i left mary, and hastened home to dress for dinner. i mentioned the subject of wishing to obtain tom’s discharge to mr wharncliffe, who recommended my immediately applying to the horse guards; and, as he was acquainted with those in office, offered to accompany me. i gladly accepted his offer; and the next morning he called for me in his carriage, and we went there. mr wharncliffe sent up his card to one of the secretaries, and we were immediately ushered up, when i stated my wishes. the reply was:— “if you had time to procure a substitute it would be easily arranged; but the regiment is so weak, and the aversion to the west indies so prevalent after this last very sickly season, that i doubt if his royal highness would permit any man to purchase his discharge. however, we will see. the duke is one of the kindest-hearted of men, and i will lay the case before him. but let us see if he is still at the depôt; i rather think not.” the secretary rang the bell.
“the detachment of the 47th fusiliers from the depôt—has it marched? and when does it embark?”
the clerk went out, and in a few minutes returned with some a papers in his hand. “it marched the day before yesterday, and was to embark this morning, and sail as soon as the wind was fair.”
my heart sank at this intelligence.
“how is the wind, mr g—? go down and look at the tell-tale.”
the clerk returned. “east north east, sir, and has been steadily so these two days.”
“then,” replied the secretary, “i am afraid you are too late to obtain your wish. the orders to the port-admiral are most peremptory to expedite the sailing of the transports, and a frigate has been now three weeks waiting to convoy them. depend upon it, they have sailed to-day.”
“what can be done?” replied i, mournfully.
“you must apply for his discharge, and procure a substitute. he can then have an order sent out, and be permitted to return home. i am very sorry, as i perceive you are much interested; but i’m afraid it is too late now. however, you may call to-morrow. the weather is clear with this wind, and the port-admiral will telegraph to the admiralty the sailing of the vessels. should anything detain them, i will take care that his royal highness shall be acquainted with the circumstances this afternoon, if possible, and will give you his reply.”
we thanked the secretary for his politeness, and took our leave. vexed as i was with the communications i had already received, i was much more so when one of the porters ran to the carriage to show me, by the secretary’s order, a telegraphic communication from the admiralty, containing the certain and unpleasant information, “convoy to west indies sailed this morning.”
“then it is all over for the present,” said i, throwing myself back in the carriage; and i continued in a melancholy humour until mr wharncliffe, who had business in the city, put me down as near as the carriage went to the house of mr drummond. i found sarah, who was the depository of all my thoughts, pains, and pleasures, and i communicated to her this episode in the history of young tom. as most ladies are severe judges of their own sex, she was very strong in her expressions against the conduct of mary, which she would not allow to admit of any palliation. even her penitence had no weight with her.
“and yet, how often is it the case, sarah, not perhaps to the extent carried on by this mistaken girl; but still, the disappointment is as great, although the consequences are not so calamitous. among the higher classes, how often do young men receive encouragement, and yield themselves up to a passion, to end only in disappointment! it is not necessary to plight troth; a young woman may not have virtually committed herself, and yet, by merely appearing pleased with the conversation and company of a young man, induce him to venture his affections in a treacherous sea, and eventually find them wrecked.”
“you are very nautically poetical, jacob,” replied sarah. “such things do happen; but i think that women’s affections are, to use your phrase, oftener wrecked than those of men. that, however, does not exculpate either party. a woman must be blind, indeed, if she cannot perceive, in a very short time, whether she is trifling with a man’s feelings, and base, indeed, if she continues to practise upon them.”
“sarah,” replied i, and i stopped.
“well?”
“i was,” replied i, stammering a little—“i was going to ask you if you were blind.”
“as to what, jacob?” said sarah, colouring up.
“as to my feelings towards you.”
“no; i believe you like me very well,” replied she, smiling.
“do you think that that is all?”
“where do you dine to-day, jacob,” replied sarah.
“that must depend upon you and your answer. if i dine here to-day, i trust to dine here often. if i do not dine here to-day, probably i never may again. i wish to know, sarah, whether you have been blind to my feelings towards you; for, with the case of mary and tom before me, i feel that i must no longer trust to my own hopes, which may end in disappointment. will you have the kindness to put me out of my misery?”
“if i have been blind to your feelings i have not been blind to your merit, jacob. perhaps i have not been blind to your feelings, and i am not of the same disposition as mary stapleton. i think you may venture to dine here to-day,” continued she, colouring and smiling, as she turned away to the window.
“i can hardly believe that i’m to be so happy, sarah,” replied i, agitated. “i have been fortunate, very fortunate; but the hopes you have now raised are so much beyond my expectations—so much beyond my deserts—that i dare not indulge in them. have pity on me, and be more explicit.”
“what do you wish me to say?” replied sarah, looking down upon her work, as she turned round to me.
“that you will not reject the orphan who was fostered by your father, and who reminds you of what he was, that you may not forget at this moment what i trust is the greatest bar to his presumption—his humble origin.”
“jacob, that was said like yourself—it was nobly said; and if you were not born noble, you have true nobility of mind. i will imitate your example. have i not often, during our long friendship, told you that i loved you?”
“yes, as a child you did, sarah.”
“then, as a woman, i repeat it. and now are you satisfied?”
i took sarah by the hand; she did not withdraw it, but allowed me to kiss it over and over again.
“but your father and mother, sarah?”
“would never have allowed our intimacy if they had not approved of it, jacob, depend upon it. however, you may make yourself easy on that score by letting them know what has passed; and then, i presume, you will be out of your misery.”
before the day was over i had spoken to mrs drummond, and requested her to open the business to her husband, as i really felt it more than i could dare to do. she smiled as her daughter hung upon her neck; and when i met mr drummond at dinner-time i was “out of my misery,” for he shook me by the hand, and said, “you have made us all very happy, jacob; for that girl appears determined either to marry you or not to marry at all. come; dinner is ready.”
i will leave the reader to imagine how happy i was, what passed between sarah and me in our tête-à-tête of that evening, how unwilling i was to quit the house, and how i ordered a post-chaise to carry me home, because i was afraid to trust myself on that water on which the major part of my life had been safely passed, lest any accident should happen to me and rob me of my anticipated bliss. from that day i was as one of the family, and finding the distance too great, took up my abode at apartments contiguous to the house of mr drummond. but the course of other people’s love did not run so smooth, and i must now return to mary stapleton and tom beazeley.
i had breakfasted, and was just about to take my wherry and go down to acquaint the old couple with the bad success of my application. i had been reflecting with gratitude upon my own happiness in prospect, indulging in fond anticipations, and then, reverting to the state in which i had left mary stapleton and tom’s father and mother, contrasting their misery with my joy, arising from the same source, when, who should rush into the dining-room but young tom, dressed in nothing but a shirt and a pair of white trousers, covered with dust, and wan with fatigue and excitement.
“good heavens! tom! are you back? then you must have deserted.”
“very true,” replied tom, sinking on a chair, “i swam on shore last night, and have made from portsmouth to here since eight o’clock. i hardly need say that i am done up. let me have something to drink, jacob, pray.”
i went to the cellaret and brought him some wine, of which he drank off a tumbler eagerly. during this i was revolving in my mind the consequences which might arise from this hasty and imprudent step. “tom,” said i, “do you know the consequences of desertion?”
“yes,” replied he, gloomily, “but i could not help it. mary told me in her letter that she would do all i wished, would accompany me abroad; she made all the amends she could, poor girl! and, by heavens, i could not leave her; and when i found myself fairly under weigh, and there was no chance, i was almost mad; the wind baffled us at the needles, and we anchored for the night; i slipped down the cable and swam on shore, and there’s the whole story.”
“but, tom, you will certainly be recognised and taken up for a deserter.”
“i must think of that,” replied tom; “i know the risk i run; but if you obtain my discharge, they may let me off.”
i thought this was the best plan to proceed upon, and requesting tom to keep quiet, i went to consult with mr wharncliffe. he agreed with me that it was tom’s only chance, and i pulled to his father’s, to let them know what had occurred, and then went on to the drummonds. when i returned home late in the evening the gardener told me that tom had gone out and had not returned. my heart misgave me that he had gone to see mary, and that some misfortune had occurred, and i went to bed with most anxious feelings. my forebodings were proved to be correct, for the next morning i was informed that old stapleton wished to see me. he was ushered in, and as soon as he entered, he exclaimed, “all’s up, master jacob—tom’s nabbed—mary fit after fit—human natur’.”
“why, what is the matter, stapleton?”
“why, it’s just this—tom desarts to come to mary. cause why?—he loves her—human natur’. that soldier chap comes in and sees tom, clutches hold, and tries to take possession of him. tom fights, knocks out sergeant’s starboard eye, and tries to escape—human natur’. soldiers come in, pick up sergeant, seize tom, and carry him off. mary cries, and screams, and faints—human natur’—poor girl can’t keep her head up—two women with burnt feathers all night. sad job, mister jacob. of all the senses love’s the worst, that’s sartain—quite upset me, can’t smoke my pipe this morning—mary’s tears quite put my pipe out,”—and old stapleton looked as if he was ready to cry himself.
“this is a sad business, stapleton,” replied i. “tom will be tried for desertion, and god knows how it will end. i will try all i can; but they have been very strict lately.”
“hope you will, mister jacob. mary will die, that’s sartain. i’m more afraid that tom will. if one does, t’other will. i know the girl—just like her mother, never could carry her helm amidships, hard a port, or hard a starboard. she’s mad now to follow him—will go to maidstone. i take her as soon as i go back to her. just come up to tell you all about it.”
“this is a gloomy affair, stapleton.”
“yes, for sartain—wish there never was such a thing as human natur’.”
after a little conversation, and a supply of money, which i knew would be acceptable, stapleton went away, leaving, me in no very happy state of mind. my regard for tom was excessive, and his situation one of peculiar danger. again i repaired to mr wharncliffe for advice, and he readily interested himself most warmly.
“this is, indeed, an awkward business,” said he, “and will require more interest than i am afraid that i command. if not condemned to death, he will be sentenced to such a flogging as will break him down in spirit as well as in body, and sink him into an early grave. death were preferable of the two. lose no time, mr faithful, in going down to maidstone, and seeing the colonel commanding the depôt. i will go to the horse guards, and see what is to be done.”
i wrote a hurried note to sarah to account for my absence, and sent for post-horses. early in the afternoon i arrived at maidstone, and finding out the residence of the officer commanding the depôt, sent up my card. in few words i stated to him the reason of my calling upon him.
“it will rest altogether with the horse guards, mr faithful, and i am afraid i can give you but little hope. his royal highness has expressed his determination to punish the next deserter with the utmost severity of the law. his leniency on that point has been very injurious to the service, and he must do it. besides, there is an aggravation of the offence in his attack upon the sergeant, who has irrecoverably lost his eye.”
“the sergeant first made him drunk, and then persuaded him to enlist.” i then stated the rivalship that subsisted between them, and continued, “is it not disgraceful to enlist men in that way—can that be called voluntary service?”
“all very true,” replied the officer, “but still expediency winks at even more. i do not attempt to defend the system, but we must have soldiers. the seamen are impressed by force, the soldiers are entrapped by other means, even more discreditable: the only excuse is expediency, or, if you like it better, necessity. all i can promise you, sir, is, to allow the prisoner every comfort which his situation will permit, and every advantage at his court-martial, which mercy, tempered by justice, will warrant.”
“i thank you, sir; will you allow me and his betrothed to see him?”
“most certainly; the order shall be given forthwith.”
i thanked the officer for his kindness, and took my leave.
