"The hand is his."

"And the hand is mine. Therefore the hand is the hand of Charles."

The old man rose, and coming forward said, "I do believe you are my son; I have been thinking so for some time, and I am now satisfied that it is so. G.o.d bless you, my boy! You are come at a seasonable hour, for the Lord gives and takes away as He sees best."

A hearty embrace and affectionate recognition took place. The stranger (now no longer such) soon convinced them of his ident.i.ty; and though no one could really have known a single feature of his countenance, yet he gave them such internal and external evidences of his relationship, calling to mind so many circ.u.mstances of such deep interest to them all, that he was soon acknowledged to be their relative.

Happiness comes unexpectedly in the days of mourning. The wild recruit had returned, after many days, to cheer an aged parent and a forlorn sister, who needed the hand of some one to help them in their troubles. The old man's heart revived again; and it was a pleasure to witness the joys of the few days which then visited the Catchpoles, and the congratulations which they received from the old clerk and his wife upon the bright prospects of a hopeful son. Reports spread like wildfire that Charles Catchpole had come home, and that he had returned from India as rich as a Nabob. Reports are generally exaggerated, and they were not a little so in the present case; for although Charles might be comparatively rich, his fortune, as the world terms it, was anything but made. He had a few guineas to spare; but he had to return to India, and to pursue a very hazardous course of life, before he could even hope to gain that independence which had been promised to him. A few guineas, however, made a great show in a cottage. He paid his father's debts; made a present to the old clerk's wife; bought his sister a new gown; his younger brother, Edward, a new suit of clothes; paid one year's rent in advance for the cottage; left a present with the s.e.xton to keep his mother's grave ever green; and announced his departure to his family after staying one short week after five years' absence.

"I shall see you no more, Charles!" exclaimed Margaret, at parting. "I fear that I shall see you no more! You are going through a dangerous country, and the perils you have already escaped you must not always expect to avoid."

"Fear not, Peggy, fear not. G.o.d sent me in a proper season to comfort you, and if you trust in Him, He will send you some other friend in need, if it be not such a one as myself."

"Oh, let me go with you, dear brother! I should like to accompany you," said Edward, his brother.

"That cannot be, Edward. You must remain at home to help your father and sister; you are not able to undertake a march of many thousand miles, under a sun burning your face, and a sand scorching your feet. I have a good friend, however, in Lord Cornwallis, and I have no doubt that some time hence I shall be enabled to do you some service. I do not recommend you to be a soldier; but if you wish it, when I see his lordship I will ask him to help you. You shall hear from me in the course of a year or so; in the meantime make all the progress you can in reading and writing with the old clerk, and be industrious. I must be in London to-morrow, and shall soon sail for India. I shall never forget any of you."

"G.o.d bless you all!--good-bye," were the parting words of Charles Catchpole. There is in that short sentence, "Good-bye," a melancholy sense of departure which the full heart cannot express.

"Good-bye!--good-bye!" and Margaret gave vent to her grief in tears, whilst the old man clasped his hands in silent prayer.

The fond brother and affectionate son is gone; and never did Margaret see that brother again. She was shortly to change her place of abode. Her uncle Leader, who lived at Brandiston, and who had a young family, and was left a widower, sought the a.s.sistance of his niece; and though her father could but ill spare her, yet as there were so many children, and Margaret was so good a nurse, he could not refuse his consent. There was another feeling, too, which prompted the good old man to spare her. Though he loved his daughter's company, he knew that she deserved to be thought better of by many who disregarded her in her own neighbourhood, and he thought a change would be good for her. It might produce in her a change of mind towards Will Laud--a thing he most earnestly wished for, though he would not grieve her by saying so. It would at all events remove her from many little persecutions which, though she professed not to feel them, he knew weighed heavily on her spirits; and come what might, even should Laud return, he was not known there, and he might be a happier man. Under all these circ.u.mstances, he not only gave his consent, but urged her going. She left her father's roof on the Monday with her uncle.

CHAPTER XIII.

POVERTY AND PRIDE.

On the evening of the very day on which Margaret quitted her father's roof for that of her uncle, as the old man was sitting pensively at his cottage fire, a knock at the door announced a visitor. The door opened, and in walked Will Laud, together with his friend, John Luff.

"Good-evening, father," said Will. "We are come now from the sh.o.r.e. Our boat is once more moored to the rails at the landing-place, by Orwell Park, and we are come across the lands to see you. We had some difficulty in finding out your berth. You have changed your place of abode."

"Say that you have changed it for us, and you will be nearer the mark. For ever since we knew you and your companion, we have known nothing but changes, and few of them for the better."

"Things cannot always change for the worse, surely."

"I wonder you are not afraid to be seen in this part of the country. There are many here, Will, that would be glad of a hundred pounds, the price set upon your head."

"And yourself foremost of that number, I dare say," said the gruff smuggler who accompanied Will Laud.

The old man looked at him with a placid but firm countenance, and said, "That is the language of a villain! Do you think I am so fond of money as yourself; or that I would sell my daughter's lover for a hundred pounds? The door you have just opened is not yet closed, and if such be your opinion, the sooner you take your departure hence the better."

"Humph! humph!" said Luff. "You need not be so crusty, Mr. Catchpole--you need not be so boisterous. We have not seen the inside of a house for many a long month, and if this be the first welcome we are to have, it is rather ominous."

"What welcome do those men deserve who cause the ruin of others?"

"We have not intentionally caused your ruin, father," said Laud; "but we come in peace; we wish to abide in peace, and to depart in peace."

"Then you should teach your friend to keep his foul tongue still, or it will cause you more trouble than you are aware of."

"I miss the princ.i.p.al ornament of your house, Master Catchpole," said Will. "Where are all the females gone?"

"Some are gone where I hope soon to join them; the one you feel most interest about is gone to service."

"I was told, not an hour ago, that Margaret lived at home with you."

At this instant the door was opened, and young Edward Catchpole entered. He had been to put his sheep safe into fold, and came whistling home, with little thought of seeing any strangers in his father's cottage.

"Boy, do you know me?" was the inquiry made by Will Laud.

"Not yet," said the younger; "but I can give a shrewd guess; and I can tell you something which will soon prove whether I guess right or not. As I came over the heath, I met two sailors, who appeared to me to belong to the preventive service. They were on horseback. They stopped and asked me if I had seen a cart, and whether it was going fast, and which road it took; whether it went across the heath, or along the road. I told them plainly it was before them, and that it had turned down the road towards the decoy-ponds. They then asked me if I had met two sailor-looking men walking. To this, of course, I said No. But I suspect they must have meant you."

"How could that be?" said Laud. "We came not along the road."

"No; but you might have seen some one who was going to Nacton Street, and they might have been inquired of."

"That's true, indeed. We had to ask where your father lived, and our curiosity concerning your family has led to this pursuit of us."

"One of the men I think I have seen before, and, if I mistake not, it is the same Edward Barry that my sister and I went to see at Bawdsey boat-house."

"Your sister went to see Edward Barry! What on earth for, my lad?"

"Nay, don't be jealous, Laud. There was a report that you were drowned, and that your body was cast on sh.o.r.e. The bearer of that report was your rival, John Barry. Margaret would not believe that report, unless she should see your body. So I drove her there, and Edward Barry, who had the key of the boat-house, permitted her to see the bodies, which satisfied her that the report was unfounded."

The two men looked significantly at each other, as much as to say, "It is time for us to be off."

"I have one question more to ask," said Laud. "Where is Margaret?"

"She is gone to service at her Uncle Leader's, of Brandiston. It is no great place for her, but she will be out of the way of reproaches she has suffered, Laud, on your account. Moreover, she has refused the hand of a most respectable young man, whom I should have been glad that she would have accepted. But he is gone to a distant land, and neither you nor I, Will, shall see him again. John Barry has sailed, as a free settler, either to Van Diemen's Land, or to Canada, I know not which."

These words were most welcome to the listener's heart. He had not heard any which sounded so joyful to him for a long time. He made no reply, however, but tendered a purse to the old man.

"No; keep your money to yourself, Laud, and make an honest use of it. I would not touch it, if I was starving. But you may rest here if you please, and such cheer as my poor cot can afford you shall be welcome to, for my dear daughter's sake!"

"No, no, I thank you. We must be on board our ship again to-night. Our bark is in the river, and if the enemy catch us, he will show us no quarter. So good-night, father, good-night!"

"I do not wish to detain you, but hear me, Laud. If you have a mind to make my poor girl happy, leave off your present life, and this acquaintance too, this man's company."

"Come on!" said Luff, impatiently--"Come on! We've got no time to lose. Our boat will be fast upon the mud. Good-night, old man, and when you and I meet again, let us be a little more friendly to each other."

It was well for both of them that they departed as they did; for, shortly after they were gone, the tramp of horses along the road told of the return of the coastguard.

They stopped at Catchpole's cottage, and calling aloud, young Edward went out to them.

"Hold our horses, young man, will you? we want to light our pipes."

"By all means," said Edward, coming to the little garden-gate. Both men alighted, and he could see that they were well armed. They walked directly to the door; and seeing the old man seated by the fire, one of them said-- "We want to light our pipes, Master Catchpole. It is a bl.u.s.tering night. Have you a tobacco-pipe, for I have broken mine rather short?"

The old man took one from his corner and gave it to young Barry, whom, from his likeness to his brother, he could distinguish, and simply said, "You are welcome to it, sir."

"Your son sent us on a wrong scent to-night."

"I do not think he did so knowingly. I heard him say he met you; and he told me he directed you aright."

"We saw nothing of the cart. We have reason to believe that a rich cargo of goods has been landed at Felixstowe, and that the last cart-load went along this road to Ipswich. Have you had any of your old seafaring friends here? Are there any here now? You know who I mean."

"You may search and see for yourself. Every door of this house will open at your trial. If that is sufficient answer to your question, you are welcome to take it. Nay, I wish most heartily that you and your brother had been my friends long before the one to whom you allude had ever darkened my door."

When the young man remembered his brother's attachment, and the really worthy object of it, there was a grateful feeling which came over his mind, notwithstanding the disappointment which his brother, himself, and his family had experienced, which made him feel respect for the old man.

"I thank you, Master Catchpole--I thank you. Had such been the case, you might have had a good son, and I should not have lost a good brother; and in my conscience I believe I should have gained a good sister. But there is no accounting for a woman's taste. I tell you honestly, Master Catchpole, that for your daughter's sake I wish her lover, or the man she loves, were a worthier character."

"I know that both she and I wish it so--she with hope--I, alas! confess that I have no hope of that. As long as he lives he will never alter, except for the worse."

"I wish it may be otherwise. But come, my mate, it is no use our waiting here, we must go on to Felixstowe. If at any time, Master Catchpole, I can be of service to you, you have nothing to do but to send a messenger to Bawdsey Ferry, and the brother of him who is now far away will do what he can to help you. Good-night, Master Catchpole!"

They returned to their horses, mounted them again, and telling Ned that he might drink their healths whenever he pleased, gave him sixpence, and rode off.

"Father," said Edward, when he was again seated by the fire, "I do not--I cannot like that fellow Laud; and how Margaret can endure him is to me strange."

"She knew him, my boy, before he became the character he now is."

"I am sorry to lose my sister; but she will at least be better off where she is, and far away from reproaches. We must make out without her aid as well as we can. Our old s.e.xton's sister has promised to come and do for us; so we shall have some help."

So father and son consoled themselves; and after their frugal meal returned to their straw-stuffed beds; and slept upon their cares.

Meantime it was no small task that Margaret had undertaken. She was to be as a mother to seven young children, and to keep her uncle's house in order, and to provide everything to the best of her power. But her spirit was equal to the undertaking; and the new life which came to her through change of place and people soon animated her to those exertions necessary to her position--a situation so difficult and arduous.

Place a woman in a domestic station, where the power of a mistress and the work of a servant are to be performed, and see if she cannot show what a quant.i.ty of work may be done with one pair of hands. A good head, and a kind heart, and a willing hand, are virtues which, as long as industry and honesty are praiseworthy, will be sure to succeed.

Her uncle was but a labourer, earning twelve shillings a week at the utmost, and that by working over-hours. At that time of day such wages were considered very large; and where the housewife was active with her loom, or the aged with her spinning-wheel, labourers used sometimes to lay by something considerable, and not unfrequently rose to be themselves masters. The wages which Mr. Leader earned were sufficient, in the hands of this active girl, to provide every necessary for the week, and to lay by something for rent.

She soon made the eldest girl a good nurse; and gave her such a method of management as saved herself much trouble. In the first place, she began her rule with a most valuable maxim of her own inculcation: "A place for everything, and everything in its place." Another of her maxims was: "Clean everything when done with, and put it up properly and promptly." Also, "Whenever you see anything wrong, put it right." "Everything that is broken should be either mended or thrown away." She would not admit of waste in anything. Among her good old saws was also: Early to bed, and early to rise, Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.

She would never suffer a bill to stand beyond the week at any shop. The Sat.u.r.day night, at nine o'clock, saw her and her uncle's family out of debt, and the children all clean washed, with their white linen laid out for the Sabbath-day. And to see, on that holy day, with what quiet, hushed little feet they entered, four of them at least, the village church of Brandiston, with their foster-mother, was a sight which caught the attention of every well-disposed person in the parish. Master Leader's luck in a housekeeper was soon spoken of; and many a parent pointed out Margaret as a good chance for a poor man.

Up to this time Margaret could not read a single word: but she was very glad when the vicar's lady undertook to send two of the children to the village-school. She encouraged them to learn their daily tasks, and made them teach her in the evening what they had learned at the school in the day; and in this manner she acquired her first knowledge of letters. The children took such pleasure in teaching her, that they always paid the greatest attention to their lessons.

Margaret was now comparatively happy in the performance of her duties; and felt relieved from the restraint and reproach which at Nacton, where her father lived, had been attached to her character, on account of William Laud. How long she might have continued in this enviable state of things it would be difficult to surmise; but she seemed fated to encounter untoward circ.u.mstances over which she could exercise no control. She conducted herself with the greatest propriety. The children loved her as they would a kind parent; and all who knew her in the village of Brandiston esteemed her for her able conduct of her uncle's family. Had that uncle himself been a wise man, he would never have given occasion for Margaret to leave him: but no man is wise at all hours; and Mr. Leader, though a very honest, good labourer, and a steady man in his way, in an hour of too little thought, perhaps, or of too superficial promise of happiness, chose to take unto himself a new wife; a fat buxom widow of forty, owner of two cottages, and two pieces of land in Brandiston Street, and a little ready money besides, with only one little daughter, engaged his attention. He, poor simple man, thinking he might better his condition, save his rent, and add to his domestic comfort, consented, or rather entreated, that the banns might be published for his second marriage.

Had the woman herself been a wise one, she would have seen how requisite Margaret's care was to the family. But she became mistress, and must command every one in the house--her house too! and she was not to be interfered with by any one. She would not be dictated to in her own house. No! though her husband had a niece who might have been all very well, yet he had now a wife, and a wife ought to be a man's first consideration--a wife with a house over her head, her own property.

Men may have notions of the greatness of their possessions; but a weak woman, when once she has an all-absorbing and over-weening idea of her own great wealth, becomes so infatuated with the possession of power which that property gives her, that there are scarcely any bounds to her folly. Money may make some men, perhaps many, tyrants; but when a woman exercises the power of money alone, she becomes the far greater tyrant. Her fondness for wealth makes her more cruel and unnatural in her conduct; she forgets her s.e.x--her nature--her children--her friends--her dependents--and, alas! her G.o.d!

And soon did the new Mrs. Leader make a chaos of that family which had recently been all order and regularity. The management of household affairs was taken out of Margaret's hands. Bills were left to be paid when the new mistress received the rents of her cottages and land. The children were foolishly indulged; turned out to play in the street; taught to disregard Margaret, and to look upon her as a servant; her daughter was never to be contradicted; in short, every one in the house was to bend to the will of its new mistress.

Such a change had taken place in the comforts and conduct of the house, that Margaret, with all her care could manage nothing. She was thwarted in all she did--eyed with jealousy on account of the praise bestowed upon her--taught continually to remember and know herself and her station--and to behave with more respect to her betters, or else to quit the house.

Margaret had a sweet temper, and really loved her uncle and the children, or she could not have endured so long as she did the waywardness of this purse-proud woman.

Matters had been going on in no very pleasant manner in Mr. Leader's cottage, and Margaret had found herself in a very uncomfortable situation. She had been quite removed from her honourable station, as governess of the family, and had been treated as a very unworthy menial by her ignorant aunt.

While things were in this state, it so happened, that one evening in the month of April, Margaret was sent from her aunt's cottage to the village shop to purchase some article that was wanted for the morrow. It was late when she went out, and the shop stood completely at the end of the village. It was one of those general shops, half a good dwelling-house, and half a shop, where the respected tenant carried on a considerable business without much outward show.

A lane branched off from the main street leading down to the vicarage, called the Church Road. It was, properly speaking, the Woodbridge Road from Brandiston. At the moment Margaret was pa.s.sing over this crossway towards the shop, she was accosted by the familiar voice of one asking where Mr. William Leader lived. Margaret replied:-- "I am now come from Mr. Leader's. He is my uncle. Do you want to see him?"

"No, Margaret, it is yourself I am in search of. Do you not know my voice?"

It was William Laud!

The reader must conceive the joy, the astonishment, the surprise, the fear, or all these sensations combined in one, which Margaret, the persecuted Margaret, felt in being thus accosted by her lover. Did it require any great persuasion to induce her to turn aside at such a moment, and walk a little way down the Church Road, past the Old Hall, with one she had not seen or heard of for so long a time; one whom, with a woman's faithfulness, she still loved with all the strength of her mind and heart?

"I have been very ill, Margaret," said Laud, "since I came ash.o.r.e and saw your father and brother. It was the very evening of the day you left home. Had you left one day later, I should have seen you, and, perhaps, I might have been spared a fever which has reduced me to the verge of the grave."

"It is so long since I have seen or heard of you, William, that I began to think you had forgotten me."

"I have never forgotten you, Margaret, and I never shall, till I cease to remember anything. In storm and tempest, in calm and sunshine; in the midnight watch, or under the clear blue sky; in danger or in safety, in health or in sickness; in the hour of boisterous mirth, or in the rough hammock of the seaman, when the dash of waves and the whistling winds have swept by me, Margaret, I have always thought of you; but never more than in those moments of fever and anxiety, when I have been suffering from the extremes of pain and sickness. Then, Margaret, I remembered your soothing kindness; and then I bitterly felt your absence. But have you forgotten and forgiven my rough conduct, when we last met, a long time ago? I am alone now, and but a poor creature."

"I have not forgotten, William, because I cannot forget; but I have always forgiven you. Much, much have I suffered on your account; shame, reproach, and poverty, have visited me through you--loss of kindred, friends, and companions; but G.o.d has enabled me to bear all, with the hope that I should one day see you an altered man."

"Yes, Margaret, yes; and so you shall. I am altered much--I long to leave my present line of life and to settle in some place where I never was known. Captain Bargood has given me his word, that, after one more voyage, I shall be released, with prize-money sufficient to settle anywhere I please, and to give me a free pa.s.sage to that place, be it where it may."

"I can only say, William, I wish that one voyage was over. I hate your companions and your employment. I fear to lose you again, William. Oh, why not get some honest work on land, and let me toil for and with you?"

"Margaret, I am here upon my word of honour to the captain, that I would go one more run for him. I have been a long trip this last time, across the Atlantic, and I am promised a different tack the next time. But it will soon be over, and then I will renounce them all. The captain has nursed me in his own house, and though a rough fellow and a poor comforter for a sick man, yet I believe he did his best, and I am bound to be grateful to him."

"I wish your duty taught you, Will, some better obligation. My heart misgives me for you; and I can never sanction a day in unlawful pursuits. I grieve for you. But time steals away, William, and I have forgotten my own duty. I have not a very kind mistress in my new aunt; but my duty is obedience. I have to go to shop now, and I fear it will be closed if I delay any longer. When shall I see you again, William?"

"I fear me, not until this last voyage is over. I hope that will be a short one. I shall just go into the King's Head, refresh myself, and start again for the coast by daylight."

"Well, William, you have my prayers and my love, and I hope you may one day claim my duty. At present, that duty is due to my uncle. So we must part!--Take care of yourself.--How did you catch that fever?"

"By over-exertion in returning to my boat by Orwell Park, the night I left your father. We struck across the country, as we heard of our pursuers, and came to the sh.o.r.e greatly heated with our run. The wind was fair for us, and I had nothing else to do but to sit still. I covered myself with a piece of damp sail and fell asleep, and when I awoke I found myself as stiff as a mast--I could not move a limb. But I will take care of myself for your sake, Margaret, for the future."

By this time they had just arrived at the vicarage palings, upon their return, where the angle of the street branched off, and for a moment they paused to take the farewell salute which faithful lovers ever appreciate.

They little thought who was near to hear their last parting words, and to witness that love which they thought no one but themselves beheld. The farewell was spoken, and Laud departed. Margaret stood a moment, with affectionate heart and tearful eye, to watch his receding form, and then, turning round the corner to go to the shop, she encountered the enraged Mrs. Leader. She could only walk on in pa.s.sive silence through the village, whilst her aunt's voice, rising higher and higher as she approached her own domicile, made the neighbours peep out of their windows to learn the cause of such a disturbance. At last they arrived at home, and Mr. Leader, with a thousand exaggerations, was informed of his niece's atrocious conduct.

She eyed the poor girl with such malignant satisfaction, as if she had already seen her condemned, by judge, jury, counsel, and all the court. Poor Margaret! she had not attempted to speak; she felt for her uncle--she felt for his children--she felt for her lover; but for herself, nothing. She knew her own heart, and felt keenly the cruelty and injustice of her aunt's spiteful accusations; but that did not wound her so much as to see the crestfallen distress of the master of that cottage, who, but a short time before, never addressed her but in thanks or praise.

Margaret sighed, looked at her uncle, and briefly explained her accidental meeting with William Laud.