thou hast a duty to perform, which is to go to thy
earthly father, and seek his blessing. Nay, more,
I would that thou shouldst once more enter into the
world, there thou mayst decide. Shouldst thou
return to us, thy friends will rejoice, and not one
of them will be more joyful than Susannah Temple.
Fare thee well, Japhet, mayst thou prove superior
to temptation. I will pray for thee—earnestly
I will pray for thee, Japhet,” continued Susannah,
with a quivering of her lips and broken voice, and
she left the room.
I return to London,
and meet with Mr Masterton.
I went upstairs, and found that all was ready, and
I took leave of Mr and Mrs Cophagus, both of whom
expressed their hopes that I would not leave them
for ever. “Oh, no,” replied I, “I
should indeed be base, if I did.” I left
them, and with Ephraim following with my portmanteau,
I quitted the house. I had gone about twenty
yards, when I recollected that I had left on the table
the newspaper with the advertisement containing the
direction whom to apply to, and desiring Ephraim to
proceed, I returned. When I entered the parlour,
Susannah Temple was resting her face in her hands
and weeping. The opening of the door made her
start up; she perceived that it was I, and she turned
away. “I beg your pardon, I left the newspaper,”
said I, stammering. I was about to throw myself
at her feet, declare my sincere affection, and give
up all idea of finding my father until we were married,
when she, without saying a word, passed quickly by
me and hastened out of the room. “She loves
me then,” thought I; “thank God:—I
will not go yet, I will speak to her first.”
I sat down, quite overpowered with contending feelings.
The paper was in my hand, the paragraph was again
read, I thought but of my father, and I left the house.
In half an hour I had shaken hands with Timothy and
quitted the town of Reading. How I arrived in
London, that is to say, what passed, or what we passed,
I know not; my mind was in such a state of excitement.
I hardly know how to express the state that I was
in. It was a sort of mental whirling which blinded
me—round and round—from my father
and the expected meeting, then to Susannah, my departure,
and her tears—castle building of every
description. After the coach stopped, there I
remained fixed on the top of it, not aware that we
were in London until the coachman asked me whether
the spirit did not move me to get down. I recollected
myself, and calling a hackney-coach, gave orders to
be driven to the Piazza, Covent Garden.
“Piazza, Common Garden,” said the waterman,
“why that ban’t an ’otel for the
like o’ you, master. They’ll torment
you to death, them young chaps.”
