Chapter Thirty Two.
The waterman turns water-knight—I become chivalrous, see a beautiful face, and go with the stream—The adventure seems to promise more law than love, there being papers in the case that is, in a tin-box.
That night I dreamed of nothing but the scene, over and over again, and the two bars of music were constantly ringing in my ears. As soon as I had breakfasted the next morning I set off to Mr Turnbull’s, and told him what had occurred.
“It was indeed fortunate that the box was landed,” said he, “or you might have now been in prison; I wish I had had nothing to do with it; but, as you say, ‘what’s done can’t be helped;’ I will not give up the box, at all events, until I know which party is entitled to it, and I cannot help thinking that the lady is. But, Jacob, you will have to reconnoitre, and find out what this story is. Tell me, do you think you could remember the tune which he whistled so often?”
“It has been running in my head the whole night, and I have been trying it all the way as I pulled here. I think I have it exact. Hear, sir.”—I whistled the two bars.
“Quite correct, Jacob, quite correct; well, take care not to forget them. Where are you going to-day?”
“Nowhere, sir.”
“Suppose, then, you pull up the river, and find out the place where we landed, and when you have ascertained that, you can go on and see whether the young man is with the skiff; at all events you may find out something—but pray be cautious.”
I promised to be very careful, and departed on my errand, which I undertook with much pleasure, for I was delighted with anything like adventure. I pulled up the river, and in about an hour and a-quarter, came abreast of the spot. I recognised the cottage ornée, the parapet wall, even the spot where we lay, and perceived that several bricks were detached and had fallen into the river. There appeared to be no one stirring in the house, yet I continued to pull up and down, looking at the windows; at last one opened, and a young lady looked out, who, I was persuaded, was the same that we had seen the night before. There was no wind, and all was quiet around. She sat at the window, leaning her head on her hand. I whistled the two bars of the air. At the first bar she started up, and looked earnestly at me as I completed the second. I looked up; she waved her handkerchief once, and then shut the window. In a few seconds she made her appearance on the lawn, walking down towards the river. I immediately pulled in under the wall. I laid in my sculls, and held on, standing up in the boat.
“Who are you? and who sent you?” said she, looking down on me, and discovering one of the most beautiful faces I had ever beheld.
“No one sent me ma’am,” replied I, “but I was in the boat last night. I am sorry you were so unfortunate, but your box and cloak are quite safe.”
“You were one of the men in the boat. I trust no one was hurt when they fired at you?”
“No ma’am.”
“And where is the box?”
“In the house of the person who was with me.”
“Can he be trusted? For they will offer large rewards for it.”
“I should think so, ma’am,” replied I, smiling; “the person who was with me is a gentleman of large fortune, who was amusing himself on the river. He desires me to say that he will not give up the box until he knows to whom the contents legally belong.”
“Good heavens, how fortunate! Am I to believe you?”
“I should hope so, ma’am.”
“And what are you, then? You are not a waterman?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
She paused, looked earnestly at me for a little while, and then continued, “How did you learn the air you whistled?”
“The young gentleman whistled it six or seven times last night before you came. I tried it this morning coming up, as I thought it would be the means of attracting your attention. Can I be of any service to you, ma’am?”
“Service—yes, if I could be sure you were to be trusted—of the greatest service. I am confined here—cannot send a letter—watched as I move—only allowed the garden, and even watched while I walk here. They are most of them in quest of the tin box to-day, or I should not be able to talk to you so long.” She looked round at the house anxiously, and then said, “Stop here a minute, while I walk a little.” She then retreated, and paced up and down the garden walk. I still remained under the wall, so as not to be perceived from the house. In about three or four minutes she returned and said, “It would be very cruel—it would be more than cruel—it would be very wicked of you to deceive me, for I am very unfortunate and very unhappy.” The tears started in her eyes. “You do not look as if you would. What is your name?”
“Jacob Faithful, ma’am, and I will be true to my name, if you will put your trust in me. I never deceived any one that I can recollect; and I’m sure I would not you—now that I’ve seen you.”
“Yes, but money will seduce everybody.”
“Not me, ma’am. I’ve as much as I wish for.”
“Well, then, I will trust you, and think you sent from heaven to my aid; but how am I to see you? To-morrow my uncle will be back, and then I shall not be able to speak to you one moment, and if seen to speak to you, you will be laid in wait for, and perhaps shot.”
“Well, ma’am,” replied I, after a pause, “if you cannot speak, you can write. You see that the bricks on the parapet are loose here. Put your letter under this brick—I can take it away even in day-time, without being noticed, and can put the answer in the same place, so that you can secure it when you come out.”
“How very clever! Good heavens, what an excellent idea!”
“Was the young gentleman hurt, ma’am, in the scuffle last night?” inquired I.
“No, I believe not much, but I wish to know where he is, to write to him; could you find out?” I told her where we had met him, and what had passed. “That was Lady Auburn’s,” replied she; “he is often there—she is our cousin but I don’t know where he lives, and how to find him I know not. His name is William Wharncliffe. Do you think you could find him out?”
“Yes, ma’am, with a little trouble it might be done. They ought to know where he is at Lady Auburn’s.”
“Yes, some of the servants might—but how will you get to them?”
“That, ma’am, I must find out. It may not be done in one day, or two days, but if you will look every morning under this brick, if there is anything to communicate you will find it there.”
“You can write and read, then?”
“I should hope so, ma’am,” replied I, laughing.
“I don’t know what to make of you. Are you really a waterman?”
“Really, and—” She turned her head round at the noise of a window opening.
“You must go—don’t forget the brick;” and she disappeared.
I shoved my wherry along by the side of the wall, so as to remain unperceived until I was clear of the frontage attached to the cottage; and then, taking my sculls, pulled into the stream; and as I was resolved to see if I could obtain any information at Lady Auburn’s, I had to pass the garden again, having shoved my boat down the river instead of up, when I was under the wall. I perceived the young lady walking with a tall man by her side; he speaking very energetically, and using much gesticulation, she holding down her head. In another minute they were shut out from my sight. I was so much stricken with the beauty and sweetness of expression in the young lady’s countenance that I was resolved to use my best exertions to be of service to her. In about an hour-and-a-half I had arrived at the villa, abreast of which we had met the young gentleman, and which the young lady had told me belonged to Lady Auburn. I could see no one in the grounds, nor indeed in the house. After watching a few minutes, I landed as near to the villa as I could, made fast the wherry, and walked round to the entrance. There was no lodge, but a servant’s door at one side. I pulled the bell, having made up my mind how to proceed as I was walking up. The bell was answered by an old woman, who, in a snarling tone, asked me “what did I want?”
“I am waiting below, with my boat, for Mr Wharncliffe; has he come yet?”
“Mr Wharncliffe! No—he’s not come; nor did he say that he would come; when did you see him?”
“Yesterday. Is Lady Auburn at home?”
“Lady Auburn—no; she went to town this morning; everybody goes to London now, that they may not see the flowers and green trees, I suppose.”
“But I suppose Mr Wharncliffe will come,” continued I, “so I must wait for him.”
“You can do just as you like,” replied the old woman, about to shut the gate in my face.
“May I request a favour of you, ma’am, before you shut the gate—which is, to bring me a little water to drink, for the sun is hot, and I have had a long pull up here;” and I took out my handkerchief and wiped my face.
“Yes, I’ll fetch you some,” replied she, shutting the gate and going away.
“This don’t seem to answer very well,” thought I to myself. The old woman returned, opened the gate, and handed me a mug of water. I drank some, thanked her, and returned the mug.
“I am very tired,” said I; “I should like to sit down and wait for the gentleman.”
“Don’t you sit down when you pull?” inquired the old woman.
“Yes,” replied I.
“Then you must be tired of sitting, I should think, not of standing; at all events, if you want to sit, you can sit in your boat, and mind it at the same time.” With this observation she shut the door upon me, and left me without any more comment.
After this decided repulse on the part of the old woman, I had nothing to do but take her advice—viz., to go and look after my boat. I pulled down to Mr Turnbull’s, and told him my good and bad fortune. It being late, he ordered me some dinner in his study, and we sat there canvassing over the affair. “Well,” said he, as we finished, “you must allow me to consider this as my affair, Jacob, as I was the occasion of our getting mixed up in it. You must do all that you can to find this young man, and I shall hire Stapleton’s boat by the day until we succeed; you need not tell him so, or he may be anxious to know why. To-morrow you go down to old Beazeley’s?”
“Yes, sir; you cannot hire me to-morrow.”
“Still I shall, as I want to see you to-morrow morning before you go. Here’s Stapleton’s money for yesterday and to-day and now good-night.”
I was at Mr Turnbull’s early the next morning, and found him with the newspapers before him. “I expected this, Jacob,” said he; “read that advertisement.” I read as follows:— “Whereas, on Friday night last, between the hours of nine and ten, a tin box, containing deeds and papers, was handed into a wherry from the grounds of a villa between Brentford and Kew, and the parties who owned it were prevented from accompanying the same. This is to give notice, that a reward of twenty pounds will be paid to the watermen, upon their delivering up the same to Messrs James and John White, of Number 14 Lincoln’s Inn Fields. As no other parties are authorised to receive the said tin box of papers, all other applications for it must be disregarded. An early attention to this advertisement will oblige.”
“There must be papers of no little consequence in that box, Jacob, depend upon it,” said Mr Turnbull; “however, here they are, and here they shall remain until I know more about it; that’s certain. I intend to try what I can do myself with the old woman, for I perceive the villa is to be let for three months—here is the advertisement in the last column. I shall go to town to-day, and obtain a ticket from the agent, and it is hard but I’ll ferret out something. I shall see you to-morrow. Now you may go, Jacob.”
I hastened away, as I had promised to be down to old Tom’s to breakfast; an hour’s smart pulling brought me to the landing-place, opposite to his house.
Chapter Thirty Three.
A ten-pound householder occupied with affairs of State—The advantage of the word “implication”—An unexpected meeting and a reconciliation—Resolution versus bright black eyes—Verdict for the defendant, with heavy damages.
The house of old Tom Beazeley was situated on the verge of Battersea Fields, about a mile-and-a-half from the bridge bearing the same name; the river about twenty yards before it—the green grass behind it, and not a tree within half-a-mile of it. There was nothing picturesque in it but its utter loneliness; it was not only lonely, but isolated, for it was fixed upon a delta of about half-an-acre, between two creeks, which joined at about forty yards from the river, and ran up through the fields, so that the house was at high water upon an island, and at low water was defended by an impassable barrier of mud, so that the advances to it could be made only from the river, where a small hard, edged with posts worn down to the conformation of decayed double-teeth, offered the only means of access. The house itself was one storey high; dark red bricks, and darker tiles upon the roof; windows very scarce and very small, although built long before the damnable tax upon light, for it was probably built in the time of Elizabeth, to judge by the peculiarity of the style of architecture observable in the chimneys; but it matters very little at what epoch was built a tenement which was rented at only ten pounds per annum. The major part of the said island was stocked with cabbage plants; but on one side there was half a boat set upright, with a patch of green before it. At the time that old Beazeley hired it there was a bridge rudely constructed of old ship plank, by which you could gain a path which led across the Battersea Fields; but as all the communications of old Tom were by water, and Mrs Beazeley never ventured over the bridge, it was gradually knocked away for firewood, and when it was low-water, one old post, redolent of mud, marked the spot where the bridge had been. The interior was far more inviting. Mrs Beazeley was a clean person and frugal housewife, and every article in the kitchen, which was the first room you entered, was as clean and as bright as industry could make it. There was a parlour also, seldom used; both of the inmates, when they did meet, which was not above a day or two in three weeks, during the time that old Beazeley was in charge of the lighter, preferring comfort to grandeur. In this isolated house, upon this isolated spot, did Mrs Beazeley pass a life of most isolation.
And yet, perhaps there never was a more lively or a more happy woman than Mrs Beazeley, for she was strong and in good health, and always employed. She knew that her husband was following up his avocation on the river, and laying by a provision for their old age, which she herself was adding considerably to it by her own exertions. She had married old Tom long before he had lost his legs, at a time when he was a prime, active sailor, and the best man of the ship. She was a net-maker’s daughter, and had been brought up to the business, at which she was very expert. The most difficult part of the art is that of making large seines for taking sea-fish; and when she had no order for those to complete, the making of casting-nets beguiled away her time as soon as her household cares had been disposed of. She made money and husbanded it, not only for herself and her partner, but for her son, young Tom, upon whom she doted. So accustomed was she to work hard and be alone that it was most difficult to say whether she was most pleased or most annoyed when her husband and son made their appearance for a day or two, and the latter was alternately fondled and scolded during the whole of his sojourn. Tom, as the reader may suppose from a knowledge of his character, caring about as much for the one as the other.
I pulled into the hard, and made fast my boat. There was no one outside the door when I landed; on entering, I found them all seated at the table, and a grand display of fragments, in the shape of herring-bones, etcetera. “Well, Jacob—come at last—thought you had forgot us; piped to breakfast at eight bells—always do, you know,” said old Tom, on my making my appearance.
“Have you had your breakfast, Jacob?” said Mrs Beazeley.
“No,” replied I; “I was obliged to go up to Mr Turnbull’s, and that detained me.”
“No more sodgers, Jacob,” said Tom; “father and I eat them all.”
“Have you?” replied Mrs Beazeley, taking two more red herrings out of the cupboard, and putting them on the fire to grill; “no, no, master Tom, there’s some for Jacob yet.”
“Well, mother, you make nets to some purpose, for you’ve always a fish when it’s wanted.”
I despatched my breakfast, and as soon as all had been cleared away by his wife, old Tom, crossing his two timber legs, commenced business, for it appeared, what I was not aware of, that we had met on a sort of council-of-war.
“Jacob, sit down by me; old woman, bring yourself to an anchor in the high chair. Tom, sit anywhere, so you sit still.”
“And leave my net alone, Tom,” cried his mother, in parenthesis.—“You see, Jacob, the whole long and short of it is this—I feel my toes more and more, and flannel’s no longer warm. I can’t tide it any longer, and I think it high time to lie up in ordinary and moor abreast of the old woman. Now, there’s Tom, in the first place, what’s to do with he? I think that I’ll build him a wherry, and as I’m free of the river he can finish his apprenticeship with my name on the boat; but to build him a wherry would be rather a heavy pull for me.”
“If you mean to build it yourself, I think it will prove a heavy pull for me,” replied Tom.
“Silence, Tom; I built you, and God knows you’re light enough.”
“And, Tom, leave my net alone,” cried his mother.
“Father made me light-fingered, mother.”
“Ay, and light-hearted too, boy,” rejoined the dame, looking fondly at her son.
“Well,” continued old Tom, “supposing that Tom be provided for in that way; then now I comes to myself. I’ve an idea that I can do a good bit of work in patching up boats; for you see I always was a bit of a carpenter, and I know how the builders extortionate the poor watermen when there’s a trifle amiss. Now, if they knew I could do it, they’d all come to me fast enough; but then there’s a puzzle. I’ve been thinking this week how I can make them know it. I can’t put out a board and say, Beazeley, Boat-builder, because I’m no boatbuilder, but still I want a sign.”
“Lord, father, haven’t you got one already?” interrupted young Tom; “you’ve half a boat stuck up there, and that means that you’re half a boat-builder.”
“Silence, Tom, with your frippery; what do you think. Jacob?”
“Could you not say, ‘Boats repaired here?’”
“Yes, but that won’t exactly do; they like to employ a builder—and there’s the puzzle.”
“Not half so puzzling as this net,” observed Tom, who had taken up the needle, unseen by his mother, and begun to work; “I’ve made only ten stitches, and six of them are long ones.”
“Tom, Tom, you good-for-nothing—why don’t you let my net alone?” cried Mrs Beazeley; “now ’twill take me as much time to undo ten stitches as to have made fifty.”
“All right, mother.”
“No, Tom, all’s wrong; look at these meshes?”
“Well, then, all’s fair, mother.”
“No, all’s foul, boy; look how it’s tangled.”
“Still, I say, all’s fair, mother, for it is but fair to give the fish one or two chances to get away, and that’s just what I’ve done; and now, father, I’ll settle your affair to your own satisfaction, as I have mother’s.”
“That will be queer satisfaction, Tom, I guess; but let’s hear what you have to say.”
“Then, father, it seems that you’re no boat-builder, but you want people to fancy that you are—a’n’t that the question?”
“Why, ’tis something like it, Tom, but I do nobody no harm.”
“Certainly not; it’s only the boats which will suffer. Now, get a large board, with ‘Boats built to order, and boats repaired, by Tom Beazeley.’ You know if any man is fool enough to order a boat, that’s his concern; you didn’t say you’re a boat-builder, although you have no objection to try your hand.”
“What do you say Jacob?” said old Tom, appealing to me.
“I think that Tom has given very good advice, and I would follow it.”
“Ah! Tom has a head,” said Mrs Beazeley, fondly. “Tom, let go my net again, will you? What a boy you are! Now touch it again if you dare,” and Mrs Beazeley took up a little poker from the fire-place and shook it at him.
“Tom has a head, indeed,” said young Tom, “but as he has no wish to have it broken, Jacob, lend me your wherry for half-an-hour, and I’ll be off.”
I assented, and Tom, first tossing the cat upon his mother’s back, made his escape, crying:
“Lord, Molly, what a fish—”
as the animal fixed in its claws to save herself from falling, making Mrs Beazeley roar out and vow vengeance, while old Tom and I could not refrain from laughter.
After Tom’s departure the conversation was renewed, and everything was finally arranged between old Tom and his wife, except the building of the wherry, at which the old woman shook her head. The debate would be too long, and not sufficiently interesting to detail; one part, however, I must make the reader acquainted with. After entering into all the arrangements of the house, Mrs Beazeley took me upstairs to show me the rooms, which were very neat and clean. I came down with her, and old Tom said, “Did the old woman show you the room with the white curtains, Jacob?”
“Yes,” replied I, “and a very nice one it is.”
“Well, Jacob, there’s nothing sure in this world. You’re well off at present, and ‘leave well alone’ is a good motto; but recollect this, that room is for you when you want it, and everything else we can share with you. It’s offered freely, and you will accept it the same. Is it not, old lady?”
“Yes, that it is, Jacob; but may you do better—if not, I’ll be your mother for want of a better.”
I was moved with the kindness of the old couple; the more so as I did not know what I had done to deserve it. Old Tom gave me a hearty squeeze of the hand, and then continued—“But about this wherry—what do you say, old woman?”
“What will it cost?” replied she, gravely.
“Cost; let me see—a good wherry, with sculls and oars, will be a matter of thirty pounds.”
The old woman screwed up her mouth, shook her head, and then walked away to prepare for dinner.
“I think she could muster the blunt, Jacob, but she don’t like to part with it. Tom must coax her. I wish he hadn’t shied the cat at her. He’s too full of fun.”
As old Beazeley finished, I perceived a wherry pulling in with some ladies. I looked attentively, and recognised my own boat, and Tom pulling. In a minute more they were at the hard, and who, to my astonishment, were there seated, but Mrs Drummond and Sarah. As Tom got out of the boat and held it steady against the hard, he called to me; I could not do otherwise than go and assist them out; and once more did I touch the hands of those whom I never thought to meet again. Mrs Drummond retained my hand a short time after she landed, saying, “We are friends, Jacob, are we not!”
“Oh, yes, madam,” replied I, much moved, in a faltering voice.
“I shall not ask that question,” said Sarah, gaily, “for we parted friends.”
And as I recalled to mind her affectionate behaviour, I pressed her hand, and the tears glistened in my eyes as I looked into her sweet face. As I afterwards discovered, this was an arranged plan with old and young Tom, to bring about a meeting without my knowledge. Mrs Beazeley courtesied and stroked her apron—smiled at the ladies, looked very cat-ish at Tom, showed the ladies into the house, where old Tom assisted to do the honours after his own fashion, by asking Mrs Drummond if she would like to whet her whistle after her pull. Mrs Drummond looked round to me for explanation, but young Tom thought proper to be interpreter. “Father wants to know, if you please, ma’am, whether, after your pull in the boat, you wouldn’t like to have a pull at the brandy bottle?”
“No,” replied Mrs Drummond, smiling; “but I should be obliged for a glass of water. Will you get me one, Jacob?”
I hastened to comply, and Mrs Drummond entered into conversation with Mrs Beazeley. Sarah looked at me, and went to the door, turning back as inviting me to follow. I did so, and we soon found ourselves seated on the bench in the old boat.
“Jacob,” said she, looking earnestly at me, “you surely will be friends with my father?”
I think I should have shaken my head, but she laid an emphasis on my, which the little gipsy knew would have its effect. All my resolutions, all my pride, all my sense of injury vanished before the mild, beautiful eyes of Sarah, and I replied hastily, “Yes, Miss Sarah, I can refuse you nothing.”
“Why Miss, Jacob?”
“I am a waterman, and you are much above me.”
“That is your own fault; but say no more about it.”
“I must say something more, which is this: do not attempt to make me leave my present employment; I am happy, because I am independent; and that I will, if possible, be for the future.”
“Any one can pull an oar, Jacob.”
“Very true, Miss Sarah, and is under no obligation to any one by so earning his livelihood. He works for all and is paid for all.”
“Will you come and see us, Jacob? Come to-morrow—now do—promise me. Will you refuse your old playmate, Jacob?”
“I wish you would not ask that.”
“How then can you say that you are friends with my father? I will not believe you unless you promise to come.”
“Sarah,” replied I, earnestly, “I will come; and to prove to you that we are friends, I will ask a favour of him.”
“Oh, Jacob, this is kind indeed,” cried Sarah, with her eyes swimming with tears. “You have made me so—so very happy!”
The meeting with Sarah humanised me, and every feeling of revenge was chased from my memory. Mrs Drummond joined us soon after, and proposed to return. “And Jacob will pull us back,” cried Sarah. “Come, sir, look after your fare, in both senses. Since you will be a waterman, you shall work.” I laughed and handed them to the boat. Tom took the other oar, and we were soon at the steps close to their house.
“Mamma, we ought to give these poor fellows something to drink; they’ve worked very hard,” said Sarah, mocking. “Come up, my good men.” I hesitated. “Nay, Jacob, if tomorrow why not to-day? The sooner these things are over the better.”
I felt the truth of this observation, and followed her. In a few minutes I was again in that parlour in which I had been dismissed, and in which the affectionate girl burst into tears on my shoulder, as I held the handle of the door. I looked at it, and looked at Sarah. Mrs Drummond had gone out of the room to let Mr Drummond know that I had come. “How kind you were, Sarah!” said I.
“Yes, but kind people are cross sometimes, and so am I—and so was—”
Mr Drummond came in, and stopped her. “Jacob, I am glad to see you again in my house; I was deceived by appearances, and did you injustice.” How true is the observation of the wise man, that a soft word turneth away wrath; that Mr Drummond should personally acknowledge that he was wrong to me—that he should confess it—every feeling of resentment was gone, and others crowded in their place. I recollected how he had protected the orphan—how he had provided him with instruction—how he had made his house a home to me—how he had tried to bring me forward under his own protection I recollected—which, alas! I never should have forgotten—that he had treated me for years with kindness and affection, all of which had been obliterated from my memory by one single act of injustice. I felt that I was a culprit, and burst into tears; and Sarah, as before, cried in sympathy.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Drummond,” said I, as soon as I could speak; “I have been very wrong in being so revengeful after so much kindness from you.”
“We both have been wrong—but say no more on the subject, Jacob; I have an order to give, and then I will come up to you again;” and Mr Drummond quitted the room.
“You dear, good boy,” said Sarah, coming up to me. “Now, I really do love you.”
What I might have replied was put a stop to by Mrs Drummond entering the room. She made a few inquiries about where I at present resided, and Sarah was catechising me rather inquisitively about Mary Stapleton, when Mr Drummond re-entered the room, and shook me by the hand with a warmth which made me more ashamed of my conduct towards him. The conversation became general, but still rather embarrassed, when Sarah whispered to me “What is the favour you would ask of my father?” I had forgotten it at the moment, but I immediately told him that I would be obliged if he would allow me to have a part of the money belonging to me which he held in his possession.
“That I will, with pleasure, and without asking what you intend to do with it, Jacob. How much do you require?”
“Thirty pounds, if there is so much.”
Mr Drummond went down, and in a few minutes returned with the sum in notes and guineas. I thanked him, and shortly afterwards took my leave.
“Did not young Beazeley tell you I had something for you, Jacob?” said Sarah, as I wished her good-bye.
“Yes; what is it?”
“You must come and see,” replied Sarah, laughing. Thus was a finale to all my revenge brought about by a little girl of fifteen years old, with large dark eyes.
Tom had taken his glass of grog below, and was waiting for me at the steps. We shoved off, and returned to his father’s house, where dinner was just ready. After dinner old Tom recommenced the argument; “The only hitch,” says he, “is about the wherry. What do you say, old woman?” The old woman shook her head.
“As that is the only hitch,” said I, “I can remove it, for here is the money for the wherry, which I make a present to Tom,” and I put the money into young Tom’s hand. Tom counted it out before his father and mother, much to their astonishment.
“You are a good fellow, Jacob,” said Tom; “but I say, do you recollect Wimbledon Common?”
“What then?” replied I.
“Only Jerry Abershaw, that’s all.”
“Do not be afraid, Tom, it is honestly mine.”
“But how did you get it, Jacob,” said old Tom.
It may appear strange, but, impelled by a wish to serve my friends, I had asked for the money which I knew belonged to me, but never thought of the manner in which it had been obtained. The question of old Tom recalled everything to my memory, and I shuddered when I recollected the circumstances attending it. I was confused, and did not like to reply. “Be satisfied, the money is mine,” replied I.
“Yes, Jacob, but how?” replied Mrs Beazeley; “surely you ought to be able to tell how you got so large a sum.”
“Jacob has some reason for not telling, missus, depend upon it; mayhap Mr Turnbull, or whoever gave it to him, told him to hold his tongue.” But this answer would not satisfy Mrs Beazeley, who declared she would not allow a farthing to be taken unless she knew how it was obtained.
“Tom, give back the money directly,” said she, looking at me suspiciously.
Tom laid it on the table before me, without saying a word.
“Take it, Tom,” said I, colouring up. “I had it from my mother.”
“From your mother, Jacob!” said old Tom. “Nay, that could not well be, if my memory sarves me right. Still it may be.”
“Deary me, I don’t like this at all,” cried Mrs Beazeley, getting up, and wiping her apron with a quick motion. “Oh, Jacob, that must be—not the truth.”
I coloured up to the tips of my ears at being suspected of falsehood. I looked round, and saw that even Tom and his father had a melancholy doubt in their countenances; and certainly my confused appearance would have caused suspicion in anybody. “I little thought,” said I, at last, “when I hoped to have so much pleasure in giving, and to find that I had made you happy in receiving the money, that it would have proved a source of so much annoyance. I perceive that I am suspected of having obtained it improperly, and of not having told the truth. That Mrs Beazeley may think so, who does not know me, is not to be wondered at; but that you,” continued I, turning to old Tom, “or you,” looking at his son, “should suspect me, is very mortifying; and I did not expect it. I tell you that the money is mine, honestly mine, and obtained from my mother. I ask you, do you believe me?”
“I, for one, do believe you, Jacob,” said young Tom, striking his fist on the table. “I can’t understand it, but I know you never told a lie, or did a dishonourable act since I’ve known you.”
“Thank you, Tom,” said I, taking his proffered hand.
“And I would swear the same, Jacob,” said old Tom; “although I have been longer in the world than my boy has, and have, therefore, seen more; and sorry am I to say, many a good man turned bad, from temptation being too great; but when I looked in your face, and saw the blood up to your forehead, I did feel a little suspicious, I must own; but I beg your pardon, Jacob; no one can look in your face now and not see that you are innocent. I believe all you say, in spite of the old woman and—the devil to boot—and there’s my hand upon it.”
“Why not tell—why not tell?” muttered Mrs Beazeley, shaking her head, and working at her net faster than ever.
But I had resolved to tell, and did so, narrating distinctly the circumstances by which the money had been obtained. I did it, however, with feelings of mortification which I cannot express. I felt humiliation—I felt that, for my own wants, that money I never could touch. Still my explanation had the effect of removing the doubts even of Mrs Beazeley, and harmony was restored. The money was accepted by the old couple, and promised to be applied for the purpose intended.
“As for me, Jacob,” said Tom, “when I say I thank you, you know I mean it. Had I had the money, and you had wanted it, you will believe me when I say that I would have given it to you.”
“That I’m sure of, Tom.”
“Still, Jacob, it is a great deal of money, and I shall lay by my earnings as fast as I can, that you may have it in case you want it; but it will take many a heavy pull and many a shirt wet with labour before I can make up a sum like that.”
I did not stay much longer after this little fracas; I was hurt—my pride was wounded by suspicion, and fortunate it was that the occurrence had not taken place previous to my meeting with Mrs Drummond and Sarah, otherwise no reconciliation would have taken place in that quarter. How much are we the sport of circumstances, and how insensibly they mark out our career in this world? With the best intentions we go wrong; instigated by unworthy motives, we fall upon our feet, and the chapter of accidents has more power over the best regulated mind than all the chapters in the Bible.
Chapter Thirty Four.
How I was revenged upon my enemies—We try the bars of music but find that we are barred out—Being no go, we go back.
I shook hands with Tom, who perceiving that I was vexed, had accompanied me down to the boat, with his usual sympathy, and had offered to pull with me to Fulham, and walk back; which offer I declined, as I wished to be alone. It was a fine moonlight night, and the broad light and shadow, with the stillness of all around, were peculiarly adapted to my feelings. I continued my way up the river, revolving in my mind the scenes of the day; the reconciliation with one whom I never intended to have spoken to again; the little quarrel with those whom I never expected to have been at variance with, and that at the time when I was only exerting myself to serve them; and then I thought of Sarah, as an oasis of real happiness in this contemplated desert, and dwelt upon the thought of her as the most pleasant and calming to my still agitated mind. Thus did I ruminate till I had passed Putney Bridge, forgetting that I was close to my landing place, and continuing, in my reverie, to pull up the river, when my cogitations were disturbed by a noise of men laughing and talking, apparently in a state of intoxication. They were in a four-oared wherry, coming down the river, after a party of pleasure, as it is termed, generally one ending in intoxication, I listened.
“I tell you I can spin an oar with any man in the king’s service,” said the man in the bow, “Now look.”
He threw his oar out of the rowlocks, spun it in the air, but unfortunately did not catch it when it fell, and consequently it went through the bottom, starting two of the planks of the fragile-built boat, which immediately filled with water.
“Hilloa! waterman!” cried another, perceiving me, “quick, or we shall sink.” But the boat was nearly up to the thwarts in water before I could reach her, and just as I was nearly alongside she filled and turned over.
“Help, waterman; help me first; I’m senior clerk,” cried a voice which I well knew. I put out my oar to him as he struggled in the water, and soon had him clinging to the wherry. I then tried to catch hold of the man who had sunk the boat by his attempt to toss the oar, but he very quietly said, “No, damn it, there’s too many; we shall swamp the wherry; I’ll swim on shore”—and suiting the action to the word, he made for the shore with perfect self-possession, swimming in his clothes with great ease and dexterity.
I picked up two more, and thought that all were saved, when turning round, and looking towards the bridge, I saw resplendent in the bright beams of the moon, and “round as its orb,” the well-remembered face of the stupid young clerk who had been so inimical to me, struggling with all his might. I pulled to him, and putting out my oar over the bow, he seized it after rising from his first sink, and was, with the other three, soon clinging to the side of the wherry.
“Pull me in—pull me in, waterman!” cried the head clerk, whose voice I had recognised.
“No; you will swamp the boat.”
“Well, but pull me in, if not the others. I’m the senior clerk.”
“Can’t help that; you must hold on,” replied I, “while I pull you on shore; we shall soon be there.” I must say that I felt a pleasure in allowing him thus to hang in the water. I might have taken them all in certainly, although at some risk, from their want of presence of mind and hurry, arising from the feeling of self-preservation; but I desired them to hold on, and pulled for the landing-place; which we soon gained. The person who had preferred swimming had arrived before us, and was waiting on the beach.
“Have you got them all, waterman?” said he.
“Yes, sir, I believe so; I have four.”
“The tally is right,” replied he, “and four greater galloots were never picked up; but never mind that. It was my nonsense that nearly drowned them; and, therefore, I’m very glad you’ve managed so well. My jacket went down in the boat, and I must reward you another time.”
“Thank you, sir, no occasion for that, it’s not a regular fare.”
“Nevertheless, give us your name.”
“Oh, you may ask Mr Hodgson, the senior clerk, or that full-moon-faced fellow—they know my name.”
“Waterman, what do you mean?” replied Mr Hodgson, shivering with cold.
“Very impudent fellow,” said the junior of the round face.
“If they know your name, they won’t tell it,” replied the other. “Now, I’ll first tell you mine, which is Lieutenant Wilson, of the navy; and now let’s have yours, that I may ask for it; and tell me what stairs you ply from.”
“My name is Jacob Faithful, sir,” replied I; “and you may ask your friends whether they know it or not when their teeth don’t chatter quite so much.”
At the mention of my name the senior and junior clerk walked off, and the lieutenant, telling me that I should hear from him again, was about to leave. “If you mean to give me money, sir, I tell you candidly I shall not take it. I hate these two men for the injuries they have heaped on me; but I don’t know how it is, I feel a degree of pleasure in having saved them, that I wish for no better revenge. So farewell, sir.”
“Spoken as you ought, my lad—that’s glorious revenge. Well, then, I will not come; but if ever we meet again I shall never forget this night and Jacob Faithful.” He held out his hand, shook mine warmly, and walked away.
When they were gone, I remained for some little time quite stupified at the events of the day. The reconciliation—the quarrel—the revenge. I was still in thought when I heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs. This recalled me, and I was hauling up my boat, intending to go home to Stapleton’s; but with no great eagerness. I felt a sort of dislike to Mary Stapleton, which I could not account for; but the fact was I had been in company with Sarah Drummond. The horse stopped at the foot of the bridge; and the rider giving it to his servant, who was mounted on another, to hold, came down to where I was hauling up my boat. “My lad, is it too late for you to launch your boat? I will pay you well.”
“Where do you wish to go to, sir? It is now past ten o’clock.”
“I know it is, and I hardly expected to find a waterman here; but I took the chance. Will you take me about two miles up the river?”
I looked at the person who addressed me, and was delighted to recognise in him the young man who had hired Mr Turnbull and me to take him to the garden, and who had been captured when we escaped with the tin box; but I did not make myself known. “Well, sir, if you wish it, I’ve no objection,” replied I, putting my shoulder to the bow of my wherry, and launching her again into the water. At all events, this has been a day of adventure, thought I, as I threw my sculls again into the water, and commenced pulling up the stream. I was some little while in meditation whether I should make myself known to the young man; but I decided that I would not. Let me see, thought I, what sort of a person this is—whether he is as deserving as the young lady appeared to consider. “Which side, sir?” inquired I.
“The left,” was the reply.
I knew that well enough, and I pulled in silence until nearly up to the wall of the garden which ran down to the band of the river. “Now pull in to that wall, and make no noise,” was the injunction; which I obeyed, securing the boat to the very part where the coping bricks had been displaced. He stood up, and whistled the two bars of the tune as before, waited five minutes, repeated it, and watched the windows of the house; but there was no reply, or signs of anybody being up or stirring. “It is too late; she is gone to rest.”
“I thought there was a lady in the case, sir,” observed I. “If you wish to communicate with her, I think I could manage it.”
“Could you?” replied he. “Stop a moment; I’ll speak to you by-and-by.” He whistled the tune once more, and after waiting another ten minutes, dropped himself down on the stern sheets, and told me to pull back again. After a minute’s silence he said to me, “You think you could communicate with her, you say. Pray, how do you propose?”
“If you will write a letter, sir, I’ll try to let it come to her hand.”
“How?”
“That, sir, you must leave me to find out, and trust to opportunity; but you must tell me what sort of a person she is, that I may not give it to another; and also, who there is in the house that I must be careful does not see me.”
“Very true,” replied he. “I can only say that if you do succeed, I will reward you handsomely; but she is so strictly watched that I am afraid it will be impossible. However, a despairing, like a drowning man, will catch at a straw; and I will see whether you will be able to assist me.”
He then informed me that there was no one in the house except her uncle and his servants, all of whom were spies upon her; that my only chance was watching if she were permitted to walk in the garden alone, which might be the case; and perhaps, by concealing myself from eight o’clock in the morning till the evening under the parapet wall, I might find an opportunity. He directed me to be at the foot of the bridge next morning at seven o’clock, when he would come with a letter written for me to deliver, if possible. We had then arrived at Fulham. He landed, and putting a guinea in my hand, mounted his horse, which his servant (had) walked up and down, waiting for him, and rode off. I hauled up my boat and went home, tired with the manifold events of the day. Mary Stapleton who had sat up for me, was very inquisitive to know what had occasioned my coming home so late; but I evaded her questions, and she left me in anything but good-humour; but about that I never felt so indifferent.
The next morning the servant made his appearance with the letter, telling me that he had orders to wait till the evening; and I pulled up the river. I placed it under the loose brick, as agreed upon with the young lady, and then shoved off to the other side of the river, where I had a full view of the garden, and could notice all that passed. In half-an-hour the young lady came out, accompanied by another female, and sauntered up and down the gravel-walk. After a while she stopped, and looked on the river, her companion continuing her promenade. As if without hoping to find anything there, she moved the brick aside with her foot; perceiving the letter, she snatched it up eagerly, and concealed it in her dress, and then cast her eyes on the river. It was calm, and I whistled the bar of music. She heard it, and turning away, hastened into the house. In about half-an-hour she returned, and watching her opportunity, stooped down to the brick. I waited a few minutes, when both she and her companion went into the house. I then pulled in under the wall, lifted up the brick, took the letter, and hastened back to Fulham; when I delivered the letter to the servant, who rode off with it as fast as he could; and I returned home quite pleased at the successful issue of my attempt, and not a little curious to learn the real facts of this extraordinary affair.
Chapter Thirty Five.
The Dominie reads me a sermon out of the largest book I ever fell in with, covering nearly two acres of ground—The pages not very easy to turn over, but the type very convenient to read without spectacles—He leaves off without shutting his book, as parsons usually do at the end of their sermons.
The next day being Sunday, as usual I went to see the Dominie and Mr Turnbull. I arrived at the school just as all the boys were filing off, two and two, for church, the advance led by the usher, and the rear brought up by the Dominie in person, and I accompanied them. The Dominie appeared melancholy and out of spirits—hardly exchanging a word with me during our walk. When the service was over he ordered the usher to take the boys home, and remained with me in the churchyard, surveying the tombstones, and occasionally muttering to himself. At last the congregation dispersed, and we were alone.
“Little did I think, Jacob,” said he, at last, “that when I bestowed such care upon thee in thy childhood, I should be rewarded as I have been! Little did I think that it would be to the boy who was left destitute that I should pour out my soul when afflicted, and find in him that sympathy which I have long lost, by the removal of those who were once my friends! Yes, Jacob, those who were known to me in my youth—those few in whom I confided and leant upon—are now lying here in crumbling dust, and the generation hath passed away; and I now rest upon thee, my son, whom I have directed in the right path, and who hast, by the blessing of God, continued to walk straight in it. Verily, thou art a solace to me, Jacob; and though young in years, I feel that in thee I have received a friend, and one that I may confide in. Bless thee, Jacob! bless thee, my boy! and before I am laid with those who have gone before me, may I see thee prosperous and happy! Then I will sing the Nunc Dimittis, then will I say, ‘Now, Lord, let thy servant depart in peace.’”
“I am happy, sir,” replied I, “to hear you say that I am of any comfort to you, for I feel truly grateful for all your kindness to me; but I wish that you did not require comfort.”
“Jacob, in what part of a man’s life does he not require comfort and consolation; yea, even from the time when, as a child, he buries his weeping face in his mother’s lap till the hour that summons him to his account? Not that I consider this world to be, as many have described it, a ‘vale of tears’; No, Jacob; it is a beautiful world, a glorious world, and would be a happy world, if we would only restrain those senses and those passions with which we have been endowed, that we may fully enjoy the beauty, the variety, the inexhaustible bounty of a gracious heaven. All was made for enjoyment and for happiness; but it is we ourselves who, by excess, defile that which otherwise were pure. Thus, the fainting traveller may drink wholesome and refreshing draughts from the bounteous, overflowing spring; but should he rush heedlessly into it, he muddies the source, and the waters are those of bitterness. Thus, Jacob, was wine given to cheer the heart of man; yet, didst not thou witness me, thy preceptor, debased by intemperance? Thus, Jacob, were the affections implanted in us as a source of sweetest happiness, such as those which now yearn in my breast towards thee; yet hast thou seen me, thy preceptor, by yielding to the infatuation and imbecility of threescore years, dote, in my folly, upon a maiden, and turn the sweet affections into a source of misery and anguish.” I answered not, for the words of the Dominie made a strong impression upon me, and I was weighing them in my mind. “Jacob,” continued the Dominie, after a pause, “next to the book of life, there is no subject of contemplation more salutary than the book of death, of which each stone now around us may be considered as a page, and each page contains a lesson. Read that which is now before us. It would appear hard that an only child should have been torn away from its doting parents, who have thus imperfectly expressed their anguish on the tomb; it would appear hard that their delight, their solace, the object of their daily care, of their waking thoughts, of their last imperfect recollections as they sank into sleep, of their only dreams, should thus have been taken from them; yet did I know them, and Heaven was just and merciful. The child had weaned them from their God; they lived but in him; they were without God in the world. The child alone had their affections, and they had been lost had not He in His mercy removed it. Come this way, Jacob.” I followed the Dominie till he stood before another tombstone in the corner of the churchyard. “This stone, Jacob, marks the spot where lies the remains of one who was my earliest and dearest friend—for in my youth I had friends, because I had anticipations, and little thought that it would have pleased God that I should do my duty in that station to which I have been called. He had one fault, which proved a source of misery through life, and was the cause of an untimely death. He was of a revengeful disposition. He never forgave an injury, forgetting, poor, sinful mortal, for how much he had need to be forgiven. He quarrelled with his relations; he was shot in a duel with his friend! I mention this, Jacob, as a lesson to thee; not that I feel myself worthy to be thy preceptor, for I am humbled, but out of kindness and love towards thee, that I might persuade thee to correct that fault in thy disposition.”
“I have already made friends with Mr Drummond, sir,” answered I; “but still your admonition shall not be thrown away.”
“Hast thou, Jacob? then is my mind much relieved. I trust thou wilt no longer stand in thine own light, but accept the offers which, in the fulness of his heart to make redress, he may make unto thee.”
“Nay, sir, I cannot promise that; I wish to be independent and earn my own livelihood.”
“Then hear me, Jacob, for the spirit of prophecy is on me; the time will come when thou shalt bitterly repent. Thou hast received an education by my unworthy endeavours, and hast been blessed by Providence with talents far above the situation in life to which thou wouldst so tenaciously adhere; the time will come when thou wilt repent, yea, bitterly repent. Look at that marble monument with the arms so lavishly emblazoned upon it. That, Jacob, is the tomb of a proud man, whose career is well known to me. He was in straitened circumstances, yet of gentle race—but like the steward in the Scripture, ‘work he could not, to beg he was ashamed.’ He might have prospered in the world, but his pride forbade him. He might have made friends, but his pride forbade him. He might have wedded himself to wealth and beauty, but there was no escutcheon, and his pride forbade him. He did marry, and entail upon his children poverty. He died, and the little he possessed was taken from his children’s necessities to build this record to his dust. Do not suppose that I would check that honest pride which will prove a safeguard from unworthy actions. I only wish to check that undue pride which will mar thy future prospects. Jacob, that which thou termest independence is naught but pride.”
I could not acknowledge that I agreed with the Dominie, although something in my breast told me that he was not wrong. I made no answer. The Dominie again spoke.
“Yes; it is a beautiful world for the Spirit of God is on it. At the separation of chaos it came over the water, and hath since remained with us, everywhere, but invisible. We see his hand in the variety and the beauty of creation, but his Spirit we see not; yet do we feel it in the still small voice of conscience, which would lead us into the right path. Now, Jacob, we must return, for I have the catechism and collects to attend to.”
I took leave of the Dominie, and went to Mr Turnbull’s, to whom I gave an account of what had passed since I last saw him. He was much pleased with my reconciliation with the Drummonds, and interested about the young lady to whom appertained the tin box in his possession. “I presume, Jacob, we shall now have that mystery cleared up.”
“I have not told the gentleman that we have possession of the box,” replied I.
“No; but you told the young lady, you silly fellow; and do you think she will keep it a secret from him?”
“Very true; I had forgotten that.”
“Jacob, I wish you to go to Mr Drummond’s and see his family again; you ought to do so.” I hesitated. “Nay, I shall give you a fair opportunity without wounding that pride of yours, sir,” replied Mr Turnbull; “I owe him for some wine he purchased for me, and I shall send the cheque by you.”
To this I assented, as I was not sorry of an opportunity of seeing Sarah. I dined with Mr Turnbull, who was alone, his wife being on a visit to a relation in the country. He again offered me his advice as to giving up the profession of a waterman; but if I did not hear him with so much impatience as before, nor use so many arguments against it, I did not accede to his wishes, and the subject was dropped. Mr Turnbull was satisfied that my resistance was weakened, and hoped in time to have the effect that he desired. When I went home Mary told me that Tom Beazeley had been there, that his wherry was building, that his father had given up the lighter, and was now on shore very busy in getting up his board to attract customers, and obtain work in his new occupation.
I had not launched my wherry the next morning when down came the young gentleman to whom I had despatched the letter. “Faithful,” said he, “come to the tavern with me; I must have some conversation with you.” I followed him, and as soon as we were in a room, he said, “First, let me pay my debt, for I owe you much;” and he laid five guineas on the table. “I find from Cecilia that you have possession of the tin case of deeds which has been so eagerly sought after by both parties. Why did you not say so? And why did you not tell me that it was you whom I hired on the night when I was so unfortunate?”
“I considered the secret as belonging to the young lady, and having told her, I left it to her discretion to make you acquainted or not as she pleased.”
“It was thoughtful and prudent of you, at all events, although there was no occasion for it. Nevertheless, I am pleased that you did so, as it proves you to be trustworthy. Now, tell me, who is the gentleman who was with you in the boat, and who has charge of the box? Observe, Faithful, I do not intend to demand it. I shall tell him the facts of the case in your presence, and then leave him to decide whether he will surrender up the papers to the other party or to me. Can you take me there now?”
“Yes, sir,” replied I, “I can, if you please; I will pull you up in half an hour. The house is at the river’s side.”
The young gentleman leaped into my wherry, and we were soon in the parlour of Mr Turnbull. I will not repeat the conversation in detail, but give an outline of the young man’s story.