Woolverstone Park, with its thick copses and stately trees, whose roots reached, in snaky windings, to the very sh.o.r.e, was now the range along which the barque skirted till it came opposite the white cottage, which stands on a small green opening, or lawn, slanting down to the river.

The park boat was moored against the stairs, and a single light burned against the window, at which a white cat might be seen to be sitting. It was a favourite cat of the gamekeeper's, which had accidentally been killed in a rabbit-trap, and, being stuffed, was placed in the window of the cottage. Visible as it always was in the same place, in the broad day and in the clear moonlight, the sailors on the river always called that dwelling by the name of the Cat House; by which it is known at the present day. High above it might be seen the mansion, shining in the moonbeam, and many lights burning in its various apartments--a sign of the hospitality of W. Berners, Esquire, the lord of that beautiful domain.

But the two sailors in the boat were little occupied with thoughts about the beauty of this scene, or the interest that might attach to that side of the water. Their eyes were bent upon the opposite sh.o.r.e; and, as they sailed along, with a favourable wind, they soon pa.s.sed the boathouse and the mansion of Woolverstone.

"Luff, do you think we shall be lucky? I'd venture my share of the next run, if I could once safely harbour the prize from yonder sh.o.r.e."

"Why, Will, you speak as if the Philistines were to meet you. Who can prevent your cutting out such a prize?"

"I know not; except that she is too difficult a craft to manage."

"Pshaw, Will! her cable may be easily cut; and once we have her in tow, with this side-wind upon our sail, we shall be back again as quickly as we came."

"Maybe, maybe, John; but I do not like being too desperate. I'll fulfil my word, and give you more than half my share, which you know is a pretty good one, if you will lend me an honest and fair play."

"I'll do nothing, Bill, but what you tell me. I'll lay like a log in the boat, and stir not without the boatswain's whistle; and as to an honest hand, I'll tell you what, Will, 'tis something as good as your own--it will do by you as well as your own would do by me."

"Say no more, say no more! But look, John--I do believe I see her by the sh.o.r.e."

"I see something white, but that's the cottage in the Reach."

"No, no, John; keep her head well up; my eyes are clearer than yours--I see her flag waving in the wind. You may take your tack now, John--we shall run directly across. Ease out the mainsail a bit, and I'll mind the foresail. Bear up, my hearty! bear up, my hearty!"

With such words of mutual encouragement did these men of the sea, the river, and the land, after pa.s.sing Woolverstone Park, steer directly across, towards Nacton Creek, that they might hug the wind under Downham Reach, and move more rapidly, in shallow water, against the tide.

Any one would imagine, from their conversation, that they were intent upon cutting out some vessel from her moorings, instead of a poor, defenceless girl, who, trusting to nothing but the strength of true love, stood waiting for them on the sh.o.r.e.

There stood the ever faithful Margaret, with palpitating heart, watching the light barque, as it came bounding over the small curling waves of the Orwell. In her breast beat feelings such as some may have experienced; but, whoever they may be, they must have been most desperately in love. Hope, fear, joy, and terror, anxiety, and affection--each, in turn, sent their separate sensations, in quick succession, into her soul. Hope predominated over the rest, and suggested these bright thoughts-- "He is coming to me, no more to be tried, no more to be disapproved, but to tell me he is an honest man, and engaged in honest service."

What a picture would she have presented at that moment to any genuine lover of nature! Who could describe that eye of expectation, swelled as it was with the animating hope of happiness to come! Who could describe that heaving heart, answering as it did to every heave of the little boat which came bounding to the sh.o.r.e! And what words shall speak that sudden emotion, as the welcome sound of the grounding keel, and the rush of waters following it, told that the boat was ash.o.r.e, which conveyed to a woman's heart all that she had so long looked for, hoped, and feared--her lover's return!

The watchword, "Margaret," was spoken, and in another moment her joy and grief, and love and hope, were, as it were, embodied in the embrace of him she loved. Moments at such time fly too rapidly--an hour seems but an instant. There is so much to say, to express, to ponder upon, that the time is always too short. In honest love there seems to be no fear, no death, no time, no change--a sort of existence indescribably happy, indefinitely blissful, hopeful, and enduring.

In the heart of Margaret, the poor Margaret Catchpole, love was her life; and as she stood upon that strand, and first welcomed her William, she felt the purest, happiest, and holiest feelings of joy, rect.i.tude, and honesty--such as she never before had felt to such extent, and such as she knew but for a few short moments, and often wished for again, but never, never afterwards experienced.

Since his absence from Margaret, the character of Laud had become more and more desperate, and to say that the same pure feeling burned in his breast as did in Margaret's would not be true. No man who leads a guilty life can entertain that purity of love in his heart which shall stand the test of every earthly trial; but Margaret, like many real lovers, attributed to him she loved the same perfection and singleness of attachment which she felt towards him. Had she known that this pure flame was only burning as pure and bright in the honest soul of Jack Barry, she would, it may be, have rejected Laud, and have accepted him; but she knew not this. She was not blind to the faults of the sailor, though she was blinded to his real character. She expected to find a love like her own, and really believed his affection to be the same to the last.

"Now, Margaret," he at length exclaimed, "now's the time: my boat is ready, my ship is at the mouth of the river. A snug little cabin is at your service; and you will find more hearts and hands to serve you than you ever had in your life."

"But where am I to go, William? What business have I on board your master's vessel? He would not approve of your sailing with your young wife. I thought you came to tell me you were prepared to marry me from my own dear father's house, and to be a comfort and a blessing to my aged mother."

"Margaret, you say you love me. My time is short. I am come here to prove the sincerity of my love, and to take you, in an honest way, to a country where we may be married; but if you send me away now, we may never meet again."

"If you are true, William--if, as you say, your prospects are good, and you have spared sufficient from your lawful gains to hire a cottage and to make me happy, why not get leave of absence, and come and marry me in dear old England?"

"I may not be able to get leave for a long time; and what difference does it make whether we are married here, or in my employer's country? Marriage is marriage, Margaret, in every place, all the world over."

"Yes, Will; but I have heard that marriages solemnized in some countries do not hold good in others; and whether they did or not, I should like those who first gave me birth to give me to you, William. My consent, they know, is a willing one; but I should not be happy in mind, if I were to leave my parents without their knowing where I was gone."

"What will it matter if they do not know it till we return? I almost think you would like another better than me, Margaret."

"If you, William, were, in some respects, other than you are, I should like you full as well; but, as you are, I love you, and you know it. Why not come ash.o.r.e, and marry me at our own church, and in the presence of my own parents? As to any other, William, though another may like me, I cannot help it, but I can help his having me."

"Then there is another that does love you!--is there, Margaret?"

A blush pa.s.sed over Margaret's face as she replied, "Another has told me so, and I did not deceive him. He thought you dead, or he would never have ventured upon the subject. I told him he was mistaken, that you were not dead, and that I still loved you, William."

"Then he knows I live, does he?"

"Yes."

"And you have betrayed me?"

"No: I have not told any one but him; and as he pressed his suit, thinking that you were no more, I felt it to be only due to him to tell him you were alive."

"And who is he, Margaret? You would not have been so plain with him if he had not had somewhat of your confidence."

"He is an honest young man, and of very good and respectable parents--he works at the Priory Farm; and seeing him, as I do, daily, I can form sufficient judgement of his character to believe he would never betray any one."

"Upon my word, Margaret, he must be a prodigy of perfection! Perhaps you would like him to be bridesman upon our wedding-day?"

"I would, indeed, if he would like it, and you had no objection."

"What is his name?"

"John Barry."

"What! of Levington?"

"Yes."

"His brother is in the coastguard. It was he who gave me this, Margaret, this cut upon my forehead--this, that you took such pains to heal."

"And it is healed, William; and your heart, too, I hope."

"No, no, no!--I owe him one!"

"Consider me his creditor, and pay it me; for I healed that wound, and it brought with it reformation."

"I would not give you what I would give him."

"No, William; but you ought not to bear malice. His brother has been very kind to me. I may say, he is the only one who never reproached me with having been the mistress of a smuggler." (There was a fearful frown upon the smuggler's brow at this moment, and a convulsive grasp of the poor girl's hand, that told there was agony and anger stirring in his soul.) "But you are not a smuggler now, William. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. All reproach of that name has long pa.s.sed away from my mind."

William was silent, and gazed wildly upon the waters. One hand was in his bosom, the other was in Margaret's hand, as she leaned upon his shoulder. There might be seen a strange paleness pa.s.sing over his face, and a painful compression of his lips. A sudden start, as if involuntary, and it was most truly so. It told of a chilliness on the heart, that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. He actually trembled.

"William, you are not well."

"No, I am not; but a little grog, which is in the boat, will soon set me right again."

"Shall I run and fetch it?"

"No, no,--wait a bit, wait a bit. Hold--I was a smuggler! Yes, you said I was a smuggler! The world despised me! You bore the reproach of my name! Well, Margaret, the smuggler comes home--he comes to marry you. Will the world believe him to be altered? Will they not call you, then, the smuggler's bride?"

"No, William, not if you are really altered, as you say you are. I wish you were in the British service; seamen are wanted now, and the smuggler would soon be forgiven, when he once sailed under the flag of Old England."

"'Tis too late, 'tis too late, now, Margaret! I will not say I may not ever sail under our gallant Nelson. You might persuade me to it, if you would only sail with me to Holland, and there be married to me, Margaret."

"You have heard me upon this point: do not urge it any more. I have now stolen away from duty, William, to meet you here, and I hope I shall not be missed. Let me only hear you say you will come again soon, to marry me at home, and I shall return to my service happy."

"I would if I could, but I cannot."

"Why not, William? why not?"

"Do not ask me why. Come, Margaret, come to the boat, and share my fate. I will be constant to you, and you shall be my counsellor."

"Nay, William, do not urge me to forsake all my friends, and put all this country in terror as to what has become of me. I cannot go on board your boat. I cannot give you myself until G.o.d and my parents have given me to you. So do not think of it; but, come again, come again!--yes, again and again!--but come openly, in the sight of all men, and I will be yours. I live for you only, William, and will never be another's whilst you live."

"But how can I live without you, Margaret? I cannot come in the way you talk of; I tell you I cannot. Do, then, do be mine."

"I am yours, William, and will ever be so; but it must be openly, before all men, and upon no other terms."

"Then it will never be!"

"Why so?"

"Because I am a smuggler!"

"You have been such, but you are not so now. You have long forsaken the gang; you are forgotten, and supposed to be dead. You may change your name; but being changed in your life, it will only be known to me."

"And to Barry, too, Margaret; and then to his brother, and to numbers of others, who will know me. I was recognized this very night."

"What, if you change your name?"

"My name is changed, but not my nature. I am a smuggler still!"

"No, William, no--you cannot be! You are in the service of an honest man, though a foreigner."

"No, Margaret, I am not. You see before you the notorious Hudson. I am a smuggler still!"

It was now poor Margaret's turn to tremble, and she felt more than language can speak. She had heard of Hudson--Captain Hudson, as he was called--but had no idea that her lover was that, or such a man. She felt a revulsion amounting to sickness, a giddiness overcame her, and she felt as if she must fall to the earth. Half carried, half urged, half pulled along, she was unconsciously moving, with her eyes fixed fully upon the boat, and approaching it, and she had no power to resist--a sort of trance-like senselessness seemed to overpower her; and yet she felt that hand, knew that form, and saw the waters and the boat, and had no energy or impulse to resist. Her heart was so struck with the deadliness of grief and despair, that the nerves had no power to obey the will, and the will seemed but a wish to die. We cannot die when we wish it, and it is well for us we cannot. Happy they who do not shrink when the time comes appointedly; thrice happy they who welcome it with joy, and hope, and love!

Margaret revived a little before she reached the boat, and resisted. The firm grasp of the smuggler was not, however, to be loosed.

"You do not mean to force me away, William?"

"I must, if you will not go."

"I will not go."

"You shall--you must--you cannot help it! Do not resist."

"Shame, William, shame! Is this your love?"

"It is, Margaret, it is. I mean you fair."

"Your means are foul. Let me go, William! let me go!"

"Yes: you shall go on board my boat."

"Not with my life, William. I will go overboard!"

"Then will I follow you; but I cannot parley longer. Come on!"

The poor girl's struggles now became so violent, and her efforts to escape so powerful, that Will Laud's utmost strength could not drag her along the sand. Her fears, too, were increasing with his cruel violence; and these fears were greatly increased by Laud giving a loud, shrill boatswain's whistle. This awakened her to the sight of the trap into which she had been beguiled, for, in another moment, she saw a man spring from the boat, and hasten towards her. He came along with rapid strides to join them, and soon, with horrid voice, exclaimed,-- "Your signal, Laud, is late indeed, but better late than never."

That voice was too well known by Margaret: 'twas the hated countryman's--'twas John Luff's.

This fellow seized her in his arms, and, as a tiger would swing a fawn over his back, so poor Margaret was swung over his shoulders in an instant. The last effort a defenceless female can make is the shriek of despair; and such a one was heard, as not only sounded through the woods of Downham Reach, but reached the opposite sh.o.r.es of Woolverstone Park.

That shriek was heard by one whose heart was too true to nature to resist the good motives which it awakened. Young Barry, as the reader knows, was journeying toward the gamekeeper's cottage on the cliff, and had just entered the wood in front of that dwelling, as the piercing shriek struck upon his ear. He sprang over the paling in an instant, and by the broad moonlight beheld a man carrying a female towards a boat, and the other a.s.sisting to stop her cries. He leaped down the cliff, and seizing a strong break-water stake, which he tore up from the sand, rushed forward to the man who carried the female. It was a good, trusty, heart-of-oak stake which he held, and which in one moment he swung round his head, and sent its full weight upon the hamstrings of Luff. The fellow rolled upon the sand, and over and over rolled the poor girl into the very waves of the Orwell.

It was no slight work which Barry had now in hand. It was a bold deed to attack two such daring villains, both well armed, and he with nothing but a stake. But the consequences he neither foresaw nor dreaded; the cause was a good one, and he left the issue to G.o.d. As quick as thought he had already dashed one foeman to the earth; the other stood aghast, beholding Margaret fallen into the water, and his comrade rolling on the sh.o.r.e. He flew to help Margaret, and raising her up, determined not to relinquish her, but stood opposed to the dauntless Barry.

"Villains, release the girl!" was his exclamation.

"It is Barry's voice!" shrieked Margaret. "Help, John, help!"

There was a strange opposition of feeling in all the parties at these words. The blood curdled in the veins of the smugglers, whilst it seemed to burst with overpowering fullness upon the forehead of the young man who now attacked them. He fought for the prize of true love--they for revenge. The moment they heard the name uttered by the girl they seemed to think no more about her; but the fallen man sprang up, and Laud let Margaret go, and both rushed, like enraged wild beasts, with full force against young Barry. He, with true heroic daring, committed himself at once to the encounter. He was a fine athletic young man, a head taller than either of the sailors, but odds were fearfully against him. Luff was a stout, stiff, st.u.r.dy seaman; and Laud young, active, cool, and desperate.

A smuggler is seldom without a weapon of offence and defence. Luff seized his pistol from his girdle, and fired at his brave antagonist; it missed its mark, and the stout oak arm was not long in thundering a blow upon his head, which again sent him sprawling upon the ground. It was Laud's turn now to take his aim, which he did in the most cool, determined manner, with as much ease, and as steady a hand, as if he were firing at a holiday mark. It was a cruel aim, and rendered the contest still more unequal. It took effect in the young man's left shoulder, and rendered that arm useless.

None but such a frame and such a spirit could have stood against that pistol-shot. It made him stagger for the moment; but he had presence of mind to ward off the next blow of a cutla.s.s with his good oaken staff. And now might be seen the most desperate conflict for life or death between the rivals. Barry and Laud closed and parted, and struggled fiercely with each other, though the former had but one arm to act upon the defensive with. His right hand, however, was powerful enough to dash the sword of Laud at least ten yards into the wave; and with such dexterity did he handle his weapon, that had not Luff come again unexpectedly to the encounter, the contest must have been speedily terminated in favour of Barry: Luff recovered his feet again, and rushed at Barry with such rage, that again his other pistol missed its aim.

Barry had now to act entirely upon his own defence, with only one arm against four. He had this advantage, however, that they had no time to load their pistols, and had only their short b.u.t.t-ends to fight with, whilst he had a good long arm.

But a.s.sistance--unexpected a.s.sistance--was at hand. A tall, gaunt figure strode along the strand, armed with a long fisherman's pike, or hook, a weapon commonly used to take codfish off the fishing-lines. His was a sinewy arm, which few could resist or disable.

When such a man was aroused, harmless and peaceable as was his general character, his appearance became truly terrific; and his firm and steady step, and determined resolution, told that he was a soldier of cool courage, not easily to be beaten.

It was old Colson, or poor Robinson Crusoe, who, as it has been stated, was making his way with fish up the Orwell.

He and young Barry, now side by side, beat back the smugglers to their boat. Desperate was the contest; but there was no opposing the unearthly-looking being, with his bones, perforated plates, and charms dangling about his person. Well was it that he came so opportunely, for without his help the fate of young Barry had been sealed for ever. It was bad enough as it was. The smugglers retreated, and jumped into their boat. Laud, seizing a carabine, levelled it at Barry, whilst Luff pushed off the boat from the sh.o.r.e.

"Let fly at him, Will! let fly at him! Revenge yourself and my fall!"

A flash and loud explosion followed this advice. The smoke cleared off in a second, and the pirates saw but the stately form of Robin standing upon the sh.o.r.e. Young Barry--the generous, brave, and faithful Barry--lay stretched upon the sand.

Meantime Margaret had escaped. She had reached the Priory Farm; and rushing into the room where the harvest-men were a.s.sembled, fell down exhausted, with just strength of voice to say, "Fly--fly--fly to the sh.o.r.e! Barry will be murdered!"