MR. TURNBULL FINDS OUT THAT MONEY, THOUGH A NECESSARY EVIL, IS NOT A
SOURCE OF HAPPINESS--THE DOMINIE FINDS OUT THAT A LITTLE CALUMNY IS MORE
EFFECTUAL THAN OVID'S REMEDY FOR LOVE; AND I FIND OUT THAT WALKING GIVES
ONE A GOOD APPETITE FOR FILLET OF VEAL AND BACON--I SET AN EXAMPLE TO
THE CLERGY IN REFUSING TO TAKE MONEY FOR A SEAT IN CHURCH.
"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."