“Nothing, madam,” replied I, “except that I’ll try to forgive him.”
This reply was offensive even to the mild Mrs Drummond. She rose from her chair. “Come, Sarah,” said she: and she walked out of the room, wishing me, in a kind, soft voice, a “good-bye, Jacob,” as she passed me.
My eyes swam with tears. I tried to return the salutation, but I was too much choked by my feelings; I could not speak, and my silence was again looked upon as contumacy and ingratitude. Little Sarah still remained—she had not obeyed her mother’s injunctions to follow her. She was now nearly fourteen years old, and I had known her as a companion and a friend for five years. During the last six months that I had resided in the house we had become more intimately acquainted. I joined her in the evening in all her pursuits, and Mr and Mrs Drummond appeared to take a pleasure in our intimacy. I loved her as a dear sister; my love was based on gratitude. I had never forgotten her kindness to me when I first came under her father’s roof, and a long acquaintance with the sweetness of her disposition had rendered the attachment so firm, that I felt I could have died for her. But I never knew the full extent of the feeling until now that I was about to leave her, perhaps for ever. My heart sank when Mr Drummond left the room—a bitter pang passed through it as the form of Mrs Drummond vanished from my sight; but now was to be the bitterest of all. I felt it, and I remained with the handle of the door in my hand, gasping for breath—blinded with the tears that coursed each other rapidly down my cheeks. I remained a minute in this state, when I felt that Sarah touched my other listless hand.
“Jacob!” she would have said, but before half my name was out she burst into tears, and sobbed on my shoulder. My heart was too much surcharged not to take the infection—my grief found vent, and I mingled my sobs with those of the affectionate girl. When we were more composed, I recounted to her all that had passed, and one, at least, in the world acknowledged that I had been treated unjustly. I had but just finished, when the servant interrupted us with a message to Sarah, that her mother desired her presence. She threw herself into my arms, and bade me farewell. I released her, she hastened to obey her mother, but perceiving the money still upon the table, she pointed to it. “Your money, Jacob!”
“No Sarah, I will not accept it. I would accept of anything from those who treat me kindly, and feel more and more grateful to them; but that I will not accept—I cannot, and you must not let it be left here. Say that I could not take it.”
Sarah would have remonstrated, but perceiving that I was firm, and at the same time, perhaps, entering into my feelings, she again bade me farewell, and hastened away.
The reader may easy imagine that I did not put off my departure. I hastened to pack up my clothes, and in less than ten minutes after Sarah had quitted me, I was on board the lighter, with old Tom and his son, who were then going to supper. They knew a part of what had happened, and I narrated the rest.
“Well,” replied old Tom, after I had finished my story, “I didn’t know that I have done you any harm, Jacob, and I’m sorry that Mr Drummond should suppose so. I’m fond of a drop, that’s true; but I appeals to you, whether I ever force it on you—and whether I don’t check that boy as much as I can; but then, d’ye see, although I preach, I don’t practise, that’s the worst of it; and I know I’ve to answer for making Tom so fond of grog; and though I never says anything about it, I often think to myself, that if Tom should chance to be pressed some of these days, and be punished for being in liquor, he’ll think of his old father, and curse him in his heart, when he eyes the cat flourishing round before it strikes.”
“I’ll curse the cat, father, or the boatswain’s mate, or the officer who complained of me, or the captain who flogs me, or my own folly, but I’ll be hanged if ever I curse you, who have been so kind to me,” replied Tom, taking his father’s hand.
“Well, we must hope for the best, my dear boy,” replied old Tom; “but, Jacob, you’ve not had fair play, that sartain. It’s very true that master did take you as an orphan, and help you to an education; but that’s no reason why he should take away your free will, and after binding you ’prentice to the river, perch you up on a high stool, and grind your nose down to the desk. If so be he was so kind to you only to make you a slave, why, then, there was no kindness at all, in my opinion: and as for punishment without hearing what a man has to say in his own defence—there’s ne’er a Tartar in the sarvice but would allow a man to speak before he orders him to strip. I recollect a story about that in the sarvice, but I’m in no humour to spin a yarn now. Now, you see, Jacob, Master Drummond has done a great deal for you, and now he has undone a great deal! I can’t pretend to balance the account, but it does appear to me that you don’t owe him much; for what thanks is there if you take a vessel in tow, and then cast her off, half-way, when she most needs your assistance? But what hurts me most is his saying that you sha’n’t stay in the lighter with us; if you had, you shouldn’t have wanted, as long as pay and pension are forthcoming. Never mind—Tom, my boy, bring out the bottle—hang care: it killed the cat.”