THE WELCOME VISIT
There is no greater misery upon earth than to be left alone; to feel
that nobody cares for you--nobody is interested in you; and that you are
destitute as well as desolate! Poor Margaret at this time felt something
akin to this sensation. She had a regard for the youth who had driven
himself into voluntary exile on her account. She was not, however, to
blame for this, though many a one accused her of being the cause of it.
She was shunned by those of her own sex, on account of the disreputable
character of her lover, with whom it was believed that she still held
secret correspondence, although for a long time she had heard nothing of
him. The men cared little about her, because she cared nothing about
them; but kept herself quietly at home, attending to the sick-bed of a
rapidly declining mother. Occasionally she ventured to the Priory Farm,
to ask for some few necessaries required by her aged parent. Her former
mistress was uniformly kind to her; and not contented with affording the
assistance which was asked for, this good woman visited the sick-bed of
poverty, and ministered to the wants of the aged and infirm.
Gratitude is very eloquent, if not in the multitude of words, yet in the
choice of them, because it speaks from the heart. Margaret's gratitude
was always sincere. She was a creature of feeling without cultivation,
and imbibed at once the very perfection of that spirit which all
benevolent minds wish to see; but which if they do not see, they are so
accustomed to the world that they are not very greatly disappointed.
Their surprise is rather expressed in that pleasure which they imbibe in
seeing the feeling of a truly grateful heart. An aged female, on a bed
of poverty and sickness, is but too frequently left to negligence and
want. When their infirmities are the greatest, and their cares always
the most anxious, then is it that the really charitable aid of the
benevolent is most needed.
Margaret felt her own inability to assist her aged mother, beyond the
doing for her to the best of her powers in all attendances as nurse and
housewife. She herself earned no money; but she made the best possible
use of all the earnings of the family, as at that time she had not
discovered the munificent present of poor John Barry; for, not being
able to read, she had carefully laid up the treasured book, unconscious
of the generosity and self-denial of the donor.
At this time Margaret appears to have suffered much privation. She felt
that she was dependent upon the kindness of richer friends for those
little delicacies which she required to support her mother's sinking
frame; and never was heart more sensitively grateful than this poor
girl's when she received some unexpected trifle of bounty from the table
of her indulgent mistress. She wept with joy as she bore the present
home to her affectionate but fast-sinking parent.
She had not very long to continue her nursings. Early in the year she
lost her mother. Nature could not be suspended; and she sank to rest,
with her head supported by the arms of an affectionate daughter and a
good husband.
The death of her mother was felt by Margaret very keenly. It reminded
her of her own early affliction; and a singular occurrence took place at
the funeral, which more forcibly reminded her of her sister's death. A
stranger entered the churchyard at the time of the ceremony, and stood
at the foot of the grave, and actually wept with the mourners. No one
knew who he was, or where he came from; nor did he speak to any one, but
he seemed to be much afflicted at the scene of sorrow. He remained some
time after the mourners had departed, and saw the grave filled up again;
and when the old clerk had neatly patted round the mound with his
spade, and was about to leave it, the stranger asked him if he did not
mean to turf it.
"Why, I don't know; I don't think they can afford to have it done
properly; but, at all events, I must let the earth settle a bit first."
"How long will it take to do that?"
"That depends upon the weather. Come rain, and that will soon settle;
but if frost, and dry weather continue, it will be some time first. They
cannot afford to have it flagged and binded."
"What will that cost?"
"I charge one shilling and sixpence extra for that, as I have to get the
turf from the heath; but I shall have some time to wait before I am paid
for what I have done. Time was when that family was well off; but no
good comes of bad doings."
"What do you mean, my man? what bad doings have these poor people been
guilty of?"
"I see, sir, you are a stranger in these parts, or else the Catchpoles,
especially one of them, would be known to you by common report."
"Which one is that?"
"Margaret, sir."
"Well, what of her? has she been unfortunate?"
"If she has it has been her own seeking, no one's else. She might have
done well, but she would not."
"What might she have done? and what has she done?"
"Why, sir, she might have married an industrious young man, who would
have done well by her; but she chose to encourage a vagabond smuggler,
who first set her up with high notions, and then ruined and left her to
poverty and shame."
"You do not mean to say that the young woman is a depraved and abandoned
character?"
"No, no; I mean she don't like any honester man, and so no one seems to
care anything about her."
A tear stole down the stranger's cheeks; and, whoever he was, he seemed
to feel a little relief at this information.
"Is the young woman living at home with her family?"
"Yes; because nobody will hire her. She is laughed at by the females,
and the men don't care anything about her. If they could catch her
lover, and pocket a hundred pounds reward for his capture, they would
like the chance."
"How are the family supported?"
"Why, I suppose the father earns eight shillings a week, the youngest
son one-and-sixpence; but they must have been hard run this winter, and
it will take them some time to get up their back-rent and present
expenses."
"What is the amount of their present expense?"
"Why, I must get, if I can, sixteen shillings, somehow or another. I
dare say I shall have it; but it will take them some time to pay it.
There is ten shillings for the coffin (for I am carpenter, clerk, and
sexton), three shillings and sixpence digging the grave, one shilling
for tolling the bell, and one shilling and sixpence for the clergyman;
that will exactly make the sum."
"You say it will take one shilling and sixpence extra for turfing and
binding: that will be seventeen shillings and sixpence. How much do you
think they owe at the shop?"
"I know that it cost them three shillings and sixpence for flannel; but
I know it is not paid for yet."
"There's a guinea; that will exactly pay you all, will it not?" and the
stranger pitched a guinea against the sexton's spade.
What a wonderful thing is a golden guinea in the eye of a poor parish
clerk! how reverential it makes a man feel, especially when a stranger
pays it for a poor man! He might have got it; but he must have waited
the chance till after the next harvest.
"That it will, sir--that it will. I'll call and pay the bill at the
shop. Are you coming to live in these parts?"
"Not for long--not long!" sighed the stranger.
"Why, you look very healthy, sir? You are not ill?"
"No, no, my man; I do not mean to give you a chance of getting another
guinea by me, at least for the present. I only meant to say my stay in
this village would not be for long. But where do these poor people
live?"
"Not in the same place they used to do in the days of their prosperity
and respectability. Their house now stands at the corner of the heath,
sir: shall I go with you and show it you?"
"I can find it; there are not many cottages there. Do you go and pay the
bill at the shop; and then if you have a mind to bring the receipt,
instead of giving me the trouble to call at your house for it, you will
find me at the cottage of these poor people; and hear me, old man, do
not talk to any one about this matter. You may as well bring a receipt,
also, for your own work at the same time."
"You are quite a man of business, I see, sir. I will not fail to be at
the cottage this very evening with a receipt in full."
The old sexton placed the guinea carefully at the bottom of his pocket,
and, shouldering his spade and mattock, marched off towards the village
shop. The stranger walked round Nacton churchyard. He stood sometime
attentively reading the inscription upon Admiral Vernon's mausoleum;
and, taking another look at the humble, new-made grave of Margaret
Catchpole's mother, he took the highroad to the heath, and saw the
cottage, known by the name of the Shepherd's Cot, at the verge of that
wild waste.
Meantime the following conversation was going on in that cottage:--
"I wonder," said Margaret to her father, as the old man sat by the
log-fire in the chimney-corner, "whether our brother Charles is alive or
dead?"
"I can just remember him," said the boy; "he used to be very fond of me,
and said I should make a good soldier."
"I have never heard of him," said the father, "since he went to Ipswich,
and enlisted in another name, at the Black Horse, in St. Mary Elms. I
understood that his regiment went off to India almost immediately after
he enlisted."
"I wonder if he is alive?"
"I cannot tell, my dear; the chances are very much against it. He was a
quick, intelligent, lively boy; and, when he was at work in the fields,
used often to say he should like to be a soldier. The old clerk taught
him to read and write, and used to say, 'If Charles had a chance he
would be scholar enough to succeed him as parish clerk.' He left us at
the commencement of our misfortunes; God grant he may meet us again in
happier days!"
Poor Margaret sighed; for she too well remembered the origin of all
their sorrows not to feel for her dear parent. That sigh was answered by
a sudden knock at the door, which occasioned a start. The latch was
lifted up, and in walked the stranger who had attended the funeral. His
entrance gave a change to their conversation; and Margaret placed a
chair for him, in which he quietly sat down opposite to the old
labourer. Care had worn the countenance of the venerable man more than
years and work. The only mourning of an outward kind which met the eye,
was an old piece of crape round the equally old hat which hung upon a
peg in the wall. Nothing else could be afforded; but their countenances
betokened the state of their hearts. They were really melancholy. It is
not in the outward pageantry of a funeral that real sorrow is to be
seen; and the real grief of the Shepherd's Cottage surpassed all the
pageantry of the palace, and was viewed with calm and respectful silence
by the stranger.
He was a tall, pale, thin young man, with a scar upon the side of his
face: he looked as if he had undergone much sickness or misfortune. He
was dressed in a plain suit of black, which hung rather loosely round
him. He asked Margaret if the youth beside her was her youngest brother,
and whether she had any other brothers living. She replied that it was,
to the best of her knowledge, her only brother living. He then made
inquiries concerning the illness of her late mother; and after various
other domestic matters, he looked very earnestly at Margaret, and in a
seemingly abstracted manner said, "Where is Will Laud?" It was as if an
electric shock had been given to all in the room; for all started at the
question, and even the stranger was greatly moved at his own question,
when he saw Margaret hide her face in her hands, weeping.
"I did not mean to occasion you any grief. I only asked after a man whom
I once knew as a boy, and whom the old clerk informed me you could tell
me more about than any one else."
"And do not you know more of him than we do, sir?" said the old man.
"I know nothing of him, and have heard nothing of him since I was a
youth; my question was purely accidental. I am sorry to see your
daughter so afflicted by it. Has the man been unkind to her?"
"No, sir! no!" said Margaret. "If you are here as a spy, sir, indeed we
know not where he is."
"A spy!" said the stranger; and the stranger started and muttered
something to himself. Margaret herself now began to feel alarmed; for
the stranger seemed to be deep in thought; and, as the flame from the
log of wood cast its light upon his face, she thought he looked ghastly
pale.
"A spy!" said the stranger; "what made you think me a spy?--and what
should I be a spy for?"
"I did not mean to affront you, sir; but the question you asked
concerning one for whose apprehension a hundred pounds is offered, made
me think of it. Pray pardon me, sir."
"I am sorry that he has done anything to occasion such an offer from the
Government. Has he murdered any one?"
"No, sir; but Will is a wild young man, and he attempted to kill young
Barry of Levington, and wounded him so severely, that a reward was
offered for his apprehension."
"Has Barry recovered?"
"Yes, sir; and he is gone out of the country to Canada, or some more
distant land."
"Then never mind if Laud be caught. Government will never pay a hundred
pounds for his conviction when the principal evidence cannot be
obtained. Never mind! never mind!--that will soon be forgotten."
Such words of consolation had never been uttered in Peggy's ear before.
She began to feel very differently toward the stranger, as the tone of
his voice, and his manner, together with his words, became so soothing.
"Thank you, sir, for your good wishes; you make my heart joyful in the
midst of my mourning."
"I only wish I could make it more joyful by telling you any good news of
your lover, Margaret; but though I know nothing of him, and only wish he
were more worthy of you than he is, yet I bear you tidings of some one
else of whom you will all be glad to hear."
"Our brother Charles!" both she and the boy at once exclaimed, whilst
the old man remained in mute astonishment.
"It is of your brother Charles; and first, let me tell you that he is
alive and well."
"Thank God for that!" said the father.
"Next, that he is in England, and it will not be long before you will
have the pleasure of seeing him."
At this moment the door opened, and in walked the old clerk, who, seeing
the stranger, made his bow, and gave him a piece of paper containing a
receipt for the guinea which he had received. To the surprise of all,
the stranger rose, and taking a little red box made in the shape of a
barrel, which stood on the wooden shelf over the fire-place, he
unscrewed it, and put the paper in it; and, replacing it, seated himself
again.
"You were just telling us of our brother Charles," said Margaret.
"What!" exclaimed the sexton, "is Charles alive? My old scholar! Where
is the boy? I have often thought of him. Oh! what a pity he took to
drinking! He was as good a reader as our clergyman, and beat me out and
out."
"He is not addicted to drink now, and is as sober as a man can be."
"I am glad of that. Then he will succeed in anything he undertakes. But
where has he been these many years?"
"You shall hear if you will sit down; for, as I knew him well, and was
his most intimate friend, he made me his confidant in everything. He was
always of a restless spirit; and when he left his father and friends, he
had no settled plan in his mind. He enlisted in the 33rd regiment of
Foot, which was then going out to India; and that his relatives and
friends might not grieve about him, he gave his name to the parochial
authorities of St. Mary Elms, at Ipswich, as Jacob Dedham, the name of a
boy who, he knew, was not alive. The parish-officer gave him a shilling,
and he took another shilling of the recruiting-officer.
"He was sworn in, and took his departure with many others for
Portsmouth, at which place he embarked for India, and joined the 33rd
regiment at Bombay. He was always of an aspiring and inquisitive turn of
mind. He became an active and orderly soldier, and assisted the
sergeant-major in all his writings and accounts. He soon became an adept
in all the cunning and customs of the various castes of natives in
India; was remarkable for the quickness with which he mastered the
different idioms of the different territories of the East; and at length
became so noticed by Sir William Forbes, that he introduced him to Lord
Cornwallis, who employed him upon the frontier of Persia.
"Here he became a spy, and was actively engaged for that highly
honourable and intelligent Governor-General. He readily entered into his
lordship's views; and, receiving from him a purse well stored, to
provide himself with disguises, he assumed the garb of a Moorish
priest, and with wonderful tact made himself master of all the
requisites of his office. I have here a sketch of him, in the very dress
in which he travelled through the country."
Taking out a roll from his coat-pocket, he unfolded the canvas wrapper
in which it was enclosed, and presented it to Margaret, asking her if
she recognized her brother.
With eager and interested glance she looked at the sketch, but not a
feature could she challenge. She then looked up at the stranger, and, as
she did so, said--
"It is much more like you, sir, than it is like my brother."
"I think it is full as like me as it is like him. But, such as it is,
you have it; for he commissioned me to give it to you, together with a
sketch of a fortress in which he resided a long time as the priest of
the family. This is Tabgur, on the frontiers of Persia. His master and
family are walking on the rampart-garden of the fort."
Here the old clerk could not help bursting out with an exclamation of
astonishment at the wonderful talent of his former pupil.
"I always said he would be a wonderful man, did I not, Master
Catchpole,--did I not? Did he teach himself this art, sir?"
"Indeed he did; and many others he learned, which did him equal credit.
He was a very quiet man in appearance, though he was alive to everything
around him. Many were the hairbreadth escapes he had; but his
self-possession carried him through all. He had to conceal all his
drawings of the different fortresses, all his calculations of the
inhabitants, of their forces, and their condition; but he contrived to
wrap them about his person, so that they could not be discovered.
"Once, indeed, one of his papers, written as close as pencil could
write, was picked up in the fort-garden at Tabgur, and he was suspected
for a spy; but he quickly changed their suspicions; for, observing that
his master had a bad toothache, he told him it was a charm to prevent
it. Every person, he said, for whom he wrote that charm, would be free
from the toothache as long as he kept it secreted in his turban; but it
must be one expressly written for the purpose, and for the person; and
that, during the time of its being written, the person must have a piece
of rock-salt upon that very tooth which was aching at the time. The
charm was only of use for the person for whom it was written; and, as
that one was written for himself, it could do the Persian warrior no
good. This answered well; for he got back his valuable paper, and wrote
one immediately, in the presence of his master, who, placing a piece of
rock-salt upon the tooth, found that, as he wrote, the pain was
diminished; and when he concluded, it was completely gone.
"But the next day, your brother, the Moorish priest, was gone also. He
passed over into Hindostan, changed his Moorish dress, and soon made his
way to head-quarters, where he delivered such an accurate account of all
that befell him, and of all that was required of him, that he received a
most ample reward. He called himself Caulins Jaun, the Moorish priest.
"He has been sent to England by Lord Cornwallis, to deliver some
despatches to the government, relating to the Mysore territory and
Tippoo Saib's conduct; and, having accomplished his mission, he has
asked permission to visit his poor friends at Nacton, in Suffolk. His
leave is very short, as his services are again required."
"And when may we expect him here?" exclaimed Margaret. "Oh, how I long
to see him!"
"I expect him here this night; for, as I was his companion, and am to go
back again with him, so I am his forerunner upon this occasion."
"I could almost set the village-bells ringing for joy," said the old
clerk. "I wonder whether he would know me."
"That I am sure he would."
"Pray, sir, how do you know that?"
"Because the description he gave me of you is so accurate that I could
tell you from a thousand. Do you remember the sketch he made of an old
woman throwing a cat at her husband?"
"That I do. Did he tell you of that?"
"That he did; and of the scratch he got from the cat's claws, as you
bopped your head, and puss lit directly on his face."
Here the old man could not help laughing.
"But did he tell you nothing else about the sketch?"
"That he did, and with such feeling, that I almost fancy I see now the
scrub-brush belabouring his head for his pains."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! I thought he had forgotten all that."
"No; he thought of it at the very time he was sketching the forts of his
enemies' country. Had he been caught in such freaks as those, he would
have had a severer punishment than what your good dame gave him."
"But if my old dame could see him now, how rejoiced she would be; for
notwithstanding his roguery, he was a great favourite of hers!"
"She will see him to-morrow."
"That will be news for the old woman. But shall I see him this night? I
would not mind waiting till midnight for such a purpose."
"That you may. But I do not think that even you would know him, were you
to see him."
"Why not? Would he know me?"
"He would: but youth alters more in countenance than age, especially
where a foreign climate has acted upon the constitution."
"I should know him from two things," said Margaret. "He once so nearly
cut off the end of his little finger with a sharp tool, that it hung
only by a piece of skin: it was bound up, so that it adhered and grew
together; but somehow, the tip got a twist, so that the nail of the
finger grew under the hand: it was the left hand."
"And what was the other mark?"
"It was a deep scar on the back of the same hand, caused by imprudently
cutting off a large wart."
"Now tell me," said the stranger, drawing the glove off his left hand,
"were the scars you mention anything like those?"
"Exactly," said the clerk, who looked at him again and again with
amazement.
"Why, you can't be he? Are you Master Charles?"
"Can you doubt it?"
"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. God 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 identity; 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 circumstances 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 sexton 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. God 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."
"God 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 assistance 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 circumstances, he not only gave his
consent, but urged her going. She left her father's roof on the Monday
with her uncle.