There is a sad and fearful void in the disappointed heart.

Poor Margaret! but one short hour past and thy prospects were as bright as the broad moonlight that shone upon thy path. Yea, they were as bright to thine eye as that beautiful orb in the most brilliant night; for thy love was pure, true, and abiding.

How great was the reverse our heroine experienced when she quitted her lover, and returned to the Priory Farm worse than desolate! Had she never seen him again, her disappointment could not have been so great. Time might have taught her to consider him lost at sea, or taken by the enemy, or killed in battle, or as having died a natural death. But as it was, the tide had turned so suddenly; the change from the full flow to the very lowest ebb was as instantaneous as if some gulf had swallowed up the river, and left the channel dry. Clouds, black clouds intervened between her and her lover. She had received a blight to all her hopes, save one, and that was the last and best that any one could cleave to; it was, “that God would change his heart, and one day make him see the error of his way.”

She little thought how distant that day was. But it seemed that her sister’s words were at this time true: “Margaret, you will never marry William Laud.”

Margaret was in the little parlour of the Priory Farm, in all the agony of terror and the perturbation of confessing her faults to her master and mistress, when the murmur of returning voices told that the good farmer’s men were coming from the shore. Her soul was so full—her heart so anxious—her confession so open, so sincere—that even they who were most angry with her could not find it in their hearts to be angry and severe towards her at such a moment of distress. She was so full of terror that she dared not to stir; she had no power to rise and make inquiries upon the dreadful point upon which she wished to be most satisfied. She heard the footsteps approach; and as the parlour-door stood open, looking into the kitchen, she saw the young men bringing in the heavy body of the youth, to whom, perhaps, she then owed her existence; for her resolution had been formed, to have plunged into the waves sooner than be taken away, against her will, by the smugglers. Certainly she owed her present safety to the intrepid boldness of that wounded man. She saw them bring him into the kitchen, pale, bloody, and, as she first thought, lifeless; but a heavy groan, as they laid him down upon the floor, by the fire, made her start up, and feel the first spring of joy in her desponding heart, that he was not murdered. But the joy that Laud was not his murderer was as great as that the youth was not dead.

Her mistress’s voice, calling to bring water and assist her, restored her to a consciousness of her duties. Here might be seen the benefit of active employment in diverting her mind from its most painful feelings, rousing it to think, and turning it away from tormenting itself.

The surgeon was sent for immediately; and after a short delay in preparing a bed in a room by itself, the young man was carried up by his companions. Never was there a more melancholy change from the mirth of "harvest-home,” to the misery of a house of woe. To look into that kitchen, which so shortly before was resounding with the cheerful voices of merriment, and to see the long faces, to hear the whispers, and the questions, and the remarks made upon the circumstances, presented a scene so different and so painful, that description would fail to express it. There sat the ancient fisherman, silent and thoughtful, his left hand upon his forehead, and his right clutched convulsively with his inward emotion. There stood the foreman of the field, with his fellow-labourers, anxious to know who it was that had given the wound; for they had as yet only been told that two men in a boat had fired upon Barry, and wounded him.

Meanwhile the old fisherman, who had witnessed the scene, was so absorbed in his own reflections, that he did not seem disposed voluntarily to afford them any information.

At last one of them addressed Robin.

“Who was the fellow that fired the gun, Robin?”

“The foul fiend!" said Robin; “I saw him in the boat.”

“What foul fiend? was he devil or man?”

“He was a demon, who left me for a moment to torment others. I knew mischief would come of him as soon as he left me. He is always stirring up infernal broils; and would bring a host of enemies against me, if it were not for this charm. Look here,” and taking from his side a perforated bone, he held it up, saying, “this is the rib of Margery Beddingfield, who was gibbeted on Rushmere Heath for the murder of her husband. When I show him this, he will soon be off. This is so strong a spell, he cannot touch me. But look! there he is! there he is!" and the startled hinds closed round their lord, and looked fearfully in the direction of the door, to see if the murderer was coming.

“Aye, look at this, thou false fiend! Dost thou remember how thou didst stir up Margery, and Richard Ringe of Sternfield, her paramour, to murder John Beddingfield, the farmer, near Saxmundham? Thou couldst inflame their hot young blood to mischief; but what dost thou come here for? Off! off, I say! Look here! thou hadst better go to the officers of justice. Ha! ha! he is gone!" and the old man smiled again, as if he had defeated his foe, and was congratulating himself on the victory.

These things were very unsatisfactory to the minds of these plain-thinking countrymen. They again and again put questions to him, but could get no other answers than incoherences about the foul fiend.

“But what had Margaret Catchpole to do with it?”

“Ask her yourself: the foul fiend always finds an easier prey in a woman.”

At this time Margaret came into the room; and ignorant as she herself was of Robin’s efficient aid, she could not help asking him if he had seen the fight.

“Did you see it, young woman? I saw you long before I saw the fight.”

Margaret did not ask any more questions; for in another minute several asked her who had been fighting, what it was for, and what she had to do with it. She knew too well to speak would be to betray herself; and she was glad to find they were in ignorance of the real perpetrator of the deed. She was called into the parlour just then, and rejoiced to escape the inquisitive demands of her fellow-servants.

“That’s a clever girl,” said old Robin, as she left the kitchen,—"that’s a clever girl. Which of you boys would like her for a wife?”

“Ask Will Simpson,” said a sly fellow.

“Ask poor Jack Barry,” said another; “’tis my belief Jack got his blow from a rival in Margaret’s love.”

“What fiend told you that, young man? ’Tis seldom any of ‘em speak the truth? But, perhaps, you know who he is that rivals Jack?”

“No, not I—not I. I know who he would be, if he was alive; and just the sort of fellow, too, to give Jack a nab. But he’s dead and gone long ago, and maybe his bones are at the bottom of the sea, for he was killed on Felixstowe beach.”

“Who’s he? who’s he?”

“Why, Will Laud, the smuggler. Don’t you know him, Robin?”

“Yes; but I never knew that he was dead.”

“Oh, yes, he’s dead enough. I saw a fellow who told me he helped to bury him in the sands at the foot of the cliff.”

“Then the foul fiend has brought him back to life again, for I have seen him many times; and I spoke to him this very night, and he to me. Not only so, I know him well; and I wish all the fiends had him before he had given that brave lad his death-blow.”

“What! Will Laud? you do not mean to say Will Laud was on the shore to-night?”

“Ask Margaret Catchpole: she can tell you as much as I.”

Margaret returned just as this was said; and Will Simpson, perhaps as much in spite (for Margaret had upon some occasion of his rudeness given him such a specimen of her dexterity with a frying-pan, as left a memorial on his head not easily to be forgotten or forgiven) as for inquisitiveness, put this question—

“I say, Peggy, who met you upon the shore to-night, eh?”

“What’s that to you? A better man than you.”

“Perhaps a better Will, too; eh, Peggy? One who will have his will of you, too, before you die, and tame you, my dear.”

“Perhaps he may; and should it be so, he will make a ‘will o’ the wisp’ of you, Simpson.”

“He’ll be hanged first, Peggy, take my word for that. He’ll not be shot, nor drowned: he’s born to be hanged.”

“And what are you born for, you coward, that, at such a time as this, you should be quarrelling with me?”

“I’m born to be his informer; and, before long, I’ll have you both up before the Squire, for all this piece of work.”

Margaret did not like this banter; it looked as if they already knew that Will Laud was the intruder. She was somewhat less ready at her replies than usual, and felt too great a fear that she might commit herself. She tried, therefore, to turn the subject.

“My master, Robin, desires me to give you some supper.”

“Thank your master, but I have had mine; and, but that I hoped to hear what the doctor said to the poor young man upstairs, I should long ago have been on board my boat.”

The greatest cowards are not easily silenced when they find themselves able to browbeat an adversary with impunity, and that adversary a woman.

“Well, Margaret, if you won’t tell me, I’ll tell you whom you met upon the shore. You met one whom Robin says the foul fiend has raised to life again.”

Margaret turned very pale, and staggered to a chair. But Simpson still went on.

“O Peggy, Peggy, you have a guilty face! I don’t wonder at your feeling shame. You’ve managed to hide the smuggler, have you? If you don’t take care, both you and Will Laud will come to a bad end.”

Margaret rushed into the parlour, and fell at her master’s feet, imploring him to interfere and stop the reproaches of his men, who were treating her in a way she did not deserve. Her mistress made her sit down in the keeping-room; and, speaking a few words to her husband, he left them. He remonstrated with his men, and was in the act of insisting upon their departure to their homes, as Dr. Stebbing arrived. He was desired at once to go into the parlour; and there he recognized that high-spirited girl who, in the cause of humanity, had, in her childhood, galloped the pony to Ipswich for his aid. She rose and curtseyed; but her feet gave way under her, and she sank to the floor. The memory of her dear sister, the doctor’s former patient, her own happiness at that time, and her present misery, were too much for her to bear, and she was quite overcome. The good doctor raised her up, and, with his cheerful voice, tried, in his usual kind way, to comfort her.

“Come, come, my girl, what’s the matter? what’s the matter? Are you the patient I’m come all this way to see? I thought I was sent for to see a young man. But what’s the matter with you? Ah! is it so, my lassie?” (for his sagacity gave him a glimpse of the truth). “Come, cheer up, cheer up; we’ll go and see the lad. I dare say he’ll soon be better. Cheer up, cheer up.”

“Come, my good sir, let us have a light, and go upstairs,” said the doctor to the master of the house. “Now, my dear, go and fetch us a towel and some warm water. Come, bestir yourself; I know it will do you good.”

This was the best medicine for Margaret, with whom to be told to do anything, and not to go and do it, was almost an impossibility, so much had she been accustomed to obey.

All that could be done for the youth was to lay him in as easy a posture as possible; for he was in too much agony even to have his clothes removed. One of his companions sat and wiped the cold perspiration from his brows, whilst another washed his hands and face. He breathed quickly and heavily, with shuddering fits that shook the bed violently, and he was evidently in great pain.

“Come, my lads, come, lend me a hand—let us see—let us see! where is the hurt?—where is the wound?—what’s the lad’s name?”

“John Barry, sir.”

“John, my lad, let’s look at you!" but John took no notice of the doctor.

“I think, sir, his arm is broke, for it dangled by his side all the way we carried him.”

“Let us see, my boy, let us see! ’Tis broken! high up too, too high up. But we must strip him. Gently there—gently there, my lad"; and the groans of the poor fellow told his agony. The work was done with great care, and by slow degrees. But it was done, and then the frightful nature of his wounds became conspicuous: a gunshot wound from the middle of the arm to the shoulder. The ball had struck the humerus, and broken it, glanced over the head of it, and passed between the scapula and clavicle, and it might be easily felt lying in the external portion of the trapezian muscle. It was so near the skin that it was easily extracted; the difficulty was to get away those parts of the clothing which had been carried into the wound. Such was the effect of the first shot.

The second was the most severe. It had pierced through the long dorsal muscle, and the ball lay directly against the lumbar vertebrae. This wound was the more agonizing because it had pierced the strongest muscles of the human frame, and bruised the stoutest part of the backbone.

After the doctor had examined his wounds and ascertained that they were of the most serious nature, he said—

“This will be a work of time. Get some stimulants—put warm flannels on his feet—his extremities are icy cold. He has had violent exertion—all his muscles are hard and stiff. Put his hands in warm water. Wash his temples with warm vinegar. There, there; come, my poor fellow, come; consciousness will soon return.”

He opened his eyes, looked at the doctor, then at his master, then at his friends, and at last at Margaret, who was putting warm flannels to his feet. He looked earnestly at her, spoke not, but a tear stole down his face as he closed his eyes again.

His wounds were now probed, cleaned, and dressed, as carefully as if he had been one of the wealthiest squires or nobles of the land, and he was then left for the night, attended by two of his fellow-servants, in case he should need assistance or restraint.

“There, there, good-night, John, good-night. I think you’ll do now. Come, come, he feels a little easier. He breathes better"; and patting his cheeks in his good-humoured way, Dr. Stebbing left him, and went down into the parlour.

There is always a little chit-chat with the doctor after the usual labour of his profession is over, and he is quietly seated with the family. It is then he judges of what is best for his patient, for at such times the secrets of most families come forth; and if love or law, if loss of stock or money, if cruelties, injuries, or any causes whatever have been acting upon the patient’s mind, the doctor is sure to be made the confidant.

If the faculty could find out the means of supplying all their invalids with such things as they really wanted, they would soon get well, but in default of such means medicine and good advice—very necessary articles in their way—are supplies in which the faculty seldom fail.

“Doctor, will you take anything to-night? you have had a cold ride, and will have another on your way home—shall my mistress give you anything warm?”

“I care not if she does. A little nutmeg in a little warm brandy-and-water, and just one slice of your nice harvest-cake, and I shall be comfortable.”

The first question asked of the doctor was, “What he thought of his patient?”“Why, he has got an ugly wound that will take months to heal. He will not be able to be moved for six or seven weeks. Where do his parents live?”

“At Levington,” was the reply. “His father is tolerably well to do in the world, though he has a large family. I have not a steadier young man on my premises, nor a quieter, soberer, or better behaved lad, or a better workman belonging to me.”

“So much the better. But what does the old fisherman do in the kitchen? I thought he never sat down in any house, but always kept to his boat?”

“He is only waiting to speak to you, doctor. At least, he said he should stop to hear your report.”

“I should like to have one word with him.”

“I’ll go and tell him so"; and off trotted the worthy farmer for Robin, with whom he soon returned, and then, beckoning to his wife, they left him and the doctor alone together.

“Well, Robin, what an odd fish you are! I can never persuade you to come into my kitchen, and here you are, hail fellow well met, with the farmer’s men at Harvest-Home. How is this, Robin? I shall tell my daughter of you, and leave her to set some of your foul fiends to work upon you.”

“They’ve been at work pretty well to-night, doctor, or else I’m wofully mistaken. One of ’em has done a pretty job of mischief here; and it’s well if he don’t do more before he’s done.”

The doctor understood his dialect, and knew how to get out of him what he wanted.

“Who did the foul fiend work upon? who was his victim?”

“He left my boat, and went aboard Will Laud’s.”

“What! the smuggler? I thought he was shot long ago.”

“So others thought, but not I; for I saw him and a sturdy villain of his pass my boat, with all their sails set; and when my Infernal Broiler left me, and sat grinning on his mast, I knew he was up to mischief.”

“What mischief, Robin?”

“Why, look ye, doctor; you must ha’ seen the mischief. Ha’en’t you dressed the young man’s wounds?”

“Yes, Robin; but how came your imp to be the cause of this?”

“Nay, that you must ask the girl here; for seldom do my imps fail to make mischief among the sex.”

“Was it a love affair?”

“Nay, it didn’t appear much o’ that.” And here Robin, in his quaint language, well understood by the doctor, told his own tale as it happened.

“Well, Robin, all I can say is, that, but for you, one of the finest young fellows in the land would have lost his life; and there’s a guinea for you.”

“No, no, master; give me a guinea for my fish, but don’t give me a guinea for doing no more than I ought to do. Give it to the poor boy for loss of time. I’ve got some good fish, and you may have some to-morrow morning; but the fiends would torment me all night, if I went to my hammock with a guinea for my reward. No, doctor, no. I thank you, too; but tell me the boy will do well, and I’m well paid for my pains.”

“He will do well, I think, Robin, if his mind be not disturbed.”

The doctor felt, as perhaps the reader will, that the honest old fisherman, bewitched and bewildered as he was, had more good feeling about him than many a man of clearer head and a less scrupulous conscience, who would have crept along the mud to pick up a guinea for his dirty pocket.

“Well, well, my boy, I shall not find such an odd fish in your boat as your own self. You may bring up your basket to my door, and my daughter will deal with you. Instead of a guinea, I must give you any charm that you can ask me for.”

“Keep to that, doctor, and I’ll ask you soon to give me one that I stand much in need of, and which you only can furnish me with. You are surgeon to the gaol, and I want something out of that place. I’ll tell you, one of these days, what it is. My boat is now high and dry upon the shore. You might ask some of the landsmen here to lend me a hand to get her off. I shall be in Ipswich as soon as yourself.”

No sooner was the request made than it was granted; and Robin and five or six good stout fellows were on the shore, and soon shoved the boat off, which, quicker than the men could walk upon the sand, moved on her native element to the well-timed stroke of the able fisherman.

The doctor’s first introduction to the flying Margaret is well known to the reader. His knowledge of her under those circumstances made him feel for her; but there were some questions he wished to put to her, as his curiosity had been excited by what Robin had revealed. The farmer had already given him some hint about her confessions; but the doctor wanted to find out whether, after what had taken place that night, the tide of her affections might not have turned a little toward his patient. It was a delicate question to ask, but he thought he would find it out by another plan; so he desired to see Margaret in the parlour before he left the house.

“I did not half like your look, my girl, when I first saw you to-night. Come hither; let me feel your pulse: let me look at your tongue. Your pulse is quick, and you’ve some fever hanging about you.”

“I thank you, sir, I shall be better to-morrow. I’m very sorry for what has happened.”

“You could not help it, my girl—you could not help it; it was not your fault.”

“I don’t know that, sir,—I don’t know that. I blame myself much; but—but—”

“But you don’t like to blame anybody else, Margaret; I know you.”

“Well, sir, that’s the truth; but yet he was to blame.”

“Who? Barry?”

“No, sir, no; but he who shot him.”

“Yes, he was a cowardly fellow. What induced him to do it?”

“Because Barry’s brother shot him. I suspect he was excited at the remembrance of his own sufferings, and urged on to desperation by the fellow that was with him; and, in a moment of madness, thought to revenge himself.”

“This was not right, Margaret; it was still very cowardly.”

“Why, yes, it was; but—but, I do not defend him, sir.”

“What then, Margaret? what then?”

“Why, I was to blame, sir!”

“Why so?”

“Because I told him Barry loved me, sir.”

“Ho, ho! a little jealousy, was it? Was it so, Margaret? Well, well, he will be more jealous now.”

“I’m sorry for it, sir. Had I not thought he would have known my preference for him, I should not have told him this. It is this I blame myself for, as much as I do him. I hope Barry will do well, sir.”

“Your hopes may be disappointed, Margaret. His is a very bad case; and, if he dies, Will Laud will be hanged.”

“Then you know all, sir? Oh, pray save him if you can, sir!”

“Who?”

“John Barry, sir,—John Barry.”

“Margaret, do you love him?”

“No, sir; yes—yes, sir. I think he is a very good young man, and he would be a great loss to his parents.”

“More so than to you, my girl?”

“Oh, yes, sir, yes. I’m sure I wish him well, and shall always feel grateful to him for his kindness to me. I do hope he will recover, sir, for Laud’s sake.”

This was enough; the doctor now knew all. He saw that his patient was in love with Margaret, but that Margaret loved another. He was in possession of the whole secret. He promised to do all he could; he dismissed the girl; and, after a few minutes’ further chat with the master and mistress of the house, and strongly advising them to send for Barry’s parents in the morning, he took his leave. His little bay pony soon rattled up Gainsborough’s Lane, through the open fields towards the Race-course, and over Bishop’s Hill, to the town of Ipswich.

Barry’s parents were not long in coming to their son, nor long in learning the real state both of his mind and body. It is the happiest time to die when a parent’s tender care is round you. Then the agony of suffering is greatly relieved, and the heart can open its most inward thoughts. It turns, with such filial respect and thankfulness, towards those whom it does not like to grieve, but who are always the most quick-sighted to see our wants and to relieve our distresses. So gentle is a mother’s love—so delicate, so soothing, so healing to the youthful mind, that nature almost decays with pleasure before her soft attentions. Nor is a father’s manliness and feeling less sensibly experienced at such a time. He may not have a woman’s gentleness, but he has a firmness and a quietness of action which are seldom seen at other times, and which make a sick room seem more calm and sufferable. He has quite as deep feeling, though it is more subdued. Who that ever has been ill in his youth, and has seen the kindness of parental love, but has thought that he never could die happier than when his fond parents were near him?

So thought young Barry when his parents were by his side; and not only thought so, but plainly told them that he wished to die.

“I hope not yet, my boy,” said his father. “The young sapling may get a blight, but it soon recovers, and springs up vigorously; but the old trees naturally decay. I hope to go first, my boy.”

“Yes, father, such may be your hope and natural expectation; but Heaven avert it! You have others to live for; may I never live to see your death!”

“Come, John, do not give way to such feelings. You know not yet what the good God may have in store for you.”

“He has, indeed, been good to me, father, and has left me nothing more to wish for in this world.”

“Perhaps not for your own benefit, John; but we are not always to die just when we wish it. Neither are we to live merely for ourselves. We are called upon to live for others; and more may be expected of us on this account than upon our own. We are not to be such selfish beings as to think, ‘The wind blows only for our own mill.’”

“I meant not to find fault, father; but I am disappointed, and feel therefore useless.”

“I know your disappointment, boy; but I would not have you take it so to heart as to let it prey upon your spirits. There are others far better and more worthy of you, who may esteem you, John, for your good conduct and character; and one of such may make you an excellent companion for life.”

“Father, I know I am not so wise as you are. I have not your experience; yet this I feel and say, that I hope you will never find fault with that poor girl.”

“I will not, John, in your presence; but how can a father help feeling hurt and angry with a girl who prefers a smuggler to an honest man?”

“That may or may not be a fault; but you just now told me we should live for others, and not be so selfish as to think only of ourselves. Now, I do believe that Margaret lives only in the hope that Will Laud will become an altered man.”

“He never will! A lawless villain, who will revenge a blow upon the innocent hand that never gave it, has a heart too reprobate and stony ever to change.”

“You will not say it is impossible?”

“I did not mean to say it is a thing impossible with God; but you seemed to think that, by Margaret’s influence, such a change might be effected. This, I say, will never be. Laud may influence her, and may corrupt her mind; but, take my word for it, the man whose love is swallowed up in the violence of passion, as his is, will never produce anything good. He will be a selfish villain even towards the poor unfortunate victim of his choice.”

“Oh, father, would that you could persuade Margaret of this! She is indeed a good girl, and a warm-hearted one; and, had she received any education, would have been as good and respectable as my own dear mother.”

“All this may be, John; but, if I could persuade you out of this fit of fancy, I then might have hope that I should have some power of persuasion with Margaret. Till then I shall stand no chance. For, if I cannot root the weeds out of my own ground, how shall I be fit to work for others?”

The young man sighed deeply, and could answer no more. He felt the force of the superior wisdom of his father; and, owning to himself that there was much truth in the remark, felt how difficult it would indeed be to conquer in his own heart his hopeless attachment.

In due time, Barry’s wounds progressed towards recovery, and it was agreed among his fellow-labourers that, before the cold weather should set in, they would form a corps for carrying him home to Levington. Twelve undertook the task; and, one fine October day, they managed to place him and his bed upon a frame, made for the occasion, to which were attached shoulder-pieces, and so conveyed him to his father’s residence, where all things were made ready by his mother’s hand for his reception.