In which I am let into more particulars relative to my father's
history.
I dismissed the coach, while Mr Masterton gave his orders for dinner, and
we then turned the key of the door to avoid intrusion, and I commenced.
It was nearly dinner-time before I had finished my story.
"Well, you really appear to be born for getting into scrapes, and getting
out of them again in a miraculous way," observed Mr Masterton. "Your
life would make a novel."
"It would indeed, sir," replied I. "I only hope, like all novels, it
will wind up well."
"So do I; but dinner's ready, Japhet, and after dinner we'll talk the
matter over again, for there are some points upon which I require some
explanation."
We sat down to dinner, and when we had finished, and the table had been
cleared, we drew to the fire, with our bottle of wine. Mr Masterton
tirred the fire, called for his slippers, and then crossing his legs
over the fender, resumed the subject.
"Japhet, I consider it most fortunate that we have met, previous to
our introduction to your father. You have so far to congratulate
yourself, that your family is undeniably good, there being, as you know,
an Irish peerage in it; of which, however, you have no chance, as the
present earl has a numerous offspring. You are also fortunate as far as
money is concerned, as I have every reason to believe that your father is
a very rich man, and, of course, you are his only child; but I must now
prepare you to meet with a very different person than perhaps the fond
anticipations of youth may have led you to expect. Your father has no
paternal feelings that I can discover; he has wealth, and he wishes to
leave it--he has therefore sought you out. But he is despotic, violent,
and absurd; the least opposition to his will makes him furious, and I am
sorry to add, that I am afraid that he is very mean. He suffered
severely when young from poverty, and his own father was almost as
authoritative and unforgiving as himself. And now I will state how it
was that you were left at the Asylum when an infant. Your grandfather
had procured for your father a commission in the army, and soon
afterwards procured him a lieutenancy. He ordered him to marry a young
lady of large fortune, whom he had never seen, and sent for him for that
purpose. I understand that she was very beautiful, and had your father
seen her, it is probable he would have made no objection, but he very
foolishly sent a peremptory refusal, for which he was dismissed for ever.
In a short time afterwards your father fell in love with a young lady of
great personal attractions, and supposed to possess a large fortune. To
deceive her, he pretended to be the heir to the earldom, and, after a
hasty courtship, they ran off, and were married. When they compared
notes, which they soon did, it was discovered that, on his side, he had
nothing but the pay of a subaltern, and on hers, that she had not one
shilling. Your father stormed, and called his wife an impostor; she
recriminated, and the second morning after the marriage was passed in
tears on her side, and oaths, curses, and revilings on his. The lady,
however, appeared the more sensible party of the two. Their marriage
was not known, she had run away on a pretence to visit a relative, and
it was actually supposed in the county town where she resided, that such
was the case. 'Why should we quarrel in this way?' observed she. 'You,
Edmund, wished to marry a fortune, and not me--I may plead guilty to the
same duplicity. We have made a mistake; but it is not too late. It is
supposed that I am on a visit to--, and that you are on furlough for a
few days. Did you confide your secret to any of your brother officers?'
'Not one,' muttered your father. 'Well, then, let us part as if nothing
had happened, and nobody will be the wiser. We are equally interested in
keeping the secret. Is it agreed?'--Your father immediately consented. He
accompanied your mother to the house at ----, where she was expected, and
she framed a story for her delay, by having met such a very polite young
man. Your father returned to his regiment, and thus did they, like two
privateers, who when they meet and engage, as soon as they find out their
mistake, hoist their colours, and sheer off by mutual consent."
"I can't say much for my mother's affection or delicacy," observed I.
"The less you say the better, Japhet--however, that is your father's
story. And now to proceed. It appears that, about two months afterwards,
your father received a letter from your mother, acquainting him that
their short intercourse had been productive of certain results, and
requesting that he would take the necessary steps to provide for the
child, and avoid exposure, or that she would be obliged to confess her
marriage. By what means they contrived to avoid exposure until the period
of her confinement, I know not, but your father states that the child was
born in a house in London, and by agreement, was instantly put into his
hands; that he, with the consent of his wife, left you at the door of
the Asylum, with the paper and the bank note, from which you received
the name of Newland. At the time, he had no idea of reclaiming you
himself, but the mother had, for heartless as she appears to have been,
yet a mother must feel for her child. Your father's regiment was then
ordered out to the East Indies, and he was rapidly promoted for his
gallantry and good conduct during the war in the Mysore territory. Once
only has he returned home on furlough, and then he did make inquiries
after you; not, it appears, with a view of finding you out on his own
account, but from a promise which he made your mother."
"My mother! what, have they met since?"
"Yes; your mother went out to India on speculation, passing off as a
single girl, and was very well married there, I was going to say;
however, she committed a very splendid bigamy."
"Good heavens! how totally destitute of principle!"
"Your father asserts that your mother was a freethinker, Japhet; her
father had made her one; without religion a woman has no stay. Your
father was in the up country during the time that your mother arrived,
and was married to one of the council of Calcutta. Your father says that
they met at a ball at Government House. She was still a very handsome
woman, and much admired. When your father recognised her, and was told
that she was lately married to the honourable Mr--, he was quite
electrified, and would have quitted the room; but she had perceived
him, and walking up to him with the greatest coolness, claimed him as an
old acquaintance in England, and afterwards they often met, but she never
adverted to what had passed between them, until the time for his
departure to England on leave, and she then sent for him, and begged that
he would make some enquiries after _you_, Japhet. He did so, and you know
the result. On his return to India he found that your mother had been
carried off by the prevailing pestilence. At that period, your father was
not rich, but he was then appointed to the chief command in the Carnatic,
and reaped a golden harvest in return for his success and bravery. It
appears, as far as I could obtain it from him, that as long as your
mother was alive, he felt no interest about you, but her death, and the
subsequent wealth which poured upon him, have now induced him to find out
an heir, to whom it may be bequeathed.
"Such, Japhet, are the outlines of your father's history; and I must
point out that he has no feelings of affection for you at present. The
conduct of your mother is ever before him, and if it were not that he
wishes an heir, I should almost say that his feelings are those of
dislike. You may create an interest in his heart, it is true: and he may
be gratified by your personal appearance; but you will have a very
difficult task, as you will have to submit to his caprices and fancies,
and I am afraid that, to a high spirit like yours, they will be almost
unbearable."
"Really, sir, I begin to feel that the fondest anticipations are seldom
realised, and almost to wish that I had not been sought for by my father.
I was happy and contented, and now I do not see any chance of having to
congratulate myself on the change."
"On one or two points I also wish to question you. It appears that you
have entered into the sect denominated Quakers. Tell me candidly, do you
subscribe heartily and sincerely to their doctrines? And I was going to
add, is it your intention to remain with them? I perceive much
difficulty in all this."
"The tenets of the sect I certainly do believe to be more in accordance
with the Christian religion than any other; and I have no hesitation in
asserting, from my knowledge of those who belong to that sect, that they,
generally speaking, lead better lives. There are some points connected
with their worship, which, at first, I considered ridiculous: the feeling
has, however, worn off. As to their quaint manner of speaking, that has
been grossly exaggerated. Their dress is a part of their religion."
"Why so, Japhet?"
"I can reply to you in the words of Susannah Temple, when I made the
same interrogatory. 'You think the peculiarity of our dress is an
outward form which is not required. It was put on to separate us from
others, and as a proof that we had discarded vanity. I am aware that it
is not a proof of our sincerity; but still, the discarding of the dress
is a proof of insincerity. We consider, that to admire the person is
vain, and our creed is humility. It is therefore an outward and visible
sign, that we would act up to those tenets which we profess. It is not
all who wear the dress who are Quakers in heart or conduct; but we know
that when it is put aside, the tenets of our persuasion are at the same
time renounced, therefore do we consider it essential. I do not mean to
say but that the heart may be as pure, and the faith continue as stedfast
without such signs outwardly, but it is a part of our creed, and we must
not choose, but either reject all or none.'"
"Very well argued by the little Quakeress; and now, Japhet, I should
like to put another question to you. Are you very much attached to this
young puritan?"
"I will not deny but that I am. I love her sincerely."
"Does your love carry you so far, that you would, for her sake, continue
a Quaker, and marry her?"
"I have asked myself that question at least a hundred times during the
last twenty-four hours, and I cannot decide. If she would dress as others
do, and allow me to do the same, I would marry her to-morrow; whether I
shall ever make up my mind to adhere to the persuasion, and live and die
a Quaker for her sake, is quite another matter--but I am afraid not--I
am too worldly-minded. The fact is, I am in a very awkward position with
respect to her. I have never acknowledged my affection, or asked for a
return, but she knows I love her, and I know that she loves me."
"Like all vain boys, you flatter yourself."
"I leave you to judge, sir," replied I, repeating to him our parting
_tête-à-tête_, and how I had returned, and found her in tears.
"All that certainly is very corroborative evidence; but tell me, Japhet,
do you think she loves you well enough to abandon all for your sake?"
"No, nor ever will, sir, she is too high principled, too high-minded.
She might suffer greatly, but she never would swerve from what she
thought was right."
"She must be a fine character, Japhet, but you will be in a dilemma:
indeed, it appears to me, that your troubles are now commencing instead
of ending, and that you would have been much happier where you were, than
you will be by being again brought out into the world. Your prospect is
not over cheerful. You have an awkward father to deal with: you will be
under a strong check, I've a notion, and I am afraid you will find that,
notwithstanding you will be once more received into society, all is
vanity and vexation of spirit."
"I am afraid you are right, sir," replied I, "but, at all events, it
will be something gained, to be acknowledged to the world by a father of
good family, whatever else I may have to submit to. I have been the sport
of fortune all my life, and probably she has not yet done playing with
me; but it is late, and I will now wish you good-night."
"Good-night, Japhet; if I have any intelligence I will let you know. Lady
de Clare's address is No. 13, Park Street. You will, of course, go there
as soon as you can."
"I will, sir, after I have written my letters to my friends at Reading."