THE ALTERATION
We left our heroine, in the last chapter, esteemed of every one who knew
her, and looking forward to what was to her the height of human
felicity--the reformation and return of her sailor-lover. No less true
than strange is the fact, that when we reach the highest pinnacle of
this world's happiness, some giddiness of the head is apt to make us
fall. So, at all events, it proved with the female who gives a title to
this book. It became matter of deep concern to every member of Mr.
Cobbold's family, to behold in her an alteration which no previous
circumstances in her life had prepared them for. There was nothing in
reason, and consistent with their own happiness, that her grateful
master and mistress would not have granted her. Any situation she wished
to attain, either for herself or for her friends, would have commanded
every exertion they could have made in her favour. She stood so high in
their opinion, and in every one's else who knew her, that it scarcely
seemed possible for her to forfeit it. Apparently she had nothing to
complain of; no cause for dissatisfaction; no inducement whatever to
alter her disposition. Yet an alteration did take place, and one which
became evident to every one.
Where the heart is unsettled, things seldom go on well. There wants that
peace and security which can alone make the discharge of our daily
duties a daily pleasure. Margaret's early impressions of religion had
been of a very desultory kind, and here was the root of all the evil
that afterwards befell her. The want of fixed religious principles early
instilled into the young mind has caused many a good disposition to
give way to those changes and chances which happen in life, and to
create an alteration even in the brightest prospects. In the earliest
days of this child of nature, an innate humanity of disposition had been
cultivated and increased by her attendance on a sick and afflicted
sister and an aged mother, both of whom had constantly required her aid.
Her natural qualities were, as the reader has seen, up to this moment of
the noblest cast. Still, in the absence of any strong religious
sentiment, the best dispositions are at the mercy of violent passions,
and are subject to the most dangerous caprices. The reader must have
observed that, in the midst of all her good qualities, Margaret
Catchpole evinced a pertinacity of attachment to the object of her
affections, even in his most unworthy days--an attachment which no
circumstances whatever, not even the warning of her sister's death-bed,
could shake. She had built upon a vague hope of Laud's alteration of
life, and his settlement in some quiet occupation. She had been
accustomed to very great disappointments and vexations; and, with a
spirit above her years, she had borne them all, and had shown an energy
of mind and activity worthy of better things. How weak are all qualities
without the support of religion! At a time when promises seemed most
fair, when an unexpected reconciliation had taken place with her uncle
and aunt Leader, when Laud's return was daily expected, and all the
favours of a generous family were heaped upon her for her good
conduct,--at such a time an alteration of her disposition took place,
which embittered her existence for many years. She became peevish and
irritable, discontented and unhappy, moody and melancholy. She thanked
nobody for assistance, asked nothing of any one, and gave no reason to
any of her fellow-servants for this sudden alteration. Such would not
have been the case, had religion taught her, as it now does many in her
station of life, how to feel supported in prosperity as well as in
adversity. It is a trite saying, that "we seldom know when we are well
off." We are not content to "let well alone;" but too often foolishly
speculate upon the future, and fall into some present snare.
Nothing had been heard of or from Laud, except that a sailor, who had
served with him in the glorious battle of the 1st of June, had visited
the town, and told Margaret that Laud was appointed to come home in one
of the prizes taken by Lord Howe; and that, probably, he was then at
Portsmouth, waiting until he should receive his prize-money and his
discharge. Margaret occasionally stole down in the evening to the
Salutation public-house, where the sailor was staying, to speak with
him, and to hear the naval news. She was here occasionally seen by other
sailors, who frequented the house, and learned where she lived. They
understood the bearings of her history, and some of them used to
fabricate tales on purpose to get an introduction into the kitchen at
St. Margaret's Green, where they were sure to be welcomed and well
treated by Margaret. She was, at this time, very anxious to hear tidings
of her lover, and day after day exhibited symptoms of restlessness,
which could not long be passed by without notice. The frequency of
sailors' visits to the kitchen began to be rumoured through the house,
and stories injurious to the reputations of the inmates were circulated
in the neighbourhood. Moreover, the housekeeper missed various articles;
and meat, and bread, and stores, began to be unaccountably diminished.
Inquiries were instituted, and it was found that Margaret had certainly
given such and such things to sailors; and without doubt, some things
were stolen.
Under these circumstances, it became high time for the mistress of the
house to take notice of these things; and, in as gentle a manner as the
circumstances of the case would permit, she spoke to Margaret alone on
the subject. She regretted to hear from all quarters the alteration
which had taken place in her manner. She spoke to her most feelingly
upon the result of such a change, and with great kindness contrasted
the pleasure of the past with the sorrow which her late conduct
occasioned.
"I cannot," she added, "permit sailors of every kind to be incessantly
coming to the house at all hours with pretended news of Laud, and so
deceiving you by playing upon your disposition, and then robbing you and
the house. Reports of a very unpleasant nature have reached my ears
injurious to your character and that of my establishment. I cannot
submit to these things; and, though I most sincerely regard you,
Margaret, yet I must make you sensible of the danger you incur by
listening to the artful tales of these men. I strongly recommend you to
have nothing to do with them. Your own character is of much more
consequence to you than their nonsensical stories. If you wish it, I
will write for you to Portsmouth to make inquiries about Laud; and,
rather than you should be in doubt and affliction, and in any
uncertainty about him, I am sure that your master will send a
trustworthy person to search him out and ascertain the cause of his
detention.
"Let me see you henceforth what you used to be--cheerful and contented,
thankful and happy, and not over-anxious about matters which in the end
will all probably come right. You have my entire forgiveness of the
past, even though you do not ask it; but let me not be imposed upon for
the future. Go, Margaret, go; and let me hear no more of these
complaints."
Margaret heard all that her mistress said in perfect silence. She
neither defended herself, nor yet thanked her mistress, as she used to
do. She seemed sullen and indifferent. She left the presence of that
kind lady and most sincere friend with scarce a curtsy, and with such a
pale, downcast countenance, as deeply distressed her benefactress. Then
was it the painful reflection occurred, that her servant's religious
principles had been neglected; that her duty as a servant had been done
from no higher motive than that of pleasing man; and that when she had
failed to do so, and received a rebuke, her spirit would not bear it.
These reflections pressed themselves upon the kind lady's mind, and she
resolved to do her best to correct for the future that which appeared so
deficient.
Margaret returned to the kitchen unaltered, saving in feature; she was
silent, pale, and restless. She did her work mechanically, but something
appeared to be working upon her in a very strange way. She could not sit
still a moment. Sometimes she put down her work, and sat looking at the
fire, as if she was counting the coals upon it. At one time she would
rise and appear to go in search of something, without knowing what she
went for. At another time she would bite her lips and mutter something,
as if she were resolute and determined upon some point which she did not
reveal. Her fellow-servants did not lay anything to her, and took as
little notice as her strange manner would permit. They all considered
that something very unpleasant had occurred between herself and her
mistress. Some surmised that warning had been given; others that she
would leave of her own accord; but all felt sorry that one who had been
so highly esteemed should now be so perverse.
One evening, in the midst of these domestic arrangements of the kitchen,
when all the servants were assembled, a knock was heard at the
back-kitchen door; the girl who opened it immediately called out,
"Another sailor wants to see you, Margaret!"
Without rising from her seat, as she was accustomed to do with alacrity
upon such occasions, Margaret petulantly and passionately replied, loud
enough for the sailor to hear her through the door of the kitchen, which
now stood open, "Tell the fellow to go about his business! I have
nothing to do with, or to say to, any more sailors. Tell him to be off!"
The sailor stepped one step forward, and pitched a canvas bag in at the
kitchen-door, which fell with a loud chink upon the bricks. He had heard
the words of Margaret, and was off in a moment.
The reader will doubtless surmise that this was none other than Will
Laud. He it was who, at this unfortunate moment, returned, with all his
prize-money, on purpose to give it to Margaret, for whom he had kept it,
intending to purchase a shop at Brandiston, or one of the neighbouring
villages, where she might like to live. The bag had a label, directed
"To Margaret Catchpole,
John Cobbold's, Esq.,
Cliff, Ipswich."
Had this unfortunate girl been in a different mood, she might have
recognized the voice, as she once did on that memorable night when Mr.
William's life was saved. She heard the rap, and the inquiry for her;
but knowing her mistress's commands, and believing the visitor to be one
of those whom she had styled impostors and thieves, she had, with
considerable energy and irritability, spoken those cutting words, which
sent him away in despair.
What agony now struck upon the heart of Margaret! She started at the
sound of the bag as it fell at her feet; she looked bewildered for one
moment; the truth burst upon her, and she rushed out of the house with
such a wild shriek as pierced the heart of every one who heard it. She
ran into the street. The night was growing dark; but, on the opposite
side of the green, against the garden pales, she saw a sailor standing
and looking at the house. She ran to him, seized his arm, and exclaimed,
"Laud, is it you?"
He replied, "Yes--hush!"
"Come in, then; come into the house; I am sure you may come in."
The sailor walked on, with Margaret by his side. He did not speak. This
Margaret naturally attributed to her late repulsive words, and she now
said, soothingly, by way of apologizing for her harshness--
"I did not intend to send you away. I have lately had several sailors to
speak to me about you, and I was only too glad to hear them; but my
mistress gave orders to me this day not to have anything more to do with
them. I am sure she did not mean to send you away--neither did I intend
it. Come back, come back!"
"Come on, come on!" said the sailor, in as soft accents as he could.
And, by this time, they had approached the old granary wall, at the back
of the park stables. Opposite to these stables was a cow-keeper's yard,
with the dwelling inside the gates. The gates stood open: they might
rather be termed folding-doors, for, when shut, no one could see through
any part but the keyhole. The sailor turned in here with Margaret, as if
he knew the premises, and immediately closed the gates. A light glanced
from a window in the cottage, and fell upon the sailor's face. In an
instant Margaret recognized the hated features of John Luff.
The poor girl was paralysed; she was completely in the tiger's claws;
she could not speak, her heart so swelled with agony. She thought of
this monster's cruelty, and believed him to be capable of any desperate
deed. She recovered sufficient presence of mind, however, to be resolved
to grapple with him, should he have any evil purpose in view. She
retreated a few steps toward the gates. He suspected by this that she
had discovered who he was, and he threw off the mask in a moment.
"You know who I am, I see; and I know you. I do not want to harm you;
but I want to know something from you, which, if you tell me truly, you
shall receive no injury; but, if you do not tell me, I tell you plainly
that, as you are now in my power, so you shall never escape me. You
spoke just now of Will Laud. Now, no tacking about; bear up at once, and
come to the point. Tell me where he can be found."
"I do not know," replied Margaret.
"No lies, girl! You do know. You were expecting him from Portsmouth this
very night. I knew he was coming home with his prize-money; so did you.
I don't want his money, but I want him. I have sworn to take him, dead
or alive, and have him I will. You have seen him: I have not. Now tell
me where he is, and I will let you go; but if you tell me not, down you
shall go headlong into the well at the bottom of this yard!"
The truth burst upon the poor girl's mind, that this fellow was watching
Laud to murder him. She was now convinced that it was Laud who came to
the back-kitchen door, and that he must have gone over the garden
palings towards the Woodbridge Road, instead of going into the street.
With a woman's heart beating high at the danger of her lover, she
inwardly rejoiced, even at this dreadful moment, that her sudden words
had perhaps saved Laud's life. She forgot her own loss, and her spirit
rose to reply firmly and boldly to the cowardly rascal who threatened
her--
"I do not know where Laud is. I wish I did; and I would let him know
that such a villain as you are ought to be hanged."
The monster seized her, gagged her mouth with a tow-knot, and tried to
pull her away from the gate. She had seized hold of the long iron bar,
which was fastened to a low post, and fitted into a staple on the door.
She thought she heard voices outside the gates, speaking of her. Just as
the villain lifted her from the ground to fulfil his determined purpose,
she swung the iron against the door with such force, that the servants
outside were convinced something was wrong. They called, but received no
answer. They heard footsteps receding from the door, and called to
Smith, the cowkeeper, to know what was the matter. They did not receive
any immediate answer, but a light streamed under the door, and in
another moment they heard a scuffle, and Smith's voice calling for help.
With their united force they burst the gates open, and ran down the
yard. The candle was burning on the ground, and Smith prostrate beside
it. In a moment after, they heard the bucket of the well descending with
rapidity, and then a sudden splash, as if a heavy body had reached the
bottom of it.
Smith recovered quickly from his fall, and declared he saw a
sailor-looking man, carrying a female in his arms, and he firmly
believed that she was thrown down the well. He got his lantern, and
directed the men to take down the long church ladder, which was hung up
under the roof of the cowhouse, and bring it after him. The ladder was
put down the well, and Smith descended with his lantern, and called out
that there was a woman in the well.
"Unhank the bucket: tie the rope round her body, and ease her up the
ladder; we can help you to get her out so."
This was done: and when she was drawn up, the servants recognized the
features of Margaret Catchpole.
Smith was quite sure the man he saw was in sailor's dress. It was a
providential circumstance that the very act of gagging had prevented the
water getting to her lungs, and so saved her from drowning. She breathed
hard, and harder still when the gag was removed, and was very black in
the face. She had received a severe blow on the head from her fall
against the bucket, the iron of which had caught her gown, and was the
cause of its descending with her to the water. She might have had a
severer blow against the sides of the well but for this circumstance.
She was quite insensible, and in this state was carried home, where she
was laid between warm blankets, and the doctor sent for. She was quickly
bled, and was soon restored to conscious animation.
As she revived, she refused to communicate anything on the subject of
the disaster; and it was thought best, at that time, not to say much to
her about it. Conjectures were much raised, and the matter was much
talked over. The bag, which was opened by her master, was found to
contain one hundred and thirty guineas in gold and silver coin. Mr.
Cobbold took charge of it, and sealed it with his own seal. From all
that could be learned, it seemed that a sailor, whom all now conjectured
to be Laud, had thrown the money in at the door, and Margaret had
rushed out after him; that she had overtaken him; and that some violent
altercation had taken place between them, which had led to this most
extraordinary act. The whole affair seemed to be fraught with reckless
desperation. Could anything be more so than to throw such a sum of money
at a person's foot, and then to throw that person down a well? Why do
such a deed? Was he jealous? Had he heard of the many sailors who had
lately made Margaret's acquaintance? It might be, thought some, that he
had suddenly returned, and hearing of her conduct, had put the worst
construction upon it; and, in a desperate state, had been foolishly
generous, but too fatally jealous to hear any explanation. These ideas
passed through the minds of more than one of the family.
Margaret slowly recovered from the fever which had settled in her frame,
and greatly reduced it. She kept her bed for several weeks; she kept her
tongue, too, as still and as free from communication with any one as she
possibly could under the circumstances. She did not say anything of her
own accord, even to her anxious and beloved mistress.
It was soon circulated about that an atrocious attempt at murder had
been made in the parish of St. Margaret's, and the authorities of the
town took it up, and made inquiries into the matter. Understanding that
the young female was in too weak a state to have her deposition taken,
they did not visit her, but a reward was offered for the apprehension of
the man, and his person was described by the cowkeeper.
There was but one person to whom Margaret opened her lips willingly upon
the subject, and that was her old friend and medical attendant, Mr.
Stebbing. He learned from her, that it was not Laud that had thrown her
down the well, but a fellow named Luff, one of his former evil
companions. She told the doctor her belief that Laud was the person who
had unintentionally been driven away by her on that unfortunate night;
"And I fear," she added, "that he will be induced by my seeming
harshness to return to his old courses. He will never forgive me--I know
he never will! Oh, that I could have had one word with him! If I could
but get well, I would try and find him. Oh, doctor, I am so anxious to
get well! Pray, help me!"
"This is the plain reason, my girl, why you are so slow in recovering. I
knew you had something upon your mind that you kept back; and now that
you have told me thus much, let me speak to you in my own way. I tell
you honestly, Margaret, I never should think a man worth having who took
himself off in that kind of way. If, as you say, you refused to see a
sailor who did not give his name, the man ought to have been pleased,
rather than displeased, if he really loved you. If he was not a fool, he
would naturally think it would be the very first thing a girl with any
proper feeling would say. Take my word, Margaret, and I am somewhat more
experienced than you are, that if Laud is worth your having, he will
soon be here again. But don't you think of running after him. If he
comes back in a few days, well; but if not, I wish I might be able to
persuade you not to think of him at all. What could induce Luff to
attempt to murder you?"
"He threatened, that unless I told him where Laud was, he would throw me
down the well. I imagine that Laud having escaped from the gang of
smugglers, this villain was sworn either to be revenged upon him for
some quarrel, or else he had promised Captain Bargood, his employer, to
bring him back again. I was determined not to tell him that Laud had
been to the house, and the fellow took this desperate revenge on me.
But, thank God, his purpose is frustrated! You know Laud, doctor, as
well as I do. I can conceive that my speech took him so completely by
surprise, that, after he had been saving up all his money for me, and
had been congratulating his mind upon my joy at his change, my words
must have cut him to the quick, and have driven him away in
desperation."
"I wish I could think so, Margaret; but my idea is, that if he had been
the altered man you picture him, he would never have conducted himself
in that way. I tell you plainly, that I should be much more apt to think
he liked somebody else better than you; and that he threw down the money
merely because his conscience told him he had wronged you; and made him
feel that he ought to make you some recompense. If he does not come back
in a few days, I shall be confirmed in this opinion."
The poor girl had never looked at the matter in this light. She felt a
strange sensation creeping over her mind, and, in the weak state she
then was in, she had a superstitious dread of her sister's last
words--"Margaret, you will never marry William Laud." The words seemed
to tingle in her ears, and to come, at this moment, with redoubled
force; she shook her head, sighed, and thanked the doctor for his good
advice.
"I shall explain these matters to your mistress, Margaret," said Mr.
Stebbing. "It will remove all erroneous ideas, and may spare you some
pain and trouble. You must rouse yourself; the magistrates are daily
asking me about you; I have told them that you have too virulent a fever
upon you at present to make it safe for them to see you; and, depend
upon it, they will not be over-anxious to run any risk."
"Pray, sir, could not you take down what I have said, as well as having
any other person to do it?"
"If I do, Margaret, it must be read to you before two justices of the
peace, and you will have to swear to it."
"Well, sir, so it must be then."
And the good doctor left his patient, and gladly explained the exact
state of the case to her mistress.
It was not very difficult for that lady to form her own conclusions now.
She was of Margaret's opinion, that Laud's first step would be to rejoin
the smugglers. She thought that he would become a more desperate
character than ever. Instability of purpose was always Laud's failing.
When Margaret got about again, her mistress, having considered all the
circumstances, thought it best that she should go home to her parent's
roof for a time. "As you are so much better," said she to her one day,
"and have been so much shaken lately, and your deposition has been taken
before the magistrates, I would strongly recommend a little change for
the benefit of your health. The doctor thinks it advisable. You can go
and stay a while with your uncle and aunt Leader, or you can go and see
your father and younger brother. You may go when you please. Remember
that there are one hundred and thirty guineas in your master's hands, to
be appropriated to your use. Your father or your uncle may wish to
consult us for your benefit. We shall be happy to see them for such
purpose at any time. If you wish to enter into any business, you shall
have our best advice and assistance. I think change will do you good. If
you do not settle in any way for yourself, and still prefer service, we
shall be glad to receive you amongst us again when you have recruited
your health and spirits."
"I do not," Margaret replied, "want anything beyond my wages. I do not
consider that money my own, and shall never appropriate any of it to my
own use. It belongs to Will Laud. I feel very much obliged to both my
master and yourself for the interest you have always taken in me, and
for your offer of future assistance. I will consult with my friends. I
certainly do not feel so happy as I used to do."
Her kind mistress did not choose to remind her of the great alteration
of her temper and conduct of late, because she did not wish to revive
old grievances. And, as she was about to leave for a time, with a
possibility of some chance of settlement without service, she let the
matter rest.
Margaret, shortly after this conversation, took leave of as good a
mistress as a servant ever had. If she did not feel quite the warmth of
attachment to her that she had formerly done, the fault lay in herself,
not in that benevolent lady, who at that time and ever after, manifested
for her the sincerest kindness.