A CHEERFUL CHANGE
He was a merry, cheerful man, the active surgeon, who lived in the tall,
red-bricked house, in Orwell Place. His practice was good, extending
from the best families in the town and neighbourhood of Ipswich, to that
which is always the most benevolent part of a surgeon's duty, the
dispensing medicine and advice to the poor. George Stebbing was an early
riser, and a very active practitioner; he was skilful and attentive; and
it was truly said of him, that he never neglected a poor patient to
attend a rich one. He had his rounds before breakfast, among his poorer
patients; next his town practice; and his country visits in the
afternoon. He generally contrived to be found at home from nine to ten
o'clock in the morning; and from two to three in the afternoon, always
dining at one.
There was one passion, if it may be so called, which, at certain seasons
of the year, made the doctor break through all his rules and
regulations, and to which he so willingly gave way, as to cause him
serious loss of practice among family patients, who could not make
allowances for his neglect,--namely, a passion for shooting. He was an
excellent shot, delighted in the exercise, and enjoyed it as much in his
old days as he did in his youth. His figure scarcely ever altered
through life. He never grew corpulent, never inactive; but retained his
zest for his gun, with a steady hand, to a good old age.
But for this passion for shooting, the doctor might have secured for
himself a more extensive and lucrative practice. It certainly was a kind
of passport among many great landed proprietors, who liked his shooting
and his society, and for a good day's shooting, come it when it might,
many of his patients were neglected. He was of a very generous nature,
and sometimes felt keenly the reproaches of those whom for the sports of
the field he deserted; and there were times in which his own conscious
neglect made him sorrowful; but it did not cure him of his favourite
propensity. At all other times, he was as regular as a well-cleaned
clock.
Margaret arrived at this gentleman's door, and was shown into the
surgery just as he was preparing to go into the country. The surgery was
a lofty room, though of small dimensions; the window looked down a
neatly paved area, beside the offices of the house; and flower-stands,
filled with geraniums and other green-house plants, stood against the
side of the wall opposite the kitchen. All was neatness within and
without the walls of his house.
She had scarcely been seated in the surgery a minute, before in came the
merry man, with his cheerful smile and ready address. "Well, young
woman, what's the matter with you, eh? What is it? A bad tooth? let us
see--let us see. It can be nothing else. You look the picture of health!
What's the matter?"
"Nothing is the matter, sir," said Margaret, rising and curtsying.
"Then what do you want with the doctor, my girl?"
"I am come to ask you, sir, if you could help me to a place."
"A place!" cried the doctor; "why, whom do you take me for? Did you
think my surgery was a register-office for servants? What have I to do
with places? Who on earth sent you to me?"
"No one sent me, sir; I came of my own accord, because you are the only
person that I know in Ipswich."
"Well, they say a great many more people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool
knows. I don't recollect ever seeing you before. I know not who you are
in the least."
"What, sir! do you not remember when you lifted me off the pony at your
door, ever so many years ago, and called me a brave little girl, and
told me, when you left me at my father's, that if ever I wanted a friend
I should find one in you?"
"What! are you the girl that made the pony go? Can you be Margaret
Catchpole, the heroine of Nacton Turf?"
"I am Margaret, sir; I left my uncle's, at Brandiston, this morning, and
am come to Ipswich in search of a place. I have lost my sister, my
mother, and two brothers, and, knowing no one in Ipswich but you, I
thought, sir, as you promised to help me, you would not be offended at
my asking. I only want to work and live without being burdensome to any
one."
"Well, and what place do you want, my girl?"
"I can do any kind of plain work, sir, from the cow-house to the
nursery."
"Nursery! nursery! do you know anything about the care of children?"
"I am very partial to children, sir, and children are very fond of me;
my uncle had seven little ones, and only me to look after them until he
married again."
"Humph!--Well, go into my kitchen, my girl"--and here the kind-hearted
man opened his door and introduced her to his cook. "Sally, this is the
girl that rode the pony for the doctor, see and take care of her. Where
is your young mistress?" But suddenly turning round as if a thought
struck him he said, "Margaret! Margaret! my girl, stop one moment, I
must know if you have quite recovered from that complaint you had
before you left the Priory Farm?"
"Dear me, sir, I never was ill there."
"Oh! yes, you were, Margaret; if you remember, I had to feel your pulse
and prescribe for you; your heart was very bad?"
"Oh! no, sir, I hope not."
"Let me ask you one question, Margaret--Have you done with the smuggler?
Because, though I should be glad to serve _you_, I should be sorry to
run the risk of introducing bad acquaintances into any respectable
family where I might recommend you."
This was another terrible blow for poor Margaret, and how to answer it
she knew not; she remained silent and abashed, and the worthy surgeon
was touched more by her silence than if she had spoken ever so much; it
told him at once the state of the case.
"Well, well, my girl, I see how it is; but you must not encourage him to
visit you when you are at service. Go! go! I will talk to you another
time."
And Margaret was again an inmate in that kind man's house, who always
was a steady and sincere friend to her throughout her eventful career.
He had at that very time made up his mind to write a note of
recommendation to a lady who lived at the Cliff, upon the banks of the
Orwell; but he delayed it for a day or two, on purpose to hear what
report his own domestic gave of her. And here Margaret remained in the
humblest and purest enjoyment of peace and quietness that she had felt
for many years.
It was a lovely evening in the latter part of the month of May, when the
mackerel-boats were coming up the Orwell, being unable to reach the
mouth of the Nore, that old Colson (better known to the reader as
Robinson Crusoe) rowed his little boat up to the landing-place, close to
the Cliff Brewery, and startled some young children who were watching
the tiny eels playing about those large dark stones which formed the
head of the landing-place. Here a stream of fresh water, gushing from
beneath, formed the outlet of the canal stream which turned the great
wheel in the brewery of John Cobbold, Esq.
The eels from the river, especially the young ones, used to be
incessantly playing about this outlet, striving either to get up into
the fresh water, or else feeding upon the animalculae which came from the
canal, and tried to get back again out of the salt water.
The old man lifted up some small sand-dabs for the children, all alive
and kicking, and gave them to them, with which they soon bounded up the
Cliff steps, and ran joyously to a lady, who, with two gentlemen, sat
sketching under the lime-trees which then fronted the small
dwelling-house adjoining the more lofty buildings of the brewery.
The lady was Mrs. Cobbold, and the two gentlemen were her friends, and
both eminent artists in their day. One had already greatly distinguished
himself as a portrait-painter, and vied with Sir Joshua Reynolds in his
own particular school of painting: this was Gardiner, a distant relative
of the lady. He was a singular old gentleman, in every way a talented
original; his family groups, in half crayon, half water-colour, gained
general admiration; and to this day they stand the test of years, never
losing their peculiar freshness, and remain as spirited as on the first
day they were painted. The other was indeed but a boy, a fine
intelligent lad, with handsome, open countenance, beaming with all the
ardour of a young aspirant for fame: this was John Constable, who was
then sketching the town of Ipswich from the Cliff, and brushing in the
tints of the setting sun, and receiving those early praises from the
lips of that benevolent and talented lady which became a stimulus to his
exertions, before he was raised to the eminence of a first-rate
landscape-painter.
Gardiner delighted in the buoyant group of children, who, with their
flapping fish, came bounding up the Cliff. "Look here! look here! see
what old Robin has given us."
The artist's eyes dilated with glee as he quickly noted down their
jocund faces and merry antics for some future painting. If he had
experienced pleasure in the character of James, Thomas, George,
Elizabeth Ann, and Mary, what a fine master-figure was now added to the
group in the person of old Robin, the fisherman, who, with his basket of
mackerel and soles, stood behind the children in front of the happy
party!
Gardiner's picture of the "Fisherman's Family" was taken from this
group, and it was one which in his mature years gained him much
celebrity.
"Well, Robin, what fish have you got?" said the lady, "and how do the
witches treat you?"
"As to the first, madam, here are mackerel and soles; as to the latter,
they treat me scurvily!"
"What's that? what's that?" said Gardiner; "what's all that about the
witches?"
Old Colson looked at him a minute, and partly believed he was a brother
sufferer; for Gardiner never was what the world has since denominated a
dandy, he was never even a beau; he was careless in his dress, and very
abrupt in his address,--extremely clever and extremely eccentric.
"Why, this is it," said the old fisherman, "if the foul fiend treats you
as he does me, he makes us both such hideous objects that nobody can
bear to look at us."
There was no little colour in the artist's face at this moment: he had
met with a light and shade, an odd mixture upon his palette not easily
defined, and he looked himself rather vacant upon the fisherman.
"I see how it is," said Robin; "they have been at work upon you, and
have put your robes out of order; but give them a blast of this ram's
horn, and you will soon get rid of them."
Here the old man presented a ram's horn to the astonished artist.
"What does the man mean, Mrs. Cobbold? what does the man mean?"
This was rather a delicate point to answer; but the little shrewd Mary,
who perfectly well knew what the old man meant, said at once with the
most perfect innocence--
"Oh, Mr. Gardiner! Robin means that you look so dirty and shabby that
you must be bewitched."
At this moment a servant brought a note to the lady, which, on opening,
she read as follows:--
"MY DEAR MADAM,
"You mentioned to me some time since that you wanted a good strong
girl who could assist in the double capacity of a laundress and a
nursery-maid; the bearer of this is Margaret Catchpole, whom I have
known from her infancy. My cook tells me she is very quick at
learning, and very handy at any work that may be required of her;
she also states herself to be very fond of children. She lived
servant-of-all-work at the Priory Farm, and has since kept her
uncle's house, where she has had the care of seven young children.
Mr. Notcutt, who knew her when she lived at service at Bealings,
speaks highly of her character. I think you will find her a very
useful servant; and if you have not engaged one, I really think you
will be satisfied with this young woman. Wishing that such may be
the case, believe me to remain, my dear madam, yours faithfully,
"GEORGE STEBBING.
"Orwell Place,
"May 25th, 1793."
As Mrs. Cobbold opened the note, the artists retired; and she told the
footman to send the young woman round to the front of the house, and she
would speak to her there. She then kindly addressed the old fisherman:--
"I wish, Robin, I could find a charm which would drive all these fiends
away from you at once, that you might become a believer in a more
blessed agency than in such unhappy beings."
"Ah! bless you, lady! bless you! If your wish could but be gratified, I
should soon be at liberty; but it will never be so: they have taken up
their abode with me, and as long as they can torment me, they will. I
knew last night that there would be a storm, and, sure enough, there was
one; but my old barque rode it out, though many a tighter craft went to
the bottom. My foes, though they love to punish my flesh, will not let
me perish."
"That is but a vain hope, Robin, which will one day deceive you: you
trust too much in your crazy barque, and to a no less crazy imagination;
and, when too late, you will own your self-delusion."
His benefactress could not succeed in arguing him out of his belief, and
had just told him to leave the fish at the back-door, as Margaret made
her appearance before her future mistress.
She started back when she beheld Robin, and again thought that some evil
genius had determined to oppose her wherever she went.
"Ah! is that you, Peggy? It's many a long day since I've seen you. Have
the fiends played you any more tricks?"
Margaret made her curtsy to the lady, but dared not reply to the
salutation of the old fisherman, lest he should betray the secret of her
heart. She was evidently confused.
"You need not be so proud either, young woman, as to forget a friend;
but you are like the rest of the world:--'Those whom we first serve are
the first to forget us.' Now, to my mind, you're a fit match for Will
Laud, and he's about as ungracious a chap as any I know."
The tear started into Margaret's eye, and she could not utter a word. In
the accents of kindness, however, the lady addressed the trembling girl.
"You must not mind all the wanderings of old Robin, you will be better
acquainted with him hereafter."
"And so will you, ma'am, with her before long. The foul fiend has long
dwelt with her and hers, and you'll soon find that out. I've known her
almost as long as I've known you, ma'am; and if she's a-coming to your
service, why, all I can say is, there will be pretty pranks a-going on
in your house."
Here the poor girl could refrain no longer from tears; she sobbed as if
her heart would break, and the scene more than commonly interested the
benevolent lady.
"What has Robin known of you, young woman, that he should speak so
harshly against you? How have you offended him?"
"I never offended him, ma'am--never that I know of! He was very kind to
me, and once, ma'am--once----" and here Margaret paused, and could not
finish her sentence.
Robin now quickly saw he was mistaken, and going close up to the girl,
he said,--
"I ask your pardon, Peggy! I thought you were proud--I see how it is! I
see how it is!--Forgive me! forgive me, ma'am! She's a good girl; aye,
she's a clever girl! I thought she was a bit proud, so the fiend made me
bark at her, that's all;" and, making his bow, he went with his basket
of fish to the back-door.
The lady evidently saw there was a mystery; but, well knowing the sudden
changes of the bewildered mind of the fisherman, although she always
found a shadow of truth about all his ravings, she placed no faith in
any of his prognostications. She did not again question Margaret upon
that subject, but spoke to her about her duties. She found her fully
sensible of what she might have to do, and quite ready to undertake the
place. She agreed to give her, progressively improving wages, and told
her that as Mr. Stebbing had given her a recommendation, she should try
her. Mrs. Cobbold desired her to come on the morrow, and wished her
good-evening.
The next day saw Margaret an inmate of that family where her name will
never be forgotten; where she spent so many days of real, uninterrupted
happiness; where she became respected by her mistress and family, and
was a very great favourite with all her fellow-servants. Margaret came
to her new place with a good character; with youth, health, hope, and a
willing mind for work. By the advice of the doctor's old servant, she
came (by means of John Barry's generous gift) with every article clean,
new, and decent, and had the sum of six pounds left for a nest-egg.