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.

Chapter LXX

     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.”