The History of Margaret Catchpole Part 19

The reply was both satisfactory and unsatisfactory. It convinced her she was not suspected; but declared that she must expect no help from the linen-horses. She was glad, however, to see that the lines were on the posts for the coa.r.s.e linen, and the crotches, or props, in their proper places.

She looked around for something to help her. The gaol wall was nearly twenty-two feet high, and the chevaux de frise three feet from the point of one revolving spike to its extreme point. What could she get to a.s.sist her? At one time she thought of pulling up a portion of the paling for a ladder. She tried her strength at it, but it was too much for her. She then turned her eye upon a large frame, which was used for the flower-beds. It covered a long bed, and the awning usually placed upon it to keep the sun off the flowers in the summer was not there. She tried her strength at this, and lifted the legs upon which it stood about a foot upwards. This she resolved to make her ladder. She looked up at the narrow spot where the iron spike had been broken, and which was close to the shoulder or prop of the chevaux de frise. Hope beamed brightly upon her as she thought of her liberty. Margaret resolved to make the attempt at midnight. At half-past eight the convicts all went in to supper, and afterwards retired to their cells. But Margaret, the moment she reached hers, contrived to slip out of it again, with the things she had made for her disguise, into the adjoining one, which stood open; and she crept under the bed of the felon who was gone to Bury for trial. She had, as usual, closed her own door, and lay anxiously waiting in her hiding place the turnkey's approach. She heard him coming along, and asking the several prisoners, as he came, if they were in their cells. They answered his summons, and then she heard them locked up; and now came the challenge to her own door.

"Margaret, are you there?"

She put her lips to the wall of the cell where she was, and answered, "Yes." It sounded exactly as if she was in bed in her own cell; and to her great joy she heard the key turn in the iron lock, and the bolt shoot into its place. She breathed for a moment freely, but the next moment she experienced such a sudden revulsion as few could have borne without detection. To her confusion and dismay, the turnkey entered the very cell where she lay concealed under the bed. He walked up to the iron-grated window, and, as usual, the cas.e.m.e.nt stood open for the benefit of air through the pa.s.sage, and, in a soliloquizing manner, said, "Ah! poor Sarah! you will never sleep upon this bed again!"

In breathless agony did Margaret dread two things equally fatal to her project. One was, that he should hear her breath in the stillness of the night, and discover her; the other, that he should lock the door upon her. She knew that it was not usual to lock the doors of those cells which contained no prisoners, but she dreaded lest the same absence of mind which made him saunter into Sarah Lloyd's cell should make him look the door. What a state of suspense! How did her blood course through her frame! she could hear her heart beat! She was presently relieved from her suspense, for the turnkey, having completed his duty in locking up all his prisoners, quietly departed out of the cell, and left the door, as usual, standing wide open. Never was relief more opportune or welcome than this to her overcharged heart. The clock struck the hours of nine, ten, and eleven, and Margaret had not stirred. She now rose, took her shoes in her hand, and her bundle under her arm; she then managed to tie it up with an ap.r.o.n-string over her shoulders, and, with the slightest tread, stole along the stone pa.s.sage. A mouse would scarcely have been disturbed by her as she descended the front of steps that led to the felons' yard.

To her great comfort she found the door unbolted; for the turnkey, having locked every one up, saw no necessity for bolting the yard door. Silently she opened it; it creaked so little, that the wind prevented any sound reaching beyond the precincts of the door. She made her way to the flower-stand in the governor's garden, lifted the frame out of the ground and set it up endways directly under the broken spike. It reached a little more than half way up the wall, being about thirteen feet long. She then went and took the linen line off the posts, and made a running noose at one end of it. She then took the longest clothes-prop she could find, and pa.s.sed the noose over the horn of it. She mounted the frame by the help of the prop, and standing upon it she lifted the line up and pa.s.sed the noose over the shoulder of the chevaux de frise, then, pulling it tight and close to the wall, it slipped down the iron and became fixed.

Now came the greatest difficulty she had ever overcome in her life. She drew herself up by the line to the top of the wall, and laying her body directly upon the roller where the spike was broken, with the help of one hand grasping the shoulder of iron, she balanced herself until she had pulled up all the line and let it fall down the other side of the wall; then, taking hold of the rope with both hands, she bent her body forward, and the whole body of spikes revolved, turning her literally heels over head on the outer side of the gaol wall. Was there ever such a desperate act performed by any woman before? Had not the fact been proved beyond all doubt, the statement might be deemed incredible. But Margaret Catchpole did exactly as here described; and after the oscillation of her body was over from the jerk, she quietly let herself down in perfect safety on the other side.

Just as she alighted on the earth St. Clement's chimes played for twelve o'clock. It was a gently sloping bank from the wall, and a dry fosse, which she crossed, easily climbed over the low wooden palings against the road, and made her way for the lane against St. Helen's church. There she found Will Laud in readiness to receive her, which he did with an ardour and devotion that told he was sincere.

They fled to an empty cart-shed on the Woodbridge road. Here Laud kept watch at the entrance whilst Margaret put on her sailor's dress. She soon made her appearance on the road with her white trousers, hat, and blue jacket, looking completely like a British tar. They did not wait to be overtaken, but off they started for Woodbridge, and arrived at the ferry just as the dawning streaks of daylight began to tinge the east. Their intention was to cross the Sutton Walks and Hollesley Heath to Sudbourn. Unluckily for them, however, who should they meet at the ferry but old Robinson Crusoe, the fisherman, who, having been driven round the point at Felixstowe, was compelled to come up the Deben to Woodbridge for the sale of his fish. The old man gave them no sign of recognition, but he knew them both, and, with a tact that few possessed, saw how the wind blew. But without speaking to either of them, he proceeded with his basket to the town.

At this they both rejoiced, and as they took their journey across that barren tract of land, it seemed to them like traversing a flowery mead.

CHAPTER XXVI.

PURSUIT AND CAPTURE.

The morning after Margaret's escape the turnkey was alarmed by the call of the gardener, who came early to the prison to prune some trees in the governor's garden. He told the turnkey there was a rope hanging down the wall, as if some one had escaped during the night. They soon discovered the frame against the wall; footmarks along the beds, and the linen crotch, all told the same tale. The turnkey then ran to the men's cells, and found them all bolted. He did the same to the women's, and found them likewise fastened just as he left them the night before. He then examined every window. Not a bar was moved. He did this without speaking a word to any one. At the usual hour he called up the prisoners, and marched them out of their cells. Margaret's was the last, at the end of the pa.s.sage. When he opened it, no one answered his summons. He walked in; no one was there. The bed had not been slept in, and was without sheets. He then made Mrs. Ripshaw acquainted with the facts. Astonishment and alarm were depicted upon her countenance. Her husband's absence made the circ.u.mstance the more distressing.

Search was made in every part of the gaol, but no trace of Margaret could be found. The women with whom she washed the day previously all declared that they knew nothing of her escape. They declared that they saw her go before them to the farther end of the pa.s.sage to her own cell. But how could she escape and lock the door? The turnkey was quite sure he had secured her in her own cell, for that he went into the one adjoining after he had, as he supposed, locked her up in hers. It came out, however, in the course of inquiry, that he remembered her asking him about the horses not being set out for the wash; and the women declared that Margaret had been very peremptory about not giving the signal before eight o'clock. These things seemed to indicate a design to escape, and carried some suspicion of the fact.

Mrs. Ripshaw, however, was not satisfied, but sent a swift messenger on horseback to Bury St. Edmunds, with a note to acquaint her husband with the circ.u.mstances. Mrs. Ripshaw also wrote to Mrs. Cobbold in the greatest agitation, begging of her, if she knew where she was, to give information of it, as her husband and two sureties were bound, under a penalty of five hundred pounds each, to answer for the escape of any prisoner from the gaol. Such a stir was created in the town of Ipswich by this event as was scarcely ever before witnessed. People flocked to the gaol to see the spot whence Peggy had made her escape, and many were the reports falsely circulated concerning her.

It is not easy to describe the grief and consternation which was truly felt by Margaret's dearest and best friend. She knew the consequences of this rash act; that, if she was taken, it was death, without any hope of reprieve.

She ordered her carriage, and went to the gaol, and was as much, or even more astonished than the inmates of the prison could be. She soon convinced Mrs. Ripshaw that she had not the slightest idea of any such intention on the part of her late servant, neither could she tell where she was gone. She made inquiries whether she had been seen talking with any of the male prisoners; but no clue could be gained here. Mrs. Cobbold was one of those whose decided opinion was, that she must have had somebody as an accomplice; but every soul denied it. This lady returned home in the greatest distress and uncertainty. Messengers were dispatched to Nacton, to Brandiston, and even into Cambridgeshire, to inquire after her.

When Mr. Ripshaw returned from Bury, he found some of the magistrates in the gaol. He had formed a very strong opinion in his own mind, and requested the visiting magistrates to examine the turnkey immediately. He was summoned, and examined before Colonel Edgar, Mr. Gibson, and Mr. Neale, and closely questioned. His answers were not deemed satisfactory.

The magistrates remanded him for a time, and conversed together upon the subject. They were of opinion that somebody must have bribed the man, and that he must have let her out, and have put the things as they were found, as a blind to turn suspicion from himself.

He was again summoned, and given in custody, on suspicion of having a.s.sisted the prisoner's escape.

In the meantime, every exertion was made to discover the prisoner, but without any success. The following hand-bill was printed and circulated in every direction:-- "FIFTY POUNDS REWARD.

"Whereas, on Tuesday night, the 25th of March, or early on Wednesday morning, Margaret Catchpole, a female convict, confined in the Ipswich gaol, made her escape therefrom, either by scaling the wall, or by the connivance of the turnkey, this is to give notice, that the above reward shall be given to any person or persons who will bring the said Margaret Catchpole to Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler; and one-half that sum to any person or persons furnishing such information as shall lead to her apprehension. And notice is hereby given, that any person concealing or harbouring the said Margaret Catchpole shall, after this notice, if detected, be, by order of the magistrates, punished as the law directs.

"N.B.--The prisoner is a tall and dark person, with short hair, black eyes, and of intelligent countenance. She had on the gaol dress, and took away with her the two sheets belonging to her bed.

"IPSWICH GAOL, March 28th, 1800."

This notice was circulated far and near, and furnished topics for conversation throughout the county.

It so happened that some of the servants of Mrs. Cobbold mentioned the subject of the reward to the old fisherman, Robinson Crusoe, as he stood at the back-door with his basket of fish.

"Well, Robin, have you heard of the reward? Have you heard of Margaret's escape from the gaol!"

"No; but I think I have seen her, or the foul fiend has played me one of his shabby tricks."

"Seen her, Robin! Where?"

"I saw that fellow Laud, and somebody very like her, go across the Sutton Ferry together. She might deceive anybody else, but the foul fiend showed her to me, though she was in a sailor's dress. I told your mistress, long ago, that no good would come of Margaret."

This news reached the parlour, and was soon communicated to Mr. Ripshaw, who quickly had an interview with Mrs. Cobbold, and from her he learned the intimacy existing between Will Laud, his late prisoner, and Margaret, and could not doubt that he had a.s.sisted in her escape. He soon ascertained the probable bearings of Laud's destination, and lost no time in prosecuting the pursuit. He went off for Woodbridge and Sutton Ferry directly. The ferryman corroborated the testimony of old Colson as to two sailors, a slight one and a stout one, pa.s.sing over the river in his boat, on the morning of the 26th. They went off directly, he said, for Eyke. Thither the gaoler pursued his course, and thence to Sudbourn.

He found out that two sailors had been seen in that neighbourhood such as he described them, and that they lodged at Mrs. Keeley's. He took a constable along with him to the cottage, and at once demanded his prisoner. The woman at first denied all knowledge of the persons he sought, but, after threatening her with taking her off to gaol at once, she confessed that her brother and Margaret were down on the coast, waiting for a boat to carry them off to sea; she even confessed that Margaret slept with her only the night before, and that a report having reached them of the reward offered for her capture, she had put a smock-frock over her sailor's jacket, and was a.s.sisting Keeley, her husband, in keeping his flock upon the marsh saltings.

The constable of Sudbourn and Mr. Ripshaw went off immediately for the saltings. They met Keeley, the shepherd, returning with his flock, to fold them upon the fallows; but no one was with him. He was a shrewd, sharp, surly fellow, and in a moment understood what was in the wind.

Mr. Ripshaw began the attack. "Constable, take that man into custody."

"Where's your warrant, Mr. Gaoler? 'Old birds are not to be caught with chaff.' Now, then, your warrant for my apprehension, and I am the man to go with you. Come, show me the warrant at once; or, you no sooner lift your hand against me than I will show you what resistance is, and you shall take the consequences of an a.s.sault upon my person."

The fellow stood with his brawny limbs displayed before them, and his two fierce, rough-coated, short, flap-eared dogs wagging their stumps of tails, and looking earnestly in their master's face, to see if he gave the signal for them to attack either, or both the gaoler and the constable. It was clear that they must go upon another tack.

The shepherd gave a shrill whistle to his dogs, and on they dashed, driving the sheep towards the fold.

They proceeded directly along the shingled hardware to the beach, or rather to the sh.o.r.e of the river-side, which in those parts much resembles the sea-sh.o.r.e. The revenue cutter's boat was then going across the stream of the Alde; they hailed it, and the officer in command ordered his men to return.

It was young Barry who came on sh.o.r.e from the boat, and he immediately walked a little way apart with the gaoler, who explained to him the nature of his business; and painful as its connexion with Margaret Catchpole made it to Barry, his sense of duty compelled him to render the a.s.sistance required. Accordingly, they were soon seated in the stern of the boat, and were rowed by his men towards the spot, where, on the main sh.o.r.e, Laud and Margaret stood, anxiously watching the approach of a boat from a vessel on the sea.

There they stood, not only unconscious of approaching danger, but congratulating themselves upon the prospect of a termination of all their troubles. Joyfully did they watch the boat coming over the billows of the sea, not seeing the other boat approaching them from the river. A few minutes more, and they would have been beyond the reach of gaolers and of prisons.

Neither Laud nor Margaret saw them until they came down upon them, headed by the gaoler, whose voice Margaret instantly recognized. With a wild shriek that made the welkin ring, she rushed into the sea, and would at once have perished, had not Laud caught her, as a wave cast her back upon the beach and suddenly deprived her of sense and speech.

He stood across the seemingly lifeless body of that devoted girl, and with a pistol in each hand c.o.c.ked, and presented to the foremost men, the officer and the gaoler, he exclaimed, "Let us go--we are not defrauding the revenue--you have no business with us!"

"You may go unhurt," replied the gaoler, "if you will deliver up the body of Margaret Catchpole. I must and will have her in my custody."

"If you do, Mr. Ripshaw, it shall be at the peril of your life, or the cost of mine. The first man who approaches to touch her shall be a corpse, or he shall make me one."

There was such determination in his words and att.i.tude, that every one saw he would not flinch. It was a painful moment for young Barry; he wished to save the life of Laud; he did not wish to risk that of any of his men; he stepped forward, and said,-- "Will Laud, let me entreat you to give up the person of Margaret Catchpole; she has escaped from the custody of the gaoler, and is under sentence of transportation. I promise that you shall depart in safety, and that she shall take no hurt. Do not force me to shed blood--we must take her!"

The next instant two pistols flashed, and Laud lay stretched upon the sand. He had first fired at Barry and missed him, and the next moment, in self-defence, Barry was compelled to fire in return. The ball, which was intended only to have disabled his arm, pa.s.sed through his heart and killed him on the spot. So ended the career of a man who, only in the few latter days of his life, seemed steadily resolved to act fairly by the woman who had devoted her life to him, and to follow some honourable occupation in a foreign land. Poor Susan's words at last proved true: "Margaret you will never marry William Laud."

The bodies of Laud and Margaret were both carried by the sailors to the preventive-service boat, and laid upon the men's cloaks at the bottom of it. After a while, Margaret began to revive, and her awakening dream was, that she was on board the smuggler's boat, which was coming to meet them. But the men in that boat, observing the fearful odds against them, had only rested on their oars to see the fatal result which took place, and then turned back and steered for their own vessel.

Margaret looked wildly round her as the moonlight shone upon the sailors. She whispered, "Laud! Laud!" She saw something lying in a line with herself upon the same cloaks, but could not distinguish anything but a sailor's dress: she heard a voice at the helm which was familiar to her; she recognized it to be Barry's; she lifted her head, and saw the banks of the river on both sides of the water. The truth seemed to flash upon her, for she fell backwards again, fainted away, and became insensible.

She and her lover were conveyed to the Ship Inn at Orford. The sailors who carried her, sensible of the devoted heart of the poor girl, seemed oppressed with heaviness, and could not refrain addressing one another, in their own peculiar style, upon the bad job of that night. Margaret became too soon and too fully acquainted with her situation. She shed tears of the deepest agony; her mind was distracted, and without consolation. She did not speak to any one; but between sobs, and groans, and lamentations upon her loss, she seemed the most melancholy picture of human woe. By what she had heard from some of the pitying sailors around her, she understood that it was young Edward Barry who had shot her lover. When he came into the room where she was seated in an arm-chair, with her head resting in an agony upon her hand, he went up to speak to her. She lifted up her hands, turned her head aside, and exclaimed-- "Begone, wretch! Did you not voluntarily promise you would never hurt him?"

"And so I would, Margaret, if he would have permitted me to do so. But he would not. He first fired at me, and then I returned it; but only with the intention of disarming him."

"You have done a n.o.ble deed, and one which will immortalize your name, one which will form a source of happy reflection to you hereafter, most n.o.ble man of war! You have killed a harmless man, and have taken captive a poor fugitive female! Happy warrior! you will be n.o.bly rewarded!"

"Do not reproach me, Margaret, but forgive me. I have only done my duty; and, however painful it has been, you would not reproach me, if you did but know how much I really grieved for you."

"Your grief for me will do me about as much good as mine will poor William!" and here Margaret burst into a flood of tears, which words could not in any way repress.

A post-chaise was ordered to the inn-door, and Margaret, apparently more dead than alive, was placed within it, and the gaoler taking his seat beside her, they were conveyed immediately to Ipswich.

She was once more confined within those walls which she had so recently scaled; she made no secret of the manner in which she had effected her escape; she fully confessed her own work, and perfectly exonerated every other person in the gaol.

It was well for the poor turnkey that she was captured. He was immediately released from confinement, and reinstated in his office.

Margaret was now kept in almost solitary confinement, to mourn over her unhappy lot, and to reflect upon the death of one whom she had loved too well.

CHAPTER XXVII.

SECOND TRIAL, AND SECOND TIME CONDEMNED TO DEATH.

After the arrival of Margaret at the Ipswich gaol, several magistrates attended, at the request of Mr. Ripshaw, to take the deposition of the prisoner. She was summoned into the gaoler's parlour, or, as it was more properly called, the "Magistrates' Room." The depositions of Mr. Ripshaw and of the constable of Sudbourn, were first taken down. The nature of the offence was then for the first time explained to Margaret, and its most dreadful consequences at once exposed. She was taken completely by surprise. She had no idea that, in doing as she had done, she had been guilty of anything worthy of death, and made no hesitation in telling the magistrates so. She told them, moreover, that her conscience did not accuse her of any crime in the attempt, and that she thought it a cruel and b.l.o.o.d.y law which could condemn her to death for such an act.

"But are you aware," said Mr. Gibson, one of the visiting magistrates, "that you have broken that confidence with Mr. Ripshaw which he placed in you, and that you subjected him and his sureties to the penalty of five hundred pounds each, had he not recovered you, and brought you back to prison?"

"Had I been aware of such a thing, I should then have thought myself as bad as if I had stolen the money, and should, indeed, have broken the confidence which, with such a knowledge, would have been placed in me, but I knew nothing of such a fact. My master, Mr. Ripshaw, was always kind and indulgent to me, and my mistress the same, but they never hinted such a thing to me. I was not aware that, with regard to my personal liberty, there was any bond of mutual obligation between me and my master. I was always locked up at the usual time, and it never was said to me, 'Margaret, I will rely upon your honour that you will never attempt to escape.' No promise was exacted from me, and I did not think that it was any breach of confidence to do as I have done."

"You do not consider that you might have ruined an innocent man; that the turnkey was actually committed upon suspicion of having connived at your departure, as n.o.body would believe that you could have done such an act of your own accord."

"I might not have done it of my own accord, though I certainly did it without the a.s.sistance of any human being. He, alas! is dead who persuaded me to it, though I confess it did not require any very great degree of persuasion; and I fear that, were he living now, I should almost attempt the same again."

"There you speak contemptuously, and in a very unbecoming manner, young woman."

"I did not mean to be disrespectful to you, gentlemen, especially as you are so kind as to explain to me the nature of the law. I only meant to express my own weakness. But may I ask what law it is that makes the act I have been guilty of so felonious as to deserve death?"

"You may ask any question you please, but you must not add defiance to your impropriety and guilt. You are sensible enough to be well a.s.sured that the magistrates here present are not your judges. They have a duty to perform to their country; and they consider it a privilege and an honour that their sovereign places them in the situation of such an active service as to send prisoners before the judge; that such as transgress the laws, and render themselves unfit to enjoy rational liberty, should be punished, as men not worthy to be members of a well organized and civilized community. By the law of the land you live in, you have once been condemned to death for horse-stealing. By the mercy of your king, you have had a reprieve, and a commutation of that sentence of death for transportation for seven years. The period you have spent in gaol is part of that sentence. Now understand the law:-- "'Any prisoner breaking out of gaol, if he resist his gaoler, may be killed on the spot, in the attempt of the gaoler to restrain him. And any person breaking out after sentence of death, shall be considered liable to that punishment for his original offence, which had been commuted, and shall suffer death accordingly. If he escape through the door of his prison, when left open, it shall not be felony, because it is the negligence of the gaoler; but if he break out, after proper caution exercised for his security, either by force in the day, or by subtlety in the night, then it shall be felony.'

"Such is the law; and though in your case, young woman, you may not consider it just, yet when you reflect upon your example to others, you will see it in a different light. If every prisoner should go unpunished who broke out of prison what continual attempts would be made to escape! I am truly sorry for your case; but the law is made for offenders; and it is our duty to send you to Bury again for trial. In the meantime, the gaoler will be upon the alert, and take good care that you do not commit the same offence again."

Margaret thanked Mr. Gibson for his explanation. She felt very sorry, she said, if she had offended any one, and hoped they would forgive her ignorance and unintentional offence.

She was fully committed to take her trial for the second offence. Mr. Gibson was much astonished at her presence of mind and singularly acute understanding, as well as appropriate and becoming form of speech, which she used as naturally as she felt it. His words to one deeply interested for Margaret were, "What a pity that such a woman should not know the value of her liberty before she lost it!"

The reader knows the reason why Margaret broke out of prison, and has seen how she became a second time amenable to the laws. He will observe, that it was from her acquaintance with that desperate man, who had been the cause of misery to her and her family, from the first days of her acquaintance with him. But he was now dead. The cause was removed, and with it died every wish of her heart for life and liberty.

But it was not the place that made Margaret so unhappy. It was the void occasioned by the having no one now to love, that made her feel as if no one in the world loved her. In this she was greatly mistaken; for though her offence had occasioned much condemnation among those who were interested in her, yet they were not so lost to pity and compa.s.sion as not to feel for her sufferings. Among the foremost of those friends was her former mistress, who, in the true sense of the word, was charitable.

As soon as she heard that Margaret was retaken, she saw at once all the dreadful consequences which awaited her, and knew that she would require more than double attention and care. Her first step was an application to a magistrate (Mileson Edgar, Esq., of the Red House), for an order to visit Margaret in prison, and the application was immediately granted in the following letter from that gentleman:-- "RED HOUSE, May 10th, 1800.

"MY DEAR MADAM, "Any request that you would make would be sure to meet with prompt attention from me, because I am well a.s.sured that you would not make one which I could not grant, and which, when granted, would not give me pleasure to have attended to. Herewith I send you an order to Mr. Ripshaw to admit you to visit Margaret Catchpole during her confinement in the Ipswich gaol. What an extraordinary being she is! a clever, shrewd, and well-behaved person, yet strangely perverted in her judgement! She actually cannot be persuaded that she has offended against the laws of her country. You will, I trust, my dear madam, by the exercise of your influence and judgement, convince her of her folly. I am truly glad that you intend going to see her; for next to the pleasure derived from granting your request is the comfort I derive from the prospect of great benefit therein to the prisoner.

"Believe me, my dear madam, "Ever yours sincerely, "MILESON EDGAR.

"To MRS. COBBOLD, St. Margaret's Green, Ipswich."

The visit was soon paid to poor Margaret in her cell, and it was one of deep interest and importance, inasmuch as it paved the way for a better frame of mind, and deeper humility, than this wretched young woman ever before felt. On this account we shall record the particulars of the interview in detail, as related by the lady herself.

When Mrs. Cobbold entered the cell, Margaret rose and curtsied respectfully, and the next moment the big tears rolled down her cheeks, and her chest heaved with convulsive emotion, as if her heart would break. The gaoler placed a chair for the lady, and retired to the end of the pa.s.sage. For a long time nothing could be heard but the occasional sobs of the prisoner. At length she spoke:-- "Oh! my dear lady, how can you look upon me? You are good to come and see me; but indeed I feel as if I was not worthy you should come. I never dared to ask it of you. I had scarcely any hope of it. It is only your goodness. I am a poor, ill-fated being, doomed to sorrow and despair!"

"Margaret, I came to see you from a sense of duty to G.o.d, and to you too: I came to try and comfort you; but how can I give consolation to you if you talk of your being ill-fated and doomed to despair? Do not say that the doom of fate has anything to do with your present situation. You know as well as I do, that unless you had misconducted yourself, you might have been as happy now as you were when I saw you after your return from Bury. Put your sin upon yourself, and not upon your fate. You know the real cause of this unhappiness."

"Ah! dear lady, what would you have done if you had been me and in my place?"

"I might have done as you did; but I do think, Margaret, knowing what a friend I had always been to you, that you might have placed confidence in me, and have told me Laud was in prison. I observed that you were much disturbed, and not yourself, when I last came to see you, but I could not divine the cause."

"I was afraid to tell you, madam, lest you should persuade me to give up my acquaintance with him, and I had learned much more to his credit than I knew before."

"And so, by following your own inclination, you have brought your lover and yourself to an untimely death. Oh, Margaret! had you confided in me, I should have persuaded you to have tried him until you had obtained your discharge from prison; then, had he been a respectable and altered man, I should have approved of your marriage."

"But think, dear lady, how constant he had been to me for so many years! Surely his patience deserved my confidence."

"And what good did you ever find it do you, Margaret? Look at the consequences."

"I could not foresee them. How could I then look at them?"

"Though you were so blind as not to foresee the consequences, others, with more reflection and forethought, might have done so for you; and, a.s.suredly, had you hinted the matter to me, I should have prevented what has happened."

"I wish indeed, now, that I had done so. I suffer most severely in my mind, not from the fear of punishment, but because I have been the cause of William Laud's death."

"And he will have been the cause of your own, Margaret. Had he not persuaded you to break out of prison, he would not have been killed. He knew the penalty was death to you if you were caught, and he has met that very end to which he has now made you liable. Had he loved you lawfully and honourably, as he ought to have done, he would have waited for your free and happy discharge."

"But it seems to me," said Margaret, "so very strange, something so out of justice, to condemn a person to die for that which does not appear to her to be a crime. I cannot see the blood-guiltiness that I have thus brought upon myself. In G.o.d's commandments I find it written, 'Thou shalt not steal.' I stole the horse, and I could see that I deserved to die, because I transgressed that commandment; but I do not find it said, 'Thou shalt not escape from prison.'"

"Now Margaret, your own reasoning will condemn you. You acknowledged that you deserved to die for stealing the horse. Now consider the difference between the sentence you were actually prepared to submit to and the one for which it was in mercy changed. Though justly condemned to death, you are permitted to live and undergo a comparatively mild punishment, yet you cannot see the duty of submitting to it. You should have endured the lesser punishment without a murmur. You appeared to receive the award of it with such thankfulness that it made all your friends rejoice for you. But how deep is their present sorrow! What will the judge say to you now when you are placed before him? Religion teaches you submission to the const.i.tuted authorities of your country; and you ought to think with humility, as you once did, that, like the thief on the cross, you suffer justly for your crimes. To my mind, Margaret, you have no excuse whatever. It may be all very well for romantic ideas of fancy to make your lover the excuse; but you were not at liberty to choose to roam over the sea with him until you could do so with a free conscience."

"It is not for me, dear lady, to say a word against your reasoning. I did not look upon my crime in this light."