Now the ripened cornIn sheaves is borne,And the loaded wainBrings home the grain,The merry, merry reapers sing a bind,And jocund shouts the happy harvest hind,Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!Now the harvest’s o’er,And the grain we store,And the stacks we pull,And the barn is full,The merry, merry reapers sing again,And jocund shouts the happy harvest swain,Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!Now our toil is done,And the feast is won,And we meet once moreAs we did of yore,The merry, merry reapers sing with glee,And jocund shout their happy harvest spree,Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!Now the feast we share—’Tis our master’s fare,May he long, long liveSuch a treat to give,And merry, merry reapers sing with joy,And jocund shouts the happy harvest boy,Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!Now we join in songWith our voices strong,And our hearts are highWith our good supply,We merry, merry reapers joyful comeTo shout and sing our happy Harvest-Home,Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the ripened cornIn sheaves is borne,And the loaded wainBrings home the grain,The merry, merry reapers sing a bind,And jocund shouts the happy harvest hind,Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the ripened corn
In sheaves is borne,
And the loaded wain
Brings home the grain,
The merry, merry reapers sing a bind,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest hind,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the harvest’s o’er,And the grain we store,And the stacks we pull,And the barn is full,The merry, merry reapers sing again,And jocund shouts the happy harvest swain,Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the harvest’s o’er,
And the grain we store,
And the stacks we pull,
And the barn is full,
The merry, merry reapers sing again,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest swain,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now our toil is done,And the feast is won,And we meet once moreAs we did of yore,The merry, merry reapers sing with glee,And jocund shout their happy harvest spree,Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now our toil is done,
And the feast is won,
And we meet once more
As we did of yore,
The merry, merry reapers sing with glee,
And jocund shout their happy harvest spree,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the feast we share—’Tis our master’s fare,May he long, long liveSuch a treat to give,And merry, merry reapers sing with joy,And jocund shouts the happy harvest boy,Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the feast we share—
’Tis our master’s fare,
May he long, long live
Such a treat to give,
And merry, merry reapers sing with joy,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest boy,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now we join in songWith our voices strong,And our hearts are highWith our good supply,We merry, merry reapers joyful comeTo shout and sing our happy Harvest-Home,Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now we join in song
With our voices strong,
And our hearts are high
With our good supply,
We merry, merry reapers joyful come
To shout and sing our happy Harvest-Home,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
The spirit of this song is in the chorus, which is peculiar to the eastern counties of this kingdom. So “Hallo Largess!" may be well understood here, but in many parts of the country is quite unknown. At the time of harvest, when the men are reaping down the fields, should their master have any friends visiting his fields, the head man among the labourers usually asks a largess, which is generally a shilling. This is asked not only of friends and visitors, but of strangers likewise, should they pause to look at the reapers as they bind up the sheaves.
At evening, when the work of the day is over, all the men collect in a circle, and Hallo, that is, cry, Largess. Three times they say, in a low tone, “Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Large!" and all, hand in hand, bow their heads almost to the ground; but, after the third monotonous yet sonorous junction, they lift up their heads, and, with one burst of their voices, cry out, “Gess!”
Varieties of this peculiar custom may exist in some districts. Sometimes the man with the most stentorian lungs will mount an eminence and lead the rest, who join in chorus. They generally conclude the ceremony with three shouts, and then “Thank Mr., Mrs., Miss, or Master" (as the case of the donor may be) “for his largess.” Whence the origin of this practice, is not now easily to be ascertained. It was much morecommon than it is. The habit of dividing the gains, too, at the harvest frolic, is going fast out of fashion; nor is its substitute an amendment.
At the period here mentioned, and in the Priory Farm, it was customary for the lord to divide the largess among the men, women, and children; which formed a species of family nest-egg, to provide against some urgent necessity. The custom has now degenerated into an ale-house revel, and the money is all drunk out for the benefit of no one but the publican.
“Will Riches, your health!" said the lord, as, at the same moment, he turned the contents of a canvas-bag upon the table, which exhibited a very good aspect of liberal contributions. The reader may suppose that every master-tradesman who visited the farm had to give his share, and that the lord had not been unmindful of his solicitations, when, upon counting the contents of the bag, there were found one hundred shillings and sixpence. This exactly gave five shillings a-piece to the fourteen men, half-a-crown ditto to the nine women, and two shillings each to the four boys.
The division of this sum gave great satisfaction; and our persecuted friend, Jack Barry, had almost unperceived accomplished a successful retreat in the interesting moment of pocketing the cash. But the watchful songster had him in his eye; and, as he rose to thank the company for the honour done him in drinking his health, he intercepted Jack in the act of drawing back the bolt of the door.
“I think this is the best place I can speak from; and, as Jack is so anxious to be off, perhaps to see his sweetheart, I hope he’ll give me the opportunity of proposing her health in his absence, for not until he has given us her name shall the bolt be drawn.”
The poor fellow had counted on his escape, but little thought of the extremity of ridicule he was thus bringing upon himself. At length, urged on all sides, he could resist no longer, but, in a kind of ludicrous despair, he exclaimed—
“Well, then, I’ll toast the health of Margaret Catchpole!”
The pencil of Wilkie could alone describe the wild burst of unrestrained glee at this declaration.
“Margaret Catchpole!" was as suddenly responded in surprise by men, women, and children; and such grinning countenances, and coarse laughter, and joking congratulations, were beginning to show themselves, that Jack, no longer able to endure their gibes, bolted to the door, and, finding no resistance to his will, made his exit, amidst the roars of his companions, who vociferated, with a cheer, “The health of Margaret Catchpole!”
Jack fled precipitately from this scene of tumult and confusion, and, as he passed the little foot-bridge over the stream from the moat, he still heard the rude merriment he had excited. The moon rose brilliantly over the little chapel in the dark background, and was reflected upon the water in a line with the bridge, and showed Jack’s figure in darkness crossing the light plank; but he was soon in the shadow of those lofty trees, which darkened the footpath towards the gamekeeper’s cottage. He had instinctively taken this path because it led to Levington, his father’s house; and he then remembered that parent’s parting words—"If ever you feel yourself unhappy, my boy, remember you have a home here, in which, as long as your mother and I live, we shall be happy to give you a welcome.”
Jack was really unhappy, and he had some cause for feeling so, though he felt that it lay not with himself. He knew that he had spoken the truth, though it had cost him a severe pang; and whilst he felt much grief at the thought of the jeers and quizzings he should meet with, and the annoyances he might occasion the poor girl whom he really loved, he had still spoken the truth, which he was not ashamed to confess. He was arrested in his progress by the voice of John Gooding, the old gamekeeper of the great Squire of Nacton—Philip Broke.
“Who goes there?” was his question.
“John Barry,” was the reply.
“Where now, Jack—where now?”
“What, Mr. Gooding, is it you? Has the tide turned? Can I walk along the shore to Levington?”
“The tide has only just turned; but, if you take the wood-path for a while to Nacton, you may then, if you like it, keep the shore along Orwell Park, and pass the old Hall to Levington. But what makes you leave good company at this time o’ night?”
“I have left them all very merry at the harvest supper, but I had a mind to see my friends.”
“Well, Jack, had it been any other man upon the farm, I should have been suspicious of you as a poacher; but I know you well, and can believe you. I should not trust some that you have left behind. I was just going down to the Priory, to see how you lads fared to-night.”
“Well, Mr. Gooding, you will find them all very glad to see you, and no doubt they will make you welcome; but will you trouble yourself to let master know where I am gone to-night, that he may close his doors without expecting to see me?”
“That I will; and, when I get there, I will propose your health, Jack, during your absence.”
“Do so, Mr. Gooding; and tell them all, they have my hearty good wishes for their health and happiness.”
“Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
But where is Margaret all this time? She is on the shore, casting an anxious eye upon the waters. The moon is shining with such perfect brightness, that she can see across the river, though it be nearly two miles from the strand at Downham Reach to Freston Tower. She looks towards the dark shades of Woolverstone, and with a lover’s anxious eye, fancies she can descry a sail. A sail there was; but it came very slowly on, though a breeze reached the spot where poor Margaret was standing.
In that old vessel, seated at the helm, was as extraordinary a character as ever sailed upon the waves of the Orwell; and as he will be no insignificant actor in some succeeding scenes of this work, he shall be here introduced to the notice of the reader. He is thus described in theSuffolk Garland.
“The ancient fisherman whose character is here portrayed is not a mere creature of the imagination, but an eccentric being, once resident in the parish of St. Clement, Ipswich, by name Thomas Colson, but better known by the appellation of Robinson Crusoe. He was originally a wool-comber, and afterwards a weaver; but a want of constant employment in either of these occupations induced him to enter into the East Suffolk Militia. Whilst quartered at Leicester, he learned, with his usual ingenuity, the art of stocking-weaving, which trade he afterwards followed in this county. But this employment, in its turn, he soon relinquished, and became a fisherman on the river Orwell. His little vessel (if vessel it might be called, for every part of it was his own handiwork) presented a curious specimen of naval patchwork, for his extreme poverty did not afford him the means of procuringproper materials. In this leaky and crazy vessel, it was his constant custom, by day and by night, in calms and in storms, to toil on the river for fish. His figure was tall and thin; his countenance meagre, yet striking; and his eye sharp and piercing. Subject to violent chronic complaints, with a mind somewhat distempered, and faculties impaired, he was a firm believer in the evil agency of wizards and witchcraft.... His mind was so haunted with the dreams of charms and enchantments, as to fancy that he was continually under the influence of these mischievous tormentors. His arms and legs, nay, almost his whole body, was encircled with bones of horses, rings, amulets, and characts, verses, words, &c., &c., as spells and charms to protect him against their evil machinations. On different parts of his boat was to be seen ‘the horseshoe nailed,’ that most effective antidote against the power of witches. When conversing with him, he would describe to you that he saw them hovering about his person, and endeavouring by all their arts to punish and torment him. Though a wretched martyr to the fancies of a disordered imagination, his manners were mild and harmless, and his character honest and irreproachable. But, however powerful and effective his charms might be to protect him from the agency of evil spirits, they did not prove sufficiently operative against the dangers of storm and tempest. For, being unfortunately driven on the ooze by a violent storm on the 3rd of October, 1811, he was seen, and earnestly importuned to quit his crazy vessel; but relying on the efficacy of his charms, he obstinately refused; and the ebb of the tide drawing his bark off into deep water, his charms and his spells failed him, and poor Robinson sank to rise no more.”
The writer of these pages knew Colson well. He has often, when a boy, been in his boat with him; and always found him kind and gentle.
The old man who sat at the helm of his crazy vessel, now toiling up the Orwell, was a perfect fisherman, patient, quiet, steady, active, and thoughtful. Hehad enough to employ his mind as well as his body, and too deeply was that mind engaged. The whole legion of evil spirits seemed to be his familiar companions, or rather his incessant enemies. He knew all their names, and their propensities; how they visited and afflicted men; and his great study was, how to prevent their malice taking effect upon himself or any one else. He would converse with them, and parley with them; he would seem to suffer when any of them took him by surprise and found him off his guard. The loss of any one of his numerous charms was sure to occasion the visit of that very demon from whose attacks it was supposed to defend him. He has often been tried by intelligent persons, anxious to discover if he really invented a new tale for each spirit; notes were kept of the name and the peculiar temper he attributed to each; and, months afterwards, he was questioned again and again upon the same points, but he never faltered—never attributed a wrong direction to any one—but was as accurate and certain as on the first day he spoke of them.
The whole purport of these attacks was to persuade Robin to do some wicked deed, at which his mind revolted; and when they could not prevail against him, they used to seem, to his suffering mind, to torment him, sometimes to pinch him, sometimes to pelt him, at others, to burn or scald him, pull his hair off his head, to pull his ears, his nose, or his arms; and, under all these seeming attacks, the old man’s countenance would exhibit the species of suffering resembling the agonies of one really under such torture. No one could persuade him that it was imaginative; he would shake his head and say, “I see them plainly—take care they do not visit you!”
He was a very kind friend to many who were afflicted; and never saw a person in distress whilst he had a fish in his boat, or a penny in his pocket, and refused to help him.
From the great encouragement he met with, and the friends who were always kind to him, it is supposedthat he might have laid by a sufficiency for his latter days, for at one time he had amassed enough to have purchased a new vessel, but in an evil hour he was induced to lend it to an artful villain, who represented himself in great distress, but who ran off with the whole.
It was curious to see the old man whilst repairing his boat, which was, when given to him by Mr. Seekamp, but a wreck, as it lay upon the mud near Hog Island. It was curious to see him, whilst plying his hatchet, suddenly stop, seat himself on a piece of timber, and hold parley with one of the demons, who, in his frenzy, he fancied attacked him. After searching about his person, he would suddenly catch up a talisman, which shown to the enraged spirit would send him off, and leave the tormented in peace. His delight was visible in the chuckling joy of his speech, as he returned triumphantly and speedily to his accustomed work.
Colson, who sat at the helm of his vessel, which creaked heavily under the breeze as it sprang up, was in one of his moods of reverie, when, stooping down and straining his eyes to windward, he saw a sail. It was a small boat, which seemed to have got more wind in her canvas than Robin could obtain.
On came the boat; and the breeze began to swell the many-coloured sail of the bewitched barque; but Robin’s canvas was heavy compared with the airy trimming of the feathers of the little duck that followed him. Like a creature of life, she skipped along, and soon overtook the old fisherman of the Orwell.
“What ship ahoy! What ship ahoy!" exclaimed a gruff voice from the boat below, as Robin, leaning over the stern of his clumsy craft, looked closely into her with an eager eye.
“It’s only old Robinson Crusoe,” replied the other. “You may speak long to him before you know what he means, even if you get any answer at all.”
“Ahoy! ahoy!" was, however, the old man’s reply. “You’ve got the foul fiend aboard. What are you up to, Will? I know that’s Will Laud’s voice, thoughI haven’t heard it lately. Whither bound, Will? whither bound?”
“Confound the fellow!" muttered Will. “I never heard him say so much before. The foul fiend always sails with him. But give him a good word, John, and a wide berth.”
“Heavy laden, Robin? heavy laden? You’ve a good haul aboard. Crabs, or lobsters, or crayfish—eh, Robin? turbot, plaice, or flounders? soles, brill, or whiting? sanddabs, or eels? But you’ve got plenty, Bob, or I mistake, if not a choice. The tide is falling: you’ll never reach the Grove to-night.”
“I shall get up in time, Will. You’ve lightened my cargo. You’ve got a pleasant companion aboard. You’ve got my black fiend on your mainsail. There he sits, pointing at you both, as if he had you in his own clutches. Take care he don’t drive you aground. He sticks close to the sail, Will.”
“Heave ahoy! heave ahoy! Good-night!" and away bounded the boat, which was then passing Pin Mill, in the widest part of the river, and steering towards the shades of Woolverstone. The obelisk rose high over the dark trees, pointing to the clear, moonlit sky, its pinnacle still tinged with the last red light of that autumnal evening.
But the breeze freshening, the little skiff darted along the side of the greensward, which sloped to the water’s edge; and, as she passed, the startled doe leaped up from her repose, and stamped her foot, and snorted to the herd reposing or browsing on the side of the hill.
Woolverstone Park, with its thick copses and stately trees, whose roots reached, in snaky windings, to the very shore, was now the range along which the barque skirted till it came opposite the white cottage, which stands on a small green opening, or lawn, slanting down to the river.
The park boat was moored against the stairs, and a single light burned against the window, at which a white cat might be seen to be sitting. It was a favourite cat of the gamekeeper’s, which had accidentally beenkilled in a rabbit-trap, and, being stuffed, was placed in the window of the cottage. Visible as it always was in the same place, in the broad day and in the clear moonlight, the sailors on the river always called that dwelling by the name of the Cat House; by which it is known at the present day. High above it might be seen the mansion, shining in the moonbeam, and many lights burning in its various apartments—a sign of the hospitality of W. Berners, Esquire, the lord of that beautiful domain.
But the two sailors in the boat were little occupied with thoughts about the beauty of this scene, or the interest that might attach to that side of the water. Their eyes were bent upon the opposite shore; and, as they sailed along, with a favourable wind, they soon passed the boathouse and the mansion of Woolverstone.
“Luff, do you think we shall be lucky? I’d venture my share of the next run, if I could once safely harbour the prize from yonder shore.”
“Why, Will, you speak as if the Philistines were to meet you. Who can prevent your cutting out such a prize?”
“I know not; except that she is too difficult a craft to manage.”
“Pshaw, Will! her cable may be easily cut; and once we have her in tow, with this side-wind upon our sail, we shall be back again as quickly as we came.”
“Maybe, maybe, John; but I do not like being too desperate. I’ll fulfil my word, and give you more than half my share, which you know is a pretty good one, if you will lend me an honest and fair play.”
“I’ll do nothing, Bill, but what you tell me. I’ll lay like a log in the boat, and stir not without the boatswain’s whistle; and as to an honest hand, I’ll tell you what, Will, ’tis something as good as your own—it will do by you as well as your own would do by me.”
“Say no more, say no more! But look, John—I do believe I see her by the shore.”
“I see something white, but that’s the cottage in the Reach.”
“No, no, John; keep her head well up; my eyes are clearer than yours—I see her flag waving in the wind. You may take your tack now, John—we shall run directly across. Ease out the mainsail a bit, and I’ll mind the foresail. Bear up, my hearty! bear up, my hearty!”
With such words of mutual encouragement did these men of the sea, the river, and the land, after passing Woolverstone Park, steer directly across, towards Nacton Creek, that they might hug the wind under Downham Reach, and move more rapidly, in shallow water, against the tide.
Any one would imagine, from their conversation, that they were intent upon cutting out some vessel from her moorings, instead of a poor, defenceless girl, who, trusting to nothing but the strength of true love, stood waiting for them on the shore.
There stood the ever faithful Margaret, with palpitating heart, watching the light barque, as it came bounding over the small curling waves of the Orwell. In her breast beat feelings such as some may have experienced; but, whoever they may be, they must have been most desperately in love. Hope, fear, joy, and terror, anxiety, and affection—each, in turn, sent their separate sensations, in quick succession, into her soul. Hope predominated over the rest, and suggested these bright thoughts—
“He is coming to me, no more to be tried, no more to be disapproved, but to tell me he is an honest man, and engaged in honest service.”
What a picture would she have presented at that moment to any genuine lover of nature! Who could describe that eye of expectation, swelled as it was with the animating hope of happiness to come! Who could describe that heaving heart, answering as it did to every heave of the little boat which came bounding to the shore! And what words shall speak that sudden emotion, as the welcome sound of the grounding keel, and the rush of waters following it, told that the boat was ashore, which conveyed to a woman’s heart allthat she had so long looked for, hoped, and feared—her lover’s return!
The watchword, “Margaret,” was spoken, and in another moment her joy and grief, and love and hope, were, as it were, embodied in the embrace of him she loved. Moments at such time fly too rapidly—an hour seems but an instant. There is so much to say, to express, to ponder upon, that the time is always too short. In honest love there seems to be no fear, no death, no time, no change—a sort of existence indescribably happy, indefinitely blissful, hopeful, and enduring.
In the heart of Margaret, the poor Margaret Catchpole, love was her life; and as she stood upon that strand, and first welcomed her William, she felt the purest, happiest, and holiest feelings of joy, rectitude, and honesty—such as she never before had felt to such extent, and such as she knew but for a few short moments, and often wished for again, but never, never afterwards experienced.
Since his absence from Margaret, the character of Laud had become more and more desperate, and to say that the same pure feeling burned in his breast as did in Margaret’s would not be true. No man who leads a guilty life can entertain that purity of love in his heart which shall stand the test of every earthly trial; but Margaret, like many real lovers, attributed to him she loved the same perfection and singleness of attachment which she felt towards him. Had she known that this pure flame was only burning as pure and bright in the honest soul of Jack Barry, she would, it may be, have rejected Laud, and have accepted him; but she knew not this. She was not blind to the faults of the sailor, though she was blinded to his real character. She expected to find a love like her own, and really believed his affection to be the same to the last.
“Now, Margaret,” he at length exclaimed, “now’s the time: my boat is ready, my ship is at the mouth of the river. A snug little cabin is at your service;and you will find more hearts and hands to serve you than you ever had in your life.”
“But where am I to go, William? What business have I on board your master’s vessel? He would not approve of your sailing with your young wife. I thought you came to tell me you were prepared to marry me from my own dear father’s house, and to be a comfort and a blessing to my aged mother.”
“Margaret, you say you love me. My time is short. I am come here to prove the sincerity of my love, and to take you, in an honest way, to a country where we may be married; but if you send me away now, we may never meet again.”
“If you are true, William—if, as you say, your prospects are good, and you have spared sufficient from your lawful gains to hire a cottage and to make me happy, why not get leave of absence, and come and marry me in dear old England?”
“I may not be able to get leave for a long time; and what difference does it make whether we are married here, or in my employer’s country? Marriage is marriage, Margaret, in every place, all the world over.”
“Yes, Will; but I have heard that marriages solemnized in some countries do not hold good in others; and whether they did or not, I should like those who first gave me birth to give me to you, William. My consent, they know, is a willing one; but I should not be happy in mind, if I were to leave my parents without their knowing where I was gone.”
“What will it matter if they do not know it till we return? I almost think you would like another better than me, Margaret.”
“If you, William, were, in some respects, other than you are, I should like you full as well; but, as you are, I love you, and you know it. Why not come ashore, and marry me at our own church, and in the presence of my own parents? As to any other, William, though another may like me, I cannot help it, but I can help his having me.”
“Then there is another that does love you!—is there, Margaret?”
A blush passed over Margaret’s face as she replied, “Another has told me so, and I did not deceive him. He thought you dead, or he would never have ventured upon the subject. I told him he was mistaken, that you were not dead, and that I still loved you, William.”
“Then he knows I live, does he?”
“Yes.”
“And you have betrayed me?”
“No: I have not told any one but him; and as he pressed his suit, thinking that you were no more, I felt it to be only due to him to tell him you were alive.”
“And who is he, Margaret? You would not have been so plain with him if he had not had somewhat of your confidence.”
“He is an honest young man, and of very good and respectable parents—he works at the Priory Farm; and seeing him, as I do, daily, I can form sufficient judgement of his character to believe he would never betray any one.”
“Upon my word, Margaret, he must be a prodigy of perfection! Perhaps you would like him to be bridesman upon our wedding-day?”
“I would, indeed, if he would like it, and you had no objection.”
“What is his name?”
“John Barry.”
“What! of Levington?”
“Yes.”
“His brother is in the coastguard. It was he who gave me this, Margaret, this cut upon my forehead—this, that you took such pains to heal.”
“And it is healed, William; and your heart, too, I hope.”
“No, no, no!—I owe him one!”
“Consider me his creditor, and pay it me; for I healed that wound, and it brought with it reformation.”
“I would not give you what I would give him.”
“No, William; but you ought not to bear malice.His brother has been very kind to me. I may say, he is the only one who never reproached me with having been the mistress of a smuggler.” (There was a fearful frown upon the smuggler’s brow at this moment, and a convulsive grasp of the poor girl’s hand, that told there was agony and anger stirring in his soul.) “But you are not a smuggler now, William. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. All reproach of that name has long passed away from my mind.”
William was silent, and gazed wildly upon the waters. One hand was in his bosom, the other was in Margaret’s hand, as she leaned upon his shoulder. There might be seen a strange paleness passing over his face, and a painful compression of his lips. A sudden start, as if involuntary, and it was most truly so. It told of a chilliness on the heart, that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. He actually trembled.
“William, you are not well.”
“No, I am not; but a little grog, which is in the boat, will soon set me right again.”
“Shall I run and fetch it?”
“No, no,—wait a bit, wait a bit. Hold—I was a smuggler! Yes, you said I was a smuggler! The world despised me! You bore the reproach of my name! Well, Margaret, the smuggler comes home—he comes to marry you. Will the world believe him to be altered? Will they not call you, then, the smuggler’s bride?”
“No, William, not if you are really altered, as you say you are. I wish you were in the British service; seamen are wanted now, and the smuggler would soon be forgiven, when he once sailed under the flag of Old England.”
“’Tis too late, ’tis too late, now, Margaret! I will not say I may not ever sail under our gallant Nelson. You might persuade me to it, if you would only sail with me to Holland, and there be married to me, Margaret.”
“You have heard me upon this point: do not urge it any more. I have now stolen away from duty,William, to meet you here, and I hope I shall not be missed. Let me only hear you say you will come again soon, to marry me at home, and I shall return to my service happy.”
“I would if I could, but I cannot.”
“Why not, William? why not?”
“Do not ask me why. Come, Margaret, come to the boat, and share my fate. I will be constant to you, and you shall be my counsellor.”
“Nay, William, do not urge me to forsake all my friends, and put all this country in terror as to what has become of me. I cannot go on board your boat. I cannot give you myself until God and my parents have given me to you. So do not think of it; but, come again, come again!—yes, again and again!—but come openly, in the sight of all men, and I will be yours. I live for you only, William, and will never be another’s whilst you live.”
“But how can I live without you, Margaret? I cannot come in the way you talk of; I tell you I cannot. Do, then, do be mine.”
“I am yours, William, and will ever be so; but it must be openly, before all men, and upon no other terms.”
“Then it will never be!”
“Why so?”
“Because I am a smuggler!”
“You have been such, but you are not so now. You have long forsaken the gang; you are forgotten, and supposed to be dead. You may change your name; but being changed in your life, it will only be known to me.”
“And to Barry, too, Margaret; and then to his brother, and to numbers of others, who will know me. I was recognized this very night.”
“What, if you change your name?”
“My name is changed, but not my nature. I am a smuggler still!”
“No, William, no—you cannot be! You are in the service of an honest man, though a foreigner.”
“No, Margaret, I am not. You see before you the notorious Hudson. I am a smuggler still!”
It was now poor Margaret’s turn to tremble, and she felt more than language can speak. She had heard of Hudson—Captain Hudson, as he was called—but had no idea that her lover was that, or such a man. She felt a revulsion amounting to sickness, a giddiness overcame her, and she felt as if she must fall to the earth. Half carried, half urged, half pulled along, she was unconsciously moving, with her eyes fixed fully upon the boat, and approaching it, and she had no power to resist—a sort of trance-like senselessness seemed to overpower her; and yet she felt that hand, knew that form, and saw the waters and the boat, and had no energy or impulse to resist. Her heart was so struck with the deadliness of grief and despair, that the nerves had no power to obey the will, and the will seemed but a wish to die. We cannot die when we wish it, and it is well for us we cannot. Happy they who do not shrink when the time comes appointedly; thrice happy they who welcome it with joy, and hope, and love!
Margaret revived a little before she reached the boat, and resisted. The firm grasp of the smuggler was not, however, to be loosed.
“You do not mean to force me away, William?”
“I must, if you will not go.”
“I will not go.”
“You shall—you must—you cannot help it! Do not resist.”
“Shame, William, shame! Is this your love?”
“It is, Margaret, it is. I mean you fair.”
“Your means are foul. Let me go, William! let me go!”
“Yes: you shall go on board my boat.”
“Not with my life, William. I will go overboard!”
“Then will I follow you; but I cannot parley longer. Come on!”
The poor girl’s struggles now became so violent, and her efforts to escape so powerful, that Will Laud’sutmost strength could not drag her along the sand. Her fears, too, were increasing with his cruel violence; and these fears were greatly increased by Laud giving a loud, shrill boatswain’s whistle. This awakened her to the sight of the trap into which she had been beguiled, for, in another moment, she saw a man spring from the boat, and hasten towards her. He came along with rapid strides to join them, and soon, with horrid voice, exclaimed,—
“Your signal, Laud, is late indeed, but better late than never.”
That voice was too well known by Margaret: ’twas the hated countryman’s—’twas John Luff’s.
This fellow seized her in his arms, and, as a tiger would swing a fawn over his back, so poor Margaret was swung over his shoulders in an instant. The last effort a defenceless female can make is the shriek of despair; and such a one was heard, as not only sounded through the woods of Downham Reach, but reached the opposite shores of Woolverstone Park.
That shriek was heard by one whose heart was too true to nature to resist the good motives which it awakened. Young Barry, as the reader knows, was journeying toward the gamekeeper’s cottage on the cliff, and had just entered the wood in front of that dwelling, as the piercing shriek struck upon his ear. He sprang over the paling in an instant, and by the broad moonlight beheld a man carrying a female towards a boat, and the other assisting to stop her cries. He leaped down the cliff, and seizing a strong break-water stake, which he tore up from the sand, rushed forward to the man who carried the female. It was a good, trusty, heart-of-oak stake which he held, and which in one moment he swung round his head, and sent its full weight upon the hamstrings of Luff. The fellow rolled upon the sand, and over and over rolled the poor girl into the very waves of the Orwell.
It was no slight work which Barry had now in hand. It was a bold deed to attack two such daring villains, both well armed, and he with nothing but a stake.But the consequences he neither foresaw nor dreaded; the cause was a good one, and he left the issue to God. As quick as thought he had already dashed one foeman to the earth; the other stood aghast, beholding Margaret fallen into the water, and his comrade rolling on the shore. He flew to help Margaret, and raising her up, determined not to relinquish her, but stood opposed to the dauntless Barry.
“Villains, release the girl!" was his exclamation.
“It is Barry’s voice!" shrieked Margaret. “Help, John, help!”
There was a strange opposition of feeling in all the parties at these words. The blood curdled in the veins of the smugglers, whilst it seemed to burst with overpowering fullness upon the forehead of the young man who now attacked them. He fought for the prize of true love—they for revenge. The moment they heard the name uttered by the girl they seemed to think no more about her; but the fallen man sprang up, and Laud let Margaret go, and both rushed, like enraged wild beasts, with full force against young Barry. He, with true heroic daring, committed himself at once to the encounter. He was a fine athletic young man, a head taller than either of the sailors, but odds were fearfully against him. Luff was a stout, stiff, sturdy seaman; and Laud young, active, cool, and desperate.
A smuggler is seldom without a weapon of offence and defence. Luff seized his pistol from his girdle, and fired at his brave antagonist; it missed its mark, and the stout oak arm was not long in thundering a blow upon his head, which again sent him sprawling upon the ground. It was Laud’s turn now to take his aim, which he did in the most cool, determined manner, with as much ease, and as steady a hand, as if he were firing at a holiday mark. It was a cruel aim, and rendered the contest still more unequal. It took effect in the young man’s left shoulder, and rendered that arm useless.
None but such a frame and such a spirit could have stood against that pistol-shot. It made him stagger for the moment; but he had presence of mind to wardoff the next blow of a cutlass with his good oaken staff. And now might be seen the most desperate conflict for life or death between the rivals. Barry and Laud closed and parted, and struggled fiercely with each other, though the former had but one arm to act upon the defensive with. His right hand, however, was powerful enough to dash the sword of Laud at least ten yards into the wave; and with such dexterity did he handle his weapon, that had not Luff come again unexpectedly to the encounter, the contest must have been speedily terminated in favour of Barry: Luff recovered his feet again, and rushed at Barry with such rage, that again his other pistol missed its aim.
Barry had now to act entirely upon his own defence, with only one arm against four. He had this advantage, however, that they had no time to load their pistols, and had only their short butt-ends to fight with, whilst he had a good long arm.
But assistance—unexpected assistance—was at hand. A tall, gaunt figure strode along the strand, armed with a long fisherman’s pike, or hook, a weapon commonly used to take codfish off the fishing-lines. His was a sinewy arm, which few could resist or disable.
When such a man was aroused, harmless and peaceable as was his general character, his appearance became truly terrific; and his firm and steady step, and determined resolution, told that he was a soldier of cool courage, not easily to be beaten.
It was old Colson, or poor Robinson Crusoe, who, as it has been stated, was making his way with fish up the Orwell.
He and young Barry, now side by side, beat back the smugglers to their boat. Desperate was the contest; but there was no opposing the unearthly-looking being, with his bones, perforated plates, and charms dangling about his person. Well was it that he came so opportunely, for without his help the fate of young Barry had been sealed for ever. It was bad enough as it was. The smugglers retreated, and jumped into their boat. Laud, seizing a carabine, levelled it atBarry, whilst Luff pushed off the boat from the shore.
“Let fly at him, Will! let fly at him! Revenge yourself and my fall!”
A flash and loud explosion followed this advice. The smoke cleared off in a second, and the pirates saw but the stately form of Robin standing upon the shore. Young Barry—the generous, brave, and faithful Barry—lay stretched upon the sand.
Meantime Margaret had escaped. She had reached the Priory Farm; and rushing into the room where the harvest-men were assembled, fell down exhausted, with just strength of voice to say, “Fly—fly—fly to the shore! Barry will be murdered!”
The gamekeeper was off before Margaret arrived, having heard the report of the pistols; and he went into the wood. The young men ran off to the shore, and soon found the old fisherman supporting the head of the poor young man. The blood was flowing fast from his wounds, and he was in a swoon like death, though his heart beat, and he breathed painfully. They formed a double row; they lifted him up, and carried him along as gently as they could; but the poor fellow groaned with the agony of his shattered arm and wounded side.
Robin followed them, muttering curses against the foul fiend, and every moment pointing to the departing boat of the smugglers with a clenched fist, exclaiming, “The foul fiend be with you! He’ll consume you yet, ye cowards!”
There is a sad and fearful void in the disappointed heart.
Poor Margaret! but one short hour past and thy prospects were as bright as the broad moonlight that shone upon thy path. Yea, they were as bright to thine eye as that beautiful orb in the most brilliant night; for thy love was pure, true, and abiding.
How great was the reverse our heroine experienced when she quitted her lover, and returned to the Priory Farm worse than desolate! Had she never seen him again,herdisappointment could not have been so great. Time might have taught her to consider him lost at sea, or taken by the enemy, or killed in battle, or as having died a natural death. But as it was, the tide had turned so suddenly; the change from the full flow to the very lowest ebb was as instantaneous as if some gulf had swallowed up the river, and left the channel dry. Clouds, black clouds intervened between her and her lover. She had received a blight to all her hopes, save one, and that was the last and best that any one could cleave to; it was, “that God would change his heart, and one day make him see the error of his way.”
She little thought how distant that day was. But it seemed that her sister’s words were at this time true: “Margaret, you will never marry William Laud.”
Margaret was in the little parlour of the Priory Farm, in all the agony of terror and the perturbation of confessing her faults to her master and mistress, when the murmur of returning voices told that the good farmer’s men were coming from the shore. Her soul was so full—her heart so anxious—her confession so open, so sincere—that even they who were most angry with hercould not find it in their hearts to be angry and severe towards her at such a moment of distress. She was so full of terror that she dared not to stir; she had no power to rise and make inquiries upon the dreadful point upon which she wished to be most satisfied. She heard the footsteps approach; and as the parlour-door stood open, looking into the kitchen, she saw the young men bringing in the heavy body of the youth, to whom, perhaps, she then owed her existence; for her resolution had been formed, to have plunged into the waves sooner than be taken away, against her will, by the smugglers. Certainly she owed her present safety to the intrepid boldness of that wounded man. She saw them bring him into the kitchen, pale, bloody, and, as she first thought, lifeless; but a heavy groan, as they laid him down upon the floor, by the fire, made her start up, and feel the first spring of joy in her desponding heart, that he was not murdered. But the joy that Laud was not his murderer was as great as that the youth was not dead.
Her mistress’s voice, calling to bring water and assist her, restored her to a consciousness of her duties. Here might be seen the benefit of active employment in diverting her mind from its most painful feelings, rousing it to think, and turning it away from tormenting itself.
The surgeon was sent for immediately; and after a short delay in preparing a bed in a room by itself, the young man was carried up by his companions. Never was there a more melancholy change from the mirth of "harvest-home,” to the misery of a house of woe. To look into that kitchen, which so shortly before was resounding with the cheerful voices of merriment, and to see the long faces, to hear the whispers, and the questions, and the remarks made upon the circumstances, presented a scene so different and so painful, that description would fail to express it. There sat the ancient fisherman, silent and thoughtful, his left hand upon his forehead, and his right clutched convulsively with his inward emotion. There stood the foreman of the field, with his fellow-labourers,anxious to know who it was that had given the wound; for they had as yet only been told that two men in a boat had fired upon Barry, and wounded him.
Meanwhile the old fisherman, who had witnessed the scene, was so absorbed in his own reflections, that he did not seem disposed voluntarily to afford them any information.
At last one of them addressed Robin.
“Who was the fellow that fired the gun, Robin?”
“The foul fiend!" said Robin; “I saw him in the boat.”
“What foul fiend? was he devil or man?”
“He was a demon, who left me for a moment to torment others. I knew mischief would come of him as soon as he left me. He is always stirring up infernal broils; and would bring a host of enemies against me, if it were not for this charm. Look here,” and taking from his side a perforated bone, he held it up, saying, “this is the rib of Margery Beddingfield, who was gibbeted on Rushmere Heath for the murder of her husband. When I show him this, he will soon be off. This is so strong a spell, he cannot touch me. But look! there he is! there he is!" and the startled hinds closed round their lord, and looked fearfully in the direction of the door, to see if the murderer was coming.
“Aye, look at this, thou false fiend! Dost thou remember how thou didst stir up Margery, and Richard Ringe of Sternfield, her paramour, to murder John Beddingfield, the farmer, near Saxmundham? Thou couldst inflame their hot young blood to mischief; but what dost thou come here for? Off! off, I say! Look here! thou hadst better go to the officers of justice. Ha! ha! he is gone!" and the old man smiled again, as if he had defeated his foe, and was congratulating himself on the victory.
These things were very unsatisfactory to the minds of these plain-thinking countrymen. They again and again put questions to him, but could get no other answers than incoherences about the foul fiend.
“But what had Margaret Catchpole to do with it?”
“Ask her yourself: the foul fiend always finds an easier prey in a woman.”
At this time Margaret came into the room; and ignorant as she herself was of Robin’s efficient aid, she could not help asking him if he had seen the fight.
“Didyousee it, young woman? I saw you long before I saw the fight.”
Margaret did not ask any more questions; for in another minute several asked her who had been fighting, what it was for, and what she had to do with it. She knew too well to speak would be to betray herself; and she was glad to find they were in ignorance of the real perpetrator of the deed. She was called into the parlour just then, and rejoiced to escape the inquisitive demands of her fellow-servants.
“That’s a clever girl,” said old Robin, as she left the kitchen,—"that’s a clever girl. Which of you boys would like her for a wife?”
“Ask Will Simpson,” said a sly fellow.
“Ask poor Jack Barry,” said another; “’tis my belief Jack got his blow from a rival in Margaret’s love.”
“What fiend told you that, young man? ’Tis seldom any of ‘em speak the truth? But, perhaps, you know who he is that rivals Jack?”
“No, not I—not I. I know who he would be, if he was alive; and just the sort of fellow, too, to give Jack a nab. But he’s dead and gone long ago, and maybe his bones are at the bottom of the sea, for he was killed on Felixstowe beach.”
“Who’s he? who’s he?”
“Why, Will Laud, the smuggler. Don’t you know him, Robin?”
“Yes; but I never knew that he was dead.”
“Oh, yes, he’s dead enough. I saw a fellow who told me he helped to bury him in the sands at the foot of the cliff.”
“Then the foul fiend has brought him back to life again, for I have seen him many times; and I spoke to him this very night, and he to me. Not only so, I know him well; and I wish all the fiends hadhim before he had given that brave lad his death-blow.”
“What! Will Laud? you do not mean to say Will Laud was on the shore to-night?”
“Ask Margaret Catchpole: she can tell you as much as I.”
Margaret returned just as this was said; and Will Simpson, perhaps as much in spite (for Margaret had upon some occasion of his rudeness given him such a specimen of her dexterity with a frying-pan, as left a memorial on his head not easily to be forgotten or forgiven) as for inquisitiveness, put this question—
“I say, Peggy, who met you upon the shore to-night, eh?”
“What’s that to you? A better man than you.”
“Perhaps a better Will, too; eh, Peggy? One who will have his will of you, too, before you die, and tame you, my dear.”
“Perhaps he may; and should it be so, he will make a ‘will o’ the wisp’ of you, Simpson.”
“He’ll be hanged first, Peggy, take my word for that. He’ll not be shot, nor drowned: he’s born to be hanged.”
“And what are you born for, you coward, that, at such a time as this, you should be quarrelling with me?”
“I’m born to be his informer; and, before long, I’ll have you both up before the Squire, for all this piece of work.”
Margaret did not like this banter; it looked as if they already knew that Will Laud was the intruder. She was somewhat less ready at her replies than usual, and felt too great a fear that she might commit herself. She tried, therefore, to turn the subject.
“My master, Robin, desires me to give you some supper.”
“Thank your master, but I have had mine; and, but that I hoped to hear what the doctor said to the poor young man upstairs, I should long ago have been on board my boat.”
The greatest cowards are not easily silenced when they find themselves able to browbeat an adversary with impunity, and that adversary a woman.
“Well, Margaret, if you won’t tell me, I’ll tell you whom you met upon the shore. You met one whom Robin says the foul fiend has raised to life again.”
Margaret turned very pale, and staggered to a chair. But Simpson still went on.
“O Peggy, Peggy, you have a guilty face! I don’t wonder at your feeling shame. You’ve managed to hide the smuggler, have you? If you don’t take care, both you and Will Laud will come to a bad end.”
Margaret rushed into the parlour, and fell at her master’s feet, imploring him to interfere and stop the reproaches of his men, who were treating her in a way she did not deserve. Her mistress made her sit down in the keeping-room; and, speaking a few words to her husband, he left them. He remonstrated with his men, and was in the act of insisting upon their departure to their homes, as Dr. Stebbing arrived. He was desired at once to go into the parlour; and there he recognized that high-spirited girl who, in the cause of humanity, had, in her childhood, galloped the pony to Ipswich for his aid. She rose and curtseyed; but her feet gave way under her, and she sank to the floor. The memory of her dear sister, the doctor’s former patient, her own happiness at that time, and her present misery, were too much for her to bear, and she was quite overcome. The good doctor raised her up, and, with his cheerful voice, tried, in his usual kind way, to comfort her.
“Come, come, my girl, what’s the matter? what’s the matter? Are you the patient I’m come all this way to see? I thought I was sent for to see a young man. But what’s the matter with you? Ah! is it so, my lassie?” (for his sagacity gave him a glimpse of the truth). “Come, cheer up, cheer up; we’ll go and see the lad. I dare say he’ll soon be better. Cheer up, cheer up.”
“Come, my good sir, let us have a light, and goupstairs,” said the doctor to the master of the house. “Now, my dear, go and fetch us a towel and some warm water. Come, bestir yourself; I know it will do you good.”
This was the best medicine for Margaret, with whom to be told to do anything, and not to go and do it, was almost an impossibility, so much had she been accustomed to obey.
All that could be done for the youth was to lay him in as easy a posture as possible; for he was in too much agony even to have his clothes removed. One of his companions sat and wiped the cold perspiration from his brows, whilst another washed his hands and face. He breathed quickly and heavily, with shuddering fits that shook the bed violently, and he was evidently in great pain.
“Come, my lads, come, lend me a hand—let us see—let us see! where is the hurt?—where is the wound?—what’s the lad’s name?”
“John Barry, sir.”
“John, my lad, let’s look at you!" but John took no notice of the doctor.
“I think, sir, his arm is broke, for it dangled by his side all the way we carried him.”
“Let us see, my boy, let us see! ’Tis broken! high up too, too high up. But we must strip him. Gently there—gently there, my lad"; and the groans of the poor fellow told his agony. The work was done with great care, and by slow degrees. But it was done, and then the frightful nature of his wounds became conspicuous: a gunshot wound from the middle of the arm to the shoulder. The ball had struck the humerus, and broken it, glanced over the head of it, and passed between the scapula and clavicle, and it might be easily felt lying in the external portion of the trapezian muscle. It was so near the skin that it was easily extracted; the difficulty was to get away those parts of the clothing which had been carried into the wound. Such was the effect of the first shot.
The second was the most severe. It had piercedthrough the long dorsal muscle, and the ball lay directly against the lumbar vertebrae. This wound was the more agonizing because it had pierced the strongest muscles of the human frame, and bruised the stoutest part of the backbone.
After the doctor had examined his wounds and ascertained that they were of the most serious nature, he said—
“This will be a work of time. Get some stimulants—put warm flannels on his feet—his extremities are icy cold. He has had violent exertion—all his muscles are hard and stiff. Put his hands in warm water. Wash his temples with warm vinegar. There, there; come, my poor fellow, come; consciousness will soon return.”
He opened his eyes, looked at the doctor, then at his master, then at his friends, and at last at Margaret, who was putting warm flannels to his feet. He looked earnestly at her, spoke not, but a tear stole down his face as he closed his eyes again.
His wounds were now probed, cleaned, and dressed, as carefully as if he had been one of the wealthiest squires or nobles of the land, and he was then left for the night, attended by two of his fellow-servants, in case he should need assistance or restraint.
“There, there, good-night, John, good-night. I think you’ll do now. Come, come, he feels a little easier. He breathes better"; and patting his cheeks in his good-humoured way, Dr. Stebbing left him, and went down into the parlour.
There is always a little chit-chat with the doctor after the usual labour of his profession is over, and he is quietly seated with the family. It is then he judges of what is best for his patient, for at such times the secrets of most families come forth; and if love or law, if loss of stock or money, if cruelties, injuries, or any causes whatever have been acting upon the patient’s mind, the doctor is sure to be made the confidant.
If the faculty could find out the means of supplying all their invalids with such things as they really wanted,they would soon get well, but in default of such means medicine and good advice—very necessary articles in their way—are supplies in which the faculty seldom fail.
“Doctor, will you take anything to-night? you have had a cold ride, and will have another on your way home—shall my mistress give you anything warm?”
“I care not if she does. A little nutmeg in a little warm brandy-and-water, and just one slice of your nice harvest-cake, and I shall be comfortable.”
The first question asked of the doctor was, “What he thought of his patient?”
“Why, he has gotan ugly wound that will take months to heal. He will not be able to be moved for six or seven weeks. Where do his parents live?”
“At Levington,” was the reply. “His father is tolerably well to do in the world, though he has a large family. I have not a steadier young man on my premises, nor a quieter, soberer, or better behaved lad, or a better workman belonging to me.”
“So much the better. But what does the old fisherman do in the kitchen? I thought he never sat down in any house, but always kept to his boat?”
“He is only waiting to speak to you, doctor. At least, he said he should stop to hear your report.”
“I should like to have one word with him.”
“I’ll go and tell him so"; and off trotted the worthy farmer for Robin, with whom he soon returned, and then, beckoning to his wife, they left him and the doctor alone together.
“Well, Robin, what an odd fish you are! I can never persuade you to come into my kitchen, and here you are, hail fellow well met, with the farmer’s men at Harvest-Home. How is this, Robin? I shall tell my daughter of you, and leave her to set some of your foul fiends to work upon you.”
“They’ve been at work pretty well to-night, doctor, or else I’m wofully mistaken. One of ’em has done a pretty job of mischief here; and it’s well if he don’t do more before he’s done.”
The doctor understood his dialect, and knew how to get out of him what he wanted.
“Who did the foul fiend work upon? who was his victim?”
“He left my boat, and went aboard Will Laud’s.”
“What! the smuggler? I thought he was shot long ago.”
“So others thought, but not I; for I saw him and a sturdy villain of his pass my boat, with all their sails set; and when my Infernal Broiler left me, and sat grinning on his mast, I knew he was up to mischief.”
“What mischief, Robin?”
“Why, look ye, doctor; you must ha’ seen the mischief. Ha’en’t you dressed the young man’s wounds?”
“Yes, Robin; but how came your imp to be the cause of this?”
“Nay, that you must ask the girl here; for seldom do my imps fail to make mischief among the sex.”
“Was it a love affair?”
“Nay, it didn’t appear much o’ that.” And here Robin, in his quaint language, well understood by the doctor, told his own tale as it happened.
“Well, Robin, all I can say is, that, but for you, one of the finest young fellows in the land would have lost his life; and there’s a guinea for you.”
“No, no, master; give me a guinea for my fish, but don’t give me a guinea for doing no more than I ought to do. Give it to the poor boy for loss of time. I’ve got some good fish, and you may have some to-morrow morning; but the fiends would torment me all night, if I went to my hammock with a guinea for my reward. No, doctor, no. I thank you, too; but tell me the boy will do well, and I’m well paid for my pains.”
“He will do well, I think, Robin, if his mind be not disturbed.”
The doctor felt, as perhaps the reader will, that the honest old fisherman, bewitched and bewildered as he was, had more good feeling about him than many a man of clearer head and a less scrupulous conscience,who would have crept along the mud to pick up a guinea for his dirty pocket.
“Well, well, my boy, I shall not find such an odd fish in your boat as your own self. You may bring up your basket to my door, and my daughter will deal with you. Instead of a guinea, I must give you any charm that you can ask me for.”
“Keep to that, doctor, and I’ll ask you soon to give me one that I stand much in need of, and which you only can furnish me with. You are surgeon to the gaol, and I want something out of that place. I’ll tell you, one of these days, what it is. My boat is now high and dry upon the shore. You might ask some of the landsmen here to lend me a hand to get her off. I shall be in Ipswich as soon as yourself.”
No sooner was the request made than it was granted; and Robin and five or six good stout fellows were on the shore, and soon shoved the boat off, which, quicker than the men could walk upon the sand, moved on her native element to the well-timed stroke of the able fisherman.
The doctor’s first introduction to the flying Margaret is well known to the reader. His knowledge of her under those circumstances made him feel for her; but there were some questions he wished to put to her, as his curiosity had been excited by what Robin had revealed. The farmer had already given him some hint about her confessions; but the doctor wanted to find out whether, after what had taken place that night, the tide of her affections might not have turned a little toward his patient. It was a delicate question to ask, but he thought he would find it out by another plan; so he desired to see Margaret in the parlour before he left the house.
“I did not half like your look, my girl, when I first saw you to-night. Come hither; let me feel your pulse: let me look at your tongue. Your pulse is quick, and you’ve some fever hanging about you.”
“I thank you, sir, I shall be better to-morrow. I’m very sorry for what has happened.”
“You could not help it, my girl—you could not help it; it was not your fault.”
“I don’t know that, sir,—I don’t know that. I blame myself much; but—but—”
“But you don’t like to blame anybody else, Margaret; I know you.”
“Well, sir, that’s the truth; but yet he was to blame.”
“Who? Barry?”
“No, sir, no; but he who shot him.”
“Yes, he was a cowardly fellow. What induced him to do it?”
“Because Barry’s brother shothim. I suspect he was excited at the remembrance of his own sufferings, and urged on to desperation by the fellow that was with him; and, in a moment of madness, thought to revenge himself.”
“This was not right, Margaret; it was still very cowardly.”
“Why, yes, it was; but—but, I do not defend him, sir.”
“What then, Margaret? what then?”
“Why, I was to blame, sir!”
“Why so?”
“Because I told him Barry loved me, sir.”
“Ho, ho! a little jealousy, was it? Was it so, Margaret? Well, well, he will be more jealous now.”
“I’m sorry for it, sir. Had I not thought he would have known my preference for him, I should not have told him this. It is this I blame myself for, as much as I do him. I hope Barry will do well, sir.”
“Your hopes may be disappointed, Margaret. His is a very bad case; and, if he dies, Will Laud will be hanged.”
“Then you know all, sir? Oh, pray save him if you can, sir!”
“Who?”
“John Barry, sir,—John Barry.”
“Margaret, do you love him?”
“No, sir; yes—yes, sir. I think he is a very goodyoung man, and he would be a great loss to his parents.”
“More so than to you, my girl?”
“Oh, yes, sir, yes. I’m sure I wish him well, and shall always feel grateful to him for his kindness to me. I do hope he will recover, sir, for Laud’s sake.”
This was enough; the doctor now knew all. He saw that his patient was in love with Margaret, but that Margaret loved another. He was in possession of the whole secret. He promised to do all he could; he dismissed the girl; and, after a few minutes’ further chat with the master and mistress of the house, and strongly advising them to send for Barry’s parents in the morning, he took his leave. His little bay pony soon rattled up Gainsborough’s Lane, through the open fields towards the Race-course, and over Bishop’s Hill, to the town of Ipswich.
Barry’s parents were not long in coming to their son, nor long in learning the real state both of his mind and body. It is the happiest time to die when a parent’s tender care is round you. Then the agony of suffering is greatly relieved, and the heart can open its most inward thoughts. It turns, with such filial respect and thankfulness, towards those whom it does not like to grieve, but who are always the most quick-sighted to see our wants and to relieve our distresses. So gentle is a mother’s love—so delicate, so soothing, so healing to the youthful mind, that nature almost decays with pleasure before her soft attentions. Nor is a father’s manliness and feeling less sensibly experienced at such a time. He may not have a woman’s gentleness, but he has a firmness and a quietness of action which are seldom seen at other times, and which make a sick room seem more calm and sufferable. He has quite as deep feeling, though it is more subdued. Who that ever has been ill in his youth, and has seen the kindness of parental love, but has thought that he never could die happier than when his fond parents were near him?