Part 52 (1/2)

observed Timothy.

”Why so?” inquired I.

”How otherwise should it appear in the Reading newspaper? He must have examined the post-mark of my letter.”

To explain this, I must remind the reader that Timothy had promised to write to Mr Masterton when he found me; and he requested my permission shortly after we had met again. I consented to his keeping his word, but restricted him to saying any more than ”that he had found me, and that I was well and happy.” There was no address in the letter as a clue to Mr Masterton as to where I might be, and it could only have been from the post-mark that he could have formed any idea. Timothy's surmise was therefore very probable; but I would not believe that Mr Masterton would consent to the insertion of that portion of the advertis.e.m.e.nt, if there was no foundation for it.

”What will you do, j.a.phet?”

”Do,” replied I, recovering from my reverie, for the information had again roused up all my dormant feelings--”Do,” replied I, ”why, I shall set off for town this very morning.”

”In that dress, j.a.phet?”

”I suppose I must,” replied I, ”for I have no time to procure another;”

and all my former ideas of fas.h.i.+on and appearance were roused, and in full activity--my pride recovered its ascendency.

”Well,” replied Timothy, ”I hope you will find your father all that you could wish.”

”I'm sure of it, Tim--I'm sure of it,” replied I; ”you must run and take a place in the first coach.”

”But you are not going without seeing Mr and Mrs Cophagus, and--Miss Temple,” continued Tim, laying an emphasis upon the latter name.

”Of course not,” replied I, colouring deeply. ”I will go at once. Give me the newspaper, Tim.”

I took the newspaper, and hastened to the house of Mr Cophagus. I found them all three sitting in the breakfast parlour, Mr Cophagus, as usual, reading, with his spectacles on his nose, and the ladies at work.

”What is the matter, friend j.a.phet?” exclaimed Mr Cophagus, as I burst into the room, my countenance lighted up with excitement.

”Read that, sir,” said I to Mr Cophagus.

Mr Cophagus read it. ”Hum--bad news--lose j.a.phet--man of fas.h.i.+on--and so on,” said Cophagus, pointing out the paragraph to his wife, as he handed over the paper.

In the mean time I watched the countenance of Susannah--a slight emotion, but instantly checked, was visible at Mr Cophagus's remark.

She then remained quiet until her sister, who had read the paragraph, handed the paper to her. ”I give thee joy, j.a.phet, at the prospect of finding out thy parent,” said Mrs Cophagus. ”I trust thou wilt find in him one who is to be esteemed as a man. When departest thou?”

”Immediately,” replied I.

”I cannot blame thee--the ties of nature are ever powerful. I trust that thou wilt write to us, and that we soon shall see thee return.”

”Yes, yes,” said Cophagus, ”see father--shake hands--come back--heh!-- settle here--and so on.”

”I shall not be altogether my own master, perhaps,” observed I. ”If my father desires that I remain with him, must not I obey? But I know nothing at present. You shall hear from me. Timothy can take my place in the--” I could not bear the idea of the word shop, and I stopped.

Susannah, for the first time, looked me earnestly in the face, but she said nothing. Mr and Mrs Cophagus, who probably had been talking over the subject of our conversation, and thought this a good opportunity to allow me to have an _eclairciss.e.m.e.nt_ with Susannah, left the room, saying they would look after my portmanteau and linen. ”Susannah,” said I, ”you do not appear to rejoice with me.”

”j.a.phet Newland, I will rejoice at everything that may tend to thy happiness, believe me; but I do not feel a.s.sured but that this trial may prove too great, and that thou mayst fall away. Indeed, I perceive even now that thou art excited with new ideas, and visions of pride.”

”If I am wrong, forgive me. Susannah, you must know that the whole object of my existence has been to find my father; and now that I have every reason to suppose that my wish is obtained, can you be surprised, or can you blame me, that I long to be pressed in his arms?”

”Nay, j.a.phet, for that filial feeling I do commend thee; but ask thy own heart, is that the only feeling which now exciteth thee? Dost thou not expect to find thy father one high in rank and power? Dost thou not antic.i.p.ate to join once more the world which thou hast quitted, yet still hast sighed for? Dost thou not already feel contempt for thy honest profession:--nay, more, dost thou not only long to cast off the plain attire, and not only the attire, but the sect which in thy adversity thou didst embrace the tenets of? Ask thy own heart, and reply if thou wilt, but I press thee not so to do; for the truth would be painful, and a lie thou knowest, I do utterly abhor.”

I felt that Susannah spoke the truth, and I would not deny it. I sat down by her. ”Susannah,” said I, ”it is not very easy to change at once. I have mixed for years in the world, with you I have not yet lived two. I will not deny but that the feelings you have expressed have risen in my heart, but I will try to repress them; at least, for your sake, Susannah, I would try to repress them, for I value your opinion more than that of the whole world. You have the power to do with me as you please:--will you exert that power?”