"Why so, j.a.phet?"
"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 of our sincerity; but still, the discarding of the dress is a proof of sincerity. 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 steadfast, 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 j.a.phet, 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 _tete-a-tete_, and how I had returned, and found her in tears.
"All that certainly is very corroborative evidence; but tell me, j.a.phet, 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, j.a.phet, 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, j.a.phet; if I have any intelligence I will let you know.
Lady de Clare"s address is Number 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."
PART THREE, CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
I AM A LITTLE JEALOUS, AND, LIKE THE IMMORTAL WILLIAM 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.
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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 short detail 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, turning 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 j.a.phet 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, j.a.phet, 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, j.a.phet?"
"I am much too proud to intrude where I am not wished for, Miss de Clare. As j.a.phet Newland, I came here to see the Fleta of former days.
When I a.s.sume 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 ingrat.i.tude. "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 a.s.sure you--"
"I beg your pardon, Mr Harcourt, for interrupting you, but I require no amba.s.sador 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 grat.i.tude, but sincere regard."
Harcourt then bowed, and quitted the room.
"It"s all very well," muttered I, "but I know the world, and am not to be soothed down by a few fine words. I trust that they will be sorry for their conduct, but see me again inside their doors they will not;"
and I sat down, trying to feel satisfied with myself--but I was not; I felt that I had acted harshly, to say no more. I ought to have listened to an explanation sent by Cecilia and her mother, after her coming down stairs to expostulate. They were under great obligations to me, and by my quick resentment, I rendered the obligations more onerous. It was unkind of me--and I wished that Harcourt had not left the room. As for his conduct, I tried to find fault with it, but could not. It was gentlemanly and feeling. The fact was, I was in a very bad humour, and could not at the time discover the reason, which was neither more nor less than that I was more jealous of finding Harcourt so intimate at Lady de Clare"s, than I was at the unpalatable reception which I had me with. The waiter came in, and brought me a note from Mr Masterton.
"I have this morning received a summons from your father, who returned, it appears, two days ago, and is now at the Adelphi Hotel.
I am sorry to say, that stepping out of his carriage when travelling, he missed his footing, and snapped his tendon Achilles. He is laid up on a couch, and, as you may suppose, his amiability is not increased by the accident, and the pain attending it. As he has requested me to bring forward immediate evidence as to your ident.i.ty, and the presence of Mr Cophagus is necessary, I propose that we start for Reading to-morrow at nine o"clock. I have a curiosity to go down there, and having a leisure day or two, it will be a relaxation. I wish to see my old acquaintance Timothy, and your shop. Answer by bearer.