Фредерик Марриет
Japhet in Search of a Father
Part 2—Chapter XXVI
In which, if the Reader does not sympathise with the Parties, he had better shut the Book.
In a few minutes Lady de Clare was sufficiently recovered to hear the outline of our history; and as soon as it was over, she insisted upon immediately going with us to the school where Fleta was domiciled, as she could ascertain, by several marks known but to a nurse or mother, if more evidence was required, whether Fleta was her child or not. To allow her to remain in such a state of anxiety was impossible, Mr Masterton agreed, and we posted to —, where we arrived in the evening. “Now, gentlemen, leave me but one minute with the child, and when I ring the bell, you may enter.” Lady de Clare was in so nervous and agitated a state, that she could not walk into the parlour without assistance. We led her to a chair, and in a minute Fleta was called down. Perceiving me in the passage, she ran to me. “Stop, my dear Fleta, there is a lady in the parlour, who wishes to see you.”
“A lady, Japhet?”
“Yes, my dear, go in.”
Fleta obeyed, and in a minute we heard a scream, and Fleta hastily opened the door, “Quick! quick! the lady has fallen down.”
We ran in and found Lady de Clare on the floor, and it was some time before she returned to her senses. As soon as she did, she fell down on her knees, holding up her hands as in prayer, and then stretched her arms out to Fleta. “My child! my long-lost child! it is—it is, indeed!” A flood of tears poured forth on Fleta’s neck relieved her, and we then left them together; old Masterton observing, as we took our seats in the back parlour, “By Gad, Japhet, you deserve to find your own father!”
In about an hour Lady de Clare requested to see us. Fleta rushed into my arms and sobbed, while her mother apologised to Mr Masterton for the delay and excusable neglect towards him.
“Mr Newland, madam, is the person to whom you are indebted for your present happiness. I will now, if you please, take my leave, and will call upon you to-morrow.”
“I will not detain you, Mr Masterton; but Mr Newland will, I trust, come home with Cecilia and me; I have much to ask of him.” I consented, and Mr Masterton went back to town; I went to the principal hotel to order a chaise and horses, while Fleta packed up her wardrobe.
In half an hour we set off, and it was midnight before we arrived at Richmond. During my journey I narrated to Lady de Clare every particular of our meeting with Fleta. We were all glad to go to bed; and the kind manner in which Lady de Clare wished me good night, with “God bless you, Mr Newland!” brought the tears into my eyes.
I breakfasted alone the next morning, Lady de Clare and her daughter remaining up stairs. It was nearly twelve o’clock when they made their appearance, both so apparently happy, that I could not help thinking, “When shall I have such pleasure—when shall I find out who is my father?” My brow was clouded as the thought entered my mind, when Lady de Clare requested that I would inform her who it was to whom she and her daughter were under such eternal obligations. I had then to relate my own eventful history, most of which was as new to Cecilia (as she now must be called) as it was to her mother. I had just terminated the escape from the castle, when Mr Masterton’s carriage drove up to the door. As soon as he had bowed to Lady de Clare, he said to me, “Japhet, here is a letter directed to you, to my care, from Ireland which I have brought for you.”
“It is from Kathleen McShane, sir,” replied I, and requesting leave, I broke the seal. It contained another. I read Kathleen’s, and then hastily opened the other. It was from Nattée, or Lady H. de Clare, and ran as follows—
“Japhet Newland,—Fleta is the daughter of Sir William de Clare. Dearly has my husband paid for his act of folly and wickedness, and to which you must know I never was a party.
“Yours,
“Nattée.”
The letter from Kathleen added more strange information. Lady de Clare, after the funeral of her husband had sent for the steward, made every necessary arrangement, discharged the servants, and then had herself disappeared, no one knew whither; but it was reported that somebody very much resembling her had been seen travelling south in company with a gang of gipsies. I handed both letters over to Lady de Clare and Mr Masterton.
“Poor Lady de Clare!” observed the mother.
“Nattée will never leave her tribe,” observed Cecilia quietly.
“You are right, my dear,” replied I. “She will be happier with her tribe where she commands as a queen, than ever she was at the castle.”
Mr Masterton then entered into a detail with Lady de Clare as to what steps ought immediately to be taken, as the heirs-at-law would otherwise give some trouble; and having obtained her acquiescence, it was time to withdraw. “Mr Newland, I trust you will consider us as your warmest friends. I am so much in your debt, that I never can repay you; but I am also in your debt in a pecuniary way—that, at least, you must permit me to refund.”
“When I require it, Lady de Clare, I will accept it. Do not, pray, vex me by the proposition. I have not much happiness as it is, although I am rejoiced at yours and that of your daughter.”
“Come, Lady de Clare, I must not allow you to tease my protégé, you do not know how sensitive he is. We will now take our leave.”
“You will come soon,” said Cecilia, looking anxiously at me.
“You have your mother, Cecilia,” replied I; “what can you wish for more? I am a—nobody—without a parent.”
Cecilia burst into tears: I embraced her, and Mr Masterton and I left the room.
Part 2—Chapter XXVII
I return to the gay World, but am not well received; I am quite disgusted with it and Honesty, and everything else.
How strange, now that I had succeeded in the next dearest object of my wishes, after ascertaining my own parentage, that I should have felt so miserable; but it was the fact, and I cannot deny it. I could hardly answer Mr Masterton during our journey to town; and when I threw myself on the sofa in my own room, I felt as if I was desolate and deserted. I did not repine at Cecilia’s happiness; so far from it, I would have sacrificed my life for her; but she was a creature of my own—one of the objects in this world to which I was endeared—one that had been dependent on me and loved me. Now that she was restored to her parent, she rose above me, and I was left still more desolate. I do not know that I ever passed a week of such misery as the one which followed a dénouement productive of so much happiness to others, and which had been sought with so much eagerness, and at so much risk, by myself. It was no feeling of envy, God knows; but it appeared to me as if everyone in the world was to be made happy except myself. But I had more to bear up against.
When I had quitted for Ireland, it was still supposed that I was a young man of large fortune—the truth had not been told. I had acceded to Mr Masterton’s suggestions, that I was no longer to appear under false colours, and had requested Harcourt, to whom I made known my real condition, that he would everywhere state the truth. News like this flies like wildfire: there were too many whom, perhaps, when under the patronage of Major Carbonnell, and the universal rapture from my supposed wealth, I had treated with hauteur, glad to receive the intelligence, and spread it far and wide. My imposition, as they pleased to term it, was the theme of every party, and many were the indignant remarks of the dowagers who had so often indirectly proposed to me their daughters; and if there was anyone more virulent than the rest, I hardly need say that it was Lady Maelstrom, who nearly killed her job horses in driving about from one acquaintance to another, to represent my unheard-of atrocity in presuming to deceive my betters. Harcourt, who had agreed to live with me—Harcourt, who had praised my magnanimity in making the disclosure—even Harcourt fell off; and about a fortnight after I had arrived in town, told me that not finding the lodgings so convenient as his former abode, he intended to return to it. He took a friendly leave; but I perceived that if we happened to meet in the streets, he often contrived to be looking another way; and at last, a slight recognition was all that I received. Satisfied that it was intended, I no longer noticed him: he followed but the example of others. So great was the outcry raised by those who had hoped to have secured me as a good match, that any young man of fashion who was seen with me, had, by many, his name erased from their visiting lists. This decided my fate, and I was alone. For some time I bore up proudly; I returned a glance of defiance, but this could not last. The treatment of others received a slight check from the kindness of Lord Windermear, who repeatedly asked me to his table; but I perceived that even there, although suffered as a protégé of his lordship, anything more than common civility was studiously avoided, in order that no intimacy might result. Mr Masterton, upon whom I occasionally called, saw that I was unwell and unhappy. He encouraged me; but, alas! a man must be more than mortal, who, with fine feelings, can endure the scorn of the world. Timothy, poor fellow, who witnessed more of my unhappy state of mind than anybody else, offered in vain his consolation. “And this,” thought I, “is the reward of virtue and honesty. Truly, virtue is its own reward, for it obtains no other. As long as I was under false colours, allowing the world to deceive themselves, I was courted and flattered. Now that I have thrown off the mask, and put on the raiment of truth, I am a despised, miserable being. Yes; but is not this my own fault? Did I not, by my own deception, bring all this upon myself? Whether unmasked by others, or by myself, is it not equally true that I have been playing false, and am now punished for it? What do the world care for your having returned to truth? You have offended by deceiving them, and that is an offence which your repentance will not extenuate.” It was but too true, I had brought it all on myself, and this reflection increased my misery. For my dishonesty, I had been justly and severely punished: whether I was ever to be rewarded for my subsequent honesty still remained to be proved; but I knew very well that most people would have written off such a reward as a bad debt.
Once I consulted with Mr Masterton as to the chance of there being any information relative to my birth in the packet left in the charge of Mr Cophagus. “I have been thinking over it, my dear Newland,” said he, “and I wish I could give you any hopes, but I cannot. Having succeeded with regard to your little protégé, you are now so sanguine with respect to yourself, that a trifle light as air is magnified, as the poet says, ‘into confirmation strong as holy writ.’ Now, consider, somebody calls at the Foundling to ask after you—which I acknowledge to be a satisfactory point—his name is taken down by an illiterate brute, as Derbennon; but how you can decide upon the real name, and assume it is De Benyon, is really more than I can imagine, allowing every scope to fancy. It is in the first instance, therefore, you are at fault, as there are many other names which may have been given by the party who called; nay, more, is it at all certain that the party, in a case like this, would give his real name? Let us follow it up. Allowing the name to have been De Benyon, you discover that one brother is not married, and that there are some papers belonging to him in the possession of an old woman who dies; and upon these slight grounds what would you attempt to establish that because that person was known not to have married, therefore he was married (for you are stated to have been born in wedlock); and because there is a packet of papers belonging to him in the possession of another party, that this packet of papers must refer to you. Do you not perceive how you are led away by your excited feelings on the subject?”
I could not deny that Mr Masterton’s arguments had demolished the whole fabric which I had built up. “You are right, sir,” replied I mournfully. “I wish I were dead.”
“Never speak in that way, Mr Newland, before me,” replied the old lawyer in an angry tone, “without you wish to forfeit my good opinion.”
“I beg your pardon, sir; but I am most miserable. I am avoided by all who know me—thrown out of all society—I have not a parent or a relative. Isolated being as I am, what have I to live for?”
“My dear fellow, you are not twenty-three years of age,” replied Mr Masterton, “and you have made two sincere friends, both powerful in their own way. I mean Lord Windermear and myself: and you have had the pleasure of making others happy. Believe me, that is much to have accomplished at so early an age. You have much to live for—live to gain more friends—live to gain reputation—live to do good—to be grateful for the benefits you have received, and to be humble when chastened by Providence. You have yet to learn where, and only where, true happiness is to be found. Since you are so much out of spirits, go down to Lady de Clare’s, see her happiness, and that of her little girl; and then, when you reflect that it was your own work, you will hardly say that you have lived in vain.” I was too much overpowered to speak. After a pause, Mr Masterton continued, “When did you see them last?”
“I have never seen them, sir, since I was with you at their meeting.”
“What! have you not called—now nearly two months? Japhet, you are wrong: they will be hurt at your neglect and want of kindness. Have you written or heard from them?”
“I have received one or two pressing invitations, sir; but I have not been in a state of mind to avail myself of their politeness.”
“Politeness! you are wrong—all wrong, Japhet. Your mind is cankered, or you never would have used that term. I thought you were composed of better materials; but it appears, that although you can sail with a fair wind, you cannot buffet against an adverse gale. Because you are no longer fooled and flattered by the interested and the designing, like many others you have quarrelled with the world. Is it not so?”
“Perhaps you are right, sir.”
“I know that I am right, and that you are wrong. Now I shall be seriously displeased if you do not go down and see Lady de Clare and her daughter, as soon as you can.”
“I will obey your orders, sir.”
“My wishes, Japhet, not my orders. Let me see you when you return. You must no longer be idle. Consider, that you are about to recommence your career in life; that hitherto you have pursued the wrong path, from which you have nobly returned. You must prepare for exertions, and learn to trust to God and a good conscience. Lord Windermear and I had a long conversation relative to you yesterday evening; and when you come back, I will detail to you what are our views respecting your future advantage.”
Part 2—Chapter XXVIII
A new Character appears, but not a very amiable one; but I attach myself to him, as drowning Men catch at Straws.
I took my leave, more composed in mind, and the next day I went down to Lady de Clare’s. I was kindly received, more than kindly, I was affectionately and parentally received by the mother, and by Cecilia as a dear brother; but they perceived my melancholy, and when they had upbraided me for my long neglect, they inquired the cause. As I had already made Lady de Clare acquainted with my previous history, I had no secrets; in fact, it was a consolation to confide my griefs to them. Lord Windermear was too much above me—Mr Masterton was too matter-of-fact—Timothy was too inferior—and they were all men; but the kind soothing of a woman was peculiarly grateful, and after a sojourn of three days, I took my leave, with my mind much less depressed than when I arrived.
On my return, I called upon Mr Masterton, who stated to me that Lord Windermear was anxious to serve me, and that he would exert his interest in any way which might be most congenial to my feelings; that he would procure me a commission in the army, or a writership to India; or, if I preferred it, I might study the law under the auspices of Mr Masterton. If none of these propositions suited me, I might state what would be preferred, and that, as far as his interest and pecuniary assistance could avail, I might depend on it. “So now, Japhet, you may go home and reflect seriously upon these offers; and when you have made up your mind what course you will steer, you have only to let me know.”
I returned my thanks to Mr Masterton, and begged that he would convey my grateful acknowledgments to his lordship. As I walked home, I met a Captain Atkinson, a man of very doubtful character, whom, by the advice of Carbonnell, I had always kept at a distance. He had lost a large fortune by gambling, and having been pigeoned, had, as is usual, ended by becoming a rook. He was a fashionable, well-looking man, of good family, suffered in society, for he had found out that it was necessary to hold his position by main force. He was a noted duellist, had killed his three or four men, and a cut direct from any person was, with him, sufficient grounds for sending a friend. Everybody was civil to him, because no one wished to quarrel with him.
“My dear Mr Newland,” said he, offering his hand, “I am delighted to see you; I have heard at the clubs of your misfortune, and there were some free remarks made by some. I have great pleasure in saying that I put an immediate stop to them, by telling them that, if they were repeated in my presence, I should consider it as a personal quarrel.”
Three months before, had I met Captain Atkinson, I should have returned his bow with studied politeness, and have left him; but how changed were my feelings! I took his hand, and shook it warmly.
“My dear sir,” replied I, “I am very much obliged for your kind and considerate conduct; there are more who are inclined to calumniate than to defend.”
“And always will be in this world, Mr Newland; but I have a fellow feeling. I recollect how I was received and flattered when I was introduced as a young man of fortune, and how I was deserted and neglected when I was cleaned out. I know now why they are so civil to me, and I value their civility at just as much as it is worth. Will you accept my arm:—I am going your way.”
I could not refuse; but I coloured when I took it, for I felt that I was not adding to my reputation by being seen in his company; and still I felt, that although not adding to my reputation, I was less likely to receive insult, and that the same cause which induced them to be civil to him, would perhaps operate when they found me allied with him. “Be it so,” thought I, “I will, if possible, extort politeness.”
We were strolling down Bond Street, when we met a young man, well known in the fashionable circles, who had dropped my acquaintance, after having been formerly most pressing to obtain it. Atkinson faced him.
“Good morning, Mr Oxberry.”
“Good morning, Captain Atkinson,” replied Mr Oxberry.
“I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?” observed Atkinson, rather fiercely.
“Oh! really—I quite—I beg pardon. Good morning, Mr Newland; you have been long absent. I did not see you at Lady Maelstrom’s last night.”
“No,” replied I, carelessly, “nor will you ever. When you next see her ladyship, ask her, with my compliments, whether she has had another fainting fit.”
“I shall certainly have great pleasure in carrying your message, Mr Newland—good morning.”
“That fool,” observed Atkinson, “will now run all over town, and you will see the consequence.”
We met one or two others, and to them Atkinson put the same question, “I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?” At last, just as we arrived at my own house in Saint James’s Street, who should we meet but Harcourt. Harcourt immediately perceived me, and bowed low as he passed on; so that his bow would have served for both; but Atkinson stopped. “I must beg your pardon, Harcourt, for detaining you a moment, but what are the odds upon the Vestris colt for the Derby?”
“Upon my word, Captain Atkinson, I was told, but I have forgotten.”
“Your memory appears bad, for you have also forgotten your old friend, Mr Newland.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr Newland.”
“There is no occasion to beg my pardon, Mr Harcourt,” interrupted I; “for I tell you plainly, that I despise you too much to ever wish to be acquainted with you. You will oblige me, sir, by never presuming to touch your hat, or otherwise notice me.” Harcourt coloured, and started back. “Such language, Mr Newland—”
“Is what you deserve: ask your own conscience. Leave us, sir;” and I walked on with Captain Atkinson. “You have done well, Newland,” observed Atkinson: “he cannot submit to that language, for he knows that I have heard it. A meeting you will of course have no objection to. It will be of immense advantage to you.”
“None whatever,” replied I; “for if there is any one man who deserves to be punished for his conduct towards me, it is Harcourt. Will you come up, Captain Atkinson, and, if not better engaged, take a quiet dinner and a bottle of wine with me?”
Our conversation during dinner was desultory; but after the first bottle, Atkinson became communicative, and his history not only made me feel better inclined towards him, but afforded me another instance, as well as Carbonnell’s, how often it is that those who would have done well are first plundered, and then driven to desperation by the heartlessness of the world. The cases, however, had this difference, that Carbonnell had always contrived to keep his reputation above water, while that of Atkinson was gone and never to be re-established. We had just finished our wine when a note was brought from Harcourt, informing me that he should send a friend the next morning for an explanation of my conduct. I handed it over to Atkinson. “My dear sir, I am at your service,” replied he, “without you have anybody among your acquaintances whom you may prefer.”
“Thank you,” replied I, “Captain Atkinson: it cannot be in better hands.”
“That is settled, then; and now where shall we go?”
“Wherever you please.”
“Then I shall try if I can win a little money to-night: if you come you need not play—you can look on. It will serve to divert your thoughts, at all events.”
I felt so anxious to avoid reflection, that I immediately accepted his offer; and, in a few minutes, we were in the well-lighted room, and in front of the rouge et noir table, covered with gold and bank notes. Atkinson did not commence his play immediately, but pricked the chances on a card as they ran. After half an hour he laid down his stakes, and was fortunate. I could no longer withstand the temptation, and I backed him; in less than an hour we both had won considerably.
“That is enough,” said he to me, sweeping up his money; “we must not try the slippery dame too long.”
I followed his example, and shortly afterwards we quitted the house. “I will walk home with you, Newland: never, if you can help it, especially if you have been a winner, leave a gaming house alone.”
Going home, I asked Atkinson if he would come up; he did so, and then we examined our winnings. “I know mine,” replied he, “within twenty pounds, for I always leave off at a certain point. I have three hundred pounds, and something more.”
He had won three hundred and twenty-five pounds. I had won ninety pounds. As we sat over a glass of brandy and water, I inquired whether he was always fortunate. “No, of course I am not,” replied Atkinson; “but on the whole, in the course of the year, I am a winner of sufficient to support myself.”
“Is there any rule by which people are guided who play? I observed many of those who were seated pricking the chances with great care, and then staking their money at intervals.”
“Rouge et noir I believe to be the fairest of all games,” replied Atkinson; “but where there is a percentage invariably in favour of the bank, although one may win and another lose, still the profits must be in favour of the bank. If a man were to play all the year round, he would lose the national debt in the end. As for martingales, and all those calculations, which you observed them so busy with, they are all useless. I have tried everything, and there is only one chance of success, but then you must not be a gambler.”
“Not a gambler?”
“No; you must not be carried away by the excitement of the game, or you will infallibly lose. You must have a strength of mind which few have, or you will be soon cleaned out.”
“But you say that you win on the whole: have you no rule to guide you?”
“Yes, I have: strange as the chances are, I have been so accustomed to them, that I generally put down my stake right: when I am once in a run of luck, I have a method of my own, but what it is I cannot tell; only this I know, that if I depart from it, I always lose my money. But that is what you may call good luck, or what you please—it is not a rule.”
“Where, then, are your rules?”
“Simply these two. The first it is not difficult to adhere to: I make a rule never to lose but a certain sum if I am unlucky when I commence—say twenty stakes, whatever may be the amount of the stake that you play. This rule is easily adhered to, by not taking more money with you; and I am not one of those to whom the croupier or porters will lend money. The second rule is the most difficult, and decides whether you are a gambler or not. I make a rule always to leave off when I have won a certain sum—or even before, if the chances of my game fluctuate. There is the difficulty: it appears very foolish not to follow up luck; but the fact is, fortune is so capricious, that if you trust her more than an hour, she will desert you. This is my mode of play, and with me it answers but it does not follow that it would answer with another. But it is very late, or, rather, very early—I wish you a good night.”
