Jacob Faithful

“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.

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.”