Henry Stanwick had been landed near the castle at Sandgate, supported by one of his men, he was slowly ascending the beach, when he was met by the Admiral muffled up in a sea cloak. He had heard of the engagement with the smugglers, and of his nephew's wounds. "Come along, Harry, with me," said he, "we must nurse you at my house. I have no doubt that you would be taken very good care of here: but still there are some little comforts, which perhaps can be furnished better at a private house; and we must allow that the women understand these matters better than we do." Henry yielded to his uncle's persuasions. He found his two cousins ready to receive him, with looks expressive of tender affection, mixed with deep anxiety. They had been busily occupied in preparing his room. As the surgeon was expected every moment, they were fearful of altering the position of the wounded arm until his arrival.
In the interval Lieutenant Stanwick, though suffering a good deal of pain, shortly mentioned a few particulars of the conflict; adding, "I cannot help longing to hear what becomes of the poor fellow, that we brought away in our boat. He wished to be carried to Folkestone, and "—"To Folkestone!" exclaimed Emily, "I hope it is not poor Mary's husband!" "He did not mention his name," said Henry; "indeed he could hardly speak at all, but he was a remarkably well-made active looking fellow, and I was vexed to my heart at his having engaged in such a service." The sisters could not help having some misgivings, but they had a nearer cause for anxiety in the severe wound of a relation so deservedly dear to them.
When the surgeon arrived, he found the bone of the arm so much injured, that immediate amputation was necessary. The operation was successfully performed, but was followed by a considerable degree of fever, during which the two sisters nursed him with unremitting assiduity.
The fourth day after the amputation Henry seemed much better, and both he and the Admiral begged them not to continue to keep themselves such close prisoners, but to resume their usual exercise. They were the more ready to comply, as they were very anxious to go themselves to Folkestone, to enquire after Mary Waldron. They found out the house; but upon approaching it, observed a degree of bustle, and saw several men in sailors' jackets—most of them with some symbol of mourning about their dress—issuing from the door. Presently the coffin was brought out; the men raised it on their shoulders; the black pall was thrown over it; and with measured steps they moved towards the church-yard, while the solemn toll of the bell, being heard at shorter intervals, announced the near approach of the corpse to its last mansion.
The sisters waited at some little distance, till the melancholy procession had passed on; and then going up to the door of one of the neighbouring cottages, enquired with feelings of deep interest after poor Mary.
She, they found, was perfectly insensible to all that was passing. The morning after her husband had been brought home, she for sometime appeared to retain no trace of what had happened. The circumstance of her being not in her own bed, and the manner of Hannah Reeves, who was unable to control her feelings, by degrees brought back to her recollection the dreadful calamity which had befallen her. She uttered one piercing cry of woe, and then a deadly stupor took possession of her whole frame. From this she had at last been roused, but it was succeeded by a wild delirium, and a burning fever, which no skill or attention had been able in the slightest degree to mitigate.
The sisters went to this house of mourning. The children had been removed to the cottage of a neighbour, but Hannah Reeves came down to them. She had hardly ever quitted the bedside of the sufferer, and attended her with that watchful kindness, which the poor so often shew to each other when in distress. The Miss Mowbrays begged Hannah to let nothing be omitted which might contribute to the recovery of poor Mary, at the same time mentioning their intention to take every expense upon themselves. They did not know Hannah, but there was something in her manner which told them that any hint of remuneration to her would be misplaced.
Upon their return to Sandgate they found sitting with the Admiral the captain of the troop of dragoons, which had come to the assistance of the seamen. From him they understood, that of the two smugglers who had been taken, one was a Folkestone man of the name of Spraggon, a man of notoriously bad character, and who had behaved in the engagement with the king's men with a boldness bordering on ferocity. The other prisoner was a labourer belonging to a village just above the marsh, who had long been in the practice of assisting in running smuggled goods. He received high pay—five, eight, ten shillings a night—sometimes even more. Money obtained by breaking the laws seldom does a man any good. And, in fact, when he came to deduct the sum which he might have earned by more creditable work—for a man who had been out all night could not work the day following—and also the money which went in drink and other expenses—it was generally found that little came home to his family. His earnings of all descriptions, however, were now put an end to. He and Spraggon were convicted at the next assizes of the murder of the seaman; and two days after were executed.
It was long before Mary Waldron shewed any signs of returning health. The fever, however, gradually gave way, but it left her in a state of the most deplorable weakness. Emily and Caroline called at the house very frequently during the whole progress of her illness, supplying abundantly whatever they thought likely to contribute to her recovery, or to her comfort in her present state of suffering. But from the time that her reason and recollection began to return, their walks to Folkestone became almost daily. In the gentlest and kindest manner they said and did all they could, to comfort her, and to assist in directing her thoughts to the only unfailing source of consolation—to that Being, who invites the widow to trust in him, and promises to protect and provide for the fatherless children.
From such considerations as these, and from that aid which was granted from above in answer to her humble and fervent supplication, Mary recovered a degree of calm composure almost sooner than the sisters had anticipated.