Japhet in Search of a Father

“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.

Part 3—Chapter XXI

Father still dutifully submissive at Home—Abroad, I am splitting a Straw in Arguments with Susannah about Straw Bonnets—The Rest of the Chapter contains Coquetry, Courting, and Costumes.

It was some time before we were sufficiently composed to enter into conversation, and then I tried my utmost to please him. Still there was naturally a restraint on both sides, but I was so particular and devoted in my attentions, so careful of giving offence, that when he complained of weariness, and a wish to retire, he stipulated that I should be with him to breakfast on the next morning.

I hastened to Mr Masterton, although it was late, to communicate to him all that had passed: he heard me with great interest. “Japhet,” said he, “you have done well—it is the proudest day of your life. You have completely mastered him. The royal Bengal tiger is tamed. I wish you joy, my dear fellow. Now I trust that all will be well. But keep your own counsel; do not let this be known at Reading. Let them still imagine that your father is as passionate as ever, which he will be, by-the-by, with everybody else. You have still to follow up your success, and leave me to help you in other matters.”

I returned home to the Piazza, and, thankful to Heaven for the events of the day, I soon fell fast asleep, and dreamt of Susannah Temple. The next morning I was early at the Adelphi Hotel; my father had not yet risen, but the native servants who passed in and out, attending upon him, and who took care to give me a wide berth, had informed him that “Burra Sahib’s” son was come, and he sent for me. His leg was very painful and uncomfortable, and the surgeon had not yet made his appearance. I arranged it as before, and he then dressed, and came out to breakfast. I had said nothing before the servants, but as soon as he was comfortable on the sofa, I took his hand, and kissed it, saying, “Good morning, my dear father; I hope you do not repent of your kindness to me yesterday.”

“No, no; God bless you, boy. I’ve been thinking of you all night.”

“All’s right,” thought I; “and I trust to be able to keep it so.”

I shall pass over a fortnight, during which I was in constant attendance upon my father. At times he would fly out in a most violent manner, but I invariably kept my temper, and when it was all over, would laugh at him, generally repeating and acting all which he had said and done during his paroxysm. I found this rather dangerous ground at first, but by degrees he became used to it, and it was wonderful how it acted as a check upon him. He would not at first believe but that I exaggerated, when the picture was held up to his view and he was again calm. My father was not naturally a bad-tempered man, but having been living among a servile race, and holding high command in the army, he had gradually acquired a habit of authority and an impatience of contradiction which was unbearable to all around. Those who were high-spirited and sensitive shunned him; the servile and the base continued with him for their own interests, but trembled at his wrath. I had during this time narrated to my father the events of my life, and, I am happy to say, had, by attention and kindness joined with firmness and good temper, acquired a dominion over him. I had at his request removed to the hotel, and lived with him altogether. His leg was rapidly arriving to a state of convalescence, and he now talked of taking a house and setting up his establishment in London. I had seen but little of Mr Masterton during this time, as I had remained in-doors in attendance upon the general. I had written once to Mr Cophagus, stating how I was occupied, but saying nothing about our reconciliation. One morning, Mr Masterton called upon us, and after a little conversation with the general, he told me that he had persuaded Mr Cophagus and his wife to leave Reading and come to London, and that Susannah Temple was to come with them.

“On a visit?” inquired I.

“No, not on a visit. I have seen Cophagus, and he is determined to cut the Quakers, and reside in London altogether.”

“What! does he intend to return to the pomps and vanities of this wicked world?”

“Yes, I believe so, and his wife will join him. She has no objection to decorate her pretty person.”

“I never thought that she had—but Susannah Temple—”

“When Susannah is away from her friends, when she finds that her sister and brother-in-law no longer wear the dress, and when she is constantly in your company, to all which please to add the effect I trust of my serious admonitions, she will soon do as others do, or she is no woman. This is all my plan, and leave it to me—only play your part by seeing as much of her as you can.”

“You need not fear that,” replied I.

“Does your father know of your attachment?” inquired Mr Masterton.

“No, I passed her over without mentioning her name,” replied I. “It is too soon yet to talk to him about my marrying; in fact, the proposal must, if possible, come from him. Could not you manage that?”

“Yes, I will if I can; but, as you say, wait awhile. Here is their address—you must call to-morrow, if you can; and do you think you can dine with me on Thursday?”

“Yes, if the general continues improving; if not, I will send you word.”

The next day I complained of a head-ache, and said, that I would walk out until dinner-time. I hastened to the address given me by Mr Masterton, and found that Mr Cophagus and his wife were out, but Susannah remained at home. After our first questions, I inquired of her how she liked London.

“I am almost afraid to say, Japhet, at least to you; you would only laugh at me.”

“Not so, Susannah; I never laugh when I know people are sincere.”

“It appears to me then to be a vanity fair.”

“That there is more vanity in London than in any other city, I grant,” replied I; “but recollect, that there are more people and more wealth. I do not think that there is more in proportion than in other towns in England, and if there is more vanity, Susannah, recollect also that there is more industry, more talent, and I should hope a greater proportion of good and honest people among its multitudes; there is also, unfortunately, more misery and more crime.”

“I believe you are right, Japhet. Are you aware that Mr Cophagus has put off his plain attire?”

“If it grieves you, Susannah, it grieves me also; but I presume he finds it necessary not to be so remarkable.”

“For him, I could find some excuse; but what will you say, Japhet, when I tell you that my own sister, born and bred up to our tenets, hath also much deviated from the dress of the females of our sect?”

“In what hath she made an alteration?”

“She has a bonnet of plaited straw with ribands.”

“Of what colour are the ribands?”

“Nay, of the same as her dress—of grey.”

“Your bonnet, Susannah, is of grey silk; I do not see that there is vanity in descending to straw, which is a more homely commodity. But what reason has she given?”

“That her husband wills it, as he does not like to walk out with her in her Quaker’s dress.”

“Is it not her duty to obey her husband, even as I obey my father, Susannah?—but I am not ashamed to walk out with you in your dress; so if you have no objection, let me show you a part of this great city.”

Susannah consented: we had often walked together in the town of Reading: she was evidently pleased at what I said. I soon escorted her to Oxford-Street, from thence down Bond Street and through all the most frequented parts of the metropolis. The dress naturally drew upon her the casual glance of the passengers, but her extreme beauty turned the glance to an ardent gaze, and long before we had finished our intended walk, Susannah requested that I would go home. She was not only annoyed but almost alarmed at the constant and reiterated scrutiny which she underwent, ascribing it to her dress, and not to her lovely person. As soon as we returned I sat down with her.

“So I understand that Mr Cophagus intends to reside altogether in London.”

“I have not heard so; I understood that it was business which called him hither for a few weeks. I trust not, for I shall be unhappy here.”

“May I ask why?”

“The people are rude—it is not agreeable to walk out.”

“Recollect, my dear Susannah, that those of your sect are not so plentiful in London as elsewhere, and if you wear a dress so different from other people, you must expect that curiosity will be excited. You cannot blame them—it is you who make yourself conspicuous, almost saying to the people by your garment, ‘Come, and look at me.’ I have been reflecting upon what Mr Masterton said to you at Reading, and I do not know whether he was not right in calling it a garb of pride instead of a garb of humility.”

“If I thought so, Japhet, even I would throw it off,” replied Susannah.

“It certainly is not pleasant that everyone should think that you walk out on purpose to be stared at, yet such is the ill-natured construction of the world, and they will never believe otherwise. It is possible, I should think, to dress with equal simplicity and neatness, to avoid gay colours, and yet to dress so as not to excite observation.”

“I hardly know what to say, but that you all appear against me, and that sometimes I feel that I am too presumptuous in thus judging for myself.”

“I am not against you, Susannah; I know you will do what you think is right, and I shall respect you for that, even if I disagree with you; but I must say, that if my wife were to dress in such a way as to attract the public gaze, I should feel too jealous to approve of it. I do not, therefore, blame Mr Cophagus for inducing his pretty wife to make some alteration in her attire, neither do I blame, but I commend her for obeying the wishes of her husband. Her beauty is his, and not common property.”

Susannah did not reply: she appeared very thoughtful.

“You disagree with me, Susannah,” said I, after a pause; “I am sorry for it.”

“I cannot say that I do, Japhet: I have learnt a lesson this day, and, in future, I must think more humbly of myself, and be more ruled by the opinions and judgment of others.”

Mr and Mrs Cophagus then came in. Cophagus had resumed his medical coat and waistcoat, but not his pantaloons or Hessians: his wife, who had a very good taste in dress, would not allow him. She was in her grey silk gown, but wore a large handsome shawl, which covered all but the skirts: on her head she had a Leghorn bonnet, and certainly looked very pretty. As usual, she was all good humour and smiles. I told them that we had been walking out, and that Susannah had been much annoyed by the staring of the people.

“Always so,” said Cophagus, “never mind—girls like it—feel pleased—and so on.”

“You wrong me much, brother Cophagus,” replied Susannah, “it pained me exceedingly.”

“All very well to say so—know better—sly puss—will wear dress—people say, pretty Quaker—and so on.”

Susannah hastily left the room after this attack, and I told them what had passed.

“Mrs Cophagus,” said I, “order a bonnet and shawl like yours for her, without telling her, and, perhaps, you will persuade her to put them on.”

Mrs Cophagus thought the idea excellent and promised to procure them. Susannah not making her re-appearance, I took leave, and arrived at the hotel in good time for dinner.

“Japhet,” said the general to me as we were at table, “you have mentioned Lord Windermear very often, have you called upon him lately?”

“No, sir, it is now two years and more since I have seen him. When I was summoned to town to meet you, I was too much agitated to think of anything else, and since that I have had too much pleasure in your company.”

“Say rather, my good boy, that you have nursed me so carefully that you have neglected your friends and your health. Take my carriage to-morrow, and call upon him, and after that, you had better drive about a little, for you have been looking pale these last few days. I hope to get out myself in a short time, and then we will have plenty of amusement together in setting up our establishment.”

Part 3—Chapter XXII

I renew old Ties of Friendship, and seek new ones of Love—Obliged to take my Father to Task once more—He receives his Lesson with proper Obedience.

I took the carriage the next day, and drove to Lord Windermear’s. He was at home, and I gave my name to the servant as Mr De Benyon. It was the first time that I had made use of my own name. His lordship was alone when I entered. He bowed, as if not recognising me, and waved his hand to a chair.

“My lord, I have given my true name, and you treat me as a perfect stranger. I will mention my former name, and I trust you will honour me with a recognition. I was Japhet Newland.”

“My dear Mr Newland, you must accept my apology; but it is so long since we met, and I did not expect to see you again.”

“I thought, my lord, that Mr Masterton had informed you of what had taken place.”

“No; I have just come from a visit to my sisters in Westmoreland, and have received no letters from him.”

“I have, my lord, at last succeeded in finding out the object of my mad search, as you were truly pleased to call it, in the Honourable General De Benyon, lately arrived from the East Indies.”

“Where his services are well known,” added his lordship, “Mr De Benyon, I congratulate you with all my heart. When you refused my offers of assistance, and left us all in that mad way, I certainly despaired of ever seeing you again. I am glad that you re-appear under such fortunate auspices. Has your father any family?”

“None, my lord, but myself; and my mother died in the East Indies.”

“Then, I presume, from what I know at the board of control, that you may now safely be introduced as a young gentleman of large fortune; allow me, at least, to assist your father in placing you in your proper sphere in society. Where is your father?”

“At present, my lord, he is staying at the Adelphi Hotel, confined to his room by an accident; but I trust that in a few days he will be able to come out.”

“Will you offer my congratulations to him, and tell him, that if he will allow me, I will have the honour of paying my respects to him. Will you dine with me on Monday next?”

I returned my thanks, accepted the invitation, and took my leave, his lordship saying, as he shook hands with me, “You don’t know, how happy this intelligence has made me. I trust that your father and I shall be good friends.”

When I returned to the carriage, as my father had desired me to take an airing, I thought I might as well have a companion, so I directed them to drive to Mr Cophagus’s. The servant knocked, and I went in as soon as the door was opened. Susannah and Mrs Cophagus were sitting in the room.

“Susannah,” said I, “I know you do not like to walk out, so I thought, perhaps, you would have no objection to take an airing in the carriage: my father has lent it to me. Will you come?—it will do you good.”

“It is very kind of you, Japhet, to think of me; but—”

“But what?” replied Mrs Cophagus. “Surely thou wilt not refuse, Susannah. It would savour much of ingratitude on thy part.”

“I will not then be ungrateful,” replied Susannah, leaving the room; and in a short time she returned in a Leghorn bonnet and shawl like her sister’s. “Do not I prove that I am not ungrateful, Japhet, since to do credit to thy carriage, I am content to depart from the rules of our persuasion?” said Susannah, smiling.

“I feel the kindness and the sacrifice you are making to please me, Susannah,” replied I; “but let us lose no time.”

I handed her down to the carriage, and we drove to the Park. It was a beautiful day, and the Park was filled with pedestrians as well as carriages. Susannah was much astonished, as well as pleased. “Now, Susannah,” said I, “if you were to call this Vanity Fair, you would not be far wrong; but still, recollect that even all this is productive of much good. Reflect how many industrious people find employment and provision for their families by the building of these gay vehicles, their painting and ornamenting. How many are employed at the loom, and at the needle, in making these costly dresses. This vanity is the cause of wealth not being hoarded, but finding its way through various channels, so as to produce comfort and happiness to thousands.”

“Your observations are just, Japhet, but you have lived in the world and seen much of it. I am as one just burst from an egg-shell, all amazement. I have been living in a little world of my own thoughts, surrounded by a mist of ignorance, and not being able to penetrate farther, have considered myself wise when I was not.”

“My dear Susannah, this is a checkered world, but not a very bad one—there is in it much of good as well as evil. The sect to which you belong avoid it—they know it not—and they are unjust towards it. During the time that I lived at Reading, I will candidly state to you that I met with many who called themselves of the persuasion, who were wholly unworthy of it, but they made up in outward appearance and hypocrisy what they wanted in their conduct to their fellow creatures. Believe me, Susannah, there are pious and good, charitable and humane, conscientious and strictly honourable people among those who now pass before your view in such gay procession; but society requires that the rich should spend their money in superfluities, that the poor may be supported. Be not deceived, therefore, in future, by the outward garments, which avail nothing.”