THE PARTING
Unaffected was the joy with which the parents and family of young Barry
received their brave son into their peaceful cot. The good miller and
his wife welcomed the pale and dejected youth with that quiet, composed,
and affectionate interest which at once soothes and comforts a sick
soul.
The young man had more upon his mind than he chose to speak of, and a
heavy weight upon his spirits, which not all the cheerfulness of his
brothers and sisters and parents could allay. His wounds gradually
healed; but his weakness continued, and he appeared to be suffering some
internal torture which prevented his sleeping at night. He read, and
tried to improve his mind; but it availed nothing. His sisters, too,
sought every opportunity to afford him diversion; but the languid smile
and forced expression of thankfulness told that, although he felt
grateful, he did not relish their mirth. He looked intently into the
newspaper, especially into all matters connected with the coast and
coastguard; and when he read of any skirmish with the smugglers, he was
feverishly anxious to know who they were. He also expressed a particular
wish to see his brother Edward.
Though the miller could not say exactly when Edward might be expected
home, he resolved to send to the stations where he might be found, and
urge him to obtain leave of absence.
It was not long before that leave was given, and he returned to visit
his parents and his invalid brother. The young men mutually rejoiced to
see each other, and were not long in comparing notes upon their separate
adventures.
"I prophesy I shall catch him one of these days," said Ned; "and if I
do, he shall never remember his last escape. We know him well when we
see him, but the fellow changes his name as often as he does his place,
so that our information is frequently contradictory. If once I have a
chance of changing shots with him again, Jack, he shall pay me for those
cowardly wounds in your side."
"Nay, Ned, I had rather that the sea swallowed him up, than that you
should shoot him."
"How then would you know he was dead, Jack? His ship might be lost, and
the wreck driven on shore; but we should not know it, and he might or
might not escape. There's nothing like a bullet for certainty."
"But you would know him, if you saw his body cast ashore?"
"Yes, that I should; and I would soon let you know it, too."
"Well, if I must hope for his destruction, I would rather it were in
this way than by your hand."
"For your sake, Jack, I should be satisfied with it so; but, for my own
part, I have no compunction in shooting a desperado like him, who lives
upon the vitals of others, and fights against his king and country, and
sets at defiance all laws, human and divine. He would kill any man that
opposed his nefarious traffic; and, as I am one that he has sworn to
attack by land or by sea, whether in war or peace, I see no reason why I
should not defend your life and my own, even though it may cost the
taking away of his."
The sufferer did not argue the point any further; and especially as
there were reasons of a private nature which had a powerful influence
upon his mind. He revived very much during his brother's stay, and
seemed to be more cheerful than at any former period of his illness. He
even assisted in the labours of the mill, and by little and little began
to pick up strength. His brother's leave of absence, however, expired;
and the two were seen to walk away together over the hill, arm-in-arm,
in the most earnest and deep conversation.
"Never fear, Jack; I will keep your secret honestly, and render you all
the help in my power. I will let you know our movements."
"And take care of yourself, Ned, and do not risk your life for my sake.
If you should fall, what should I feel?"
"I hope you would feel that I fell in a good cause, brother. At least, I
do feel it so myself, or I should not be a happy man. No man can be
happy, John, who even thinks that he is doing wrong."
"God preserve you, dear brother! Farewell!"
The two brothers parted, one to his duties at Dunwich, where his station
then was, the other to his home and thoughts.
Anticipation is the greatest quickener of mortal spirits. There is
something so lively in the expectation of things upon which the heart is
fixed, that even time passes quickly by during the period in which hope
is so vivid. But there is a point at which the tide turns, and as
gradually operates in a reverse manner, when the heart sickens,
desponds, and grows gloomy.
Young Barry returned from his parting walk with his brother in high
spirits, elated with hope, and better both in mind and body. He assisted
his father in his work, and was at times playful with his sisters. So
much did his health improve at this time, that his parents began to hope
that the ensuing spring would see him perfectly restored.
And where, all this time, was she, the unfortunate cause of all his
misery, and the most unintentional marplot in this history? She was as
great a sufferer as he could possibly be. Nothing could equal her
distress of mind at the turn affairs had taken. A bodily affliction
might have proved a comfort to her. She felt, after all that had taken
place, that the indulgence of her kind master and mistress should be
rewarded with more than usual exertions on her part. She had stirring
employment for her hands, as well as much exertion for her mind.
It would have been a pleasant thing for her could she have been absent
when the sharp gibes of her fellow-servants would torment her with
insinuations. There is dreadful cruelty in that man's heart who delights
to torment a creature which cannot defend itself. Poor Margaret felt
that she had no defence to set up, and no friend to defend her. To hear
the hopes expressed that Laud might be soon taken, and the reward talked
of for his apprehension, and the wishes expressed by some that they
might have the opportunity of handling the cash: these things, coming
from those whom she met every day, made her present position very
uncomfortable.
More than once, one would announce at dinner-time that the smuggler had
been seen on shore and captured. Again, it was stated that he was taken
in an open boat at sea. And if a sailor chanced to call at the house,
Margaret's heart was in a flutter lest he should be seen by some of the
men, and she should be ridiculed. These things kept the poor girl's
heart in a constant state of apprehension, and evidently affected her
health; whilst the accounts brought to the farm, from time to time, of
young Barry's protracted sufferings, were anything but satisfactory to
her. Her master and mistress were uniformly kind to her, or she could
not have borne her sufferings. As it was, she found herself so
uncomfortable, that she resolved to give her mistress warning, and to
leave her as soon as she could suit herself with another servant. She
begged her mistress not to think that she was dissatisfied with her or
with her work: she told her plainly that she suffered so much from the
taunts, and even the looks, of the men upon the farm, that she could not
live there, and she was resolved to go home to her parents.
About the latter end of the ensuing November, Margaret returned to her
parents; and if she did not live quite so well as she had done, she
lived, at all events, in peace.
It was at this moment of her utmost poverty that Margaret's love and
fortitude were put to the severest trial. In the depth of the winter,
she received an unexpected visit from young Barry, who, claiming as he
did a more than common interest in her fate, and a more than passing
share of her acquaintance, well knew that he should not be denied
admission into her father's cottage. He entered, looking extremely pale
and thin; but Margaret was glad to see him; and more especially as he
declared that he had walked all the way from Levington. She dusted a
seat for him; and placed it by the crackling fagot-fire, requesting him
to rest himself after his walk. It was about half-past two o'clock in
the afternoon; her father was cutting fagots on the heath; her mother,
who had been unwell, had gone upstairs to lie down; her youngest brother
was attending the sheep; and she was alone at the time young Barry
entered. He seated himself, and answered her kind inquiries after his
health, and received her grateful expressions of thankfulness for his
kindness to her upon former occasions, and especially upon that day when
he had received his wound.
Barry heard this with that true modesty which a good man always feels.
He said it was only his duty; he regretted the conduct of his former
friends and fellow-labourers, which had driven Margaret from her place,
and he asked her if she intended to go to service again. She replied,
"Not in this part of the country. I hope soon to go and stay with my
Uncle Leader at Brandiston, who, though he has a large family of his
own, has yet kindly consented to take me in, if I should want a home."
"Margaret," said the young man, fixing his eyes upon her intently, "are
you in want of a home, and are there any circumstances in the world that
will ever induce you to share mine with me? I am come over for no other
purpose than to ask you this question. Give me a hopeful answer."
It is impossible for any woman, with a woman's heart, not to feel
grateful to an honourable man, who, regarding not the poverty and
reverse of circumstances which she may have experienced, renews those
earnest vows which once, in happier days, he had before offered.
Margaret felt young Barry's kindness, and owned it with the deepest
thankfulness, if not in words of eloquence, yet in words of such
simplicity and earnestness, as spoke the noble resolution of a good and
honest, though, alas, mistaken mind!
"I do not say, John, that there are no circumstances under which I might
not be induced to accept your kindness, and for which I might not
endeavour to render you the service and obedience of my whole life; but
there is one circumstance which would utterly preclude my acceptance of
your offer; yet forgive me if I say, I hope that one circumstance will
for ever exist."
"What is that one, Margaret? Name it."
"Nay, John, you know it well. I have told you before, that as long as I
know that Will Laud is living, or at least until I know that he is dead,
I will never marry any other man."
"But you must know, Margaret, the dangerous life he leads, and the
precarious tenure by which that life is held, subject as it is to all
the perils of the sea."
"Alas! I know it well; but there is a God who governs and directs all
things for good, and I hope still that the day of grace and penitence
may arrive, in which, though fickle as he now is, he may be altered and
improved. Nothing is impossible; and as long as life lasts, so long will
I have hope."
"But your hopes, Margaret, may be blighted--it may be that the sea
itself may devour him."
"It may be so. It will require something more than the bare report of
such a calamity to convince me of the fact, even though years should
bring no tidings of him."
"But if you should have the truth asserted by one who should chance to
see him perish, would that be sufficient proof?"
"No, sir, no! Except I know from my own sight, or from the most positive
evidence of more than one, I could not trust to it."
"But if you were at last convinced of his death, might I then hope?"
"It will be time to speak to me of that if God should grant me life
beyond that dreadful time; but, now that I think of your
kindheartedness, and know how unwilling you are to give unnecessary
pain, I begin to fear that you have some melancholy tidings to
communicate. Speak, John, speak!--your manner is unusual, and your
conversation is too ominous. Have you heard anything of Laud? Pray
speak, and tell me at once."
This was more than the youth could at once perform. He had been so
carried away by his own passion, that he had not foreseen the effect
which his own unwelcome tidings might occasion. He now heartily wished
that he had left it for others to communicate. He hesitated, looked
painfully distressed, and was disconcerted at his own precipitancy.
"I know, John, by your manner, that you have something to tell me,
though you seem afraid to utter it. Tell me the worst, tell me the
worst!"
"Margaret, I own that I have been too abrupt. My own hopes have made me
overlook the shock I know you will experience; but I had really no
intention of giving you pain. The worst is, that which I have often
thought would come to pass--Will Laud is dead!"
"How do you know that?"
"I saw him myself this very morning."
"Where? where?"
"At Bawdsey Ferry."
"How knew you it was Laud?"
"My brother saw his boat coming ashore in the gale last night, saw it
driven upon the rocks inside the bar, and smashed to pieces. Laud, with
three others, was cast on the shore quite dead. My brother sent me word
with the morning's light. I would not even trust to his report, so I
went to Bawdsey and saw him. I then hastened to be the first to convey
the intelligence to you. Forgive me, Margaret, that my selfish thoughts
should have made me forget your feelings."
"I can forgive _you_; but I never should forgive myself, if I did not go
directly and judge from my own sight if it be really so. I have long
made up my mind to hear unpleasant tidings; but I have never been
without hope that something would alter him."
"I fear that he was too desperate ever to reform."
"I did not think he could reform himself. I lived in hopes that some
severe blow might bring him to his senses; but I must go and see. In the
meantime let me request you not to mention those matters to me again; at
least, let me have time to think of the past and consider of the
future."
"You will pardon me, Margaret, and attribute to my regard for you the
precipitate step I have taken upon this occasion."
"Where lies the body of poor Laud?" said Margaret, without seeming to
hear what Barry had last said.
"It is in the boat-house at Bawdsey Ferry, together with the three
others."
"I will go there to-day." And she immediately prepared to fulfil her
resolution.
"How will you go? Will you let me drive you there? I can obtain a horse
and cart; and I think you know me well enough to be persuaded of my
care."
"I do not doubt it, sir, but I had rather not go with you. I have no
objection to be your debtor for the horse and cart, but my youngest
brother will drive me."
"It shall be here in half an hour. May I offer you any other aid?"
"None, sir, whatever. You have my thanks; and I so far consider your
honesty and truth deserves my esteem, that, by to-morrow at this time,
if you will pay us another visit, I shall be glad to see you."
"It is all that I could wish or hope. Till then, Margaret, good-bye."
Young Barry left with a heart somewhat easier, though touched with pain
for the poor girl. He had, however, seen the only being who stood
between him and his affections laid a helpless corpse upon the boat.
Hope took the place of despair--he soon obtained the horse and cart, and
sent them to their destination.
Barry's anxiety was greatly increased as the day wore away, and a night
of feverish suspense succeeded. Sleep was quite out of the
question--every hour he heard the clock strike in the room beneath him.
He saw the grey dawn approach, and beheld the gradually increasing light
clearer and clearer shining, and throughout the whole livelong night he
dwelt but upon one theme--that theme was Margaret!
He rose next morning, looking, as his friends declared, like a ghost. He
ate no breakfast--he could not talk--he could not work; but could only
walk about, lost in abstracted meditation. The dinner-hour came with
noon, but he could eat nothing--he had neither appetite, speech, nor
animation. No efforts of his parents could call forth any of his
energies--they knew he had been to see his brother; but they could not
get him to declare the purport of his visit. He said that his brother
was well; that nothing had happened to him; that he had seen him quite
well; and that he was promoted a step in the service; and that he was
constantly employed. It was evident to them that something was preying
upon the young man's mind which he would not disclose. They did not,
however, distress him with questions; and after dinner, he departed from
the house, and was observed to walk toward Nacton.
He found Margaret returned, and seated by the fireside, as she was the
day before when he visited her. She looked very pale and thoughtful. The
young man took this as a necessary consequence of the shock she had
received at the sight of her lover's corpse, little dreaming that at
that very moment she was actually feeling for the distress of him who
then stood before her.
"Well, Margaret, I am come, according to your appointment."
"I am very grateful to you for your assistance. I should never have
forgiven myself had I not gone. I saw your brother, sir, and he was very
kind to me. Through his permission I obtained a sight of the bodies in
the boat-house, and he told me concerning the melancholy wreck of the
schooner; but--but both you and your brother, sir, are mistaken."
The heart of the youth was so stricken, he could not for a time utter
one single word--he sat all astonishment, all dismay, all agony, all
despair. There was no joyful congratulation for Margaret, there was no
apology for his mistake--feelings too deep for utterance overpowered
him.
Margaret saw and felt, in the midst of her own hope, the painful
disappointment of his, nor could she summon courage to utter more. After
the most afflicting silence, John Barry, as if he could not doubt his
own and his brother's eyes, said--
"Are you sure I was mistaken?"
"Quite," said Margaret; "quite."
"And my brother, how could he be so deceived? he knew Laud so well."
"Few knew him better, but I convinced him that he was mistaken. I asked
him where the wound was upon the forehead, which he had given him, and
which I had such difficulty in healing. It certainly was very like Laud,
and, had I not well considered him, I also might have been deceived; but
I am glad I went. Your brother is quite satisfied upon the point, but
very much hurt to think of the grief he has occasioned you. He felt very
sorry, also, for the pain which he kindly imagined I must have felt,
which, however, was greatly relieved by the joy I experienced in proving
to his satisfaction that he was mistaken. He declared that, for my sake,
he would never injure Will Laud if he could help it. Oh, how I wish that
Will could have heard that declaration! I am persuaded that they would
have been good friends from that time. I think you will find your
brother at Levington upon your return, for I know he asked permission of
Lieutenant Brand to let him visit his father for a day upon very urgent
business. I suspect this is but to see you, and explain to you his
mistake."
"Margaret, I ought to have felt more for you than for myself. I wish you
well--I scarcely now can hope. I am indeed wretched, but it is my duty
to strive against these feelings--I know it is. But here in this country
I cannot remain--I must go abroad. I must see if I can get a grant of
land in Canada--I cannot live here; but I shall never forget you,
Margaret, never!--and may I hope that you will sometimes think of me?"
"I can never forget you; and, depend upon it, wherever you may be, I
shall never cease to be grateful for your past kindness to a poor
unfortunate girl like myself. God will prosper you, sir--I am sure He
will. I am far too unworthy your notice. At all times I will pray for
your happiness."
"I know not where I shall go, Margaret. I will see you but once more
before I go; but now good-bye."
They shook hands and parted--each felt a sincere wish for the other's
welfare. One felt that the hopes of his life were blighted; the other,
that her vows of attachment were unalterable.
Young Barry returned home, and found, as Margaret had supposed, his
brother Edward, who had been there some time before his return. It
needed but a look to tell what each felt. They took a turn round the
fields, and were seen arm-in-arm together. They were mutually satisfied
with each other.
Edward Barry saw and admired his brother's choice, for until then he had
never been prepossessed in her favour. The warmth of feeling which she
betrayed when looking at the countenance of her supposed lover, as he
lay in the boat-house, and the pure and simple joy at discovering the
mistake; the very sensible manner in which she proved that she could not
be mistaken; the gratitude she felt, and the exemplary manner in which
she conducted herself, all conspired to give him a high opinion of the
character of this young woman, and made him feel that, notwithstanding
the strong wish he had entertained for Laud's death, for he had even
counted upon being opposed in deadly skirmish with him, he never could
take his life without giving a deep wound to one innocent and deserving
heart.
Young Barry became another being--his health improved rapidly; he began
to work, and to talk of future days with cheerfulness.