Japhet in Search of a Father

“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?”