“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.”

  Chapter LXXII

  I am a little jealous, and, like the immortal William[A] Bottom, inclined to enact more parts than one. — With a big effort my hankering after bigamy is mastered by Mr Masterton — and by my own good sense.

  [Footnote A: Or rather Nick — Ed.]

  I returned home to reflect upon what Mr Masterton had told me, and I must say that I was not very well pleased with his various information. His account of my mother, although she was no more, distressed me, and, from the character which he gave of my father, I felt convinced that my happiness would not be at all increased by my having finally attained the long-desired object of my wishes. Strange to say, I had no sooner discovered my father, but I wished that he had never turned up; and when I compared the peaceful and happy state of existence which I had lately enjoyed, with the prospects of what I had in future to submit to, I bitterly repented that the advertisement had been seen by Timothy; still, on one point, I was peculiarly anxious, without hardly daring to anatomise my feelings; it was relative to Cecilia de Clare, and what Mr Masterton had mentioned in the course of our conversation. The next morning I wrote to Timothy and to Mr Cophagus, giving them a shortdetail of what I had been informed by Mr Masterton, and expressing a wish, which I then really did feel, that I had never been summoned away from them.

  Having finished my letters, I set off to Park Street, to call upon Lady de Clare and Cecilia. It was rather early, but the footman who opened the door recognised me, and I was admitted upon his own responsibility. It was now more than eighteen months since I had quitted their house at Richmond, and I was very anxious to know what reception I might have. I followed the servant up stairs, and when he opened the door walked in, as my name was announced.

  Lady de Clare rose in haste, so did Cecilia, and so did a third person, whom I had not expected to have met — Harcourt. “Mr Newland,” exclaimed Lady de Clare, “this is indeed unexpected.” Cecilia also came forward, blushing to the forehead. Harcourt held back, as if waiting for the advances to be made on my side. On the whole, I never felt more awkwardly, and I believe my feelings were reciprocated by the whole party. I was evidently de trop.

  “Do you know Mr Harcourt?” at last said Lady de Clare.

  “If it is the Mr Harcourt I once knew,” replied I, “I certainly do.”

  “Believe me it is the same, Newland,” said Harcourt, coming to me and offering his hand, which I took with pleasure.

  “It is a long while since we met,” observed Cecilia, who felt it necessary to say something, but, at the same time, did not like to enter upon my affairs before Harcourt.

  “It is, Miss de Clare,” replied I, for I was not exactly pleased at my reception; “but I have been fortunate since I had the pleasure of seeing you last.”

  Cecilia and her mother looked earnestly, as much as to say, “in what?” — but did not like to ask the question.

  “There is no one present who is not well acquainted with my history,” observed I, “that is, until the time that I left you and Lady de Clare, and I have no wish to create mystery. I have at last discovered my father.”

  “I hope we are to congratulate you, Mr Newland,” said Lady de Clare.

  “As far as respectability and family are concerned, I certainly have no reason to be ashamed,” replied I. “He is the brother of an earl, and a general in the army. His name I will not mention until I have seen him, and I am formally and openly acknowledged. I have also the advantage of being an only son, and if I am not disinherited, heir to considerable property,” continued I, smiling sarcastically. “Perhaps I may now be better received than I have been as Japhet Newland the Foundling: but, Lady de Clare, I am afraid that I have intruded unseasonably, and will now take my leave. Good morning;” and without waiting for a reply, I made a hasty retreat, and gained the door.

  Flushed with indignation, I had nearly gained the bottom of the stairs, when I heard a light footstep behind me, and my arm was caught by Cecilia de Clare. I turned round, and she looked me reproachfully in the face, as the tear stood in her eye.

  “What have we done, Japhet, that you should treat us in this manner?” said she, with emotion.

  “Miss de Clare,” replied I, “I have no reproaches to make. I perceived that my presence was not welcome, and I would no further intrude.”

  “Are you then so proud, now that you have found out that you are well born, Japhet?”

  “I am much too proud to intrude where I am not wished for, Miss de Clare. As Japhet Newland, I came here to see the Fleta of former days. When I assume my real name, I shall always be most happy of an introduction to the daughter of Lady de Clare.”

  “Oh! how changed,” exclaimed she, fixing her large blue eyes upon me.

  “Prosperity changes us all, Miss de Clare. I wish you a very good morning;” and I turned away, and crossed the hall to the door.

  As I went out I could not help looking back, and I perceived that Cecilia’s handkerchief was held to her eyes, as she slowly mounted the stairs. I walked home to the Piazza in no very pleasant humour. I was angry and disgusted at the coolness of my reception. I thought myself ill used, and treated with ingratitude. “So much for the world,” said I, as I sat down in my apartment, and spun my hat on the table. “She has been out two seasons, and is no longer the same person. Yet how lovely she has grown! But why this change — and why was Harcourt there? Could he have prejudiced them against me? Very possibly.” While these ideas were running in my mind, and I was making comparisons between Cecilia de Clare and Susannah Temple — not much in favour of the former — and looking forward prospectively to the meeting with my father, the doubts as to my reception in society colouring everything with the most sombre tints, the door opened, and in walked Harcourt, announced by the waiter.

  “A chair for Mr Harcourt,” said I to the waiter, with formality.

  “Newland,” said Harcourt, “I come for two reasons: in the first place, I am commissioned by the ladies, to assure you—”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr Harcourt, for interrupting you, but I require no ambassador from the ladies in question. They may make you their confidant if they please, but I am not at all inclined to do the same. Explanation, after what I witnessed and felt this morning, is quite unnecessary. I surrender all claims upon either Lady de Clare or her daughter, if I ever was so foolhardy as to imagine that I had any. The first reason of your visit it is therefore useless to proceed with. May I ask the other reason which has procured me this honour?”

  “I hardly know, Mr Newland,” replied Harcourt, colouring deeply, “whether, after what you have now said, I ought to proceed with the second — it related to myself.”

  “I am all attention, Mr Harcourt,” replied I, bowing politely.

  “It was to say, Mr Newland, that I should have taken the earliest opportunity after my recovery, had you not disappeared so strangely, to have expressed my sorrow for my conduct towards you, and to have acknowledged that I had been deservedly punished: more perhaps by my own feelings of remorse, than by the dangerous wound I had received by your hand. I take even this opportunity, although not apparently a favourable one, of expressing what I consider it my duty, as a gentleman who has wronged another, to express. I certainly was going to add more, but there is so little chance of its being well received, that I had better defer it to some future opportunity. The time may come, and I certainly trust it will come, when I may be allowed to prove to you that I am not deserving of the coolness with which I am now received. Mr Newland, with every wish for your happiness, I will now take my leave; but I must say, it is with painful sentiments, as I feel that the result of this interview will be the cause of great distress to those who are bound to you, not only by gratitude, but sincere regard.”