The History of Margaret Catchpole Part 12

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 sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.e could no longer hear even the voices of those who were in the boat, as the channel took them round the bed of ooze to the opposite sh.o.r.e. 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 sh.o.r.e, pa.s.sing 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 ash.o.r.e, and walk to Ipswich. Had there been a boat between Harwich and the Nacton sh.o.r.e, 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 ash.o.r.e!"

"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 ash.o.r.e."

"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, and dragging 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 sh.o.r.e 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 ma.s.s 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 grat.i.tude to Laud, and asked him to come on to the 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 pa.s.sed 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 antic.i.p.ated 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, all seemed 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 s.p.a.ce 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 p.r.o.nounce 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.

CHAPTER XVI.

BRIGHT HOPES.

It is not surprising that Laud, as he stood by the kitchen-fire, and sc.r.a.ped off the mud, a mixture of clay, weeds, and samphire, which were clotted upon his coa.r.s.e 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 l.u.s.tre. In Margaret's he was beheld with those feelings of love, and hope, and joy, which antic.i.p.ated 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 gla.s.s 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 which Mr. 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 gratify him, 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 a.s.sistance, 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 the Briton man-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's cottage. She did not indeed experience that thrilling warmth of devotion which she once felt when he visited her on the sh.o.r.es 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 pa.s.sed away; nor was there one in that family who did not join in the general thanksgiving to G.o.d for the signal preservation of the youth, who was wrapped in a profound and refreshing sleep, 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 a.s.sembled 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.

CHAPTER XVII.

ALTERCATION AND EXPLANATION.

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, faced the 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 antic.i.p.ations 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, but which had created such a serious disappointment in Margaret's mind.

A circ.u.mstance 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 sh.o.r.e."

The young men, for so they might be called, had taken off their boots or shoes, and had put on their slippers, 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 sh.o.r.e 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.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE RECONCILIATION.

Whether it was that Margaret's fame had reached the village of Brandiston, or that Mrs. Leader repented most bitterly the loss of her a.s.sistance, 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 pa.s.sing over the Green just as Margaret with the children, all wrapped up in cloaks and m.u.f.fs, 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.