The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl. Cobbold Richard

Barry.”

      “What! of Levington?”

      “Yes.”

      “His brother is in the coastguard. It was he who gave me this, Margaret, this cut upon my forehead – this, that you took such pains to heal.”

      “And it is healed, William; and your heart, too, I hope.”

      “No, no, no! – I owe him one!”

      “Consider me his creditor, and pay it me; for I healed that wound, and it brought with it reformation.”

      “I would not give you what I would give him.”

      “No, William; but you ought not to bear malice. His brother has been very kind to me. I may say, he is the only one who never reproached me with having been the mistress of a smuggler.” (There was a fearful frown upon the smuggler’s brow at this moment, and a convulsive grasp of the poor girl’s hand, that told there was agony and anger stirring in his soul.) “But you are not a smuggler now, William. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. All reproach of that name has long passed away from my mind.”

      William was silent, and gazed wildly upon the waters. One hand was in his bosom, the other was in Margaret’s hand, as she leaned upon his shoulder. There might be seen a strange paleness passing over his face, and a painful compression of his lips. A sudden start, as if involuntary, and it was most truly so. It told of a chilliness on the heart, that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. He actually trembled.

      “William, you are not well.”

      “No, I am not; but a little grog, which is in the boat, will soon set me right again.”

      “Shall I run and fetch it?”

      “No, no, – wait a bit, wait a bit. Hold – I was a smuggler! Yes, you said I was a smuggler! The world despised me! You bore the reproach of my name! Well, Margaret, the smuggler comes home – he comes to marry you. Will the world believe him to be altered? Will they not call you, then, the smuggler’s bride?”

      “No, William, not if you are really altered, as you say you are. I wish you were in the British service; seamen are wanted now, and the smuggler would soon be forgiven, when he once sailed under the flag of Old England.”

      “’Tis too late, ’tis too late, now, Margaret! I will not say I may not ever sail under our gallant Nelson. You might persuade me to it, if you would only sail with me to Holland, and there be married to me, Margaret.”

      “You have heard me upon this point: do not urge it any more. I have now stolen away from duty, William, to meet you here, and I hope I shall not be missed. Let me only hear you say you will come again soon, to marry me at home, and I shall return to my service happy.”

      “I would if I could, but I cannot.”

      “Why not, William? why not?”

      “Do not ask me why. Come, Margaret, come to the boat, and share my fate. I will be constant to you, and you shall be my counsellor.”

      “Nay, William, do not urge me to forsake all my friends, and put all this country in terror as to what has become of me. I cannot go on board your boat. I cannot give you myself until God and my parents have given me to you. So do not think of it; but, come again, come again! – yes, again and again! – but come openly, in the sight of all men, and I will be yours. I live for you only, William, and will never be another’s whilst you live.”

      “But how can I live without you, Margaret? I cannot come in the way you talk of; I tell you I cannot. Do, then, do be mine.”

      “I am yours, William, and will ever be so; but it must be openly, before all men, and upon no other terms.”

      “Then it will never be!”

      “Why so?”

      “Because I am a smuggler!”

      “You have been such, but you are not so now. You have long forsaken the gang; you are forgotten, and supposed to be dead. You may change your name; but being changed in your life, it will only be known to me.”

      “And to Barry, too, Margaret; and then to his brother, and to numbers of others, who will know me. I was recognized this very night.”

      “What, if you change your name?”

      “My name is changed, but not my nature. I am a smuggler still!”

      “No, William, no – you cannot be! You are in the service of an honest man, though a foreigner.”

      “No, Margaret, I am not. You see before you the notorious Hudson. I am a smuggler still!”

      It was now poor Margaret’s turn to tremble, and she felt more than language can speak. She had heard of Hudson – Captain Hudson, as he was called – but had no idea that her lover was that, or such a man. She felt a revulsion amounting to sickness, a giddiness overcame her, and she felt as if she must fall to the earth. Half carried, half urged, half pulled along, she was unconsciously moving, with her eyes fixed fully upon the boat, and approaching it, and she had no power to resist – a sort of trance-like senselessness seemed to overpower her; and yet she felt that hand, knew that form, and saw the waters and the boat, and had no energy or impulse to resist. Her heart was so struck with the deadliness of grief and despair, that the nerves had no power to obey the will, and the will seemed but a wish to die. We cannot die when we wish it, and it is well for us we cannot. Happy they who do not shrink when the time comes appointedly; thrice happy they who welcome it with joy, and hope, and love!

      Margaret revived a little before she reached the boat, and resisted. The firm grasp of the smuggler was not, however, to be loosed.

      “You do not mean to force me away, William?”

      “I must, if you will not go.”

      “I will not go.”

      “You shall – you must – you cannot help it! Do not resist.”