“My dear Madam,“You mentioned to me some time since that you wanted a good strong girl who could assist in the double capacity of a laundress and a nursery-maid; the bearer of this is Margaret Catchpole, whom I have known from her infancy. My cook tells me she is very quick at learning, and very handy at any work that may be required of her; she also states herself to be very fond of children. She lived servant-of-all-work at the Priory Farm, and has since kept her uncle’s house, where she has had the care of seven young children. Mr. Notcutt, who knew her when she lived at service at Bealings, speaks highly of her character. I think you will find her a very useful servant; and if you have not engaged one, I really think you will be satisfied with this young woman. Wishing that such may be the case, believe me to remain, my dear madam, yours faithfully,"George Stebbing."Orwell Place,"May 25th, 1793."
“My dear Madam,
“You mentioned to me some time since that you wanted a good strong girl who could assist in the double capacity of a laundress and a nursery-maid; the bearer of this is Margaret Catchpole, whom I have known from her infancy. My cook tells me she is very quick at learning, and very handy at any work that may be required of her; she also states herself to be very fond of children. She lived servant-of-all-work at the Priory Farm, and has since kept her uncle’s house, where she has had the care of seven young children. Mr. Notcutt, who knew her when she lived at service at Bealings, speaks highly of her character. I think you will find her a very useful servant; and if you have not engaged one, I really think you will be satisfied with this young woman. Wishing that such may be the case, believe me to remain, my dear madam, yours faithfully,
"George Stebbing.
As Mrs. Cobbold opened the note, the artists retired; and she told the footman to send the young woman round to the front of the house, and she would speak to her there. She then kindly addressed the old fisherman:—
“I wish, Robin, I could find a charm which would drive all these fiends away from you at once, that you might become a believer in a more blessed agency than in such unhappy beings.”
“Ah! bless you, lady! bless you! If your wish could but be gratified, I should soon be at liberty; but it will never be so: they have taken up their abode with me, and as long as they can torment me, they will. I knew last night that there would be a storm, and, sure enough, there was one; but my old barque rode it out, though many a tighter craft went to the bottom. My foes, though they love to punish my flesh, will not let me perish.”
“That is but a vain hope, Robin, which will one day deceive you: you trust too much in your crazy barque, and to a no less crazy imagination; and, when too late, you will own your self-delusion.”
His benefactress could not succeed in arguing him out of his belief, and had just told him to leave the fish at the back-door, as Margaret made her appearance before her future mistress.
She started back when she beheld Robin, and again thought that some evil genius had determined to oppose her wherever she went.
“Ah! is that you, Peggy? It’s many a long day since I’ve seen you. Have the fiends played you any more tricks?”
Margaret made her curtsy to the lady, but dared not reply to the salutation of the old fisherman, lest he should betray the secret of her heart. She was evidently confused.
“You need not be so proud either, young woman, as to forget a friend; but you are like the rest of the world:—‘Those whom we first serve are the first to forget us.’ Now, to my mind, you’re a fit match for Will Laud, and he’s about as ungracious a chap as any I know.”
The tear started into Margaret’s eye, and she could not utter a word. In the accents of kindness, however, the lady addressed the trembling girl.
“You must not mind all the wanderings of old Robin, you will be better acquainted with him hereafter.”
“And so will you, ma’am, with her before long.The foul fiend has long dwelt with her and hers, and you’ll soon find that out. I’ve known her almost as long as I’ve known you, ma’am; and if she’s a-coming to your service, why, all I can say is, there will be pretty pranks a-going on in your house.”
Here the poor girl could refrain no longer from tears; she sobbed as if her heart would break, and the scene more than commonly interested the benevolent lady.
“What has Robin known of you, young woman, that he should speak so harshly against you? How have you offended him?”
“I never offended him, ma’am—never that I know of! He was very kind to me, and once, ma’am—once——" and here Margaret paused, and could not finish her sentence.
Robin now quickly saw he was mistaken, and going close up to the girl, he said,—
“I ask your pardon, Peggy! I thought you were proud—I see how it is! I see how it is!—Forgive me! forgive me, ma’am! She’s a good girl; aye, she’s a clever girl! I thought she was a bit proud, so the fiend made me bark at her, that’s all;" and, making his bow, he went with his basket of fish to the back-door.
The lady evidently saw there was a mystery; but, well knowing the sudden changes of the bewildered mind of the fisherman, although she always found a shadow of truth about all his ravings, she placed no faith in any of his prognostications. She did not again question Margaret upon that subject, but spoke to her about her duties. She found her fully sensible of what she might have to do, and quite ready to undertake the place. She agreed to give her, progressively improving wages, and told her that as Mr. Stebbing had given her a recommendation, she should try her. Mrs. Cobbold desired her to come on the morrow, and wished her good-evening.
The next day saw Margaret an inmate of that family where her name will never be forgotten; where shespent so many days of real, uninterrupted happiness; where she became respected by her mistress and family, and was a very great favourite with all her fellow-servants. Margaret came to her new place with a good character; with youth, health, hope, and a willing mind for work. By the advice of the doctor’s old servant, she came (by means of John Barry’s generous gift) with every article clean, new, and decent, and had the sum of six pounds left for a nest-egg.
There is no class of persons in society so much neglected as domestic servants, none who are placed in more responsible stations, to whom more confidence is given, and from whom more is expected; yet there are none who are less instructed, except in the duties of their stations, and even these they have to learn as they can. The law visits no one with severer penalties for any dereliction of duty; and the world makes fewer allowances for their faults than for those of any other class.
The excellent lady in whose service Margaret was placed was one who felt this truth, and took every opportunity she could to improve the minds of all who came under her roof. She was one of the most enlightened of her sex, with a mind cultivated to the highest degree, and acquainted from her infancy with many of the leading persons of the day, in art, literature, and science. And she was not less domestic than enlightened. The writer of these pages knew her well, and loved her dearly. He admired her with deep and reverential love. He was not able, indeed, to appreciate the full extent of her benevolent character till years had snatched her away, and left him “neverto look upon her like again.” This he can truly say, that, in the course of twenty years’ acquaintance, he never knew what it was to have a dull moment in her company. Lest any may think this is saying too much, let some of those who now occupy public stations of importance, and some of whom were her domestic servants, say, how much they were indebted to her instructions. Let some, even of a higher and more independent class, who have since attained the pinnacle of their professions, tell how much they were indebted to the first encouraging advice of her, who saw and prized their talents, and rejoiced in their development. She was a most kind benefactress to all who needed her advice or assistance, and to none was she a greater friend, and by none was she more deeply loved, than by the poor girl whom she took into her service, as a sort of general help in the humblest station in her family.
At the Cliff there was not a single individual in whom the mistress did not feel a deep interest. None were beneath her notice; none came near her whom she did not strive to improve. Though she commanded the hearts of many highly distinguished persons in the drawing-room, she commanded the affections of her family, and of every servant under her roof. Poor Margaret appeared to her an object of peculiar interest. Ignorant as she found her in letters, and in many things relating to her situation, there was in her a capacity, which this lady discovered, to require nothing but instruction to perfect it. Readily did she comprehend when the kindness of her mistress was shown in condescending to teach her, and rapid was the progress she made in everything explained to her.
Margaret had a difficult situation to fulfil even in the household arrangements of this excellent lady; for she was under-nursemaid in the morning, and under-cook in the evening; two very different stations, but both of which she discharged with fidelity, and at length rose in that family to fill the head place in both stations at different periods.
Her mistress had married a gentleman who had fourteen children living at the time, and she had every prospect of seeing the number increase. It required a woman of energy to direct the household affairs of such a numerous family, as well as a woman of method and management in the nursery. Well did Margaret second the work which the head nurse had in hand. No one could be more indefatigable in her duties—none more constantly employed.
It was Margaret’s especial province to walk out with the children, to carry the young ones, and to lead now and then an elder one. A retired and pleasant walk it was at the back of the Cliff to Sawyer’s Farm, either along the river’s side to the Grove, or Hog Island, or through the farmyard, up the sandy hill, from the top of which Ipswich and its environs were so conspicuous. In all the innocent enjoyments of children, Margaret took particular delight. She would make chains of dandelions, whistles of cats’ tails; collect lords and ladies, string ladies’ hair; make whips of rushes for the boys, and cradles for dolls for the girls. Her eyes were ever watchful, her hands ever useful. The children loved her, and bounded to her with pleasure, whenever the order was given for a walk. She was equally dauntless in their defence, whether it was against a dog, or the geese, or the cattle of the field, or the gipsy, or the drunken sailor.
During this service, an occurrence took place of a singularly providential nature, which showed the sagacity of this poor girl, and her presence of mind in so striking a light, that it is well worthy to be here recorded. The children were all going for a walk, and Master George and Master Frederic were listening at a rat’s hole, under the foundation of a building, where the workmen were making some alterations, and had taken away a great deal of the soil, upon one side of the brickwork. As Margaret came up with some half-dozen of the young fry, the boys exultingly called to her to come and hear the old rat gnawing something in the hole.
Margaret approached, and with that natural quickness of perception with which she was so gifted, saw danger in the situation of the children. Listening one moment at the hole she was convinced that the creaking sound she heard did not proceed from a rat. In another instant she seized the children by their arms, and exclaimed, with a terror that communicated itself to them all, “Come away! come away! that wall is settling!” Scarcely had she ran with the children half a dozen yards from the spot, when down came the wall in a mass of ruin that must have buried them all beneath it but for the providential sagacity of this young girl. To this day the circumstance is remembered by the parties interested in it, and is looked upon as the interposition of their good angel, in making use of this humble instrument for the preservation of their lives.
Margaret, by this time, could both read and write; for the lady, who superintended the whole management of the nursery, had her regular school-hours in the morning devoted to the minutiae of progressive improvement. It was at one of these morning lessons that she discovered Margaret’s abilities. Hearing the children their lessons in history, and examining them in the chronology of the kings of England, she was surprised to hear Margaret prompting Miss Sophia, in a whisper, when the child was at a loss for the right date. And when she came to question Margaret, she found that this poor girl had been, though unknown to her, her most attentive scholar. This induced her to take pains with her, and to let her be a participator in all the most useful branches of a nursery education. She was taught to read and write, and understand the Bible history and the Gospel scheme of redemption; in all which studies she became as well informed as any of the children. Soon after this, she rose to be the head nursemaid.
As the winter came on, the walks became more circumscribed; and though she occasionally saw the old fisherman, with his basket of soles and plaice, yetfrom him she could gather no tidings of her lover, good or bad. To hear nothing may be better than to hear bad tidings; but some may even think that bad news is better than none at all. The certain knowledge of any catastrophe, if it has taken place, at ever so great a distance, is always more satisfactory and consoling than years of agonizing suspense.
Perhaps some such ideas might have passed in Margaret’s mind; but she had been so accustomed to hear nothing that was good of her lover, that she began to construe the long interregnum of his non-appearance into the hope of some permanent amendment.
The Orwell, at the period of our narrative, and during the winter season, was famous for its wild-fowl. At some particular times, when the decoy-ponds around were frozen over, the birds used to come into the channel of the river in prodigious flights, covering hundreds of acres of water with their varieties of plumage. Millions of black coot used to darken the waves, whilst the duck and the mallard, the diver, the pin-tail, the bar-goose, and even the wild swan, used to be seen in such numbers, as in the present day would seem to be incredible. Those, however, who can remember this river only fifty years ago will fully corroborate this account. Some live at Ipswich, at this day, who can well remember the time in which they have made dreadful havoc among the feathered tribes of the river. Now and then a solitary flight may here and there be seen visiting the river in the evening, and departing with the dawn. Since the port of Ipswich has so rapidly increased its shipping, the traffic of winter, as well as summer, has been so constant, that the birds have sought some quieter feeding-ground than the ooze of the Orwell.
It was at the time when these birds were most frequent, that the young fowlers of the port used to have extraordinary tales to tell of the numbers they had killed, and the escapes and adventures they had met with in the pursuit. One of Mr. Cobbold’s younger sons had a greatpenchantfor this sport, and, thoughquite a lad, would venture upon the most hardy enterprises with the weather-beaten sailors, who had been long accustomed to the river. He was a good shot, too, for a boy, and would bring home many a duck and mallard as the fruits of his own excursions.
It was about four o’clock, one winter evening, when this young gentleman was seen descending the steps of the Cliff, with the oars over his shoulder, and his gun in his hand. He looked at the cloudy sky, and thought he should have good sport upon the river before the morning. His sisters, Harriet and Sophia, saw him stealing down the Cliff, and he requested of them not to take any notice of his absence. He unlocked his boat, and shoved off into the channel alone, rejoicing in the thought of thespolia opimahe should expose next morning at the breakfast-table.
At tea-time, all the numerous party seated themselves round the table, before piles of hot toast and bread and butter; and the venerated father came from his own private room to take his seat with his affectionate wife and children. He cast his eye upon the party, and looked round the room, evidently missing one of his children. “Where’s William?” he inquired. The sisters, Harriet and Sophia, began to titter. “Where’s William?” again asked the anxious parent; and the lady, who had been reading some new book, which had absorbed her attention, had not until then missed the boy.
Mr. Parkinson, the confidential clerk, a distant relative, replied, "Master William has gone out in his boat to shoot wild-fowl.”
“What! on such a night as this? How long since?”
“Two hours or more, sir.”
The worthy parent rose from his seat, summoned the clerk to follow him immediately, and, with a fearful expression of countenance, which communicated terror to the whole party, he said, “Depend upon it, the child is lost!”
It was a night on which no reasonable man wouldhave suffered even the stoutest and strongest sailor to go down the river for such a purpose. The tide was running out fast, and the ice was floating down in great masses, enough to stave a stout boat. A piercing sleet, the forerunner of a snow-storm, drifted along with the wind. Altogether it was as dismal as darkness and the foreboding anxiety of a fond parent’s heart could make it. Yet Master William, a mere stripling, was upon the waters, in a boat which required at least two stout men to manage her, and at the mercy of the storm. Had not his father by mere chance missed him, and made inquiries about him, he would not have been heard of till the next morning, and then they would have spoken of his death. As it was, the sequel will show how nearly that event came to pass.
The brewhouse men were summoned, two stout fellows, who were put into the small boat, and it then came out that Master William had taken the oars belonging to the little boat, to manage a great, heavy craft that was large enough to hold a dozen men.
Mr. Cobbold and his clerk went along the shore, whilst the two men in the skiff, with great oars, shoved along the edge of the channel. Occasionally the parties communicated by voice, when the lull of the waves and winds permitted them to do so; but no tidings of the lost boy could be obtained.
What agony did that truly good father endure, yet how mild was his censure of those who ought to have prevented such a lad incurring such danger!
In the midst of these anxieties, there was one who shared them with as much earnestness as if she had been the mother of the child; and this was Margaret Catchpole. No weather, no winds, no commands of her master’s, could overrule that determined activity of mind which this girl possessed, to lend a helping hand in time of danger. She had thrown her cloak over her head, and followed her master with the hope that she might be of some service.
The party on the shore could no longer hear eventhe voices of those who were in the boat, as the channel took them round the bed of ooze to the opposite shore. Still did they pursue their course, calling aloud, and stopping to listen for some faint sound in reply. Nothing answered their anxious call but the cold moaning of the wintry wind. They stretched their eyes in vain; they could see nothing: and they had walked miles along the shore, passing by the Grove, Hog Island, and the Long Reach, until they came to Downham Reach. No soul had they met, nor had any sound, save the whistling of the curlew and the winds, greeted their ears. The anxious father, down whose cheeks tears began to steal and to stiffen with the frost, gave his dear son up for lost. He had lived so long by the river, and knew so well its dangers, that it seemed to him an impossibility he should be saved; and he turned round just by the opening to the Priory Farm, and said to his clerk, “We must give it up;" when Margaret said, “Oh, no, sir, not yet; pray do not give it up yet! Let us go on farther! Do not go home yet.”
Thus urged, her master turned again to pursue the search, and she followed in his path.
About a hundred yards onwards, under the shade of the wood, they met a man.
“Who goes there?” was the question of the anxious father.
“What’s that to you?” was the rough uncourteous reply, strangely grating to the father’s heart at such a moment.
In those rough sounds Margaret recognized Will Laud’s voice. She sprang forward, exclaiming, to the no small astonishment of her master, “Oh, William! Mr. Cobbold has lost his son! Do lend a hand to find him.”
It is needless to dwell upon the mutual surprise of both parties at such a rencontre. Laud was equally astonished at Margaret’s presence at such a time, and Margaret herself felt an indescribable hope that her lover might render some effectual service.
“I beg pardon, sir,” said Laud, “but I did not know you.”
“My son went down the river in a boat some three or four hours since, and I fear he is lost,” said Mr. Cobbold.
“I came up the river as far as I could, and have seen no boat. The floats of ice were so troublesome, that I resolved to come ashore, and walk to Ipswich. Had there been a boat between Harwich and the Nacton shore, I must have seen it. I landed close by Cowhall, and I know there was no boat on the river, at least so far.”
At that moment they thought they heard some one call. They listened, and plainly heard the men hallooing from the boat.
“Ahoy! Ahoy!" called out Will Laud.
They then listened again, and recognized the voice of Richard Lee, one of the brewing-men, who called out,—
“We have found the boat, but no one in her.”
“Aye, sir,” said Will Laud, “then the young gentleman has got ashore!”
“I fear not!" said the father; “I fear he is lost!”
Laud feared the same, when he heard that the young lad had taken no mud-splashers with him: “But,” he added, “if the youth knew the river, he would get out of his boat, and walk by the edge of the channel till he came to this hardware, and then he might get ashore.”
“What is that dark spot yonder, by the edge of the water?” said Margaret, as she stooped down to let her eye glance along the dark level line of the mud.
“It is only one of the buoys,” said the father, “such as they moor ships to in the reach.”
“There is no buoy in that part of the river,” said Will. “Margaret sees something, and so do I now. I don’t know what it is, but I soon will though.”
And without more ado, he stepped on to the mud and was soon upon all-fours, creeping along, anddragging his body over the softest places of the ooze, where he must have sunk into the mud up to his waist, if he had kept an erect posture. As he advanced, he evidently saw something lying close to the water’s edge, and, after great toil, he came up to it. True enough he found it to be the stiff body of the poor youth they had been in search of. Lifting himself up, he called aloud, "Ahoy! ahoy! Margaret, you are right;" words of such joy as were never forgotten in after years by any of that party.
Laud lost no time in hoisting the poor boy on his back, and, tying his stiff hands round his own neck with his handkerchief, he crept upon the mud again toward that shore where stood those anxious friends awaiting his approach. The boy was, to all appearance, stiff and lifeless. The hair of his head was one matted mass of ice and mud; his limbs were stiff and frozen; one leg seemed like a log of hard wood, the other they could bend a little. He had been up to his neck in the mud, and had evidently been overcome with the exertion of extricating himself. His clothes were drawn off his back, and had been used as mud-splashers, until exhausted nature could make no further effort, and he had sunk, unconscious, upon the ooze. Death seemed to have done his work.
The only plan now was to get him home as soon as they could. Laud soon constructed a carriage for him, of a hurdle, upon which he laid his own jacket, the father’s great-coat, and over him he threw Margaret’s cloak. Each of the four persons taking a corner of the hurdle upon their shoulders, they made their way, as fast as possible, along the shore. In this way they proceeded at a good round pace, until they reached the Grove-side, where they met the other servants, coming in company with the two brewhouse-men, with blankets and brandy, in case Master William should be found. Their arrival was very opportune, as it enabled the exhausted party to transfer their burden to the new comers. Mr. Cobbold expressed his gratitude to Laud, and asked him to come on tothe Cliff, and rest himself that night, and he would endeavour to repay him in the morning.
“I thank you, sir,” said Laud; “I was coming to see Margaret, and if you would only grant me a word or two with her, it is all the favour I ask.”
“As many as you please, my man; but it would be better for her and you, too, to be at the kitchen fire such a night as this, than to be talking upon the banks of the Orwell.”
Laud seemed to hesitate; at last he said, “Well, sir, I will come.”
Soon afterwards the thoughtful Margaret said to Mr. Cobbold, “Had I not better run forward, sir, and prepare the slipper-bath, and get the fire lit in the bed-room, and have warm blankets ready, and send off for Dr. Stebbing?”
“Right, Margaret, right!" was her master’s reply; “run, my girl, run! It will be good for you, too. We shall soon follow you.”
On went the damsel, and soon passed the men carrying their young master, and was the first who brought the joyful tidings that Master William was found. In all her plans, however, she was anticipated by her ever-thoughtful mistress. The amber room was prepared, as being the quietest in the house. The bath, the hot water, the salt to rub his benumbed limbs, were all ready; for it was concluded, that if he was found, he would be in such a state of paralysation, from the effects of the weather, as would make it a work of time to recover him. The boy was sent off immediately for Mr. Stebbing. The whole family were in a state of hushed and whispering anxiety. The two sisters, especially, who had seen their brother depart, and had not spoken a word about it, were deeply bewailing their own faults. In short, all was anxiety, all was expectation, almost breathless suspense. Margaret’s description to her mistress was clear, simple, and concise. Her meeting with a sailor, whom she knew when she lived at Priory Farm, and his acquaintance with all the buoys on the river, allseemed natural and providential. She gave orders immediately for a bed to be prepared in the coachman’s room for the sailor, to whose exertions they were so indebted for the restoration of the child, dead or alive, to his affectionate parents.
Voices were soon heard coming up the road from the shrubbery, and the first who entered the house was the father, supporting the head, whilst the others raised the body of the poor boy. Every exertion was now used, but for some time no symptoms of life could be observed in him. The doctor arrived, and he perfectly approved of the steps which had been taken. He opened a vein, from which the smallest drop of blood exuded. This he counted a good symptom. He then ordered a bath, at first merely tepid, and by degrees made warmer. The blood began to flow a little faster from the arm, and the doctor felt increased hope that the vital functions were not extinct. With joy he noticed the beginning of a gentle pulsation of the heart, and a few minutes afterwards of the wrist, and pointed out these favourable symptoms to the anxious parents. A little brandy was now forced into the throat. The lips, which had hitherto been livid as death, began to show a slight change. At length, in the midst of anxious exertions, the chest began to heave, and the lungs to obtain a little play; a sort of bubbling sound became audible from the throat; and, shortly afterwards, a moan, and then the eyelids half unclosed, though with no consciousness of sight. Convulsive shudders began to creep over the frame—an indication that a warmer bath would be judicious. This was soon effected. As the warmth circulated through the veins, the hands began to move, the eyes to open wider, and to wander wildly over the space between them. At length they seemed to rest upon the face of Margaret, who stood at the foot of the bath, and down whose cheeks tears of hope literally chased each other. A faint smile was seen to play upon his lips, which told that recognition was returning. He was then removed from the warm bath to his warm bed.
An hour afterwards, and their unwearied exertions were rewarded with hearing Master William pronounce the name of “Margaret.” Though so weak that he could not lift his hand, yet his tongue whispered her name, as if he felt she had been his preserver.
He shortly afterwards interchanged smiles with the doctor and his sisters, and presently afterwards, with his father’s hand clasped in his, he fell asleep.
It is not surprising that Laud, as he stood by the kitchen-fire, and scraped off the mud, a mixture of clay, weeds, and samphire, which were clotted upon his coarse trousers, should be considered by the tenants of that part of the house as a person worthy of all admiration. He had signalized himself in more than one pair of eyes. The master of the family and the head clerk had beheld his prowess, and had spoken most highly of him. They had given orders that whatever he required should be furnished for him. No wonder, then, that in Tom’s, John’s, or Sally’s eyes, he should shine with such increased lustre. In Margaret’s he was beheld with those feelings of love, and hope, and joy, which anticipated rapid improvement after long drawbacks, and she saw the object of her attachment at the most happy and propitious moment of her existence. The joy of that evening was unalloyed. Master William was recovering. The grateful father made Will and all his servants enjoy a hearty supper together, before they retired to rest, and took care the social glass was not wanting to make them as comfortable as possible.
The whole establishment sat around the well-spread table before a cheerfully blazing fire, and were descanting upon the dangers of the night and the perils whichMr. William must have encountered. At this moment the doctor entered.
His curiosity had been excited by the account he had heard of Will Laud. He easily distinguished that dark swarthy being, with his blue jacket, changed, by the drying of the mud upon it, to a kind of dun or fawn-colour. His black hair hung down over his shaggy brow with his long man-of-war pigtail; and his whiskers, scarcely distinguishable from his black beard, fulfilled the idea of the weather-beaten sailor which the doctor had previously entertained. He was fully satisfied in his own mind with what he saw. He came, he said, to report to Laud the state of his patient; and after asking him a few questions, and making some remarks upon his bravery, he wished them all a good-night, and returned to the parlour, to encounter the entertaining queries of the intelligent family at the Cliff.
His report brought them another visitor. The door again opened, and their mistress stood before her servants. They all rose as she entered, and Laud above the rest; but whether from the strangeness of his situation, or from the belief that the lady was about to speak to him, the moment that his eye met that intellectual and penetrating glance of inquiry, it became fixed upon the ground. The voice of thanks reached him, as well as the words of praise. If they did not gratifyhim, they did at least the heart of the poor girl who stood close by him. She looked in her mistress’s face, and in her heart blessed her for her kindness.
“Can we be of any service to you, young man?” said the lady. “We are anxious to prove ourselves grateful to you: and in any way that you may claim our future service, you will find us ready to repay you. As an immediate help, Mr. Cobbold sends you this guinea, an earnest of some future recompense.”
“Thank you, ma’am! Let Margaret have the guinea, and the thanks too; for she first discovered the young gentleman.”
This was spoken by Laud without looking at the lady, or once lifting up his eyes. Was it timidity, or was it shame? Perhaps Laud had never been interrogated in the presence of a lady before that time.
He was truly relieved, when Mrs. Cobbold, hoping, as she said, that he had been well taken care of, and again thanking him for his assistance, wished him a good night’s rest, and took her departure.
The opinion of the parlour was not so favourable to Laud as that of the kitchen, as the character of the bold smuggler was estimated very differently in each place. Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold, however, were not aware that Laud was in the British navy, having been seized in his boat by a pressgang, and been bound to serve his majesty three years on board theBritonman-of-war, then cruising off the coast of Holland.
Such was the want of British seamen just at this period of the breaking-out of the long war, that many smugglers received not only their pardon, but good pay for joining the navy; and even those taken by the pressgang were only punished, if it may be termed so, by a three-years’ well-paid service. Laud had been thus taken, and had been so well received on board, that his captain, on the night in question, had granted him permission to come up to Ipswich. He had offered him a crew, but Laud said he knew the river, and would rather go alone, if the captain would only lend him one of the small boats and a pair of oars. He had promised to be on board again the next day. The request was granted; for the captain was pleased with Laud’s confession of his object in undertaking to go alone—so, in spite of wind and weather, ice and snow, he had rowed himself up the river Orwell as far as Nacton Creek.
These facts Will had already communicated to Margaret, who, rejoicing in his present honourable position, overlooked the dangers of a three-years’ service in defence of his country. She felt more proud of his presence that night at the Cliff than she had ever before done since the day of his first entrance into her father’scottage. She did not indeed experience that thrilling warmth of devotion which she once felt when he visited her on the shores of Downham Reach; but love, through all its shocks, was much more firm and really hopeful than even at that enthusiastic period.
Though Margaret became acquainted with the fact of Laud’s admission into the British navy, and he spoke openly in the kitchen of his ship and her commander, yet these things were unknown in the parlour, where, as has just been stated, his personal appearance and character stood at a heavy discount. In the kitchen he was a hero, in the parlour a desperado.
The doctor found Master William in a sound and apparently refreshing sleep; and retired to a couch prepared for himself in an adjoining room, in case his services might be required in the night. The servants soon after parted for their respective dormitories, and Laud took leave of Margaret for the night.
It is scarcely possible to believe that Margaret, after all her fatigues and anxieties, should have refused to retire to her room. She actually begged permission to sit up all night with Master William. Vain were all attempts at persuasion. She said she knew that if she went to bed she could not sleep, and as she begged so hard to be permitted to sit up, the request was granted.
Hope is a sweet comforter to an anxious heart, and presented a vision of future bliss to the wakeful spirit of the maid, which afforded her occupation for the night, presenting to her the prospect of days to come, when Laud should obtain an honourable discharge from his country’s service, where he was now numbered among the bold, the brave, and the free, and in which the same Providence which had preserved him to perform the good act of that night would, she hoped, still preserve him for many more good deeds. In pleasant reflections the night passed away; nor was there one in that family who did not join in the general thanksgiving to God for the signal preservation of the youth, who was wrapped in a profound and refreshingsleep, watched by the ever-constant and faithful Margaret. The tempest of the night had swept along, and was succeeded by a calm and glorious sun-rising, which shone upon the glittering fields of snow. The fir-trees were weighed down with the weight of the ice and snow lodged upon their branches, whilst the beams of the sun made the drops of pendent icicles fall with a smart sound to the earth. The sailor came down from his bedroom refreshed after a sound sleep; and, after he had partaken of a hearty breakfast, he shook hands with all the servants, and took a more tender leave of Margaret: leaving his best wishes for the young gentleman, he returned to his boat some miles down the river, and thence to his ship.
He was gone before the Cliff party assembled at the breakfast-table, but he took with him the best prayers of all, and most especially those of the girl of his heart, for his future safety and prosperity.
Master William gradually recovered, and took warning from this narrow escape not to venture any more upon such dangerous excursions. Though fond of boating, he lost the zest for wild-fowl shooting, and left it for others to pursue who had not purchased experience at so dear a price.
It was not long after these occurrences that Mr. Cobbold and his family removed from the Cliff to a house in the town, a large family mansion, formerly the property of C. Norton, Esq., on St. Margaret’s Green, which he had purchased, and thither he and his family would have earlier removed but for some repairs which were not completed until that time. It was a fine old mansion, fronting the town, with its entrance porch, and lofty windows, with numerous attics; whilst its drawing, dining, and breakfast rooms, facedthe beautiful green fields which then skirted the town towards the hills upon the Woodbridge Road.
Mrs. Cobbold took the first favourable opportunity of questioning Margaret respecting her attachment to Will Laud, of whose character she spoke freely. Margaret spoke warmly in his defence, while she acknowledged the truth of much that had been advanced against him, and as warmly expressed her conviction he would reform. Sincerely did the lady hope that all her poor servant’s favourable anticipations might be confirmed.
Upon Margaret’s spirits, however, this conversation, which was broken off suddenly by the entrance of one of the servants, produced a depression which greatly affected and afflicted her. Her mistress did not appear in her eyes either so amiable, or so kind, or so just, or so considerate, as she had always previously done. She began to suspect that she was prejudiced even against her on Laud’s account. She fancied herself not so much beloved by her as she used to be, and that she did not estimate her services as highly as, by her manner, she used formerly to show that she did. Words which Margaret would never have thought anything about at other times, when now spoken by her mistress, seemed to import something unpleasant, as if her attachment was the reason of their being uttered. She was never admonished now but she thought it was because of her unfortunate acquaintance with Laud. Mrs. Cobbold did not revert, in the least degree, to the past matter of confidential conversation. Indeed, after her most devout aspirations had been made for her servant’s future comfort, she did not think about the matter. But in Margaret’s eyes every little thing said or done seemed to have a peculiar meaning, which her own warped mind attached to it. In fact, she became an altered person—suspicious, distrustful, capricious, and, in many things, far less careful than she ought to have been. And all this arose from that well-intentioned conversation, voluntarily begun on the part of her mistress, butwhich had created such a serious disappointment in Margaret’s mind.
A circumstance arose about the time of the removal of the family, which, though simple in itself, tended very greatly to inflame that disquietude in Margaret’s breast, which only wanted to be stirred up to burn most fiercely.
Many of the things had been removed to St. Margaret’s Green. Part of the family had already left the Cliff, and were domesticated in the mansion. Several of the children, especially all the younger ones, had become familiarized with their far more extensive nursery: Margaret was with them. The footman had been sent, together with the gardener, as safeguards to the house; and even the old coachman, though frequently engaged driving backwards and forwards from one house to the other, considered himself, horses and all, as settled at the town-house.
The Cliff began to be deserted, and in another day the master and mistress would leave the house to those only who were to live in it. Mrs. Cobbold and one or two of the elder boys were still at the Cliff. The faithful old dog, Pompey, still kept his kennel, which stood at the entrance of the stable-yard. Mr. Cobbold had been superintending the unpacking of some valuable goods until a late hour, and his lady, at the Cliff, was anxiously awaiting his return. It was a clear frosty night, and the snow was upon the ground; but the gravel path had been well swept down to the shrubbery gate. Pompey had been furiously barking for some time, and had disturbed Mrs. Cobbold, who was engaged with her book—some new publication of that eventful time. The two elder boys sat by the fire. She said to them—
“I wish, boys, you would go and see what Pompey is barking at.”
“Oh! it is nothing, I dare say, but some sailors on the shore.”
The young men, for so they might be called, had taken off their boots or shoes, and had put on theirslippers, and very naturally were little disposed to put them on again, and to move from a nice, comfortable fire, into the cold air of a frosty night.
Mrs. Cobbold finding, however, that she could not get on with her book for the increasing rage of the dog, determined to go out herself. She was a person of no mean courage, and not easily daunted. She thought, moreover, that if she moved, her sons would leave their backgammon-board and follow her, and, if not, that she might probably meet her husband. She put on her thick cloak, threw a shawl over her head, and sallied forth. As the door opened, Pompey ceased his loud bark, but every now and then gave a low growl, and a short, suppressed bark, as if he was not quite satisfied. Mrs. Cobbold walked down the gravel path toward the gate, and, as she proceeded, she saw a man go across the path and enter the laurel shrubbery directly before her. She went back immediately to the parlour, and told the two young men what she had seen; but, whether it was that they were too deeply engaged with their game, or that they were really afraid, they treated the matter very lightly, simply saying, that it was some sweetheart of the cottagers, or that she must have fancied she saw some one. At all events, they declined to go out, and advised her not to think anything more about it.
This neither satisfied the lady nor old Pompey, who began again to give tongue most furiously. Finding that she was unable to make them stir, the lady determined to investigate the matter herself; and, telling the young men her intention, she again went out, and advanced to the very spot where she had seen the man enter the shrubbery. The traces on the snow convinced her the man was in the shrubbery. In a firm and decided voice, she cried out—
“Come out of that bush—come out, I say! I know you are there; I saw you enter; and if you do not immediately come out, I will order the dog to be let out upon you! Come out! You had better come out this moment.”
The bushes began to move, the snow to fall from the leaves, and out rolled a heavy-looking man, dressed as a sailor, and apparently drunk; he looked up at the lady with a villainous scowl, and staggered a step towards her.
“What do you do here? Who are you?” she said, without moving.
“My name’s John Luff. I—(hiccup)—I—I do no harm!”
At the sound of his voice, Pompey became so furious that he actually dragged his great kennel from its fixture, and as his chain would not break, it came lumbering along over the stones towards the spot.
As the fellow heard this, he began to stagger off, but at every step turned round to see if the lady followed him.
This she did, keeping at the same distance from him, and saying, “Be off with you! be off!” She then saw him go out at the gate, and turn round the wall, to the shore.
Farther than her own gate she did not think it prudent to go; but when she got so far, she was rejoiced to see her husband at a distance returning upon the marsh wall to the Cliff.
Old Pompey had by this time come up to the gate with his kennel behind him, and evidently impatient to be let loose.
She was engaged in the attempt to unloose the dog as her astonished husband came up to the gate; he soon learned the cause of this appearance, and immediately undid Pompey’s collar; the animal sprang over the gate, and ran along the shore till he came to the cut where boats occasionally landed, and was closely followed by his master, who plainly saw a man pulling into the channel in a manner which convinced him he was no inexperienced hand at the oar.
In the meantime an exaggerated report reached St. Margaret’s Green, that a sailor had been seen lurking about the premises at the Cliff, and that he had attacked their mistress.
Of course, the tale lost nothing but truth by the telling; and it was affirmed in the kitchen that it was Will Laud himself.
Some told Margaret the fact; she felt greatly annoyed, and was much surprised that when Mrs. Cobbold came to the house the next day, she did not speak to her upon the subject. She resolved that if her mistress did not soon speak to her, she would broach the subject herself; but Mrs. Cobbold put this question to her the next day:—
“Margaret, do you know a man of the name of John Luff?”
“Yes, madam,” she replied; “I do know such a man, and I most heartily wish I had never known him.”
“I wish the same, Margaret,” said her mistress, and then related her recent adventure.
“He is the man,” said Margaret, “who perverted all Will’s naturally good talents, and induced him to join his nefarious traffickers. He is a desperate villain, and would murder any one! Did he threaten you with any violence? I am glad, indeed, that you escaped unhurt from the fangs of such a monster.”
“He did me no injury,” answered the lady.
Another long conversation then followed between Mrs. Cobbold and Margaret, in which the latter complained bitterly of the change she fancied had taken place in her mistress’s behaviour towards her. The lady denied such change had taken place, and endeavoured to convince her servant that the alteration was in her own disposition.
Whether it was that Margaret’s fame had reached the village of Brandiston, or that Mrs. Leader repented most bitterly the loss of her assistance, or that her rents of the land and cottages began to be in arrear and to fall off, and she herself found that poverty crept in upon her, certain it was that something sufficiently powerful in its nature prompted her to speak kindly to Margaret, whom she accidentally met that very day as she was going across the Green towards Christ Church Park. She had arrived at Ipswich with her husband, and was passing over the Green just as Margaret with the children, all wrapped up in cloaks and muffs, were going to see the skaters on the Round Pond in the Park.
The meeting was much more cordial than could have been expected; but Mrs. Leader was a changed woman. After the interchange of mutual civilities, Margaret said that she should be home by four o’clock, and if her uncle and aunt would call, she knew that her mistress would have no objection to their coming into the house. Mrs. Leader even shook hands with her, and promised to pay her a visit.
What a wonderful change! thought Margaret, as she hastened on with the little ones to overtake two or three of the impatient party, who were looking behind from the Park-gate.
The Park at Ipswich is a beautiful place in summer: twice a week were its gates thrown open by the liberal proprietor of the domain to the inhabitants of the town, who rambled along the shady chestnut walk to its utmost bound. Many were the happy walks that infancy, delighting in the sunny flowers of the mead, took in that lovely place; and many the more tender and animating rambles which fond hearts and faithfullovers in the days of youth enjoyed. Parents and their children breaking away from the cares of business, delighted to stroll in holiday attire, and repose themselves beneath the branches of those stately trees which everywhere adorned the Park. There they heard the first notes of the cuckoo; there they watched the green and spotted woodpecker; observed the busy rooks; heard the nightingales, the thrushes, and the doves, and spoke of all the innocent pleasures of nature.
The spotted fallow deer crossed their path in a long line of rapid flight, and assembled in a herd in the valley; the pheasant and the partridge roamed about in pride and beauty; whilst the hare and the rabbit, familiarized to the sound of children’s voices, lifted up their long ears, or stood up upon their hind legs to gaze upon them as they passed.
In the winter, the stragglers in the Park were comparatively few, excepting at that period when the pond was frozen over, and became the fashionable resort for company to view the skaters; thither the young party whom Margaret had the care of resorted, to see the dexterous movements of Counsellor Green, or some of his majesty’s officers from the barracks. The company that day was numerous, and the scene such as would delight thousands, even were it in the gay metropolis; it would have induced many of the fashionables to leave the warm, soft cushions by the fireside, and to wrap themselves in furs, and to put on their snow-shoes, and to enjoy the healthy, though frosty, air of Christmas.
Many in the busy town of Ipswich left their labours and their cares for a few hours’ recreation; fair ladies ventured to lean upon a brother’s or a lover’s arm and try the slippery ice; sledges, too, were in requisition.
Though the skating was good, and all the young people enjoyed it, Margaret’s thoughts were upon her uncle and aunt, and she was the first to remind her young people that the old Christ Church clock had struck four.
Home they went, gratified and satisfied, talking of the frightful cracks and heavy falls, and well-contested races, which they had mightily enjoyed; when they came into the house they gave a lively account of all they had seen.
With Mrs. Cobbold’s permission, Mr. and Mrs. Leader were invited to take tea in the housekeeper’s room, and Margaret was allowed to have a long talk with them.
She found her uncle much more chatty than her aunt, for sorrow and coming poverty had cast their shadows before Mrs. Leader, and wonderfully softened the asperity of her former purse-proud disposition; she let her husband speak of all the family troubles, and did not once interrupt him. Margaret soon learned that all their property was mortgaged, and for its full value. She learned that the children were barefoot, and neglected; that it would require steady management indeed ever to bring them again into a prosperous or a comfortable state; she felt for them all, and not only felt, but did all she could to ameliorate their condition. She offered advice, which was taken in good part by the now crestfallen aunt.
A strange effect had that comfortable reception in the housekeeper’s room upon the nerves and manners of Mrs. Leader, she looked up to Margaret as if she was a person of considerable consequence in that family; she asked Margaret if she might also see the children; nothing could have given Margaret greater pleasure.
All in the nursery were delighted to see a visitor; and Mrs. Leader very soon discovered that where management, cleanliness, and strict attention are paid there will grow up order, regularity, and comfort; she stayed some minutes with the happy family. As she returned to the housekeeper’s room, she sighed when she said to Margaret—
“I now wish I had never provoked you to leave us! I did not like to own it, but, very soon after you were gone, I felt your loss; I hope you will be able to come and see us in the summer, and should you ever be tiredof service, and wish for a home, you will find us very altered in our manner to you, and more grateful for your services.”
Margaret could forgive all that her aunt had ever said or done to her; she felt so happy in having been reconciled to her, that she could not refrain from telling her so. She gave a portion of her wages for the schooling of the children, and thanked her uncle and aunt for their kind invitation. She even hinted that the time might come when her hopes of settling in Brandiston might be realized, should Laud obtain his discharge; in short, she promised to see them in summer, as she had no doubt that she could obtain leave from her kind mistress.
The day was gone, and the moon was high, and the sky was clear, and the happy Margaret would have had them stay all night. She had received a message to the effect that the pony might be put in the stable, and that her uncle and aunt might sleep in the house; they prudently declined, lest a deep snow might fall and prevent their reaching home; so off they went, happier than they had been any day since their affectionate niece left them, and this happiness arose from the reconciliation.
It was a lucky thing for Mr. and Mrs. Leader that they went home as they did that very night, for not long after their arrival home began that severe winter and deep snow which formed one of the most remarkable features in the history of the climate of England.
It would be foreign to the present narrative to dwell upon the events of that particular season, further than to refer to the great exertions made by persons of all ranks and conditions, above actual distress, to support the famishing poor. Houses were established in different parts of the town of Ipswich for the public distribution of soup, coals, and blankets, and various families agreed to furnish supplies for the various days of the week.
Margaret was now as busy in the kitchen as she had been in the nursery, for at this time the cook of thefamily returned home ill, and no one else could be found so apt as Margaret to supply her place.
It was at this memorable season that her aptitude for this situation was discovered, which led to such a change in her condition, as future pages will record. A servant was soon found for the nursery, who supplied her place, and she became the active cook of the family. In such a large domestic establishment as that of Mr. Cobbold, the cook was a person of the utmost consequence; and although there was a regular housekeeper who acted as an intervening link between the parlour and the kitchen, yet Mrs. Cobbold was by no means so unacquainted with the proceedings of her house, as to be found negligent of a due supervision over every department.
In the new place Margaret had undertaken at the earnest request of her mistress, her active powers of benevolence were now called into existence. The feeling manner in which she represented to her fellow-servants the destitution of thousands around them, and the great sin there was in the least waste; the strong necessity now became a duty in every one to deny themselves some portion of their daily bread, that those who were starving might have a share; made a powerful impression upon the domestics of that establishment. At this time, though a greater allowance was made on account of the provisions given away by this affluent family, yet such was the economy in the kitchen, and the honest, self-satisfactory privation exercised by the whole house, that not the least waste was made, and the accustomed expenditure was very little increased. The poor, however, were bountifully supplied, and Margaret’s name was as justly praised below stairs, as, in past days, it had been above. Little did she think that her activity, economy, and management, which a sense of duty and charity had called into action, would fix her in the kitchen at such an increase of wages, as, comparatively, seemed to her like coming into a little fortune. She had now become the head of all the domestics, from having beenthe servant of all. She had an increase of toil, but she had a help under her. There was dinner for the nursery, dinner for the kitchen, dinner for the parlour, and that which is now almost obsolete, a hot supper for all the house. But what is work to one who is strong and willing, and ready and desirous of giving satisfaction?
Time, fully occupied, passes on rapidly, and Margaret was now looked upon with respect by the whole house. What a pity that that respect should ever have been blighted, or that any circumstances should have interfered with that peaceful enjoyment which she seemed at this time to experience, and which in after years she never forgot! In leaving the nursery, she left that frequent intercourse with her mistress, and consequently that continued mental improvement which she had gradually imbibed. She was not now under her immediate eye; she seldom heard that sweet voice of approbation, pleasing beyond all expression from such a mistress.
It was one of those singular coincidences which happened in her eventful life, that on the celebrated 1st of June, 1794, her lover, William Laud, distinguished himself in Lord Howe’s victory over the French, and was one of the seamen appointed to bring home a splendid prize to Portsmouth; and that Margaret herself, on the very same day, distinguished herself in an aquatic feat, which would have been no disgrace to a British seaman to have performed, and which exhibited a degree of courage and presence of mind, truly wonderful in a female.
In the garden belonging to the mansion at St. Margaret’s Green was a very deep pond, with turfed sides, which were sloping and steep, so that the gardener had to descend to the water by a flight of six steps. Formerly it had been a handsome square pond, with edges neatly kept, and surrounded by alpine strawberry-beds. At the period of this tale, one side opened into the adjoining meadow, and half of that extensive garden was laid down to grass. To this day, the two statelyweeping willows may be seen dipping their pensile edges into the pond, though time has lopped off many an arm, and somewhat curtailed them of their beauty. At that time, when Margaret was cook at St. Margaret’s Green, these trees were the ornaments of the exterior of the town, and to have made a sketch from the hill, on the Woodbridge Road, without including them, would have been to have robbed the town of Ipswich of one of its most prominent and pleasing features of landscape beauty. They were very lofty, though pendent, and in the month of June, might be justly styled magnificent. Hundreds of their boughs kissed the water with their thin, taper points. The girl who had the care of the children had been often warned not to go near the edge of the road.
On this 1st of June, 1794, Margaret had entered the garden to gather some herbs, and had scarcely closed the gate before she heard a sudden shriek of distress. The voices of the children struck upon her, from the centre of the garden. She ran down the path, and there she saw the whole group standing and screaming at the edge of the pond, and the nursemaid completely at her wits’ end with fright. Master Henry had been running away from his sisters, who were pursuing him down the path, and having turned his head round to look at them, he did not perceive his danger. His foot caught the edge of the grass border which surrounded the pond, and he was precipitated head-foremost into the deepest part of it. In a moment he was seen plunging and screaming for help, but all his efforts only tended to carry him still further towards the middle of the pond: he must inevitably have been drowned, had not Margaret at that moment providentially entered the garden.
Margaret’s astonishing presence of mind enabled her to resolve in an instant what it was best to do, and her heroic courage caused her not to shrink from doing it; she ordered the nurserymaid to run with all speed to the stables for a ladder and rope, and then creeping along the strongest arm of the weeping willow that spreaditself over the centre of the pond, and going as far as she could towards the child, she grasped a handful of those pendent branches which dipped themselves into the water, and swinging herself by her right arm, into the pond, and stretching out her left to the utmost, she seized the child by the collar of his little jacket, and held him above the water until the assistance she sent for arrived.
It required both nerve and presence of mind, as well as bodily strength to support herself in this position only for a few minutes. She gradually drew the child nearer to her, and though in great danger herself, her first words to him were, “Don’t be afraid, Master Henry; I have got you! Keep still! keep still! don’t struggle!”
The gardener and the coachman had by this time arrived with the ladder and a rope, they let it down from the arm of the tree, resting the upper stave just against its branches. The gardener descended a few steps, and Margaret gave him the child, whilst she herself remained with the boughs in her hand, until the boy was safe. She then requested them to throw her the rope, that she might leave go of the willow and be drawn to the side of the pond. She put the rope round her waist and took hold of it, doubled, with both hands, and in this way was dragged through the water to the bank.
Thus was Margaret Catchpole, for the third time, the providential instrument in preserving the life of a member of Mr. Cobbold’s family. It will not, then, be a matter of surprise, that the records of her life should have been so strictly preserved among them. If there had been any former coolness or misunderstanding between her and any of the domestics of the family, this event completely reconciled all differences. It was felt by one and all, that a woman who could risk her life to save another’s, in this manner, was worthy of their united respect. She was, at this time, at the very summit of her reputation. A few days more brought the news of that celebrated victory overthe French fleet, which added so much to the naval glory of Old England. In that victory more than one Ipswich man partook, and returned to speak of the engagement. One poor fellow, in particular, was sent home, desperately wounded, who, for many years, became an object of respect, as well as charitable attention, to many families in the town and neighbourhood. This was poor old Jack, whose friends kept the Salutation public-house, in Carr Street, who always went by the name of “What Cheer?” When he first returned to his aunt, the landlady of the house, he had his senses perfect, and could speak of the engagement with such clearness and precision as delighted the seamen who frequented the house. He was on board the same ship as Will Laud, and on the 1st of June they fought side by side.
Margaret heard of this, and used to go down to the public-house in question, to hear from Jack all she could of one who was as dear to her as her own life. He was desired by Laud to tell Margaret that he was coming home with plenty of prize-money as soon as he could obtain his discharge. It was this which gave her spirit such joy, and made her so anxious to hear all she could of the battle; and, of course, of that part which her lover took in it. Poor Jack’s intellects, however, from the severity of his wounds, and consequent attack of fever, became irretrievably impaired; and though he recovered his health, and became a constant visitor at St. Margaret’s Green, yet he never could afterwards give any connected account of the battle.