THE RECONCILIATION
Whether it was that Margaret's fame had reached the village of
Brandiston, or that Mrs. Leader repented most bitterly the loss of her
assistance, or that her rents of the land and cottages began to be in
arrear and to fall off, and she herself found that poverty crept in upon
her, certain it was that something sufficiently powerful in its nature
prompted her to speak kindly to Margaret, whom she accidentally met that
very day as she was going across the Green towards Christ Church Park.
She had arrived at Ipswich with her husband, and was passing over the
Green just as Margaret with the children, all wrapped up in cloaks and
muffs, were going to see the skaters on the Round Pond in the Park.
The meeting was much more cordial than could have been expected; but
Mrs. Leader was a changed woman. After the interchange of mutual
civilities, Margaret said that she should be home by four o'clock, and
if her uncle and aunt would call, she knew that her mistress would have
no objection to their coming into the house. Mrs. Leader even shook
hands with her, and promised to pay her a visit.
What a wonderful change! thought Margaret, as she hastened on with the
little ones to overtake two or three of the impatient party, who were
looking behind from the Park-gate.
The Park at Ipswich is a beautiful place in summer: twice a week were
its gates thrown open by the liberal proprietor of the domain to the
inhabitants of the town, who rambled along the shady chestnut walk to
its utmost bound. Many were the happy walks that infancy, delighting in
the sunny flowers of the mead, took in that lovely place; and many the
more tender and animating rambles which fond hearts and faithful lovers
in the days of youth enjoyed. Parents and their children breaking away
from the cares of business, delighted to stroll in holiday attire, and
repose themselves beneath the branches of those stately trees which
everywhere adorned the Park. There they heard the first notes of the
cuckoo; there they watched the green and spotted woodpecker; observed
the busy rooks; heard the nightingales, the thrushes, and the doves, and
spoke of all the innocent pleasures of nature.
The spotted fallow deer crossed their path in a long line of rapid
flight, and assembled in a herd in the valley; the pheasant and the
partridge roamed about in pride and beauty; whilst the hare and the
rabbit, familiarized to the sound of children's voices, lifted up their
long ears, or stood up upon their hind legs to gaze upon them as they
passed.
In the winter, the stragglers in the Park were comparatively few,
excepting at that period when the pond was frozen over, and became the
fashionable resort for company to view the skaters; thither the young
party whom Margaret had the care of resorted, to see the dexterous
movements of Counsellor Green, or some of his majesty's officers from
the barracks. The company that day was numerous, and the scene such as
would delight thousands, even were it in the gay metropolis; it would
have induced many of the fashionables to leave the warm, soft cushions
by the fireside, and to wrap themselves in furs, and to put on their
snow-shoes, and to enjoy the healthy, though frosty, air of Christmas.
Many in the busy town of Ipswich left their labours and their cares for
a few hours' recreation; fair ladies ventured to lean upon a brother's
or a lover's arm and try the slippery ice; sledges, too, were in
requisition.
Though the skating was good, and all the young people enjoyed it,
Margaret's thoughts were upon her uncle and aunt, and she was the first
to remind her young people that the old Christ Church clock had struck
four.
Home they went, gratified and satisfied, talking of the frightful cracks
and heavy falls, and well-contested races, which they had mightily
enjoyed; when they came into the house they gave a lively account of all
they had seen.
With Mrs. Cobbold's permission, Mr. and Mrs. Leader were invited to take
tea in the housekeeper's room, and Margaret was allowed to have a long
talk with them.
She found her uncle much more chatty than her aunt, for sorrow and
coming poverty had cast their shadows before Mrs. Leader, and
wonderfully softened the asperity of her former purse-proud disposition;
she let her husband speak of all the family troubles, and did not once
interrupt him. Margaret soon learned that all their property was
mortgaged, and for its full value. She learned that the children were
barefoot, and neglected; that it would require steady management indeed
ever to bring them again into a prosperous or a comfortable state; she
felt for them all, and not only felt, but did all she could to
ameliorate their condition. She offered advice, which was taken in good
part by the now crestfallen aunt.
A strange effect had that comfortable reception in the housekeeper's
room upon the nerves and manners of Mrs. Leader, she looked up to
Margaret as if she was a person of considerable consequence in that
family; she asked Margaret if she might also see the children; nothing
could have given Margaret greater pleasure.
All in the nursery were delighted to see a visitor; and Mrs. Leader very
soon discovered that where management, cleanliness, and strict attention
are paid there will grow up order, regularity, and comfort; she stayed
some minutes with the happy family. As she returned to the housekeeper's
room, she sighed when she said to Margaret--
"I now wish I had never provoked you to leave us! I did not like to own
it, but, very soon after you were gone, I felt your loss; I hope you
will be able to come and see us in the summer, and should you ever be
tired of service, and wish for a home, you will find us very altered in
our manner to you, and more grateful for your services."
Margaret could forgive all that her aunt had ever said or done to her;
she felt so happy in having been reconciled to her, that she could not
refrain from telling her so. She gave a portion of her wages for the
schooling of the children, and thanked her uncle and aunt for their kind
invitation. She even hinted that the time might come when her hopes of
settling in Brandiston might be realized, should Laud obtain his
discharge; in short, she promised to see them in summer, as she had no
doubt that she could obtain leave from her kind mistress.
The day was gone, and the moon was high, and the sky was clear, and the
happy Margaret would have had them stay all night. She had received a
message to the effect that the pony might be put in the stable, and that
her uncle and aunt might sleep in the house; they prudently declined,
lest a deep snow might fall and prevent their reaching home; so off they
went, happier than they had been any day since their affectionate niece
left them, and this happiness arose from the reconciliation.
It was a lucky thing for Mr. and Mrs. Leader that they went home as they
did that very night, for not long after their arrival home began that
severe winter and deep snow which formed one of the most remarkable
features in the history of the climate of England.
It would be foreign to the present narrative to dwell upon the events of
that particular season, further than to refer to the great exertions
made by persons of all ranks and conditions, above actual distress, to
support the famishing poor. Houses were established in different parts
of the town of Ipswich for the public distribution of soup, coals, and
blankets, and various families agreed to furnish supplies for the
various days of the week.
Margaret was now as busy in the kitchen as she had been in the nursery,
for at this time the cook of the family returned home ill, and no one
else could be found so apt as Margaret to supply her place.
It was at this memorable season that her aptitude for this situation was
discovered, which led to such a change in her condition, as future pages
will record. A servant was soon found for the nursery, who supplied her
place, and she became the active cook of the family. In such a large
domestic establishment as that of Mr. Cobbold, the cook was a person of
the utmost consequence; and although there was a regular housekeeper who
acted as an intervening link between the parlour and the kitchen, yet
Mrs. Cobbold was by no means so unacquainted with the proceedings of her
house, as to be found negligent of a due supervision over every
department.
In the new place Margaret had undertaken at the earnest request of her
mistress, her active powers of benevolence were now called into
existence. The feeling manner in which she represented to her
fellow-servants the destitution of thousands around them, and the great
sin there was in the least waste; the strong necessity now became a duty
in every one to deny themselves some portion of their daily bread, that
those who were starving might have a share; made a powerful impression
upon the domestics of that establishment. At this time, though a greater
allowance was made on account of the provisions given away by this
affluent family, yet such was the economy in the kitchen, and the
honest, self-satisfactory privation exercised by the whole house, that
not the least waste was made, and the accustomed expenditure was very
little increased. The poor, however, were bountifully supplied, and
Margaret's name was as justly praised below stairs, as, in past days, it
had been above. Little did she think that her activity, economy, and
management, which a sense of duty and charity had called into action,
would fix her in the kitchen at such an increase of wages, as,
comparatively, seemed to her like coming into a little fortune. She had
now become the head of all the domestics, from having been the servant
of all. She had an increase of toil, but she had a help under her. There
was dinner for the nursery, dinner for the kitchen, dinner for the
parlour, and that which is now almost obsolete, a hot supper for all the
house. But what is work to one who is strong and willing, and ready and
desirous of giving satisfaction?
Time, fully occupied, passes on rapidly, and Margaret was now looked
upon with respect by the whole house. What a pity that that respect
should ever have been blighted, or that any circumstances should have
interfered with that peaceful enjoyment which she seemed at this time to
experience, and which in after years she never forgot! In leaving the
nursery, she left that frequent intercourse with her mistress, and
consequently that continued mental improvement which she had gradually
imbibed. She was not now under her immediate eye; she seldom heard that
sweet voice of approbation, pleasing beyond all expression from such a
mistress.
It was one of those singular coincidences which happened in her eventful
life, that on the celebrated 1st of June, 1794, her lover, William Laud,
distinguished himself in Lord Howe's victory over the French, and was
one of the seamen appointed to bring home a splendid prize to
Portsmouth; and that Margaret herself, on the very same day,
distinguished herself in an aquatic feat, which would have been no
disgrace to a British seaman to have performed, and which exhibited a
degree of courage and presence of mind, truly wonderful in a female.
In the garden belonging to the mansion at St. Margaret's Green was a
very deep pond, with turfed sides, which were sloping and steep, so that
the gardener had to descend to the water by a flight of six steps.
Formerly it had been a handsome square pond, with edges neatly kept, and
surrounded by alpine strawberry-beds. At the period of this tale, one
side opened into the adjoining meadow, and half of that extensive garden
was laid down to grass. To this day, the two stately weeping willows
may be seen dipping their pensile edges into the pond, though time has
lopped off many an arm, and somewhat curtailed them of their beauty. At
that time, when Margaret was cook at St. Margaret's Green, these trees
were the ornaments of the exterior of the town, and to have made a
sketch from the hill, on the Woodbridge Road, without including them,
would have been to have robbed the town of Ipswich of one of its most
prominent and pleasing features of landscape beauty. They were very
lofty, though pendent, and in the month of June, might be justly styled
magnificent. Hundreds of their boughs kissed the water with their thin,
taper points. The girl who had the care of the children had been often
warned not to go near the edge of the road.
On this 1st of June, 1794, Margaret had entered the garden to gather
some herbs, and had scarcely closed the gate before she heard a sudden
shriek of distress. The voices of the children struck upon her, from the
centre of the garden. She ran down the path, and there she saw the whole
group standing and screaming at the edge of the pond, and the nursemaid
completely at her wits' end with fright. Master Henry had been running
away from his sisters, who were pursuing him down the path, and having
turned his head round to look at them, he did not perceive his danger.
His foot caught the edge of the grass border which surrounded the pond,
and he was precipitated head-foremost into the deepest part of it. In a
moment he was seen plunging and screaming for help, but all his efforts
only tended to carry him still further towards the middle of the pond:
he must inevitably have been drowned, had not Margaret at that moment
providentially entered the garden.
Margaret's astonishing presence of mind enabled her to resolve in an
instant what it was best to do, and her heroic courage caused her not to
shrink from doing it; she ordered the nurserymaid to run with all speed
to the stables for a ladder and rope, and then creeping along the
strongest arm of the weeping willow that spread itself over the centre
of the pond, and going as far as she could towards the child, she
grasped a handful of those pendent branches which dipped themselves into
the water, and swinging herself by her right arm, into the pond, and
stretching out her left to the utmost, she seized the child by the
collar of his little jacket, and held him above the water until the
assistance she sent for arrived.
It required both nerve and presence of mind, as well as bodily strength
to support herself in this position only for a few minutes. She
gradually drew the child nearer to her, and though in great danger
herself, her first words to him were, "Don't be afraid, Master Henry; I
have got you! Keep still! keep still! don't struggle!"
The gardener and the coachman had by this time arrived with the ladder
and a rope, they let it down from the arm of the tree, resting the upper
stave just against its branches. The gardener descended a few steps, and
Margaret gave him the child, whilst she herself remained with the boughs
in her hand, until the boy was safe. She then requested them to throw
her the rope, that she might leave go of the willow and be drawn to the
side of the pond. She put the rope round her waist and took hold of it,
doubled, with both hands, and in this way was dragged through the water
to the bank.
Thus was Margaret Catchpole, for the third time, the providential
instrument in preserving the life of a member of Mr. Cobbold's family.
It will not, then, be a matter of surprise, that the records of her life
should have been so strictly preserved among them. If there had been any
former coolness or misunderstanding between her and any of the domestics
of the family, this event completely reconciled all differences. It was
felt by one and all, that a woman who could risk her life to save
another's, in this manner, was worthy of their united respect. She was,
at this time, at the very summit of her reputation. A few days more
brought the news of that celebrated victory over the French fleet,
which added so much to the naval glory of Old England. In that victory
more than one Ipswich man partook, and returned to speak of the
engagement. One poor fellow, in particular, was sent home, desperately
wounded, who, for many years, became an object of respect, as well as
charitable attention, to many families in the town and neighbourhood.
This was poor old Jack, whose friends kept the Salutation public-house,
in Carr Street, who always went by the name of "What Cheer?" When he
first returned to his aunt, the landlady of the house, he had his senses
perfect, and could speak of the engagement with such clearness and
precision as delighted the seamen who frequented the house. He was on
board the same ship as Will Laud, and on the 1st of June they fought
side by side.
Margaret heard of this, and used to go down to the public-house in
question, to hear from Jack all she could of one who was as dear to her
as her own life. He was desired by Laud to tell Margaret that he was
coming home with plenty of prize-money as soon as he could obtain his
discharge. It was this which gave her spirit such joy, and made her so
anxious to hear all she could of the battle; and, of course, of that
part which her lover took in it. Poor Jack's intellects, however, from
the severity of his wounds, and consequent attack of fever, became
irretrievably impaired; and though he recovered his health, and became a
constant visitor at St. Margaret's Green, yet he never could afterwards
give any connected account of the battle.