“Does one Margaret Catchpole live here?” said the man.
“Yes, she does,” was Margaret’s quick reply; “what do you want with her? I am she.”
“Oh! you be she, be you? Then I be commissioned to deliver this here parcel into your hands;" and, easing his shoulder of a heavy bale of goods, they came with some weight upon the chair which Edward had vacated for the guest.
“From whom does this come?” said she.
“I don’t know who he is. I was at work on the marshes at Bawdsey Ferry, when a young sailor came up to me, and asked me if I knew where Nacton was. I told him I knew whereabouts it was. He then asked me if I would take this here bundle to one Margaret Catchpole, a labourer’s daughter, living, as he described, in just this place, which I have found.”
“Did he give his name?”
“No; he said he couldn’t come himself, but that this here would remind you of him.”
All immediately concluded who he was, and Margaret asked Edward to bring the packet into the sleeping-room, whilst the countryman was asked to sit down and take a draught of beer.
The parcel was unpacked. There were silks and shawls, caps and lace, ribbons and stuffs, and gloves; parcels of tea, coffee, tobacco, and snuff; together with curious-headed and silver-tipped pipes; in short, enough to stock a small shop. But there was nothing to give pleasure to Margaret. That poor girl’s heart sank within her at a sight which she at once perceived was far too costly to be honestly procured. She called to Edward to assist her in tying up the bale again, and removing it into the room where the pretended countryman was seated. As she entered, the fellow roughly accosted her—
“Well! you find summut there, I dare say, to tempt you soon to put aside these dark-looking dresses which you all wear. I must be going: can I take anything back for you?”