Читать книгу: «The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl», страница 10

“Well, Margaret, I am come, according to your appointment.”

“I am very grateful to you for your assistance. I should never have forgiven myself had I not gone. I saw your brother, sir, and he was very kind to me. Through his permission I obtained a sight of the bodies in the boat-house, and he told me concerning the melancholy wreck of the schooner; but – but both you and your brother, sir, are mistaken.”

The heart of the youth was so stricken, he could not for a time utter one single word – he sat all astonishment, all dismay, all agony, all despair. There was no joyful congratulation for Margaret, there was no apology for his mistake – feelings too deep for utterance overpowered him.

Margaret saw and felt, in the midst of her own hope, the painful disappointment of his, nor could she summon courage to utter more. After the most afflicting silence, John Barry, as if he could not doubt his own and his brother’s eyes, said —

“Are you sure I was mistaken?”

“Quite,” said Margaret; “quite.”

“And my brother, how could he be so deceived? he knew Laud so well.”

“Few knew him better, but I convinced him that he was mistaken. I asked him where the wound was upon the forehead, which he had given him, and which I had such difficulty in healing. It certainly was very like Laud, and, had I not well considered him, I also might have been deceived; but I am glad I went. Your brother is quite satisfied upon the point, but very much hurt to think of the grief he has occasioned you. He felt very sorry, also, for the pain which he kindly imagined I must have felt, which, however, was greatly relieved by the joy I experienced in proving to his satisfaction that he was mistaken. He declared that, for my sake, he would never injure Will Laud if he could help it. Oh, how I wish that Will could have heard that declaration! I am persuaded that they would have been good friends from that time. I think you will find your brother at Levington upon your return, for I know he asked permission of Lieutenant Brand to let him visit his father for a day upon very urgent business. I suspect this is but to see you, and explain to you his mistake.”

“Margaret, I ought to have felt more for you than for myself. I wish you well – I scarcely now can hope. I am indeed wretched, but it is my duty to strive against these feelings – I know it is. But here in this country I cannot remain – I must go abroad. I must see if I can get a grant of land in Canada – I cannot live here; but I shall never forget you, Margaret, never! – and may I hope that you will sometimes think of me?”

“I can never forget you; and, depend upon it, wherever you may be, I shall never cease to be grateful for your past kindness to a poor unfortunate girl like myself. God will prosper you, sir – I am sure He will. I am far too unworthy your notice. At all times I will pray for your happiness.”

“I know not where I shall go, Margaret. I will see you but once more before I go; but now good-bye.”

They shook hands and parted – each felt a sincere wish for the other’s welfare. One felt that the hopes of his life were blighted; the other, that her vows of attachment were unalterable.

Young Barry returned home, and found, as Margaret had supposed, his brother Edward, who had been there some time before his return. It needed but a look to tell what each felt. They took a turn round the fields, and were seen arm-in-arm together. They were mutually satisfied with each other.

Edward Barry saw and admired his brother’s choice, for until then he had never been prepossessed in her favour. The warmth of feeling which she betrayed when looking at the countenance of her supposed lover, as he lay in the boat-house, and the pure and simple joy at discovering the mistake; the very sensible manner in which she proved that she could not be mistaken; the gratitude she felt, and the exemplary manner in which she conducted herself, all conspired to give him a high opinion of the character of this young woman, and made him feel that, notwithstanding the strong wish he had entertained for Laud’s death, for he had even counted upon being opposed in deadly skirmish with him, he never could take his life without giving a deep wound to one innocent and deserving heart.

Young Barry became another being – his health improved rapidly; he began to work, and to talk of future days with cheerfulness.

CHAPTER XI THE LAST INTERVIEW

About this time a new settlement was projected at New South Wales, and Government had already sent several convict ships to Botany Bay and Port Jackson; but the unruly state of the people, and the necessary military government of the colony, made it very desirable that some respectable settlers should be induced to go out. Accordingly, whenever store-ships were sent, a premium was offered for farmers’ sons or farming men to emigrate. One hundred acres of land for as many dollars were granted: still very few could be induced to go. It was not for some years that any regular settlers’ ship went out with free passengers.

Young Barry conversed with his father upon this subject, and found him quite disposed to let him have double the above-named sum, and even encouraged the idea in the youth’s mind.

It so happened that Captain Johnson, who commanded one of the earliest store-ships which was sent to that colony, was acquainted with Lieutenant Brand, and had written to ask him if there was any young farmer who would like to go out with him from Suffolk. It was through him that young Barry got an introduction to Captain Johnson, who promised him a good berth, and every convenient accommodation. It was soon resolved that John Barry should forthwith get a grant of land; and, being furnished with all requisite particulars, he went to London to see his ship, and make arrangements with his captain.

All his family now felt a double interest in him because he was going away, to leave them, perhaps, for ever – at all events for a very long period. His sisters worked hard to make him such changes of linen as should last him for years; and every hand they could muster in the village, capable of doing needle-work, was fully employed. Presents of various kinds flowed in; and, upon his return home from town, he found himself master of more stock than he could possibly have got together for his own use in England, though he had laboured for it for many years. He was very cheerful, and even told his sisters that as he might, perhaps, marry soon in the new settlement, they might make him some sets of female apparel! They laughed with astonishment at this request; but, as they found him earnest, they each spared something from their own wardrobe for his most eccentric request. Little, however, did they surmise the real motive of his heart.

The day was fixed for the vessel to sail, and John must be, with all his goods and chattels, at London in a fortnight. The last Sabbath-day that he spent with his father, mother, brothers, and sisters, was memorable for the deep-rooted power it ever after retained over his mind. The clergyman’s sermon was upon the universal providence of God, and, as if he preached it on purpose (but which was not the case, for he was ignorant of the intended movement of the young man), he discoursed upon the unity of the Church of Christ in every place – the communion we had even with our antipodes in the worship of the same God. He instanced the especial interest which the Church had with all the colonies of the mother country, and spoke of the joy to be felt when that reunion should take place at the resurrection of the just. The preacher spoke as if even the poor benighted aborigines of Van Diemen’s Land were his brethren, and showed how necessary it was for us to extend to them our helping hand to bring them to Christianity.

After service, the worthy miller told his pastor that his son was going to that very country, and that the young man had said he never should forget that discourse. The clergyman went home with the family, and spent that Sabbath evening with them. He fully entered into the prospect before the young man, and pointed out to him the sure path to heaven, through the strait gate, and inspired him with many hopes of doing good. He joined with them in prayer, and gave them his blessing. He promised to send him a valuable present of books, which he performed the next day. Bibles, testaments, prayer-books, homilies, tracts, The Whole Duty of Man, together with a work on planting, farming, horticulture, and seeds, and one on natural history and botany, all which proved of the greatest utility to the worthy and honourable young man upon whom they were bestowed.

The day of parting at length came – the last sad day – and the young man remembered his promise to Margaret, that he would see her once more before he departed. He found her at home on the Monday, that very day upon the eve of which he was to take the mail from Ipswich for London. He came to take a long and a last farewell. And why did he torment himself and the poor girl with this last interview? Was it with a lurking hope that he might persuade her to accompany him? He had really and truly prepared for such an event, could he have brought it about. In his chests were presents which his sisters had made at his request, in case he should marry in the new settlement. He had suggested this; but his heart had to the very last a lingering thought that perhaps Margaret might be induced to embark with him. Upon what small last links will not true love depend!

“I am come, Margaret, to take my leave of you,” said he, on meeting her. "I am going to a colony the farthest off our own dear country of any known island in the world.”

“Indeed, sir! if so I wish you well, and pray God to bless you!”

“Before I go, Margaret,” resumed he, “I must tell you that as long as life holds in this poor heart of mine, I shall never love any one else. I may prosper – I may be rich – I may be blessed with abundance – but I shall never be blessed with a wife.”

“Oh, sir, say not so! you grieve me very much to hear you talk in that way. You are a young man, and the path of life, though it may not be without thorns, has yet many blessed plants for your happiness. Why should you speak so despondingly? Change of place and occupation will make you feel very differently.”

“You may think it may be so with me, Margaret; but if there be any truth in this last doctrine which you have yourself divulged, it will hold good in yourself as well as in me. If you change your place of abode, and go with me, Margaret, will not you think very differently to what you do now? Oh, that I could persuade you! Oh, that I could induce you to join your lot with mine! Shake off that wild attachment to the smuggler, and go with me. I will marry you to-morrow morning before we sail. I have even hinted the matter to my captain. He has promised to be bridesman, and has even taken out the license, and will be ready to-morrow at ten o’clock. No preparation will be necessary for you: I have prepared everything. Your bridal dress is even ready; and our honeymoon will be kept on board the Kitty, which is to sail to-morrow from London. Margaret, hear me! I am sure that your present connexion will end in ruin. What is Will Laud but a desperate fellow who cannot and, believe me, will not protect you? What sacrifice can it be to leave a man who would have taken you away without your consent, for one who, with your consent, will unite all his interests with yours as long as he lives?”

There was a pause – an awful pause – after this declaration, such as beings feel who are held in the most agitating suspense, between life and death. Painful – very painful – was the situation in which Margaret was placed. There was a flood of overwhelming agitation. The tears stole down her cheeks. Her dark eye shone like the sun through the midst of a watery cloud, and told that it longed to burst through the mists of darkness, but could not find an opening for its beams. Faster and faster fell the big drops – heavier and heavier dropped the clouds of the eyelids, till, like a flash of lightning, burst the words from her lips —

“Oh, leave me! leave me, sir! I never can alter the pledge I have given! I never can be unfaithful! Though I may be unhappy in my choice, yet it is a choice to which I feel so bound, that nothing but death can part us. Oh, that Laud were as good as yourself! I feel, I own, the contrast; but I hope he may be better. Oh, do not urge me, sir – do not urge me to desert the only chance left for the restoration of a young man to honesty and life!”

“Margaret, hear then my last words, and if they fail I will leave you. I do not believe that Laud loves you as he ought to love. Did I think there was one chance for your happiness with him, I would not urge my present suit a moment longer. Believe me, he is not worthy of you. You compel me to say he is a villain. He will betray you. He will desert you. He will bring you to want, misery, and ruin. I know you love him. Your early feelings have all been engaged in his favour; but which of those has he not disappointed? which of those feelings has he not wounded? Yet you cling to him, as if he were a safe-ground of anchorage. Believe me – believe me, Margaret, the anchor you cast there will not hold; it will suffer you to drift upon the rocks, upon which you will perish. Say in one word, will you, or will you not, consent to my offer?”

“John Barry, on my knees (and she suited the action to the word) I thank you, and bless you; but I do not – I cannot – accept your offer!”

“Margaret, farewell!" exclaimed he, as he raised her from the ground, “a long, a last farewell. Nevertheless, take this; it is a gift, which may some future day be of service to you. You will not refuse it, as it is the last gift of one who will never see you again. I know you cannot even read it now; but the time may come when you may be enabled so to do, and I had counted in my long voyage of teaching you so to do. It was a present to me from my mother; but I have many more like it, given me by our clergyman. Take it – take it – it can never do you hurt; and, with God’s blessing, it may be the means of our meeting in another world, though we never meet again in this. God bless you, Margaret! farewell!”

He placed a small clasped Bible in her hands, in the opening and the closing leaf of which were two five-pound notes; small sums perhaps apparently to us in this day, but magnificent compared with the means of an early settler in a strange land. This ten pounds paid poor Margaret’s rent, and all her parents’ debts, at a subsequent time, when the deepest distress might have overwhelmed her. But Barry returned to his parents with a noble consciousness of an upright mind. His parting with them was not, comparatively speaking, of so passionate or stirring a nature as that which he had so recently undergone, but it was purely affectionate and loving.

The hour of parting is over; and John Barry, as honest and worthy a young man as ever left the shores of Old England, was soon on board the Kitty, 440 tons; and with some few others, who like himself had a mind to try their fortunes in a foreign land, he sailed for that colony, once the most distant and unpromising, now becoming renowned, and which probably will be the most glorious island of the Eastern world.

CHAPTER XII THE WELCOME VISIT

There is no greater misery upon earth than to be left alone; to feel that nobody cares for you – nobody is interested in you; and that you are destitute as well as desolate! Poor Margaret at this time felt something akin to this sensation. She had a regard for the youth who had driven himself into voluntary exile on her account. She was not, however, to blame for this, though many a one accused her of being the cause of it. She was shunned by those of her own sex, on account of the disreputable character of her lover, with whom it was believed that she still held secret correspondence, although for a long time she had heard nothing of him. The men cared little about her, because she cared nothing about them; but kept herself quietly at home, attending to the sick-bed of a rapidly declining mother. Occasionally she ventured to the Priory Farm, to ask for some few necessaries required by her aged parent. Her former mistress was uniformly kind to her; and not contented with affording the assistance which was asked for, this good woman visited the sick-bed of poverty, and ministered to the wants of the aged and infirm.

Gratitude is very eloquent, if not in the multitude of words, yet in the choice of them, because it speaks from the heart. Margaret’s gratitude was always sincere. She was a creature of feeling without cultivation, and imbibed at once the very perfection of that spirit which all benevolent minds wish to see; but which if they do not see, they are so accustomed to the world that they are not very greatly disappointed. Their surprise is rather expressed in that pleasure which they imbibe in seeing the feeling of a truly grateful heart. An aged female, on a bed of poverty and sickness, is but too frequently left to negligence and want. When their infirmities are the greatest, and their cares always the most anxious, then is it that the really charitable aid of the benevolent is most needed.

Margaret felt her own inability to assist her aged mother, beyond the doing for her to the best of her powers in all attendances as nurse and housewife. She herself earned no money; but she made the best possible use of all the earnings of the family, as at that time she had not discovered the munificent present of poor John Barry; for, not being able to read, she had carefully laid up the treasured book, unconscious of the generosity and self-denial of the donor.

At this time Margaret appears to have suffered much privation. She felt that she was dependent upon the kindness of richer friends for those little delicacies which she required to support her mother’s sinking frame; and never was heart more sensitively grateful than this poor girl’s when she received some unexpected trifle of bounty from the table of her indulgent mistress. She wept with joy as she bore the present home to her affectionate but fast-sinking parent.

She had not very long to continue her nursings. Early in the year she lost her mother. Nature could not be suspended; and she sank to rest, with her head supported by the arms of an affectionate daughter and a good husband.

The death of her mother was felt by Margaret very keenly. It reminded her of her own early affliction; and a singular occurrence took place at the funeral, which more forcibly reminded her of her sister’s death. A stranger entered the churchyard at the time of the ceremony, and stood at the foot of the grave, and actually wept with the mourners. No one knew who he was, or where he came from; nor did he speak to any one, but he seemed to be much afflicted at the scene of sorrow. He remained some time after the mourners had departed, and saw the grave filled up again; and when the old clerk had neatly patted round the mound with his spade, and was about to leave it, the stranger asked him if he did not mean to turf it.

“Why, I don’t know; I don’t think they can afford to have it done properly; but, at all events, I must let the earth settle a bit first.”

“How long will it take to do that?”

“That depends upon the weather. Come rain, and that will soon settle; but if frost, and dry weather continue, it will be some time first. They cannot afford to have it flagged and binded.”

“What will that cost?”

“I charge one shilling and sixpence extra for that, as I have to get the turf from the heath; but I shall have some time to wait before I am paid for what I have done. Time was when that family was well off; but no good comes of bad doings.”

“What do you mean, my man? what bad doings have these poor people been guilty of?”

“I see, sir, you are a stranger in these parts, or else the Catchpoles, especially one of them, would be known to you by common report.”

“Which one is that?”

“Margaret, sir.”

“Well, what of her? has she been unfortunate?”

“If she has it has been her own seeking, no one’s else. She might have done well, but she would not.”

“What might she have done? and what has she done?”

“Why, sir, she might have married an industrious young man, who would have done well by her; but she chose to encourage a vagabond smuggler, who first set her up with high notions, and then ruined and left her to poverty and shame.”

“You do not mean to say that the young woman is a depraved and abandoned character?”

“No, no; I mean she don’t like any honester man, and so no one seems to care anything about her.”

A tear stole down the stranger’s cheeks; and, whoever he was, he seemed to feel a little relief at this information.

“Is the young woman living at home with her family?”

“Yes; because nobody will hire her. She is laughed at by the females, and the men don’t care anything about her. If they could catch her lover, and pocket a hundred pounds reward for his capture, they would like the chance.”

“How are the family supported?”

“Why, I suppose the father earns eight shillings a week, the youngest son one-and-sixpence; but they must have been hard run this winter, and it will take them some time to get up their back-rent and present expenses.”

“What is the amount of their present expense?”

“Why, I must get, if I can, sixteen shillings, somehow or another. I dare say I shall have it; but it will take them some time to pay it. There is ten shillings for the coffin (for I am carpenter, clerk, and sexton), three shillings and sixpence digging the grave, one shilling for tolling the bell, and one shilling and sixpence for the clergyman; that will exactly make the sum.”

“You say it will take one shilling and sixpence extra for turfing and binding: that will be seventeen shillings and sixpence. How much do you think they owe at the shop?”

“I know that it cost them three shillings and sixpence for flannel; but I know it is not paid for yet.”

“There’s a guinea; that will exactly pay you all, will it not?” and the stranger pitched a guinea against the sexton’s spade.

What a wonderful thing is a golden guinea in the eye of a poor parish clerk! how reverential it makes a man feel, especially when a stranger pays it for a poor man! He might have got it; but he must have waited the chance till after the next harvest.

“That it will, sir – that it will. I’ll call and pay the bill at the shop. Are you coming to live in these parts?”

“Not for long – not long!" sighed the stranger.

“Why, you look very healthy, sir? You are not ill?”

“No, no, my man; I do not mean to give you a chance of getting another guinea by me, at least for the present. I only meant to say my stay in this village would not be for long. But where do these poor people live?”

“Not in the same place they used to do in the days of their prosperity and respectability. Their house now stands at the corner of the heath, sir: shall I go with you and show it you?”

“I can find it; there are not many cottages there. Do you go and pay the bill at the shop; and then if you have a mind to bring the receipt, instead of giving me the trouble to call at your house for it, you will find me at the cottage of these poor people; and hear me, old man, do not talk to any one about this matter. You may as well bring a receipt, also, for your own work at the same time.”

“You are quite a man of business, I see, sir. I will not fail to be at the cottage this very evening with a receipt in full.”

The old sexton placed the guinea carefully at the bottom of his pocket, and, shouldering his spade and mattock, marched off towards the village shop. The stranger walked round Nacton churchyard. He stood sometime attentively reading the inscription upon Admiral Vernon’s mausoleum; and, taking another look at the humble, new-made grave of Margaret Catchpole’s mother, he took the highroad to the heath, and saw the cottage, known by the name of the Shepherd’s Cot, at the verge of that wild waste.

Meantime the following conversation was going on in that cottage: —

“I wonder,” said Margaret to her father, as the old man sat by the log-fire in the chimney-corner, “whether our brother Charles is alive or dead?”

“I can just remember him,” said the boy; “he used to be very fond of me, and said I should make a good soldier.”

“I have never heard of him,” said the father, “since he went to Ipswich, and enlisted in another name, at the Black Horse, in St. Mary Elms. I understood that his regiment went off to India almost immediately after he enlisted.”

“I wonder if he is alive?”

“I cannot tell, my dear; the chances are very much against it. He was a quick, intelligent, lively boy; and, when he was at work in the fields, used often to say he should like to be a soldier. The old clerk taught him to read and write, and used to say, ‘If Charles had a chance he would be scholar enough to succeed him as parish clerk.’ He left us at the commencement of our misfortunes; God grant he may meet us again in happier days!”

Poor Margaret sighed; for she too well remembered the origin of all their sorrows not to feel for her dear parent. That sigh was answered by a sudden knock at the door, which occasioned a start. The latch was lifted up, and in walked the stranger who had attended the funeral. His entrance gave a change to their conversation; and Margaret placed a chair for him, in which he quietly sat down opposite to the old labourer. Care had worn the countenance of the venerable man more than years and work. The only mourning of an outward kind which met the eye, was an old piece of crape round the equally old hat which hung upon a peg in the wall. Nothing else could be afforded; but their countenances betokened the state of their hearts. They were really melancholy. It is not in the outward pageantry of a funeral that real sorrow is to be seen; and the real grief of the Shepherd’s Cottage surpassed all the pageantry of the palace, and was viewed with calm and respectful silence by the stranger.

He was a tall, pale, thin young man, with a scar upon the side of his face: he looked as if he had undergone much sickness or misfortune. He was dressed in a plain suit of black, which hung rather loosely round him. He asked Margaret if the youth beside her was her youngest brother, and whether she had any other brothers living. She replied that it was, to the best of her knowledge, her only brother living. He then made inquiries concerning the illness of her late mother; and after various other domestic matters, he looked very earnestly at Margaret, and in a seemingly abstracted manner said, “Where is Will Laud?” It was as if an electric shock had been given to all in the room; for all started at the question, and even the stranger was greatly moved at his own question, when he saw Margaret hide her face in her hands, weeping.

“I did not mean to occasion you any grief. I only asked after a man whom I once knew as a boy, and whom the old clerk informed me you could tell me more about than any one else.”

“And do not you know more of him than we do, sir?” said the old man.

“I know nothing of him, and have heard nothing of him since I was a youth; my question was purely accidental. I am sorry to see your daughter so afflicted by it. Has the man been unkind to her?”

“No, sir! no!" said Margaret. “If you are here as a spy, sir, indeed we know not where he is.”

“A spy!" said the stranger; and the stranger started and muttered something to himself. Margaret herself now began to feel alarmed; for the stranger seemed to be deep in thought; and, as the flame from the log of wood cast its light upon his face, she thought he looked ghastly pale.

“A spy!" said the stranger; “what made you think me a spy? – and what should I be a spy for?”

“I did not mean to affront you, sir; but the question you asked concerning one for whose apprehension a hundred pounds is offered, made me think of it. Pray pardon me, sir.”

“I am sorry that he has done anything to occasion such an offer from the Government. Has he murdered any one?”

“No, sir; but Will is a wild young man, and he attempted to kill young Barry of Levington, and wounded him so severely, that a reward was offered for his apprehension.”

“Has Barry recovered?”

“Yes, sir; and he is gone out of the country to Canada, or some more distant land.”

“Then never mind if Laud be caught. Government will never pay a hundred pounds for his conviction when the principal evidence cannot be obtained. Never mind! never mind! – that will soon be forgotten.”

Such words of consolation had never been uttered in Peggy’s ear before. She began to feel very differently toward the stranger, as the tone of his voice, and his manner, together with his words, became so soothing.

“Thank you, sir, for your good wishes; you make my heart joyful in the midst of my mourning.”

“I only wish I could make it more joyful by telling you any good news of your lover, Margaret; but though I know nothing of him, and only wish he were more worthy of you than he is, yet I bear you tidings of some one else of whom you will all be glad to hear.”

“Our brother Charles!" both she and the boy at once exclaimed, whilst the old man remained in mute astonishment.

“It is of your brother Charles; and first, let me tell you that he is alive and well.”

“Thank God for that!" said the father.

“Next, that he is in England, and it will not be long before you will have the pleasure of seeing him.”

At this moment the door opened, and in walked the old clerk, who, seeing the stranger, made his bow, and gave him a piece of paper containing a receipt for the guinea which he had received. To the surprise of all, the stranger rose, and taking a little red box made in the shape of a barrel, which stood on the wooden shelf over the fire-place, he unscrewed it, and put the paper in it; and, replacing it, seated himself again.

“You were just telling us of our brother Charles,” said Margaret.