POVERTY AND PRIDE
On the evening of the very day on which Margaret quitted her father's
roof for that of her uncle, as the old man was sitting pensively at his
cottage fire, a knock at the door announced a visitor. The door opened,
and in walked Will Laud, together with his friend, John Luff.
"Good-evening, father," said Will. "We are come now from the shore. Our
boat is once more moored to the rails at the landing-place, by Orwell
Park, and we are come across the lands to see you. We had some
difficulty in finding out your berth. You have changed your place of
abode."
"Say that you have changed it for us, and you will be nearer the mark.
For ever since we knew you and your companion, we have known nothing but
changes, and few of them for the better."
"Things cannot always change for the worse, surely."
"I wonder you are not afraid to be seen in this part of the country.
There are many here, Will, that would be glad of a hundred pounds, the
price set upon your head."
"And yourself foremost of that number, I dare say," said the gruff
smuggler who accompanied Will Laud.
The old man looked at him with a placid but firm countenance, and said,
"That is the language of a villain! Do you think I am so fond of money
as yourself; or that I would sell my daughter's lover for a hundred
pounds? The door you have just opened is not yet closed, and if such be
your opinion, the sooner you take your departure hence the better."
"Humph! humph!" said Luff. "You need not be so crusty, Mr.
Catchpole--you need not be so boisterous. We have not seen the inside of
a house for many a long month, and if this be the first welcome we are
to have, it is rather ominous."
"What welcome do those men deserve who cause the ruin of others?"
"We have not intentionally caused your ruin, father," said Laud; "but we
come in peace; we wish to abide in peace, and to depart in peace."
"Then you should teach your friend to keep his foul tongue still, or it
will cause you more trouble than you are aware of."
"I miss the principal ornament of your house, Master Catchpole," said
Will. "Where are all the females gone?"
"Some are gone where I hope soon to join them; the one you feel most
interest about is gone to service."
"I was told, not an hour ago, that Margaret lived at home with you."
At this instant the door was opened, and young Edward Catchpole entered.
He had been to put his sheep safe into fold, and came whistling home,
with little thought of seeing any strangers in his father's cottage.
"Boy, do you know me?" was the inquiry made by Will Laud.
"Not yet," said the younger; "but I can give a shrewd guess; and I can
tell you something which will soon prove whether I guess right or not.
As I came over the heath, I met two sailors, who appeared to me to
belong to the preventive service. They were on horseback. They stopped
and asked me if I had seen a cart, and whether it was going fast, and
which road it took; whether it went across the heath, or along the road.
I told them plainly it was before them, and that it had turned down the
road towards the decoy-ponds. They then asked me if I had met two
sailor-looking men walking. To this, of course, I said No. But I suspect
they must have meant you."
"How could that be?" said Laud. "We came not along the road."
"No; but you might have seen some one who was going to Nacton Street,
and they might have been inquired of."
"That's true, indeed. We had to ask where your father lived, and our
curiosity concerning your family has led to this pursuit of us."
"One of the men I think I have seen before, and, if I mistake not, it is
the same Edward Barry that my sister and I went to see at Bawdsey
boat-house."
"Your sister went to see Edward Barry! What on earth for, my lad?"
"Nay, don't be jealous, Laud. There was a report that you were drowned,
and that your body was cast on shore. The bearer of that report was your
rival, John Barry. Margaret would not believe that report, unless she
should see your body. So I drove her there, and Edward Barry, who had
the key of the boat-house, permitted her to see the bodies, which
satisfied her that the report was unfounded."
The two men looked significantly at each other, as much as to say, "It
is time for us to be off."
"I have one question more to ask," said Laud. "Where is Margaret?"
"She is gone to service at her Uncle Leader's, of Brandiston. It is no
great place for her, but she will be out of the way of reproaches she
has suffered, Laud, on your account. Moreover, she has refused the hand
of a most respectable young man, whom I should have been glad that she
would have accepted. But he is gone to a distant land, and neither you
nor I, Will, shall see him again. John Barry has sailed, as a free
settler, either to Van Diemen's Land, or to Canada, I know not which."
These words were most welcome to the listener's heart. He had not heard
any which sounded so joyful to him for a long time. He made no reply,
however, but tendered a purse to the old man.
"No; keep your money to yourself, Laud, and make an honest use of it. I
would not touch it, if I was starving. But you may rest here if you
please, and such cheer as my poor cot can afford you shall be welcome
to, for my dear daughter's sake!"
"No, no, I thank you. We must be on board our ship again to-night. Our
bark is in the river, and if the enemy catch us, he will show us no
quarter. So good-night, father, good-night!"
"I do not wish to detain you, but hear me, Laud. If you have a mind to
make my poor girl happy, leave off your present life, and this
acquaintance too, this man's company."
"Come on!" said Luff, impatiently--"Come on! We've got no time to lose.
Our boat will be fast upon the mud. Good-night, old man, and when you
and I meet again, let us be a little more friendly to each other."
It was well for both of them that they departed as they did; for,
shortly after they were gone, the tramp of horses along the road told of
the return of the coastguard.
They stopped at Catchpole's cottage, and calling aloud, young Edward
went out to them.
"Hold our horses, young man, will you? we want to light our pipes."
"By all means," said Edward, coming to the little garden-gate. Both men
alighted, and he could see that they were well armed. They walked
directly to the door; and seeing the old man seated by the fire, one of
them said--
"We want to light our pipes, Master Catchpole. It is a blustering night.
Have you a tobacco-pipe, for I have broken mine rather short?"
The old man took one from his corner and gave it to young Barry, whom,
from his likeness to his brother, he could distinguish, and simply said,
"You are welcome to it, sir."
"Your son sent us on a wrong scent to-night."
"I do not think he did so knowingly. I heard him say he met you; and he
told me he directed you aright."
"We saw nothing of the cart. We have reason to believe that a rich
cargo of goods has been landed at Felixstowe, and that the last
cart-load went along this road to Ipswich. Have you had any of your old
seafaring friends here? Are there any here now? You know who I mean."
"You may search and see for yourself. Every door of this house will open
at your trial. If that is sufficient answer to your question, you are
welcome to take it. Nay, I wish most heartily that you and your brother
had been my friends long before the one to whom you allude had ever
darkened my door."
When the young man remembered his brother's attachment, and the really
worthy object of it, there was a grateful feeling which came over his
mind, notwithstanding the disappointment which his brother, himself, and
his family had experienced, which made him feel respect for the old man.
"I thank you, Master Catchpole--I thank you. Had such been the case, you
might have had a good son, and I should not have lost a good brother;
and in my conscience I believe I should have gained a good sister. But
there is no accounting for a woman's taste. I tell you honestly, Master
Catchpole, that for your daughter's sake I wish her lover, or the man
she loves, were a worthier character."
"I know that both she and I wish it so--she with hope--I, alas! confess
that I have no hope of that. As long as he lives he will never alter,
except for the worse."
"I wish it may be otherwise. But come, my mate, it is no use our waiting
here, we must go on to Felixstowe. If at any time, Master Catchpole, I
can be of service to you, you have nothing to do but to send a messenger
to Bawdsey Ferry, and the brother of him who is now far away will do
what he can to help you. Good-night, Master Catchpole!"
They returned to their horses, mounted them again, and telling Ned that
he might drink their healths whenever he pleased, gave him sixpence, and
rode off.
"Father," said Edward, when he was again seated by the fire, "I do
not--I cannot like that fellow Laud; and how Margaret can endure him is
to me strange."
"She knew him, my boy, before he became the character he now is."
"I am sorry to lose my sister; but she will at least be better off where
she is, and far away from reproaches. We must make out without her aid
as well as we can. Our old sexton's sister has promised to come and do
for us; so we shall have some help."
So father and son consoled themselves; and after their frugal meal
returned to their straw-stuffed beds; and slept upon their cares.
Meantime it was no small task that Margaret had undertaken. She was to
be as a mother to seven young children, and to keep her uncle's house in
order, and to provide everything to the best of her power. But her
spirit was equal to the undertaking; and the new life which came to her
through change of place and people soon animated her to those exertions
necessary to her position--a situation so difficult and arduous.
Place a woman in a domestic station, where the power of a mistress and
the work of a servant are to be performed, and see if she cannot show
what a quantity of work may be done with one pair of hands. A good head,
and a kind heart, and a willing hand, are virtues which, as long as
industry and honesty are praiseworthy, will be sure to succeed.
Her uncle was but a labourer, earning twelve shillings a week at the
utmost, and that by working over-hours. At that time of day such wages
were considered very large; and where the housewife was active with her
loom, or the aged with her spinning-wheel, labourers used sometimes to
lay by something considerable, and not unfrequently rose to be
themselves masters. The wages which Mr. Leader earned were sufficient,
in the hands of this active girl, to provide every necessary for the
week, and to lay by something for rent.
She soon made the eldest girl a good nurse; and gave her such a method
of management as saved herself much trouble. In the first place, she
began her rule with a most valuable maxim of her own inculcation: "A
place for everything, and everything in its place." Another of her
maxims was: "Clean everything when done with, and put it up properly and
promptly." Also, "Whenever you see anything wrong, put it right."
"Everything that is broken should be either mended or thrown away." She
would not admit of waste in anything. Among her good old saws was also:
Early to bed, and early to rise,
Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.
She would never suffer a bill to stand beyond the week at any shop. The
Saturday night, at nine o'clock, saw her and her uncle's family out of
debt, and the children all clean washed, with their white linen laid out
for the Sabbath-day. And to see, on that holy day, with what quiet,
hushed little feet they entered, four of them at least, the village
church of Brandiston, with their foster-mother, was a sight which caught
the attention of every well-disposed person in the parish. Master
Leader's luck in a housekeeper was soon spoken of; and many a parent
pointed out Margaret as a good chance for a poor man.
Up to this time Margaret could not read a single word: but she was very
glad when the vicar's lady undertook to send two of the children to the
village-school. She encouraged them to learn their daily tasks, and made
them teach her in the evening what they had learned at the school in the
day; and in this manner she acquired her first knowledge of letters. The
children took such pleasure in teaching her, that they always paid the
greatest attention to their lessons.
Margaret was now comparatively happy in the performance of her duties;
and felt relieved from the restraint and reproach which at Nacton, where
her father lived, had been attached to her character, on account of
William Laud. How long she might have continued in this enviable state
of things it would be difficult to surmise; but she seemed fated to
encounter untoward circumstances over which she could exercise no
control. She conducted herself with the greatest propriety. The children
loved her as they would a kind parent; and all who knew her in the
village of Brandiston esteemed her for her able conduct of her uncle's
family. Had that uncle himself been a wise man, he would never have
given occasion for Margaret to leave him: but no man is wise at all
hours; and Mr. Leader, though a very honest, good labourer, and a steady
man in his way, in an hour of too little thought, perhaps, or of too
superficial promise of happiness, chose to take unto himself a new wife;
a fat buxom widow of forty, owner of two cottages, and two pieces of
land in Brandiston Street, and a little ready money besides, with only
one little daughter, engaged his attention. He, poor simple man,
thinking he might better his condition, save his rent, and add to his
domestic comfort, consented, or rather entreated, that the banns might
be published for his second marriage.
Had the woman herself been a wise one, she would have seen how requisite
Margaret's care was to the family. But she became mistress, and must
command every one in the house--her house too! and she was not to be
interfered with by any one. She would not be dictated to in her own
house. No! though her husband had a niece who might have been all very
well, yet he had now a wife, and a wife ought to be a man's first
consideration--a wife with a house over her head, her own property.
Men may have notions of the greatness of their possessions; but a weak
woman, when once she has an all-absorbing and over-weening idea of her
own great wealth, becomes so infatuated with the possession of power
which that property gives her, that there are scarcely any bounds to her
folly. Money may make some men, perhaps many, tyrants; but when a woman
exercises the power of money alone, she becomes the far greater tyrant.
Her fondness for wealth makes her more cruel and unnatural in her
conduct; she forgets her sex--her nature--her children--her
friends--her dependents--and, alas! her God!
And soon did the new Mrs. Leader make a chaos of that family which had
recently been all order and regularity. The management of household
affairs was taken out of Margaret's hands. Bills were left to be paid
when the new mistress received the rents of her cottages and land. The
children were foolishly indulged; turned out to play in the street;
taught to disregard Margaret, and to look upon her as a servant; her
daughter was never to be contradicted; in short, every one in the house
was to bend to the will of its new mistress.
Such a change had taken place in the comforts and conduct of the house,
that Margaret, with all her care could manage nothing. She was thwarted
in all she did--eyed with jealousy on account of the praise bestowed
upon her--taught continually to remember and know herself and her
station--and to behave with more respect to her betters, or else to quit
the house.
Margaret had a sweet temper, and really loved her uncle and the
children, or she could not have endured so long as she did the
waywardness of this purse-proud woman.
Matters had been going on in no very pleasant manner in Mr. Leader's
cottage, and Margaret had found herself in a very uncomfortable
situation. She had been quite removed from her honourable station, as
governess of the family, and had been treated as a very unworthy menial
by her ignorant aunt.
While things were in this state, it so happened, that one evening in the
month of April, Margaret was sent from her aunt's cottage to the village
shop to purchase some article that was wanted for the morrow. It was
late when she went out, and the shop stood completely at the end of the
village. It was one of those general shops, half a good dwelling-house,
and half a shop, where the respected tenant carried on a considerable
business without much outward show.
A lane branched off from the main street leading down to the vicarage,
called the Church Road. It was, properly speaking, the Woodbridge Road
from Brandiston. At the moment Margaret was passing over this crossway
towards the shop, she was accosted by the familiar voice of one asking
where Mr. William Leader lived. Margaret replied:--
"I am now come from Mr. Leader's. He is my uncle. Do you want to see
him?"
"No, Margaret, it is yourself I am in search of. Do you not know my
voice?"
It was William Laud!
The reader must conceive the joy, the astonishment, the surprise, the
fear, or all these sensations combined in one, which Margaret, the
persecuted Margaret, felt in being thus accosted by her lover. Did it
require any great persuasion to induce her to turn aside at such a
moment, and walk a little way down the Church Road, past the Old Hall,
with one she had not seen or heard of for so long a time; one whom, with
a woman's faithfulness, she still loved with all the strength of her
mind and heart?
"I have been very ill, Margaret," said Laud, "since I came ashore and
saw your father and brother. It was the very evening of the day you left
home. Had you left one day later, I should have seen you, and, perhaps,
I might have been spared a fever which has reduced me to the verge of
the grave."
"It is so long since I have seen or heard of you, William, that I began
to think you had forgotten me."
"I have never forgotten you, Margaret, and I never shall, till I cease
to remember anything. In storm and tempest, in calm and sunshine; in the
midnight watch, or under the clear blue sky; in danger or in safety, in
health or in sickness; in the hour of boisterous mirth, or in the rough
hammock of the seaman, when the dash of waves and the whistling winds
have swept by me, Margaret, I have always thought of you; but never more
than in those moments of fever and anxiety, when I have been suffering
from the extremes of pain and sickness. Then, Margaret, I remembered
your soothing kindness; and then I bitterly felt your absence. But have
you forgotten and forgiven my rough conduct, when we last met, a long
time ago? I am alone now, and but a poor creature."
"I have not forgotten, William, because I cannot forget; but I have
always forgiven you. Much, much have I suffered on your account; shame,
reproach, and poverty, have visited me through you--loss of kindred,
friends, and companions; but God has enabled me to bear all, with the
hope that I should one day see you an altered man."
"Yes, Margaret, yes; and so you shall. I am altered much--I long to
leave my present line of life and to settle in some place where I never
was known. Captain Bargood has given me his word, that, after one more
voyage, I shall be released, with prize-money sufficient to settle
anywhere I please, and to give me a free passage to that place, be it
where it may."
"I can only say, William, I wish that one voyage was over. I hate your
companions and your employment. I fear to lose you again, William. Oh,
why not get some honest work on land, and let me toil for and with you?"
"Margaret, I am here upon my word of honour to the captain, that I would
go one more run for him. I have been a long trip this last time, across
the Atlantic, and I am promised a different tack the next time. But it
will soon be over, and then I will renounce them all. The captain has
nursed me in his own house, and though a rough fellow and a poor
comforter for a sick man, yet I believe he did his best, and I am bound
to be grateful to him."
"I wish your duty taught you, Will, some better obligation. My heart
misgives me for you; and I can never sanction a day in unlawful
pursuits. I grieve for you. But time steals away, William, and I have
forgotten my own duty. I have not a very kind mistress in my new aunt;
but my duty is obedience. I have to go to shop now, and I fear it will
be closed if I delay any longer. When shall I see you again, William?"
"I fear me, not until this last voyage is over. I hope that will be a
short one. I shall just go into the King's Head, refresh myself, and
start again for the coast by daylight."
"Well, William, you have my prayers and my love, and I hope you may one
day claim my duty. At present, that duty is due to my uncle. So we must
part!--Take care of yourself.--How did you catch that fever?"
"By over-exertion in returning to my boat by Orwell Park, the night I
left your father. We struck across the country, as we heard of our
pursuers, and came to the shore greatly heated with our run. The wind
was fair for us, and I had nothing else to do but to sit still. I
covered myself with a piece of damp sail and fell asleep, and when I
awoke I found myself as stiff as a mast--I could not move a limb. But I
will take care of myself for your sake, Margaret, for the future."
By this time they had just arrived at the vicarage palings, upon their
return, where the angle of the street branched off, and for a moment
they paused to take the farewell salute which faithful lovers ever
appreciate.
They little thought who was near to hear their last parting words, and
to witness that love which they thought no one but themselves beheld.
The farewell was spoken, and Laud departed. Margaret stood a moment,
with affectionate heart and tearful eye, to watch his receding form, and
then, turning round the corner to go to the shop, she encountered the
enraged Mrs. Leader. She could only walk on in passive silence through
the village, whilst her aunt's voice, rising higher and higher as she
approached her own domicile, made the neighbours peep out of their
windows to learn the cause of such a disturbance. At last they arrived
at home, and Mr. Leader, with a thousand exaggerations, was informed of
his niece's atrocious conduct.
She eyed the poor girl with such malignant satisfaction, as if she had
already seen her condemned, by judge, jury, counsel, and all the court.
Poor Margaret! she had not attempted to speak; she felt for her
uncle--she felt for his children--she felt for her lover; but for
herself, nothing. She knew her own heart, and felt keenly the cruelty
and injustice of her aunt's spiteful accusations; but that did not wound
her so much as to see the crestfallen distress of the master of that
cottage, who, but a short time before, never addressed her but in thanks
or praise.
Margaret sighed, looked at her uncle, and briefly explained her
accidental meeting with William Laud.
This only caused Mrs. Leader to break out into a fresh passion. She
abused her husband, abused Margaret, her lover, her father, her brother,
and every one connected with her. The base reflections she heard cast
upon her family roused the poor girl's indignation, and, after telling
the enraged woman a few home truths, expressed her determination to quit
the house.
"I shall leave you now--yes, before another hour is gone. I shall only
kiss the children, pack up my little bundle, and then I take my
departure. Uncle, I have done my duty by you, and I sincerely wish you
happy. I have had nothing of you, and have nothing to leave behind me,
but my humble blessing for yourself and your children. Give me your
hand, uncle; let _us_, at all events, part good friends. You know that I
do not mind the night. A journey to me at this time, under these
circumstances, is no more than a journey would be by day. As to you,
aunt Leader, whether you shake hands with me or not must rest with your
own self. I would not part even with you in malice. Good-bye, aunt
Leader. Good-night!"
Mrs. Leader had heard enough; she had met with a spirit which, when
roused, was equal to her own; and though she looked as if she could have
dashed the poker at the poor girl before her, she dared not stir an
inch: the fury fell back from her seat, and went off in a fit.
Margaret stayed that night, but not another day. The next morning she
set her uncle's breakfast out, saw the children dressed, and sent to the
school, and then went upstairs to pack up her own bundle. Before doing
so, however, the Bible, which had been given her by John Barry,
attracted her attention. It was a small clasped book, and, from being
unable to read it, she had never made any outward parade of her
possession of it. On now seeing it, she mechanically unclasped the book,
and in the first page there lay a L5 bank-note, and in the last page
another of the same value. What a treasure was here! How did her heart
bless the noble generosity of the youth who, at a time when money was of
the greatest value to him, thus sacrificed a great share of his riches
to the welfare of one who could never personally thank him for it!
Margaret had made up her mind, however, to seek a situation for herself
in Ipswich. She remembered the kindness of the worthy surgeon who had
attended her sister in her childhood, and poor John Barry when he was
wounded, and she resolved to seek his aid. With a full heart, she
carefully replaced the notes as she found them, resolving to store them
up against a time of need. And, with more consciousness of independence
than she had ever before felt, she packed up her little bundle, and went
to take leave of her uncle and aunt.
With five shillings, the gift of her uncle, a half-guinea, the gift of
her brother Charles, and a bundle, not a very weighty one, Margaret
Catchpole departed from Brandiston. But, fearing her aunt's displeasure,
and that she would send strange reports to Nacton, and that her own
presence under her father's roof would give some countenance to these
malicious falsehoods, she determined not to return home, but to take the
road to Woodbridge.
At that time, Noller's wagon, from Ipswich to Woodbridge, Wickham
Market, and Framlingham, passed her upon its return; and the driver
asking her if she would like to ride, she gladly accepted the offer.
They arrived at Ipswich about two o'clock in the afternoon. Margaret
determined to seek a place immediately, and for that purpose brushed the
dust off her gown, and made herself as decent as her poor wardrobe would
allow, and arrived at the door of Mr. George Stebbing, under very
different circumstances from those which had formerly brought her to the
same spot.