CHAPTER XXII

PREPARATION FOR TRIAL

Margaret Catchpole was taken into custody; and whilst she was spending a dismal night in the dungeon, a letter was on the road to Ipswich, to inform her master of the capture of the thief.

The wretched young woman had now time for rest and reflection. Instead of meeting her lover, for which purpose alone she had undertaken her desperate enterprise, she had now before her eyes the terrors of the law, the certainty of conviction, the probability of a violent and shameful death. Who knew anything of the cause which had induced her to steal the horse, and who would pity her if they did? The secret was known only to herself, and she resolved it should continue so, lest her lover should be involved in the consequences of her guilt.

It will readily be believed that the news of what had happened created no small sensation in the minds of the various members of that family who had so dearly loved the miserable culprit.

It was immediately arranged that both Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold should go to town, and they arrived about nine o'clock in the evening at the Four Swans, Bishopsgate Street.

At the time fixed for the examination of the prisoner before the magistrates, Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold arrived at the Police-office in Whitechapel.

Many gentlemen were present, who having heard the case mentioned, had obtained permission to attend.

The office was crowded, and the street also, for it was understood that Margaret was to be brought up for examination. Hundreds who knew nothing of the parties, but only that a female had stolen a horse, were assembled purely from curiosity to see such a person.

Margaret was brought up in proper custody, and found herself the object of jokes and gibes amidst the thoughtless rabble of the streets. She was conducted into an ante-room adjoining the court, and as a door opened into the passage from the magistrates' private room, she thought she heard her mistress's voice. Another moment convinced her that she saw her. It was to her a moment of great bitterness and agony.

At the request of the prosecutor, she was summoned into the magistrates' private room, before going into the public court. She was terrified beyond measure at the idea of encountering the sight of her mistress. She begged hard not to be taken into her presence, but she was compelled to go in. The moment she saw her she exclaimed: "Oh, my dear mistress!" and fell to the ground. She was lifted up and placed in a chair; and from her dreadful state of agitation, it was agreed among the magistrates that, upon her recovery, her deposition should be taken where she then was. Accordingly, the clerk was summoned from the public office into the private room.

Her mistress as well as herself was greatly affected at the interview, and deeply touched at her distress. All the gentlemen present felt more than commonly interested in the scene.

The girl slowly revived; the gentlemen took their seats, and the clerk was ordered to take down her deposition. The magistrate told her that the confession she had made, and might now make, would be evidence against her on her trial, and that she was at liberty to speak, or not, as she pleased.

Having implored and obtained forgiveness from her master and mistress, Margaret became more composed, and made a full confession of her guilt. She acknowledged that she had been persuaded, and even compelled, to this act by a man named John Cook, a sailor at Ipswich, and declared that she stole the horse by his direction and threats; that she was to have sold it at Chelmsford, but that she dared not offer it there. She did not once betray her lover's name, or mention anything about his hiding-place; but she described all the particulars of the robbery with which the reader is acquainted, and stated, as a corroborative fact, that her own clothes would be found, if not already removed, under the manger of the empty stall.

Her deposition having been then read over to her by the clerk, she signed her name to it. Before they parted, Mrs. Cobbold spoke to her consolingly, while she placed before her mind the heinousness of her offence. Poor Margaret felt better after this, and with a heart very much humbled, was committed to Newgate by N. Bond, Esq., with an order for her removal as soon as the forms could be gone through, to the gaol of the county in which the offence was committed. Mr. Cobbold was bound over to prosecute, which being done, that gentleman and his lady returned to their hotel.

Every effort was made to discover the resort of John Cook; but that scamp, the moment he heard of the capture, decamped, nor was he ever after heard of. He was well known; and the landlord of the Marquis Cornwallis testified to Margaret's having been at his house with the man, as also his being at the same place with Captain Laud, as he was called, the evening before. But what became of him no one ever knew. The half of a letter from his companion in London was found at the inn, and was adduced to show his connexion with a gang of horse-stealers; but this only served to tell against poor Margaret on her trial.

Margaret was removed to Ipswich by _habeas corpus_, July 6th, 1797, and Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler, informed her mistress of her arrival.

On the evening of the day Margaret arrived at Ipswich, she wrote the following letter to her mistress. It has been already stated that she had been taught to read and write, and keep accounts, by Mrs. Cobbold, when she superintended the education of her family; and the results of this teaching, as exemplified in the touching epistles which we shall hereafter present to the reader, will doubtless be received with singular interest, copied as they are from the original documents, which are carefully preserved in the family. The following is the first she ever wrote:--

"Ipswich, Thursday, July 6th, 1797. "HONOURED MADAM,

"Your wretched servant has this evening arrived at the county gaol. Hope induced me to look forward to an earlier abode near you, that I might have the consolation of your instruction and advice. Oh! my honoured lady, when I look upon that dear spot in which you live, and see those green fields before your house, in which I used to walk and play with your dear children, I think the more deeply of the gloom of my felon's chamber, from which I can even at this moment behold them. They recall to my mind those happy hours in which I enjoyed your approbation and respect. How wretched do I now feel! Oh! what have I not lost!

"I am come to Ipswich to take my trial, and am already condemned by my own conscience more severely than any judge can condemn me. But yours must be the task to teach me how to escape, not the condemnation of the judge, but of my own heart. Oh, my dear lady! do come and see me! Many people were kind to me at Newgate, and many persons contributed to my necessities; some indeed flattered me, and called me a brave girl for my recent act, which they termed clever and courageous. But if they were so, dear lady, why should I now feel so much fear? I thought them poor consolers, and not half such sincere friends as those who told me, as you did, the greatness of my offence, and the probable extent of ultimate punishment.

"Honoured madam, would you let a messenger go to my dear father and tell him where I am, and how much I desire to see him? I fear you will think me very bold and troublesome, but I know your kind heart will make allowances for my troubled mind. I should like to see my Uncle Leader. But I should, first of all, like to see you, my dear lady. Perhaps it will not be long before I shall see you no more. I wish to make up my mind to the worst, but I am at times dreadfully troubled. I feel it so hard to be suddenly torn away from every earthly bond, and some on earth I do so dearly love; and none more deserves that love than you do. Pray come to me; and ever believe me

"Your grateful, though "Most wretched servant, "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

"P.S.--Mr. Ripshaw has promised to send you this letter this evening. He tells me you have often inquired for me."

The chaplain of the gaol was a friend of Mrs. Cobbold's; she wrote a note to him requesting him to accompany her at any hour most convenient to himself, to see her poor servant. At eleven o'clock the next day, the interview took place between the wretched culprit and this truly Christian lady. She spent some hours with that disconsolate being, whose whole thoughts seemed to be directed with bitter agony to days of past happiness. For though she had endured much mortification in early life, she had experienced the comfort and consolation of a true and disinterested friend and benefactress in the person of that kind mistress, and her naturally intelligent mind had duly appreciated these benefits.

These visits were repeated many times, and with the most beneficial effects on the mind of the culprit. Her present anguish was the keener, because her sensibilities were all so acutely alive to the memory of the past. It was her mistress's endeavour not to suffer her to be deceived with any false hopes. She was well aware that the penalty of her crime was death, and that unless her instigating accomplice could be delivered up to justice, she stood every chance of being made a public example, on account of the great frequency of the crime. To such an extent had horse-stealing been carried on in the counties of Suffolk and Essex, that scarce a week passed without rewards being offered for the apprehension of the thieves.

Margaret's interviews with her father and brother were still more deeply affecting: but to them and to her beloved mistress alone did she make known the real circumstances, attending her stealing the horse. She did not attempt, however, to defend the act, nor would she admit that another's influence was any exculpation of her offence. Mr. Stebbing, the surgeon of the gaol, who had been her first friend in Ipswich, was very kind to her, as was likewise his benevolent daughter, who lent her many useful books. But the being she most wished to see, and from whose memory she had never thought she could have been displaced, came not near her in her adversity. William Laud had been at Nacton, to see her father and brother. The report of her confession had reached him--he had seen it in the newspapers; and it altered all his views and intentions respecting her; so that the very act which she had done in the hope of strengthening his attachment to her, was the direct cause of his deserting her. In fact, he believed that she had committed the act from an attachment to somebody else, and he gave up all idea of her for the future.

But Margaret was still true to _him_. In one of her interviews with Mrs. Cobbold, that kind and good lady, referring to the fact of Laud's not coming near her in her adversity, said earnestly--

"You must endeavour to think less of him, Margaret."

"It is hard, madam," was the reply, "for flesh and blood not to think of one who has been in one's thoughts so many years of one's life. In happy as well as miserable hours, I have thought of him, madam, and have always hoped for the best. He is still in all my prayers!"

"Your hopes of him, Margaret, must now be at an end. It would have been happier for you, if they ended when you lived with me."

"Perhaps so, good lady; perhaps so. Or even earlier. I think now of my poor sister Susan's last words: 'Margaret, you will never marry William Laud.' I had hoped that these words were only the fears of the moment; but, alas! I perceive they will prove too true!"

The only diversion of Margaret's mind at this period, from a fixed and undivided attention to heavenly things, was the one hope of seeing Laud. She clung with tenacity to this, as a sort of last farewell to all things in the world. She said, that had she but one interview with him, she should then have no other wish but to die.

Time flew fast, and the day of her trial approached. She was to depart for Bury, where the assizes were held, early on the morning of the 9th of August; and, on the preceding day, she wrote the following letter to her mistress:--

"IPSWICH GAOL, August 8th, 1797. "HONOURED MADAM,

"By the time you read this, which I expect will be at your happy breakfast-table to-morrow morning, your poor servant will be at Bury, awaiting the awful moment of her condemnation. I could not leave this place, however, without pouring out my heart to you, my dear and honoured lady; thanking you for your great kindness and Christian charity to my poor soul. I have confessed my guilt to God and man, and I go to my trial with the same determination to plead guilty before both.

"Honoured madam, I am told that the judge will call upon me to know if I have anybody in court to speak to my character. Now, though I cannot hope, and indeed would not urge you to be present in court, considering the state you are now in,[9] yet you have spoken well of me in private, and I know you would never fear to speak publicly that which you have said of me in private. Perhaps a line from you would do that which I want. You well know, my dear madam, that it is not from any hope of its obtaining a pardon for me that I ask it; but it is from the hope that one, whom I shall never see again, may by some means catch a sight of it; and may think better of me than the world at large, who know nothing of me, can do. Pardon this weakness.

"Think not that I have any hope of mercy or pardon here. You have taught me how to hope for both hereafter. You have shown me much mercy and pity here, and the Lord reward you and my dear master for your unmerited compassion to your wretched servant! You have fortified my mind with the riches of consolation in that religion which I hope will be poured with tenfold increase into your own heart, and give you that peace you are so anxious I should possess. It grieves me to see my fellow-prisoners so unprepared for the fate which awaits them. Oh, that they had such friends as I have had! Oh, that they had been partakers of the same consolation as myself! And now, dearest lady, I have only to request your mention of me in your prayers. Bless you, my dear madam! God bless you and your dear children, and may they live to be a blessing to your old age! Give my kind thanks to all those friends who may ever inquire about me. And now, dearest lady, pardon the errors of this letter, as you have done all the graver faults of your ever grateful and now happier servant,

"MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

"To MRS. COBBOLD, St. Margaret's Green, Ipswich."

Margaret, with several other prisoners, departed for Bury assizes in the prisoners' van, which started at six o'clock on the 9th of August, 1797, under the care of Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler, and arrived at that place about eleven o'clock in the forenoon.

The town was in a bustle, and the prisoners were received into the borough gaol that day an hour or so previously to their trial--a day of anxiety to many, but by too many spent in revelry and folly. The various witnesses crowded into the town. The inns were filled on the 8th. Expectation was alive and active; and the bustle of preparing for business created a stir throughout that town, which at other times is the most silent, the coldest, and the dullest place in England.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: The writer of these pages, one of the sons of that excellent woman, was born on the 9th of September following.]