What agony did that truly good father endure, yet how mild was his censure of those who ought to have prevented such a lad incurring such danger!
In the midst of these anxieties, there was one who shared them with as much earnestness as if she had been the mother of the child; and this was Margaret Catchpole. No weather, no winds, no commands of her master’s, could overrule that determined activity of mind which this girl possessed, to lend a helping hand in time of danger. She had thrown her cloak over her head, and followed her master with the hope that she might be of some service.
The party on the shore could no longer hear even the voices of those who were in the boat, as the channel took them round the bed of ooze to the opposite shore. Still did they pursue their course, calling aloud, and stopping to listen for some faint sound in reply. Nothing answered their anxious call but the cold moaning of the wintry wind. They stretched their eyes in vain; they could see nothing: and they had walked miles along the shore, passing by the Grove, Hog Island, and the Long Reach, until they came to Downham Reach. No soul had they met, nor had any sound, save the whistling of the curlew and the winds, greeted their ears. The anxious father, down whose cheeks tears began to steal and to stiffen with the frost, gave his dear son up for lost. He had lived so long by the river, and knew so well its dangers, that it seemed to him an impossibility he should be saved; and he turned round just by the opening to the Priory Farm, and said to his clerk, “We must give it up;" when Margaret said, “Oh, no, sir, not yet; pray do not give it up yet! Let us go on farther! Do not go home yet.”
Thus urged, her master turned again to pursue the search, and she followed in his path.
About a hundred yards onwards, under the shade of the wood, they met a man.
“Who goes there?” was the question of the anxious father.
“What’s that to you?” was the rough uncourteous reply, strangely grating to the father’s heart at such a moment.
In those rough sounds Margaret recognized Will Laud’s voice. She sprang forward, exclaiming, to the no small astonishment of her master, “Oh, William! Mr. Cobbold has lost his son! Do lend a hand to find him.”
It is needless to dwell upon the mutual surprise of both parties at such a rencontre. Laud was equally astonished at Margaret’s presence at such a time, and Margaret herself felt an indescribable hope that her lover might render some effectual service.