The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl

“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 £5 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.

CHAPTER XIV 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 animalculæ 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.