Фредерик Марриет
Jacob Faithful
Chapter Forty
I interrupt a matrimonial duet and capsize the boat—Being upon dry land, no one is drowned—Tom leaves a man-of-war because he don’t like it—I find the profession of a gentleman preferable to that of a waterman
My first object on my return was to call upon old Tom, and assure him of his son’s welfare. My wishes certainly would have led me to Mr Drummond’s but I felt that my duty required that I should delay that pleasure. I arrived at the hotel late in the evening, and early next morning I went down to the steps at Westminster Bridge, and was saluted with the usual cry of “Boat, sir!” A crowd of recollections poured into my mind at the well-known sound; my life appeared to have passed in review in a few seconds, as I took my seat in the stern of a wherry, and directed the waterman to pull up the river. It was a beautiful morning, and even at that early hour almost too warm—the sun was so powerful; I watched every object that we passed with an interest I cannot describe; every tree, every building, every point of land—they were all old friends, who appeared, as the sun shone brightly on them, to rejoice in my good fortune. I remained in a reverie too delightful to be wished to be disturbed from it, although occasionally there were reminiscences which were painful; but they were but as light clouds, obscuring for a moment, as they flew past, the glorious sun of my happiness. At last the well-known tenement of old Tom, his large board with “Boats built to order,” and the half of the boat stuck up on end, caught my sight, and I remembered the object of my embarkation. I directed the waterman to pull to the hard, and, paying him well, dismissed him; for I had perceived that old Tom was at work stumping round a wherry, bottom up; and his wife was sitting on a bench in the boat-arbour, basking in the warm sun, and working away at her nets. I had landed so quietly, and they both were so occupied with their respective employments, that they had not perceived me, and I crept round by the house to surprise them. I had gained a station behind the old boat, where I overheard the conversation.
“It’s my opinion,” said old Tom, who left off hammering for a time, “that all the nails in Birmingham won’t make this boat water-tight. The timbers are as rotten as a pear, and the nails fall through them. I have put in one piece more than agreed for; and if I don’t put in another here she’ll never swim.”
“Well, then, put another piece in,” replied Mrs Beazeley.
“Yes; so I will; but I’ve a notion I shall be out of pocket by this job. Seven-and-sixpence won’t pay for labour and all. However, never mind,” and Tom carolled forth—
“Is not the sea
Made for the free—
Land for courts and chains alone?
There we are slaves,
But on the waves
Love and liberty’s all our own.”
“Now, if you do sing, sing truth, Beazeley,” said the old woman. “A’n’t our boy pressed into the service? And how can you talk of liberty?”
Old Tom answered by continuing his song—
“No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us;
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.”
“Yes, yes,” replied the old woman; “no eye to watch, indeed. He may be in sickness and in sorrow; he may be wounded, or dying of a fever; and there’s no mother’s eye to watch over him. As to all the earth being forgot, I won’t believe that Tom has forgotten his mother.”
Old Tom replied—
“Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same wherever it goes.”
“So it does, Tom—so it does; and he’s thinking this moment of his father and mother, I do verily believe, and he loves us more than ever.”
“So I believe,” replied old Tom—“that is, if he hasn’t anything better to do. But there’s a time for all things; and when a man is doing his duty as a seaman, he mustn’t let his thoughts wander. Never fear, old woman: he’ll be back again.
“There’s a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,
To take care of the life of poor Jack.”
“God grant it! God grant it!” replied the old woman, wiping her eyes with her apron, and then resuming her netting.
“He seems,” continued she, “by his letters, to be over-fond of that girl, Mary Stapleton—and I sometimes think that she cares not a little for him; but she’s never of one mind long. I didn’t like to see her flaunting and flirting so with the soldiers, and at the same time Tom says that she writes that she cares for nobody but him.”
“Women are—women! that’s sartin,” replied old Tom, musing for a time, and then showing that his thoughts were running on his son, by bursting out—
“Mary, when yonder boundless sea
Shall part us, and perchance for ever,
Think not my heart can stray from thee,
Or cease to mourn thine absence—never!
And when in distant climes I roam,
Forlorn, unfriended, broken-hearted—”
“Don’t say so, Tom—don’t say so,” interrupted the old woman.
Tom continued—
“Oft shall I sigh for thee and home,
And all those joys from which I parted.”
“Aye, so he does, poor fellow, I’ll be bound to say. What would I give to see his dear, smiling face!” said Mrs Beazeley.
“And I’d give no little, missus, myself. But still, it’s the duty for every man to serve his country; and so ought Tom, as his father did before him. I shall be glad to see him back: but I’m not sorry that he’s gone. Our ships must be manned, old woman; and if they take men by force, it’s only because they won’t volunteer—that’s all. When they’re once on board they don’t mind it. You women require pressing just as much as the men, and it’s all much of a muchness.”
“How’s that Tom?”
“Why, when we make love, and ask you to marry, don’t you always pout, and say, ‘No!’ You like being kissed, but we must take it by force. So it is with manning a ship. The men all say, ‘No;’ but when they are once there, they like the service very much—only, you see, like you, they want pressing. Don’t Tom write and say that he’s quite happy, and don’t care where he is so long as he’s with Jacob?”
“Yes; that’s true; but they say Jacob is to be discharged and come home, now that he’s come to a fortune; and what will Tom say then?”
“Why, that is the worst of it. I believe that Jacob’s heart is in the right place; but still, riches spoil a man. But we shall see. If Jacob don’t prove ‘true blue,’ I’ll never put faith in man again. But there be changes in this world, that’s sartin.
“We all have our taste of the ups and the downs,
As Fortune dispenses her smiles and her frowns;
But may we not hope, if she’s frowning to-day,
That to-morrow she’ll lend us the light of her ray.
“I only wish Jacob was here—that’s all.”
“Then you have your wish, my good old friend,” cried I, running up to Tom and seizing his hand. But old Tom was so taken by surprise that he started back and lost his equilibrium, dragging me after him, and we rolled on the turf together. Nor was this the only accident, for old Mrs Beazeley was so alarmed that she also sprang from the bench fixed in the half of the old boat stuck on end, and threw herself back against it. The boat, rotten when first put up, and with the disadvantage of exposure to the elements for many years, could no longer stand such pressure. It gave way to the sudden force applied by the old woman, and she and the boat went down together, she screaming and scuffling among the rotten planks, which now, after so many years close intimacy, were induced to part company. I was first on my legs, and ran to the assistance of Mrs Beazeley, who was half smothered with dust and flakes of dry pitch; and old Tom coming to my assistance, we put the old woman on her legs again.
“O deary me!” cried the old woman—“O deary me! I do believe my hip is out! Lord, Mr Jacob, how you frightened me!”
“Yes,” said old Tom, shaking me warmly by the hand, “we were all taken aback, old boat and all. What a shindy you have made, bowling us all down like ninepins! Well, my boy, I’m glad to see you, and notwithstanding your gear, you’re Jacob Faithful still.”
“I hope so,” replied I; and we then adjourned to the house, where I made them acquainted with all that had passed, and what I intended to do relative to obtaining Tom’s discharge. I then left them, promising to return soon, and, hailing a wherry going up the river, proceeded to my old friend the Dominie, of whose welfare, as well as Stapleton’s and Mary’s, I had been already assured.
But as I passed through Putney Bridge I thought I might as well call first upon old Stapleton; and I desired the waterman to pull in. I hastened to Stapleton’s lodgings, and went upstairs, where I found Mary in earnest conversation with a very good-looking young man, in a sergeant’s uniform of the 93rd Regiment. Mary, who was even handsomer than when I had left her, starting up, at first did not appear to recognise me, then coloured up to the forehead, as she welcomed me with a constraint I had never witnessed before. The sergeant appeared inclined to keep his ground; but on my taking her hand and telling her that I brought a message from a person whom I trusted she had not forgotten, he gave her a nod and walked downstairs. Perhaps there was a severity in my countenance as I said, “Mary, I do not know whether, after what I have seen, I ought to give the message; and the pleasure I anticipated in meeting you again is destroyed by what I have now witnessed. How disgraceful is it thus to play with a man’s feelings—to write to him, assuring him of your regard and constancy, and at the same time encouraging another.”
Mary hung down her head. “If I have done wrong, Mr Faithful,” said she, after a pause, “I have not wronged Tom; what I have written I felt.”
“If that is the case, why do you wrong another person? why encourage another young man only to make him unhappy?”
“I have promised him nothing; but why does not Tom come back and look after me? I can’t mope here by myself; I have no one to keep company with; my father is always away at the alehouse, and I must have somebody to talk to. Besides, Tom is away, and may be away a long while, and absence cures love in men, although it does not in women.”
“It appears then, Mary, that you wish to have two strings to your bow, in case of accident.”
“Should the first string break, a second would be very acceptable,” replied Mary. “But it is always this way,” continued she, with increasing warmth; “I never can be in a situation which is not right; whenever I do anything which may appear improper, so certain do you make your appearance when least expected and least wished for—as if you were born to be my constant accuser.”
“Does not your own conscience accuse you, Mary?”
“Mr Faithful,” repeated she, very warmly, “you are not my father confessor; but do as you please—write to Tom if you please, and tell him all you have seen, and anything you may think—make him and make me miserable and unhappy—do it, I pray. It will be a friendly act; and as you are now a great man, you may persuade Tom that I am a jilt and a good-for-nothing.”
Here Mary laid her hands on the table and buried her face in them.
“I did not come here to be your censor, Mary; you are certainly at liberty to act as you please, without my having any right to interfere; but as Tom is my earliest and best friend, so far as his interests and happiness are concerned, I shall carefully watch over them. We have been so long together, and I am so well acquainted with all his feelings, that I really believe that if ever there was a young man sincerely and devotedly attached to a woman, he is so to you; and I will add, that if ever there was a young man who deserved love in return, it is Tom. When I left, not a month back, he desired me to call upon you as soon as I could, and assure you of his unalterable attachment; and I am now about to procure his discharge, that he may be able to return. All his thoughts are upon this point, and he is now waiting with the utmost impatience the arrival of it, that he may again be in your company; you can best judge whether his return will or will not be a source of happiness.”
Mary raised her head—her face was wet with tears.
“Then he will soon be back again, and I shall see him. Indeed, his return will be no source of unhappiness, if I can make him happy—indeed, it shall not, Mr Faithful; but pray don’t tell him of my foolish conduct, pray don’t—why make him unhappy?—I entreat you not to do it. I will not do so again. Promise me, Jacob, will you?” continued Mary, taking me by the arm, and looking beseechingly in my face.
“Mary, I will never be a mischief-maker; but recollect I exact the performance of your promise.”
“Oh, and I will keep it, now that I know he will soon be home. I can, I think I can—I’m sure I can wait a month or two without flirting. But I do wish that I was not left so much alone. I wish Tom was at home to take care of me, for there is no one else. I can’t take care of myself.”
I saw by Mary’s countenance that she was in earnest, and I therefore made friends with her, and we conversed for two hours, chiefly about Tom. When I left her she had recovered her usual spirits, and said at parting, looking archly at me, “Now, you will see how wise and prudent I shall be.”
I shook my head, and left her that I might find out (my) old friend Stapleton, who, as usual, was at the door of the public-house, smoking his pipe. At first he did not recognise me, for when I accosted him he put his open hand to his ear as usual, and desired me to speak a little louder, but I answered, “Nonsense, Stapleton, that won’t do with me.” He then took his pipe out of his mouth, and looked me full in the face.
“Jacob, as I’m alive! Didn’t know you in your long togs—thought you was a gentleman wanting a boat. Well, I hardly need say how glad I am to see you after so long; that’s no more than human natur’. And how’s Tom? Have you seen Mary?”
These two questions enabled me to introduce the subject that I wished. I told him of the attachment and troth pledged between the two, and how wrong it was for him to leave her so much alone. The old man agreed with me, and said, that as to talking to the men, that was on Mary’s part nothing but “human natur’”; and that as for Tom wishing to be at home and seeing her again, that also was nothing but “human natur’”; but that he would smoke his pipe at home in future, and keep the soldiers out of the house. Satisfied with this assurance I left him, and taking another wherry went up to Brentford to see the Dominie.
Chapter Forty One
All the little boys are let loose, and the Dominie is caught—Anxious to supply my teeth, he falls in with other teeth, and Mrs Bately also shows her teeth—Gin outside, gin in, and gin out again, and old woman out also—Dominie in for it again—More like a Whig Ministry than a novel
I found the worthy old Dominie in the school-room, seated at his elevated desk, the usher not present, and the boys making a din enough to have awaked a person from a trance. That he was in one of his deep reveries, and that the boys had taken advantage of it, was evident. “Mr Dobbs,” said I, walking close up to the desk, but the Dominie answered not. I repeated his name in a louder voice.
“Cosine of X plus AB minus Z minus a half; such must be the result,” said the Dominie talking to himself. “Yet it doth not prove correct. I may be in error. Let me revise my work,” and the Dominie lifted up his desk to take out another piece of paper. When the desk lid was raised, I removed his work and held it behind me.
“But how is this?” exclaimed the Dominie, and he looked everywhere for his previous calculations. “Nay,” continued he, “it must have been the wind;” and then he cast his eyes about until they fixed upon me laughing at him. “Eheu! what do my eyes perceive?—It is—yet it is not—yes, most truly it is, my son Jacob. Welcome, most welcome,” cried the old man, descending from his desk, and clasping me in his arms. “Long is it since I have seen thee, my son, Interea magnum sol circumvolvitur annum. Long, yes long, have I yearned for thy return, fearful lest, nudus ignota arena, thou mightest, like another Palinurus, have been cast away. Thou art returned, and all is well; as the father said in the Scripture: I have found my son which I had lost; but no prodigal thou, though I use the quotation as apt. Now all is well; thou hast escaped the danger of the battle, the fire, and the wreck, and now thou mayest hang up thy wet garment as a votive offering; as Horace hath it, Uvida suspendisse potenti vestimenta maris Deo.”
During the apostrophe of the Dominie, the boys perceiving that he was no longer wrapped up in his algebra, had partly settled to their desks, and in their apparent attention to their lessons reminded me of the humming of bees before a hive on a summer’s day.
“Boys,” cried the Dominie, “nunc est ludendum; verily ye shall have a holiday; put up your books, and depart in peace.”
The books were hastily put up, in obedience to the command; the depart in peace was not so rigidly adhered to—they gave a loud shout, and in a few seconds the Dominie and I stood alone in the school-room.
“Come, Jacob, let us adjourn to my sanctum; there may we commune without interruption. Thou shalt tell me thine adventures, and I will communicate to thee what hath been made known to me relative to those with whom thou wert acquainted.”
“First let me beg you to give me something to eat, for I am not a little hungry,” interrupted I, as we gained the kitchen.
“Verily shalt thou have all that we possess, Jacob; yet now, I think, that will not be much, seeing that I and our worthy matron did pick the bones of a shoulder of mutton, this having been our fourth day of repast upon it. She is out, yet I will venture to intrude into the privacy of her cupboard, for thy sake. Peradventure she may be wroth, yet will I risk her displeasure.” So saying, the old Dominie opened the cupboard, and, one by one, handed to me the dishes with their contents. “Here Jacob are two hard dumplings from yesterday. Canst thou relish cold, hard, dumplings?—but, stop, here is something more savoury—half of a cold cabbage, which was left this day. We will look again. Here is meat—yes, it is meat; but now do I perceive it is a piece of lights reserved for the dinner of the cat to-morrow. I am fearful that we must not venture upon that, for the dame will be wroth.”
“Pray put it back, sir; I would not interfere with puss on any account.”
“Nay, then, Jacob, I see naught else, unless there may be viands on the upper shelf. Sir, here is bread, the staff of life, and also a fragment of cheese; and now, methinks, I discern something dark at the back of the shelf.” The Dominie extended his hand, and immediately withdrew it, jumping from his chair, with a loud cry. He had put his fingers into a rat gin, set by the old woman for those intruders, and he held up his arm and stamped as he shouted out with the pain. I hastened to him, and pressing down the spring, released his fingers from the teeth, which, however, had drawn blood, as well as bruised him; fortunately, like most of the articles of their menage, the trap was a very old one, and he was not much hurt. The Dominie thrust his fingers into his capacious mouth, and held them there some time without speaking. He began to feel a little ease, when in came the matron.
“Why, what’s all this!” said she, in a querulous tone. “Jacob here, and all my cupboard on the table. Jacob, how dare you go to my cupboard?”
“It was the Dominie, Mrs Bately, who looked there for something for me to eat, and he has been caught in a rat-trap.”
“Serve him right; I have forbade him that cupboard. Have I not, Mr Dobbs?”
“Yea, and verily,” quoth the Dominie, “and I do repent me that I took not thine advice, for look at my fingers;” and the Dominie extended his lacerated digits.
“Dear me! well I’d no idea that a rat-trap pinched so hard,” replied the old woman, whose wrath was appeased. “How it must hurt the poor things—I won’t set it again, but leave them all to the cat; he’ll kill them, if he only can get at them.” The old lady went to a drawer, unlocked it, brought out some fragments of rags, and a bottle of friar’s balsam, which she applied to the Dominie’s hand, and then bound it up, scolding him the whole time. “How stupid of you, Mr Dobbs; you know that I was only out for a few minutes. Why didn’t you wait—and why did you go to the cupboard? Hav’n’t I always told you not to look into it? and now you see the consequences.”
“Verily my hand burneth,” replied the Dominie.
“I will go for cold water, and it will ease you. What a deal of trouble you do give, Mr Dobbs; you’re worse than a charity boy;” and the old lady departed to the pump.
“Vinegar is a better thing, sir,” said I, “and there is a bottle in the cupboard, which I dare say is vinegar.” I went to the cupboard, and brought out the bottle, took out the cork and smelt it. “This is not vinegar, sir, it is Hollands or gin.”
“Then would I like a glass, Jacob, for I feel a sickening faintness upon me; yet be quick, peradventure the old woman may return.”
“Drink out of the bottle, sir,” said I, perceiving that the Dominie looked very pale, “and I will give you notice of her approach.” The Dominie put the bottle to his mouth, and was taking a sufficient draught, when the old woman returned by another door which was behind us; she had gone that way for a wash-basin. Before we could perceive her, she came behind the Dominie, snatched the bottle from his mouth with a jerk that threw a portion of the spirits in his eyes, and blinded him.
“That’s why you went to my cupboard, is it, Mr Dobbs?” cried she, in a passion. “That’s it, is it? I thought my bottle went very fast; seeing that I don’t take more than a tea-spoonful every night, for the wind which vexes me so much. I’ll set the rat-trap again, you may depend upon it; and now you may get somebody else to bind your fingers.”
“It was I who took it out, Mrs Bately; the Dominie would have fainted with pain. It was very lucky that he has a housekeeper who is careful to have something of the kind in the house, or he might have been dead. You surely don’t begrudge a little of your medicine to recover Mr Dobbs?”
“Peace, woman, peace,” said the Dominie, who had gained courage by his potation. “Peace, I say; I knew not that thou hadst in thy cupboard either a gin for my hand, or gin for my mouth; since I have been taken in the one, it is but fair that I should take in the other. In future both thy gins will not be interfered with by me. Bring me the basin, that I may appease my angry wounds, and then hasten to procure some viands to appease the hunger of my son Jacob; lastly, appease thine own wrath. Pax. Peace, I say;” and the old woman, who perceived that the Dominie had asserted his right of dominion, went to obey his orders, grumbling till she was out of hearing. The application of the cold pump-water soon relieved the pain of the good old Dominie, and with his hand remaining in the basin, we commenced a long conversation.
At first I narrated to him the events which had occurred during my service on board of the frigate. When I told him of my parting with Tom, he observed, “Verily do I remember that young Tom, a jocund, pleasant, yet intrusive lad. Yet do I wish him well, and am grieved that he should be so taken by that maiden Mary. Well may we say of her, as Horace hath of Pyrrha—‘Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa, perfusis liquidis urgit odoribus, grate, Pyrrha, sub antro. Cui flavam religas comam, simplex munditiis.’ I grieve at it, yea, grieve much. Heu, quoties fidem mutatosque Deos flebit! Verily, Jacob, I do prophesy that she will lead him into error, yea, perhaps into perdition.”
“I trust not, sir,” replied I; but the Dominie made no answer. For half-an-hour he was in deep and serious thought, during which Mrs Bately entered, and spreading a cloth, brought in from the other room some rashers of bacon and eggs, upon which I made a hasty and hearty meal. The old matron’s temper was now smoothed, and she welcomed me kindly, and shortly after went out for a fresh basin of cold water for the Dominie to bathe his hand. This roused him, and he recommenced the conversation.
“Jacob, I have not yet congratulated thee upon thy accession to wealth; not that I do not sincerely rejoice in it, but because the pleasure of thy presence has made me unmindful of it. Still, was it fortunate for thee that thou hadst raised up such a friend as Mr Turnbull; otherwise what would have been the result of thy boasted independence? Thou wouldst probably have remained many years on board of a man-of-war, and have been killed, or have returned mutilated, to die unknown.”
“You were right, sir,” replied I; “my independence was nothing but pride; and I did bitterly repent, as you said I should do, even before I was pressed into the king’s service—but Mr Drummond never repeated his offers.”
“He never did, Jacob; but as I have since been informed by him, although he was taken by surprise at thy being forced away to serve thy country, still he was not sure that you would accept them; and he, moreover, wished you fully to feel thine own folly. Long before you had made friends with him, he had attested the will of Mr Turnbull, and was acquainted with the contents. Yet, did he watch over thee, and had he thought that thy way of life had led thee into that which was wrong, he would have interfered to save thee; but he considered with Shakespeare that ‘sweet were the uses of adversity,’ and that thou wouldst be more schooled by remaining some time under her unprepossessing frowns. He hath ever been thy friend.”
“I can believe it. I trust he is well, and his family.”
“They were well and prosperous, but a little while ago, Jacob; yet I have seen but little of them since the death of Mr Turnbull. It will pain thee to hear that affliction at thy absence hastened his dissolution. I was at his death-bed, Jacob; and I verily believe he was a good man, and will meet the reward of one; yet did he talk most strangely, and reminded me of that remnant of a man you call old Tom. ‘It’s no use, old gentleman,’ said he, as he lay in his bed supported by pillows, for he had wasted away till he was but a skeleton, having broken a blood-vessel with his violent coughing—‘It’s no use pouring that doctor’s stuff down my throat; my anchor’s short stay a-peak, and in a few minutes I shall trip it, I trust for heaven, where I hope there are moorings laid down for me.’ ‘I would fain comprehend thee,’ replied I, ‘but thou speakest in parables.’ ‘I mean to say that death has driven his harpoon in up to the shank, and that I struggle in vain. I have run out all my line. I shall turn up in a few minutes—so give my love and blessing to Jacob—he saved my life once—but now I’m gone.’ With these last words his spirit took its flight; and thus, Jacob, did your benefactor breathe his last, invoking a blessing on your head.”
I remained silent for a few minutes, for I was much affected by the Dominie’s description; he at length resumed the conversation.
“Thou hast not yet seen the Drummonds, Jacob?”
“I have not,” I replied, “but I will call upon them tomorrow; but it is time that I should go, for I have to return to London.”
“Thou needst not, Jacob. Thine own house is at hand.”
“My own house!”
“Yes; by the will of Mr Turnbull, his wife has been left a handsome jointure, but, for reasons which he did not explain, the house and furniture are not left to her, but, as residuary legatee, belong to thee.”
“Indeed!—then where is Mrs Turnbull?”
“At Bath, where she hath taken up her residence. Mr Drummond, who hath acted in thy behalf, permitted her to take away such articles as she might wish, but they were but few, chiefly those little objects which filled up rather than adorned the drawing-room. The house is all ready for thy reception, and thou mayst take possession this evening.”
“But why did not Mr Turnbull leave it to his widow?”
“I cannot exactly say, but I think he did not wish her to remain in this place. He, therefore, left her 5000 pounds at her own disposal, to enable her to purchase and furnish another.”
I then took my leave of the Dominie, and it being rather late, I resolved to walk to the house and sleep there.
