DISAPPOINTMENT
There is a sad and fearful void in the disappointed heart.
Poor Margaret! but one short hour past and thy prospects were as bright
as the broad moonlight that shone upon thy path. Yea, they were as
bright to thine eye as that beautiful orb in the most brilliant night;
for thy love was pure, true, and abiding.
How great was the reverse our heroine experienced when she quitted her
lover, and returned to the Priory Farm worse than desolate! Had she
never seen him again, _her_ disappointment could not have been so great.
Time might have taught her to consider him lost at sea, or taken by the
enemy, or killed in battle, or as having died a natural death. But as it
was, the tide had turned so suddenly; the change from the full flow to
the very lowest ebb was as instantaneous as if some gulf had swallowed
up the river, and left the channel dry. Clouds, black clouds intervened
between her and her lover. She had received a blight to all her hopes,
save one, and that was the last and best that any one could cleave to;
it was, "that God would change his heart, and one day make him see the
error of his way."
She little thought how distant that day was. But it seemed that her
sister's words were at this time true: "Margaret, you will never marry
William Laud."
Margaret was in the little parlour of the Priory Farm, in all the agony
of terror and the perturbation of confessing her faults to her master
and mistress, when the murmur of returning voices told that the good
farmer's men were coming from the shore. Her soul was so full--her heart
so anxious--her confession so open, so sincere--that even they who were
most angry with her could not find it in their hearts to be angry and
severe towards her at such a moment of distress. She was so full of
terror that she dared not to stir; she had no power to rise and make
inquiries upon the dreadful point upon which she wished to be most
satisfied. She heard the footsteps approach; and as the parlour-door
stood open, looking into the kitchen, she saw the young men bringing in
the heavy body of the youth, to whom, perhaps, she then owed her
existence; for her resolution had been formed, to have plunged into the
waves sooner than be taken away, against her will, by the smugglers.
Certainly she owed her present safety to the intrepid boldness of that
wounded man. She saw them bring him into the kitchen, pale, bloody, and,
as she first thought, lifeless; but a heavy groan, as they laid him down
upon the floor, by the fire, made her start up, and feel the first
spring of joy in her desponding heart, that he was not murdered. But the
joy that Laud was not his murderer was as great as that the youth was
not dead.
Her mistress's voice, calling to bring water and assist her, restored
her to a consciousness of her duties. Here might be seen the benefit of
active employment in diverting her mind from its most painful feelings,
rousing it to think, and turning it away from tormenting itself.
The surgeon was sent for immediately; and after a short delay in
preparing a bed in a room by itself, the young man was carried up by his
companions. Never was there a more melancholy change from the mirth of
"harvest-home," to the misery of a house of woe. To look into that
kitchen, which so shortly before was resounding with the cheerful voices
of merriment, and to see the long faces, to hear the whispers, and the
questions, and the remarks made upon the circumstances, presented a
scene so different and so painful, that description would fail to
express it. There sat the ancient fisherman, silent and thoughtful, his
left hand upon his forehead, and his right clutched convulsively with
his inward emotion. There stood the foreman of the field, with his
fellow-labourers, anxious to know who it was that had given the wound;
for they had as yet only been told that two men in a boat had fired upon
Barry, and wounded him.
Meanwhile the old fisherman, who had witnessed the scene, was so
absorbed in his own reflections, that he did not seem disposed
voluntarily to afford them any information.
At last one of them addressed Robin.
"Who was the fellow that fired the gun, Robin?"
"The foul fiend!" said Robin; "I saw him in the boat."
"What foul fiend? was he devil or man?"
"He was a demon, who left me for a moment to torment others. I knew
mischief would come of him as soon as he left me. He is always stirring
up infernal broils; and would bring a host of enemies against me, if it
were not for this charm. Look here," and taking from his side a
perforated bone, he held it up, saying, "this is the rib of Margery
Beddingfield, who was gibbeted on Rushmere Heath for the murder of her
husband. When I show him this, he will soon be off. This is so strong a
spell, he cannot touch me. But look! there he is! there he is!" and the
startled hinds closed round their lord, and looked fearfully in the
direction of the door, to see if the murderer was coming.
"Aye, look at this, thou false fiend! Dost thou remember how thou didst
stir up Margery, and Richard Ringe of Sternfield, her paramour, to
murder John Beddingfield, the farmer, near Saxmundham? Thou couldst
inflame their hot young blood to mischief; but what dost thou come here
for? Off! off, I say! Look here! thou hadst better go to the officers of
justice. Ha! ha! he is gone!" and the old man smiled again, as if he had
defeated his foe, and was congratulating himself on the victory.
These things were very unsatisfactory to the minds of these
plain-thinking countrymen. They again and again put questions to him,
but could get no other answers than incoherences about the foul fiend.
"But what had Margaret Catchpole to do with it?"
"Ask her yourself: the foul fiend always finds an easier prey in a
woman."
At this time Margaret came into the room; and ignorant as she herself
was of Robin's efficient aid, she could not help asking him if he had
seen the fight.
"Did _you_ see it, young woman? I saw you long before I saw the fight."
Margaret did not ask any more questions; for in another minute several
asked her who had been fighting, what it was for, and what she had to do
with it. She knew too well to speak would be to betray herself; and she
was glad to find they were in ignorance of the real perpetrator of the
deed. She was called into the parlour just then, and rejoiced to escape
the inquisitive demands of her fellow-servants.
"That's a clever girl," said old Robin, as she left the
kitchen,--"that's a clever girl. Which of you boys would like her for a
wife?"
"Ask Will Simpson," said a sly fellow.
"Ask poor Jack Barry," said another; "'tis my belief Jack got his blow
from a rival in Margaret's love."
"What fiend told you that, young man? 'Tis seldom any of 'em speak the
truth? But, perhaps, you know who he is that rivals Jack?"
"No, not I--not I. I know who he would be, if he was alive; and just the
sort of fellow, too, to give Jack a nab. But he's dead and gone long
ago, and maybe his bones are at the bottom of the sea, for he was killed
on Felixstowe beach."
"Who's he? who's he?"
"Why, Will Laud, the smuggler. Don't you know him, Robin?"
"Yes; but I never knew that he was dead."
"Oh, yes, he's dead enough. I saw a fellow who told me he helped to bury
him in the sands at the foot of the cliff."
"Then the foul fiend has brought him back to life again, for I have seen
him many times; and I spoke to him this very night, and he to me. Not
only so, I know him well; and I wish all the fiends had him before he
had given that brave lad his death-blow."
"What! Will Laud? you do not mean to say Will Laud was on the shore
to-night?"
"Ask Margaret Catchpole: she can tell you as much as I."
Margaret returned just as this was said; and Will Simpson, perhaps as
much in spite (for Margaret had upon some occasion of his rudeness given
him such a specimen of her dexterity with a frying-pan, as left a
memorial on his head not easily to be forgotten or forgiven) as for
inquisitiveness, put this question--
"I say, Peggy, who met you upon the shore to-night, eh?"
"What's that to you? A better man than you."
"Perhaps a better Will, too; eh, Peggy? One who will have his will of
you, too, before you die, and tame you, my dear."
"Perhaps he may; and should it be so, he will make a 'will o' the wisp'
of you, Simpson."
"He'll be hanged first, Peggy, take my word for that. He'll not be shot,
nor drowned: he's born to be hanged."
"And what are you born for, you coward, that, at such a time as this,
you should be quarrelling with me?"
"I'm born to be his informer; and, before long, I'll have you both up
before the Squire, for all this piece of work."
Margaret did not like this banter; it looked as if they already knew
that Will Laud was the intruder. She was somewhat less ready at her
replies than usual, and felt too great a fear that she might commit
herself. She tried, therefore, to turn the subject.
"My master, Robin, desires me to give you some supper."
"Thank your master, but I have had mine; and, but that I hoped to hear
what the doctor said to the poor young man upstairs, I should long ago
have been on board my boat."
The greatest cowards are not easily silenced when they find themselves
able to browbeat an adversary with impunity, and that adversary a woman.
"Well, Margaret, if you won't tell me, I'll tell you whom you met upon
the shore. You met one whom Robin says the foul fiend has raised to life
again."
Margaret turned very pale, and staggered to a chair. But Simpson still
went on.
"O Peggy, Peggy, you have a guilty face! I don't wonder at your feeling
shame. You've managed to hide the smuggler, have you? If you don't take
care, both you and Will Laud will come to a bad end."
Margaret rushed into the parlour, and fell at her master's feet,
imploring him to interfere and stop the reproaches of his men, who were
treating her in a way she did not deserve. Her mistress made her sit
down in the keeping-room; and, speaking a few words to her husband, he
left them. He remonstrated with his men, and was in the act of insisting
upon their departure to their homes, as Dr. Stebbing arrived. He was
desired at once to go into the parlour; and there he recognized that
high-spirited girl who, in the cause of humanity, had, in her childhood,
galloped the pony to Ipswich for his aid. She rose and curtseyed; but
her feet gave way under her, and she sank to the floor. The memory of
her dear sister, the doctor's former patient, her own happiness at that
time, and her present misery, were too much for her to bear, and she was
quite overcome. The good doctor raised her up, and, with his cheerful
voice, tried, in his usual kind way, to comfort her.
"Come, come, my girl, what's the matter? what's the matter? Are you the
patient I'm come all this way to see? I thought I was sent for to see a
young man. But what's the matter with you? Ah! is it so, my lassie?"
(for his sagacity gave him a glimpse of the truth). "Come, cheer up,
cheer up; we'll go and see the lad. I dare say he'll soon be better.
Cheer up, cheer up."
"Come, my good sir, let us have a light, and go upstairs," said the
doctor to the master of the house. "Now, my dear, go and fetch us a
towel and some warm water. Come, bestir yourself; I know it will do you
good."
This was the best medicine for Margaret, with whom to be told to do
anything, and not to go and do it, was almost an impossibility, so much
had she been accustomed to obey.
All that could be done for the youth was to lay him in as easy a posture
as possible; for he was in too much agony even to have his clothes
removed. One of his companions sat and wiped the cold perspiration from
his brows, whilst another washed his hands and face. He breathed quickly
and heavily, with shuddering fits that shook the bed violently, and he
was evidently in great pain.
"Come, my lads, come, lend me a hand--let us see--let us see! where is
the hurt?--where is the wound?--what's the lad's name?"
"John Barry, sir."
"John, my lad, let's look at you!" but John took no notice of the
doctor.
"I think, sir, his arm is broke, for it dangled by his side all the way
we carried him."
"Let us see, my boy, let us see! 'Tis broken! high up too, too high up.
But we must strip him. Gently there--gently there, my lad"; and the
groans of the poor fellow told his agony. The work was done with great
care, and by slow degrees. But it was done, and then the frightful
nature of his wounds became conspicuous: a gunshot wound from the middle
of the arm to the shoulder. The ball had struck the humerus, and broken
it, glanced over the head of it, and passed between the scapula and
clavicle, and it might be easily felt lying in the external portion of
the trapezian muscle. It was so near the skin that it was easily
extracted; the difficulty was to get away those parts of the clothing
which had been carried into the wound. Such was the effect of the first
shot.
The second was the most severe. It had pierced through the long dorsal
muscle, and the ball lay directly against the lumbar vertebrae. This
wound was the more agonizing because it had pierced the strongest
muscles of the human frame, and bruised the stoutest part of the
backbone.
After the doctor had examined his wounds and ascertained that they were
of the most serious nature, he said--
"This will be a work of time. Get some stimulants--put warm flannels on
his feet--his extremities are icy cold. He has had violent exertion--all
his muscles are hard and stiff. Put his hands in warm water. Wash his
temples with warm vinegar. There, there; come, my poor fellow, come;
consciousness will soon return."
He opened his eyes, looked at the doctor, then at his master, then at
his friends, and at last at Margaret, who was putting warm flannels to
his feet. He looked earnestly at her, spoke not, but a tear stole down
his face as he closed his eyes again.
His wounds were now probed, cleaned, and dressed, as carefully as if he
had been one of the wealthiest squires or nobles of the land, and he was
then left for the night, attended by two of his fellow-servants, in case
he should need assistance or restraint.
"There, there, good-night, John, good-night. I think you'll do now.
Come, come, he feels a little easier. He breathes better"; and patting
his cheeks in his good-humoured way, Dr. Stebbing left him, and went
down into the parlour.
There is always a little chit-chat with the doctor after the usual
labour of his profession is over, and he is quietly seated with the
family. It is then he judges of what is best for his patient, for at
such times the secrets of most families come forth; and if love or law,
if loss of stock or money, if cruelties, injuries, or any causes
whatever have been acting upon the patient's mind, the doctor is sure to
be made the confidant.
If the faculty could find out the means of supplying all their invalids
with such things as they really wanted, they would soon get well, but
in default of such means medicine and good advice--very necessary
articles in their way--are supplies in which the faculty seldom fail.
"Doctor, will you take anything to-night? you have had a cold ride, and
will have another on your way home--shall my mistress give you anything
warm?"
"I care not if she does. A little nutmeg in a little warm
brandy-and-water, and just one slice of your nice harvest-cake, and I
shall be comfortable."
The first question asked of the doctor was, "What he thought of his
patient?"
"Why, he has got an ugly wound that will take months to heal. He will
not be able to be moved for six or seven weeks. Where do his parents
live?"
"At Levington," was the reply. "His father is tolerably well to do in
the world, though he has a large family. I have not a steadier young man
on my premises, nor a quieter, soberer, or better behaved lad, or a
better workman belonging to me."
"So much the better. But what does the old fisherman do in the kitchen?
I thought he never sat down in any house, but always kept to his boat?"
"He is only waiting to speak to you, doctor. At least, he said he should
stop to hear your report."
"I should like to have one word with him."
"I'll go and tell him so"; and off trotted the worthy farmer for Robin,
with whom he soon returned, and then, beckoning to his wife, they left
him and the doctor alone together.
"Well, Robin, what an odd fish you are! I can never persuade you to come
into my kitchen, and here you are, hail fellow well met, with the
farmer's men at Harvest-Home. How is this, Robin? I shall tell my
daughter of you, and leave her to set some of your foul fiends to work
upon you."
"They've been at work pretty well to-night, doctor, or else I'm wofully
mistaken. One of 'em has done a pretty job of mischief here; and it's
well if he don't do more before he's done."
The doctor understood his dialect, and knew how to get out of him what
he wanted.
"Who did the foul fiend work upon? who was his victim?"
"He left my boat, and went aboard Will Laud's."
"What! the smuggler? I thought he was shot long ago."
"So others thought, but not I; for I saw him and a sturdy villain of his
pass my boat, with all their sails set; and when my Infernal Broiler
left me, and sat grinning on his mast, I knew he was up to mischief."
"What mischief, Robin?"
"Why, look ye, doctor; you must ha' seen the mischief. Ha'en't you
dressed the young man's wounds?"
"Yes, Robin; but how came your imp to be the cause of this?"
"Nay, that you must ask the girl here; for seldom do my imps fail to
make mischief among the sex."
"Was it a love affair?"
"Nay, it didn't appear much o' that." And here Robin, in his quaint
language, well understood by the doctor, told his own tale as it
happened.
"Well, Robin, all I can say is, that, but for you, one of the finest
young fellows in the land would have lost his life; and there's a guinea
for you."
"No, no, master; give me a guinea for my fish, but don't give me a
guinea for doing no more than I ought to do. Give it to the poor boy for
loss of time. I've got some good fish, and you may have some to-morrow
morning; but the fiends would torment me all night, if I went to my
hammock with a guinea for my reward. No, doctor, no. I thank you, too;
but tell me the boy will do well, and I'm well paid for my pains."
"He will do well, I think, Robin, if his mind be not disturbed."
The doctor felt, as perhaps the reader will, that the honest old
fisherman, bewitched and bewildered as he was, had more good feeling
about him than many a man of clearer head and a less scrupulous
conscience, who would have crept along the mud to pick up a guinea for
his dirty pocket.
"Well, well, my boy, I shall not find such an odd fish in your boat as
your own self. You may bring up your basket to my door, and my daughter
will deal with you. Instead of a guinea, I must give you any charm that
you can ask me for."
"Keep to that, doctor, and I'll ask you soon to give me one that I stand
much in need of, and which you only can furnish me with. You are surgeon
to the gaol, and I want something out of that place. I'll tell you, one
of these days, what it is. My boat is now high and dry upon the shore.
You might ask some of the landsmen here to lend me a hand to get her
off. I shall be in Ipswich as soon as yourself."
No sooner was the request made than it was granted; and Robin and five
or six good stout fellows were on the shore, and soon shoved the boat
off, which, quicker than the men could walk upon the sand, moved on her
native element to the well-timed stroke of the able fisherman.
The doctor's first introduction to the flying Margaret is well known to
the reader. His knowledge of her under those circumstances made him feel
for her; but there were some questions he wished to put to her, as his
curiosity had been excited by what Robin had revealed. The farmer had
already given him some hint about her confessions; but the doctor wanted
to find out whether, after what had taken place that night, the tide of
her affections might not have turned a little toward his patient. It was
a delicate question to ask, but he thought he would find it out by
another plan; so he desired to see Margaret in the parlour before he
left the house.
"I did not half like your look, my girl, when I first saw you to-night.
Come hither; let me feel your pulse: let me look at your tongue. Your
pulse is quick, and you've some fever hanging about you."
"I thank you, sir, I shall be better to-morrow. I'm very sorry for what
has happened."
"You could not help it, my girl--you could not help it; it was not your
fault."
"I don't know that, sir,--I don't know that. I blame myself much;
but--but--"
"But you don't like to blame anybody else, Margaret; I know you."
"Well, sir, that's the truth; but yet he was to blame."
"Who? Barry?"
"No, sir, no; but he who shot him."
"Yes, he was a cowardly fellow. What induced him to do it?"
"Because Barry's brother shot _him_. I suspect he was excited at the
remembrance of his own sufferings, and urged on to desperation by the
fellow that was with him; and, in a moment of madness, thought to
revenge himself."
"This was not right, Margaret; it was still very cowardly."
"Why, yes, it was; but--but, I do not defend him, sir."
"What then, Margaret? what then?"
"Why, I was to blame, sir!"
"Why so?"
"Because I told him Barry loved me, sir."
"Ho, ho! a little jealousy, was it? Was it so, Margaret? Well, well, he
will be more jealous now."
"I'm sorry for it, sir. Had I not thought he would have known my
preference for him, I should not have told him this. It is this I blame
myself for, as much as I do him. I hope Barry will do well, sir."
"Your hopes may be disappointed, Margaret. His is a very bad case; and,
if he dies, Will Laud will be hanged."
"Then you know all, sir? Oh, pray save him if you can, sir!"
"Who?"
"John Barry, sir,--John Barry."
"Margaret, do you love him?"
"No, sir; yes--yes, sir. I think he is a very good young man, and he
would be a great loss to his parents."
"More so than to you, my girl?"
"Oh, yes, sir, yes. I'm sure I wish him well, and shall always feel
grateful to him for his kindness to me. I do hope he will recover, sir,
for Laud's sake."
This was enough; the doctor now knew all. He saw that his patient was in
love with Margaret, but that Margaret loved another. He was in
possession of the whole secret. He promised to do all he could; he
dismissed the girl; and, after a few minutes' further chat with the
master and mistress of the house, and strongly advising them to send for
Barry's parents in the morning, he took his leave. His little bay pony
soon rattled up Gainsborough's Lane, through the open fields towards the
Race-course, and over Bishop's Hill, to the town of Ipswich.
Barry's parents were not long in coming to their son, nor long in
learning the real state both of his mind and body. It is the happiest
time to die when a parent's tender care is round you. Then the agony of
suffering is greatly relieved, and the heart can open its most inward
thoughts. It turns, with such filial respect and thankfulness, towards
those whom it does not like to grieve, but who are always the most
quick-sighted to see our wants and to relieve our distresses. So gentle
is a mother's love--so delicate, so soothing, so healing to the youthful
mind, that nature almost decays with pleasure before her soft
attentions. Nor is a father's manliness and feeling less sensibly
experienced at such a time. He may not have a woman's gentleness, but he
has a firmness and a quietness of action which are seldom seen at other
times, and which make a sick room seem more calm and sufferable. He has
quite as deep feeling, though it is more subdued. Who that ever has been
ill in his youth, and has seen the kindness of parental love, but has
thought that he never could die happier than when his fond parents were
near him?
So thought young Barry when his parents were by his side; and not only
thought so, but plainly told them that he wished to die.
"I hope not yet, my boy," said his father. "The young sapling may get a
blight, but it soon recovers, and springs up vigorously; but the old
trees naturally decay. I hope to go first, my boy."
"Yes, father, such may be your hope and natural expectation; but Heaven
avert it! You have others to live for; may I never live to see your
death!"
"Come, John, do not give way to such feelings. You know not yet what the
good God may have in store for you."
"He has, indeed, been good to me, father, and has left me nothing more
to wish for in this world."
"Perhaps not for your own benefit, John; but we are not always to die
just when we wish it. Neither are we to live merely for ourselves. We
are called upon to live for others; and more may be expected of us on
this account than upon our own. We are not to be such selfish beings as
to think, 'The wind blows only for our own mill.'"
"I meant not to find fault, father; but I am disappointed, and feel
therefore useless."
"I know your disappointment, boy; but I would not have you take it so to
heart as to let it prey upon your spirits. There are others far better
and more worthy of you, who may esteem you, John, for your good conduct
and character; and one of such may make you an excellent companion for
life."
"Father, I know I am not so wise as you are. I have not your experience;
yet this I feel and say, that I hope you will never find fault with that
poor girl."
"I will not, John, in your presence; but how can a father help feeling
hurt and angry with a girl who prefers a smuggler to an honest man?"
"That may or may not be a fault; but you just now told me we should live
for others, and not be so selfish as to think only of ourselves. Now, I
do believe that Margaret lives only in the hope that Will Laud will
become an altered man."
"He never will! A lawless villain, who will revenge a blow upon the
innocent hand that never gave it, has a heart too reprobate and stony
ever to change."
"You will not say it is impossible?"
"I did not mean to say it is a thing impossible with God; but you seemed
to think that, by Margaret's influence, such a change might be effected.
This, I say, will never be. Laud may influence her, and may corrupt her
mind; but, take my word for it, the man whose love is swallowed up in
the violence of passion, as his is, will never produce anything good. He
will be a selfish villain even towards the poor unfortunate victim of
his choice."
"Oh, father, would that you could persuade Margaret of this! She is
indeed a good girl, and a warm-hearted one; and, had she received any
education, would have been as good and respectable as my own dear
mother."
"All this may be, John; but, if I could persuade you out of this fit of
fancy, I then might have hope that I should have some power of
persuasion with Margaret. Till then I shall stand no chance. For, if I
cannot root the weeds out of my own ground, how shall I be fit to work
for others?"
The young man sighed deeply, and could answer no more. He felt the force
of the superior wisdom of his father; and, owning to himself that there
was much truth in the remark, felt how difficult it would indeed be to
conquer in his own heart his hopeless attachment.
In due time, Barry's wounds progressed towards recovery, and it was
agreed among his fellow-labourers that, before the cold weather should
set in, they would form a corps for carrying him home to Levington.
Twelve undertook the task; and, one fine October day, they managed to
place him and his bed upon a frame, made for the occasion, to which were
attached shoulder-pieces, and so conveyed him to his father's residence,
where all things were made ready by his mother's hand for his
reception.