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:
“lord, molly, what a fish—”
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?”
i think i should have shaken my head, but she laid an emphasis on my, which the little gipsy knew would have its effect. all my resolutions, all my pride, all my sense of injury vanished before the mild, beautiful eyes of sarah, and i replied hastily, “yes, miss sarah, i can refuse you nothing.”
“why miss, jacob?”
“i am a waterman, and you are much above me.”
“that is your own fault; but say no more about it.”
“i must say something more, which is this: do not attempt to make me leave my present employment; i am happy, because i am independent; and that i will, if possible, be for the future.”
“any one can pull an oar, jacob.”
“very true, miss sarah, and is under no obligation to any one by so earning his livelihood. he works for all and is paid for all.”
“will you come and see us, jacob? come to-morrow—now do—promise me. will you refuse your old playmate, jacob?”
“i wish you would not ask that.”
“how then can you say that you are friends with my father? i will not believe you unless you promise to come.”
“sarah,” replied i, earnestly, “i will come; and to prove to you that we are friends, i will ask a favour of him.”
“oh, jacob, this is kind indeed,” cried sarah, with her eyes swimming with tears. “you have made me so—so very happy!”
the meeting with sarah humanised me, and every feeling of revenge was chased from my memory. mrs drummond joined us soon after, and proposed to return. “and jacob will pull us back,” cried sarah. “come, sir, look after your fare, in both senses. since you will be a waterman, you shall work.” i laughed and handed them to the boat. tom took the other oar, and we were soon at the steps close to their house.
“mamma, we ought to give these poor fellows something to drink; they’ve worked very hard,” said sarah, mocking. “come up, my good men.” i hesitated. “nay, jacob, if tomorrow why not to-day? the sooner these things are over the better.”
i felt the truth of this observation, and followed her. in a few minutes i was again in that parlour in which i had been dismissed, and in which the affectionate girl burst into tears on my shoulder, as i held the handle of the door. i looked at it, and looked at sarah. mrs drummond had gone out of the room to let mr drummond know that i had come. “how kind you were, sarah!” said i.
“yes, but kind people are cross sometimes, and so am i—and so was—”
mr drummond came in, and stopped her. “jacob, i am glad to see you again in my house; i was deceived by appearances, and did you injustice.” how true is the observation of the wise man, that a soft word turneth away wrath; that mr drummond should personally acknowledge that he was wrong to me—that he should confess it—every feeling of resentment was gone, and others crowded in their place. i recollected how he had protected the orphan—how he had provided him with instruction—how he had made his house a home to me—how he had tried to bring me forward under his own protection i recollected—which, alas! i never should have forgotten—that he had treated me for years with kindness and affection, all of which had been obliterated from my memory by one single act of injustice. i felt that i was a culprit, and burst into tears; and sarah, as before, cried in sympathy.
“i beg your pardon, mr drummond,” said i, as soon as i could speak; “i have been very wrong in being so revengeful after so much kindness from you.”
“we both have been wrong—but say no more on the subject, jacob; i have an order to give, and then i will come up to you again;” and mr drummond quitted the room.
“you dear, good boy,” said sarah, coming up to me. “now, i really do love you.”
what i might have replied was put a stop to by mrs drummond entering the room. she made a few inquiries about where i at present resided, and sarah was catechising me rather inquisitively about mary stapleton, when mr drummond re-entered the room, and shook me by the hand with a warmth which made me more ashamed of my conduct towards him. the conversation became general, but still rather embarrassed, when sarah whispered to me “what is the favour you would ask of my father?” i had forgotten it at the moment, but i immediately told him that i would be obliged if he would allow me to have a part of the money belonging to me which he held in his possession.
“that i will, with pleasure, and without asking what you intend to do with it, jacob. how much do you require?”
“thirty pounds, if there is so much.”
mr drummond went down, and in a few minutes returned with the sum in notes and guineas. i thanked him, and shortly afterwards took my leave.
“did not young beazeley tell you i had something for you, jacob?” said sarah, as i wished her good-bye.
“yes; what is it?”
“you must come and see,” replied sarah, laughing. thus was a finale to all my revenge brought about by a little girl of fifteen years old, with large dark eyes.
tom had taken his glass of grog below, and was waiting for me at the steps. we shoved off, and returned to his father’s house, where dinner was just ready. after dinner old tom recommenced the argument; “the only hitch,” says he, “is about the wherry. what do you say, old woman?” the old woman shook her head.
“as that is the only hitch,” said i, “i can remove it, for here is the money for the wherry, which i make a present to tom,” and i put the money into young tom’s hand. tom counted it out before his father and mother, much to their astonishment.
“you are a good fellow, jacob,” said tom; “but i say, do you recollect wimbledon common?”
“what then?” replied i.
“only jerry abershaw, that’s all.”
“do not be afraid, tom, it is honestly mine.”
“but how did you get it, jacob,” said old tom.
it may appear strange, but, impelled by a wish to serve my friends, i had asked for the money which i knew belonged to me, but never thought of the manner in which it had been obtained. the question of old tom recalled everything to my memory, and i shuddered when i recollected the circumstances attending it. i was confused, and did not like to reply. “be satisfied, the money is mine,” replied i.
“yes, jacob, but how?” replied mrs beazeley; “surely you ought to be able to tell how you got so large a sum.”
“jacob has some reason for not telling, missus, depend upon it; mayhap mr turnbull, or whoever gave it to him, told him to hold his tongue.” but this answer would not satisfy mrs beazeley, who declared she would not allow a farthing to be taken unless she knew how it was obtained.
“tom, give back the money directly,” said she, looking at me suspiciously.
tom laid it on the table before me, without saying a word.
“take it, tom,” said i, colouring up. “i had it from my mother.”
“from your mother, jacob!” said old tom. “nay, that could not well be, if my memory sarves me right. still it may be.”
“deary me, i don’t like this at all,” cried mrs beazeley, getting up, and wiping her apron with a quick motion. “oh, jacob, that must be—not the truth.”
i coloured up to the tips of my ears at being suspected of falsehood. i looked round, and saw that even tom and his father had a melancholy doubt in their countenances; and certainly my confused appearance would have caused suspicion in anybody. “i little thought,” said i, at last, “when i hoped to have so much pleasure in giving, and to find that i had made you happy in receiving the money, that it would have proved a source of so much annoyance. i perceive that i am suspected of having obtained it improperly, and of not having told the truth. that mrs beazeley may think so, who does not know me, is not to be wondered at; but that you,” continued i, turning to old tom, “or you,” looking at his son, “should suspect me, is very mortifying; and i did not expect it. i tell you that the money is mine, honestly mine, and obtained from my mother. i ask you, do you believe me?”
“i, for one, do believe you, jacob,” said young tom, striking his fist on the table. “i can’t understand it, but i know you never told a lie, or did a dishonourable act since i’ve known you.”
“thank you, tom,” said i, taking his proffered hand.
“and i would swear the same, jacob,” said old tom; “although i have been longer in the world than my boy has, and have, therefore, seen more; and sorry am i to say, many a good man turned bad, from temptation being too great; but when i looked in your face, and saw the blood up to your forehead, i did feel a little suspicious, i must own; but i beg your pardon, jacob; no one can look in your face now and not see that you are innocent. i believe all you say, in spite of the old woman and—the devil to boot—and there’s my hand upon it.”
“why not tell—why not tell?” muttered mrs beazeley, shaking her head, and working at her net faster than ever.
but i had resolved to tell, and did so, narrating distinctly the circumstances by which the money had been obtained. i did it, however, with feelings of mortification which i cannot express. i felt humiliation—i felt that, for my own wants, that money i never could touch. still my explanation had the effect of removing the doubts even of mrs beazeley, and harmony was restored. the money was accepted by the old couple, and promised to be applied for the purpose intended.
“as for me, jacob,” said tom, “when i say i thank you, you know i mean it. had i had the money, and you had wanted it, you will believe me when i say that i would have given it to you.”
“that i’m sure of, tom.”
“still, jacob, it is a great deal of money, and i shall lay by my earnings as fast as i can, that you may have it in case you want it; but it will take many a heavy pull and many a shirt wet with labour before i can make up a sum like that.”
i did not stay much longer after this little fracas; i was hurt—my pride was wounded by suspicion, and fortunate it was that the occurrence had not taken place previous to my meeting with mrs drummond and sarah, otherwise no reconciliation would have taken place in that quarter. how much are we the sport of circumstances, and how insensibly they mark out our career in this world? with the best intentions we go wrong; instigated by unworthy motives, we fall upon our feet, and the chapter of accidents has more power over the best regulated mind than all the chapters in the bible.
