“and now you see, jacob, what a revolution has taken place; not very pleasant, i grant, but still it was very necessary. i have since been paying all my bills, for the report of my being in difficulty has brought them in fast enough; and i find that in these last five months my wife has spent a whole year’s income; so it was quite time to stop.”
“i agree with you, sir; but what does mrs turnbull say now—has she come to her senses?”
“pretty well, i expect, although she does not quite choose to acknowledge it. i have told her that she must dispense with a carriage in future; and so she shall, till i think she deserves it. she knows that she must either have my company in the house, or none at all. she knows that the peters of petercumb hall have cut her, for they did not answer a note of hers, sent by the gardener; and mr smith has written a very violent answer to another of her notes, wondering at her attempting to push herself into the company of the aristocracy. but what has brought her to her senses more than all is the affair of monsieur tagliabue. the magistrate, at my request, gave me the note of lord scrope, and i have taken good care that she could read the police report as well; but the fact is, she is so much mortified that i say nothing to her. she has been following the advice of these french swindlers, who have led her wrong, to be able to cheat her of her money. i expect she will ask me to sell this place, and go elsewhere; but at present we hardly exchange a word during the whole day.”
“i feel very sorry for her, sir; for i really believe her to be a very good kind-hearted person.”
“that’s like you, jacob—and so she is. at present she is in a state to be pitied. she would throw a share of the blame upon other people, and cannot—she feels it is all herself. all her bubbles of grandeur have burst, and she finds herself not half so respectable as she was before her vanity induced her to cut her former acquaintance, and try to get into the society of those who laughed at her, and at the same time were not half so creditable. but it’s that cursed money which has proved her unhappiness—and, i may add, mine.”
“well, sir, i see no chance of its ever adding to my misfortunes, at all events.”
“perhaps not, jacob, even if you ever should get any; but, at all events, you may take a little to-morrow, if you please. i cannot ask you to dine here; it would not be pleasant to you, and show a want of feeling to my wife; but i should like you to come up with the wherry to-morrow, and we’ll take a cruise.”
“very well, i shall be at your orders—at what time?”
“say ten o’clock if the weather is fine; if not the next day.”
“then, sir, i’ll now wish you good-bye, as i must go and see the dominie.”
mr turnbull took my hand, and we parted. i was soon at brentford, and was continuing my course through the long, main street, when i met mr and mrs tomkins, the former head clerk who had charge of the brentford wharf. “i was intending to call upon you, sir, after i had paid a visit to my old master.”
“very well, jacob; and recollect we dine at half-past three—fillet of veal and bacon—don’t be late for dinner.”
i promised that i would not, and in a few minutes more arrived at the grammar school. i looked at its peaked, antiquated front, and called to mind my feelings when, years back, i had first entered its porch. what a difference between the little uncouth, ignorant, savage, tricked out like a harlequin, and now the tall, athletic, well-dressed youth, happy in his independence, and conscious, although not vain, of his acquirements! and i mentally blessed the founders. but i had to talk to the dominie, and to keep my appointment with the veal and bacon at half-past three, so i could not spare any time for meditation. i, therefore, unfolded my arms, and making use of my legs, entered the wicket, and proceeded to the dominie’s room. the door was ajar, and i entered without being perceived. i have often been reminded, by flemish paintings which i have seen since, of the picture which then presented itself. the room was not large, but lofty. it had but one window, fitted with small diamond-shaped panes in heavy wood-work, through which poured a broad, but subdued, stream of light. on one side of the window was an ancient armoire, containing the dominie’s library, not gilt and lettered but well thumbed and worn. on the other his huge chest of drawers, on which lay, alas! for the benefit of the rising generations, a new birch rod, of large dimensions. the table was in the centre of the room, and the dominie sat at it, with his back to the window, in a dressing-gown, once black, having been a cassock, but now brown with age. he was on his high and narrow-backed chair, leaning forwards, with both elbows on the table, his spectacles on his luxuriant nose, and his hands nearly meeting on the top of his bald crown, earnestly poring over the contents of a book. a large bible, which he constantly made use of, was also on the table, and had apparently been shoved from him to give place to the present object of his meditations. his pipe lay on the floor in two pieces, having been thrown off without his perceiving it. on one side of him was a sheet of paper, on which he evidently had been writing extracts. i passed by him without his perceiving me, and gaining the back of his chair, looked over his shoulder. the work he was so intent upon was “ovid’s remedy of love.”
it appeared that he had nearly finished reading through the whole, for in less than a minute he closed the book, and laying his spectacles down, threw himself back in his chair. “strange,” soliloquised the dominie; “yet, verily, is some of his advice important, and i should imagine commendable, yet i do not find my remedy therein. ‘avoid idleness’—yes, that is sage counsel—and employment to one that hath not employed himself may drive away thought; but i have never been idle, and mine hath not been love in idleness; ‘avoid her presence’—that i must do; yet doth she still present herself to mine imagination, and i doubt whether the tangible reality could be more clearly perceptible. even now doth she stand before me in all her beauty. ‘read not propertius and tibullus’—that is easily refrained from; but read what i will, in a minute the type passeth from my eyes, and i see but her face beaming from the page. nay, cast my eyes in what direction i may wist, it is the same. if i looked at the stained wall, the indistinct lines gradually form themselves into her profile; if i look at the clouds, they will assume some of the redundant outlines of her form; if i cast mine eyes upon the fire in the kitchen-grate, the coals will glow and cool until i see her face; nay, but yesterday, the shoulder of mutton upon the spit gyrated until it at last assumed the decapitated head of mary. ‘think of her faults and magnify them’—nay, that were unjust and unchristian. let me rather correct mine own. i fear me that when ovid wrote his picture he intended it for the use of young men, and not for an old fool like me. behold! i have again broken my pipe—the fourth pipe that i have destroyed this week. what will the dame say? already hath she declared me demented, and god knows she is not very far from the truth;” and the dominie covered up his face in his hands. i took this opportunity to step to the door, and appear to enter it, dropping the latch, and rousing the dominie by the noise, who extended to me his hand. “welcome, my son—welcome to thine old preceptor; and to the walls which first received thee, when thou wert cast on shore as a tangle weed from the river. sit, jacob; i was thinking of thee and thine.”
“what, sir? of old stapleton and his daughter, i suppose.”
“even so; ye were all in my thoughts at the moment that thou madest thy appearance. they are well?”
“yes, sir,” replied i. “i see but little of them; the old man is always smoking, and as for the girl—why, the less one sees of her the better, i should say.”
“nay, jacob, this is new to me; yet is she most pleasant.”
i knew the dominie’s character, and that if anything could cure his unfortunate passion, it would be a supposition on his part that the girl was not correct. i determined at all events to depreciate her, as i knew that what i said would never be mentioned by him, and would therefore do her no harm. still, i felt that i had to play a difficult game, as i was determined not to state what was not the fact. “pleasant, sir; yes, pleasant to everybody; the fact is; i don’t like such girls as she is.”
“indeed, jacob; what, is she light?” i smiled and made no answer. “yet i perceived it not,” replied the dominie.
“she is just like her mother,” observed i.
“and what was her mother?”
i gave a brief account of her mother, and how she met her death in trying to escape from her husband. the dominie mused. “little skilled am i in women, jacob, yet what thou sayest not only surpriseth but grieveth me. she is fair to look upon.”
“handsome is that handsome does, sir. she’ll make many a man’s heart ache yet, i expect.”
“indeed, jacob. i am full of marvel at what thou hast already told me.”
“i have seen more of her, sir.”
“i pray thee tell me more.”
“no, sir, i had rather not. you may imagine all you please.”
“still she is young, jacob; when she becometh a wife she might alter.”
“sir, it is my firm opinion (and so it was), that if you were to marry her to-morrow, she would run away from you in a week.”
“is that thy candid opinion, jacob?”
“i will stake my life upon her so doing, although not as to the exact time.”
“jacob, i thank thee—thank thee much; thou hast opened mine eyes—thou hast done me more good than ovid. yes, boy; even the ancients, whom i have venerated, have not done me so kind an act as thou, a stripling, whom i have fostered. thou hast repaid me, jacob—thou hast rewarded me, jacob—thou hast protected me, jacob—thou hast saved me, jacob—hast saved me both from myself and from her; for know, jacob—know—that mine heart did yearn towards that maiden; and i thought her even to be perfection. jacob, i thank thee! now leave me, jacob, that i may commune with myself, and search out my own heart, for i am awakened—awakened as from a dream, and i would fain be quite alone.”
i was not sorry to leave the dominie, for i also felt that i would fain be in company with the fillet of veal and bacon, so i shook hands, and thus ended my second morning call. i was in good time at mr tomkins’, who received me with great kindness. he was well pleased with his new situation, which was one of respectability and consequence, independently of profit; and i met at his table one or two people who, to my knowledge, would have considered it degrading to have visited him when only head clerk to mr drummond. we talked over old affairs, not forgetting the ball, and the illuminations, and mr turnbull’s bon mot about paradise; and after a very pleasant evening; i took my leave with the intention of walking back to fulham, but i found old tom waiting outside, on the look-out for me.
“jacob, my boy, i want you to come down to my old shop one of these days. what day will you be able to come? the lighter will be here for a fortnight at least, i find from mr tomkins, as she waits for a cargo coming by canal, and there is no other craft expected above bridge, so tell me what day will you come and see the old woman, and spend the whole day with us. i wants to talk a bit with you, and ax your opinion about a good many little things.”
“indeed!” replied i, smiling. “what, are you going to build a new house?”
“no, no—not that; but you see, jacob, as i told you last winter, it was time for me to give up night work up and down the river. i’m not so young as i was about fifty years ago, and there’s a time for all things. i do mean to give up the craft in the autumn, and go on shore for a full due; but, at the same time, i must see how i can make matters out, so tell me what day you will come.”
“well, then, shall we say wednesday?”
“wednesday’s as good a day as any other day; come to breakfast, and you shall go away after supper, if you like; if not, the old woman shall sling a hammock for you.”
“agreed, then; but where’s tom?”
“tom, i don’t know; but i think he’s gone after that daughter of stapleton’s. he begins to think of the girls now, jacob; but, as the old buffer, her father, says, ‘it’s all human natur’.’ howsomever, i never interferes in these matters: they seem to be pretty well matched, i think.”
“how do you mean?”
“why, as for good looks, they be well enough matched, that’s sure; but i don’t mean that, i mean, he is quite as knowing as she is, and will shift his helm as she shifts hers. ’twill be a long running fight, and when one strikes, t’other won’t have much to boast of. perhaps they may sheer off after all—perhaps they may sail as consorts; god only knows; but this i knows, that tom’s sweetheart may be as tricky as she pleases, but tom’s wife won’t be—’cause why? he’ll keep her in order. well, good-night; i have a long walk.”
when i returned home i found mary alone. “has tom been here?” inquired i.
“what makes you ask that question?” replied mary.
“to have it answered—if you have no objection.”
“oh, no! well, then, mr jacob, tom has been here, and very amusing he has been.”
“so he always is,” replied i.
“and where may you have been?” i told her. “so you saw old dominie. now, tell me, what did he say about me?”
“that i shall not tell,” replied i; “but i will tell you this, that he will not think about you any more; and you must not expect ever to see him again.”
“but recollect that he promised.”
“he kept his promise, mary.”
“oh, he told you so, did he? did he tell you all that passed?”
“no, mary, he never told me that he had been here, neither did he tell me what had passed; but i happen to know all.”
“i cannot understand that.”
“still, it is true; and i think, on the whole, you behaved pretty well, although i cannot understand why you gave him a kiss at parting.”
“good heaven! where were you? you must have been in the room. and you heard every word that passed?”
“every word,” replied i.
“well,” said mary, “i could not have believed that you could have done so mean a thing.”
“mary, rather accuse your own imprudence; what i heard was to be heard by everyone in the street as well as by me. if you choose to have love scenes in a room not eight feet from the ground, with the window wide open, you must not be surprised at every passer-by hearing what you say.”
“well, that’s true. i never thought of the window being open; not that i would have cared if all the world had heard me, if you had not.”
it never occurred to me till then why mary was annoyed at my having overheard her, but at once i recollected what she had said about me. i made no answer. mary sat down, leaned her forehead against her hands, and was also silent. i, therefore, took my candle and retired. it appeared that mary’s pride was much mortified at my having heard her confession of being partial to me—a confession which certainly made very little impression on me, as i considered that she might, a month afterwards, confess the same relative to tom, or any other individual who took her fancy; but in this i did not do her justice. her manners were afterwards much changed towards me; she always appeared to avoid, rather than to seek, further intimacy. as for myself, i continued, as before, very good friends, kind towards her, but nothing more. the next morning i was up at mr turnbull’s by the time agreed upon, but before i set off rather a singular occurrence took place. i had just finished cleaning my boat, and had resumed my jacket, when a dark man, from some foreign country, came to the hard with a bundle under his arm.
“how much for to go to the other side of the river—how much pence?”
“twopence,” replied i; but not caring to take him, i continued, “but you only pay one penny to cross the bridge.”
“i know very well, but suppose you take me?”
he was a well-looking, not very dark man; his turban was of coloured cloth—his trousers not very wide; and i could not comprehend whether he was a turk or not; i afterwards found out he was a parsee, from the east indies. he spoke very plain english. as he decided upon crossing, i received him, and shoved off; when we were in the middle of the stream, he requested me to pull a little way up. “that will do,” said he, opening his bundle, and spreading a carpet on the stern flooring of the wherry. he then rose, looking at the sun, which was then rising in all its majesty, bowed to it, with his hands raised, three times, then knelt on the carpet, and touched it several times with his forehead, again rose to his feet, took some common field flowers from his vest, and cast them into the stream, bowed again, folded up his carpet, and begged me to pull on shore.
“i say my prayers,” said the man, looking at me with his dark, piercing eye.
“very proper; whom did you say them to?”
“to my god.”
“but why don’t you say them on shore?”
“can’t see sun in the house; suppose i go out little boys laugh and throw mud. where no am seen, river very proper place.”
we landed, and he took out threepence, and offered it to me. “no, no,” said i; “i don’t want you to pay for saying your prayers.”
“no take money?”
“yes, take money to cross the river, but not take money for saying prayers. if you want to say them any other morning, come down, and if i am here, i’ll always pull you into the stream.”
“you very good man; i thank you.”
the parsee made me a low salaam, and walked away. i may here observe that the man generally came down at sunrise two or three days in the week, and i invariably gave him a pull off into the stream, that he might pursue his religious ceremony. we often conversed and at last became intimate.
mr turnbull was at the bottom of the lawn, which extended from his house to the banks of the river, looking out for me, when i pulled up. the basket with our dinner, etcetera, was lying by him on the gravel walk.
“this is a lovely morning, jacob; but it will be rather a warm day, i expect,” said he; “come, let us be off at once; lay in your sculls, and let us get the oars to pass.”
“how is mrs turnbull, sir?”
“pretty well, jacob; more like the molly brown that i married than she has been for some years. perhaps, after all, this affair may turn out one of the best things that ever happened. it may bring her to her senses—bring happiness back to our hearth; if so, jacob, the money is well spent.”
