Фредерик Марриет
Japhet in Search of a Father
Part 1—Chapter XVIII
I receive a Letter from my Uncle, by which I naturally expect to find out who is my Father—Like other Outcasts I am warned by a Dream.
But I have omitted to mention a circumstance of great importance which occurred at the inn the night before I placed Fleta at the boarding-school. In looking over my portmanteau, I perceived the present of Nattée to Fleta, which I had quite forgotten. I took it to Fleta, and told her from whom it came. On opening the paper, it proved to contain a long chain of round coral and gold beads, strung alternately; the gold beads were not so large as the coral, but still the number of them, and the purity of the metal, made them of considerable value. Fleta passed the beads through her fingers, and then threw it round her neck, and sat in deep thought for some minutes. “Japhet,” said she at last, “I have seen this—I have worn this before—I recollect that I have; it rushes into my memory as an old friend, and I think that before morning it will bring to my mind something that I shall recollect about it.”
“Try all you can Fleta, and let me know to-morrow.”
“It’s no use trying; if I try, I never can recollect anything. I must wear it to-night, and then I shall have something come into my mind all of a sudden; or perhaps I may dream something. Good night.”
It immediately occurred to me that it was most probable that the chain had been on Fleta’s neck at the time that she was stolen from her parents, and might prove the means of her being identified. It was no common chain—apparently had been wrought by people in a state of semi-refinement. There was too little show for its value—too much sterling gold for the simple effect produced; and I very much doubted whether another like it could be found.
The next morning Fleta was too much affected at parting with me, to enter into much conversation. I asked whether she had recollected anything, and she replied, “No; that she had cried all night at the thoughts of our separation.” I cautioned her to be very careful of the chain, and I gave the same caution to the schoolmistress; and after I had left the town, I regretted that I had not taken it away, and deposited it in some place of security. I resolved to do so when I next saw Fleta; in the mean time she would be able, perhaps, by association, to call up some passage of her infancy connected with it.
I had inquired of a gentleman who sat near me on the coach, which was the best hotel for a young man of fashion. He recommended the Piazza, in Covent Garden, and to that we accordingly repaired. I selected handsome apartments, and ordered a light supper. When the table was said, Timothy made his appearance in his livery, and cut a very smart, dashing figure. I dismissed the waiter, and as soon as we were alone, I burst into a fit of laughter. “Really, Timothy, this is a good farce; come, sit down, and help me to finish this bottle of wine.”
“No, sir,” replied Timothy; “with your permission, I prefer doing as the rest of my fraternity. You only leave the bottle on the sideboard, and I will steal as much as I want; but as for sitting down, that will be making too free, and if we were seen, would be, moreover, very dangerous. We must both keep up our characters. They have been plying me with all manner of questions below, as to who you were—your name, etcetera. I resolved that I would give you a lift in the world, and I stated that you had just arrived from making a grand tour—which is not a fib, after all—and as for your name, I said that you were all present incognito.”
“But why did you make me incognito?”
“Because it may suit you so to be; and it certainly is the truth, for you don’t know your real name.”
We were here interrupted by the waiter bringing in a letter upon a salver. “Here is a letter addressed to ‘I. or J.N., on his return from his tour,’ sir,” said he; “I presume it is for you?”
“You may leave it,” said I, with nonchalance.
The waiter laid the letter on the table, and retired.
“How very odd, Timothy—this letter cannot be for me; and yet they are my initials. It is as much like a J as an I. Depend upon it, it is some fellow who has just gained this intelligence below, and has written to ask for a subscription to his charity list, imagining that I am flush of money, and liberal.”
“I suppose so,” replied Tim; “however, you may just as well see what he says.”
“But if I open it he will expect something. I had better refuse it.”
“Oh no, leave that to me; I know how to put people off.”
“After all, it is a fine thing to be a gentleman, and be petitioned.”
I broke open the seal, and found that the letter contained an enclosure addressed to another person. The letter was as follows:—
“My dear Nephew—(‘Bravo, sir,’ said Timothy; ‘you’ve found an uncle already—you’ll soon find a father.’) From the great uncertainty of the post, I have not ventured to do more than hint at what has come to light during this last year, but as it is necessary that you should be acquainted with the whole transaction, and as you had not decided when you last wrote, whether you would prosecute your intended three months’ trip to Sicily, or return from Milan, you may probably arrive when I am out of town; I therefore enclose you a letter to Mr Masterton, directing him to surrender to you a sealed packet, lodged in his hands, containing all the particulars, the letters which bear upon them, and what has been proposed to avoid exposure, which you may peruse at your leisure should you arrive before my return to town. There is no doubt but that the affair may be hushed up, and we trust that you will see the prudence of the measure; as, once known, it will be very discreditable to the family escutcheon. (‘I always had an idea you were of good family,’ interrupted Tim.) I wish you had followed my advice, and had not returned; but as you were positive on that point, I beg you will now consider the propriety of remaining incognito, as reports are already abroad, and your sudden return will cause a great deal of surmise. Your long absence at the Gottingen University, and your subsequent completion of your grand tour, will have effaced all remembrance of your person, and you can easily be passed off as a particular friend of mine, and I can introduce you everywhere as such. Take then any name you may please, provided it be not Smith or Brown, or such vulgarisms; and on the receipt of this letter, write a note, and send it to my house in Portman Square, just saying, ‘So and so is arrived.’ This will prevent the servants from obtaining any information by their prying curiosity; and as I have directed all my letters to be forwarded to my seat in Worcestershire, I shall come up immediately that I receive it, and by your putting the name which you mean to assume, I shall know whom to ask for when I call at the hotel.
“Your affectionate Uncle,
“Windermear.”
“One thing is very clear, Timothy,” said I, laying the letter on the table, “that it cannot be intended for me.”
“How do you know, sir, that this lord is not your uncle? At all events, you must do as he bids you.”
“What—go for the papers! most certainly I shall not.”
“Then how in the name of fortune do you expect to find your father, when you will not take advantage of such an opportunity of getting into society? It is by getting possession of other people’s secrets, that you will worm out your own.”
“But it is dishonest, Timothy.”
“A letter is addressed to you, in which you have certain directions; you break the seal with confidence, and you read what you find is possibly not for you; but depend upon it, Japhet, that a secret obtained is one of the surest roads to promotion. Recollect your position; cut off from the world, you have to re-unite yourself with it, to recover your footing, and create an interest. You have not those who love you to help you—you must not scruple to obtain your object by fear.”
“That is a melancholy truth, Tim,” replied I; “and I believe I must put my strict morality in my pocket.”
“Do, sir, pray, until you can afford to be moral; it’s a very expensive virtue that; a deficiency of it made you an outcast from the world; you must not scruple at a slight deficiency on your own part, to regain your position.”
There was so much shrewdness, so much of the wisdom of the serpent in the remarks of Timothy, that, added to my ardent desire to discover my father, which since my quitting the gipsy camp had returned upon me with twofold force, my scruples were overcome, and I resolved that I would not lose such an opportunity. Still I hesitated, and went up into my room, that I might reflect upon what I should do. I went to bed revolving the matter in my mind, and turning over from one position to the other, at one time deciding that I would not take advantage of the mistake, at another quite as resolved that I would not throw away such an opening for the prosecution of my search; at last I fell into an uneasy slumber, and had a strange dream. I thought that I was standing upon an isolated rock, with the waters raging around me; the tide was rising, and at last the waves were roaring at my feet. I was in a state of agony, and expected that, in a short time, I should be swallowed up. The main land was not far off, and I perceived well-dressed people in crowds, who were enjoying themselves, feasting, dancing, and laughing in merry peals. I held out my hands—I shouted to them—they saw, and heard me, but heeded me not. My horror at being swept away by the tide was dreadful. I shrieked as the water rose. At last I perceived something unroll itself from the main land, and gradually advancing to the inland, formed a bridge by which I could walk over and be saved. I was about to hasten over, when “Private, and no thoroughfare,” appeared at the end nearest me, in large letters of fire. I started back with amazement, and would not, dared not, pass them. When all of a sudden, a figure in white appeared by my side, and said to me, pointing to the bridge, “Self-preservation is the first law of nature.” I looked at the person who addressed me; gradually the figure became darker and darker, until it changed to Mr Cophagus, with his stick up to his nose. “Japhet, all nonsense—very good bridge—um—walk over—find father—and so on.” I dashed over the bridge, which appeared to float on the water, and to be composed of paper, gained the other side, and was received with shouts of congratulation, and the embraces of the crowd. I perceived an elderly gentleman come forward; I knew it was my father, and I threw myself into his arms. I awoke, and found myself rolling on the floor, embracing the bolster with all my might. Such was the vivid impression of this dream, that I could not turn my thoughts away from it, and at last I considered that it was a divine interposition. All my scruples vanished, and before the day had dawned I determined that I would follow the advice of Timothy. An enthusiast is easily led to believe what he wishes, and he mistakes his own feelings for warnings; the dreams arising from his daily contemplations for the interference of Heaven. He thinks himself armed by supernatural assistance, and warranted by the Almighty to pursue his course, even if that course should be contrary to the Almighty’s precepts. Thus was I led away by my own imaginings, and thus was my monomania increased to an impetus which forced before it all consideration of what was right or wrong.
Part 1—Chapter XIX
An important Chapter—I make some important Acquaintances, obtain some important Papers, which I am importunate to read through.
The next morning I told my dream to Timothy, who laughed very heartily at my idea of the finger of Providence. At last, perceiving that I was angry with him, he pretended to be convinced. When I had finished my breakfast, I sent to inquire the number in the square of Lord Windermear’s town house, and wrote the following simple note to his lordship, “Japhet Newland has arrived from his tour at the Piazza, Covent Garden.” This was confided to Timothy, and I then set off with the other letter to Mr Masterton, which was addressed to Lincoln’s Inn. By reading the addresses of the several legal gentlemen, I found out that Mr Masterton was located on the first floor. I rang the bell, which had the effect of “Open, Sesame,” as the door appeared to swing to adroit me without any assistance. I entered an ante-room, and from thence found myself in the presence of Mr Masterton—a little old man, with spectacles on his nose, sitting at a table covered with papers. He offered me a chair, and I presented the letter.
“I see that I am addressing Mr Neville,” said he, after he had perused the letter. “I congratulate you on your return. You may not, perhaps, remember me?”
“Indeed, sir, I cannot say that I do exactly.”
“I could not expect it, my dear sir, you have been so long away. You have very much improved in person, I must say; yet still, I recollect your features as a mere boy. Without compliment, I had no idea that you would ever have made so handsome a man.” I bowed to the compliment. “Have you heard from your uncle?”
“I had a few lines from Lord Windermear, enclosing your letter.”
“He is well, I hope.”
“Quite well, I believe.”
Mr Masterton then rose, went to an iron safe, and brought out a packet of papers, which he put into my hands. “You will read these with interest, Mr Neville. I am a party to the whole transaction, and must venture to advise you not to appear in England under your own name, until all is settled. Your uncle, I perceive, has begged the same.”
“And I have assented, sir. I have taken a name instead of my real one.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“I call myself Mr Japhet Newland.”
“Well, it is singular, but perhaps as good as any other. I will take it down, in case I have to write to you. Your address is—”
“Piazza—Covent Garden.”
Mr Masterton took my name and address, I took the papers, and then we both took leave of one another, with many expressions of pleasure and good-will.
I returned to the hotel, where I found Timothy waiting for me, with impatience. “Japhet,” said he, “Lord Windermear has not yet left town. I have seen him, for I was called back after I left the house, by the footman, who ran after me—he will be here immediately.”
“Indeed,” replied I. “Pray what sort of person is he, and what did he say to you?”
“He sent for me in the dining-parlour, where he was at breakfast, asked when you arrived, whether you were well, and how long I had been in your service. I replied that I had not been more than two days, and had just put on my liveries. He then desired me to tell Mr Newland that he would call upon him in about two hours. ‘Then, my lord,’ replied I, ‘I had better go and tell him to get out of bed.’
“The lazy dog!” said he, “nearly one o’clock, and not out of bed; well, go then, and get him dressed as fast as you can.”
Shortly afterwards a handsome carriage with greys drew up to the door. His lordship sent in his footman to ask whether Mr Newland was at home. The reply of the waiter was, that there was a young gentleman who had been there two or three days, who had come from making a tour, and his name did begin with an N. “That will do, James; let down the steps.” His lordship alighted, was ushered up stairs, and into my room. There we stood, staring at each other.
“Lord Windermear, I believe,” said I, extending my hand.
“You have recognised me first, John,” said he, taking my hand, and looking earnestly in my face. “Good heavens! is it possible that an awkward boy should have grown up into so handsome a fellow? I shall be proud of any nephew. Did you remember me when I entered the room?”
“To tell the truth, my lord, I did not; but expecting you, I took it for granted that it must be you.”
“Nine years make a great difference, John;—but I forget, I must now call you Japhet. Have you been reading the Bible lately, that you fixed upon that strange name?”
“No, my lord; but this hotel is such a Noah’s ark, that it’s no wonder I thought of it.”
“You’re an undutiful dog, not to ask after your mother, sir.”
“I was about—”
“I see—I see,” interrupted his lordship; “but recollect, John, that she still is your mother. By-the-by, have you read the papers yet?”
“No, sir,” replied I; “there they are, pointing to them on the side table. I really do not like to break the seals.”
“That they will not contain pleasant intelligence, I admit,” replied his lordship; “but until you have read them, I do not wish to converse with you on the subject, therefore,” said he, taking up the packet, and breaking the seals, “I must now insist that you employ this forenoon in reading them through. You will dine with me at seven, and then we will talk the matter over.”
“Certainly, sir, if you wish it, I will read them.”
“I must insist upon it, John; and am rather surprised at your objecting, when they concern you so particularly.”
“I shall obey your orders, sir.”
“Well, then, my boy, I shall wish you good morning, that you may complete your task before you come to dinner. To-morrow, if you wish it—but recollect, I never press young men on these points, as I am aware that they sometimes feel it a restraint—if you wish it, I say, you may bring your portmanteaus, and take up your quarters with me. By-the-by,” continued his lordship, taking hold of my coat, “who made this?”
“The tailor to his Serene Highness the Prince of Darmstadt had that honour, my lord,” replied I.
“Humph! I thought they fitted better in Germany; it’s not quite the thing—we must consult Stulz, for with that figure and face, the coat ought to be quite correct. Adieu, my dear fellow, till seven.”
His lordship shook hands with me, and I was left alone. Timothy came in as soon as his lordship’s carriage had driven off.
“Well, sir,” said he, “was your uncle glad to see you?”
“Yes,” replied I; “and look, he has broken open the seals, and has insisted upon my reading the papers.”
“It would be very undutiful in you to refuse, so I had better leave you to your task,” said Timothy, smiling, as he quitted the room.
Part 1—Chapter XX
I open an Account with my Bankers, draw largely upon Credulity, and am prosperous without a Check.
I sat down and took up the papers. I was immediately and strangely interested in all that I read. A secret!—it was, indeed, a secret, involving the honour and reputation of the most distinguished families. One that, if known, the trumpet of scandal would have blazoned forth to the disgrace of the aristocracy. It would have occasioned bitter tears to some, gratified the petty malice of many, satisfied the revenge of the vindictive, and bowed with shame the innocent as well as the guilty. It is not necessary, nor, indeed, would I, on any account, state any more. I finished the last paper, and then fell into a reverie. This is, indeed, a secret, thought I; one that I would I never had possessed. In a despotic country my life would be sacrificed to the fatal knowledge—here, thank God, my life as well as my liberty are safe.
The contents of the papers told me all that was necessary to enable me to support the character which I had assumed. The reason why the party, whom I was supposed to be, was intrusted with it, was, that he was in a direct line, eventually heir, and the question was whether he would waive his claim with the others, and allow death to bury crime in oblivion. I felt that were I in his position I should so do—and therefore was prepared to give an answer to his lordship. I sealed up the papers, dressed myself, and went to dinner; and after the cloth was removed, Lord Windermear, first rising and turning the key in the door, said to me, in a low voice, “You have read the papers, and what those, nearly as much interested as you are in this lamentable business, have decided upon. Tell me, what is your opinion?”
“My opinion, my lord, is, that I wish I had never known what has come to light this day—that it will be most advisable never to recur to the subject, and that the proposals made are, in my opinion, most judicious, and should be acted upon.”
“That is well,” replied his lordship; “then all are agreed, and I am proud to find you possessed of such honour and good feeling. We now drop the subject for ever. Are you inclined to leave town with me, or what do you intend to do?”
“I prefer remaining in town, if your lordship will introduce me to some of the families of your acquaintance. Of course I know no one now.”
“Very true; I will introduce you, as agreed, as Mr Newland. It may be as well that you do not know any of our relations, whom I have made to suppose, that you are still abroad—and it would be awkward, when you take your right name by-and-by. Do you mean to see your mother?”
“Impossible, my lord, at present; by-and-by I hope to be able.”
“Perhaps it’s all for the best. I will now write one note to Major Carbonnell, introducing you as my particular friend, and requesting that he will make London agreeable. He knows everybody, and will take you everywhere.”
“When does your lordship start for the country?”
“To-morrow; so we may as well part to-night. By-the-by, you have credit at Drummond’s, in the name of Newland, for a thousand pounds; the longer you make it last you the better.”
His lordship gave me the letter of introduction. I returned to him the sealed packet, shook hands with him, and took my departure.
“Well, sir,” said Timothy, rubbing his hands, as he stood before me, “what is the news; for I am dying to hear it—and what is this secret?”
“With regard to the secret, Tim, a secret it must remain. I dare not tell it even to you.” Timothy looked rather grave at this reply. “No, Timothy, as a man of honour, I cannot.” My conscience smote me when I made use of the term; for, as a man of honour, I had no business to be in possession of it, “My dear Timothy, I have done wrong already, do not ask me to do worse.”
“I will not, Japhet; but only tell me what has passed, and what you intend to do?”
“That I will, Timothy, with pleasure;” and I then stated all that had passed between his lordship and me. “And now, you observe, Timothy, I have gained what I desired, an introduction into the best society.”
“And the means of keeping up your appearance,” echoed Timothy, rubbing his hands. “A thousand pounds will last a long while.”
“It will last a very long while, Tim, for I never will touch it; it would be swindling.”
“So it would,” replied Tim, his countenance falling; “well, I never thought of that.”
“I have thought of much more, Tim; recollect I must, in a very short time, be exposed to Lord Windermear, for the real Mr Neville will soon come home.”
“Good heavens! what will become of us?” replied Timothy, with alarm in his countenance.
“Nothing can hurt you, Tim, the anger will be all upon me; but I am prepared to face it, and I would face twice as much for the distant hope of finding my father. Whatever Lord Windermear may feel inclined to do, he can do nothing; and my possession of the secret will insure even more than my safety; it will afford me his protection, if I demand it.”
“I hope it may prove so,” replied Timothy, “but I feel a little frightened.”
“I do not: to-morrow I shall give my letter of introduction, and then I will prosecute my search. So now, my dear Tim, good night.”
The next morning, I lost no time in presenting my letter of introduction to Major Carbonnell. He lived in apartments on the first floor in Saint James’s Street, and I found him at breakfast, in a silk dressing-gown. I had made up my mind that a little independence always carries with it an air of fashion. When I entered, therefore, I looked at him with a knowing air, and dropping the letter down on the table before him, said, “There’s something for you to read, major; and, in the mean time, I’ll refresh myself on this chair;” suiting the action to the word, I threw myself on a chair, amusing myself with tapping the sides of my boots with a small cane which I carried in my hand.
Major Carbonnell, upon whom I cast a furtive eye more than once during the time that he was reading the letter, was a person of about thirty-five years of age, well-looking, but disfigured by the size of his whiskers, which advanced to the corners of his mouth, and met under his throat. He was tall and well made, and with an air of fashion about him that was undeniable. His linen was beautifully clean and carefully arranged, and he had as many rings on his fingers, and, when he was dressed, chains and trinkets, as ever were put on by a lady.
“My dear sir, allow me the honour of making at once your most intimate acquaintance,” said he, rising from his chair, and offering his hand, as soon as he had perused the letter. “Any friend of Lord Windermear’s would be welcome, but when he brings such an extra recommendation in his own appearance, he becomes doubly so.”
“Major Carbonnell,” replied I, “I have seen you but two minutes, and I have taken a particular fancy to you, in which I, no doubt, have proved my discrimination. Of course, you know that I have just returned from making a tour?”
“So I understand from his lordship’s letter. Mr Newland, my time is at your service. Where are you staying?”
“At the Piazza.”
“Very good; I will dine with you to-day; order some mulligatawny, they are famous for it. After dinner we will go to the theatre.”
I was rather surprised at his cool manner of asking himself to dine with me and ordering my dinner, but a moment’s reflection made me feel what sort of person I had to deal with.
“Major, I take that as almost an affront. You will dine with me to-day! I beg to state that you must dine with me every day that we are not invited elsewhere; and what’s more, sir, I shall be most seriously displeased, if you do not order the dinner every time that you do dine, with me, and ask whoever you may think worthy of putting their legs under our table. Let’s have no doing things by halves, major; I know you now as well as if we had been intimate for ten years.”
The major seized me by the hand. “My dear Newland, I only wish we had known one another ten years, as you say—the loss has been mine; but now—you have breakfasted, I presume?”
“Yes! having nothing to do, and not knowing a soul after my long absence, I advanced my breakfast about two hours, that I might find you at home; and now I’m at your service.”
“Say rather I am at yours. I presume you will walk. In ten minutes I shall be ready. Either take up the paper, or whistle an air or two, or anything else you like, just to kill ten minutes—and I shall be at your command.”
