“Consider me his creditor, and pay it me; for I healed that wound, and it brought with it reformation.”
“I would not give you what I would give him.”
“No, William; but you ought not to bear malice. His brother has been very kind to me. I may say, he is the only one who never reproached me with having been the mistress of a smuggler.” (There was a fearful frown upon the smuggler’s brow at this moment, and a convulsive grasp of the poor girl’s hand, that told there was agony and anger stirring in his soul.) “But you are not a smuggler now, William. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. All reproach of that name has long passed away from my mind.”
William was silent, and gazed wildly upon the waters. One hand was in his bosom, the other was in Margaret’s hand, as she leaned upon his shoulder. There might be seen a strange paleness passing over his face, and a painful compression of his lips. A sudden start, as if involuntary, and it was most truly so. It told of a chilliness on the heart, that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. He actually trembled.
“William, you are not well.”
“No, I am not; but a little grog, which is in the boat, will soon set me right again.”
“Shall I run and fetch it?”
“No, no,—wait a bit, wait a bit. Hold—I was a smuggler! Yes, you said I was a smuggler! The world despised me! You bore the reproach of my name! Well, Margaret, the smuggler comes home—he comes to marry you. Will the world believe him to be altered? Will they not call you, then, the smuggler’s bride?”
“No, William, not if you are really altered, as you say you are. I wish you were in the British service; seamen are wanted now, and the smuggler would soon be forgiven, when he once sailed under the flag of Old England.”
“’Tis too late, ’tis too late, now, Margaret! I will not say I may not ever sail under our gallant Nelson. You might persuade me to it, if you would only sail with me to Holland, and there be married to me, Margaret.”