Фредерик Марриет
Jacob Faithful
Chapter Forty Two
In which I take possession of my own house, and think that it looks very ill-furnished without a wife—Tom’s discharge is sent out, but by accident it never reaches him—I take my new station in society
On my arrival the front gates were opened by the gardener’s wife, who made me a profound courtesy. The gardener soon afterwards made his appearance, hat in hand. Everything was neat and in good order. I entered the house, and as soon as possible rid myself of their obsequious attentions. I wished to be alone. Powerful feelings crowded on my mind. I hastened to Mr Turnbull’s study, and sat down in the chair so lately occupied by him. The proud feeling of possession, softened into gratitude to heaven, and sorrow at his death, came over me, and I remained for a long while in a deep reverie. “And all this, and more, much more, are mine,” I mentally exclaimed; “the sailor before the mast, the waterman on the river, the charity-boy, the orphan sits down in quiet possession of luxury and wealth. What have I done to deserve all this?” My heart told me nothing, or if anything, it was almost valueless, and I poured forth my soul in thanks to heaven. I felt more composed after I had performed this duty, and my thoughts then dwelt upon my benefactor. I surveyed the room—the drawings, the furs and skins, the harpoons and other instruments, all remaining in their respective places, as when I last had an interview with Mr Turnbull. I remembered his kindness, his singleness of heart, his honesty, his good sense, and his real worth; and I shed many tears for his loss. My thoughts then passed to Sarah Drummond, and I felt much uneasiness on that score. Would she receive me, or would she still remember what I had been? I recollected her kindness and good-will towards me. I weighed these, and my present condition, against my origin and my former occupation; and could not ascertain how the scale might turn. I shall soon see, thought I. To-morrow, even, may decide the question. The gardener’s wife knocked at the door, and announced that my bed was prepared. I went to sleep, dreaming of Sarah, young Tom, the Dominie and Mary Stapleton.
I was up early the next morning, and hastened to the hotel; when, having arranged my person to the best of my power (but at the same time never so little to my satisfaction), I proceeded to the house of Mr Drummond. I knocked; and this time I was not desired to wait in the hall, but was immediately ushered up into the drawing-room. Sarah Drummond was sitting alone at her drawing. My name was announced as I entered. She started from her chair, and blushed deeply as she moved towards me. We joined hands in silence. I was breathless with emotion. Never had she appeared so beautiful. Neither party appeared willing to break silence; at last I faltered out, “Miss Drummond,”—and then I stopped.
“Mr Faithful,” replied she; and then, after a break—“How very silly this is; I ought to have congratulated you upon your safe return, and upon your good fortune; and, indeed, Mr Faithful, no one can do so more sincerely.”
“Miss Drummond,” replied I, confused, “when I was an orphan, a charity-boy, and a waterman, you called me Jacob, if the alteration in my prospects induces you to address me in so formal a manner—if we are in future to be on such different terms—I can only say that I wish that I were again—Jacob Faithful, the waterman.”
“Nay,” replied she, “recollect that it was your own choice to be a waterman. You might have been different—very different. You might at this time have been a partner with my father, for he said so but last night, when we were talking about you. But you refused all; you threw away your education, your talents, your good qualities, from a foolish pride, which you considered independence. My father almost humbled himself to you—not that it is ever humiliating to acknowledge and attempt to repair a fault, but still he did more than could be expected from most people. Your friends persuaded you, but you rejected their advice; and what was still more unpardonable, even I had no influence over you. As long as you punished yourself I did not upbraid you; but now that you have been so fortunate, I tell you plainly—”
“What?”
“That it is more than you deserve, that’s all.”
“You have said but the truth, Miss Drummond. I was very proud and very foolish; but I had repented of my folly long before I was pressed; and I candidly acknowledge that I do not merit the good fortune I have met with. Can I say more?”
“No; I am satisfied with your repentance and acknowledgment. So, now you may sit down, and make yourself agreeable.”
“Before I do that, allow me to ask, as you address me as Mr Faithful, how am I to address you? I should not wish to be considered impertinent.”
“My name is Miss Drummond, but those who feel intimate with me call me Sarah.”
“I may reply that my name is Faithful, but those who feel intimate with me call me Jacob.”
“Very true; but allow me to observe that you show very little tact. You should never force a lady into a corner. If I appear affronted when you call me Sarah, then you will do wise to fall back upon Miss Drummond. But why do you fix your eyes upon me so earnestly?”
“I cannot help it, and must beg your pardon; but you are so improved in appearance since I last saw you. I thought no one could be more perfect, but—”
“Well, that’s not a bad beginning, Jacob. I like to hear of my perfections. Now follow up your but.”
“I hardly know what I was going to say, but I think it was that I do not feel as if I ought or can address you otherwise than as Miss Drummond.”
“Oh, you’ve thought better of it, have you? Well, I begin to think myself that you look so well in your present dress, and have become so very different a person, that I ought not to address you by any other name than Mr Faithful. So now we are agreed.”
“That’s not what I mean to say.”
“Well, then, let me know what you did mean to say.”
This puzzling question fortunately did not require an answer, for Mr Drummond came into the room and extended his hand.
“My dear Jacob,” said he, in the most friendly manner, “I’m delighted to see you back again, and to have the pleasure of congratulating you on your good fortune. But you have business to transact which will not admit of any delay. You must prove the will, and arrange with the lawyers as soon as possible. Will you come now? All the papers are below, and I have the whole morning to spare. We will be back to dinner, Sarah, if Jacob has no other engagement.”
“I have none,” replied I; “and shall be most happy to avail myself of your kindness. Miss Drummond, I wish you a good morning.”
“Au revoir, Mr Faithful,” replied Sarah, courtesying formally, with a mocking smile.
The behaviour of Mr Drummond towards me was most kind and parental, and my eyes were often suffused with tears during the occupation of the morning. The most urgent business was got through, and an interview with Mr Turnbull’s solicitor put the remainder in progress; still it was so late when we had accomplished it, that I had no time to dress. On my return, Mrs Drummond received me with her usual kindness. I narrated, during the evening, my adventures since we parted, and took that opportunity to acknowledge to Mr Drummond how bitterly I had repented my folly, and I may add ingratitude, towards him.
“Jacob,” said he, as we were sitting at the tea-table with Mrs Drummond and Sarah, “I knew at the time that you were toiling on the river for shillings that you were the inheritor of thousands; for I not only witnessed but read the will of Mr Turnbull; but I thought it best that you should have a lesson which you would never forget in after life. There is no such thing in this world as independence, unless in a savage state. In society we are all mutually dependent upon each other. Independence of mind we may have, but no more. As a waterman, you were dependent upon your customers, as every poor man must be upon those who have more means; and in refusing my offers you were obliged to apply for employment to others. The rich are as entirely dependent upon others as the poor; they depend upon them for their food, their clothes, their necessities, and their luxuries. Such ever will be the case in society, and the more refined the society may be—the more civilised its parts—the greater is the mutual dependence. Still it is an error originating in itself from high feelings, and therefore must be considered as an error on the right side; but recollect how much you might have thrown away had not you, in the first place, secured such a friend as Mr Turnbull; and secondly, if the death of that friend had not so soon put you in possession.”
I was but too ready to acknowledge the truth of these remarks. The evening passed away so rapidly that it was midnight before I rose to take my leave, and I returned to the hotel as happy in my mind, and as grateful as ever any mortal could possibly be. The next day I removed to the house left me by Mr Turnbull, and the first order I gave was for a wherry. Such was the force of habit, I could not do without one; and half my time was spent upon the river, pulling every day down to Mr Drummond’s, and returning in the evening, or late at night. Thus passed away two months, during which I occasionally saw the Dominie, the Stapletons, and old Tom Beazeley. I had exerted myself to procure Tom’s discharge, and at last had the pleasure of telling the old people that it was to go out by the next packet. By the Drummonds I was received as a member of the family—there was no hindrance to my being alone with Sarah for hours; and although I had not ventured to declare my sentiments, they appeared to be well understood, as well by the parents as by Sarah herself.
Two days after I had communicated this welcome intelligence to the old couple, as I was sitting at breakfast, attended by the gardener and his wife (for I had made no addition to my establishment), what was my surprise at the appearance of young Tom, who entered the room as usual, laughing as he held out his hand.
“Tom!” exclaimed I, “why, how did you come here?”
“By water, Jacob, as you may suppose.”
“But how have you received your discharge? Is the ship come home?”
“I hope not; the fact is, I discharged myself, Jacob.”
“What! did you desert?”
“Even so. I had three reasons for so doing. In the first place, I could not remain without you; in the second, my mother wrote to say Mary was taken up with a sodger; and the third was, I was put into the report for punishment, and should have been flogged, as sure as the captain had a pair of epaulettes.”
“Well, but sit down and tell me all about it. You know your discharge is obtained.”
“Yes, thanks to you, Jacob; all the better, for now they won’t look after me. All’s well that ends well. After you went away, I presume I was not in the very best of humours; and that rascal of a master’s mate who had us pressed, thought proper to bully me beyond all bearing. One day he called me a lying scoundrel; upon which I forgot that I was on board of a man-of-war, and replied that he was a confounded cheat, and that he had better pay me his debt of two guineas for bringing him down the river. He reported me on the quarter-deck for calling him a cheat, and Captain Maclean, who, you know, won’t stand any nonsense, heard the arguments on both sides; upon which he declared that the conduct of the master’s mate was not that of an officer or a gentleman, and therefore he should leave the ship; and that my language to my superior officer was subversive to the discipline of the service, and therefore he should give me a good flogging. Now, Jacob, you know that if the officers don’t pay their debts, Captain Maclean always does, and with interest into the bargain; so finding that I was in for it, and no mistake, I swam ashore the night before Black Monday, and made my way to Miramichi, without any adventure, except a tussle with a sergeant of marines, whom I left for dead about three miles out of the town. At Miramichi I got on board of a timber ship, and here I am.”
“I am sorry that you deserted, nevertheless,” replied I; “it may come to mischief.”
“Never fear; the people on the river know that I have my discharge, and I’m safe enough.”
“Have you seen Mary!”
“Yes, and all’s right in that quarter. I shall build another wherry, wear my badge and dress, and stick above bridge. When I’m all settled, I’ll splice, and live along with the old couple.”
“But will Mary consent to live there? It is so quiet and retired that she won’t like it.”
“Mary Stapleton has given herself airs enough in all conscience, and has had her own way quite enough. Mary Beazeley will do as her husband wishes, or I will know the reason why.”
“We shall see, Tom. Bachelors’ wives are always best managed, they say. But now you want money to buy your boat.”
“Yes, if you’ll lend it to me; I don’t like to take it away from the old people; and I’ll pay you when I can, Jacob.”
“No; you must accept this, Tom; and when you marry you must accept something more,” replied I, handing the notes to him.
“With all my heart, Jacob. I never can repay you for what you have done for me, and so I may just as well increase the debt.”
“That’s good logic, Tom.”
“Quite as good as independence; is it not, Jacob?”
“Better, much better, as I know to my cost,” replied I, laughing.
Tom finished his breakfast, and then took his leave. After breakfast, as usual, I went to the boat-house, and unchaining my wherry, pulled up the river, which I had not hitherto done; my attendance upon Sarah having invariably turned the bow of my wherry in the opposite direction. I swept by the various residences on the banks of the river until I arrived opposite to that of Mr Wharncliffe, and perceived a lady and gentleman in the garden. I knew them at once, and, as they were standing close to the wall, I pulled in and saluted them.
“Do you recollect me?” said I to them, smiling.
“Yes,” replied the lady, “I do recollect your face—surely—it is Faithful, the waterman!”
“No, I am not a waterman; I am only amusing myself in my own boat.”
“Come up,” replied Mr Wharncliffe; “we can’t shake hands with you at that distance.”
I made fast my wherry and joined them. They received me most cordially.
“I thought you were not a waterman, Mr Faithful, although you said that you were,” said Mrs Wharncliffe. “Why did you deceive us in that way?”
“Indeed, at that time I was, from my own choice and my own folly a waterman; now I am so no longer.”
We were soon on the most intimate terms, and I narrated part of my adventures. They expressed their obligations to me, and requested that I would accept their friendship.
“Would you like to have a row on the water? It is a beautiful day, and if Mrs Wharncliffe will trust herself—”
“Oh, I should like it above all things. Will you go. William? I will run for a shawl.”
In a few minutes we were all three embarked, and I rowed them to my villa. They had been admiring the beauty of the various residences on the banks of the Thames.
“How do you like that one?” inquired I of Mrs Wharncliffe.
“It is very handsome, and I think one of the very best.”
“That is mine,” replied I. “Will you allow me to show it to you?”
“Yours!”
“Yes, mine; but I have a very small establishment, for I am a bachelor.”
We landed, and after walking about the grounds went into the house.
“Do you recollect this room?” said I to Mr Wharncliffe.
“Yes, indeed I do; it was here that the box was opened, and my uncle’s—But we must not say anything about that: he is dead!”
“Dead!”
“Yes; he never held his head up after his dishonesty was discovered. He pined and died within three months, sincerely repenting what he had attempted.”
I accepted their invitation to dinner, as I rowed them back to their own residence; and afterwards had the pleasure of enrolling them among my sincerest friends. Through them I was introduced to Lady Auburn and many others; and I shall not forget the old housekeeper recognising me one day, when I was invited to Lady Auburn’s villa.
“Bless me! what tricks you young gentlemen do play. Only to think how you asked me for water, and how I pushed the door in your face, and wouldn’t let you rest yourself. But if you young gentlemen will disguise yourselves, it’s your own faults, and you must take the consequences.”
My acquaintances now increased rapidly, and I had the advantage of the best society. I hardly need observe that it was a great advantage; for, although I was not considered awkward, still I wanted that polish which can only be obtained by an admixture with good company. The reports concerning me were various; but it was generally believed that I was a young man who had received an excellent education, and might have been brought forward, but that I had taken a passion for the river, and had chosen to be a waterman in preference to any other employment; that I had since come into a large fortune, and had resumed my station in society. How far the false was blended with the true, those who have read my adventures will readily perceive. For my part, I cared little what they said, and I gave myself no trouble to refute the various assertions. I was not ashamed of my birth, because it had no effect upon the Drummonds; still I knew the world too well to think it necessary to blazon it. On the whole, the balance was in my favour; there was a degree of romance in my history, with all its variations, which interested, and, joined to the knowledge of my actual wealth, made me to be well received, and gained me attention wherever I went. One thing was much to my advantage—my extensive reading, added to the good classical education which I had received. It is not often in society that an opportunity occurs when any one can prove his acquisitions; and thus did education turn the scale in my favour, and every one was much more inclined to believe the false rather than the true versions of my history.
Chapter Forty Three
The Dominie proves Stapleton’s “human natur’” to be correct—The red-coat proves too much of a match for the blue—Mary sells Tom, and Tom sells what is left of him, for a shilling—We never know the value of anything till we have lost it
I had often ruminated in what manner I could render the Dominie more comfortable. I felt that to him I was as much indebted as to any living being, and one day I ventured to open the subject; but his reply was decided.
“I see, Jacob, my son, what thou wouldst wish: but it must not be. Man is but a creature of habit; habit becomes to him not only necessity but luxury. For five-and-forty years have I toiled, instilling precepts and forcing knowledge into the brains of those who have never proved so apt as thou. Truly, it hath been a painful task, yet can I not relinquish it. I might, at one time, that is, during the first ten years, have met the offer with gratitude; for I felt the humiliation and annoyance of wearying myself with the rudiments, when I would fain have commented upon the various peculiarities of style in the ancient Greek and Latin authors; but now, all that has passed away. The eternal round of concord, prosody, and syntax has charms for me from habit: the rule of three is preferable to the problems of Euclid, and even the Latin grammar has its delights. In short, I have a hujus pleasure in hic, haec, hoc; (cluck cluck;) and even the flourishing of the twigs of that tree of knowledge, the birch, hath become a pleasurable occupation to me, if not to those upon whom it is inflicted. I am like an old horse, who hath so long gone round and round in a mill, that he cannot walk straight forward; and, if it pleases the Almighty, I will die in harness. Still I thank thee, Jacob; and thank God that thou hast again proved the goodness of thy heart, and given me one more reason to rejoice in thee and in thy love; but thine offer, if accepted, would not add to my happiness; for what feeling can be more consolatory to an old man near into his grave than the reflection that his life, if not distinguished, has at least been useful?”
I had not for some time received a visit from Tom; and, surprised at this, I went down to his father’s to make inquiry about him. I found the old couple sitting in-doors; the weather was fine, but old Tom was not at his work; even the old woman’s netting was thrown aside.
“Where is Tom?” inquired I, after wishing them good morning.
“Oh deary me!” cried the old woman, putting her apron up to her eyes; “that wicked good-for-nothing girl!”
“Good heavens! what is the matter?” inquired I of old Tom.
“The matter, Jacob,” replied old Tom, stretching out his two wooden legs, and placing his hands upon his knees, “is, that Tom has ’listed for a sodger.”
“’Listed for a soldier!”
“Yes; that’s as sartain as it’s true; and what’s worse, I’m told the regiment is ordered to the West Indies. So, what with fever o’ mind and yellow fever, he’s food for the land crabs, that’s sartain. I think now,” continued the old man, brushing a tear from his eye with his fore-finger, “that I see his bones bleaching under the palisades; for I know the place well.”
“Don’t say so, Tom; don’t say so!”
“O Jacob! beg pardon if I’m too free now; but can’t you help us?”
“I will if I can, depend upon it; but tell me how this happened.”
“Why, the long and the short of it is this: that girl, Mary Stapleton, has been his ruin. When he first came home he was well received, and looked forward to being spliced and living with us; but it didn’t last long. She couldn’t leave off her old tricks; and so, that Tom might not get the upper hand, she plays him off with the sergeant of a recruiting party, and flies off from one to the other, just like the ticker of the old clock there does from one side to the other. One day the sergeant was the fancy man, and the next day it was Tom. At last Tom gets out of patience, and wishes to come to a fair understanding. So he axes her whether she chooses to have the sergeant or to have him; she might take her choice, but he had no notion of being played with in that way, after all her letters and all her promises. Upon this she huffs outright, and tells Tom he may go about his business, for she didn’t care if she never sees him no more. So Tom’s blood was up, and he called her a damned jilt, and, in my opinion, he was near to the truth; so then they had a regular breeze, and part company. Well, this made Tom very miserable, and the next day he would have begged her pardon, and come to her terms, for, you see, Jacob, a man in love has no discretion; but she being still angry, tells him to go about his business, as she means to marry the sergeant in a week. Tom turns away again quite mad; and it so happens that he goes into the public-house where the sergeant hangs out, hoping to be revenged on him, and meaning to have a regular set-to, and see who is the best man; but the sergeant wasn’t there, and Tom takes pot after pot to drive away care; and when the sergeant returned, Tom was not a little in liquor. Now, the sergeant was a knowing chap, and when he comes in, and perceives Tom with his face flushed, he guesses what was to come, so, instead of saying a word, he goes to another table, and dashes his fist upon it, as if in a passion. Tom goes up to him, and says, ‘Sergeant, I’ve known that girl long before you, and if you are a man, you’ll stand up for her.’ ‘Stand up for her; yes,’ replied the sergeant, ‘and so I would have done yesterday, but the blasted jilt has turned me to the right about and sent me away. I won’t fight now, for she won’t have me—any more than she will you.’ Now when Tom hears this, he becomes more pacified with the sergeant, and they set down like two people under the same misfortune, and take a pot together, instead of fighting; and then, you see, the sergeant plies Tom with liquor, swearing that he will go back to the regiment, and leave Mary altogether, and advises Tom to do the same. At last, what with the sergeant’s persuasions, and Tom’s desire to vex Mary, he succeeds in ’listing him, and giving him the shilling before witnesses; that was all the rascal wanted. The next day Tom was sent down to the depôt, as they call it, under a guard; and the sergeant remains here to follow up Mary without interruption. This only happened three days ago, and we only were told of it yesterday by old Stapleton, who threatens to turn his daughter out of doors.”
“Can’t you help us, Jacob?” said the old woman, crying.
“I hope I can; and if money can procure his discharge it shall be obtained. But did you not say that he was ordered to the West Indies?”
“The regiment is in the Indies, but they are recruiting for it, so many have been carried off by the yellow fever last sickly season. A transport, they say, will sail next week, and the recruits are to march for embarkation in three or four days.”
“And what is the regiment, and where is the depôt?”
“It is the 47th Fusiliers, and the depôt is at Maidstone.”
“I will lose no time, my good friends,” replied I; “to-morrow I will go to Mr Drummond, and consult with him.” I returned the grateful squeeze of old Tom’s hand, and, followed by the blessings of the old woman, I hastened away.
As I pulled up the river, for that day I was engaged to dine with the Wharncliffes, I resolved to call upon Mary Stapleton, and ascertain by her deportment whether she had become that heartless jilt which she was represented, and if so, to persuade Tom, if I succeeded in obtaining his discharge, to think no more about her; I felt so vexed and angry with her, that after I landed, I walked about a few minutes before I went to the house, that I might recover my temper. When I walked up the stairs I found Mary sitting over a sheet of paper, on which she had been writing. She looked up as I came in, and I perceived that she had been crying. “Mary,” said I, “how well you have kept the promise you made to me when last we met! See what trouble and sorrow you have brought upon all parties except yourself.”
“Except myself—no, Mr Faithful, don’t except myself, I am almost mad—I believe that I am mad—for surely such folly as mine is madness;” and Mary wept bitterly.
“There is no excuse for your behaviour, Mary—it is unpardonably wicked. Tom sacrificed all for your sake—he even deserted, and desertion is death by the law. Now what have you done?—taken advantage of his strong affection to drive him to intemperance, and induce him, in despair, to enlist for a soldier. He sails for the West Indies to fill up the ranks of a regiment thinned by the yellow fever, and will perhaps never return again—you will then have been the occasion of his death. Mary, I have come to tell you that I despise you.”
“I despise and hate myself,” replied Mary, mournfully; “I wish I were in my grave. Oh, Mr Faithful, do for God’s sake—do get him back. You can, I know you can—you have money and everything.”
“If I do, it will not be for your benefit, Mary, for you shall trifle with him no more. I will not try for his discharge unless he faithfully promises never to speak to you again.”
“You don’t say that—you don’t mean that!” cried Mary, sweeping the hair with her hand back from her forehead—and her hand still remaining on her head—“O God! O God! what a wretch I am! Hear me, Jacob, hear me,” cried she, dropping on her knees, and seizing my hands; “only get him his discharge—only let me once see him again, and I swear by all that’s sacred, that I will beg his pardon on my knees as I now do yours. I will do everything—anything—if he will but forgive me, for I cannot, I will not live without him.”
“If this is true, Mary, what madness could have induced you to have acted as you have?”
“Yes,” replied Mary, rising from her knees, “madness, indeed—more than madness to treat so cruelly one for whom I only care to live. You say Tom loves me; I know he does; but he does not love me as I do him. O, my God! my heart will break!” After a pause, Mary resumed. “Read what I have written to him—I have already written as much in another letter. You will see that if he cannot get away, I have offered to go out with him as his wife; that is, if he will have such a foolish, wicked girl as I am.”
I read the letter; it was as she said, praying forgiveness, offering to accompany him, and humiliating herself as much as it was possible. I was much affected. I returned the letter.
“You can’t despise me so much as I despise myself,” continued Mary; “I hate, I detest myself for my folly. I recollect now how you used to caution me when a girl. Oh, mother, mother, it was a cruel legacy you left to your child, when you gave her your disposition. Yet why should I blame her? I must blame myself.”
“Well, Mary, I will do all I can, and that as soon as possible. To-morrow I will go down to the depôt.”
“God bless you, Jacob; and may you never have the misfortune to be in love with such a one as myself.”
