Фредерик Марриет
Japhet in Search of a Father
Part 2—Chapter XVII
I turn Lawyer.
I watched the countenance of the agent, who appeared at last to be satisfied that there had been some mistake; at least he became more communicative; and as I no longer put any questions to him relative to Sir Henry, we had a long conversation. I spoke to him about the De Benyons, making every inquiry that I could think of. He informed me that the deceased earl, the father of the present, had many sons, who were some of them married, and that the family was extensive. He appeared to know them all, the professions which they had been brought up to, and their careers in life. I treasured up this information, and, as soon as I had an opportunity, wrote down all which he had told me. On our arrival at Holyhead, the weather was very boisterous, and the packet was to depart immediately. Mr McDermott stated his intentions to go over, but Mr Cophagus and the professor declined; and, anxious as I was to proceed, I did not wish to be any longer in company with the agent, and, therefore, also declined going on board. Mr McDermott called for a glass of brandy and water, drank it off in haste, and then, followed by the porter, with his luggage, went down to embark.
As soon as he was gone, I burst into a fit of laughter. “Well, Mr Cophagus, acknowledge that it is possible to persuade a man out of his senses. You knew me, and you were perfectly right in asserting that I was Japhet, yet did I persuade you at last that you were mistaken. But I will explain to you why I did so.”
“All right,” said the apothecary, taking my proffered hand, “thought so—no mistake—handsome fellow—so you are—Japhet Newland—my apprentice—and so on.”
“Yes, sir,” replied I, laughing, “I am Japhet Newland.” (I turned round, hearing a noise, the door had been opened, and Mr McDermott had just stepped in; he had returned for an umbrella, which he had forgotten; he looked at me, at Mr Cophagus, who still held my hand in his, turned short round, said nothing, and walked out.) “This is unfortunate,” observed I: “my reason for not avowing myself was to deceive that very person, and now I have made the avowal to his face; however, it cannot be helped.”
I sat down with my old master, and as I knew that I could confide in him, gave him an outline of my life, and stated my present intentions.
“I see, Japhet, I see—done mischief—sorry for it—can’t be helped—do all I can—um—what’s to be done—be your friend—always like you—help all I can—and so on.”
“But what would you advise, sir?”
“Advice—bad as physic—nobody takes it—Ireland—wild place—no law—better go back—leave all to me—find out—and so on.”
This advice I certainly did not consent to follow.
We argued the matter over for some time, and then it was agreed that we should proceed together. I was informed by Mr Cophagus that he had retired with a very handsome fortune, and was living in the country, about ten miles from the metropolis; that he had been summoned to attend the funeral of a maiden aunt in Dublin, who had left him executor and residuary legatee, but that he knew nothing of her circumstances. He was still a bachelor, and amused himself in giving advice and medicines gratis to the poor people of the village in which he resided, there being no resident practitioner within some distance. He liked the country very much, but there was one objection to it—the cattle. He had not forgotten the mad bull. At a very late hour we retired to our beds: the next morning the weather had moderated, and, on the arrival of the mail, we embarked, and had a very good passage over. On my arrival at Dublin I directed my steps to the F—t Hotel, as the best place to make inquiries relative to Mr De Benyon. Mr Cophagus also put up at the same hotel, and we agreed to share a sitting-room.
“Waiter,” said I, “do you know a Mr De Benyon?”
“Yes, sir,” replied he; “there is one of the De Benyons at the hotel at this moment.”
“Is he a married man?”
“Yes—with a large family.”
“What is his Christian name?”
“I really cannot tell, sir; but I’ll find out for you by to-morrow morning.”
“When does he leave?”
“To-morrow, I believe.”
“Do you know where he goes?”
“Yes, sir, to his own seat.”
The waiter left the room. “Won’t do, Japhet,” said Cophagus. “Large family—don’t want more—hard times, and so on.”
“No,” replied I, “it does not exactly answer; but I may from him obtain further intelligence.”
“Won’t do, Japhet—try another way—large family—want all uncle’s money—um—never tell—good night.”
This remark of Mr Cophagus gave me an idea, upon which I proceeded the next morning. I sent in my card requesting the honour of speaking to Mr De Benyon, stating that I had come over to Ireland on business of importance, but that, as I must be back if possible by term time, it would perhaps save much expense and trouble. The waiter took in the message.
“Back by term time—it must be some legal gentleman. Show him up,” said Mr De Benyon.
I walked in with a business-like air. “Mr De Benyon, I believe?”
“Yes, sir; will you do me the favour to take a chair?”
I seated myself, and drew out my memorandum book. “My object, Mr De Benyon, in troubling you, is to ascertain a few particulars relative to your family, which we cannot so easily find out in England. There is a property which it is supposed may be claimed by one of the De Benyons, but which we cannot ascertain until we have a little search into the genealogical tree.”
“Is the property large?” inquired Mr De Benyon.
“Not very large,” replied I; “but still a very handsome property, I am told.” The reader may surmise that the property referred to was my own pretty self. “May I ask you a few particulars relative to the present earl and his brothers?”
“Most certainly, sir,” replied Mr De Benyon; “any information I can give you will be at your service. The earl has four brothers. The eldest Maurice.”
“Is he married?”
“Yes, and has two children. The next is William.”
“Is he married?”
“No; nor has he ever been. He is a general in the army. The third is myself, Henry.”
“You are married, I believe, sir?”
“Yes, with a large family.”
“May I request you will proceed, sir?”
“Arthur is the fourth brother. He is lately married, and has two children.”
“Sir, I feel much obliged to you; it is a curious and intricate affair. As I am here, I may as well ask one question, although not of great consequence. The earl is married, I perceive, by the peerage, but I do not find that he has any children.”
“On the contrary, he has two—and prospects of more. May I now request the particulars connected with this property?”
“The exact particulars, sir, I cannot well tell you, as I am not acquainted with them myself; but the property in question, I rather think, depends upon a name. May I venture to ask the names of all your children?”
Mr De Benyon gave me a list seriatim, which I put down with great gravity.
“Of course, there is no doubt of your second brother not being married. I believe we ought to have a certificate. Do you know his address?”
“He has been in the East Indies for many years. He returned home on furlough, and has now just sailed again for Calcutta.”
“That is unfortunate; we must forward a letter through the India Board. May I also be favoured with your address, as in all probability it may be advisable?”
Mr De Benyon gave me his address. I rose, promised to give him all the particulars as soon as they were known to me, bowed, and made my exit. To one who was in his sober senses, there certainly was not any important information gained; but to me, it was evident that the Mr De Benyon who was a general in the army was to be interrogated, and I had almost made up my mind to set off for Calcutta.
Part 2—Chapter XVIII
I affront an Irish Gentleman and make a handsome Apology, which is accepted.
Before I had gained my own room, I informed Mr Cophagus, who had just returned from a visit to his maiden aunt’s house, of what had passed.
“Can’t see anything in it, Japhet—wild-goose chase—who told you?—oh! Pleggit’s men—sad liars—De Benyon not name, depend upon it—all stuff, and so on.”
And when I reflected, I could but acknowledge that the worthy apothecary might be right, and that I was running after shadows; but this was only in my occasional fits of despondency: I soon rallied, and was as sanguine as ever. Undecided how to proceed, and annoyed by what Cophagus had said, I quitted the hotel, to walk out in no very good humour. As I went out, I perceived the agent McDermott speaking to the people in the bar, and the sight of him reminded me of what, for a moment, I had forgotten, which was, to ascertain whether Melchior and Sir Henry de Clare were one and the same person. As I passed a crossing, a man in tattered habiliments, who was sweeping it, asked for alms, but being in no very charitable humour, I walked on. He followed me, pestering me so much, that I gave him a tap with the cane in my hand, saying to him, “Be off, you scoundrel.”
“Oh! very well. Be off, is it you mane? By the blood of the O’Rourkes but you’ll answer for that same, anyhow.”
I passed on, and having perambulated the city of Dublin for some time, returned to the hotel. A few minutes afterwards, I was told by the waiter that a Mr O’Donaghan wished to speak to me. “I have not the honour of his acquaintance,” replied I, “but you may show him up.”
Mr O’Donaghan entered, a tall, thick-whiskered personage, in a shabby-genteel dress, evidently not made for him, a pair of white cotton gloves, and a small stick. “I believe that I have the honour of spaking to the gentleman who crossed over the street about two hours ago?”
“Upon my word, sir,” replied I, “that is so uncertain a definition that I can hardly pretend to say whether I am the person you mean; indeed, from not having the pleasure of anyone’s acquaintance in Dublin, I rather think there must be some mistake.”
“The devil a bit of a mistake, at all at all; for there’s the little bit of a cane with which you paid my friend, Mr O’Rourke, the compliment over his shoulders.”
“I really am quite mystified, sir, and do not understand you; will you favour me with an explanation?”
“With all the pleasure in life, for then we shall come to a right understanding. You were crossing the street, and a gentleman, a particular friend of mine, with a broom which he carries for his own amusement, did himself the honour to address you, whereupon, of that same little stick of yours, you did him the honour to give him a slight taste.”
“What do you mean? do you refer to the sweeper, who was so importunate when I crossed over the road?”
“Then, by the powers, you’ve just hit it, as you did him. That’s my particular friend, Thaddeus O’Rourke, gentleman.”
“Gentleman!” exclaimed I.
“And with as good and as true Milesian blood as any in Ireland. If you think, sir, that because my friend, just for his own amusement, thinks proper to put on the worst of his clothes and carry a broom, just by way of exercise, to prevent his becoming too lusty, he is therefore to be struck like a hound, it’s a slight mistake, that’s all; and here sir, is his card, and you will oblige me by mentioning any friend of yours with whom I may settle all the little points necessary before the meeting of two gentleman.”
I could hardly refrain from laughing at this Irish gentleman and his friend, but I thought it advisable to retain my countenance. “My dear sir,” replied I, “it grieves me to the heart that I should have committed such an error, in not perceiving the gentility of your friend; had I not been so careless, I certainly should have requested him to do me the honour to accept a shilling, instead of having offered him the insult. I hope it is not now too late?”
“By the powers, I’m not one of those harum-scarum sort, who would make up a fight when there’s no occasion for it, and as your ’haviour is that of a gentleman, I think it will perhaps be better to shake hands upon it, and forget it altogether. Suppose now, we’ll consider that it was all a mistake? You give the shilling as you intended to do, I’ll swear only you were in so great a hurry—and then, perhaps, you’ll not object to throw in another shilling for that same tap with the cane, just to wipe off the insult as it were, as we do our sins, when we fork out the money, and receive absolution from the padre; and then, perhaps, you will not think it too much if I charge another shilling for my time and trouble, for carrying a message between two gentlemen.”
“On the contrary, Mr O’Donaghan, I think all your demands are reasonable. Here is the money.”
Mr O’Donaghan took the three shillings. “Then, sir, and many thanks to you, I’ll wish you a good evening, and Mr O’Rourke shall know from me that you have absolution for the whole, and that you have offered every satisfaction which one gentleman could expect from another.” So saying Mr O’Donaghan put his hat on with a firm cock, pulled on his gloves, manoeuvred his stick, and, with a flourishing bow, took his departure.
I had hardly dismissed this gentleman, and was laughing to myself at the ridiculous occurrence, when Mr Cophagus returned, first putting his cane up to his nose with an arch look, and then laying it down on the table and rubbing his hands. “Good—warm old lady. No—dead and cold—but left some thousands—only one legacy—old Tom cat—physic him to-morrow—soon die, and so on.”
On a more full explanation, I found that the old lady had left about nine thousand pounds in the funds and bank securities, all of which, with the exception of twenty pounds per annum to a favourite cat, was left to Mr Cophagus. I congratulated him upon this accession of fortune. He stated that the lease of the house and the furniture were still to be disposed of, and that afterwards he should have nothing more to do; but he wished me very much to assist him in rummaging over the various cabinets belonging to the old lady, and which were full of secret drawers; that in one cabinet alone he had found upwards of fifty pounds in various gold coins, and that if not well examined, they would probably be sold with many articles of consequence remaining in them.
As my only object in Ireland was to find out Sir Henry de Clare, and identify him, (but, really, why I could not have said, as it would have proved nothing after all,) I willingly consented to devote a day to assist Mr Cophagus in his examination. The next morning after breakfast, we went together to the house of the old lady, whose name had been Maitland, as Mr Cophagus informed me. Her furniture was of the most ancient description, and in every room in the house there was an ormolu, or Japan cabinet; some of them were very handsome, decorated with pillars, and silver ornaments. I can hardly recount the variety of articles, which in all probability had been amassed during the whole of the old lady’s life, commencing with her years of childhood, and ending with the day of her death. There were antique ornaments, some of considerable value, miniatures, fans, etuis, notes, of which the ink, from time, had turned to a light red, packages of letters of her various correspondents in her days of hope and anticipation, down to those of solitude and age. We looked over some of them, but they appeared to both of us to be sacred, and they were, after a slight examination, committed to the flames.
After we had examined all the apparent receptacles in these cabinets, we took them up between us, and shook them, and in most cases found out that there were secret drawers containing other treasures. There was one packet of letters which caught my eye; it was from a Miss De Benyon. I seized it immediately, and showed the inscription to Mr Cophagus. “Pooh—nothing at all—her mother was a De Benyon.”
“Have you any objection to my looking at these letters?”
“No—read—nothing in them.”
I laid them on one side, and we proceeded in our search when Mr Cophagus took up a sealed packet. “Heh! what’s this—De Benyon again? Japhet, look here.”
I took the packet; it was seated and tied with red tape. “Papers belonging to Lieutenant William De Benyon, to be returned to him at my decease.”
“Alice Maitland, with great care,” was written at the bottom of the envelope.
“This is it, my dear sir,” cried I, jumping up and embracing Mr Cophagus; “these are the papers which I require. May I keep them?”
“Mad—quite mad—go to Bedlam—strait waistcoat—head shaved—and so on.”
Part 2—Chapter XIX
I am not content with minding my own Business, but must have a Hand in that of Others, by which Means I put my Foot in it.
He then, after his own fashion, told me, that, as executor he must retain those papers; pointed out to me the little probability there was of their containing any information relative to my birth, even allowing that a person of the name of De Benyon did call at the Foundling to ask for me, which was only a supposition; and, finally, overthrew all the hopes which had been, for so many days, buoying me up. When he had finished, I threw myself upon the sofa in despair, and wished, at the moment, that I had never been born. Still hope again rose uppermost, and I would have given all I possessed to have been able to break open the seals of that packet, and have read the contents. At one moment I was so frantic, that I was debating whether I should not take them from Mr Cophagus by force, and run off with them. At last I rose, and commenced reading the letters which I had put aside, but there was nothing in them but the trifling communications of two young women, who mentioned what was amusing to them, but uninteresting to those who were not acquainted with the parties.
When we had finished, Mr Cophagus collected all together, and putting them into a box, we returned in a coach to the hotel. The next day Mr Cophagus had completed all his arrangements, and the day following had determined to return to England. I walked with him down to the vessel, and watched it for an hour after it had sailed, for it bore away a packet of papers, which I could not help imagining were to discover the secret which I was so eager in pursuit of. A night’s sleep made me more rational, and I now resolved to ascertain where Sir Henry de Clare, or Melchior, as I felt certain he must be, was to be found. I sent for the waiter, and asked him if he could inform me. He immediately replied in the affirmative, and gave his address, Mount Castle, Connemara, asking me when I intended to set out. It did not strike me till afterwards, that it was singular that he should be so well acquainted with the address, and that he should have produced a card with it written upon it; or, moreover, that he should know that it was my intention to go there. I took the address, and desired that I might have horses ready very early the next morning. I then sat down and wrote a letter to Harcourt, informing him of my proceedings, also one to Mr Masterton much more explicit, lastly to Timothy, to the care of Harcourt, requesting him to let me know what had occurred between him and the gipsies. After dinner, I packed up ready for my journey, and having settled my bill, I was not sorry to retire to my bed.
At daylight I was, as I requested, called by the waiter; and taking with me only a very small portmanteau, having left the rest of my effects in the charge of the people who kept the hotel, I set off in a post-chaise on my expedition. I was soon clear of the city, and on a fine smooth road, and, as I threw myself back in the corner of the chaise, I could not help asking myself the question—what was the purport of my journey? As the reader will perceive, I was wholly governed by impulses, and never allowed reason or common sense to stand in the way of my feelings. “What have I to do?” replied I to myself; “to find out if Melchior and Sir Henry de Clare be not one and the same person. And what then? What then?—why then I may find out something relative to Fleta’s parentage. Nay, but is that likely—if, as you suppose, Melchior is Sir Henry de Clare—if, as you suppose, it is he who is now trying to find out and carry off Fleta—is it probable that you will gain any information from him? I have no idea that Fleta is the little girl said to have died, who was the child of his elder brother. Why so? What interest could Melchior have in stealing his own niece? That I cannot tell. Why did Nattée give me the necklace? I cannot tell; she would hardly betray her husband. At all events, there is a mystery, and it can only be unravelled by being pulled at; and I may learn something by meeting Melchior, whereas I shall learn nothing by remaining quiet.” This last idea satisfied me; and for many hours I remained in a train of deep thought, only checked by paying for the horses at the end of every stage.
It was now past twelve o’clock, when I found that it was necessary to change the chaise at every post. The country also, as well as the roads, had changed much for the worse. Cultivation was not so great, the roads were mountainous, and civilisation generally disappeared. It was nearly dark when I arrived at the last post, from whence I was to take horses to Mount Castle. As usual, the chaise also was to be changed; and I could not help observing that each change was from bad to worse. Rope harness was used, and the vehicles themselves were of the most crazy condition. Still I had travelled very fairly; for an Irish postilion knows how to make an Irish horse go very fair pace. I descended from the chaise, and ordered another out immediately. To this there was no reply, except, “Wait, your honour; step in a moment, and rest from your fatigue a little.” Presuming this was merely to give them time to get ready, I walked into the room of the inn, which indeed was very little better than a hovel, and sat down by the turf fire in company with some others, whom I could hardly distinguish for smoke. I paid the chaise and postilion, and soon afterwards heard it drive off, on its way back. After a few minutes I inquired if the chaise was getting ready.
“Is it the chaise your honour means?” said the landlady.
“Yes,” replied I; “a chaise on to Mount Castle.”
“Then I am sorry that your honour must wait a little for our chaise, and the only one which we have, is gone to the castle, and won’t be back till long after the moon is up. What will your honour please to take?”
“Not back till moonlight!” replied I; “why did you not say so? and I would have gone on with the other.”
“Is it with the other you mane, your honour? Then if Teddy Driscoll could make his horses go one step farther than our door, may I never have a soul to be saved. Will your honour please to sit in the little room? Kathleen shall light a fire.”
Vexed as I was with the idea of passing the night in this horrid place, there was no help for it; so I took up my portmanteau, and followed the landlady to a small room, if it deserved the appellation, which had been built after the cottage, and a door broken through the wall into it. Ceiling there was none; it had only lean-to rafters, with tiles overhead. I took a seat on the only stool that was in the room, and leant my elbow on the table in no very pleasant humour, when I heard the girl say, “And why don’t you let him go on to the castle? Sure the chaise is in the yard, and the horses are in the stable.”
“There’s orders ’gainst it, Kathleen,” replied the landlady. “Mr McDermott was here this blessed day, and who can deny him?”
“Who is he then?” replied the girl.
“An attorney with a warrant against Sir Henry; and, moreover, they say that he’s coming to ’strain upon the cattle of Jerry O’Toole for the tithes.”
“He’s a bould young chap, at all events,” replied the girl, “to come here all by himself.”
“Oh! but it’s not till to-morrow morning, and then we’ll have the troops here to assist him.”
“And does Jerry O’Toole know of this?”
“Sure enough he does; and I hope there’ll be no murder committed in my house this blessed night. But what can a poor widow do when McDermott holds up his finger? Now, go light the fire, Kathleen, and see if the poor young man wants anything; it’s a burning pity that he shouldn’t have something to comfort him before his misfortunes fall upon him.”
Kathleen made no reply. The horror that I felt at this discourse may easily be imagined. That it was intended that I should meet with foul play was certain, and I knew very well that, in such a desolate part of the country, the murder of an individual, totally unknown, would hardly be noticed. That I had been held up to the resentment of the inhabitants as a tithe collector, and an attorney with a warrant, was quite sufficient, I felt conscious, to induce them to make away with me. How to undeceive them was the difficulty.
