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
_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, 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 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 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."