FATHER AND I GROW WARM IN OUR ARGUMENT--OBLIGED TO GIVE HIM A LITTLE
SCHOOLING TO SHOW MY AFFECTION--TAKES IT AT LAST VERY KINDLY, AND VERY
DUTIFULLY OWNS HIMSELF A FOOL.
In the mean time, I was left standing in the middle of the room: the
gentlemen departed, and the two native servants resumed their stations
on each side of the sofa. I felt humiliated and indignant, but waited
in silence; at last, my honoured parent, who had eyed me for some time,
commenced:--
"If you think, young man, to win my favour by your good looks, you are
very much mistaken: you are too like your mother, whose memory is
anything but agreeable."
The blood mounted to my forehead at this cruel observation; I folded my
arms and looked my father steadfastly in the face, but made no reply.
The choler of the gentleman was raised.
"It appears that I have found a most dutiful son."
I was about to make an angry answer, when I recollected myself, and I
courteously replied, "My dear general, depend upon it that your son will
always be ready to pay duty to whom duty is due; but excuse me, in the
agitation of this meeting you have forgotten those little attentions
which courtesy demands: with your permission I will take a chair, and
then we may converse more at our ease. I hope your leg is better."
I said this with the blandest voice and the most studied politeness, and
drawing a chair towards the table, I took my seat; as I expected, it put
my honoured father in a tremendous rage.
"If this is a specimen, sir, of your duty and respect, sir, I hope to
see no more of them. To whom your duty is due, sir!--and pray to whom
is it due, sir, if not to the author of your existence?" cried the
general, striking the table before him with his enormous fist, so as to
make the ink fly out of the stand some inches high and bespatter the
papers near it.
"My dear father, you are perfectly correct: duty, as you say, is due to
the author of our existence. If I recollect right, the commandment
says, `Honour your father and your mother;' but at the same time, if I
may venture to offer an observation, are there not such things as
reciprocal duties--some which are even more paramount in a father than
the mere begetting of a son?"
"What do you mean, sir, by these insolent remarks?" interrupted my
father.
"Excuse me, my dear father, I may be wrong, but if so, I will bow to
your superior judgment; but it does appear to me, that the mere hanging
me in a basket at the gate of the Foundling Hospital, and leaving me a
bank note of fifty pounds to educate and maintain me until the age of
twenty-four, are not exactly all the duties incumbent upon a parent. If
you think that they are, I am afraid that the world, as well as myself,
will be of a different opinion. Not that I intend to make any
complaint, as I feel assured that now circumstances have put it in your
power, it is your intention to make me amends for leaving me so long in
a state of destitution, and wholly dependent upon my own resources."
"You do, do you, sir? well, now, I'll tell you my resolution, which is--
There is the door--go out, and never let me see your face again."
"My dear father, as I am convinced this is only a little pleasantry on
your part, or perhaps a mere trial whether I am possessed of the spirit
and determination of a De Benyon, I shall, of course, please you by not
complying with your humorous request."
"Won't you, by Gad?" roared my father; then turning to his two native
servants, he spoke to them in Hindostanee. They immediately walked to
the door, threw it wide open, and then coming back to me, were about to
take me by the arms. I certainly felt my blood boil, but I recollected
how necessary it was to keep my temper. I rose from my chair, and
advancing to the side of the sofa I said--
"My dear father, as I perceive that you do not require your crutches at
this moment, you will not perhaps object to my taking one. These
foreign scoundrels must not be permitted to insult you through the
person of your only son."
"Turn him out," roared my father.
The natives advanced, but I whirled the crutch round my head, and in a
moment they were both prostrate. As soon as they gained their feet, I
attacked them again, until they made their escape out of the room; I
then shut the door and turned the key.
"Thank you, my dear sir," said I, returning the crutch to where it was
before. "Many thanks for thus permitting me to chastise the insolence
of these black scoundrels, whom, I take it for granted, you will
immediately discharge;" and I again took my seat in the chair, bringing
it closer to him.
The rage of the general was now beyond all bounds; the white foam was
spluttered out of his mouth, as he in vain endeavoured to find words.
Once he actually rose from the sofa, to take the law in his own hands,
but the effort seriously injured his leg, and he threw himself down in
pain and disappointment.
"My dear father, I am afraid that, in your anxiety to help me, you have
hurt your leg again," said I, in a soothing voice.
"Sirrah, sirrah," exclaimed he at last, "if you think that this will do,
you are very much mistaken. You don't know me. You may turn out a
couple of cowardly blacks, but now I'll show you that I am not to be
played with. I discard you for ever--I disinherit--I disacknowledge
you. You may take your choice, either to quit this room, or be put into
the hands of the police."
"The police, my dear sir! What can the police do? I may call in the
police for the assault just committed by your servants, and have them up
to Bow Street, but you cannot charge me with an assault."
"But I will, by Gad, sir, true or not true."
"Indeed you would not, my dear father. A De Benyon would never be
guilty of a lie. Besides, if you were to call in the police;--I wish to
argue this matter coolly, because I ascribe your present little burst of
ill-humour to your sufferings from your unfortunate accident. Allowing,
then, my dear father, that you were to charge me with an assault, I
should immediately be under the necessity of charging you also, and then
we must both go to Bow Street together. Were you ever at Bow Street,
general?" The general made no reply, and I proceeded. "Besides, my
dear sir, only imagine how very awkward it would be when the magistrate
put you on your oath, and asked you to make your charge. What would you
be obliged to declare? That you had married when young, and finding
that your wife had no fortune, had deserted her the second day after
your marriage. That you, an officer in the army, and the Honourable
Captain De Benyon, had hung up your child at the gates of the Foundling
Hospital--that you had again met your wife, married to another, and had
been an accomplice in concealing her capital offence of bigamy, and had
had meetings with her, although she belonged to another. I say
meetings, for you did meet her, to receive her directions about me. I
am charitable, and suspect nothing--others will not be so. Then, after
her death, you come home and inquire about your son. His identity is
established,--and what then? not only you do not take him by the hand,
in common civility, I might say, but you first try to turn him out of
the house, and to give him in charge of the police; and then you will
have to state for what. Perhaps you will answer me that question, for I
really do not know."
By this time, my honoured father's wrath had, to a certain degree,
subsided: he heard all I had to say, and he felt how very ridiculous
would have been his intended proceedings, and, as his wrath subsided, so
did his pain increase: he had seriously injured his leg, and it was
swelling rapidly--the bandages tightened in consequence, and he was
suffering under the acutest pain. "Oh, oh!" groaned he.
"My dear father, can I assist you?"
"Ring the bell, sir."
"There is no occasion to summon assistance while I am here, my dear
general. I can attend you professionally, and if you will allow me,
will soon relieve your pain. Your leg has swollen from exertion, and
the bandages must be loosened."
He made no reply, but his features were distorted with extreme pain. I
went to him, and proceeded to unloose the bandages, which gave him
considerable relief. I then replaced them, _secundum artem_, and with
great tenderness, and going to the sideboard, took the lotion which was
standing there with the other bottles, and wetted the bandages. In a
few minutes he was quite relieved. "Perhaps, sir," said I, "you had
better try to sleep a little. I will take a book, and shall have great
pleasure in watching by your side."
Exhausted with pain and violence, the general made no reply; he fell
back on the sofa, and, in a short time, he snored most comfortably. "I
have conquered you," thought I, as I watched him as he lay asleep. "If
I have not yet, I will, that I am resolved." I walked gently to the
door, unlocked it, and opening it without waking him, ordered some broth
to be brought up immediately, saying that the general was asleep, and
that I would wait for it outside. I accomplished this little manoeuvre,
and reclosed the door without waking my father, and then I took my seat
in the chair, and resumed my book, having placed the broth on the side
of the fire grate to keep it warm. In about an hour he awoke, and
looked around him.
"Do you want anything, my dearest father?" inquired I.
The general appeared undecided as to whether to recommence hostilities;
but at last he said, "I wish the attendance of my servants, sir."
"The attendance of a servant can never be equal to that of your own son,
general," replied I, going to the fire, and taking the basin of broth,
which I replaced upon the tray containing the _et cetera_ on a napkin.
"I expected you would require your broth, and I have had it ready for
you."
"It was what I did require, sir, I must acknowledge," replied my father,
and without further remark he finished the broth.
I removed the tray, and then went for the lotion, and again wetted the
bandages on his leg. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"
said I.
"Nothing--I am very comfortable."
"Then, sir," replied I, "I will now take my leave. You have desired me
to quit your presence for ever; and you attempted force. I resisted
that, because I would not allow you to have the painful remembrance that
you had injured one who had strong claims upon you, and had never
injured you. I resented it also, because I wished to prove to you that
I was a De Benyon, and had spirit to resist an insult. But, general, if
you imagine that I have come here with a determination of forcing myself
upon you, you are much mistaken. I am too proud, and happily am
independent by my own exertions, so as not to require your assistance.
Had you received me kindly, believe me, you would have found a grateful
and affectionate heart to have met that kindness. You would have found
a son, whose sole object, through life has been to discover a father,
after whom he has yearned, who would have been delighted to have
administered to his wants, to have yielded to his wishes, to have
soothed him in his pain, and to have watched him in his sickness.
Deserted as I have been for so many years, I trust that I have not
disgraced you, General De Benyon; and if ever I have done wrong, it has
been from a wish to discover you. I can appeal to Lord Windermear for
the truth of that assertion. Allow me to say, that it is a very severe
trial--an ordeal which few pass through with safety--to be thrown as I
have been upon the world, with no friend, no parent to assist or to
advise me, to have to bear up against the contingency of being of
unacknowledged and perhaps disgraceful birth. It is harder still, when
I expected to find my dearest wishes realised, that, without any other
cause than that of my features resembling those of my mother, I am to be
again cast away. One thing, General De Benyon, I request, and I trust
it will not be denied, which is, that I may assume the name which I am
entitled to. I pledge you that I never will disgrace it. And now, sir,
asking and expecting no more, I take my leave, and you may be assured,
that neither poverty, privation, nor affliction of any kind, will ever
induce me to again intrude into your presence. General De Benyon,
farewell for ever." I made my father a profound bow, and was quitting
the room.
"Stop, sir," said the general. "Stop one moment, if you please." I
obeyed.
"Why did you put me out of temper? Answer me that."
"Allow me to observe, sir, that I did not put you out of temper; and
what is more, that I never lost my own temper during the insult and
injury which I so undeservedly and unexpectedly have received."
"But that very keeping your temper made me more angry, sir."
"That is very possible; but surely I was not to blame. The greatest
proof of a perfect gentleman is, that he is able to command his temper,
and I wished you to acknowledge that I was not without such
pretensions."
"That is as much as to say that your father is no gentleman; and this, I
presume, is a specimen of your filial duty," replied the general,
warmly.
"Far from it, sir; there are many gentlemen who, unfortunately, cannot
command their tempers, and are more to be pitied than blamed for it;
but, sir, when such happens to be the case, they invariably redeem their
error, and amply so, by expressing their sorrow, and offering an
apology."
"That is as much as to say, that you expect me to apologise to you."
"Allow me, sir, to ask you, did you ever know a De Benyon submit to an
insult?"
"No, sir, I trust not."
"Then, sir, those whose feelings of pride will not allow them to submit
to an insult ought never to insult others. If, in the warmth of the
moment, they have done so, that pride should immediately induce them to
offer an apology, not only due to the party, but to their own
characters. There is no disgrace in making an apology when we are in
error, but there is a great disgrace in withholding such an act of
common justice and reparation."
"I presume I am to infer from all this, that you expect an apology from
me?"
"General De Benyon, as far as I am concerned, that is now of little
importance; we part, and shall probably never meet again; if you think
that it would make you feel more comfortable, I am willing to receive
it."
"I must suppose by that observation, that you fully expect it, and
otherwise will not stay?"
"I never had a thought of staying, general; you have told me that you
have disinherited and discarded me for ever; no one with the feelings of
a man would ever think of remaining after such a declaration."
"Upon what terms, then, sir, am I to understand that you will consent to
remain with me, and forget all that has passed?"
"My terms are simple, general; you must say that you retract what you
have said, and are very sorry for having insulted me."
"And without I do that, you will never come here again?"
"Most decidedly not, sir. I shall always wish you well, pray for your
happiness, be sorry at your death, and attend your funeral as chief
mourner, although you disinherit me. That is my duty, in return for my
having taken your name, and your having acknowledged that I am your son;
but live with you, or even see you occasionally, I will not, after what
has passed this day, without you make me an apology."
"I was not aware that it was necessary for a father to apologise to his
son."
"If you wrong a stranger, you offer an apology; how much more is it due
to a near relation?"
"But a parent has claims upon his own son, sir, for which he is bound to
tender his duty."
"I grant it, in the ordinary course of things in this life; but, General
De Benyon, what claims have you as a parent upon me? A son in most
cases is indebted to his parents for their care and attention in
infancy--his education--his religious instruction--his choice of a
profession, and his advancement in life, by their exertions and
interest; and when they are called away, he has a reasonable expectation
of their leaving him a portion of their substance. They have a heavy
debt of gratitude to pay for what they have received, and they are
further checked by the hopes of what they may hereafter receive. Up to
this time, sir, I have not received the first, and this day I am told
that I need not expect the last. Allow me to ask you, General De
Benyon, upon what grounds you claim from me a filial duty? certainly not
for benefits received, or for benefits in expectation; but I feel that I
am intruding, and therefore, sir, once more, with every wish for your
happiness, I take my leave."
I went out, and had half closed the door after me, when the general
cried out, "Stop--don't go--Japhet--my son--I was in a passion--I beg
your pardon--don't mind what I said--I'm a passionate old fool."
As he uttered this in broken sentences, I returned to him. He held out
his hand. "Forgive me, boy--forgive your father." I knelt down and
kissed his hand; he drew me towards him, and I wept upon his bosom.