DECEIT
Margaret was seated in her father's cottage, now no longer that happy
spot it used to be to her, but a change of abode had brought no rest
from the troubles and anxieties of her mind: that very day she had heard
of the dreadful encounter between the coastguard and the smugglers, and
the report of the death of Will Laud, the notorious commander.
Margaret heard of her lover's death, as may be supposed, with the
deepest emotion; but she was not satisfied that the accounts she
received were correct, and had serious intentions of going to the
ferryman's house to make inquiries for herself, when a rap came at their
lone door, and who should come in but the ferryman himself, the father
of Laud. The old man seemed to observe the altered state of the family
upon whom he intruded himself, and could not help saying, at once,--
"I bring you bad news, Margaret, very bad, and of my poor boy." The old
man paused, and Margaret's heart quailed, but in the next moment it
revived. "But he would have me bring it!"
"Is he not dead then?" exclaimed the poor girl, as with a bound, she
seized the aged ferryman by the arm; "is he not dead?"
"No, not yet--at least he was not when I left him two hours ago, and he
would make me come to you, and tell you he wished earnestly to see you
before he died."
"Where is he? where is he?" exclaimed Margaret.
"At my poor cot on Walton Cliff; but oh, Margaret, so altered, so
dreadfully marked, and so unhappy, that if you do see him I question
much if you will know him. But will you come and see him?"
"Will I?--that I will! Only you sit down and eat a bit, and I will soon
be ready."
It took but a short space of time for Margaret to make preparation for
her journey. Laud was alive, though ill, dangerously ill; still she
might be the means of restoring him, if not to health of body, at least
to a more healthy state of mind. She is ready, and the old man and
Margaret depart together.
"Is he much hurt?" was Margaret's first question, after they had
advanced beyond the heath on to the high-road; "is he much wounded?"
"I fear he is. At times he is like a madman, raving at everything,
cursing all smugglers and his own misfortunes. The fever is high upon
him; he glares wildly at the old woman I have got to do for him--calls
her a smuggler's hag; and then he mentions you, Margaret, and the tears
roll down his face, and he finds relief. His wound is on the forehead--a
deep gash, through the bone; and the pain he suffers from the dressing
is dreadful."
"Have you had a surgeon?"
"No, Margaret, no--I dare not: I fear lest he should betray himself. His
life would be forfeit to his country's outraged laws, and he would die a
more bitter death than now awaits him in my cot."
There ran a sensitive shudder through poor Margaret's frame as she
thought of the situation of her lover. Parental affection had been more
cautious than she would have been, and she secretly rejoiced. She
thought likewise of her own situation; but selfishness had no portion in
her soul. Laud might die! The thought was agonizing; but he would die,
perhaps, a true penitent. This was surely better than being suddenly
sent out of the world with all his sins upon his head. She felt thankful
for so much mercy.
"Does he ever seem sorry for his crimes?" she inquired of the old man.
"I cannot exactly say he does," was the reply, "though he speaks so
vehemently against his captain. I wish he saw his situation in a more
forcible light."
"Time may be given him for that yet, Mr. Laud; at least, I pray God it
may be so."
"Amen, say I; amen!"
"How did he find you out? How did he reach home?"
"He was brought here upon a comrade's back, a stout sailor, who came
accompanied by old Dame Mitchel, who, if report speaks truth, is well
acquainted with the smugglers. She says that John Luff, the captain's
mate, brought poor Will to her house; and when he learned that I was
living only half a mile off, he persuaded her to come and help me to do
for him. He brought him to me at night."
With conversation of this kind, the father and the maiden pursued their
course till they arrived at a very sequestered cottage, near the ruins
of Walton Castle, close to that celebrated spot where the Earl of
Leicester landed with his Flemings in A.D. 1173. "It stood upon a high
cliff, about the distance of a mile from the mouth of the Woodbridge
haven, two miles from the Orwell. At this time but few stones mark the
spot. There is little doubt that it was a Roman fortification, as a
great many urns, rings, coins, and torques, have been found in that
neighbourhood. It is supposed to have been built by Constantine the
Great when he withdrew his legions from the frontier towns in the east
of Britain, and built forts or castles to supply the want of them." So
says the old _Suffolk Traveller_.
Our travellers arrived at this lone cottage, where a faint, glimmering
light from the low window told that the watch was still kept at the sick
man's bed. The father entered first, and soon returned, telling Margaret
that she might come in, as sleep, for the first time since the night he
had been brought home, had overpowered Laud's senses.
By the faint gleam of that miserable light, Margaret perceived how
dreadfully altered were the features of her lover. He lay in a heavy,
hard-breathing, lethargic sleep, and the convulsive movements of his
limbs, and a restless changing of the position of his arms, told that,
however weary the body, the spirit was in a very agitated state; and,
oh! how deadly, how livid was his countenance! Scarcely could Margaret
think it the same she had been accustomed to look upon with so much
pleasure: the brow was distorted with pain, the lips scorched with
fever--a stiff white moisture exuded from his closed eyelids. A painful
moan escaped his heaving chest, and at last he surprised the listeners
by a sudden painful cry.
"Margaret, ahoy! Margaret, ahoy! Hullo! hullo! Don't run away. Here,
here! I want you!"
And then his limbs moved, just as if he was in the act of running after
some one.
The fever was evidently high upon him, and poor Margaret was herself
greatly afflicted at seeing his extreme suffering. She gave way to
tears, which affected the poor father so much that the old man could not
refrain from weeping. The woman alone seemed composed; as if she had
been accustomed to scenes of horror, she exhibited no signs of
tenderness or concern. She continued to mumble a piece of brown bread
which she held in her hand, lifting up her brows from time to time, and
darting her sharp grey eyes, first at the smuggler, then at the girl,
and then at the old man, but without uttering or seeming to hear a word,
or to feel a single human emotion.
As she looked upon her, a thought shot through Margaret's brain of no
very friendly nature toward the singular being before her--she could not
help thinking that this Moggy Mitchel was a sort of spy upon her lover.
How keen, how quick, how apprehensive is true love!
To prove that Margaret's suspicion was not altogether groundless, that
very night the old woman went out of the house, under pretence of seeing
what sort of night it was; and as Margaret sat watching by the bedside
of Laud, the moon, which was just rising above the summit of the cliff,
showed her, through the lattice, two dark figures standing together. She
could not, of course, distinguish their features, but the outlines of
their forms were very strong, and not to be mistaken--she was sure it
was John Luff and Dame Mitchel, and that they were in close conversation
on the verge of the cliff.
The old woman shortly returned to the room, and it was evident to
Margaret that something had excited her.
"We must get him well as soon as we can," were the first words she
uttered; and had not her former coolness and her late meeting upon the
cliff awakened in Margaret's mind some sinister motive prompting this
speech, she might have been deceived by it.
Margaret had the deepest and purest motives for desiring the young man's
restoration to health: she loved him, and she hoped to re-establish his
character, and to recover him not only from his sick-bed, but from his
state of degradation. But in all her efforts she found herself
frustrated by the interference of this beldame, who, as William
progressed towards recovery, was constantly keeping alive within him
some reports of the successes of the crew, of their kind inquiries after
his health, and the hopes they had of soon seeing him among them.
Independently of this, there came presents and compliments from Captain
Bargood, and these increased as Laud recovered.
Nothing so much stung Margaret's heart as to find that all her
attentions, prayers, entreaties, and admonitions, were counteracted by
the secret influences of these agencies; but her object was a righteous
one, and she did not slacken in her endeavours to attain it. She found,
as Laud gradually recovered, that he was fully sensible of his past
folly, and quite alive to the devoted affection she had shown to him;
but she found also that no touch of religious feeling blended with his
regret for his past conduct.
This gave her the deepest pang, for she would rather have heard him
offer one thanksgiving to the Being to whom all thanks are due, than
find herself the object of his praise and gratitude.
It was at this time that Margaret wished she had been a scholar. There
was a Bible in the cottage, an old black-letter edition, containing the
Book of Common Prayer, the genealogies recorded in the sacred
Scriptures, together with the Psalms of David, in metre, by Sternhold
and Hopkins, with curious old diamond-headed notes of the tunes to each
psalm.
Margaret would gladly have read the holy book to her lover, but she
might as well have had a Hebrew edition before her, for not a word could
she decipher. He could read, and her only way of inducing him so to do
was by expressing her desire to hear him read. She found this, however,
a difficult and dangerous task, for, independently of the distaste which
the old woman had to the Bible, she found her lover very restless and
feverish after any exertion of the kind. Where the spirit is unwilling,
how irksome is the task!
"How plain is that description you read to me this morning of our first
parents' fall," said Margaret one day, when the enemy was absent: "how
plainly it shows us the necessity of our denying ourselves anything and
everything which God has forbidden us!"
"It does, indeed, Margaret; but no man can help sinning!"
"I doubt that--I think Adam could have done so."
"Then why did he sin, Margaret?"
"You read to me, that the woman tempted him or persuaded him, and that
the serpent beguiled her into sin: so that the serpent was the author of
sin."
"Yes: and the woman was first deceived, and then deceived her husband.
You must admit that she was the worst of the two."
"I own that she was, and is the weakest; but her sorrows appear to have
been the greater, and she has been little better than a slave to man
ever since."
"Well, Margaret, well, you have been very kind to me, and I know now
that you are a good girl, and wish me to be good. I wish I may be
better."
"Do not only wish it, dear William, but pray to God to make you so, and
I do think that He will."
"Well, well, I will be better--yes, I will, if I get over this blow on
the head; but oh, how it aches! You must not bewilder me too much."
So did this interesting conversation cease, by the man's appeal to his
want of strength, when he was asserting a will of his own, which, though
bold in words, was but fickle in actions.
Every day, as her patient advanced towards recovery, was poor Margaret
more and more convinced that Laud wanted stability of purpose to resist
evil,--he was, like every passionate man, self-willed and wicked.
Margaret, though at this time uneducated, had been a very attentive
listener to all good instruction--she was far from being ignorant of
right and wrong. Her principles were good, and through her most eventful
years she exhibited but one great error, which was her blind passion for
the unhappy man whom she would have made, if she could, a better being;
and every day she found a more persevering enemy in Mrs. Mitchel, who
counteracted all her salutary influence with Laud. Silent and morose as
this woman was at times, she could be loquacious enough when it suited
her own purpose.
"I have," said she, one day, "just left a choice set of fellows upon the
beach, as merry a set, Will, as I ever saw, and all rejoicing in your
improvement. Luff holds your office until you join them again. They
have had fine success lately, since young Barry is laid by the leg. I
have brought you a box of raisins, and such a choice can of sweetmeats,
as a present from the captain."
"Ah! they are all good fellows, but I do not think that I shall ever
join them again."
"Pshaw, my lad! this is only a love-fit for the moment." (Margaret was
absent upon an errand.) "If that girl does not know what it is to have a
high-spirited young fellow like yourself for a lover, without making him
a poor, tame, milk-and-water poodle, why then she ought to make herself
always as scarce as she is at this moment. I have no patience with the
girl--she does not know her own interest. I suppose she would have you
stick to the plough's tail, or toil all day at the spade, and bring her
home a hard-earned pittance at the week's-end. Pshaw! Will, you are
formed for better things."
"But she's a good girl, Moggy," said Will.
"Oh, aye! the girl is well enough, and decent too. I don't mean to say
she would not make a chap a good sort of wife either, but she's not the
sort of girl for you, Will. She's no spirit about her. She don't see how
a young fellow like you can do better by her, in a bold, dashing way,
than by such tame, dull, plodding industry as her family use."
"No; but then she wishes to see me happy, and I might be popped off the
next skirmish."
"You always look on the black side of things. Here are your fellows
making their fortunes rapidly, and you talking of drudging on, in a
quiet, stupid way, with the chance of being informed against and
executed for your past doings. Young Barry won't easily forgive you."
"Nor I him, either," was the significant reply, with a clenching of the
fist and a grinding of the teeth, which proved how artfully the hag had
worked upon Laud's worst feelings.
Margaret, on her return, could perceive that her absence had been taken
advantage of to effect a purpose adverse to all her hopes.
Against all these disadvantages, however, Margaret combated with some
success, and by degrees had the happiness of seeing her patient get the
better of his sufferings. The wound would have healed sooner and better,
had Laud's mind been kept free from feverish excitement. It did heal up,
though not so well as Margaret wished--a frightful scar extended over
the _os frontis_, directly to the high cheek-bone. For a long time the
eye seemed as if it had perished, but as the fever abated its sight
returned.
It will be sufficient to record, that in due time Laud perfectly
recovered, and the services of his nurses became no longer necessary.
If at this time any situation had offered itself by which Laud could
have gained an honest livelihood, he would, probably, have accepted it,
and become an honest man; and in talking with Margaret of his future
life, he promised that she should never again hear of anything against
him. He would go to sea, and earn an honest livelihood, even if he was
obliged to serve a foreigner.
"Well, Laud, I will trust you again," said Margaret, on the day she took
her leave of him: "I will trust you again, William, though my heart
aches bitterly at parting with you, whilst you have no regular
employment, but I shall pray for you wherever I am. I shall probably go
to service soon, for I do not like to be a burden to my friends."
They parted affectionately, for Laud felt that he owed his life to her
care; and she, that all her hopes of future comfort in this life were
centred in his welfare. Yet that very night did William Laud meet his
former comrades, and was persuaded to join their crew at the Bawdsey
Cave, to assume the name of Hudson, and to become again neither more nor
less than a desperate smuggler.
We will not follow him through his career of guilt: suffice it to say,
that he contrived to send word to Margaret that he had entered into the
service of a Dutch trader, and was promised a future share of his ship.
He pretended to have quitted the society of the smugglers, who at that
time so infested the eastern coasts of this country; and as she heard no
more of his name, and received no more suspicious presents, she suffered
her heart to cherish the fond hope of his reformation.
The anticipation of days to come, and the promised pleasure of those
days, are always greater than are ever realized by mortals. It is,
however, one of the greatest blessings of life to anticipate good. The
hope, too, of another's welfare, and of being the humble instrument of
promoting the interest of another, is the sweetest bond of woman's
cherished affection. Truly may such be termed man's helpmate, who would
do him good, and not evil, all the days of his life.
Poor Margaret found, that the more she hoped for Laud's amendment, the
more constant became her attachment, the more she excused his past life,
and the more deeply her heart became engaged to him.