Jacob Faithful

Chapter Thirty Two

That night I dreamed of nothing but the scene, over and over again, and the two bars of music were constantly ringing in my ears. As soon as I had breakfasted the next morning I set off to Mr Turnbull’s, and told him what had occurred.

“It was indeed fortunate that the box was landed,” said he, “or you might have now been in prison; I wish I had had nothing to do with it; but, as you say, ‘what’s done can’t be helped;’ I will not give up the box, at all events, until I know which party is entitled to it, and I cannot help thinking that the lady is. But, Jacob, you will have to reconnoitre, and find out what this story is. Tell me, do you think you could remember the tune which he whistled so often?”

“It has been running in my head the whole night, and I have been trying it all the way as I pulled here. I think I have it exact. Hear, sir.”—I whistled the two bars.

“Quite correct, Jacob, quite correct; well, take care not to forget them. Where are you going to-day?”

“Nowhere, sir.”

“Suppose, then, you pull up the river, and find out the place where we landed, and when you have ascertained that, you can go on and see whether the young man is with the skiff; at all events you may find out something—but pray be cautious.”

I promised to be very careful, and departed on my errand, which I undertook with much pleasure, for I was delighted with anything like adventure. I pulled up the river, and in about an hour and a-quarter, came abreast of the spot. I recognised the cottage ornée, the parapet wall, even the spot where we lay, and perceived that several bricks were detached and had fallen into the river. There appeared to be no one stirring in the house, yet I continued to pull up and down, looking at the windows; at last one opened, and a young lady looked out, who, I was persuaded, was the same that we had seen the night before. There was no wind, and all was quiet around. She sat at the window, leaning her head on her hand. I whistled the two bars of the air. At the first bar she started up, and looked earnestly at me as I completed the second. I looked up; she waved her handkerchief once, and then shut the window. In a few seconds she made her appearance on the lawn, walking down towards the river. I immediately pulled in under the wall. I laid in my sculls, and held on, standing up in the boat.

“Who are you? and who sent you?” said she, looking down on me, and discovering one of the most beautiful faces I had ever beheld.

“No one sent me ma’am,” replied I, “but I was in the boat last night. I am sorry you were so unfortunate, but your box and cloak are quite safe.”

“You were one of the men in the boat. I trust no one was hurt when they fired at you?”

“No ma’am.”

“And where is the box?”

“In the house of the person who was with me.”

“Can he be trusted? For they will offer large rewards for it.”

“I should think so, ma’am,” replied I, smiling; “the person who was with me is a gentleman of large fortune, who was amusing himself on the river. He desires me to say that he will not give up the box until he knows to whom the contents legally belong.”

“Good heavens, how fortunate! Am I to believe you?”

“I should hope so, ma’am.”

“And what are you, then? You are not a waterman?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

She paused, looked earnestly at me for a little while, and then continued, “How did you learn the air you whistled?”

“The young gentleman whistled it six or seven times last night before you came. I tried it this morning coming up, as I thought it would be the means of attracting your attention. Can I be of any service to you, ma’am?”

“Service—yes, if I could be sure you were to be trusted—of the greatest service. I am confined here—cannot send a letter—watched as I move—only allowed the garden, and even watched while I walk here. They are most of them in quest of the tin box to-day, or I should not be able to talk to you so long.” She looked round at the house anxiously, and then said, “Stop here a minute, while I walk a little.” She then retreated, and paced up and down the garden walk. I still remained under the wall, so as not to be perceived from the house. In about three or four minutes she returned and said, “It would be very cruel—it would be more than cruel—it would be very wicked of you to deceive me, for I am very unfortunate and very unhappy.” The tears started in her eyes. “You do not look as if you would. What is your name?”

“Jacob Faithful, ma’am, and I will be true to my name, if you will put your trust in me. I never deceived any one that I can recollect; and I’m sure I would not you—now that I’ve seen you.”

“Yes, but money will seduce everybody.”

“Not me, ma’am. I’ve as much as I wish for.”

“Well, then, I will trust you, and think you sent from heaven to my aid; but how am I to see you? To-morrow my uncle will be back, and then I shall not be able to speak to you one moment, and if seen to speak to you, you will be laid in wait for, and perhaps shot.”

“Well, ma’am,” replied I, after a pause, “if you cannot speak, you can write. You see that the bricks on the parapet are loose here. Put your letter under this brick—I can take it away even in day-time, without being noticed, and can put the answer in the same place, so that you can secure it when you come out.”

“How very clever! Good heavens, what an excellent idea!”

“Was the young gentleman hurt, ma’am, in the scuffle last night?” inquired I.

“No, I believe not much, but I wish to know where he is, to write to him; could you find out?” I told her where we had met him, and what had passed. “That was Lady Auburn’s,” replied she; “he is often there—she is our cousin but I don’t know where he lives, and how to find him I know not. His name is William Wharncliffe. Do you think you could find him out?”

“Yes, ma’am, with a little trouble it might be done. They ought to know where he is at Lady Auburn’s.”

“Yes, some of the servants might—but how will you get to them?”

“That, ma’am, I must find out. It may not be done in one day, or two days, but if you will look every morning under this brick, if there is anything to communicate you will find it there.”

“You can write and read, then?”

“I should hope so, ma’am,” replied I, laughing.

“I don’t know what to make of you. Are you really a waterman?”

“Really, and—” She turned her head round at the noise of a window opening.

“You must go—don’t forget the brick;” and she disappeared.

I shoved my wherry along by the side of the wall, so as to remain unperceived until I was clear of the frontage attached to the cottage; and then, taking my sculls, pulled into the stream; and as I was resolved to see if I could obtain any information at Lady Auburn’s, I had to pass the garden again, having shoved my boat down the river instead of up, when I was under the wall. I perceived the young lady walking with a tall man by her side; he speaking very energetically, and using much gesticulation, she holding down her head. In another minute they were shut out from my sight. I was so much stricken with the beauty and sweetness of expression in the young lady’s countenance that I was resolved to use my best exertions to be of service to her. In about an hour-and-a-half I had arrived at the villa, abreast of which we had met the young gentleman, and which the young lady had told me belonged to Lady Auburn. I could see no one in the grounds, nor indeed in the house. After watching a few minutes, I landed as near to the villa as I could, made fast the wherry, and walked round to the entrance. There was no lodge, but a servant’s door at one side. I pulled the bell, having made up my mind how to proceed as I was walking up. The bell was answered by an old woman, who, in a snarling tone, asked me “what did I want?”

“I am waiting below, with my boat, for Mr Wharncliffe; has he come yet?”

“Mr Wharncliffe! No—he’s not come; nor did he say that he would come; when did you see him?”

“Yesterday. Is Lady Auburn at home?”

“Lady Auburn—no; she went to town this morning; everybody goes to London now, that they may not see the flowers and green trees, I suppose.”

“But I suppose Mr Wharncliffe will come,” continued I, “so I must wait for him.”

“You can do just as you like,” replied the old woman, about to shut the gate in my face.

“May I request a favour of you, ma’am, before you shut the gate—which is, to bring me a little water to drink, for the sun is hot, and I have had a long pull up here;” and I took out my handkerchief and wiped my face.

“Yes, I’ll fetch you some,” replied she, shutting the gate and going away.

“This don’t seem to answer very well,” thought I to myself. The old woman returned, opened the gate, and handed me a mug of water. I drank some, thanked her, and returned the mug.

“I am very tired,” said I; “I should like to sit down and wait for the gentleman.”

“Don’t you sit down when you pull?” inquired the old woman.

“Yes,” replied I.

“Then you must be tired of sitting, I should think, not of standing; at all events, if you want to sit, you can sit in your boat, and mind it at the same time.” With this observation she shut the door upon me, and left me without any more comment.

After this decided repulse on the part of the old woman, I had nothing to do but take her advice—viz., to go and look after my boat. I pulled down to Mr Turnbull’s, and told him my good and bad fortune. It being late, he ordered me some dinner in his study, and we sat there canvassing over the affair. “Well,” said he, as we finished, “you must allow me to consider this as my affair, Jacob, as I was the occasion of our getting mixed up in it. You must do all that you can to find this young man, and I shall hire Stapleton’s boat by the day until we succeed; you need not tell him so, or he may be anxious to know why. To-morrow you go down to old Beazeley’s?”

“Yes, sir; you cannot hire me to-morrow.”

“Still I shall, as I want to see you to-morrow morning before you go. Here’s Stapleton’s money for yesterday and to-day and now good-night.”

I was at Mr Turnbull’s early the next morning, and found him with the newspapers before him. “I expected this, Jacob,” said he; “read that advertisement.” I read as follows:– “Whereas, on Friday night last, between the hours of nine and ten, a tin box, containing deeds and papers, was handed into a wherry from the grounds of a villa between Brentford and Kew, and the parties who owned it were prevented from accompanying the same. This is to give notice, that a reward of twenty pounds will be paid to the watermen, upon their delivering up the same to Messrs James and John White, of Number 14 Lincoln’s Inn Fields. As no other parties are authorised to receive the said tin box of papers, all other applications for it must be disregarded. An early attention to this advertisement will oblige.”

“There must be papers of no little consequence in that box, Jacob, depend upon it,” said Mr Turnbull; “however, here they are, and here they shall remain until I know more about it; that’s certain. I intend to try what I can do myself with the old woman, for I perceive the villa is to be let for three months—here is the advertisement in the last column. I shall go to town to-day, and obtain a ticket from the agent, and it is hard but I’ll ferret out something. I shall see you to-morrow. Now you may go, Jacob.”

I hastened away, as I had promised to be down to old Tom’s to breakfast; an hour’s smart pulling brought me to the landing-place, opposite to his house.

Chapter Thirty Three

The house of old Tom Beazeley was situated on the verge of Battersea Fields, about a mile-and-a-half from the bridge bearing the same name; the river about twenty yards before it—the green grass behind it, and not a tree within half-a-mile of it. There was nothing picturesque in it but its utter loneliness; it was not only lonely, but isolated, for it was fixed upon a delta of about half-an-acre, between two creeks, which joined at about forty yards from the river, and ran up through the fields, so that the house was at high water upon an island, and at low water was defended by an impassable barrier of mud, so that the advances to it could be made only from the river, where a small hard, edged with posts worn down to the conformation of decayed double-teeth, offered the only means of access. The house itself was one storey high; dark red bricks, and darker tiles upon the roof; windows very scarce and very small, although built long before the damnable tax upon light, for it was probably built in the time of Elizabeth, to judge by the peculiarity of the style of architecture observable in the chimneys; but it matters very little at what epoch was built a tenement which was rented at only ten pounds per annum. The major part of the said island was stocked with cabbage plants; but on one side there was half a boat set upright, with a patch of green before it. At the time that old Beazeley hired it there was a bridge rudely constructed of old ship plank, by which you could gain a path which led across the Battersea Fields; but as all the communications of old Tom were by water, and Mrs Beazeley never ventured over the bridge, it was gradually knocked away for firewood, and when it was low-water, one old post, redolent of mud, marked the spot where the bridge had been. The interior was far more inviting. Mrs Beazeley was a clean person and frugal housewife, and every article in the kitchen, which was the first room you entered, was as clean and as bright as industry could make it. There was a parlour also, seldom used; both of the inmates, when they did meet, which was not above a day or two in three weeks, during the time that old Beazeley was in charge of the lighter, preferring comfort to grandeur. In this isolated house, upon this isolated spot, did Mrs Beazeley pass a life of most isolation.

And yet, perhaps there never was a more lively or a more happy woman than Mrs Beazeley, for she was strong and in good health, and always employed. She knew that her husband was following up his avocation on the river, and laying by a provision for their old age, which she herself was adding considerably to it by her own exertions. She had married old Tom long before he had lost his legs, at a time when he was a prime, active sailor, and the best man of the ship. She was a net-maker’s daughter, and had been brought up to the business, at which she was very expert. The most difficult part of the art is that of making large seines for taking sea-fish; and when she had no order for those to complete, the making of casting-nets beguiled away her time as soon as her household cares had been disposed of. She made money and husbanded it, not only for herself and her partner, but for her son, young Tom, upon whom she doted. So accustomed was she to work hard and be alone that it was most difficult to say whether she was most pleased or most annoyed when her husband and son made their appearance for a day or two, and the latter was alternately fondled and scolded during the whole of his sojourn. Tom, as the reader may suppose from a knowledge of his character, caring about as much for the one as the other.

I pulled into the hard, and made fast my boat. There was no one outside the door when I landed; on entering, I found them all seated at the table, and a grand display of fragments, in the shape of herring-bones, etcetera. “Well, Jacob—come at last—thought you had forgot us; piped to breakfast at eight bells—always do, you know,” said old Tom, on my making my appearance.

“Have you had your breakfast, Jacob?” said Mrs Beazeley.

“No,” replied I; “I was obliged to go up to Mr Turnbull’s, and that detained me.”

“No more sodgers, Jacob,” said Tom; “father and I eat them all.”

“Have you?” replied Mrs Beazeley, taking two more red herrings out of the cupboard, and putting them on the fire to grill; “no, no, master Tom, there’s some for Jacob yet.”

“Well, mother, you make nets to some purpose, for you’ve always a fish when it’s wanted.”

I despatched my breakfast, and as soon as all had been cleared away by his wife, old Tom, crossing his two timber legs, commenced business, for it appeared, what I was not aware of, that we had met on a sort of council-of-war.

“Jacob, sit down by me; old woman, bring yourself to an anchor in the high chair. Tom, sit anywhere, so you sit still.”

“And leave my net alone, Tom,” cried his mother, in parenthesis.—“You see, Jacob, the whole long and short of it is this—I feel my toes more and more, and flannel’s no longer warm. I can’t tide it any longer, and I think it high time to lie up in ordinary and moor abreast of the old woman. Now, there’s Tom, in the first place, what’s to do with he? I think that I’ll build him a wherry, and as I’m free of the river he can finish his apprenticeship with my name on the boat; but to build him a wherry would be rather a heavy pull for me.”

“If you mean to build it yourself, I think it will prove a heavy pull for me,” replied Tom.

“Silence, Tom; I built you, and God knows you’re light enough.”

“And, Tom, leave my net alone,” cried his mother.

“Father made me light-fingered, mother.”

“Ay, and light-hearted too, boy,” rejoined the dame, looking fondly at her son.

“Well,” continued old Tom, “supposing that Tom be provided for in that way; then now I comes to myself. I’ve an idea that I can do a good bit of work in patching up boats; for you see I always was a bit of a carpenter, and I know how the builders extortionate the poor watermen when there’s a trifle amiss. Now, if they knew I could do it, they’d all come to me fast enough; but then there’s a puzzle. I’ve been thinking this week how I can make them know it. I can’t put out a board and say, Beazeley, Boat-builder, because I’m no boatbuilder, but still I want a sign.”

“Lord, father, haven’t you got one already?” interrupted young Tom; “you’ve half a boat stuck up there, and that means that you’re half a boat-builder.”

“Silence, Tom, with your frippery; what do you think. Jacob?”

“Could you not say, ‘Boats repaired here?’”

“Yes, but that won’t exactly do; they like to employ a builder—and there’s the puzzle.”

“Not half so puzzling as this net,” observed Tom, who had taken up the needle, unseen by his mother, and begun to work; “I’ve made only ten stitches, and six of them are long ones.”

“Tom, Tom, you good-for-nothing—why don’t you let my net alone?” cried Mrs Beazeley; “now ’twill take me as much time to undo ten stitches as to have made fifty.”

“All right, mother.”

“No, Tom, all’s wrong; look at these meshes?”

“Well, then, all’s fair, mother.”

“No, all’s foul, boy; look how it’s tangled.”

“Still, I say, all’s fair, mother, for it is but fair to give the fish one or two chances to get away, and that’s just what I’ve done; and now, father, I’ll settle your affair to your own satisfaction, as I have mother’s.”

“That will be queer satisfaction, Tom, I guess; but let’s hear what you have to say.”

“Then, father, it seems that you’re no boat-builder, but you want people to fancy that you are—a’n’t that the question?”

“Why, ’tis something like it, Tom, but I do nobody no harm.”

“Certainly not; it’s only the boats which will suffer. Now, get a large board, with ‘Boats built to order, and boats repaired, by Tom Beazeley.’ You know if any man is fool enough to order a boat, that’s his concern; you didn’t say you’re a boat-builder, although you have no objection to try your hand.”

“What do you say Jacob?” said old Tom, appealing to me.

“I think that Tom has given very good advice, and I would follow it.”

“Ah! Tom has a head,” said Mrs Beazeley, fondly. “Tom, let go my net again, will you? What a boy you are! Now touch it again if you dare,” and Mrs Beazeley took up a little poker from the fire-place and shook it at him.

“Tom has a head, indeed,” said young Tom, “but as he has no wish to have it broken, Jacob, lend me your wherry for half-an-hour, and I’ll be off.”

I assented, and Tom, first tossing the cat upon his mother’s back, made his escape, crying:

as the animal fixed in its claws to save herself from falling, making Mrs Beazeley roar out and vow vengeance, while old Tom and I could not refrain from laughter.

After Tom’s departure the conversation was renewed, and everything was finally arranged between old Tom and his wife, except the building of the wherry, at which the old woman shook her head. The debate would be too long, and not sufficiently interesting to detail; one part, however, I must make the reader acquainted with. After entering into all the arrangements of the house, Mrs Beazeley took me upstairs to show me the rooms, which were very neat and clean. I came down with her, and old Tom said, “Did the old woman show you the room with the white curtains, Jacob?”

“Yes,” replied I, “and a very nice one it is.”

“Well, Jacob, there’s nothing sure in this world. You’re well off at present, and ‘leave well alone’ is a good motto; but recollect this, that room is for you when you want it, and everything else we can share with you. It’s offered freely, and you will accept it the same. Is it not, old lady?”

“Yes, that it is, Jacob; but may you do better—if not, I’ll be your mother for want of a better.”

I was moved with the kindness of the old couple; the more so as I did not know what I had done to deserve it. Old Tom gave me a hearty squeeze of the hand, and then continued—“But about this wherry—what do you say, old woman?”

“What will it cost?” replied she, gravely.

“Cost; let me see—a good wherry, with sculls and oars, will be a matter of thirty pounds.”

The old woman screwed up her mouth, shook her head, and then walked away to prepare for dinner.

“I think she could muster the blunt, Jacob, but she don’t like to part with it. Tom must coax her. I wish he hadn’t shied the cat at her. He’s too full of fun.”

As old Beazeley finished, I perceived a wherry pulling in with some ladies. I looked attentively, and recognised my own boat, and Tom pulling. In a minute more they were at the hard, and who, to my astonishment, were there seated, but Mrs Drummond and Sarah. As Tom got out of the boat and held it steady against the hard, he called to me; I could not do otherwise than go and assist them out; and once more did I touch the hands of those whom I never thought to meet again. Mrs Drummond retained my hand a short time after she landed, saying, “We are friends, Jacob, are we not!”

“Oh, yes, madam,” replied I, much moved, in a faltering voice.

“I shall not ask that question,” said Sarah, gaily, “for we parted friends.”

And as I recalled to mind her affectionate behaviour, I pressed her hand, and the tears glistened in my eyes as I looked into her sweet face. As I afterwards discovered, this was an arranged plan with old and young Tom, to bring about a meeting without my knowledge. Mrs Beazeley courtesied and stroked her apron—smiled at the ladies, looked very cat-ish at Tom, showed the ladies into the house, where old Tom assisted to do the honours after his own fashion, by asking Mrs Drummond if she would like to whet her whistle after her pull. Mrs Drummond looked round to me for explanation, but young Tom thought proper to be interpreter. “Father wants to know, if you please, ma’am, whether, after your pull in the boat, you wouldn’t like to have a pull at the brandy bottle?”

“No,” replied Mrs Drummond, smiling; “but I should be obliged for a glass of water. Will you get me one, Jacob?”

I hastened to comply, and Mrs Drummond entered into conversation with Mrs Beazeley. Sarah looked at me, and went to the door, turning back as inviting me to follow. I did so, and we soon found ourselves seated on the bench in the old boat.

“Jacob,” said she, looking earnestly at me, “you surely will be friends with my father?”