“Well done, Newland,” replied he, after I had finished. “I’ll bet ten to one that you find out your father. Your life already would not make a bad novel. If you continue your hair-breadth adventures in this way, it will be quite interesting.”

  Although satisfied in my own mind that I had discovered Fleta’s parentage, and anxious to impart the joyful intelligence, I resolved not to see her until everything should be satisfactorily arranged. The residence of the dowager Lady de Clare was soon discovered by Mr Masterton; it was at Richmond, and thither he and I proceeded. We were ushered into the drawing-room, and, to my delight, upon her entrance, I perceived that it was the same beautiful person in whose ears I had seen the coral and gold ear-rings matching the necklace belonging to Fleta. I considered it better to allow Mr Masterton to break the subject.

  “You are, madam, the widow of the late Sir William de Clare.” The lady bowed. “You will excuse me, madam, but I have most important reasons for asking you a few questions, which otherwise may appear to be intrusive. Are you aware of the death of his brother, Sir Henry de Clare?”

  “Indeed I was not,” replied she. “I seldom look at a paper, and I have long ceased to correspond with any one in Ireland. May I ask you what occasioned his death?”

  “He fell by his own hands, madam.”

  Lady de Clare covered up her face. “God forgive him!” said she, in a low voice.

  “Lady de Clare, upon what terms were your husband and the late Sir Henry? It is important to know.”

  “Not on the very best, sir. Indeed, latterly, for years, they never met or spoke: we did not know what had become of him.”

  “Were there any grounds for ill-will?”

  “Many, sir, on the part of the elder brother; but none on that of Sir Henry, who was treated with every kindness, until he—” Lady de Clare stopped— “until he behaved very ill to him.”

  As we afterwards discovered, Henry de Clare had squandered away the small portion left him by his father, and had ever after that been liberally supplied by his eldest brother, until he had attempted to seduce Lady de Clare, upon which he was dismissed for ever.

  “And now, madam, I must revert to a painful subject. You had a daughter by your marriage?”

  “Yes,” replied the lady, with a deep sigh.

  “How did you lose her? Pray do not think I am creating this distress on your part without strong reasons.”

  “She was playing in the garden, and the nurse, who thought it rather cold, ran in for a minute to get a handkerchief to tie round her neck. When the nurse returned, the child had disappeared.” Lady de Clare put her handkerchief up to her eyes.

  “Where did you find her afterwards?”

  “It was not until three weeks afterwards that her body was found in a pond about a quarter of a mile off.”

  “Did the nurse not seek her when she discovered that she was not in the garden?”

  “She did, and immediately ran in that direction. It is quite strange that the child could have got so far without the nurse perceiving her.”

  “How long is it ago?”

  “It is now nine years.”

  “And the age of the child at the time?”

  “About six years old.”

  “I think, Newland, you may now speak to Lady de Clare.”

  “Lady de Clare, have you not a pair of ear-rings of coral and gold of very remarkable workmanship?”

  “I have, sir,” replied she, with surprise.

  “Had you not a necklace of the same? and if so, will you do me the favour to examine this?” I presented the necklace.

  “Merciful heaven!” cried Lady de Clare, “it is the very necklace! — it was on my poor Cecilia when she was drowned, and it was not found with the body. How came it into your possession, sir? At one time,” continued Lady de Clare, weeping, “I thought that it was possible that the temptation of the necklace, which has a great deal of gold in it, must, as it was not found on her corpse, have been an inducement for the gipsies, who were in the neighbourhood, to drown her; but Sir William would not believe it, rather supposing that in her struggles in the water she must have broken it, and that it had thus been detached from her neck. Is it to return this unfortunate necklace that you have come here?”

  “No, madam, not altogether. Had you two white ponies at the time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was there a mulberry tree in the garden?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the astonished lady.

  “Will you do me the favour to describe the appearance of your child as she was, at the time that you lost her?”

  “She was — but all mothers are partial, and perhaps I may also be so — a very fair, lovely little girl.”

  “With light hair, I presume?”

  “Yes, sir. But why these questions? Surely you cannot ask them for nothing,” continued she hurriedly. “Tell me, sir, why all these questions?”

  Mr Masterton replied, “Because, madam, we have some hopes that you have been deceived, and that it is possible that your daughter was not drowned.”

  Lady de Clare, breathless, and her mouth open, fixed her eyes upon Mr Masterton, and exclaimed, “Not drowned! O my God! my head!” and then she fell back insensible.

  “I have been too precipitate,” said Mr Masterton, going to her assistance; “but joy does not kill. Ring for some water, Japhet.”

  Chapter L

  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 assistance. We led her to a chair, and in a minute Fleta was called down. Perceiving me in the passage, she ran to me. “Stop, my dear Fleta, there is a lady in the parlour, who wishes to see you.”

  “A lady, Japhet?”

  “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 G — , Japhet, 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 principal 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 “God 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, “Japhet, here is a letter directed to you, to my care, from Ireland, which I have brought for you.”

  “It is from Kathleen M’Shane, 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 Nattée, or Lady H. de Clare, and ran as follows: —

  “Japhet 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,

  Nattée.”

  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.

  “Nattée 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 — nobody — without a parent.”

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

  Chapter LI

  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 proteg 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?”