“That I am sure he would.”
“Pray, sir, how do you know that?”
“Because the description he gave me of you is so accurate that I could tell you from a thousand. Do you remember the sketch he made of an old woman throwing a cat at her husband?”
“That I do. Did he tell you of that?”
“That he did; and of the scratch he got from the cat’s claws, as you bopped your head, and puss lit directly on his face.”
Here the old man could not help laughing.
“But did he tell you nothing else about the sketch?”
“That he did, and with such feeling, that I almost fancy I see now the scrub-brush belabouring his head for his pains.”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! I thought he had forgotten all that.”
“No; he thought of it at the very time he was sketching the forts of his enemies’ country. Had he been caught in such freaks as those, he would have had a severer punishment than what your good dame gave him.”
“But if my old dame could see him now, how rejoiced she would be; for notwithstanding his roguery, he was a great favourite of hers!”
“She will see him to-morrow.”
“That will be news for the old woman. But shall I see him this night? I would not mind waiting till midnight for such a purpose.”
“That you may. But I do not think that even you would know him, were you to see him.”
“Why not? Would he know me?”
“He would: but youth alters more in countenance than age, especially where a foreign climate has acted upon the constitution.”
“I should know him from two things,” said Margaret. “He once so nearly cut off the end of his little finger with a sharp tool, that it hung only by a piece of skin: it was bound up, so that it adhered and grew together; but somehow, the tip got a twist, so thatthe nail of the finger grew under the hand: it was the left hand.”
“And what was the other mark?”
“It was a deep scar on the back of the same hand, caused by imprudently cutting off a large wart.”
“Now tell me,” said the stranger, drawing the glove off his left hand, "were the scars you mention anything like those?”
“Exactly,” said the clerk, who looked at him again and again with amazement.
“Why, you can’t be he? Are you Master Charles?”
“Can you doubt it?”
“The hand is his.”
“And the hand is mine. Therefore the hand is the hand of Charles.”
The old man rose, and coming forward said, “I do believe you are my son; I have been thinking so for some time, and I am now satisfied that it is so. God bless you, my boy! You are come at a seasonable hour, for the Lord gives and takes away as He sees best.”
A hearty embrace and affectionate recognition took place. The stranger (now no longer such) soon convinced them of his identity; and though no one could really have known a single feature of his countenance, yet he gave them such internal and external evidences of his relationship, calling to mind so many circumstances of such deep interest to them all, that he was soon acknowledged to be their relative.
Happiness comes unexpectedly in the days of mourning. The wild recruit had returned, after many days, to cheer an aged parent and a forlorn sister, who needed the hand of some one to help them in their troubles. The old man’s heart revived again; and it was a pleasure to witness the joys of the few days which then visited the Catchpoles, and the congratulations which they received from the old clerk and his wife upon the bright prospects of a hopeful son. Reports spread like wildfire that Charles Catchpole had come home, and that he had returned from India as rich asa Nabob. Reports are generally exaggerated, and they were not a little so in the present case; for although Charles might be comparatively rich, his fortune, as the world terms it, was anything but made. He had a few guineas to spare; but he had to return to India, and to pursue a very hazardous course of life, before he could even hope to gain that independence which had been promised to him. A few guineas, however, made a great show in a cottage. He paid his father’s debts; made a present to the old clerk’s wife; bought his sister a new gown; his younger brother, Edward, a new suit of clothes; paid one year’s rent in advance for the cottage; left a present with the sexton to keep his mother’s grave ever green; and announced his departure to his family after staying one short week after five years’ absence.
“I shall see you no more, Charles!" exclaimed Margaret, at parting. “I fear that I shall see you no more! You are going through a dangerous country, and the perils you have already escaped you must not always expect to avoid.”
“Fear not, Peggy, fear not. God sent me in a proper season to comfort you, and if you trust in Him, He will send you some other friend in need, if it be not such a one as myself.”
“Oh, let me go with you, dear brother! I should like to accompany you,” said Edward, his brother.
“That cannot be, Edward. You must remain at home to help your father and sister; you are not able to undertake a march of many thousand miles, under a sun burning your face, and a sand scorching your feet. I have a good friend, however, in Lord Cornwallis, and I have no doubt that some time hence I shall be enabled to do you some service. I do not recommend you to be a soldier; but if you wish it, when I see his lordship I will ask him to help you. You shall hear from me in the course of a year or so; in the meantime make all the progress you can in reading and writing with the old clerk,and be industrious.I must be in London to-morrow, and shallsoon sail for India. I shall never forget any of you.”
“God bless you all!—good-bye,” were the parting words of Charles Catchpole. There is in that short sentence, “Good-bye,” a melancholy sense of departure which the full heart cannot express.
“Good-bye!—good-bye!" and Margaret gave vent to her grief in tears, whilst the old man clasped his hands in silent prayer.
The fond brother and affectionate son is gone; and never did Margaret see that brother again. She was shortly to change her place of abode. Her uncle Leader, who lived at Brandiston, and who had a young family, and was left a widower, sought the assistance of his niece; and though her father could but ill spare her, yet as there were so many children, and Margaret was so good a nurse, he could not refuse his consent. There was another feeling, too, which prompted the good old man to spare her. Though he loved his daughter’s company, he knew that she deserved to be thought better of by many who disregarded her in her own neighbourhood, and he thought a change would be good for her. It might produce in her a change of mind towards Will Laud—a thing he most earnestly wished for, though he would not grieve her by saying so. It would at all events remove her from many little persecutions which, though she professed not to feel them, he knew weighed heavily on her spirits; and come what might, even should Laud return, he was not known there, and he might be a happier man. Under all these circumstances, he not only gave his consent, but urged her going. She left her father’s roof on the Monday with her uncle.
On the evening of the very day on which Margaret quitted her father’s roof for that of her uncle, as the old man was sitting pensively at his cottage fire, a knock at the door announced a visitor. The door opened, and in walked Will Laud, together with his friend, John Luff.
“Good-evening, father,” said Will. “We are come now from the shore. Our boat is once more moored to the rails at the landing-place, by Orwell Park, and we are come across the lands to see you. We had some difficulty in finding out your berth. You have changed your place of abode.”
“Say that you have changed it for us, and you will be nearer the mark. For ever since we knew you and your companion, we have known nothing but changes, and few of them for the better.”
“Things cannot always change for the worse, surely.”
“I wonder you are not afraid to be seen in this part of the country. There are many here, Will, that would be glad of a hundred pounds, the price set upon your head.”
“And yourself foremost of that number, I dare say,” said the gruff smuggler who accompanied Will Laud.
The old man looked at him with a placid but firm countenance, and said, "That is the language of a villain! Do you think I am so fond of money as yourself; or that I would sell my daughter’s lover for a hundred pounds? The door you have just opened is not yet closed, and if such be your opinion, the sooner you take your departure hence the better.”
“Humph! humph!" said Luff. “You need not be so crusty, Mr. Catchpole—you need not be so boisterous. We have not seen the inside of a housefor many a long month, and if this be the first welcome we are to have, it is rather ominous.”
“What welcome do those men deserve who cause the ruin of others?”
“We have not intentionally caused your ruin, father,” said Laud; “but we come in peace; we wish to abide in peace, and to depart in peace.”
“Then you should teach your friend to keep his foul tongue still, or it will cause you more trouble than you are aware of.”
“I miss the principal ornament of your house, Master Catchpole,” said Will. “Where are all the females gone?”
“Some are gone where I hope soon to join them; the one you feel most interest about is gone to service.”
“I was told, not an hour ago, that Margaret lived at home with you.”
At this instant the door was opened, and young Edward Catchpole entered. He had been to put his sheep safe into fold, and came whistling home, with little thought of seeing any strangers in his father’s cottage.
“Boy, do you know me?” was the inquiry made by Will Laud.
“Not yet,” said the younger; “but I can give a shrewd guess; and I can tell you something which will soon prove whether I guess right or not. As I came over the heath, I met two sailors, who appeared to me to belong to the preventive service. They were on horseback. They stopped and asked me if I had seen a cart, and whether it was going fast, and which road it took; whether it went across the heath, or along the road. I told them plainly it was before them, and that it had turned down the road towards the decoy-ponds. They then asked me if I had met two sailor-looking men walking. To this, of course, I said No. But I suspect they must have meant you.”
“How could that be?” said Laud. “We came not along the road.”
“No; but you might have seen some one who was going to Nacton Street, and they might have been inquired of.”
“That’s true, indeed. We had to ask where your father lived, and our curiosity concerning your family has led to this pursuit of us.”
“One of the men I think I have seen before, and, if I mistake not, it is the same Edward Barry that my sister and I went to see at Bawdsey boat-house.”
“Your sister went to see Edward Barry! What on earth for, my lad?”
“Nay, don’t be jealous, Laud. There was a report that you were drowned, and that your body was cast on shore. The bearer of that report was your rival, John Barry. Margaret would not believe that report, unless she should see your body. So I drove her there, and Edward Barry, who had the key of the boat-house, permitted her to see the bodies, which satisfied her that the report was unfounded.”
The two men looked significantly at each other, as much as to say, “It is time for us to be off.”
“I have one question more to ask,” said Laud. “Where is Margaret?”
“She is gone to service at her Uncle Leader’s, of Brandiston. It is no great place for her, but she will be out of the way of reproaches she has suffered, Laud, on your account. Moreover, she has refused the hand of a most respectable young man, whom I should have been glad that she would have accepted. But he is gone to a distant land, and neither you nor I, Will, shall see him again. John Barry has sailed, as a free settler, either to Van Diemen’s Land, or to Canada, I know not which.”
These words were most welcome to the listener’s heart. He had not heard any which sounded so joyful to him for a long time. He made no reply, however, but tendered a purse to the old man.
“No; keep your money to yourself, Laud, and make an honest use of it. I would not touch it, if I was starving. But you may rest here if you please,and such cheer as my poor cot can afford you shall be welcome to, for my dear daughter’s sake!”
“No, no, I thank you. We must be on board our ship again to-night. Our bark is in the river, and if the enemy catch us, he will show us no quarter. So good-night, father, good-night!”
“I do not wish to detain you, but hear me, Laud. If you have a mind to make my poor girl happy, leave off your present life, and this acquaintance too, this man’s company.”
“Come on!" said Luff, impatiently—"Come on! We’ve got no time to lose. Our boat will be fast upon the mud. Good-night, old man, and when you and I meet again, let us be a little more friendly to each other.”
It was well for both of them that they departed as they did; for, shortly after they were gone, the tramp of horses along the road told of the return of the coastguard.
They stopped at Catchpole’s cottage, and calling aloud, young Edward went out to them.
“Hold our horses, young man, will you? we want to light our pipes.”
“By all means,” said Edward, coming to the little garden-gate. Both men alighted, and he could see that they were well armed. They walked directly to the door; and seeing the old man seated by the fire, one of them said—
“We want to light our pipes, Master Catchpole. It is a blustering night. Have you a tobacco-pipe, for I have broken mine rather short?”
The old man took one from his corner and gave it to young Barry, whom, from his likeness to his brother, he could distinguish, and simply said, "You are welcome to it, sir.”
“Your son sent us on a wrong scent to-night.”
“I do not think he did so knowingly. I heard him say he met you; and he told me he directed you aright.”
“We saw nothing of the cart. We have reason tobelieve that a rich cargo of goods has been landed at Felixstowe, and that the last cart-load went along this road to Ipswich. Have you had any of your old seafaring friends here? Are there any here now? You know who I mean.”
“You may search and see for yourself. Every door of this house will open at your trial. If that is sufficient answer to your question, you are welcome to take it. Nay, I wish most heartily that you and your brother had been my friends long before the one to whom you allude had ever darkened my door.”
When the young man remembered his brother’s attachment, and the really worthy object of it, there was a grateful feeling which came over his mind, notwithstanding the disappointment which his brother, himself, and his family had experienced, which made him feel respect for the old man.
“I thank you, Master Catchpole—I thank you. Had such been the case, you might have had a good son, and I should not have lost a good brother; and in my conscience I believe I should have gained a good sister. But there is no accounting for a woman’s taste. I tell you honestly, Master Catchpole, that for your daughter’s sake I wish her lover, or the man she loves, were a worthier character.”
“I know that both she and I wish it so—she with hope—I, alas! confess that I have no hope of that. As long as he lives he will never alter, except for the worse.”
“I wish it may be otherwise. But come, my mate, it is no use our waiting here, we must go on to Felixstowe. If at any time, Master Catchpole, I can be of service to you, you have nothing to do but to send a messenger to Bawdsey Ferry, and the brother of him who is now far away will do what he can to help you. Good-night, Master Catchpole!”
They returned to their horses, mounted them again, and telling Ned that he might drink their healths whenever he pleased, gave him sixpence, and rode off.
“Father,” said Edward, when he was again seatedby the fire, “I do not—I cannot like that fellow Laud; and how Margaret can endure him is to me strange.”
“She knew him, my boy, before he became the character he now is.”
“I am sorry to lose my sister; but she will at least be better off where she is, and far away from reproaches. We must make out without her aid as well as we can. Our old sexton’s sister has promised to come and do for us; so we shall have some help.”
So father and son consoled themselves; and after their frugal meal returned to their straw-stuffed beds; and slept upon their cares.
Meantime it was no small task that Margaret had undertaken. She was to be as a mother to seven young children, and to keep her uncle’s house in order, and to provide everything to the best of her power. But her spirit was equal to the undertaking; and the new life which came to her through change of place and people soon animated her to those exertions necessary to her position—a situation so difficult and arduous.
Place a woman in a domestic station, where the power of a mistress and the work of a servant are to be performed, and see if she cannot show what a quantity of work may be done with one pair of hands. A good head, and a kind heart, and a willing hand, are virtues which, as long as industry and honesty are praiseworthy, will be sure to succeed.
Her uncle was but a labourer, earning twelve shillings a week at the utmost, and that by working over-hours. At that time of day such wages were considered very large; and where the housewife was active with her loom, or the aged with her spinning-wheel, labourers used sometimes to lay by something considerable, and not unfrequently rose to be themselves masters. The wages which Mr. Leader earned were sufficient, in the hands of this active girl, to provide every necessary for the week, and to lay by something for rent.
She soon made the eldest girl a good nurse; and gave her such a method of management as savedherself much trouble. In the first place, she began her rule with a most valuable maxim of her own inculcation: “A place for everything, and everything in its place.” Another of her maxims was: “Clean everything when done with, and put it up properly and promptly.” Also, “Whenever you see anything wrong, put it right.” "Everything that is broken should be either mended or thrown away.” She would not admit of waste in anything. Among her good old saws was also:
Early to bed, and early to rise,Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.
Early to bed, and early to rise,
Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.
She would never suffer a bill to stand beyond the week at any shop. The Saturday night, at nine o’clock, saw her and her uncle’s family out of debt, and the children all clean washed, with their white linen laid out for the Sabbath-day. And to see, on that holy day, with what quiet, hushed little feet they entered, four of them at least, the village church of Brandiston, with their foster-mother, was a sight which caught the attention of every well-disposed person in the parish. Master Leader’s luck in a housekeeper was soon spoken of; and many a parent pointed out Margaret as a good chance for a poor man.
Up to this time Margaret could not read a single word: but she was very glad when the vicar’s lady undertook to send two of the children to the village-school. She encouraged them to learn their daily tasks, and made them teach her in the evening what they had learned at the school in the day; and in this manner she acquired her first knowledge of letters. The children took such pleasure in teaching her, that they always paid the greatest attention to their lessons.
Margaret was now comparatively happy in the performance of her duties; and felt relieved from the restraint and reproach which at Nacton, where her father lived, had been attached to her character, on account of William Laud. How long she might have continued in this enviable state of things it would be difficult to surmise; but she seemed fated to encounteruntoward circumstances over which she could exercise no control. She conducted herself with the greatest propriety. The children loved her as they would a kind parent; and all who knew her in the village of Brandiston esteemed her for her able conduct of her uncle’s family. Had that uncle himself been a wise man, he would never have given occasion for Margaret to leave him: but no man is wise at all hours; and Mr. Leader, though a very honest, good labourer, and a steady man in his way, in an hour of too little thought, perhaps, or of too superficial promise of happiness, chose to take unto himself a new wife; a fat buxom widow of forty, owner of two cottages, and two pieces of land in Brandiston Street, and a little ready money besides, with only one little daughter, engaged his attention. He, poor simple man, thinking he might better his condition, save his rent, and add to his domestic comfort, consented, or rather entreated, that the banns might be published for his second marriage.
Had the woman herself been a wise one, she would have seen how requisite Margaret’s care was to the family. But she became mistress, and must command every one in the house—her house too! and she was not to be interfered with by any one. She would not be dictated to in her own house. No! though her husband had a niece who might have been all very well, yet he had now a wife, and a wife ought to be a man’s first consideration—a wife with a house over her head, her own property.
Men may have notions of the greatness of their possessions; but a weak woman, when once she has an all-absorbing and over-weening idea of her own great wealth, becomes so infatuated with the possession of power which that property gives her, that there are scarcely any bounds to her folly. Money may make some men, perhaps many, tyrants; but when a woman exercises the power of money alone, she becomes the far greater tyrant. Her fondness for wealth makes her more cruel and unnatural in her conduct; sheforgets her sex—her nature—her children—her friends—her dependents—and, alas! her God!
And soon did the new Mrs. Leader make a chaos of that family which had recently been all order and regularity. The management of household affairs was taken out of Margaret’s hands. Bills were left to be paid when the new mistress received the rents of her cottages and land. The children were foolishly indulged; turned out to play in the street; taught to disregard Margaret, and to look upon her as a servant; her daughter was never to be contradicted; in short, every one in the house was to bend to the will of its new mistress.
Such a change had taken place in the comforts and conduct of the house, that Margaret, with all her care could manage nothing. She was thwarted in all she did—eyed with jealousy on account of the praise bestowed upon her—taught continually to remember and know herself and her station—and to behave with more respect to her betters, or else to quit the house.
Margaret had a sweet temper, and really loved her uncle and the children, or she could not have endured so long as she did the waywardness of this purse-proud woman.
Matters had been going on in no very pleasant manner in Mr. Leader’s cottage, and Margaret had found herself in a very uncomfortable situation. She had been quite removed from her honourable station, as governess of the family, and had been treated as a very unworthy menial by her ignorant aunt.
While things were in this state, it so happened, that one evening in the month of April, Margaret was sent from her aunt’s cottage to the village shop to purchase some article that was wanted for the morrow. It was late when she went out, and the shop stood completely at the end of the village. It was one of those general shops, half a good dwelling-house, and half a shop, where the respected tenant carried on a considerable business without much outward show.
A lane branched off from the main street leadingdown to the vicarage, called the Church Road. It was, properly speaking, the Woodbridge Road from Brandiston. At the moment Margaret was passing over this crossway towards the shop, she was accosted by the familiar voice of one asking where Mr. William Leader lived. Margaret replied:—
“I am now come from Mr. Leader’s. He is my uncle. Do you want to see him?”
“No, Margaret, it is yourself I am in search of. Do you not know my voice?”
It was William Laud!
The reader must conceive the joy, the astonishment, the surprise, the fear, or all these sensations combined in one, which Margaret, the persecuted Margaret, felt in being thus accosted by her lover. Did it require any great persuasion to induce her to turn aside at such a moment, and walk a little way down the Church Road, past the Old Hall, with one she had not seen or heard of for so long a time; one whom, with a woman’s faithfulness, she still loved with all the strength of her mind and heart?
“I have been very ill, Margaret,” said Laud, “since I came ashore and saw your father and brother. It was the very evening of the day you left home. Had you left one day later, I should have seen you, and, perhaps, I might have been spared a fever which has reduced me to the verge of the grave.”
“It is so long since I have seen or heard of you, William, that I began to think you had forgotten me.”
“I have never forgotten you, Margaret, and I never shall, till I cease to remember anything. In storm and tempest, in calm and sunshine; in the midnight watch, or under the clear blue sky; in danger or in safety, in health or in sickness; in the hour of boisterous mirth, or in the rough hammock of the seaman, when the dash of waves and the whistling winds have swept by me, Margaret, I have always thought of you; but never more than in those moments of fever and anxiety, when I have been suffering from the extremes of painand sickness. Then, Margaret, I remembered your soothing kindness; and then I bitterly felt your absence. But have you forgotten and forgiven my rough conduct, when we last met, a long time ago? I am alone now, and but a poor creature.”
“I have not forgotten, William, because I cannot forget; but I have always forgiven you. Much, much have I suffered on your account; shame, reproach, and poverty, have visited me through you—loss of kindred, friends, and companions; but God has enabled me to bear all, with the hope that I should one day see you an altered man.”
“Yes, Margaret, yes; and so you shall. I am altered much—I long to leave my present line of life and to settle in some place where I never was known. Captain Bargood has given me his word, that, after one more voyage, I shall be released, with prize-money sufficient to settle anywhere I please, and to give me a free passage to that place, be it where it may.”
“I can only say, William, I wish that one voyage was over. I hate your companions and your employment. I fear to lose you again, William. Oh, why not get some honest work on land, and let me toil for and with you?”
“Margaret, I am here upon my word of honour to the captain, that I would go one more run for him. I have been a long trip this last time, across the Atlantic, and I am promised a different tack the next time. But it will soon be over, and then I will renounce them all. The captain has nursed me in his own house, and though a rough fellow and a poor comforter for a sick man, yet I believe he did his best, and I am bound to be grateful to him.”
“I wish your duty taught you, Will, some better obligation. My heart misgives me for you; and I can never sanction a day in unlawful pursuits. I grieve for you. But time steals away, William, and I have forgotten my own duty. I have not a very kind mistress in my new aunt; but my duty is obedience. I have to go to shop now, and I fear it will be closedif I delay any longer. When shall I see you again, William?”
“I fear me, not until this last voyage is over. I hope that will be a short one. I shall just go into the King’s Head, refresh myself, and start again for the coast by daylight.”
“Well, William, you have my prayers and my love, and I hope you may one day claim my duty. At present, that duty is due to my uncle. So we must part!—Take care of yourself.—How did you catch that fever?”
“By over-exertion in returning to my boat by Orwell Park, the night I left your father. We struck across the country, as we heard of our pursuers, and came to the shore greatly heated with our run. The wind was fair for us, and I had nothing else to do but to sit still. I covered myself with a piece of damp sail and fell asleep, and when I awoke I found myself as stiff as a mast—I could not move a limb. But I will take care of myself for your sake, Margaret, for the future.”
By this time they had just arrived at the vicarage palings, upon their return, where the angle of the street branched off, and for a moment they paused to take the farewell salute which faithful lovers ever appreciate.
They little thought who was near to hear their last parting words, and to witness that love which they thought no one but themselves beheld. The farewell was spoken, and Laud departed. Margaret stood a moment, with affectionate heart and tearful eye, to watch his receding form, and then, turning round the corner to go to the shop, she encountered the enraged Mrs. Leader. She could only walk on in passive silence through the village, whilst her aunt’s voice, rising higher and higher as she approached her own domicile, made the neighbours peep out of their windows to learn the cause of such a disturbance. At last they arrived at home, and Mr. Leader, with a thousand exaggerations, was informed of his niece’s atrocious conduct.
She eyed the poor girl with such malignant satisfaction, as if she had already seen her condemned, by judge, jury, counsel, and all the court. Poor Margaret! she had not attempted to speak; she felt for her uncle—she felt for his children—she felt for her lover; but for herself, nothing. She knew her own heart, and felt keenly the cruelty and injustice of her aunt’s spiteful accusations; but that did not wound her so much as to see the crestfallen distress of the master of that cottage, who, but a short time before, never addressed her but in thanks or praise.
Margaret sighed, looked at her uncle, and briefly explained her accidental meeting with William Laud.
This only caused Mrs. Leader to break out into a fresh passion. She abused her husband, abused Margaret, her lover, her father, her brother, and every one connected with her. The base reflections she heard cast upon her family roused the poor girl’s indignation, and, after telling the enraged woman a few home truths, expressed her determination to quit the house.
“I shall leave you now—yes, before another hour is gone. I shall only kiss the children, pack up my little bundle, and then I take my departure. Uncle, I have done my duty by you, and I sincerely wish you happy. I have had nothing of you, and have nothing to leave behind me, but my humble blessing for yourself and your children. Give me your hand, uncle; letus, at all events, part good friends. You know that I do not mind the night. A journey to me at this time, under these circumstances, is no more than a journey would be by day. As to you, aunt Leader, whether you shake hands with me or not must rest with your own self. I would not part even with you in malice. Good-bye, aunt Leader. Good-night!”
Mrs. Leader had heard enough; she had met with a spirit which, when roused, was equal to her own; and though she looked as if she could have dashed the poker at the poor girl before her, she dared not stir an inch: the fury fell back from her seat, and went off in a fit.
Margaret stayed that night, but not another day.The next morning she set her uncle’s breakfast out, saw the children dressed, and sent to the school, and then went upstairs to pack up her own bundle. Before doing so, however, the Bible, which had been given her by John Barry, attracted her attention. It was a small clasped book, and, from being unable to read it, she had never made any outward parade of her possession of it. On now seeing it, she mechanically unclasped the book, and in the first page there lay a £5 bank-note, and in the last page another of the same value. What a treasure was here! How did her heart bless the noble generosity of the youth who, at a time when money was of the greatest value to him, thus sacrificed a great share of his riches to the welfare of one who could never personally thank him for it!
Margaret had made up her mind, however, to seek a situation for herself in Ipswich. She remembered the kindness of the worthy surgeon who had attended her sister in her childhood, and poor John Barry when he was wounded, and she resolved to seek his aid. With a full heart, she carefully replaced the notes as she found them, resolving to store them up against a time of need. And, with more consciousness of independence than she had ever before felt, she packed up her little bundle, and went to take leave of her uncle and aunt.
With five shillings, the gift of her uncle, a half-guinea, the gift of her brother Charles, and a bundle, not a very weighty one, Margaret Catchpole departed from Brandiston. But, fearing her aunt’s displeasure, and that she would send strange reports to Nacton, and that her own presence under her father’s roof would give some countenance to these malicious falsehoods, she determined not to return home, but to take the road to Woodbridge.
At that time, Noller’s wagon, from Ipswich to Woodbridge, Wickham Market, and Framlingham, passed her upon its return; and the driver asking her if she would like to ride, she gladly accepted the offer. They arrived at Ipswich about two o’clockin the afternoon. Margaret determined to seek a place immediately, and for that purpose brushed the dust off her gown, and made herself as decent as her poor wardrobe would allow, and arrived at the door of Mr. George Stebbing, under very different circumstances from those which had formerly brought her to the same spot.
He was a merry, cheerful man, the active surgeon, who lived in the tall, red-bricked house, in Orwell Place. His practice was good, extending from the best families in the town and neighbourhood of Ipswich, to that which is always the most benevolent part of a surgeon’s duty, the dispensing medicine and advice to the poor. George Stebbing was an early riser, and a very active practitioner; he was skilful and attentive; and it was truly said of him, that he never neglected a poor patient to attend a rich one. He had his rounds before breakfast, among his poorer patients; next his town practice; and his country visits in the afternoon. He generally contrived to be found at home from nine to ten o’clock in the morning; and from two to three in the afternoon, always dining at one.
There was one passion, if it may be so called, which, at certain seasons of the year, made the doctor break through all his rules and regulations, and to which he so willingly gave way, as to cause him serious loss of practice among family patients, who could not make allowances for his neglect,—namely, a passion for shooting. He was an excellent shot, delighted in the exercise, and enjoyed it as much in his old days as he did in his youth. His figure scarcely ever altered through life. He never grew corpulent, never inactive;but retained his zest for his gun, with a steady hand, to a good old age.
But for this passion for shooting, the doctor might have secured for himself a more extensive and lucrative practice. It certainly was a kind of passport among many great landed proprietors, who liked his shooting and his society, and for a good day’s shooting, come it when it might, many of his patients were neglected. He was of a very generous nature, and sometimes felt keenly the reproaches of those whom for the sports of the field he deserted; and there were times in which his own conscious neglect made him sorrowful; but it did not cure him of his favourite propensity. At all other times, he was as regular as a well-cleaned clock.
Margaret arrived at this gentleman’s door, and was shown into the surgery just as he was preparing to go into the country. The surgery was a lofty room, though of small dimensions; the window looked down a neatly paved area, beside the offices of the house; and flower-stands, filled with geraniums and other green-house plants, stood against the side of the wall opposite the kitchen. All was neatness within and without the walls of his house.
She had scarcely been seated in the surgery a minute, before in came the merry man, with his cheerful smile and ready address. “Well, young woman, what’s the matter with you, eh? What is it? A bad tooth? let us see—let us see. It can be nothing else. You look the picture of health! What’s the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter, sir,” said Margaret, rising and curtsying.
“Then what do you want with the doctor, my girl?”
“I am come to ask you, sir, if you could help me to a place.”
“A place!" cried the doctor; “why, whom do you take me for? Did you think my surgery was a register-office for servants? What have I to do with places? Who on earth sent you to me?”
“No one sent me, sir; I came of my own accord, because you are the only person that I know in Ipswich.”
“Well, they say a great many more people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows. I don’t recollect ever seeing you before. I know not who you are in the least.”
“What, sir! do you not remember when you lifted me off the pony at your door, ever so many years ago, and called me a brave little girl, and told me, when you left me at my father’s, that if ever I wanted a friend I should find one in you?”
“What! are you the girl that made the pony go? Can you be Margaret Catchpole, the heroine of Nacton Turf?”
“I am Margaret, sir; I left my uncle’s, at Brandiston, this morning, and am come to Ipswich in search of a place. I have lost my sister, my mother, and two brothers, and, knowing no one in Ipswich but you, I thought, sir, as you promised to help me, you would not be offended at my asking. I only want to work and live without being burdensome to any one.”
“Well, and what place do you want, my girl?”
“I can do any kind of plain work, sir, from the cow-house to the nursery.”
“Nursery! nursery! do you know anything about the care of children?”
“I am very partial to children, sir, and children are very fond of me; my uncle had seven little ones, and only me to look after them until he married again.”
“Humph!—Well, go into my kitchen, my girl"—and here the kind-hearted man opened his door and introduced her to his cook. “Sally, this is the girl that rode the pony for the doctor, see and take care of her. Where is your young mistress?” But suddenly turning round as if a thought struck him he said, “Margaret! Margaret! my girl, stop one moment, I must know if you have quite recovered from thatcomplaint you had before you left the Priory Farm?”
“Dear me, sir, I never was ill there.”
“Oh! yes, you were, Margaret; if you remember, I had to feel your pulse and prescribe for you; your heart was very bad?”
“Oh! no, sir, I hope not.”
“Let me ask you one question, Margaret—Have you done with the smuggler? Because, though I should be glad to serveyou, I should be sorry to run the risk of introducing bad acquaintances into any respectable family where I might recommend you.”
This was another terrible blow for poor Margaret, and how to answer it she knew not; she remained silent and abashed, and the worthy surgeon was touched more by her silence than if she had spoken ever so much; it told him at once the state of the case.
“Well, well, my girl, I see how it is; but you must not encourage him to visit you when you are at service. Go! go! I will talk to you another time.”
And Margaret was again an inmate in that kind man’s house, who always was a steady and sincere friend to her throughout her eventful career. He had at that very time made up his mind to write a note of recommendation to a lady who lived at the Cliff, upon the banks of the Orwell; but he delayed it for a day or two, on purpose to hear what report his own domestic gave of her. And here Margaret remained in the humblest and purest enjoyment of peace and quietness that she had felt for many years.
It was a lovely evening in the latter part of the month of May, when the mackerel-boats were coming up the Orwell, being unable to reach the mouth of the Nore, that old Colson (better known to the reader as Robinson Crusoe) rowed his little boat up to the landing-place, close to the Cliff Brewery, and startled some young children who were watching the tiny eels playing about those large dark stones which formed the head of the landing-place. Here a stream of fresh water, gushing from beneath, formed the outletof the canal stream which turned the great wheel in the brewery of John Cobbold, Esq.
The eels from the river, especially the young ones, used to be incessantly playing about this outlet, striving either to get up into the fresh water, or else feeding upon the animalculæ which came from the canal, and tried to get back again out of the salt water.
The old man lifted up some small sand-dabs for the children, all alive and kicking, and gave them to them, with which they soon bounded up the Cliff steps, and ran joyously to a lady, who, with two gentlemen, sat sketching under the lime-trees which then fronted the small dwelling-house adjoining the more lofty buildings of the brewery.
The lady was Mrs. Cobbold, and the two gentlemen were her friends, and both eminent artists in their day. One had already greatly distinguished himself as a portrait-painter, and vied with Sir Joshua Reynolds in his own particular school of painting: this was Gardiner, a distant relative of the lady. He was a singular old gentleman, in every way a talented original; his family groups, in half crayon, half water-colour, gained general admiration; and to this day they stand the test of years, never losing their peculiar freshness, and remain as spirited as on the first day they were painted. The other was indeed but a boy, a fine intelligent lad, with handsome, open countenance, beaming with all the ardour of a young aspirant for fame: this was John Constable, who was then sketching the town of Ipswich from the Cliff, and brushing in the tints of the setting sun, and receiving those early praises from the lips of that benevolent and talented lady which became a stimulus to his exertions, before he was raised to the eminence of a first-rate landscape-painter.
Gardiner delighted in the buoyant group of children, who, with their flapping fish, came bounding up the Cliff. “Look here! look here! see what old Robin has given us.”
The artist’s eyes dilated with glee as he quickly noted down their jocund faces and merry antics for some future painting. If he had experienced pleasure in the character of James, Thomas, George, Elizabeth Ann, and Mary, what a fine master-figure was now added to the group in the person of old Robin, the fisherman, who, with his basket of mackerel and soles, stood behind the children in front of the happy party!
Gardiner’s picture of the “Fisherman’s Family" was taken from this group, and it was one which in his mature years gained him much celebrity.
“Well, Robin, what fish have you got?” said the lady, “and how do the witches treat you?”
“As to the first, madam, here are mackerel and soles; as to the latter, they treat mescurvily!”
“What’s that? what’s that?” said Gardiner; “what’s all that about the witches?”
Old Colson looked at him a minute, and partly believed he was a brother sufferer; for Gardiner never was what the world has since denominated a dandy, he was never even a beau; he was careless in his dress, and very abrupt in his address,—extremely clever and extremely eccentric.
“Why, this is it,” said the old fisherman, “if the foul fiend treats you as he does me, he makes us both such hideous objects that nobody can bear to look at us.”
There was no little colour in the artist’s face at this moment: he had met with a light and shade, an odd mixture upon his palette not easily defined, and he looked himself rather vacant upon the fisherman.
“I see how it is,” said Robin; “they have been at work upon you, and have put your robes out of order; but give them a blast of this ram’s horn, and you will soon get rid of them.”
Here the old man presented a ram’s horn to the astonished artist.
“What does the man mean, Mrs. Cobbold? what does the man mean?”
This was rather a delicate point to answer; but the little shrewd Mary, who perfectly well knew what the old man meant, said at once with the most perfect innocence—
“Oh, Mr. Gardiner! Robin means that you look so dirty and shabby that you must be bewitched.”
At this moment a servant brought a note to the lady, which, on opening, she read as follows:—