Фредерик Марриет
Jacob Faithful
“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.
