Фредерик Марриет
Japhet in Search of a Father
Part 2—Chapter XIV
Mischief brewing—Timothy and I set our Wits to work, and he resumes his old Profession of a Gipsy.
I hastened home with feelings too painful to be described. I had a soreness at my heart, an oppression on my spirits, which weighed me down. I had but one wish—that I was dead. I had already imparted to Harcourt the history of my life; and when I came in, I threw myself upon the sofa in despair, and relieved my agonised heart with a flood of tears. As soon as I could compose myself, I stated what had occurred.
“My dear Newland, although it has been an unfortunate occurrence in itself, I do not see that you have so much cause to grieve, for you have this satisfaction, that it appears there has been a wish to reclaim you.”
“Yes,” replied I, “I grant that; but have they not been told, and have they not believed, that I have been ignominiously punished for a capital crime? Will they ever seek me more?”
“Probably not; you must now seek them. What I should recommend is, that you repair to-morrow to the apothecary’s shop, and interrogate relative to the person who called to make inquiries after you. If you will allow me, I will go with you.”
“And be insulted by those malignant scoundrels?”
“They dare not insult you. As an apothecary’s apprentice they would, but as a gentleman they will quail; and if they do not, their master will most certainly be civil, and give you all the information which he can. We may as well, however, not do things by halves; I will borrow my aunt’s carriage for the morning, and we will go in style.”
“I think I will call this evening upon Mr Masterton, and ask his advice.”
“Ask him to accompany us, Newland, and he will frighten them with libel, and defamation of character.”
I called upon Mr Masterton, that evening, and told my story. “It is indeed very provoking, Newland; but keep your courage up, I will go with you to-morrow, and will see what we can make of it. At what time do you propose to start?”
“Will it suit you, sir, if we call at one o’clock?”
“Yes; so good night, my boy, for I have something here which I must contrive to get through before that time.”
Harcourt had procured the carriage, and we picked up Masterton at the hour agreed, and proceeded to Smithfield. When we drove up to the door of Mr Pleggit’s shop, the assistants at first imagined that it was a mistake; few handsome carriages are to be seen stopping in this quarter of the metropolis. We descended and entered the shop, Mr Masterton inquiring if Mr Pleggit was at home. The shopmen, who had not recognised me, bowed to the ground in their awkward way; and one ran to call Mr Pleggit, who was up stairs. Mr Pleggit descended, and we walked into the back parlour. Mr Masterton then told him the object of our calling, and requested to know why the gentleman, who had inquired after me, had been sent away with the infamous fabrication that I had been transported for forgery. Mr Pleggit protested innocence—recollected, however, that a person had called—would make every inquiry of his shopmen. The head man was called in and interrogated—at first he appeared to make a joke of it, but when threatened by Mr Masterton became humble—acknowledged that they had said that I was transported, for they had read it in the newspapers—was sorry for the mistake; said that the gentleman was a very tall person, very well-dressed, very much of a gentleman—could not recollect his exact dress—was a large built man, with a stern face—but seemed very much agitated when he heard that I had been transported. Called twice, Mr Pleggit was not in at first—left his name—thinks the name was put down on the day-book—when he called a second time, Mr Pleggit was at home, and referred him to them, not knowing what had become of me. The other shopman was examined, and his evidence proved similar to that of the first. The day-book was sent for, and the day in August—referred to; there was a name written down on the side of the page, which the shopman said he had no doubt, indeed he could almost swear, was the gentleman’s name, as there was no other name put down on that day. The name, as taken down, was Derbennon. This was all the information we could obtain, and we then quitted the shop, and drove off without there being any recognition of me on the part of Mr Pleggit and his assistants.
“I never heard that name before,” observed Harcourt to Mr Masterton.
“It is, in all probability, De Benyon,” replied the lawyer: “we must make allowances for their ignorance. At all events, this is a sort of clue to follow up. The De Benyons are Irish.”
“Then I will set off for Ireland to-morrow morning, sir,” said I.
“You will do no such thing,” replied the lawyer; “but you will call upon me to-morrow evening, and perhaps I may have something to say to you.”
I did not fail to attend Mr Masterton, who stated that he had made every inquiry relative to the De Benyons; as he had said, they were an Irish family of the highest rank, and holding the peerage of De Beauvoir; but that he had written to his agent in Dublin, giving him directions to obtain for him every possible information in his power relative to all the individuals composing it. Till this had been received, all that I could do was to remain quiet. I then narrated to him the behaviour of the agent, Mr Iving, to Timothy. “There is some mystery there, most assuredly,” observed Mr Masterton: “when do you go again to—?”
I replied, that it was not my intention to go there for some time, unless he would wish to see the little girl.
“I do, Newland. I think I must take her under my protection as well as you. We will go down to-morrow. Sunday is the only day I can spare; but it must be put down as a work of charity.”
The next day we went down to —. Fleta was surprised to see me so soon, and Mr Masterton was much struck with the elegance and classical features of my little protégée. He asked her many questions, and, with his legal tact, contrived to draw from her many little points relative to her infant days, which she had, till he put his probing questions, quite forgotten. As we returned to town, he observed, “You are right, Japhet; that is no child of humble origin. Her very appearance contradicts it; but we have, I think, a chance of discovering who she is—a better one, I’m afraid, than at present we have for your identification. But never mind, let us trust to perseverance.”
For three weeks I continued to live with Harcourt, but I did not go out much. Such was the state of my affairs, when Timothy came to my room one morning, and said, “I do not know whether you have observed it, sir; but there is a man constantly lurking about here, watching the house, I believe. I think, but still I’m not quite sure, that I have seen his face before; but where I cannot recollect.”
“Indeed, what sort of a person may he be?”
“He is a very dark man, stout, and well made; and is dressed in a sort of half-sailor, half-gentleman’s dress, such as you see put on by those who belong to the Funny Clubs on the river; but he is not at all a gentleman himself—quite the contrary. It is now about a week that I have seen him, every day; and I have watched him, and perceive that he generally follows you as soon as you go out.”
“Well,” replied I, “we must find out what he wants—if we can. Point him out to me; I will soon see if he is tracing my steps.”
Timothy pointed him out to me after breakfast; I could not recollect the face, and yet it appeared that I had seen it before. I went out, and after passing half a dozen streets, I turned round and perceived that the man was dodging me. I took no notice, but being resolved to try him again, I walked to the White Horse Cellar, and took a seat inside a Brentford coach about to start. On my arrival at Brentford I got out, and perceived that the man was on the roof. Of a sudden it flashed on my memory—it was the gipsy who had come to the camp with the communication to Melchior, which induced him to quit it. I recollected him—and his kneeling down by the stream and washing his face. The mystery was solved—Melchior had employed him to find out the residence of Fleta. In all probability they had applied to the false address given by Timothy, and in consequence were trying, by watching my motions, to find out the true one. “You shall be deceived, at all events,” thought I, as I walked on through Brentford until I came to a ladies’ seminary. I rang the bell, and was admitted, stating my wish to know the terms of the school for a young lady, and contrived to make as long a stay as I could, promising to call again, if the relatives of the young lady were as satisfied as I professed to be. On my quitting the house, I perceived that my gipsy attendant was not far off. I took the first stage back, and returned to my lodgings. When I had told all that had occurred to Timothy, he replied, “I think, sir, that if you could replace me for a week or two, I could now be of great service. He does not know me, and if I were to darken my face, and put on a proper dress, I think I should have no difficulty in passing myself off as one of the tribe, knowing their slang, and having been so much with them.”
“But what good do you anticipate, Timothy?”
“My object is to find out where he puts up, and to take the same quarters—make his acquaintance, and find out who Melchior is, and where he lives. My knowledge of him and Nattée may perhaps assist me.”
“You must be careful, then, Timothy; for he may know sufficient of our history to suspect you.”
“Let me alone, sir. Do you like my proposal?”
“Yes, I do; you may commence your arrangements immediately.”
Part 2—Chapter XV
I set off on a wild-goose chase—And fall in with an old Friend.
The next morning Timothy had procured me another valet, and throwing off his liveries, made his appearance in the evening, sending up to say a man wished to speak to me. He was dressed in high-low boots, worsted stockings, greasy leather small clothes, a shag waistcoat, and a blue frock overall. His face was stained of a dark olive, and when he was ushered in, Harcourt, who was sitting at table with me, had not the slightest recognition of him. As Harcourt knew all my secrets, I had confided this; I had not told him what Timothy’s intentions were, as I wished to ascertain whether his disguise was complete. I had merely said I had given Timothy leave for a few days.
“Perhaps you may wish me away for a short time,” said Harcourt, looking at Tim.
“Not at all, my dear Harcourt, why should I? There’s nobody here but you and Timothy.”
“Timothy! excellent—upon my word, I never should have known him.”
“He is going forth on his adventures.”
“And if you please, sir, I will lose no time. It is now dark, and I know where the gipsy hangs out.”
“Success attend you then; but be careful Tim. You had better write to me, instead of calling.”
“I had the same idea: and now I wish you a good evening.”
When Timothy quitted the room, I explained our intentions to Harcourt.
“Yours is a strange adventurous sort of life, Newland; you are constantly plotted against, and plotting in your turn—mines and counter-mines. I have an idea that you will turn out some grand personage after all; for if not, why should there be all this trouble about you?”
“The trouble, in the present case, is all about Fleta; who must, by your argument, turn out some grand personage.”
“Well, perhaps she may. I should like to see that little girl, Newland.”
“That cannot be, just now, for reasons you well know; but some other time it will give me great pleasure.”
On the second day after Tim’s departure, I received a letter from him by the twopenny post. He had made the acquaintance of the gipsy, but had not extracted any information, being as yet afraid to venture any questions. He further stated that his new companion had no objection to a glass or two, and that he had no doubt but that if he could contrive to make him tipsy, in a few days he would have some important intelligence to communicate. I was in a state of great mental agitation during this time. I went to Mr Masterton, and narrated to him all that had passed. He was surprised and amused, and desired me not to fail to let him have the earliest intelligence of what came to light. He had not received any answer as yet from his agent in Dublin.
It was not until eight days afterwards that I received further communication from Timothy; and I was in a state of great impatience, combined with anxiety, lest any accident should have happened. His communication was important. He was on the most intimate footing with the man, who had proposed that he should assist him to carry off a little girl, who was at a school at Brentford. They had been consulting how this should be done, and Timothy had proposed forging a letter, desiring her to come up to town, and his carrying it as a livery servant. The man had also other plans, one of which was to obtain an entrance into the house by making acquaintance with the servants; another, by calling to his aid some of the women of his fraternity to tell fortunes: nothing was as yet decided, but that he was resolved to obtain possession of the little girl, even if he were obliged to resort to force. In either case Timothy was engaged to assist.
When I read this, I more than congratulated myself upon the man’s being on the wrong scent, and that Timothy had hit upon his scheme. Timothy continued;—that they had indulged in very deep potations last night, and that the man had not scrupled to say that he was employed by a person of large fortune, who paid well, and whom it might not be advisable to refuse, as he had great power. After some difficulty, he asked Timothy if he had ever heard the name of Melchior in his tribe. Timothy replied that he had, and that at the gathering he had seen him and his wife. Timothy at one time thought that the man was about to reveal everything, but of a sudden he stopped short, and gave evasive answers. To a question put by Timothy, as to where they were to take the child if they obtained possession of her, the man had replied, that she would go over the water. Such were the contents of the letter, and I eagerly awaited a further communication.
The next day I called at Long’s Hotel upon a gentleman with whom I was upon intimate terms. After remaining a short time with him, I was leaving the hotel, when I was attracted by some trunks in the entrance hall. I started when I read the address of—“A. De Benyon, Esquire, to be left at F—t Hotel, Dublin.” I asked the waiter who was by, whether Mr De Benyon had left the hotel. He replied that he had left it in his own carriage that morning, and having more luggage than he could take with him, had desired these trunks to be forwarded by the coach. I had by that time resumed my serenity. I took out a memorandum book, wrote down the address on the trunks, saying that I was sorry not to have seen Mr De Benyon, and that I would write to him.
But if I composed myself before the waiter, how did my heart throb as I hastily passed through Bond Street to my home! I had made up my mind, upon what very slight grounds the reader must be aware, that this Mr De Benyon either must be my father, or, if not, was able, to tell me who was. Had not Mr Masterton said that there was a clue—had he not written to Dublin? The case was to my excited imagination as clear as the noon-day, and before I arrived at home, I had made up my mind in what manner I should proceed. It was then about four o’clock. I hastily packed up my portmanteau—took with me all my ready money, about sixty pounds, and sent the servant to secure a place in the mail to Holyhead. He returned, stating that there was a seat taken for me. I waited till half-past five to see Harcourt, but he did not come home. I then wrote him a short note, telling him where I was going, and promising to write as soon as I arrived.
“Ireland is to be the ground of my future adventures, my dear Harcourt. Call upon Mr Masterton, and tell him what I have done, which he surely will approve. Open Timothy’s letters, and let me have their contents. I leave you to arrange and act for me in every respect until I return. In the mean time believe me,—
“Ever yours,—
“J. Newland.”
I gave the letter to the valet, and calling a coach drove to the office, and in less than five minutes afterwards was rolling away to Holyhead, felicitating myself upon my promptitude and decision, little imagining to what the step I had taken was to lead.
It was a very dark night in November when I started on my expedition. There were three other passengers in the mail, none of whom had yet spoken a word, although we had made several miles of our journey. Muffled up in my cloak, I indulged in my own reveries as usual, building up castles which toppled over one after another as I built and rebuilt again. At last one of the passengers blew his nose, as if to give warning that he was about to speak; and then inquired of the gentleman next him if he had seen the evening newspapers. The other replied in the negative. “It would appear that Ireland is not in a very quiet state, sir,” observed the first.
“Did you ever read the history of Ireland?” inquired the other.
“Not very particularly.”
“Then, sir, if you were to take that trouble, you will find that Ireland, since it was first peopled, never has been in a quiet state, nor perhaps ever will. It is a species of human volcano—always either smoking, burning, or breaking out into eruptions and fire.”
“Very true, sir,” replied the other. “I am told the White Boys are mustering in large numbers, and that some of the districts are quite impassable.”
“Sir, if you had travelled much in Ireland, you would have found out that many of the districts are quite impassable, without the impediment of the White Boys.”
“You have been a great deal in Ireland then, sir,” replied the other.
“Yes, sir,” said the other with a consequential air, “I believe I may venture to say that I am in charge of some of the most considerable properties in Ireland.”
“Lawyer—agent—five per cent—and so on,” muttered the third party, who sate by me, and had not yet spoken.
There was no mistaking him—it was my former master, Mr Cophagus; and I cannot say that I was very well pleased at this intimation of his presence, as I took it for granted that he would recognise me as soon as it was daylight. The conversation continued, without any remarks being made upon this interruption on the part of Mr Cophagus. The agent, it appeared, had been called to London on business, and was returning. The other was a professor of music, bound to Dublin on speculation. What called Mr Cophagus in that direction I could not comprehend; but I thought I would try and find out. I therefore, while the two others were engaged in conversation, addressed him in a low tone of voice. “Can you tell me, sir, if the College at Dublin is considered good for the instruction of surgical pupils?”
“Country good, at all events plenty of practice—broken heads—and so on.”
“Have you ever been in Ireland, sir?”
“Ireland!—never—don’t wish to go—must go—old women will die—executor—botheration—and so on.”
“I hope she has left you a good legacy, sir,” replied I.
“Legacy—humph—can’t tell—silver tea-pot—suit of black, and so on. Long journey—won’t pay—can’t be helped—old women always troublesome alive or dead—bury her, come back—and so on.”
Part 2—Chapter XVI
I deny my Master.
Although Mr Cophagus was very communicative in his own way, he had no curiosity with regard to others, and the conversation dropped. The other two had also asked all the questions which they wished, and we all, as if by one agreement, fell back in our seats, and shut our eyes, to court sleep. I was the only one who wooed it in vain. Day broke, my companions were all in repose, and I discontinued my reveries, and examined their physiognomies. Mr Cophagus was the first to whom I directed my attention. He was much the same in face as when I had left him, but considerably thinner in person. His head was covered with a white nightcap, and he snored with emphasis. The professor of music was a very small man, with mustachios: his mouth was wide open; and one would have thought that he was in the full execution of a bravura. The third person, who had stated himself to be an agent, was a heavy, full-faced, coarse-looking personage, with his hat over his eyes, and his head bent down on his chest, and I observed that he had a small packet in one of his hands, with his forefinger twisted through the string. I should not have taken further notice, had not the name of T. Iving, in the corner of the side on which was the direction, attracted my attention. It was the name of Melchior’s London correspondent, who had attempted to bribe Timothy. This induced me to look down and read the direction of the packet, and I clearly deciphered, Sir Henry de Clare, Bart., Mount Castle, Connemara. I took out my tablets, and wrote down the address. I certainly had no reason for so doing, except that nothing should be neglected, as there was no saying what might turn out. I had hardly replaced my tablets when the party awoke, made a sort of snatch at the packet, as if recollecting it, and wishing to ascertain if it were safe, looked at it, took off his hat, let down the window, and then looked round upon the other parties.
“Fine morning, sir,” said he to me, perceiving that I was the only person awake.
“Very,” replied I, “very fine; but I had rather be walking over the mountains of Connemara, than be shut up in this close and confined conveyance.”
“Hah! you know Connemara, then? I’m going there; perhaps you are also bound to that part of the country? but you are not Irish.”
“I was not born or bred in Ireland, certainly,” replied I.
“So I should say Irish blood in your veins, I presume.”
“I believe such to be the case,” replied I, with a smile, implying certainty.
“Do you know Sir Henry de Clare?”
“Sir Henry de Clare—of Mount Castle—is he not?”
“The same; I am going over to him. I am agent for his estates, among others. A very remarkable man. Have you ever seen his wife?”
“I really cannot tell,” replied I; “let me call to mind.”
I had somehow or another formed an idea, that Sir Henry de Clare and Melchior might be one and the same person; nothing was too absurd or improbable for my imagination, and I had now means of bringing home my suspicions. “I think,” continued I, “I recollect her—that is, she is a very tall, handsome woman, dark eyes and complexion.”
“The very same,” replied he.
My heart bounded at the information; it certainly was not any clue to my own parentage, but it was an object of my solicitude, and connected with the welfare of Fleta. “If I recollect right,” observed I, “there are some curious passages in the life of Sir Henry?”
“Nothing very particular,” observed the agent, looking out of the window.
“I thought that he had disappeared for some time.”
“Disappeared! he certainly did not live in Ireland, because he had quarrelled with his brother. He lived in England until his brother’s death.”
“How did his brother die, sir?”
“Killed by a fall when hunting,” replied the agent. “He was attempting to clear a stone wall, the horse fell back on him, and dislocated his spine. I was on the spot when the accident happened.”
I recollected the imperfect communication of Fleta, who had heard the gipsy say that “he was dead;” and also the word horse made use of, and I now felt convinced that I had found out Melchior. “Sir Henry, if I recollect right, has no family,” observed I.
“No; and I am afraid there is but little chance.”
“Had the late baronet, his elder brother, any family?”
“What, Sir William? No; or Sir Henry would not have come into the title.”
“He might have had daughters,” replied I.
“Very true; now I think of it, there was a girl, who died when young.”
“Is the widow of Sir William alive?”
“Yes; and a very fine woman she is; but she has left Ireland since her husband’s death.”
I did not venture to ask any more questions. Our conversation had roused Mr Cophagus and the other passenger; and as I had reflected how I should behave in case of recognition, I wished to be prepared for him.
“You have had a good nap, sir,” said I, turning to him.
“Nap—yes—coach nap, bad—head sore—and so on. Why—bless me—Japhet—Japhet New—yes—it is.”
“Do you speak to me, sir?” inquired I, with a quiet air.
“Speak to you—yes—bad memory—hip! quite forgot—old master—shop in Smithfield—mad bull—and so on.”
“Really, sir,” replied I, “I am afraid you mistake me for some other person.”
Mr Cophagus looked very hard at me, and perceiving that there was no alteration in my countenance, exclaimed, “Very odd—same nose—same face—same age too—very odd—like as two pills—beg pardon—made a mistake—and so on.”
Satisfied with the discomfiture of Mr Cophagus, I turned round, when I perceived the Irish agent, with whom I had been in conversation, eyeing me most attentively. As I said before, he was a hard-featured man, and his small grey eye was now fixed upon me, as if it would have pierced me through. I felt confused for a moment, as the scrutiny was unexpected from that quarter; but a few moments’ reflection told me, that if Sir Henry de Clare and Melchior were the same person, and this man his agent, in all probability he had not been sent to England for nothing; that if he was in search of Fleta, he must have heard of my name, and perhaps something of my history. “I appear to have a great likeness to many people,” observed I, to the agent, smiling. “It was but the other day I was stopped in Bond Street as a Mr Rawlinson.”
“Not a very common face either, sir,” observed the agent: “if once seen not easily forgotten, nor easily mistaken for another.”
“Still such appears to be the case,” replied I, carelessly. We now stopped to take refreshment. I had risen from the table, and was going into the passage, when I perceived the agent looking over the way-bill with the guard. As soon as he perceived me, he walked out in front of the inn. Before the guard had put up the bill, I requested to look at it, wishing to ascertain if I had been booked in my own name. It was so. The four names were, Newland, Cophagus, Baltzi, McDermott. I was much annoyed at this circumstance. McDermott was, of course, the name of the agent; and that was all the information I received in return for my own exposure, which I now considered certain; I determined, however, to put a good face on the matter, and when we returned to the coach, again entered into conversation with Mr McDermott, but I found him particularly guarded in his replies whenever I spoke about Sir Henry or his family, and I could not obtain any further information. Mr Cophagus could not keep his eyes off me—he peered into my face—then he would fall back in the coach. “Odd—very odd—must be—no—says not—um.” In about another half hour, he would repeat his examination, and mutter to himself. At last, as if tormented with his doubts, he exclaimed, “Beg pardon—but—you have a name?”
“Yes,” replied I, “I have a name.”
“Well, then—not ashamed. What is it?”
“My name, sir,” replied I, “is Newland;” for I had resolved to acknowledge to my name, and fall back upon a new line of defence.
“Thought so—don’t know me—don’t recollect shop—Mr Brookes’s—Tim—rudiments—and so on.”
“I have not the least objection to tell you my name; but I am afraid you have the advantage in your recollection of me. Where may I have had the honour of meeting you?”
“Meeting—what, quite forgot—Smithfield?”
“And pray, sir, where may Smithfield be?”
“Very odd—can’t comprehend—same name, same face—don’t recollect me, don’t recollect Smithfield?”
“It may be very odd, sir; but, as I am very well known in London, at the west end, perhaps we have met there. Lord Windermear’s, perhaps—Lady Maelstrom’s?”—and I continued mentioning about a dozen of the most fashionable names. “At all events, you appear to have the advantage of me; but I trust you will excuse my want of memory, as my acquaintance is very extensive.”
“I see—quite a mistake—same name, not same person—beg pardon, sir—apologies—and so on,” replied the apothecary, drawing in a long sigh.
