The History of Margaret Catchpole Part 13

The Park at Ipswich is a beautiful place in summer: twice a week were its gates thrown open by the liberal proprietor of the domain to the inhabitants of the town, who rambled along the shady chestnut walk to its utmost bound. Many were the happy walks that infancy, delighting in the sunny flowers of the mead, took in that lovely place; and many the more tender and animating rambles which fond hearts and faithful lovers in the days of youth enjoyed. Parents and their children breaking away from the cares of business, delighted to stroll in holiday attire, and repose themselves beneath the branches of those stately trees which everywhere adorned the Park. There they heard the first notes of the cuckoo; there they watched the green and spotted woodp.e.c.k.e.r; observed the busy rooks; heard the nightingales, the thrushes, and the doves, and spoke of all the innocent pleasures of nature.

The spotted fallow deer crossed their path in a long line of rapid flight, and a.s.sembled in a herd in the valley; the pheasant and the partridge roamed about in pride and beauty; whilst the hare and the rabbit, familiarized to the sound of children's voices, lifted up their long ears, or stood up upon their hind legs to gaze upon them as they pa.s.sed.

In the winter, the stragglers in the Park were comparatively few, excepting at that period when the pond was frozen over, and became the fas.h.i.+onable resort for company to view the skaters; thither the young party whom Margaret had the care of resorted, to see the dexterous movements of Counsellor Green, or some of his majesty's officers from the barracks. The company that day was numerous, and the scene such as would delight thousands, even were it in the gay metropolis; it would have induced many of the fas.h.i.+onables to leave the warm, soft cus.h.i.+ons by the fireside, and to wrap themselves in furs, and to put on their snow-shoes, and to enjoy the healthy, though frosty, air of Christmas.

Many in the busy town of Ipswich left their labours and their cares for a few hours' recreation; fair ladies ventured to lean upon a brother's or a lover's arm and try the slippery ice; sledges, too, were in requisition.

Though the skating was good, and all the young people enjoyed it, Margaret's thoughts were upon her uncle and aunt, and she was the first to remind her young people that the old Christ Church clock had struck four.

Home they went, gratified and satisfied, talking of the frightful cracks and heavy falls, and well-contested races, which they had mightily enjoyed; when they came into the house they gave a lively account of all they had seen.

With Mrs. Cobbold's permission, Mr. and Mrs. Leader were invited to take tea in the housekeeper's room, and Margaret was allowed to have a long talk with them.

She found her uncle much more chatty than her aunt, for sorrow and coming poverty had cast their shadows before Mrs. Leader, and wonderfully softened the asperity of her former purse-proud disposition; she let her husband speak of all the family troubles, and did not once interrupt him. Margaret soon learned that all their property was mortgaged, and for its full value. She learned that the children were barefoot, and neglected; that it would require steady management indeed ever to bring them again into a prosperous or a comfortable state; she felt for them all, and not only felt, but did all she could to ameliorate their condition. She offered advice, which was taken in good part by the now crestfallen aunt.

A strange effect had that comfortable reception in the housekeeper's room upon the nerves and manners of Mrs. Leader, she looked up to Margaret as if she was a person of considerable consequence in that family; she asked Margaret if she might also see the children; nothing could have given Margaret greater pleasure.

All in the nursery were delighted to see a visitor; and Mrs. Leader very soon discovered that where management, cleanliness, and strict attention are paid there will grow up order, regularity, and comfort; she stayed some minutes with the happy family. As she returned to the housekeeper's room, she sighed when she said to Margaret-- "I now wish I had never provoked you to leave us! I did not like to own it, but, very soon after you were gone, I felt your loss; I hope you will be able to come and see us in the summer, and should you ever be tired of service, and wish for a home, you will find us very altered in our manner to you, and more grateful for your services."

Margaret could forgive all that her aunt had ever said or done to her; she felt so happy in having been reconciled to her, that she could not refrain from telling her so. She gave a portion of her wages for the schooling of the children, and thanked her uncle and aunt for their kind invitation. She even hinted that the time might come when her hopes of settling in Brandiston might be realized, should Laud obtain his discharge; in short, she promised to see them in summer, as she had no doubt that she could obtain leave from her kind mistress.

The day was gone, and the moon was high, and the sky was clear, and the happy Margaret would have had them stay all night. She had received a message to the effect that the pony might be put in the stable, and that her uncle and aunt might sleep in the house; they prudently declined, lest a deep snow might fall and prevent their reaching home; so off they went, happier than they had been any day since their affectionate niece left them, and this happiness arose from the reconciliation.

It was a lucky thing for Mr. and Mrs. Leader that they went home as they did that very night, for not long after their arrival home began that severe winter and deep snow which formed one of the most remarkable features in the history of the climate of England.

It would be foreign to the present narrative to dwell upon the events of that particular season, further than to refer to the great exertions made by persons of all ranks and conditions, above actual distress, to support the famis.h.i.+ng poor. Houses were established in different parts of the town of Ipswich for the public distribution of soup, coals, and blankets, and various families agreed to furnish supplies for the various days of the week.

Margaret was now as busy in the kitchen as she had been in the nursery, for at this time the cook of the family returned home ill, and no one else could be found so apt as Margaret to supply her place.

It was at this memorable season that her apt.i.tude for this situation was discovered, which led to such a change in her condition, as future pages will record. A servant was soon found for the nursery, who supplied her place, and she became the active cook of the family. In such a large domestic establishment as that of Mr. Cobbold, the cook was a person of the utmost consequence; and although there was a regular housekeeper who acted as an intervening link between the parlour and the kitchen, yet Mrs. Cobbold was by no means so unacquainted with the proceedings of her house, as to be found negligent of a due supervision over every department.

In the new place Margaret had undertaken at the earnest request of her mistress, her active powers of benevolence were now called into existence. The feeling manner in which she represented to her fellow-servants the dest.i.tution of thousands around them, and the great sin there was in the least waste; the strong necessity now became a duty in every one to deny themselves some portion of their daily bread, that those who were starving might have a share; made a powerful impression upon the domestics of that establishment. At this time, though a greater allowance was made on account of the provisions given away by this affluent family, yet such was the economy in the kitchen, and the honest, self-satisfactory privation exercised by the whole house, that not the least waste was made, and the accustomed expenditure was very little increased. The poor, however, were bountifully supplied, and Margaret's name was as justly praised below stairs, as, in past days, it had been above. Little did she think that her activity, economy, and management, which a sense of duty and charity had called into action, would fix her in the kitchen at such an increase of wages, as, comparatively, seemed to her like coming into a little fortune. She had now become the head of all the domestics, from having been the servant of all. She had an increase of toil, but she had a help under her. There was dinner for the nursery, dinner for the kitchen, dinner for the parlour, and that which is now almost obsolete, a hot supper for all the house. But what is work to one who is strong and willing, and ready and desirous of giving satisfaction?

Time, fully occupied, pa.s.ses on rapidly, and Margaret was now looked upon with respect by the whole house. What a pity that that respect should ever have been blighted, or that any circ.u.mstances should have interfered with that peaceful enjoyment which she seemed at this time to experience, and which in after years she never forgot! In leaving the nursery, she left that frequent intercourse with her mistress, and consequently that continued mental improvement which she had gradually imbibed. She was not now under her immediate eye; she seldom heard that sweet voice of approbation, pleasing beyond all expression from such a mistress.

It was one of those singular coincidences which happened in her eventful life, that on the celebrated 1st of June, 1794, her lover, William Laud, distinguished himself in Lord Howe's victory over the French, and was one of the seamen appointed to bring home a splendid prize to Portsmouth; and that Margaret herself, on the very same day, distinguished herself in an aquatic feat, which would have been no disgrace to a British seaman to have performed, and which exhibited a degree of courage and presence of mind, truly wonderful in a female.

In the garden belonging to the mansion at St. Margaret's Green was a very deep pond, with turfed sides, which were sloping and steep, so that the gardener had to descend to the water by a flight of six steps. Formerly it had been a handsome square pond, with edges neatly kept, and surrounded by alpine strawberry-beds. At the period of this tale, one side opened into the adjoining meadow, and half of that extensive garden was laid down to gra.s.s. To this day, the two stately weeping willows may be seen dipping their pensile edges into the pond, though time has lopped off many an arm, and somewhat curtailed them of their beauty. At that time, when Margaret was cook at St. Margaret's Green, these trees were the ornaments of the exterior of the town, and to have made a sketch from the hill, on the Woodbridge Road, without including them, would have been to have robbed the town of Ipswich of one of its most prominent and pleasing features of landscape beauty. They were very lofty, though pendent, and in the month of June, might be justly styled magnificent. Hundreds of their boughs kissed the water with their thin, taper points. The girl who had the care of the children had been often warned not to go near the edge of the road.

On this 1st of June, 1794, Margaret had entered the garden to gather some herbs, and had scarcely closed the gate before she heard a sudden shriek of distress. The voices of the children struck upon her, from the centre of the garden. She ran down the path, and there she saw the whole group standing and screaming at the edge of the pond, and the nursemaid completely at her wits' end with fright. Master Henry had been running away from his sisters, who were pursuing him down the path, and having turned his head round to look at them, he did not perceive his danger. His foot caught the edge of the gra.s.s border which surrounded the pond, and he was precipitated head-foremost into the deepest part of it. In a moment he was seen plunging and screaming for help, but all his efforts only tended to carry him still further towards the middle of the pond: he must inevitably have been drowned, had not Margaret at that moment providentially entered the garden.

Margaret's astonis.h.i.+ng presence of mind enabled her to resolve in an instant what it was best to do, and her heroic courage caused her not to shrink from doing it; she ordered the nurserymaid to run with all speed to the stables for a ladder and rope, and then creeping along the strongest arm of the weeping willow that spread itself over the centre of the pond, and going as far as she could towards the child, she grasped a handful of those pendent branches which dipped themselves into the water, and swinging herself by her right arm, into the pond, and stretching out her left to the utmost, she seized the child by the collar of his little jacket, and held him above the water until the a.s.sistance she sent for arrived.

It required both nerve and presence of mind, as well as bodily strength to support herself in this position only for a few minutes. She gradually drew the child nearer to her, and though in great danger herself, her first words to him were, "Don't be afraid, Master Henry; I have got you! Keep still! keep still! don't struggle!"

The gardener and the coachman had by this time arrived with the ladder and a rope, they let it down from the arm of the tree, resting the upper stave just against its branches. The gardener descended a few steps, and Margaret gave him the child, whilst she herself remained with the boughs in her hand, until the boy was safe. She then requested them to throw her the rope, that she might leave go of the willow and be drawn to the side of the pond. She put the rope round her waist and took hold of it, doubled, with both hands, and in this way was dragged through the water to the bank.

Thus was Margaret Catchpole, for the third time, the providential instrument in preserving the life of a member of Mr. Cobbold's family. It will not, then, be a matter of surprise, that the records of her life should have been so strictly preserved among them. If there had been any former coolness or misunderstanding between her and any of the domestics of the family, this event completely reconciled all differences. It was felt by one and all, that a woman who could risk her life to save another's, in this manner, was worthy of their united respect. She was, at this time, at the very summit of her reputation. A few days more brought the news of that celebrated victory over the French fleet, which added so much to the naval glory of Old England. In that victory more than one Ipswich man partook, and returned to speak of the engagement. One poor fellow, in particular, was sent home, desperately wounded, who, for many years, became an object of respect, as well as charitable attention, to many families in the town and neighbourhood. This was poor old Jack, whose friends kept the Salutation public-house, in Carr Street, who always went by the name of "What Cheer?" When he first returned to his aunt, the landlady of the house, he had his senses perfect, and could speak of the engagement with such clearness and precision as delighted the seamen who frequented the house. He was on board the same s.h.i.+p as Will Laud, and on the 1st of June they fought side by side.

Margaret heard of this, and used to go down to the public-house in question, to hear from Jack all she could of one who was as dear to her as her own life. He was desired by Laud to tell Margaret that he was coming home with plenty of prize-money as soon as he could obtain his discharge. It was this which gave her spirit such joy, and made her so anxious to hear all she could of the battle; and, of course, of that part which her lover took in it. Poor Jack's intellects, however, from the severity of his wounds, and consequent attack of fever, became irretrievably impaired; and though he recovered his health, and became a constant visitor at St. Margaret's Green, yet he never could afterwards give any connected account of the battle.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE ALTERATION.

We left our heroine, in the last chapter, esteemed of every one who knew her, and looking forward to what was to her the height of human felicity--the reformation and return of her sailor-lover. No less true than strange is the fact, that when we reach the highest pinnacle of this world's happiness, some giddiness of the head is apt to make us fall. So, at all events, it proved with the female who gives a t.i.tle to this book. It became matter of deep concern to every member of Mr. Cobbold's family, to behold in her an alteration which no previous circ.u.mstances in her life had prepared them for. There was nothing in reason, and consistent with their own happiness, that her grateful master and mistress would not have granted her. Any situation she wished to attain, either for herself or for her friends, would have commanded every exertion they could have made in her favour. She stood so high in their opinion, and in every one's else who knew her, that it scarcely seemed possible for her to forfeit it. Apparently she had nothing to complain of; no cause for dissatisfaction; no inducement whatever to alter her disposition. Yet an alteration did take place, and one which became evident to every one.

Where the heart is unsettled, things seldom go on well. There wants that peace and security which can alone make the discharge of our daily duties a daily pleasure. Margaret's early impressions of religion had been of a very desultory kind, and here was the root of all the evil that afterwards befell her. The want of fixed religious principles early instilled into the young mind has caused many a good disposition to give way to those changes and chances which happen in life, and to create an alteration even in the brightest prospects. In the earliest days of this child of nature, an innate humanity of disposition had been cultivated and increased by her attendance on a sick and afflicted sister and an aged mother, both of whom had constantly required her aid. Her natural qualities were, as the reader has seen, up to this moment of the n.o.blest cast. Still, in the absence of any strong religious sentiment, the best dispositions are at the mercy of violent pa.s.sions, and are subject to the most dangerous caprices. The reader must have observed that, in the midst of all her good qualities, Margaret Catchpole evinced a pertinacity of attachment to the object of her affections, even in his most unworthy days--an attachment which no circ.u.mstances whatever, not even the warning of her sister's death-bed, could shake. She had built upon a vague hope of Laud's alteration of life, and his settlement in some quiet occupation. She had been accustomed to very great disappointments and vexations; and, with a spirit above her years, she had borne them all, and had shown an energy of mind and activity worthy of better things. How weak are all qualities without the support of religion! At a time when promises seemed most fair, when an unexpected reconciliation had taken place with her uncle and aunt Leader, when Laud's return was daily expected, and all the favours of a generous family were heaped upon her for her good conduct,--at such a time an alteration of her disposition took place, which embittered her existence for many years. She became peevish and irritable, discontented and unhappy, moody and melancholy. She thanked n.o.body for a.s.sistance, asked nothing of any one, and gave no reason to any of her fellow-servants for this sudden alteration. Such would not have been the case, had religion taught her, as it now does many in her station of life, how to feel supported in prosperity as well as in adversity. It is a trite saying, that "we seldom know when we are well off." We are not content to "let well alone;" but too often foolishly speculate upon the future, and fall into some present snare.

Nothing had been heard of or from Laud, except that a sailor, who had served with him in the glorious battle of the 1st of June, had visited the town, and told Margaret that Laud was appointed to come home in one of the prizes taken by Lord Howe; and that, probably, he was then at Portsmouth, waiting until he should receive his prize-money and his discharge. Margaret occasionally stole down in the evening to the Salutation public-house, where the sailor was staying, to speak with him, and to hear the naval news. She was here occasionally seen by other sailors, who frequented the house, and learned where she lived. They understood the bearings of her history, and some of them used to fabricate tales on purpose to get an introduction into the kitchen at St. Margaret's Green, where they were sure to be welcomed and well treated by Margaret. She was, at this time, very anxious to hear tidings of her lover, and day after day exhibited symptoms of restlessness, which could not long be pa.s.sed by without notice. The frequency of sailors' visits to the kitchen began to be rumoured through the house, and stories injurious to the reputations of the inmates were circulated in the neighbourhood. Moreover, the housekeeper missed various articles; and meat, and bread, and stores, began to be unaccountably diminished. Inquiries were inst.i.tuted, and it was found that Margaret had certainly given such and such things to sailors; and without doubt, some things were stolen.

Under these circ.u.mstances, it became high time for the mistress of the house to take notice of these things; and, in as gentle a manner as the circ.u.mstances of the case would permit, she spoke to Margaret alone on the subject. She regretted to hear from all quarters the alteration which had taken place in her manner. She spoke to her most feelingly upon the result of such a change, and with great kindness contrasted the pleasure of the past with the sorrow which her late conduct occasioned.

"I cannot," she added, "permit sailors of every kind to be incessantly coming to the house at all hours with pretended news of Laud, and so deceiving you by playing upon your disposition, and then robbing you and the house. Reports of a very unpleasant nature have reached my ears injurious to your character and that of my establishment. I cannot submit to these things; and, though I most sincerely regard you, Margaret, yet I must make you sensible of the danger you incur by listening to the artful tales of these men. I strongly recommend you to have nothing to do with them. Your own character is of much more consequence to you than their nonsensical stories. If you wish it, I will write for you to Portsmouth to make inquiries about Laud; and, rather than you should be in doubt and affliction, and in any uncertainty about him, I am sure that your master will send a trustworthy person to search him out and ascertain the cause of his detention.

"Let me see you henceforth what you used to be--cheerful and contented, thankful and happy, and not over-anxious about matters which in the end will all probably come right. You have my entire forgiveness of the past, even though you do not ask it; but let me not be imposed upon for the future. Go, Margaret, go; and let me hear no more of these complaints."

Margaret heard all that her mistress said in perfect silence. She neither defended herself, nor yet thanked her mistress, as she used to do. She seemed sullen and indifferent. She left the presence of that kind lady and most sincere friend with scarce a curtsy, and with such a pale, downcast countenance, as deeply distressed her benefactress. Then was it the painful reflection occurred, that her servant's religious principles had been neglected; that her duty as a servant had been done from no higher motive than that of pleasing man; and that when she had failed to do so, and received a rebuke, her spirit would not bear it. These reflections pressed themselves upon the kind lady's mind, and she resolved to do her best to correct for the future that which appeared so deficient.

Margaret returned to the kitchen unaltered, saving in feature; she was silent, pale, and restless. She did her work mechanically, but something appeared to be working upon her in a very strange way. She could not sit still a moment. Sometimes she put down her work, and sat looking at the fire, as if she was counting the coals upon it. At one time she would rise and appear to go in search of something, without knowing what she went for. At another time she would bite her lips and mutter something, as if she were resolute and determined upon some point which she did not reveal. Her fellow-servants did not lay anything to her, and took as little notice as her strange manner would permit. They all considered that something very unpleasant had occurred between herself and her mistress. Some surmised that warning had been given; others that she would leave of her own accord; but all felt sorry that one who had been so highly esteemed should now be so perverse.

One evening, in the midst of these domestic arrangements of the kitchen, when all the servants were a.s.sembled, a knock was heard at the back-kitchen door; the girl who opened it immediately called out, "Another sailor wants to see you, Margaret!"

Without rising from her seat, as she was accustomed to do with alacrity upon such occasions, Margaret petulantly and pa.s.sionately replied, loud enough for the sailor to hear her through the door of the kitchen, which now stood open, "Tell the fellow to go about his business! I have nothing to do with, or to say to, any more sailors. Tell him to be off!"

The sailor stepped one step forward, and pitched a canvas bag in at the kitchen-door, which fell with a loud c.h.i.n.k upon the bricks. He had heard the words of Margaret, and was off in a moment.

The reader will doubtless surmise that this was none other than Will Laud. He it was who, at this unfortunate moment, returned, with all his prize-money, on purpose to give it to Margaret, for whom he had kept it, intending to purchase a shop at Brandiston, or one of the neighbouring villages, where she might like to live. The bag had a label, directed "To Margaret Catchpole, John Cobbold's, Esq., Cliff, Ipswich."

Had this unfortunate girl been in a different mood, she might have recognized the voice, as she once did on that memorable night when Mr. William's life was saved. She heard the rap, and the inquiry for her; but knowing her mistress's commands, and believing the visitor to be one of those whom she had styled impostors and thieves, she had, with considerable energy and irritability, spoken those cutting words, which sent him away in despair.

What agony now struck upon the heart of Margaret! She started at the sound of the bag as it fell at her feet; she looked bewildered for one moment; the truth burst upon her, and she rushed out of the house with such a wild shriek as pierced the heart of every one who heard it. She ran into the street. The night was growing dark; but, on the opposite side of the green, against the garden pales, she saw a sailor standing and looking at the house. She ran to him, seized his arm, and exclaimed, "Laud, is it you?"

He replied, "Yes--hus.h.!.+"

"Come in, then; come into the house; I am sure you may come in."

The sailor walked on, with Margaret by his side. He did not speak. This Margaret naturally attributed to her late repulsive words, and she now said, soothingly, by way of apologizing for her harshness-- "I did not intend to send you away. I have lately had several sailors to speak to me about you, and I was only too glad to hear them; but my mistress gave orders to me this day not to have anything more to do with them. I am sure she did not mean to send you away--neither did I intend it. Come back, come back!"

"Come on, come on!" said the sailor, in as soft accents as he could. And, by this time, they had approached the old granary wall, at the back of the park stables. Opposite to these stables was a cow-keeper's yard, with the dwelling inside the gates. The gates stood open: they might rather be termed folding-doors, for, when shut, no one could see through any part but the keyhole. The sailor turned in here with Margaret, as if he knew the premises, and immediately closed the gates. A light glanced from a window in the cottage, and fell upon the sailor's face. In an instant Margaret recognized the hated features of John Luff.

The poor girl was paralysed; she was completely in the tiger's claws; she could not speak, her heart so swelled with agony. She thought of this monster's cruelty, and believed him to be capable of any desperate deed. She recovered sufficient presence of mind, however, to be resolved to grapple with him, should he have any evil purpose in view. She retreated a few steps toward the gates. He suspected by this that she had discovered who he was, and he threw off the mask in a moment.

"You know who I am, I see; and I know you. I do not want to harm you; but I want to know something from you, which, if you tell me truly, you shall receive no injury; but, if you do not tell me, I tell you plainly that, as you are now in my power, so you shall never escape me. You spoke just now of Will Laud. Now, no tacking about; bear up at once, and come to the point. Tell me where he can be found."

"I do not know," replied Margaret.

"No lies, girl! You do know. You were expecting him from Portsmouth this very night. I knew he was coming home with his prize-money; so did you. I don't want his money, but I want him. I have sworn to take him, dead or alive, and have him I will. You have seen him: I have not. Now tell me where he is, and I will let you go; but if you tell me not, down you shall go headlong into the well at the bottom of this yard!"

The truth burst upon the poor girl's mind, that this fellow was watching Laud to murder him. She was now convinced that it was Laud who came to the back-kitchen door, and that he must have gone over the garden palings towards the Woodbridge Road, instead of going into the street. With a woman's heart beating high at the danger of her lover, she inwardly rejoiced, even at this dreadful moment, that her sudden words had perhaps saved Laud's life. She forgot her own loss, and her spirit rose to reply firmly and boldly to the cowardly rascal who threatened her-- "I do not know where Laud is. I wish I did; and I would let him know that such a villain as you are ought to be hanged."

The monster seized her, gagged her mouth with a tow-knot, and tried to pull her away from the gate. She had seized hold of the long iron bar, which was fastened to a low post, and fitted into a staple on the door. She thought she heard voices outside the gates, speaking of her. Just as the villain lifted her from the ground to fulfil his determined purpose, she swung the iron against the door with such force, that the servants outside were convinced something was wrong. They called, but received no answer. They heard footsteps receding from the door, and called to Smith, the cowkeeper, to know what was the matter. They did not receive any immediate answer, but a light streamed under the door, and in another moment they heard a scuffle, and Smith's voice calling for help.

With their united force they burst the gates open, and ran down the yard. The candle was burning on the ground, and Smith prostrate beside it. In a moment after, they heard the bucket of the well descending with rapidity, and then a sudden splash, as if a heavy body had reached the bottom of it.

Smith recovered quickly from his fall, and declared he saw a sailor-looking man, carrying a female in his arms, and he firmly believed that she was thrown down the well. He got his lantern, and directed the men to take down the long church ladder, which was hung up under the roof of the cowhouse, and bring it after him. The ladder was put down the well, and Smith descended with his lantern, and called out that there was a woman in the well.

"Unhank the bucket: tie the rope round her body, and ease her up the ladder; we can help you to get her out so."

This was done: and when she was drawn up, the servants recognized the features of Margaret Catchpole.

Smith was quite sure the man he saw was in sailor's dress. It was a providential circ.u.mstance that the very act of gagging had prevented the water getting to her lungs, and so saved her from drowning. She breathed hard, and harder still when the gag was removed, and was very black in the face. She had received a severe blow on the head from her fall against the bucket, the iron of which had caught her gown, and was the cause of its descending with her to the water. She might have had a severer blow against the sides of the well but for this circ.u.mstance. She was quite insensible, and in this state was carried home, where she was laid between warm blankets, and the doctor sent for. She was quickly bled, and was soon restored to conscious animation.

As she revived, she refused to communicate anything on the subject of the disaster; and it was thought best, at that time, not to say much to her about it. Conjectures were much raised, and the matter was much talked over. The bag, which was opened by her master, was found to contain one hundred and thirty guineas in gold and silver coin. Mr. Cobbold took charge of it, and sealed it with his own seal. From all that could be learned, it seemed that a sailor, whom all now conjectured to be Laud, had thrown the money in at the door, and Margaret had rushed out after him; that she had overtaken him; and that some violent altercation had taken place between them, which had led to this most extraordinary act. The whole affair seemed to be fraught with reckless desperation. Could anything be more so than to throw such a sum of money at a person's foot, and then to throw that person down a well? Why do such a deed? Was he jealous? Had he heard of the many sailors who had lately made Margaret's acquaintance? It might be, thought some, that he had suddenly returned, and hearing of her conduct, had put the worst construction upon it; and, in a desperate state, had been foolishly generous, but too fatally jealous to hear any explanation. These ideas pa.s.sed through the minds of more than one of the family.

Margaret slowly recovered from the fever which had settled in her frame, and greatly reduced it. She kept her bed for several weeks; she kept her tongue, too, as still and as free from communication with any one as she possibly could under the circ.u.mstances. She did not say anything of her own accord, even to her anxious and beloved mistress.

It was soon circulated about that an atrocious attempt at murder had been made in the parish of St. Margaret's, and the authorities of the town took it up, and made inquiries into the matter. Understanding that the young female was in too weak a state to have her deposition taken, they did not visit her, but a reward was offered for the apprehension of the man, and his person was described by the cowkeeper.

There was but one person to whom Margaret opened her lips willingly upon the subject, and that was her old friend and medical attendant, Mr. Stebbing. He learned from her, that it was not Laud that had thrown her down the well, but a fellow named Luff, one of his former evil companions. She told the doctor her belief that Laud was the person who had unintentionally been driven away by her on that unfortunate night; "And I fear," she added, "that he will be induced by my seeming harshness to return to his old courses. He will never forgive me--I know he never will! Oh, that I could have had one word with him! If I could but get well, I would try and find him. Oh, doctor, I am so anxious to get well! Pray, help me!"

"This is the plain reason, my girl, why you are so slow in recovering. I knew you had something upon your mind that you kept back; and now that you have told me thus much, let me speak to you in my own way. I tell you honestly, Margaret, I never should think a man worth having who took himself off in that kind of way. If, as you say, you refused to see a sailor who did not give his name, the man ought to have been pleased, rather than displeased, if he really loved you. If he was not a fool, he would naturally think it would be the very first thing a girl with any proper feeling would say. Take my word, Margaret, and I am somewhat more experienced than you are, that if Laud is worth your having, he will soon be here again. But don't you think of running after him. If he comes back in a few days, well; but if not, I wish I might be able to persuade you not to think of him at all. What could induce Luff to attempt to murder you?"

"He threatened, that unless I told him where Laud was, he would throw me down the well. I imagine that Laud having escaped from the gang of smugglers, this villain was sworn either to be revenged upon him for some quarrel, or else he had promised Captain Bargood, his employer, to bring him back again. I was determined not to tell him that Laud had been to the house, and the fellow took this desperate revenge on me. But, thank G.o.d, his purpose is frustrated! You know Laud, doctor, as well as I do. I can conceive that my speech took him so completely by surprise, that, after he had been saving up all his money for me, and had been congratulating his mind upon my joy at his change, my words must have cut him to the quick, and have driven him away in desperation."

"I wish I could think so, Margaret; but my idea is, that if he had been the altered man you picture him, he would never have conducted himself in that way. I tell you plainly, that I should be much more apt to think he liked somebody else better than you; and that he threw down the money merely because his conscience told him he had wronged you; and made him feel that he ought to make you some recompense. If he does not come back in a few days, I shall be confirmed in this opinion."

The poor girl had never looked at the matter in this light. She felt a strange sensation creeping over her mind, and, in the weak state she then was in, she had a superst.i.tious dread of her sister's last words--"Margaret, you will never marry William Laud." The words seemed to tingle in her ears, and to come, at this moment, with redoubled force; she shook her head, sighed, and thanked the doctor for his good advice.

"I shall explain these matters to your mistress, Margaret," said Mr. Stebbing. "It will remove all erroneous ideas, and may spare you some pain and trouble. You must rouse yourself; the magistrates are daily asking me about you; I have told them that you have too virulent a fever upon you at present to make it safe for them to see you; and, depend upon it, they will not be over-anxious to run any risk."

"Pray, sir, could not you take down what I have said, as well as having any other person to do it?"

"If I do, Margaret, it must be read to you before two justices of the peace, and you will have to swear to it."

"Well, sir, so it must be then."

And the good doctor left his patient, and gladly explained the exact state of the case to her mistress.

It was not very difficult for that lady to form her own conclusions now. She was of Margaret's opinion, that Laud's first step would be to rejoin the smugglers. She thought that he would become a more desperate character than ever. Instability of purpose was always Laud's failing. When Margaret got about again, her mistress, having considered all the circ.u.mstances, thought it best that she should go home to her parent's roof for a time. "As you are so much better," said she to her one day, "and have been so much shaken lately, and your deposition has been taken before the magistrates, I would strongly recommend a little change for the benefit of your health. The doctor thinks it advisable. You can go and stay a while with your uncle and aunt Leader, or you can go and see your father and younger brother. You may go when you please. Remember that there are one hundred and thirty guineas in your master's hands, to be appropriated to your use. Your father or your uncle may wish to consult us for your benefit. We shall be happy to see them for such purpose at any time. If you wish to enter into any business, you shall have our best advice and a.s.sistance. I think change will do you good. If you do not settle in any way for yourself, and still prefer service, we shall be glad to receive you amongst us again when you have recruited your health and spirits."

"I do not," Margaret replied, "want anything beyond my wages. I do not consider that money my own, and shall never appropriate any of it to my own use. It belongs to Will Laud. I feel very much obliged to both my master and yourself for the interest you have always taken in me, and for your offer of future a.s.sistance. I will consult with my friends. I certainly do not feel so happy as I used to do."

Her kind mistress did not choose to remind her of the great alteration of her temper and conduct of late, because she did not wish to revive old grievances. And, as she was about to leave for a time, with a possibility of some chance of settlement without service, she let the matter rest.

Margaret, shortly after this conversation, took leave of as good a mistress as a servant ever had. If she did not feel quite the warmth of attachment to her that she had formerly done, the fault lay in herself, not in that benevolent lady, who at that time and ever after, manifested for her the sincerest kindness.

CHAPTER XX.

CHANGE OF SCENE AND CHANGE OF PLACE.

Soon after Margaret's recovery, and the taking of her deposition before Colonel Neale, Mr. Gibson, and Mr. Seekamp, justices of the peace, she took leave of the affectionate friends she had gained in the family at St. Margaret's Green. She had permission to go and stay as long as she felt necessary for the recruiting of her spirits, and accordingly she went to Nacton. She found her aged father and her younger brother living in the same cottage, and in better work and condition than when she had left them. They gladly welcomed her, and she spent a peaceful quiet time with them, though painful thoughts intruded themselves upon her mind. Old and joyful, as well as joyless, a.s.sociations crowded upon her; she thought of her career of fortune and misfortune, with many a deep and painful sigh. Oh! had religious instruction then fortified that mind as it did years afterwards, what comfort might it not have gained even in this moment of adversity--what pain might it not have turned aside! Her father soon perceived that disappointment was gnawing at Margaret's heart, the more keenly, as it found stronger food to feed upon, from the past revival of warm hopes, now severely blighted. The old man sought her confidence, and found that, by conversation with her, he lightened the heaviness of her load.

Margaret told her father the exact state of her mind, and did not conceal anything from him.

"I much fear," said the old man, "that he has returned to the coast again, and perhaps to his former vicious companions. Not that I have heard anything of him; but I know that the coastguard are as active as they ever were in the discharge of their desperate duty. I cannot think of any other method of ascertaining the fact, than by sending your brother Edward down to the coast for a time, and let him learn what he can. He is a very sharp young fellow, and I can tell you, Margaret, that for activity of head, heart, and limb, not one of my boys ever exceeded him."

"I think the scheme might answer," replied Margaret: "at all events, it is worth trying. I shall feel more satisfied, let the result be what it may. I will give him part of my wages, so that he shall lose nothing by the trip."

In the evening the plan was proposed to the young man, who readily entered into his sister's views upon the subject. He would ask his master for a week or ten days, or a fortnight, if required.

Margaret gave him strict charge to explain to Will Laud the circ.u.mstance of her having so hastily uttered those words which had given him such offence; that it was her mistress's command that she should see no more sailors. "Be cautious," she added; "avoid that villain Luff; for in his clutches you would be no more than a lamb beneath a tiger's paw. You must visit all the different places along the coast from Felixstowe to Aldeburgh. If any of the coastguard speak to you, tell them honestly who you are; and if you see young Edward Barry, you may tell him all the truth. He will help you, as he promised to befriend me, should I ever require his aid. If any private opportunity of speaking to Laud should occur, tell him his money is all safe, and shall be employed according to his directions. I consider it his property, though directed to me. Go, Edward. I shall spend many a restless hour until you return."

Edward Catchpole was soon on his road to Felixstowe. His first attempt was to find out the old ferryman, Laud's father, and ascertain if he knew anything of him. But he learned that the old man had quietly departed this life, soon after receiving the news of his son's engagement with the French, in Lord Howe's victory of the 1st of June. The only thing like a footmark of Laud was in the report given by some of the neighbours, that a sailor had been there some weeks ago, making inquiries about the old ferryman; who, ascertaining, however, that he was dead, went away, and no one heard anything more of him.

Edward next went on from Felixstowe to Bawdsey Ferry, and took up his quarters at the Sun Inn. Here he seemed as one come to the seaside for health; for he was to be seen wandering along the sh.o.r.e, and talking whenever he could with the sailors. But he could gain no tidings, directly or indirectly, of the person he sought. He s.h.i.+fted his position from the Sun to the Old Beach House, at the mouth of the river Alde, now known by the name of the Life-Boat public-house, then kept by Jacob Merrells, a pilot.

Great preparations were then making for building forts and Martello towers along the coast, to oppose any invasion. Numbers of surveyors, and workmen in the employ of Government, frequented the Beach House. The conversation sometimes turned upon smuggling, and young Catchpole's heart beat high at such moments, with the hope of some clue to Laud. Nothing, however, could he elicit, except that, as so many Government men were about at that time, the smugglers were not likely to be carrying on a very brisk trade. Still it was carried on, and Captain Bargood was, it was said, as busy as ever.

He next visited Boyton and Sudbourn, and Orford. He lodged at the Mariner's Compa.s.s, then kept by an old weather-beaten sailor, who often put him across from the quay on the banks of the Alde, to the North Vere; and here he used to spend so many hours, that the coastguard, who kept a watch upon his movements, suspected that his countryman's dress was only a ruse to hide some sinister intention. They observed, however, that he did not avoid them, but rather sought opportunity for their acquaintance. A more dreary place than this North Vere is scarcely to be found on all the coast of Great Britain. It is a ma.s.s of s.h.i.+ngle nearly twenty miles long, in some places nearly a mile broad, in others, only a few hundred yards. This wall of pebbles separates the river Alde from the ocean. The bank reaches from Hollesley Bay to Aldeburgh. The sea and the river are very deep along the shelving banks on either side.

Thousands upon thousands of sea-birds build, or rather lay their eggs, upon this desolate bed of s.h.i.+ngle. A few wild, straggling plants of seakale, and very long, thin, sickly spires of gra.s.s, occasionally shoot up through the stones; but there is no other vegetation, except here and there in some few hollows in this desert of stones, where a little clay, mixed with the sea-fowl dung, formed a green patch. These spots used to be much frequented by smugglers, which, from their sunken situations, used to hide both them and their goods from view. Nothing prominent can be seen for miles round this coast, except the Orford lights, which stand conspicuous enough about midway between Hollesley and Aldeburgh.

The poor fellows who acted as preventive-service men in the coastguard had no sinecure in this dreadful situation. The sun burnt them by day, and the wind, from whatever quarter it blew, and especially in the winter nights, was cutting and cold; and from the exposure between two waters, the sea and the river, it roared like the discharge of batteries. In some of the hollows these poor men used to construct huts of such rude materials as came to hand; old pieces of wrecks, or broken-up boats, which they covered with seaweed, collected after a storm. These served to break the east winds which blew over the German Ocean, in their terrible night-watches, which they were forced to keep pretty constantly, as they were watched, though they were watchers. Many were the desperate struggles upon this wild beach between these brave men and the smugglers, in which hard fighting, and too often death-blows, told the desperate nature of the service.

"Well, my man, what brings you upon this coast?" said one of the officers to Edward Catchpole, as he was sauntering lazily along the seaside.

"Oh," replied Edward, "I have got a holiday, and I wish to spend a day or two by the seaside."

"A day or two! Why you have been here six days, and you have been staying at Hollesley, and Boyton, and Felixstowe. Come, come, young man, you are up to some work which may get you into trouble. You had better take my advice, and sheer off."

"I have no unlawful calling; if I had, I might deserve your scrutiny. You think, perhaps, that I am connected with smugglers, and am here for the purpose of giving them information. I am, however, much more desirous of receiving than of giving information. I never saw a smuggler's boat in my life. You suspect me, I see; but what of?--tell me."