Whence arose this inquiring spirit on the part of Charles Catchpole, no one could determine. The lad had once expressed a wish to be a soldier; and it was the old clerk and sexton of the parish of Nacton who used to read and explain to him that there were strange people in the world; and these notions, which had for some time slumbered, seemed to be awakened by young Laud’s company.
Will Laud had idle time to spare, and he devoted a great portion of it to Margaret, and was a constant attendant at Nacton. All the family knew of the attachment, and it was no secret with any neighbour who chanced to come in, all of whom were well pleased with Will Laud, and congratulated their respective friends on the future happiness of the young people. Even the master and mistress, for whom the family worked, were satisfied with appearances; and the maids at the farm, who had never quite forgiven Margaret for her good offices, were not a little jealous at the early prepossession of the young sailor for “the girl,” as they called her.
Poor Susan, the sick sister, was the only one of the whole family who did not like Will Laud. There frequently dwells in the sickliest forms the purest love. Susan felt more interested for Margaret’s future happiness than did any one else in the family. Through all that weakness of body, there was a strength of mind and of judgement, which those who have for a long time had the prospect of dissolution before them frequently possess. She looked with penetrating eyes upon the young man. She weighed well his spirit, listened to his free conversation, and formed her idea of the young man’s character, not from outward appearance, but from the tone of sentiment which came from his heart. She was shocked to find that there was, through all his attentions and general desire to please every one, a levity of expression upon the most serious subjects. She did not say much to Margaret upon this point; but her manner towards her lover was colder, and, in some measure, more repulsive than her sister liked. It is said, that “we can always tell those who love us.” It is equally true “that we can always tell those who dislike us.”
Poor Susan did not openly rebuke Will Laud. Yet he perceived that she did not approve of him, and said to Margaret—"I do not think your sister Susan likes me.” Why should he think this? He had never heard Susan utter a word of rebuke to him. But sometimes, in the midst of his wild vagaries, a glance of that bright eye which flashed, searching into his spirit, would make the young sailor pause and finish his story in a tamer way than he intended. Susan’s affectionate disposition would not allow her, in that apparently happy period of the two lovers’ intercourse, to speak anything harshly, but the more than usual warmth of her interest was not to be mistaken. That pressure of the hand; that kiss, with a starting tear in the eye, that hope expressed that she might be happy, though a fixed tearfulness of doubt seemed to hover over her mind, whilst she so often prayed for her sister, made Margaret almost tremble, as if Susan foreboded evil.
“Dear sister,” said Margaret to her one day; “dear sister, you look so gloomily on my lover and me!”
“No, Margaret. I look only with love upon you, and am only, perhaps, too anxious for your future happiness. I am not gloomy. I love you so dearly, Margaret, that I pray that you may live in happiness all your days. I do not like to lose any of your love.”
“Nor I any of yours, dear Susan; but sometimes I fear I either have so done, or may so do. Laud fancies you do not like him.”
“It is only that I love you so dearly, that if any one loves you less than I do, it makes me feel unhappy. I like Laud very well as a visitor, and he appears very fond of you, Margaret; but he seems to me to think too much of himself to be exactly what I wish him to be, for your sake.”