 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.”

Part 3—Chapter XVII

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 stirred 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 your 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.”