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.”
