Chapter Forty Two.
In which I take possession of my own house, and think that it looks very ill-furnished without a wife—Tom’s discharge is sent out, but by accident it never reaches him—I take my new station in society.
On my arrival the front gates were opened by the gardener’s wife, who made me a profound courtesy. The gardener soon afterwards made his appearance, hat in hand. Everything was neat and in good order. I entered the house, and as soon as possible rid myself of their obsequious attentions. I wished to be alone. Powerful feelings crowded on my mind. I hastened to Mr Turnbull’s study, and sat down in the chair so lately occupied by him. The proud feeling of possession, softened into gratitude to heaven, and sorrow at his death, came over me, and I remained for a long while in a deep reverie. “And all this, and more, much more, are mine,” I mentally exclaimed; “the sailor before the mast, the waterman on the river, the charity-boy, the orphan sits down in quiet possession of luxury and wealth. What have I done to deserve all this?” My heart told me nothing, or if anything, it was almost valueless, and I poured forth my soul in thanks to heaven. I felt more composed after I had performed this duty, and my thoughts then dwelt upon my benefactor. I surveyed the room—the drawings, the furs and skins, the harpoons and other instruments, all remaining in their respective places, as when I last had an interview with Mr Turnbull. I remembered his kindness, his singleness of heart, his honesty, his good sense, and his real worth; and I shed many tears for his loss. My thoughts then passed to Sarah Drummond, and I felt much uneasiness on that score. Would she receive me, or would she still remember what I had been? I recollected her kindness and good-will towards me. I weighed these, and my present condition, against my origin and my former occupation; and could not ascertain how the scale might turn. I shall soon see, thought I. To-morrow, even, may decide the question. The gardener’s wife knocked at the door, and announced that my bed was prepared. I went to sleep, dreaming of Sarah, young Tom, the Dominie and Mary Stapleton.
I was up early the next morning, and hastened to the hotel; when, having arranged my person to the best of my power (but at the same time never so little to my satisfaction), I proceeded to the house of Mr Drummond. I knocked; and this time I was not desired to wait in the hall, but was immediately ushered up into the drawing-room. Sarah Drummond was sitting alone at her drawing. My name was announced as I entered. She started from her chair, and blushed deeply as she moved towards me. We joined hands in silence. I was breathless with emotion. Never had she appeared so beautiful. Neither party appeared willing to break silence; at last I faltered out, “Miss Drummond,”—and then I stopped.
“Mr Faithful,” replied she; and then, after a break—“How very silly this is; I ought to have congratulated you upon your safe return, and upon your good fortune; and, indeed, Mr Faithful, no one can do so more sincerely.”
“Miss Drummond,” replied I, confused, “when I was an orphan, a charity-boy, and a waterman, you called me Jacob, if the alteration in my prospects induces you to address me in so formal a manner—if we are in future to be on such different terms—I can only say that I wish that I were again—Jacob Faithful, the waterman.”
“Nay,” replied she, “recollect that it was your own choice to be a waterman. You might have been different—very different. You might at this time have been a partner with my father, for he said so but last night, when we were talking about you. But you refused all; you threw away your education, your talents, your good qualities, from a foolish pride, which you considered independence. My father almost humbled himself to you—not that it is ever humiliating to acknowledge and attempt to repair a fault, but still he did more than could be expected from most people. Your friends persuaded you, but you rejected their advice; and what was still more unpardonable, even I had no influence over you. As long as you punished yourself I did not upbraid you; but now that you have been so fortunate, I tell you plainly—”
“What?”