I went up stairs, and found that all was ready, and I took leave of Mr
and Mrs Cophagus, both of whom expressed their hopes that I would not
leave them for ever. "Oh, no," replied I, "I should indeed be base, if
I did." I left them, and with Ephraim following with my portmanteau, I
quitted the house. I had gone about twenty yards, when I recollected
that I had left on the table the newspaper with the advertisement
containing the direction whom to apply to, and, desiring Ephraim to
proceed, I returned. When I entered the parlour, Susannah Temple was
resting her face in her hands and weeping. The opening of the door made
her start up; she perceived that it was I, and she turned away. "I beg
your pardon, I left the newspaper," said I, stammering. I was about to
throw myself at her feet, declare my sincere affection, and give up all
idea of finding my father until we were married, when she, without
saying a word, passed quickly by me, and hastened out of the room. "She
loves me, then," thought I; "thank God:--I will not go yet, I will speak
to her first." I sat down, quite overpowered with contending feelings.
The paper was in my hand, the paragraph was again read; I thought but of
my father, and I left the house.
In half an hour I had shaken hands with Timothy and quitted the town of
Reading. How I arrived in London, that is to say, what passed, or what
we passed, I know not: my mind was in such a state of excitement. I
hardly know how to express the state that I was in. It was a sort of
mental whirling which blinded me--round and round--from my father and
the expected meeting, then to Susannah, my departure, and her tears--
castle building of every description. After the coach stopped, there I
remained fixed on the top of it, not aware that we were in London, until
the coachman asked me whether the spirit did not move me to get down. I
recollected myself, and calling a hackney-coach, gave orders to be
driven to the Piazza, Covent Garden.
"Piazza, Common Garden," said the waterman; "why that ban't an 'otel for
the like o' you, master. They'll torment you to death, them young
chaps."
I had forgotten that I was dressed as a Quaker. "Tell the coachman to
stop at the first cloth warehouse where they have ready-made cloaks,"
said I. The man did so; I went out and purchased a roquelaure, which
enveloped my whole person. I then stopped at a hatter's, and purchased
a hat according to the mode. "Now drive to the Piazza," said I,
entering the coach. I know not why, but I was resolved to go to that
hotel. It was the one I had stayed at when I first arrived in London,
and I wished to see it again. When the hackney-coach stopped, I asked
the waiter who came out whether he had apartments, and answering me in
the affirmative, I followed him, and was shown into the same rooms I had
previously occupied. "These will do," said I, "now let me have
something to eat, and send for a good tailor." The waiter offered to
remove my cloak, but I refused, saying that I was cold. He left the
room, and I threw myself on the sofa, running over all the scenes which
had passed in that room with Carbonnell, Harcourt, and others. My
thoughts were broken in upon by the arrival of the tailor. "Stop a
moment," said I, "and let him come in when I ring." So ashamed was I of
my Quaker's dress, that I threw off my coat and waistcoat, and put on my
cloak again before I rang the bell for the tailor to come up. "Mr --,"
said I, "I must have a suit of clothes ready by to-morrow at ten
o'clock."
"Impossible, sir."
"Impossible!" said I, "and you pretend to be a fashionable tailor.
Leave the room."
At this peremptory behaviour, the tailor imagined that I must be
somebody.
"I will do my possible, sir, and if I can only get home in time to stop
the workmen, I think it may be managed. Of course, you are aware of the
expense of night work."
"I am only aware of this, that if I give an order, I am accustomed to
have it obeyed; I learnt that from my poor friend, Major Carbonnell."
The tailor bowed low; there was magic in the name, although the man was
dead.
"Here have I been masquerading in a Quaker's dress, to please a
puritanical young lady, and I am obliged to be off without any other
clothes in my portmanteau; so take my measure, and I expect the clothes
at ten precisely." So saying, I threw off my roquelaure, and desired
him to proceed. This accomplished, the tradesman took his leave.
Shortly afterwards, the door opened, and as I lay wrapped up in my cloak
on the sofa, in came the landlord and two waiters, each bearing a dish
of my supper. I wished them at the devil; but I was still more
surprised when the landlord made a low bow, saying, "Happy to see you
returned, Mr Newland; you've been away some time--another grand tour, I
presume."
"Yes, Mr --, I have had a few adventures since I was last here,"
replied I, carelessly, "but I am not very well. You may leave the
supper, and if I feel inclined, I will take a little by-and-by,--no one
need wait."
The landlord and waiter bowed and went out of the room. I turned the
key of the door, put on my Quaker's coat, and made a hearty supper, for
I had had nothing since breakfast. When I had finished, I returned to
the sofa, and I could not help analysing my own conduct. "Alas,"
thought I, "Susannah, how rightly did you judge me! I am not away from
you more than eighteen hours, and here I am ashamed of the dress which I
have so long worn, and been satisfied with, in your society. Truly did
you say that I was full of pride, and would joyfully re-enter the world
of vanity and vexation." And I thought of Susannah, and her tears after
my supposed departure, and I felt angry and annoyed at my want of
strength of mind and my worldly feelings.
I retired early to bed, and did not wake until late the next morning.
When I rang the bell, the chambermaid brought in my clothes from the
tailor's: I dressed, and I will not deny that I was pleased with the
alteration. After breakfast I ordered a coach, and drove to Number 16,
Throgmorton Court, Minories. The house was dirty outside, and the
windows had not been cleaned apparently for years, and it was with some
difficulty when I went in that I could decypher a tall, haggard-looking
man seated at the desk.
"Your pleasure, sir?" said he.
"Am I speaking to the principal?" replied I.
"Yes, sir, my name is Chatfield."
"I come to you, sir, relative to an advertisement which appeared in the
papers. I refer to this," continued I, putting the newspaper down on
the desk, and pointing to the advertisement.
"Oh, yes, very true: can you give us any information?"
"Yes, sir, I can, and the most satisfactory."
"Then, sir, I am sorry that you have had so much trouble, but you must
call at Lincoln's Inn upon a lawyer of the name of Masterton--the whole
affair is now in his hands."
"Can you, sir, inform me who is the party that is inquiring after this
young man?"
"Why, yes; it is a General De Benyon, who has lately returned from the
East Indies."
"Good God! is it possible?" thought I; "how strange that my own wild
fancy should have settled upon him as my father!"
I hurried away; threw myself into the hackney-coach, and desired the man
to drive to Lincoln's Inn. I hastened up to Mr Masterton's rooms: he
was fortunately at home, although he stood at the table with his hat and
his great coat on, ready to go out.
"My dear sir, have you forgotten me?" said I, in a voice choked with
emotion, taking his hand and squeezing it with rapture.
"By heavens, you are determined that I shall not forget you for some
minutes, at least," exclaimed he, wringing his hand with pain. "Who the
devil are you?"
Mr Masterton could not see without his spectacles, and my subdued voice
he had not recognised. He pulled them out, as I made no reply, and
fixing them across his nose--"Hah! why yes--it is Japhet, is it not?"
"It is indeed, sir," said I, again offering my hand, which he shook
warmly.
"Not quite so hard, my dear fellow, this time," said the old lawyer; "I
acknowledge your vigour, and that is sufficient. I am very glad to see
you; Japhet, I am indeed--you--you scamp--you ungrateful fellow. Sit
down--sit down--first help me off with my great coat: I presume the
advertisement has brought you into existence again. Well, it's all
true; and you have at last found your father, or, rather, he has found
you. And what's more strange, you hit upon the right person; that is
strange--very strange indeed."
"Where is he, sir?" interrupted I, "where is he--take me to him."
"No, rather be excused," replied Mr Masterton, "for he is gone to
Ireland, so you must wait."
"Wait, sir, oh no--I must follow him."
"That will only do harm; for he is rather a queer sort of an old
gentleman, and although he acknowledges that he left you as _Japhet_ and
has searched for you, yet he is so afraid of somebody else's brat being
put upon him, that he insists upon most undeniable proofs. Now, we
cannot trace you from the hospital unless we can find that fellow
Cophagus, and we have made every search after him, and no one can tell
where he is."
"But I left him but yesterday morning, sir," replied I.
"Good--very good; we must send for him or go to him; besides, he has the
packet intrusted to the care of Miss Maitland, to whom he was executor,
which proves the marriage of your father. Very strange--very strange
indeed, that you should have hit upon it as you did--almost
supernatural. However, all right now, my dear boy, and I congratulate
you. Your father is a very strange person: he has lived like a despot
among slaves all his life, and will not be thwarted, I can tell you. If
you say a word in contradiction he'll disinherit you:--terrible old
tiger, I must say. If it had not been for your sake, I should have done
with him long ago. He seems to think the world ought to be at his feet.
Depend upon it, Japhet, there is no hurry about seeing him;--and see
him you shall not, until we have every proof of your identity ready to
produce to him, I hope you have the bump of veneration strong, Japhet,
and plenty of filial duty, or you will be kicked out of the house in a
week. Damn me, if he didn't call me an old thief of a lawyer."
"Indeed, sir," replied I, laughing; "I must apologise to you for my
father's conduct."
"Never mind, Japhet; I don't care about a trifle; but why don't you ask
after your friends?"
"I have longed so to do, sir," replied I. "Lord Windermear--"
"Is quite well, and will be most happy to see you."
"Lady de Clare, and her daughter--"
"Lady de Clare has entered into society again, and her daughter, as you
call her--your Fleta, _alias_ Cecilia de Clare--is the belle of the
metropolis. But now, sir, as I have answered all your interrogatories,
and satisfied you upon the most essential points, will you favour me
with a narrative of your adventures, (for adventures I am sure you must
have had,) since you ran away from us all in that ungrateful manner."
"Most certainly, sir, I will; and, as you say, I have had adventures.
But it really will be a long story."
"Then we'll dine here, and pass the evening together--so that's
settled."