Japhet in Search of a Father Part 40

PART TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

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 a.s.sistance.

We led her to a chair, and in a minute Fleta was called down.

Perceiving me in the pa.s.sage, she ran to me. "Stop, my dear Fleta, there is a lady in the parlour, who wishes to see you."

"A lady, j.a.phet?"

"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, j.a.phet, 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 princ.i.p.al 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 "G.o.d 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, "j.a.phet, 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 Nattee, or Lady H. de Clare, and ran as follows--

"j.a.phet 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,

"Nattee."

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.

"Nattee 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 protege, 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--n.o.body--without a parent."

Cecilia burst into tears: I embraced her, and Mr Masterton and I left the room.

PART TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

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 pa.s.sed a week of such misery as the one which followed a _denouement_ 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, G.o.d 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 protege 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 protege, 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 a.s.sume 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? j.a.phet, 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, j.a.phet. 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, j.a.phet, 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 n.o.bly returned. You must prepare for exertions, and learn to trust to G.o.d 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 TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.