{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_12449/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_12449","id":"gutenberg_12449","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12449","summary":null,"tags":["Adventure stories","Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Christian life -- Fiction","Conduct of life -- Fiction","Courtship -- Fiction","Friendship -- Fiction","Great Britain -- History -- 17th century -- Fiction","Historical Fiction","Uncles -- Fiction","Voyages and travels -- Fiction","Widows -- Fiction","Youth and death -- Fiction"],"text":"Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk\n\n\n\n\nA REPUTED CHANGELING, or, THREE SEVENTH YEARS TWO CENTURIES AGO\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nI do not think I have here forced the hand of history except by\ngiving Portchester to two imaginary Rectors, and by a little\ninjustice to her whom Princess Anne termed 'the brick-bat woman.'\n\nThe trial is not according to present rules, but precedents for its\nirregularities are to be found in the doings of the seventeenth\ncentury, notably in the trial of Spencer Cowper by the same Judge\nHatsel, and I have done my best to represent the habits of those\ncountry gentry who were not infected by the evils of the later\nStewart reigns.\n\nThere is some doubt as to the proper spelling of Portchester, but,\njudging by analogy, the t ought not to be omitted.\n\nC. M. YONGE. 2d May 1889.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I: THE EXPERIENCES OF GOODY MADGE\n\n\n\"Dear Madam, think me not to blame;\nInvisible the fairy came.\nYour precious babe is hence conveyed,\nAnd in its place a changeling laid.\nWhere are the father's mouth and nose,\nThe mother's eyes as black as sloes?\nSee here, a shocking awkward creature,\nThat speaks a fool in every feature.\"\n\nGAY.\n\n\"He is an ugly ill-favoured boy--just like Riquet a la Houppe.\"\n\n\"That he is!  Do you not know that he is a changeling?\"\n\nSuch were the words of two little girls walking home from a school\nfor young ladies kept, at the Cathedral city of Winchester, by two\nFrenchwomen of quality, refugees from the persecutions preluding the\nRevocation of the Edict of Nantes, and who enlivened the studies of\ntheir pupils with the Contes de Commere L'Oie.\n\nThe first speaker was Anne Jacobina Woodford, who had recently come\nwith her mother, the widow of a brave naval officer, to live with\nher uncle, the Prebendary then in residence.  The other was Lucy\nArchfield, daughter to a knight, whose home was a few miles from\nPortchester, Dr. Woodford's parish on the southern coast of\nHampshire.\n\nIn the seventeenth century, when roads were mere ditches often\nimpassable, and country-houses frequently became entirely isolated\nin the winter, it was usual with the wealthier county families to\nmove into their local capital, where some owned mansions and others\nhired prebendal houses, or went into lodgings in the roomy dwellings\nof the superior tradesmen.  For the elders this was the season of\nsocial intercourse, for the young people, of education.\n\nThe two girls, who were about eight years old, had struck up a rapid\nfriendship, and were walking hand in hand to the Close attended by\nthe nurse in charge of Mistress Lucy.  This little lady wore a black\nsilk hood and cape, trimmed with light brown fur, and lined with\npink, while Anne Woodford, being still in mourning for her father,\nwas wrapped in a black cloak, unrelieved except by the white border\nof her round cap, fringed by fair curls, contrasting with her brown\neyes.  She was taller and had a more upright bearing of head and\nneck, with more promise of beauty than her companion, who was much\nmore countrified and would not have been taken for the child of\nhigher station.\n\nThey had traversed the graveyard of the Cathedral, and were passing\nthrough a narrow archway known as the Slype, between the south-\nwestern angle of the Cathedral and a heavy mass of old masonry\nforming part of the garden wall of the present abode of the\nArchfield family, when suddenly both children stumbled and fell,\nwhile an elfish peal of laughter sounded behind them.\n\nLucy came down uppermost, and was scarcely hurt, but Anne had fallen\nprone, striking her chin on the ground, so as to make her bite her\nlip, and bruising knees and elbows severely.  Nurse detected the\ncause of the fall so as to avoid it herself.  It was a cord fastened\nacross the archway, close to the ground, and another shout of\nderision greeted the discovery; while Lucy, regaining her feet,\nbeheld for a moment a weird exulting grimace on a visage peeping\nover a neighbouring headstone.\n\n\"It is he! it is he!  The wicked imp!  There's no peace for him!  I\nsay,\" she screamed, \"see if you don't get a sound flogging!\" and she\nclenched her little fist as the provoking \"Ho! ho! ho!\" rang farther\nand farther off.  \"Don't cry, Anne dear; the Dean and Chapter shall\ntake order with him, and he shall be soundly beaten.  Are you hurt?\nO nurse, her mouth is all blood.\"\n\n\"I hope she has not broken a tooth,\" said nurse, who had been\nattending to the sobbing child.  \"Come in, my lamb, we will wash\nyour face, and make you well.\"\n\nAnne, blinded with tears, jarred, bruised, bleeding, and bewildered,\nsubmitted to be led by kind nurse the more willingly because she\nknew that her mother, together with all the quality, were at Sir\nThomas Charnock's.  They had dined at the fashionable hour of two,\nand were to stay till supper-time, the elders playing at Ombre, the\njuniors dancing.  As a rule the ordinary clergy did not associate\nwith the county families, but Dr. Woodford was of good birth and a\nroyal chaplain, and his deceased brother had been a favourite\nofficer of the Duke of York, and had been so severely wounded by his\nside in the battle of Southwold as to be permanently disabled.\nIndeed Anne Jacobina was godchild to the Duke and his first Duchess,\nwhose favoured attendant her mother had been.  Thus Mrs. Woodford\nwas in great request, and though she had not hitherto gone into\ncompany since her widowhood, she had yielded to Lady Charnock's\nentreaty that she would come and show her how to deal with that\nstrange new Chinese infusion, a costly packet of which had been\nbrought to her from town by Sir Thomas, as the Queen's favourite\nbeverage, wherewith the ladies of the place were to be regaled and\nastonished.\n\nIt had been already arranged that the two little girls should spend\nthe evening together, and as they entered the garden before the\nhouse a rude voice exclaimed, \"Holloa!  London Nan whimpering.  Has\nmy fine lady met a spider or a cow?\" and a big rough lad of twelve,\nin a college gown, spread out his arms, and danced up and down in\nthe doorway to bar the entrance.\n\n\"Don't, Sedley,\" said a sturdy but more gentlemanlike lad of the\nsame age, thrusting him aside.  \"Is she hurt?  What is it?\"\n\n\"That spiteful imp, Peregrine Oakshott,\" said Lucy passionately.\n\"He had a cord across the Slype to trip us up.  I heard him laughing\nlike a hobgoblin, and saw him too, grinning over a tombstone like\nthe malicious elf he is.\"\n\nThe college boy uttered a horse laugh, which made Lucy cry, \"Cousin\nSedley, you are as bad!\" but the other boy was saying, \"Don't cry,\nAnne None-so-pretty.  I'll give it him well!  Though I'm younger,\nI'm bigger, and I'll show him reason for not meddling with my little\nsweetheart.\"\n\n\"Have with you then!\" shouted Sedley, ready for a fray on whatever\npretext, and off they rushed, as nurse led little Anne up the broad\nshallow steps of the dark oak staircase, but Lucy stood laughing\nwith exultation in the intended vengeance, as her brother took down\nher father's hunting-whip.\n\n\"He must be wellnigh a fiend to play such wicked pranks under the\nvery Minster!\" she said.\n\n\"And a rascal of a Whig, and that's worse,\" added Charles; \"but I'll\nhave it out of him!\"\n\n\"Take care, Charley; if you offend him, and he does really belong to\nthose--those creatures\"--Lucy lowered her voice--\"who knows what\nthey might do to you?\"\n\nCharles laughed long and loud.  \"I'll take care of that,\" he said,\nswinging out at the door.  \"Elf or no elf, he shall learn what it is\nto play off his tricks on _my_ sister and my little sweetheart.\"\n\nLucy betook herself to the nursery, where Anne was being comforted,\nher bleeding lip washed with essence, and repaired with a pinch of\nbeaver from a hat, and her other bruises healed with lily leaves\nsteeped in strong waters.\n\n\"Charley is gone to serve him out!\" announced Lucy as the sovereign\nremedy.\n\n\"Oh, but perhaps he did not mean it,\" Anne tried to say.\n\n\"Mean it?  Small question of that, the cankered young slip!  Nurse,\ndo you think those he belongs to can do Charley any harm if he\nangers them?\"\n\n\"I cannot say, missie.  Only 'tis well we be not at home, or there\nmight be elf knots in the horses' manes to-night.  I doubt me\nwhether _that sort_ can do much hurt here, seeing as 'tis holy\nground.\"\n\n\"But is he really a changeling?  I thought there were no such things\nas--\"\n\n\"Hist, hist, Missie Anne!\" cried the dame; \"'tis not good to name\nthem.\"\n\n\"Oh, but we are on the Minster ground, nurse,\" said Lucy, trembling\na little however, looking over her shoulder, and coming closer to\nthe old servant.\n\n\"Why do they think so?\" asked Anne.  \"Is it because he is so ugly\nand mischievous and rude?  Not like boys in London.\"\n\n\"Prithee, nurse, tell her the tale,\" entreated Lucy, who had made\nlarge eyes over it many a time before.\n\n\"Ay, and who should tell you all about it save me, who had it all\nfrom Goody Madge Bulpett, as saw it all!\"\n\n\"Goody Madge!  It was she that came when poor little Kitty was born\nand died,\" suggested Lucy, as Anne, laying her aching head upon\nnurse's knees, prepared to listen to the story.\n\n\"Well, deary darlings, you see poor Madam Oakshott never had her\nhealth since the Great Fire in London, when she was biding with her\nkinsfolk to be near Major Oakshott, who had got into trouble about\nsome of his nonconforming doings.  The poor lady had a mortal fright\nbefore she could be got out of Gracechurch Street as was all of a\nblaze, and she was so afeard of her husband being burnt as he lay in\nNewgate that she could scarce be got away, and whether it was that,\nor that she caught cold lying out in a tent on Highgate Hill, she\nhas never had a day's health since.\"\n\n\"And the gentleman--her husband?\" asked Anne.\n\n\"They all broke prison, poor fellows, as they had need to do, and\nthe Major's time was nearly up.  He made himself busy in saving and\nhelping the folk in the streets; and his brother, Sir Peregrine, who\nwas thick with the King, and is in foreign parts now, took the\nchance to speak of the poor lady's plight and say it would be the\ndeath of her if he could not get his discharge, and his Majesty,\nbless his kind heart, gave the order at once.  So they took madam\nhome to the Chace, but she has been but an ailing body ever since.\"\n\n\"But the fairy, the fairy, how did she change the babe?\" cried Anne.\n\n\"Hush, hush, dearie! name them not.  I am coming to it all in good\ntime.  I was telling you how the poor lady failed and pined from\nthat hour, and was like to die.  My gossip Madge told me how when,\nnext Midsummer, this unlucky babe was born they had to take him from\nher chamber at once because any sound of crying made her start in\nher sleep, and shriek that she heard a poor child wailing who had\nbeen left in a burning house.  Moll Owens, the hind's wife, a comely\nlass, was to nurse him, and they had him at once to her in the\nnursery, where was the elder child, two years old, Master Oliver, as\nyou know well, Mistress Lucy, a fine-grown, sturdy little Turk as\never was.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know him,\" answered Lucy; \"and if his brother's a\nchangeling, he is a bear!  The Whig bear is what Charley calls him.\"\n\n\"Well, what does that child do but trot out of the nursery, and try\nto scramble down the stairs.--Never tell me but that they you wot of\ntrained him out--not that they had power over a Christian child, but\nthat they might work their will on the little one.  So they must\nneeds trip him up, so that he rolled down the stair hollering and\nsqualling all the way enough to bring the house down, and his poor\nlady mother, she woke up in a fit.  The womenfolk ran, Molly and\nall, she being but a slip of a girl herself and giddy-pated, and\nwhen they came back after quieting Master Oliver, the babe was\nchanged.\"\n\n\"Then they didn't see the--\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, missie! no one never sees 'em or they couldn't do\nnothing.  They cannot, if a body is looking.  But what had been as\nlikely a child before as you would wish to handle was gone!  The\npoor little mouth was all of a twist, and his eyelid drooped, and he\nnever ceased mourn, mourn, mourn, wail, wail, wail, day and night,\nand whatever food he took he never was satisfied, but pined and\npeaked and dwined from day to day, so as his little legs was like\nknitting pins.  The lady was nigh upon death as it seemed, so that\nno one took note of the child at first, but when Madge had time to\nlook at him, she saw how it was, as plain as plain could be, and\ntold his father.  But men are unbelieving, my dears, and always\nthink they know better than them as has the best right, and Major\nOakshott would hear of no such thing, only if the boy was like to\ndie, he must be christened.  Well, Madge knew that sometimes they\nflee at touch of holy water, but no; though the thing mourned and\nmoaned enough to curdle your blood and screeched out when the water\ntouched him, there he was the same puny little canker.  So when\nmadam was better, and began to fret over the child that was nigh\nupon three months old, and no bigger than a newborn babe, Madge up\nand told her how it was, and the way to get her own again.\"\n\n\"What was that, nurse?\"\n\n\"There be different ways, my dear.  Madge always held to breaking\nfive and twenty eggs and have a pot boiling on a good sea-coal fire\nwith the poker in it red hot, and then drop the shells in one by\none, in sight of the creature in the cradle.  Presently it will up\nand ask whatever you are about.  Then you gets the poker in your\nhand as you says, \"A-brewing of egg shells.\"  Then it says, \"I'm\nforty hundred years old and odd, and yet I never heard of a-brewing\nof egg shells.\"  Then you ups with the poker and at him to thrust it\ndown his ugly throat, and there's a hissing and a whirling, and he\nis snatched away, and the real darling, all plump and rosy, is put\nback in the cradle.\"\n\n\"And did they?\"\n\n\"No, my dears.  Madam was that soft-hearted she could not bring her\nmind to it, though they promised her not to touch him unless he\nspoke.  But nigh on two years later, Master Robert was born, as fine\nand lusty and straight-limbed as a chrisom could be, while the other\ncould not walk a step, but sat himself about on the floor, a-moaning\nand a-fretting with the legs of him for all the world like the\ndrumsticks of a fowl, and his hands like claws, and his face wizened\nup like an old gaffer of a hundred, or the jackanapes that Martin\nBoats'n brought from Barbary.  So after a while madam saw the rights\nof it, and gave consent that means should be taken as Madge and\nother wise folk would have it; but he was too old by that time for\nthe egg shells, for he could talk, talk, and ask questions enough to\ndrive you wild.  So they took him out under the privet hedge, Madge\nand her gossip Deborah Clint, and had got his clothes off to flog\nhim with nettles till they changed him, when the ill-favoured elf\nbegan to squall and shriek like a whole litter of pigs, and as ill\nluck would have it, the master was within hearing, though they had\nwatched him safe off to one of his own 'venticles, but it seems\nthere had been warning that the justices were on the look-out, so\nhome he came.  And behold, the thing that never knew the use of his\nfeet before, ups and flies at him, and lays hold of his leg,\nhollering out, \"Sir, father, don't let them,\" and what not.  So then\nit was all over with them, as though that were not proof enow what\nmanner of thing it was!  Madge tried to put him off with washing\nwith yarbs being good for the limbs, but when he saw that Deb was\nthere, he saith, saith he, as grim as may be, \"Thou shalt not suffer\na witch to live,\" which was hard, for she is but a white witch; and\nhe stormed and raved at them with Bible texts, and then he vowed\n(men are so headstrong, my dears) that if ever he ketched them at it\nagain, he would see Deb burnt for a witch at the stake, and Madge\nhung for the murder of the child, and he is well known to be a man\nof his word.  So they had to leave him to abide by his bargain, and\na sore handful he has of it.\"\n\nAnne drew a long sigh and asked whether the real boy in fairyland\nwould never come back.\n\n\"There's no telling, missie dear.  Some say they are bound there for\never and a day, some that they as holds 'em are bound to bring them\nback for a night once in seven years, and in the old times if they\nwas sprinkled with holy water, and crossed, they would stay, but\nthere's no such thing as holy water now, save among the Papists, and\nif one knew the way to cross oneself, it would be as much as one's\nlife was worth.\"\n\n\"If Peregrine was to die,\" suggested Lucy.\n\n\"Bless your heart, dearie, he'll never die!  When the true one's\ntime comes, you'll see, if so be you be alive to see it, as Heaven\ngrant, he will go off like the flame of a candle and nothing be left\nin his place but a bit of a withered sting nettle.  But come, my\nsweetings, 'tis time I got your supper.  I'll put some nice rosy-\ncheeked apples down to roast, to be soft for Mistress Woodford's\nsore mouth.\"\n\nBefore the apples were roasted, Charles Archfield and his cousin,\nthe colleger Sedley Archfield, a big boy in a black cloth gown, came\nin with news of having--together with the other boys, including\nOliver and Robert Oakshott--hunted Peregrine all round the Close,\nbut he ran like a lapwing, and when they had pinned him up in the\ncorner by Dr. Ken's house, he slipped through their fingers up the\nivy, and grinned at them over the wall like the imp he was.  Noll\nsaid it was always the way, he was no more to be caught than a bit\nof thistledown, but Sedley meant to call out all the college boys\nand hunt and bait him down like a badger on 'Hills.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II: HIGH TREASON\n\n\n\"Whate'er it be that is within his reach,\nThe filching trick he doth his fingers teach.\"\n\nRobin Badfellow.\n\nThere was often a considerable distance between children and their\nparents in the seventeenth century, but Anne Woodford, as the only\nchild of her widowed mother, was as solace, comfort, and companion;\nand on her pillow in early morning the child poured forth in grave\nearnest the entire story of the changeling, asking whether he could\nnot be \"taken to good Dr. Ken, or the Dean, or the Bishop to be ex--\nex--what is it, mother?  Not whipped with nettles.  Oh no! nor burnt\nwith red hot pokers, but have holy words said so that the right one\nmay come back.\"\n\n\"My dear child, did you really believe that old nurse's tale?\"\n\n\"O madam, she _knew_ it.  The other old woman saw it!  I always\nthought fairies and elves were only in tales, but Lucy's nurse knows\nit is true.  And _he_ is not a bit like other lads, mamma dear.  He\nis lean and small, and his eyes are of different colours, look two\nways at once, and his mouth goes awry when he speaks, and he laughs\njust like--like a fiend.  Lucy and I call him Riquet a la Houppe,\nbecause he is just like the picture in Mademoiselle's book, with a\ngreat stubbly bunch of hair sticking out on one side, and though he\nwalks a little lame, he can hop and skip like a grasshopper, faster\nthan any of the boys, and leap up a wall in a moment, and grin--oh\nmost frightfully.  Have you ever seen him, mamma?\"\n\n\"I think so.  I saw a poor boy, who seemed to me to have had a\nstroke of some sort when he was an infant.\"\n\n\"But, madam, that would not make him so spiteful and malicious!\"\n\n\"If every one is against him and treats him as a wicked mischievous\nelf, it is only too likely to make him bitter and spiteful.  Nay,\nAnne, if you come back stuffed with old wives' tales, I shall not\nallow you to go home with Lucy Archfield.\"\n\nThe threat silenced Anne, who was a grave and rather silent little\nperson, and when she mentioned it to her friend, the answer was,\n\"Did you tell your mother?  If I had told mine, I should have been\nwhipped for repeating lying tales.\"\n\n\"Oh then you don't believe it!\"\n\n\"It must be true, for Madge knew it.  But that's the way always if\none lets out that one knows more than they think.\"\n\n\"It is not the way with my mother,\" stoutly said Anne, drawing up\nher dignified little head.  And she kept her resolution, for though\na little excited by her first taste of lively youthful\ncompanionship, she was naturally a thoughtful reticent child, with a\ncharacter advanced by companionship with her mother as an only\nchild, through a great sorrow.  Thus she was in every respect more\ndeveloped than her contemporary Lucy, who regarded her with wonder\nas well as affection, and she was the object of the boyish devotion\nof Charley, who often defended her from his cousin Sedley's\nendeavours to put down what he considered upstart airs in a little\nnobody from London.  Sedley teased and baited every weak thing in\nhis way, and Lucy had been his chief butt till Anne Woodford's\nunconscious dignity and more cultivated manners excited his utmost\nspleen.\n\nLucy might be incredulous, but she was eager to tell that when her\ncousin Sedley Archfield was going back to 'chambers,' down from the\nClose gate came the imp on his shoulders in the twilight and twisted\nboth legs round his neck, holding tight on in spite of plunges,\npinches, and endeavours to scrape him off against the wall, which\nwere frustrated or retaliated by hair pulling, choking, till just\nere entering the college gateway, where Sedley looked to get his\nrevenge among his fellows, he found his shoulders free, and heard\n\"Ho! ho! ho!\" from the top of a wall close at hand.  All the more\nwas the young people's faith in the changeling story confirmed, and\nchild-world was in those days even more impenetrable to their elders\nthan at present.\n\nChangeling or no, it was certain that Peregrine Oakshott was the\nplague of the Close, where his father, an ex-officer of the\nParliamentary army, had unwillingly hired a house for the winter,\nfor the sake of medical treatment for his wife, a sufferer from a\ncomplication of ailments.  Oakwood, his home, was about five miles\nfrom Dr. Woodford's living of Portchester, and as the families would\nthus be country neighbours, Mrs. Woodford thought it well to begin\nthe acquaintance at Winchester.  While knocking at the door of the\nhouse on the opposite side of the Close, she was aware of an elfish\nvisage peering from an upper window.  There was the queer mop of\ndark hair, the squinting light eyes, the contorted grin crooking the\nmouth, the odd sallow face, making her quite glad to get out of\nsight of the strange grimaces which grew every moment more hideous.\n\nMrs. Oakshott sat in an arm-chair beside a large fire in a\nwainscotted room, with a folding-screen shutting off the window.\nHer spinning-wheel was near, but it was only too plain that 'feeble\nwas the hand, and silly the thread.'  She bent her head in its\nwadded black velvet hood, but excused herself from rising, as she\nwas crippled by rheumatic pains.  She had evidently once been a\npretty little person, innocent and inane, and her face had become\nlike that of a withered baby, piteous in its expression of pain and\nweariness, but otherwise somewhat vacant.  At first, indeed, there\nwas a look of alarm.  Perhaps she expected every visitor to come\nwith a complaint of her unlucky Peregrine, but when Mrs. Woodford\nspoke cheerfully of being her neighbour in the country, she was\nevidently relieved and even gratified, prattling in a soft plaintive\ntone about her sufferings and the various remedies, ranging from\nwoodlice rolled into natural pills, and grease off the church bells,\nto diamond dust and Goa stones, since, as she said, there was no\ncost to which Major Oakshott would not go for her benefit.  He had\neven procured for her a pound of the Queen's new Chinese herb, and\nit certainly was as nauseous as could be wished, when boiled in\nmilk, but she was told that was not the way it was taken at my Lady\nCharnock's.  She was quite animated when Mrs. Woodford offered to\nshow her how to prepare it.\n\nTherewith the master of the house came in, and the aspect of affairs\nchanged.  He was a tall, dark, grave man, plainly though handsomely\ndressed, and in a gentlemanly way making it evident that visits to\nhis wife were not welcome.  He said that her health never permitted\nher to go abroad, and that his poor house contained nothing that\ncould please a Court lady.  Mrs. Oakshott shrank into herself, and\nbecame shy and silent, and Mrs. Woodford felt constrained to take\nleave, courteously conducted to the door by her unwilling host.\n\nShe had not taken many steps before she was startled by a sharp\nshower from a squirt coming sidelong like a blow on her cheek and\nsurprising her into a low cry, which was heard by the Major, so that\nhe hastened out, exclaiming, \"Madam, I trust that you are not hurt.\"\n\n\"Oh no, sir!  It is nothing--not a stone--only water!\" she said,\nwiping it with her handkerchief.\n\n\"I am grieved and ashamed at the evil pranks of my unhappy son, but\nhe shall suffer for it.\"\n\n\"Nay, sir, I pray you.  It was only childish mischief.\"\n\nHe had not waited to hear her pleadings, and before she was half\nacross the Close he had overtaken her, dragging the cowering\nstruggling boy in his powerful grasp.\n\n\"Now, Peregrine,\" he commanded, \"let me instantly hear you ask the\nlady's pardon for your dastardly trick.  Or--!\" and his other hand\nwas raised for a blow.\n\n\"I am sure he is sorry,\" said Mrs. Woodford, making a motion to ward\noff the stroke, and as the queer eyes glanced up at her in wondering\ninquiry, she laid her hand on the bony shoulder, saying, \"I know you\ndid not mean to hurt me.  You are sorry, are you not?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" the boy muttered, and she saw a look of surprise on his\nfather's face.\n\n\"There,\" she said, \"he has made his amends, and surely that may\nsuffice.\"\n\n\"Nay, madam, it would be a weak and ungodly tenderness that would\nspare to drive forth the evil spirit which possesses the child by\nthe use of the rod.  I should fail in my duty alike to God and man,\"\nhe added, in reply to a fresh gesture of intercession, \"did I not\nteach him what it is to insult a lady at mine own door.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford could only go away, heartily sorry for the boy.  From\nthat time, however, both she and her little daughter were untouched\nby his tricks, though every one else had some complaint.  Peas were\nshot from unknown recesses at venerable canons, mice darted out\nbefore shrieking ladies, frogs' clammy forms descended on the nape\nof their necks, hedgehogs were curled up on their chairs, and though\nPeregrine Oakshott was not often caught in the act, no mischief ever\ntook place that was not attributed to him; and it was popularly\nbelieved in the Close that his father flogged him every morning for\nwhat he was about to do, and his tutor repeated the castigation\nevery evening for what he had done, besides interludes at each\ndetection.\n\nPerhaps frequent usage had toughened his skin, or he had become\nexpert in wriggling from the full force of the blow, or else, as\nmany believed, the elfish nature was impervious; for he was as ready\nas ever for a trick the moment he was released, like, as his brother\nsaid, the dog Keeper, who, with a slaughtered chick hung round his\nneck in penance, rushed murderously upon the rest of the brood.\n\nYet Mrs. Woodford, on her way through the Cathedral nave, was aware\nof something leaning against one of the great columns, crouching\ntogether so that the dark head, supported on the arms, rested\nagainst the pillar which fluted the pier.  The organ was pealing\nsoftly and plaintively, and the little gray coat seemed to heave as\nwith a sob.  She stood, impelled to offer to take him with her into\nthe choir, but a verger, spying him, began rating him in a tone fit\nfor expelling a dog, \"Come, master, none of your pranks here!  Be\nnot you ashamed of yourself to be lying in wait for godly folk on\ntheir way to prayers?  If I catch you here again the Dean shall hear\nof it, and you shall smart for it.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford began, \"He was only hearkening to the music,\" but she\ncaught such a look of malignity cast upon the verger as perfectly\nappalled her, and in another moment the boy had dashed, head over\nheels, out at the nearest door.\n\nThe next report that reached her related how a cloud of lime had\nsuddenly descended from a broken arch of the cloister on the solemn\nverger, on his way to escort the Dean to the Minster, powdering his\nwig, whitening his black gown from collar to hem, and not a little\nendangering his eyesight.\n\nThe culprit eluded all pursuit on this occasion; but Mrs. Woodford\nsoon after was told that the Major had caught Peregrine listening at\nthe little south door of the choir, had collared him, and flogged\nhim worse than ever, for being seduced by the sounds of the popish\nand idolatrous worship, and had told all his sons that the like\nchastisement awaited them if they presumed to cross the threshold of\nthe steeple house.\n\nNevertheless the Senior Prefect of the college boys, when about to\ncome out of the Cathedral on Sunday morning, found his gown pinned\nwith a skewer so fast to the seat that he was only set free at the\nexpense of a rent.  Public opinion decided that the deed had been\ndone by the imp of Oakshott, and accordingly the whole of the\nWykeham scholars set on him with hue and cry the first time they saw\nhim outside the Close, and hunted him as far as St. Cross, where he\nsuddenly and utterly vanished from their sight.\n\nMrs. Woodford agreed with Anne that it was a very strange story.\nFor how could he have been in the Cathedral at service time when it\nwas well known that Major Oakshott had all his family together at\nhis own form of worship in his house?  Anne, who had been in hopes\nthat her mother would be thus convinced of his supernatural powers,\nlooked disappointed, but she had afterwards to confess that Charles\nArchfield had found out that it was his cousin Sedley Archfield who\nhad played the audacious trick, in revenge for a well-merited\ntunding from the Prefect.\n\n\"And then saddled it on young Oakshott?\" asked her mother.\n\n\"Charley says one such matter more or less makes no odds to the Whig\nape; but I cannot endure Sedley Archfield, mamma.\"\n\n\"If he lets another lad bear the blame of his malice he cannot\nindeed be a good lad.\"\n\n\"So Charley and Lucy say,\" returned Anne.  \"We shall be glad to be\naway from Winchester, for while Peregrine Oakshott torments slyly,\nSedley Archfield loves to frighten us openly, and to hurt us to see\nhow much we can bear, and if Charley tries to stand up for us,\nSedley calls him a puny wench, and a milksop, and knocks him down.\nBut, dear madam, pray do not tell what I have said to her ladyship,\nfor there is no knowing what Sedley would do to us.\"\n\n\"My little maid has not known before what boys can be!\"\n\n\"No; but indeed Charles Archfield is quite different, almost as if\nhe had been bred in London.  He is a very gentleman.  He never is\nrude to any girl, and he is courteous and gentle and kind.  He\ngathered walnuts for us yesterday, and cracked all mine, and I am to\nmake him a purse with two of the shells.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford smiled, but there was a short thrill of anxiety in her\nmotherly heart as her glance brought up a deeper colour into Anne's\ncheeks.  There was a reserve to bring that glow, for the child knew\nthat if she durst say that Charles called her his little sweetheart\nand wife, and that the walnut-shell purse would be kept as a token,\nshe should be laughed at as a silly child, perhaps forbidden to make\nit, or else her uncle might hear and make a joke of it.  It was not\nexactly disingenuousness, but rather the first dawn of maidenly\nreserve and modesty that reddened her cheek in a manner her mother\ndid not fail to observe.\n\nYet it was with more amusement than misgiving, for children played\nat courtship like other games in mimicry of being grown up, and a\nbaronet's only son was in point of fact almost as much out of the\nreach of a sea captain's daughter and clergyman's niece as a prince\nof the blood royal; and Master Archfield would probably be\ncontracted long before he could choose for himself, for his family\nwere not likely to take into account that if Captain Woodford had\nnot been too severely wounded to come forward after the battle of\nSouthwold Bay he would have been knighted.  On the strength of which\nAnne, as her companions sometimes said, gave herself in consequence\nmore airs than Mistress Lucy ever did.\n\nSedley, a poor cousin, a destitute cavalier's orphan, who had been\nplaced on the foundation at Winchester College in hopes that he\nmight be provided for in the Church, would have been far more on her\nlevel, and indeed Lady Archfield, a notable matchmaker, had already\nhinted how suitable such a thing would be.  However, the present\nschool character of Master Sedley, as well as her own observations,\nby no means inclined Mrs. Woodford towards the boy, large limbed and\ncomely faced, but with a bullying, scowling air that did not augur\nwell for his wife or his parish.\n\nWhether it were this lad's threats, or more likely, the fact that\nall the Close was on the alert, Peregrine's exploits were less\nfrequent there, and began to extend to the outskirts of the city.\nThere were some fine yew trees on the southern borders, towards the\nchalk down, with massive dark foliage upon stout ruddy branches,\namong which Peregrine, armed with a fishing-rod, line, and hook, sat\nperched, angling for what might be caught from unconscious\npassengers along a path which led beneath.\n\nFrom a market-woman's basket he abstracted thus a fowl!  His \"Ho!\nho! ho!\" startled her into looking up, and seeing it apparently\nresuscitated, and hovering aloft.  Full of dismay, she hurried\nshrieking away to tell the story of the bewitched chick at the\nmarket-cross among her gossips.\n\nHis next capture was a chop from a butcher boy's tray, but this\ninvolved more peril, for with a fierce oath that he would be\nrevenged on the Whiggish imp, the lad darted at the tree, in vain,\nhowever, for Peregrine had dropped down on the other side, and crept\nunseen to another bush, where he lay perdu, under the thick green\nbranches, rod and all, while the youth, swearing and growling, was\nshaking his former refuge.\n\nAs soon as the coast was clear he went back to his post, and\npresently was aware of three gentlemen advancing over the down,\npointing, measuring, and surveying.  One was small and slight, as\nsimply dressed as a gentleman of the period could be; another was\nclad in a gay coat with a good deal of fluttering ribbon and rich\nlace; the third, a tall well-made man, had a plain walking suit,\nsurmounted by a flowing periwig and plumed beaver.  Coming close\nbeneath Peregrine's tree, and standing with their backs to it, they\neagerly conversed.  \"Such a cascade will drown the honours of the\nVersailles fountains, if only the water can be raised to such a\nheight.  Are you sure of it, Wren?\"\n\n\"As certain as hydraulics can make me, sir,\" and the lesser man\nbegan drawing lines with his stick in the dust of the path in\ndemonstration.\n\nThe opportunity was irresistible, and the hook from above deftly\ncaught the band of the feathered hat of the taller man, slowly and\nsteadily drawing it up, entirely unperceived by the owner, on whose\nwig it had rested, and who was bending over the dust-traced diagram\nin absorbed attention.  Peregrine deferred his hobgoblin laughter,\nfor success emboldened him farther.  Detaching the hat from his\nhook, and depositing it safely in a fork of the tree, he next\ncautiously let down his line, and contrived to get a strong hold of\none of the black locks on the top of the wig, just as the wearer was\nobserving, \"Oliver's Battery, eh?  A cupola with a light to be seen\nout at sea?  Our sailors will make another St. Christopher of you!\nHa! what's this'\"\n\nFor feeling as if a branch were touching the structure on his head,\nhe had stepped forward, thus favouring Peregrine's manoeuvres so\nthat the wig dangled in the air, suddenly disclosing the bare skull\nof a very dark man, with such marked features that it needed not the\ngentlemen's outcry to show the boy who was the victim of his\nmischief.\n\n\"What imp is there?\" cried the King, spying up into the tree, while\nhis attendant drew his sword, \"How now?\" as Peregrine half climbed,\nhalf tumbled down, bringing hat and wig with him, and, whether by\ndesign or accident, fell at his feet.  \"Will nothing content you but\nroyal game?\" he continued laughing, as Sir Christopher Wren helped\nhim to resume his wig.  \"Why, what a shrimp it is! a mere goblin\nsprite!  What's thy name, master wag?\"\n\n\"Peregrine Oakshott, so please you,\" the boy answered, raising\nhimself with a face scared indeed, but retaining its queer\nimpishness.  \"Sir, I never guessed--\"\n\n\"Young rogue! have you our licence to waylay our loyal subjects?\"\ndemanded the King, with an affected fierceness.  \"Know you not 'tis\nrank treason to discrown our sacred Majesty, far more to dishevel or\ndestroy our locks?  Why!  I might behead you on the spot.\"  To his\ngreat amazement the boy, with an eager face and clasped hands,\nexclaimed, \"O sir!  Oh, please your Majesty, do so.\"\n\n\"Do so!\" exclaimed the King astounded.  \"Didst hear what I said?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir!  You said it was a beheading matter, and I'm willing,\nsir.\"\n\n\"Of all the petitions that ever were made to me, this is the\nstrangest!\" exclaimed Charles.  \"An urchin like this weary of life!\nWhat next?  So,\" with a wink to his companions, \"Peregrine Oakshott,\nwe condemn thee for high treason against our most sacred Majesty's\nbeaver and periwig, and sentence thee to die by having thine head\nsevered from thy body.  Kneel down, open thy collar, bare thy neck.\nAy, so, lay thy neck across that bough.  Killigrew, do thy duty.\"\n\nTo the general surprise, the boy complied with all these directions,\nnever flinching nor showing sign of fear, except that his lips were\nset and his cheek whitened.  As he knelt, with closed eyes, the flat\ncold blade descended on his neck, the tension relaxed, and he sank!\n\n\"Hold!\" cried the King.  \"It is gone too far!  He has surely not\ncarried out the jest by dying on our hands.\"\n\n\"No, no, sir,\" said Wren, after a moment's alarm, \"he has only\nswooned.  Has any one here a flask of wine to revive him?\"\n\nSeveral gentlemen had come up, and as Peregrine stirred, some wine\nwas held to his lips, and he presently asked in a faint voice, \"Is\nthis fairyland?\"\n\n\"Not yet, my lad,\" said Charles, \"whatever it may be when Wren's\nwork is done.\"\n\nThe boy opened his eyes, and as he beheld the same face, and the too\nfamiliar sky and trees, he sighed heavily, and said, \"Then it is all\nthe same!  O sir, would you but have cut off my head in good\nearnest, I might be at home again!\"\n\n\"Home! what means the elf?\"\n\n\"An elf!  That is what they say I am--changed in the cradle,\" said\nPeregrine, incited to confidence by the good-natured eyes, \"and I\nthought if I were close on death mine own people might take me home,\nand bring back the right one.\"\n\n\"He really believes it!\" exclaimed Charles much diverted.  \"Tell me,\ngood Master Elf, who is thy father, I mean not my brother Oberon,\nbut him of the right one, as thou sayst.\"\n\n\"Mr. Robert Oakshott of Oakwood, sir,\" said Peregrine.\n\n\"A sturdy squire of the country party,\" said the King.  \"I am much\nminded to secure the lad for an elfin page,\" he added aside to\nKilligrew.  \"There's a fund of excellent humour and drollery in\nthose queer eyes of his!  So, Sir Hobgoblin, if you are proof\nagainst cold steel, I know not what is to be done with you.  Get you\nback, and devise some other mode of finding your way home to\nfairyland.\"\n\nPeregrine said not a word of his adventure, so that the surprise of\nhis family was the greater when overtures were made through Sir\nChristopher Wren for his appointment as a royal page.\n\n\"I would as soon send my son at once to be a page to Beelzebub,\"\nreturned Major Oakshott.\n\nAnd though Sir Christopher did not return the answer exactly in\nthose terms, he would not say that the Puritan Major did not judge\nrightly.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III: THE FAIRY KING\n\n\n\"She's turned her right and round about,\n   And thrice she blew on a grass-green horn,\nAnd she sware by the moon and the stars above\n   That she'd gar me rue the day I was born.\"\n\nOld Ballad of Alison Cross.\n\nDr. Woodford's parish was Portchester, where stood the fine old\nroyal castle at present ungarrisoned, and partly dismantled in the\nrecent troubles, on a chalk peninsula, a spur from Portsdown,\nprojecting above the alluvial flats, and even into the harbour,\nwhose waves at high tide laved the walls.  The church and churchyard\nwere within the ample circuit of the fortifications, about two\nfurlongs distant from the main building, where rose the mighty\nNorman keep, above the inner court, with a gate tower at this date,\nonly inhabited by an old soldier as porter with his family.  A\nmassive square tower at each angle of the huge wall likewise defied\ndecay.\n\nIt was on Midsummer eve, that nearly about sundown, Dr. Woodford was\nsummoned by the severe illness of the gatekeeper's old father, and\nhis sister-in-law went with him to attempt what her skill could\naccomplish for the old man's relief.\n\nThey were detained there till the sun had long set, though the air,\nsaturated with his redness, was full of soft twilight, while the\nmoon, scarcely past the full, was just high enough to silver the\nquiet sea, and throw the shadow of the battlements and towers on the\nsward whitened with dew.\n\nAfter the close atmosphere of the sickroom the freshness was\nwelcome, and Mrs. Woodford, once a friend of Katherine Phillips,\n'the Matchless Orinda,' had an eye and a soul to appreciate the\nbeauty, and she even murmured the lines of Il Penseroso as she leant\non the arm of her brother-in-law, who, in his turn, thought of\nHomer.\n\nSuddenly, as they stood in the shadow, they were aware of a small,\nslight, fantastic figure in the midst of the grass-grown court,\nwhere there was a large green mushroom circle or fairy ring.  On the\nborders of this ring it paused with an air of disappointment.  Then\nentering it stood still, took off the hat, whose lopsided appearance\nhad given so strange an outline, and bowed four times in opposite\ndirections, when, as the face was turned towards the spectators,\ninvisible in the dark shadow, the lady recognised Peregrine\nOakshott.  She pressed the Doctor's arm, and they both stood still\nwatching the boy bathing his hand in the dew, and washing his face\nwith it, then kneeling on one knee, and clasping his hands, as he\ncried aloud in a piteous chant--\n\n\"Fairy mother, fairy mother!  Oh, come, come and take me home!  My\nvery life is sore to me.  They all hate me!  My brothers and the\nservants, every one of them.  And my father and tutor say I am\npossessed with an evil spirit, and I am beaten daily, and more than\ndaily.  I can never, never get a good word from living soul!  This\nis the second seven years, and Midsummer night!  Oh, bring the other\nback again!  I'm weary, I'm weary!  Good elves, good elves, take me\nhome.  Fairy mother!  Come, come, come!\"  Shutting his eyes he\nseemed to be in a state of intense expectation.  Tears filled Mrs.\nWoodford's eyes.  The Doctor moved forward, but no sooner did the\nboy become conscious of human presence than he started up, and fled\nwildly towards a postern door, but no sooner had he disappeared in\nthe shadow than there was a cry and a fall.\n\n\"Poor child!\" exclaimed Dr. Woodford, \"he has fallen down the steps\nto the vault.  It is a dangerous pitfall.\"\n\nThey both hurried to the place, and found the boy lying on the steps\nleading down to the vault, but motionless, and when they succeeded\nin lifting him up, he was quite unconscious, having evidently struck\nhis head against the mouth of the vault.\n\n\"We must carry him home between us,\" said Mrs. Woodford.  \"That will\nbe better than rousing Miles Gateward, and making a coil.\"\n\nDr. Woodford, however, took the entire weight, which he declared to\nbe very slight.  \"No one would think the poor child fourteen years\nold,\" he observed, \"yet did he not speak of a second seven?\"\n\n\"True,\" said Mrs. Woodford, \"he was born after the Great Fire of\nLondon, which, as I have good cause to know, was in the year '66.\"\n\nThere was still little sign of revival about the boy when he had\nbeen carried into the Parsonage, undressed and laid in the Doctor's\nown bed, only a few moans when he was handled, and on his thin,\nsharp features there was a piteous look of sadness entirely unlike\nhis ordinary expression of malignant fun, and which went to the kind\nhearts of the Doctor and Mrs. Woodford.  After exhausting their own\nremedies, as soon as the early daylight was available Dr. Woodford\ncalled up a couple of servants, and sent one into Portsmouth for a\nsurgeon, and another to Oakwood to the parents.\n\nThe doctor was the first to arrive, though not till the morning was\nwell advanced.  He found that three ribs were broken against the\nedge of the stone step, and the head severely injured, and having\nhad sufficient experience in the navy to be a reasonably safe\npractitioner, he did nothing worse than bleed the patient, and\ndeclared that absolute rest was the only hope of recovery.\n\nHe was being regaled with cold roast pig and ale when Major Oakshott\nrode up to the door.  Four horses were dragging the great lumbering\ncoach over Portsdown hill, but he had gone on before, to thank Dr.\nand Mrs. Woodford for their care of his unfortunate son, and to make\npreparations for his transport home under the care of his wife's own\nwoman, who was coming in the coach in the stead of the invalid lady.\n\n\"Nay, sir.  Master Brent here has a word to say to that matter,\"\nreplied the Doctor.\n\n\"Truly, sir, I have,\" said the surgeon; \"in his present state it is\nas much as your son's life is worth to move him.\"\n\n\"Be that as it may seem to man, he is in the hand of Heaven, and he\nought to be at home, whether for life or death.\"\n\n\"For death it will assuredly be, sir, if he be jolted and shaken\nalong the Portsdown roads--yea, I question whether you would get him\nto Oakwood alive,\" said Brent, with naval roughness.\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" added Mrs. Woodford, \"Mrs. Oakshott may be assured of\nmy giving him as tender care as though he were mine own son.\"\n\n\"I am beholden to you, madam,\" said the Major; \"I know your\nkindliness of heart; but in good sooth, the unhappy and rebellious\nlad merits chastisement rather than pity, since what should he be\ndoing at this distance from home, where he was shut up for his\nmisdemeanours, save fleeing like the Prodigal of the parable, or\nelse planning another of his malicious pranks, as I greatly fear, on\nyou or your daughter, madam.  If so, he hath fallen into the pit\nthat he made for others.\"\n\nThe impulse was to tell what had occurred, but the surgeon's\npresence, and the dread of making all worse for the poor boy checked\nboth the hosts, and Mrs. Woodford only declared that since the day\nof the apology he had never molested her or her little girl.\n\n\"Still,\" said the Major, \"it is not possible to leave him in a\nstranger's house, where at any moment the evil spirit that is in him\nmay break forth.\"\n\n\"Come and see him, and judge,\" said Dr. Woodford.\n\nWhen the father beheld the deathly face and motionless form, stern\nas he was, he was greatly shocked.  His heavy tread caused a moan,\nand when he said \"What, Perry, how now?\" there was a painful\nshrinking and twitching, which the surgeon greeted as evidence of\nreturning animation, but which made him almost drag the Major out of\nthe room for fear of immediate consequences.\n\nMajor Oakshott, and still more the servant, who had arrived in the\ncoach and come upstairs, could not but be convinced that removal was\nnot to be thought of.  The maid was, moreover, too necessary to her\nmistress to be left to undertake the nursing, much to her master's\nregret, but to the joy of Mrs. Woodford, who felt certain that by\nfar the best chance for the poor boy was in his entire separation\nfrom all associations with the home where he had evidently suffered\nso much.\n\nThere was, perhaps, nothing except the pageship at Court that could\nhave gone more against Major Oakshott's principles than to leave his\nson in the house of a prelatical minister, but alternative there was\nnone, and he could only express how much he was beholden to the Dr.\nand Mrs. Woodford.\n\nAll their desire was that he would remain at a distance, for during\nthe long and weary watch they had to keep over the half-conscious\nlad, the sound of a voice or even a horse's tread from Oakwood\noccasioned moans and restlessness.  The Major rode over, or sent his\nsons, or a servant daily to inquire during the first fortnight,\nexcept on the Sundays, and on each of these the patient made a step\ntowards improvement.\n\nAt first he lay in a dull, death-like stupor, only groaning if\ndisturbed, but by and by there was a babbling murmur of words, and\nsoon the sound of his brother's loud voice at the door, demanding\nfrom the saddle how it went to-day with Peregrine, caused a shriek\nof terror and such a fit of trembling that Mrs. Woodford had to go\nout and make a personal request that Oliver would never again speak\nunder the window.  To her great relief, when the balance between\nlife and death had decidedly turned, the inquiries became less\nfrequent, and could often be forestalled by sending messengers to\nOakwood.\n\nThe boy usually lay still all day in the darkened room, only showing\npain at light or noise, but at night he often talked and rambled a\ngood deal.  Sometimes it was Greek or Latin, sometimes whole\nchapters of Scripture, either denunciating portions or genealogies\nfrom the First Book of Chronicles, the polysyllabic names pouring\nfrom his mouth whenever he was particularly oppressed or suffering,\nso that when Mrs. Woodford had with some difficulty made out what\nthey were, she concluded that they had been set as tasks of penance.\n\nAt other times Peregrine talked as if he absolutely believed himself\nin fairyland, accepting a strawberry or cherry as elfin food,\npromising a tester in Anne's shoe when she helped to change his\npillow, or conversing in the style of Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, on\nintended pranks.  Often he fancied himself the lubber fiend resting\nat the fire his hairy strength, and watching for cock-crow as the\nsignal for flinging out-of-doors.  It was wonderful how in the grim\nand strict Puritanical household he could have imbibed so much fairy\nlore, but he must have eagerly assimilated and recollected whatever\nhe heard, holding them as tidings from his true kith and kin; and,\nindeed, when he was running on thus, Mrs. Woodford sometimes felt a\ncertain awe and chill, as of the preternatural, and could hardly\nbelieve that he belonged to ordinary human nature.  Either she or\nthe Doctor always took the night-watch after the talking mood set\nin, for they could not judge of the effect it might have on any of\nthe servants.  Indeed they sometimes doubted whether this were not\nthe beginning of permanent insanity, as the delusion seemed to\nstrengthen with symptoms of recovery.\n\n\"Then,\" said Dr. Woodford, \"Heaven help the poor lad!\"\n\nFor sad indeed was the lot in those days of even the most harmless\nlunatic.\n\n\"Yet,\" said the lady, \"I scarcely think anything can be worse than\nwhat he undergoes at home.  When I hear the terror and misery of his\nvoice, I doubt whether we did him any true kindness by hindering his\nfather from killing him outright by the shaking of his old coach.\"\n\n\"Nay, sister, we strove to do our duty, though it may be we have\ntaken on ourselves a further charge.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV: IMP OR NO IMP\n\n\n\"But wist I of a woman bold\n   Who thrice my brow durst sign,\nI might regain my mortal mould,\n   As fair a form as thine.\"\n\nSCOTT.\n\nAt last came a wakening with intelligence in the eyes.  In the\nsummer morning light that streamed through the chinks of the\nshutters Mrs. Woodford perceived the glance of inquiry, and when she\nbrought some cool drink, a rational though feeble voice asked those\nfirst questions, \"Who? and where?\"\n\n\"I am Mrs. Woodford, my dear child.  You remember me at Winchester.\nYou are at Portchester.  You fell down and hurt yourself, but you\nare getting better.\"\n\nShe was grieved to see the look of utter disappointment and\nweariness that overspread the features, and the boy hardly spoke\nagain all day.  There was much drowsiness, but also depression, and\nmore than once Mrs. Woodford detected tears, but at other times he\nreceived her attentions with smiles and looks of wondering\ngratitude, as though ordinary kindness and solicitude were so new to\nhim that he did not know what to make of them, and perhaps was\nafraid of breaking a happy dream by saying too much.\n\nThe surgeon saw him, and declared him so much better that he might\nsoon be taken home, recommending his sitting up for a little while\nas a first stage.  Peregrine, however, seemed far from being\ncheered, and showed himself so unwilling to undergo the fatigue of\nbeing dressed, even when good Dr. Woodford had brought up his own\nlarge chair--the only approach to an easy one in the house--that the\nproposal was dropped, and he was left in peace for the rest of the\nday.\n\nIn the evening Mrs. Woodford was sitting by the window, letting her\nneedlework drop as the light faded, and just beginning to doze, when\nher repose was broken by a voice saying \"Madam.\"\n\n\"Yes, Peregrine.\"\n\n\"Come near, I pray.  Will you tell no one?\"\n\n\"No; what is it?\"\n\nIn so low a tone that she had to bend over him:  \"Do you know how\nthe Papists cross themselves?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have seen the Queen's confessor and some of the ladies make\nthe sign.\"\n\n\"Dear lady, you have been very good to me!  If you would only cross\nme thrice, and not be afraid!  They could not hurt you!\"\n\n\"Who?  What do you mean?\" she asked, for fairy lore had not become a\npopular study, but comprehension came when he said in an awe-\nstricken voice, \"You know what I am.\"\n\n\"I know there have been old wives' tales about you, my poor boy, but\nsurely you do not believe them yourself.\"\n\n\"Ah! if you will not believe them, there is no hope.  I might have\nknown.  You were so good to me;\" and he hid his face.\n\nShe took his unwilling hand and said, \"Be you what you will, my poor\nchild, I am sorry for you, for I see you are very unhappy.  Come,\ntell me all.\"\n\n\"Nay, then you would be like the rest,\" said Peregrine, \"and I could\nnot bear that,\" and he wrung her hand.\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" she said gently, \"for I know that a story is afloat\nthat you were changed in your cradle, and that there are folk\nignorant enough to believe it.\"\n\n\"They all _know_ it,\" he said impressively.  \"My mother and brothers\nand all the servants.  Every soul knows it except my father and Mr.\nHorncastle, and they will never hear a word, but will have it that I\nam possessed with a spirit of evil that is to be flogged out of me.\nGoody Madge and Moll Owens, they knew how it was at the first, and\nwould fain have forced them--mine own people--to take me home, and\nbring the other back, but my father found it out and hindered them.\"\n\n\"To save your life.\"\n\n\"Much good does my life do me!  Every one hates or fears me.  No one\nhas a word for me.  Every mischance is laid on me.  When the kitchen\nwench broke a crock, it was because I looked at it.  If the keeper\nmisses a deer, he swears at Master Perry!  Oliver and Robert will\nnot let me touch a thing of theirs; they bait me for a moon-calf,\nand grin when I am beaten for their doings.  Even my mother quakes\nand trembles when I come near, and thinks I give her the creeps.  As\nto my father and tutor, it is ever the rod with them, though I can\nlearn my tasks far better than those jolter-heads Noll and Robin.  I\nnever heard so many kind words in all my life as you have given me\nsince I have been lying here!\"\n\nHe stopped in a sort of awe, for tears fell from her eyes, and she\nkissed his forehead.\n\n\"Will you not help me, good madam?\" he entreated.  \"I went down to\nGoody Madge, and she said there was a chance for me every seven\nyears.  The first went by, but this is my fourteenth year.  I had a\nhope when the King spoke of beheading me, but he was only in jest,\nas I might have known.  Then methought I would try what Midsummer\nnight in the fairy ring would do, but that was in vain; and now you,\nwho could cross me if you would, will not believe.  Oh, will you not\nmake the trial?\"\n\n\"Alas!  Peregrine, supposing I could do it in good faith, would you\nbecome a mere tricksy sprite, a thing of the elements, and yield up\nyour hopes as a Christian soul, a child of God and heir of Heaven?\"\n\n\"My father says I am an heir of hell.\"\n\n\"No, no, never,\" she cried, shuddering at his quiet way of saying\nit.  \"You are flesh and blood, christened, and with the hope set\nbefore you.\"\n\n\"The christening came too late,\" he said.  \"O lady, you who are so\ngood and pitiful, let my mother get back her true Peregrine--a\nstraight-limbed, comely dullard, such as would be welcome to her.\nShe would bless and thank you, and for me, to be a Will-of-the-wisp,\nor what not, would be far better than the life I lead.  Never did I\nknow what my mother calls peace till I lay here.\"\n\n\"Ah, Peregrine, poor lad, your value for peace and for my poor\nkindness proves that you have a human heart and are no elf.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I meant to flit about and give you good dreams, and keep\noff all that could hurt or frighten you,\" he said earnestly.\n\n\"Only the human soul could feel so, dear boy,\" she answered\ntenderly.\n\n\"And you _really_ disbelieve--the other,\" he said wistfully.\n\n\"This is what I verily believe, my child:  that there were causes to\nmake you weakly, and that you may have had some palsy stroke or\nconvulsive fit perhaps at the moment you were left alone.  Such\nwould explain much of your oddness of face, which made the ignorant\nnurses deem you changed; and thus it was only your father who, by\nGod's mercy, saved you from a miserable death, to become, as I\ntrust, a good and true man, and servant of God.\"  Then answering a\nhopeless groan, she added, \"Yes, it is harder for you than for many.\nI see that these silly servants have so nurtured you in this belief\nthat you have never even thought it worth while to strive for\ngoodness, but supposed tricksomeness and waywardness a part of your\nnature.\"\n\n\"The only pleasure in life is paying folk off,\" said Peregrine, with\na glitter in his eye.  \"It serves them right.\"\n\n\"And thus,\" she said sadly, \"you have gone on hating and spiting,\ndeeming yourself a goblin without hope or aim; but now you feel that\nyou have a Christian soul you will strive with evil, you will so\nlove as to win love, you will pray and conquer.\"\n\n\"My father and Mr. Horncastle pray,\" said Peregrine bitterly.  \"I\nhate it!  They go on for ever, past all bearing; I _must_ do\nsomething--stand on my head, pluck some one's stool away, or tickle\nRobin with a straw, if I am birched the next moment.  That's the\ngoblin.\"\n\n\"Yet you love the Minster music.\"\n\n\"Ay!  Father calls it rank Popery.  I listened many a time he never\nguessed, hid away in the Holy Hole, or within old Bishop Wykeham's\nlittle house.\"\n\n\"Ah, Peregrine, could an imp of evil brook to lie hidden in the Holy\nHole behind the very altar?\" said Mrs. Woodford.  \"But I hear Nick\nbringing in supper, and I must leave you for the present.  God in\nHis mercy bless you, His poor child, and lead you in His ways.\"\n\nAs she went Peregrine muttered, \"Is that a prayer?  It is not like\nfather's.\"\n\nShe was anxious to consult her brother-in-law on the strange mood of\nher patient.  She found that he had heard more than he had told her\nof what Major Oakshott deemed the hopeless wickedness of his son,\nthe antics at prayers, the hatred of everything good, the spiteful\ntricks that were the family torment.  No doubt much was due to the\nboy's entire belief in his own elfship, and these two good people\nseriously considered how to save him from himself.\n\n\"If we could only keep him here,\" said Mrs. Woodford, \"I think we\nmight bring him to have some faith and love in God and man.\"\n\n\"You could, dear sister,\" said the Doctor, smiling affectionately;\n\"but Major Oakshott would never leave his son in our house.  He\nabhors our principles too much, and besides, it is too near home.\nAll the servants have heard rumours of this cruel fable, and would\nascribe the least misadventure to his goblin origin.  I must ride\nover to Oakwood and endeavour to induce his father to remove him to\nsafe and judicious keeping.\"\n\nSome days, however, elapsed before Dr. Woodford could do this, and\nin the meantime the good lady did her best to infuse into her poor\nyoung guest the sense that he had a human soul, responsible for his\nactions, and with hope set before him, and that he was not a mere\nfrolicsome and malicious sprite, the creature of unreasoning\nimpulse.\n\nIt was a matter only to be attempted by gentle hints, for though\nreared in a strictly religious household, Peregrine's ears seemed to\nhave been absolutely closed, partly by nursery ideas of his own\nexclusion from the pale of humanity, partly by the harsh treatment\nthat he was continually bringing on himself.  Preachings and prayers\nto him only meant a time of intolerable restraint, usually ending in\ndisgrace and punishment; Scripture and the Westminster Catechism\ncontained a collection of tasks more tedious and irksome than the\nLatin and Greek Grammar; Sunday was his worst day of the week, and\nthese repugnances, as he had been taught to believe, were so many\nproofs that he was a being beyond the power of grace.\n\nMrs. Woodford scrupled to leave him to any one else on this first\nSunday of his recovered consciousness, and in hopes of keeping him\nquiet through fatigue, she contrived that it should be the first day\nof his being dressed, and seated in the arm-chair, resting against\ncushions beside the open window, whence he could watch the church-\ngoers, Anne in her little white cap, with her book in one hand, and\na posy in the other, tripping demurely beside her uncle, stately in\ngown, cassock, and scarlet hood.\n\nPeregrine could not refrain from boasting to his hostess how he had\nonce grimaced from outside the church window at Havant, and at the\nwomen shrieking that the fiend was there.  She would not smile, and\nshook her head sadly, so that he said, \"I would never do so here.\"\n\n\"Nor anywhere, I hope.\"\n\nWhereupon, thinking better to please the churchwoman, he related\nhow, when imprisoned for popping a toad into the soup, he had\nescaped over the leads, and had beaten a drum outside the barn,\nduring a discourse of the godly tinker, John Bunyan, tramping and\nrattling so that all thought the troopers were come, and rushed out,\ntumbling one over the other, while he yelled out his \"Ho! ho! ho!\"\nfrom the haystack where he had hidden.\n\n\"When you feel how kind and loving God is,\" said Mrs. Woodford\ngravely, \"you will not like to disturb those who are doing Him\nhonour.\"\n\n\"Is He kind?\" asked Peregrine.  \"I thought He was all wrath and\nanger.\"\n\nShe replied, \"The Lord is loving unto every man, and His mercy is\nover all His works.\"\n\nHe made no answer.  If he were sullen, this subsided into\nsleepiness, and when he awoke he found the lady on her knees going\nthrough the service with her Prayer-book.  She encountered his\nwistful eyes, but no remark was made, though on her return from\nfetching him some broth, she found him peeping into her book, which\nhe laid down hastily, as though afraid of detection.\n\nShe had to go down to the Sunday dinner, where, according to good\nold custom, half a dozen of the poor and aged were regaled with the\nparish priest and his household.  There she heard inquiries and\nremarks showing how widely spread and deeply rooted was the notion\nof Peregrine's elfish extraction.  If Daddy Hoskins did ask after\nthe poor young gentleman as if he were a human being, the three old\ndames present shook their heads, and while the more bashful only\ngroaned, Granny Perkins demanded, \"Well, now, my lady, do he eat and\nsleep like other folk?\"\n\n\"Exactly, granny, now that he's mending in health.\"\n\n\"And don't he turn and writhe when there's prayers?\"\n\nMrs. Woodford deposed to having observed no such demonstrations.\n\n\"Think of that now!  Lauk-a-daisy!  I've heard tell by my nevvy\nDavy, as is turnspit at Oak'ood, as how when there's prayers and\nexpounding by Master Horncastle, as is a godly man, saving his\nReverence's presence, he have seen him, have Davy--Master Perry, as\nthey calls him, a-twisted round with his heels on the chair, and his\nhead where his heels should be, and a grin on his face enough to\ngive one a turn.\"\n\n\"Did Davy never see a mischievous boy fidgeting at prayers?\" asked\nthe Doctor, who was nearer than she thought.  \"If so, he has been\nluckier than I have been.\"\n\nThere was a laugh, out of deference to the clergyman, but the old\nwoman held to her point.  \"Begging your Reverence's pardon, sir,\nthere be more in this than we knows.  They says up at Oakwood,\nthere's no peace in the place for the spite of him, and when they\nthinks he is safe locked into his chamber, there he be a-clogging of\nthe spit, or changing sugar into pepper, or making the stool break\ndown under one.  Oh, he be a strange one, sir, or summat worse.  I\nhave heerd him myself hollaing 'Ho! ho! ho!' on the downs enough to\nmake one's flesh creep.\"\n\n\"I will tell you what he is, dame,\" said the Doctor gravely.  \"He is\na poor child who had a fit in his cradle, and whom all around have\njoined in driving to folly, evil, and despair through your foolish\nsuperstitions.  He is my guest, and I will have no more said against\nhim at my table.\"\n\nThe village gossips might be silenced by awe of the parson, but\ntheir opinion was unshaken; and Silas Hewlett, a weather-beaten\nsailor with a wooden leg, was bold enough to answer, \"Ay, ay, sir,\nyou parsons and gentlefolk don't believe naught; but you've not seen\nwhat I have with my own two bodily eyes--\" and this of course was\nthe prelude to the history of an encounter with a mermaid, which\nalternated with the Flying Dutchman and a combat with the Moors, as\nregular entertainment at the Sunday meal.\n\nWhen Mrs. Woodford went upstairs she was met by the servant Nicolas,\ndeclaring that she might get whom she would to wait on that there\nmoon-calf, he would not go neist the spiteful thing, and exhibiting\na swollen finger, stung by a dead wasp, which Peregrine had\ncunningly disposed on the edge of his empty plate.\n\nShe soothed the man's wrath, and healed his wound as best she might,\nere returning to her patient, who looked at her with an impish grin\non his lips, and yet human deprecation in his eyes.  Feeling\nunprepared for discussion, she merely asked whether the dinner had\nbeen relished, and sat down to her book; but there was a grave,\nsorrowful expression on her countenance, and, after an interval of\nlying back uneasily in his chair, he exclaimed, \"It is of no use; I\ncould not help it.  It is my nature.\"\n\n\"It is the nature of many lads to be mischievous,\" she answered;\n\"but grace can cure them.\"\n\nTherewith she began to read aloud.  She had bought the Pilgrim's\nProgress (the first part) from a hawker, and she was glad to have at\nhand something that could hardly be condemned as frivolous or\nprelatical.  The spell of the marvellous book fell on Peregrine; he\nlistened intently, and craved ever to hear more, not being yet able\nto read without pain and dizziness.  He was struck by hearing that\nthe dream of Christian's adventures had visited that same tinker,\nwhose congregation his own wicked practices had broken up.\n\n\"He would take me for one of the hobgoblins that beset Master\nChristian.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Mrs. Woodford, \"he would say you were Christian\nfloundering in the Slough of Despond, and deeming yourself one of\nits efts or tadpoles.\"\n\nHe made no answer, but on the whole behaved so well that the next\nday Mrs. Woodford ventured to bring her little daughter in after\nhaving extracted a promise that there should be no tricks nor\nteasing, a pledge honourably kept.\n\nAnne did not like the prospect of the interview.  \"Oh, ma'am, don't\nleave me alone with him!\" she said.  \"Do you know what he did to\nMistress Martha Browning, his own cousin, you know, who lives at\nEmsworth with her aunt?  He put a horsehair slily round her glass of\nwine, and tipped it over her best gray taffeta, and her aunt whipped\nher for the stain.  She never would say it was his doing, and yet he\ngoes on teasing her the same as ever, though his brother Oliver\nfound it out, and thrashed him for it:  you know Oliver is to marry\nMistress Martha.\"\n\n\"My dear child, where did you hear all this?\" asked Mrs. Woodford,\nrather overwhelmed with this flood of gossip from her usually quiet\ndaughter.\n\n\"Lucy told me, mamma.  She heard it from Sedley, who says he does\nnot wonder at any one serving out Martha Browning, for she is as\nugly as sin.\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, Anne!  Such sayings do not become a young maid.  This\npoor lad has scarce known kindness.  Every one's hand has been\nagainst him, and so his hand has been against every one.  I want my\nlittle daughter to be brave enough not to pain and anger him by\nshrinking from him as if he were not like other people.  We must\nteach him to be happy before we can teach him to be good.\"\n\n\"Madam, I will try,\" said the child, with a great gulp; \"only if you\nwould be pleased not to leave me alone with him the first time!\"\n\nThis Mrs. Woodford promised.  At first the boy lay and looked at\nAnne as if she were a rare curiosity brought for his examination,\nand it took all her resolution, even to a heroic exertion of\nchildish fortitude, not to flinch under the gaze of those queer\neyes.  However, Mrs. Woodford diverted the glances by producing a\nbox of spillekins, and in the interest of the game the children\nbecame better acquainted.\n\nOver their next day's game Mrs. Woodford left them, and Anne became\nat ease since Peregrine never attempted any tricks.  She taught him\nto play at draughts, the elders thinking it expedient not to doubt\nwhether such vanities were permissible at Oakwood.\n\nSoon there was such merriment between them that the kind Doctor said\nit did his heart good to hear the boy's hearty natural laugh in lieu\nof the \"Ho! ho! ho!\" of malice or derision.\n\nThey were odd conversations that used to take place between that boy\nand girl.  The King's offer of a pageship had oozed out in the\nOakshott family, and Peregrine greatly resented the refusal, which\nhe naturally attributed to his father's Whiggery and spite at all\nthings agreeable, and he was fond of discussing his wrongs and\nlongings with Anne, who, from her childish point of view, thought\nthe walls of Portchester and the sluggish creek a very bad exchange\nfor her enjoyments at Greenwich, where she had lived during her\nfather's years of broken health, after he had been disabled at\nSouthwold by a wound which had prevented his being knighted by the\nDuke of York for his daring in the excitement of the critical\nmoment, a fact which Mistress Anne never forgot, though she only\nknew it by hearsay, as it happened a few weeks after she was born,\nand her father always averred that he was thankful to have missed\nthe barren and expensive honour, and that the _worst_ which had come\nof his exploit was the royal sponsorship to his little maid.\n\nAnne had, however, been the pet of her father's old friends, the sea\ncaptains, had played with the little Evelyns under the yew hedges of\nSays Court, had been taken to London to behold the Lord Mayor's show\nand more than one Court pageant, had been sometimes at the palaces\nas the plaything of the Ladies Mary and Anne of York, had been more\nthan once kissed by their father, the Duke, and called a pretty\nlittle poppet, and had even shared with them a notable game at romps\nwith their good-natured uncle the King, when she had actually caught\nhim at Blind-man's-buff!\n\nIgnorant as she was of evil, her old surroundings appeared to her\ndelightful, and Peregrine, bred in a Puritan home, was at fourteen\nnot much more advanced than she was in the meaning of the vices and\ncorruptions that he heard inveighed against in general or scriptural\nterms at home, and was only too ready to believe that all that his\nfather proscribed must be enchanting.  Thus they built castles\ntogether about brilliant lives at a Court of which they knew as\nlittle as of that at Timbuctoo.\n\nThere was another Court, however, of which Peregrine seemed to know\nall the details, namely, that of King Oberon and Queen Mab.  How\nmuch was village lore picked up from Moll Owens and her kind, or how\nmuch was the work of his own imagination, no one could tell,\nprobably not himself, certainly not Anne.  When he appeared on\nintimate terms with Hip, Nip, and Skip, and described catching Daddy\nLong Legs to make a fence with his legs, or dwelt upon a terrible\nfight between two armies of elves mounted on grasshoppers and\ncrickets, and armed with lances tipped with stings of bees and\nwasps, she would exclaim, \"Is it true, Perry?\" and he would wink his\ngreen eye and look at her with his yellow one till she hardly knew\nwhere she was.\n\nHe would tell of his putting a hornet in a sluttish maid's shoe,\nwhich was credible, if scarcely meriting that elfish laughter which\nmade his auditor shrink, but when he told of dancing over the mud\nbanks with a lantern, like a Will-of-the-wisp, till he lured boats\nto get stranded, or horsemen to get stuck, in the hopeless mud, Anne\nnever questioned the possibility, but listened with wide open eyes,\nand a restrained shudder, feeling as if under a spell.  That\nmysterious childish feeling which dreads even what common sense\nforbids the calmer mind to believe, made her credit Peregrine, for\nthe time at least, with strange affinities to the underground folk,\nand kept her under a strange fascination, half attraction, half\nrepulsion, which made her feel as if she must obey and follow him if\nhe turned those eyes on her, whether she were willing or not.\n\nNor did she ever tell her mother of these conversations.  She had\nbeen rebuked once for repeating nurse's story of the changeling, and\nagain for her shrinking from him; and this was quite enough in an\nessentially reserved, as well as proud and sensitive, nature, to\nprevent further confidences on a subject which she knew would be\ntreated as a foolish fancy, bringing both herself and her companion\ninto trouble.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V: PEREGRINE'S HOME\n\n\n\"For, at a word, be it understood,\nHe was always for ill and never for good.\"\n\nSCOTT.\n\nA week had passed since any of the family from Oakwood had come to\nmake inquiries after the convalescent at Portchester, when Dr.\nWoodford mounted his sleek, sober-paced pad, and accompanied by a\ngroom, rode over to make his report and tender his counsel to Major\nOakshott.  He arrived just as the great bell was clanging to summon\nthe family to the mid-day meal, since he had reckoned on the Squire\nbeing more amenable as a 'full man,' especially towards a guest, and\nhe was well aware that the Major was thoroughly a gentleman in\nbehaviour even to those with whom he differed in politics and\nreligion.\n\nAccordingly there was a ready welcome at the door of the old red\nhouse, which was somewhat gloomy looking, being on the north side of\nthe hill, and a good deal stifled with trees.  In a brief interval\nthe Doctor found himself seated beside the pale languid lady at the\nhead of the long table, placed in a large hall, wainscotted with the\nblackest of oak, which seemed to absorb into itself all the light\nfrom the windows, large enough indeed but heavily mullioned, and\nwith almost as much of leading as of octagons and lozenges--greenish\nglass--in them, while the coats of arms, repeated in upper portions\nand at the intersections of beams and rafters, were not more\ncheerful, being sable chevrons on an argent field.  The crest, a\nhorse shoe, was indeed azure, but the blue of this and of the coats\nof the serving-men only deepened the thunderous effect of the black.\nStrangely, however, among these sad-coloured men there moved a\nfigure entirely differently.  A negro, white turbaned, and with his\nblue livery of a lighter shade, of fantastic make and relieved by a\ngreat deal of white and shining silver, so as to have an entirely\ndifferent effect.\n\nHe placed himself behind the chair of Dr. Woodford's opposite\nneighbour, a shrewd business-like looking gentleman, soberly but\nhandsomely dressed, with a certain foreign cut about his clothes,\nand a cravat of rich Flemish lace.  He was presented to the Doctor\nas Major Oakshott's brother, Sir Peregrine.  The rest of the party\nconsisted of Oliver and Robert, sturdy, ruddy lads of fifteen and\ntwelve, and their tutor, Mr. Horncastle, an elderly man, who twenty\nyears before had resigned his living because he could not bring\nhimself to accept all the Liturgy.\n\nWhile Sir Peregrine courteously relieved his sister-in-law of the\ntrouble of carving the gammon of bacon which accompanied the veal\nwhich her husband was helping, Dr. Woodford informed her of her\nson's progress towards recovery.\n\n\"Ah,\" she said, \"I knew you had come to tell us that he is ready to\nbe brought home;\" and her tone was fretful.\n\n\"We are greatly beholden to you, sir,\" said the Major from the\nbottom of the table.  \"The boy shall be fetched home immediately.\"\n\n\"Not so, sir, as yet, I beg of you.  Neither his head nor his side\ncan brook the journey for at least another week, and indeed my good\nsister Woodford will hardly know how to part with her patient.\"\n\n\"She will not long be of that mind after Master Perry gets to his\nfeet again,\" muttered the chaplain.\n\n\"Indeed no,\" chimed in the mother.  \"There will be no more peace in\nthe house when he is come back.\"\n\n\"I assure you, madam,\" said Dr. Woodford, \"that he has been a very\ngood child, grateful and obedient, nor have I heard any complaints.\"\n\n\"Your kindness, or else that of Mrs. Woodford, carries you far,\nsir,\" answered his host.\n\n\"What?  Is my nephew and namesake so peevish a scapegrace?\" demanded\nthe visitor.\n\nOn which anecdotes broke forth from all quarters.  Peregrine had\ngreased the already slippery oak stairs, had exchanged Oliver's\ncareful exercise for a ribald broadsheet, had filled Mr.\nHorncastle's pipe with gunpowder, and mixed snuff with the chocolate\nspecially prepared for the peculiar godly guest Dame Priscilla\nWaller.  Every one had something to adduce, even the serving-men\nbehind the chairs; and if Oliver and Robert did not add their quota,\nit was because absolute silence at meals was the rule for nonage.\nHowever, the subject was evidently distasteful to the father, who\nchanged the conversation by asking his brother questions about the\nyoung Prince of Orange and the Grand Pensionary De Witt.  For the\ngentleman had been acting as English attache to the Embassy at the\nHague, whence he had come on affairs of State to London, and after\nbeing knighted by Charles, had newly arrived at the old home, which\nhe had scarcely seen since his brother's marriage.  Dr. Woodford\nenjoyed his conversation, and his information on foreign politics,\nand the Major, though now and then protesting, was evidently proud\nof his brother.\n\nWhen grace had been pronounced by the chaplain the lady withdrew to\nher parlour, the two boys, each with an obeisance and request for\npermission, departed for an hour's recreation, and Dr. Woodford\nintimated that he wished for some conversation with his host\nrespecting the boy Peregrine.\n\n\"Let us discuss it here,\" said Major Oakshott, turning towards a\nsmall table set in the deep bay window, and garnished with wine,\nfruit, and long slender glasses.  \"Good Mr. Horncastle,\" he added,\nas he motioned his guest to one of the four seats, \"is with me in\nall that concerns my children, and I desire my brother's counsel\nrespecting the untoward lad with whom it has pleased Heaven to\nafflict me.\"\n\nWhen the glasses had been filled with claret Dr. Woodford uttered a\ndiplomatic compliment on the healthful and robust appearance of the\neldest and youngest sons, and asked whether any cause had been\nassigned for the difference between them and the intermediate\nbrother.\n\n\"None, sir,\" returned the father with a sigh, \"save the will of the\nAlmighty to visit us for our sins with a son who has thus far shown\nhimself one of the marred vessels doomed to be broken by the potter.\nIt may be in order to humble me and prove me that this hath been\nlaid upon me.\"\n\nThe chaplain groaned acquiescence, but there was vexation in the\nbrother's face.\n\n\"Sir,\" said the Doctor, \"it is my opinion and that of my sister-in-\nlaw, an excellent, discreet, and devout woman, that the poor child\nwould give you more cause for hope if the belief had not become\nfixed in his mind that he is really and truly a fairy elf--yes, in\nvery sooth--a changeling!\"\n\nAll the auditors broke out into exclamations that it was impossible\nthat a boy of fourteen could entertain so absurd an idea, and the\ntutor evidently thought it a fresh proof of depravity that he should\nthus have tried to deceive his kind hosts.\n\nIn proof that Peregrine veritably believed it himself, Dr. Woodford\nrelated what he had witnessed on Midsummer night, mentioning how in\ndelirium the boy had evidently believed himself in fairyland, and\nhow disappointed he had been, on regaining his senses, to find\nhimself on common earth; telling also of the adventure with the\nKing, which Sir Christopher Wren had described to him, but of which\nMajor Oakshott was unaware, though it explained the offer of the\npageship.  He was a good deal struck by these revelations, proving\nmisery that he had never suspected, though, as he said, he had often\npleaded, \"Why will ye revolt more and more? ye _will_ be stricken\nmore and more.\"\n\n\"Have you ever sought his confidence?\" asked the travelled brother,\na question evidently scarcely understood, for the reply was, \"I have\nalways required of my sons to speak the truth, nor have they failed\nof late years save this unfortunate Peregrine.\"\n\n\"And,\" said Sir Peregrine, \"if the unlucky lad actually supposes\nhimself to be no human being, admonitions and chastisements would\nnaturally be vain.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe it,\" exclaimed the Major.  \"'Tis true, as I now\nremember, I once came on a couple of beldames, my wife's nurse and\nanother, who has since been ducked for witchcraft, and found them\nabout to flog the babe with nettles, and lay him in the thorn hedge\nbecause he was a sickly child, whom, forsooth, they took to be a\nchangeling; but I forbade the profane folly to be ever again\nmentioned in my household, nor did I ever hear thereof again.\"\n\n\"There are a good many more things mentioned in a household,\nbrother, than the master is wont to hear of,\" remarked Sir\nPeregrine.\n\nDr. Woodford then begged as a personal favour for an individual\nexamination of the family and servants on their opinion.  The master\nwas reluctant thus, as he expressed it, to go a-fooling, but his\nbrother backed the Doctor up, and further prevented a general\nassembly to put one another to shame, but insisted on the witnesses\nbeing called in one by one.  Oliver, the first summoned, was\nbeginning to be somewhat less overawed by his father than in his\nearlier boyhood.  To the inquiry what he thought of his brother\nPeregrine, he made a tentative sort of reply, that he was a strange\nfellow, who never could keep out of disgrace.\n\n\"That is not the question,\" said his father.  \"I am almost ashamed\nto speak it!  Do you--nay, have you ever supposed him to be a--\" he\nreally could not bring out the word.\n\n\"A changeling, sir?\" returned Oliver.  \"I do not believe so now,\nknowing that it is impossible, but as a child I always did.\"\n\n\"Who durst possess you with so foolish and profane a falsehood?\"\n\n\"Every one, sir.  I cannot recollect the time when I did not as\nentirely deem Peregrine a changeling elf as that Robin was my own\nbrother.  He believes so himself.\"\n\n\"You have never striven to disabuse him.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, he would scarce have listened to me had I done go;\nbesides, to tell the truth, it has only been of late, since I have\nbeen older, and have studied more, that I have come to perceive the\nfolly of it.\"\n\nMajor Oakshott groaned, and bade him call Robert without saying\nwherefore.  The little fellow came in, somewhat frightened, and when\nasked the question that had been put to his elder, his face lighted\nup, and he exclaimed, \"Oh, have they brought him back again?\"\n\n\"Whom?\"\n\n\"Our real brother, sir, who was carried off to fairyland!\"\n\n\"Who told you so, Robert?\"\n\nHe looked puzzled, and said, \"Sir, they all know it.  Molly Owens,\nthat was his foster-mother, saw the fairies bear him off on a\nbroomstick up the chimney.\"\n\n\"Robert, no lying!\"\n\nThe boy was only restrained from tears by fear of his father, and\njust managed to say, \"'Tis what they all say, and Perry knows.\"\n\n\"Knows!\" muttered Major Oakshott in despair, but the uncle, drawing\nRobin towards him, extracted that Perry had been seen flying out of\nthe loft window, when he had been locked up--Robin had never seen it\nhimself, but the maids had often done so.  Moreover, there was proof\npositive, in the mark on Oliver's head, where he had nearly killed\nhimself by tumbling downstairs, being lured by the fairies while\nthey stole away the babe.\n\nThe Major could not listen with patience.  \"A boy of that age to\nrepeat such blasphemous nonsense!\" he exclaimed; and Robert,\nrestraining with difficulty his sobs of terror, was dismissed to\nfetch the butler.\n\nThe old Ironside who now appeared would not avouch his own disbelief\nin the identity of Master Peregrine, being, as he said, a man who\nhad studied his Bible, listened to godly preachers, and seen the\nworld; but he had no hesitation in declaring that almost every other\nsoul in the household believed in it as firmly as in the Gospel,\ncertainly all the women, and probably all the men, nor was there any\ndoubt that the young gentleman conducted himself more like a goblin\nthan the son of pious Christian parents.  In effect both the\nclergyman and the Diplomate could not help suspecting that in other\ncompany the worthy butler's disavowal of all share in the\nsuperstition might have been less absolute.\n\n\"After this,\" said Major Oakshott with a sigh, \"it seems useless to\ncarry the inquiry farther.\"\n\n\"What says my sister Oakshott?\" inquired Sir Peregrine.  \"She!  Poor\nsoul, she is too feeble to be fretted,\" said her husband.  \"She has\nnever been the same woman since the Fire of London, and it would be\nvain to vex her with questions.  She would be of one mind while I\nspoke to her, and another while her women were pouring their tales\ninto her ear.  Methinks I now understand why she has always seemed\nto shrink from this unfortunate child, and to fear rather than love\nhim.\"\n\n\"Even so, sir,\" added the tutor.  \"Much is explained that I never\nbefore understood.  The question is how to deal with him under this\nfresh light.  I will, so please your honour, assemble the family\nthis very night, and expound to them that such superstitions are\ncontrary to the very word of Scripture.\"\n\n\"Much good will that do,\" muttered the knight.\n\n\"I should humbly suggest,\" put in Dr. Woodford, \"that the best hope\nfor the poor lad would be to place him where these foolish tales\nwere unknown, and he could start afresh on the same terms with other\nyouths.\"\n\n\"There is no school in accordance with my principles,\" said the\nSquire gloomily.  \"Godly men who hold the faith as I do are\ninhibited by the powers that be from teaching in schools.\"\n\n\"And,\" said his brother, \"you hold these principles as more\nimportant than the causing your son to be bred up a human being\ninstead of being pointed at and rendered hopeless as a demon.\"\n\n\"I am bound to do so,\" said the Major.\n\n\"Surely,\" said Dr. Woodford, \"some scholar might be found, either\nhere or in Holland, who might share your opinions, and could receive\nthe boy without incurring penalties for opening a school without\nlicense.\"\n\n\"It is a matter for prayer and consideration,\" said Major Oakshott.\n\"Meantime, reverend sir, I thank you most heartily for the goodness\nwith which you have treated my untoward son, and likewise for having\nopened my eyes to the root of his freakishness.\"\n\nThe Doctor understood this as dismissal, and asked for his horse,\nintimating, however, that he would gladly keep the boy till some\narrangement had been decided upon.  Then he rode home to tell his\nsister-in-law that he had done his best, and that he thought it a\nfortunate conjunction that the travelled brother had been present.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI: A RELAPSE\n\n\n\"A tell-tale in their company\n   They never could endure,\nAnd whoso kept not secretly\n   Their pranks was punished sure.\nIt was a just and Christian deed\n   To pinch such black and blue;\nOh, how the commonwealth doth need\n   Such justices as you!\"\n\nBISHOP CORBETT.\n\nSeveral days passed, during which there could be no doubt that\nPeregrine Oakshott knew how to behave himself, not merely to grown-\nup people, but to little Anne, who had entirely lost her dread of\nhim, and accepted him as a playfellow.  He was able to join the\nfamily meals, and sit in the pleasant garden, shaded by the walls of\nthe old castle, as well as by its own apple-trees, and looking out\non the little bay in front, at full tide as smooth and shining as a\nlake.\n\nThere, while Anne did her task of spinning or of white seam, Mrs.\nWoodford would tell the children stories, or read to them from the\nPilgrim's Progress, a wonderful romance to both.  Peregrine, still\ntamed by weakness, would lie on the grass at her feet, in a tranquil\nbliss such as he had never known before, and his fairy romances to\nAnne were becoming mitigated, when one day a big coach came along\nthe road from Fareham, with two boys riding beside it, escorting\nLady Archfield and Mistress Lucy.\n\nThe lady was come to study Mrs. Woodford's recipe for preserved\ncherries, the young people, Charles, Lucy, and their cousin Sedley,\nnow at home for the summer holidays, to spend an afternoon with\nMistress Anne.\n\nGreat was Lady Archfield's surprise at finding that Major Oakshott's\ncross-grained slip of a boy was still at Portchester.\n\n\"If you were forced to take him in for very charity when he was\nhurt,\" she said, \"I should have thought you would have been rid of\nhim as soon as he could leave his bed.\"\n\n\"The road to Oakwood is too rough for broken ribs as yet,\" said Mrs.\nWoodford, \"nor is the poor boy ready for discipline.\"\n\n\"Ay, I fancy that Major Oakshott is a bitter Puritan in his own\nhouse; but no discipline could be too harsh for such a boy as that,\naccording to all that I hear,\" said her ladyship, \"nor does he look\nas if much were amiss with him so far as may be judged of features\nso strange and writhen.\"\n\n\"He is nearly well, but not yet strong, and we are keeping him here\ntill his father has decided on what is best for him.\"\n\n\"You even trust him with your little maid!  And alone!  I wonder at\nyou, madam.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my lady, I have seen no harm come of it.  He is gentle and\nkind with Anne, and I think she softens him.\"\n\nStill Mrs. Woodford would gladly not have been bound to her colander\nand preserving-pan in her still-room, where her guest's housewifely\nmind found great scope for inquiry and comment, lasting for nearly\ntwo hours.\n\nWhen at length the operations were over, and numerous little pots of\njam tied up as specimens for the Archfield family to taste at home,\nthe children were not in sight.  No doubt, said Mrs. Woodford, they\nwould be playing in the castle court, and the visitor accompanied\nher thither in some anxiety about broken walls and steps, but they\nwere not in sight, nor did calls bring them.\n\nThe children had gone out together, Anne feeling altogether at ease\nand natural with congenial playmates.  Even Sedley's tortures were\npreferable to Peregrine's attentions, since the first were only the\ntyranny of a graceless boy, the other gave her an indescribable\nsense of strangeness from which these ordinary mundane comrades were\na relief and protection.\n\nHowever, Charles and Sedley rushed off to see a young colt in which\nthey were interested, and Lucy, in spite of her first shrinking,\nfound Peregrine better company than she could have expected, when he\nassisted in swinging her and Anne by turns under the old ash tree.\n\nWhen the other two were seen approaching, the swinging girl hastily\nsprang out, only too well aware what Sedley's method of swinging\nwould be.  Then as the boys came up followed inquiries why Peregrine\nhad not joined them, and jests in schoolboy taste ensued as to elf-\nlocks in the horses' manes, and inquiries when he had last ridden to\na witch's sabbath.  Little Anne, in duty bound, made her protest,\nbut this only incited Charles to add his word to the teasing, till\nLucy joined in the laugh.\n\nBy and by, as they loitered along, they came to the Doctor's little\nboat, and there was a proposal to get in and rock.  Lucy refused,\nout of respect for her company attire, and Anne could not leave her,\nso the two young ladies turned away with arms round each other's\nwaists, Lucy demonstratively rejoicing to be quit of the troublesome\nboys.\n\nBefore they had gone far an eldritch shout of laughter was responded\nto by a burst of furious dismay and imprecation.  The boat with the\ntwo boys was drifting out to sea, and Peregrine capering wildly on\nthe shore, but in another instant he had vanished into the castle.\n\nAnne had presence of mind enough to rush to the nearest fisherman's\ncottage, and send him out to bring them back, and it was at this\njuncture that the two mothers arrived on the scene.  There was\nlittle real danger.  A rope was thrown and caught, and after about\nhalf an hour of watching they were safely landed, but the tide had\nebbed so far that they had to take off their shoes and stockings and\nwade through the mud.  They were open-mouthed against the imp who\nhad enticed them to rock in the boat, then in one second had cut the\npainter, bounded out, and sent them adrift with his mocking 'Ho! ho!\nho!'  Sedley Archfield clenched his fists, and gazed round wildly in\nsearch of the goblin to chastise him soundly, and Charles was ready\nto rush all over the castle in search of him.\n\n\"Two to one!\" cried Anne, \"and he so small; you would never be so\ncowardly.\"\n\n\"As if he were like an honest fellow,\" said Charley.  \"A goblin like\nthat has his odds against a dozen of us.\"\n\n\"I'd teach him, if I could but catch him,\" cried Sedley.\n\n\"I told you,\" said Anne, \"that he would be good if you would let him\nalone and not plague him.\"\n\n\"Now, Anne,\" said Charles, as he sat putting on his stockings, \"how\ncould I stand being cast off for that hobgoblin, that looks as if he\nhad been cut out of a root of yew with a blunt knife, and all\ncrooked!  I that always was your sweetheart, to see you consorting\nwith a mis-shapen squinting Whig of a Nonconformist like that.\"\n\n\"Nonconformist!  I'll Nonconform him indeed,\" added Sedley.  \"I wish\nI had the wringing of his neck.\"\n\n\"Now is not that hard!\" said Anne; \"a poor lad who has been very\nsick, and that every one baits and spurns.\"\n\n\"Serve him right,\" said Sedley; \"he shall have more of the same\nsauce!\"\n\n\"I think he has cast his spell on Anne,\" added Charles, \"or how can\nshe stand up for him?\"\n\n\"My mamma bade me be kind to him.\"\n\n\"Kind!  I would as lief be kind to a toad!\" put in Lucy.\n\n\"To see you kind to him makes me sick,\" exclaimed Charles.  \"You see\nwhat comes of it.\"\n\n\"It did not come of my kindness, but of your unkindness,\" reasoned\nAnne.\n\n\"I told you so,\" said Charles.  \"You would have been best pleased if\nwe had been carried out to sea and drowned!\"\n\nAnne burst into tears and disavowed any such intention, and Charles\nwas protesting that he would only forgive her on condition of her\nnever showing any kindness to Peregrine again, when a sudden shower\nof sand and pebbles descended, one of them hitting Sedley pretty\nsharply on the ear.  The boys sprang up with a howl of imprecation\nand vengeance, but no one was to be seen, only 'Ho! ho! ho!'\nresounded from the battlements.  Off they rushed headlong, but the\nnearest door was in a square tower a good way off, and when they\nreached it the door defied their efforts of frantic rage, whilst\nanother shower descended on them from above, accompanied by the\nusual shout.  But while they were dashing off in quest of another\nentrance they were met by a servant sent to summon them to return\nhome.  Coach and horses were at the door, and Lady Archfield was in\nhaste to get them away, declaring that she should not think their\nlives safe near that fiendish monster.  Considering that Sedley was\nnearly twice as big as Peregrine, and Charles a strong well-grown\nlad, this was a tribute to his preternatural powers.\n\nVery unwillingly they went, and if Lady Archfield had not kept a\nstrict watch from her coach window, they would certainly have turned\nback to revenge the pranks played on them.  The last view of them\nshowed Sedley turning round shaking his whip and clenching his teeth\nin defiance.  Mrs. Woodford was greatly concerned, especially as\nPeregrine could not be found and did not appear at supper.\n\n\"Had he run away to sea?\" the usual course of refractory lads at\nPortchester, but for so slight a creature only half recovered it did\nnot seem probable.  It was more likely that he had gone home, and\nthat Mrs. Woodford felt as somewhat a mortifying idea.  However, on\nlooking into his chamber, as she sought her own, she beheld him in\nbed, with his face turned into the pillow, whether asleep or\nfeigning slumber there was no knowing.\n\nLater, she heard sounds that induced her to go and look at him.  He\nwas starting, moaning, and babbling in his sleep.  But with morning\nall his old nature seemed to have returned.\n\nThere was a hedgehog in Anne's bowl of milk, Mrs. Woodford's poultry\nwere cackling hysterically at an unfortunate kitten suspended from\nan apple tree and let down and drawn up among them.  The three-\nlegged stool of the old waiting-woman 'toppled down headlong' as\nthough by the hands of Puck, and even on Anne's arms certain black\nand blue marks of nails were discovered, and when her mother\nexamined her on them she only cried and begged not to be made to\nanswer.\n\nAnd while Dr. Woodford was dozing in his chair as usual after the\nnoonday dinner Mrs. Woodford actually detected a hook suspended from\na horsehair descending in the direction of his big horn spectacles,\nand quietly moving across to frustrate the attempt, she unearthed\nPeregrine on a chair angling from behind the window curtain.\n\nShe did not speak, but fixed her calm eyes on him with a look of\nsad, grave disappointment as she wound up the line.  In a few\nseconds the boy had thrown himself at her feet, rolling as if in\npain, and sobbing out, \"'Tis all of no use!  Let me alone.\"\n\nNevertheless he obeyed the hushing gesture of her hand, and held his\nbreath, as she led him out to the garden-seat, where they had spent\nso many happy quiet hours.  Then he flung himself down and repeated\nhis exclamation, half piteous, half defiant.  \"Leave me alone!\nLeave me alone!  It has me!  It is all of no use.\"\n\n\"What has you, my poor child?\"\n\n\"The evil spirit.  You will have it that I'm not one of--one of\nthem--so it must be as my father says, that I am possessed--the evil\nspirit.  I was at peace with you--so happy--happier than ever I was\nbefore--and now--those boys.  It has me again--I could not help it--\nI've even hurt her--Mistress Anne.  Let me alone--send me home--to\nbe scorned, and shunned, and brow-beaten--and as bad as ever--then\nat least she will be safe from me.\"\n\nAll this came out between sobs such that Mrs. Woodford could not\nattempt to speak, but she kept her hand on him, and at last she\nsaid, when he could hear her:  \"Every one of us has to fight with an\nevil spirit, and when we are not on our guard he is but too apt to\ntake advantage of us.\"\n\nThe boy rather sullenly repeated that it was of no use to fight\nagainst his.\n\n\"Indeed!  Nay.  Were you ever so much grieved before at having let\nhim have the mastery?\"\n\n\"No--but no one ever was good to me before.\"\n\n\"Yes; all about you lived under a cruel error, and you helped them\nin it.  But if you had not a better nature in you, my poor child,\nyou would not be happy here and thankful for what we can do for\nyou.\"\n\n\"I was like some one else here,\" said Peregrine, picking a daisy to\npieces, \"but they stirred it all up.  And at home I shall be just\nthe same as ever I was.\"\n\nShe longed to tell him that there was hope of a change in his life,\nbut she durst not till it was more certain, so she said--\n\n\"There was One who came to conquer the evil spirit and the evil\nnature, and to give each one of us the power to get the victory.\nThe harder the victory, the more glorious!\" and her eyes sparkled at\nthe thought.\n\nHe caught a moment's glow, then fell back.  \"For those that are\nchosen,\" he said.\n\n\"You are chosen--you were chosen by your baptism.  You have the\nstirrings of good within you.  You can win and beat back the evil\nside of you in Christ's strength, if you will ask for it, and go on\nin His might.\"\n\nThe boy groaned.  Mrs. Woodford knew that the great point with him\nwould be to teach him to hope and to pray, but the very name of\nprayer had been rendered so distasteful to him that she scarce durst\npress the subject by name, and her heart sank at the thought of\nsending him home again, but she was glad to be interrupted, and said\nno more.\n\nAt night, however, she heard sounds of moaning and stifled babbling\nthat reminded her of his times of delirium, and going into his room\nshe found him tossing and groaning so that it was manifestly a\nkindness to wake him; but her gentle touch occasioned a scream of\nterror, and he started aside with open glassy eyes, crying, \"Oh take\nme not!\"\n\n\"My dear boy!  It is I.  Perry, do you not know me?\"\n\n\"Oh, madam!\" in infinite relief, \"it is you.  I thought--I thought I\nwas in elfland and that they were paying me for the tithe to hell;\"\nand he still shuddered all over.\n\n\"No elf--no elf, dear boy; a christened boy--God's child, and under\nHis care;\" and she began the 121st Psalm.\n\n\"Oh, but I am not under His shadow!  The Evil One has had me again!\nHe will have me.  Aren't those his claws?  He will have me!\"\n\n\"Never, my child, if you will cry to God for help.  Say this with\nme, 'Lord, be Thou my keeper.'\"\n\nHe did so, and grew more quiet, and she began to repeat Dr. Ken's\nevening hymn, which had become known in manuscript in Winchester.\nIt soothed him, and she thought he was dropping off to sleep, but no\nsooner did she move than he started with \"There it is again--the\nblack wings--the claws--\" then while awake, \"Say it again!  Oh, say\nit again.  Fold me in your prayers--you can pray.\"  She went back to\nthe verse, and he became quiet, but her next attempt to leave him\ncaused an entreaty that she would remain, nor could she quit him\ntill the dawn, happily very early, was dispelling the terrors of the\nnight, and then, when he had himself murmured once--\n\n\"Let no ill dreams disturb my rest,\nNo powers of darkness me molest,\"\n\nhe fell asleep at last, with a softer look on his pinched face.\nPoor boy, would that verse be his first step to prayer and\ndeliverance from his own too real enemy?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII: THE ENVOY\n\n\n\"I then did ask of her, her changeling child.\"\n\nMidsummer Night's Dream.\n\nMrs. Woodford was too good a housewife to allow herself any extra\nrest on account of her vigil, and she had just put her Juneating\napple-tart into the oven when Anne rushed into the kitchen with the\nwarning that there was a grand gentleman getting off his horse at\nthe gateway, and speaking to her uncle--she thought it must be\nPeregrine's uncle.\n\nMrs. Woodford was of the same opinion, and asked where Peregrine\nwas.\n\n\"Fast asleep in the window-seat of the parlour, mother!  I did not\nwaken him, for he looked so tired.\"\n\n\"That was right, my little maiden,\" said Mrs. Woodford, hastily\nwashing her hands, taking off her cooking apron, letting down her\nblack gown from its pocket holes, and arranging her veil-like\nwidow's coif, after which, in full trim for company, she sallied out\nto the front door, to avert, if possible, the wakening of the boy,\nwhom she wished to appear to the best advantage.\n\nShe met in the garden her brother-in-law, and Sir Peregrine\nOakshott, on being presented to her, made such a bow as had seldom\nbeen seen in those parts, as he politely said that he was the bearer\nof his brother's thanks for her care of his nephew.\n\nMrs. Woodford explained that the boy had had so bad a night that it\nwould be well not to break his present sleep, and invited the guest\nto walk in the garden or sit in the Doctor's study or in the shade\nof the castle wall.\n\nThis last was what he preferred, and there they seated themselves,\nwith a green slope before them down to the pale gray creek, and the\nhill beyond lying in the summer sunshine.\n\n\"I have been long in coming hither,\" said the knight, \"partly on\naccount of letters on affairs of State, and partly likewise because\nI desired to come alone, thinking that I might better understand how\nit is with the lad without the presence of his father or brothers.\"\n\n\"I am very glad you have so done, sir.\"\n\n\"Then, madam, I entreat of you to speak freely and tell me your\nopinion of him without reserve.  You need not fear offence by\nspeaking of the mode in which they have treated him at home.  My\npoor brother has meant to do his duty, but he has stood so far aloof\nfrom his sons that he has dealt with them in ignorance, and their\nmother, between sickliness and timidity, is a mere prey to the folly\nof her gossips.  So speak plainly, madam, I beg of you.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford did speak plainly of the boy's rooted belief in his\nown elfish origin, and how when arguing against it she had found the\nalternative even sadder and more hopeless, how well he comported\nhimself as long as he was treated as a human and rational being, but\nhow the taunts and jests of the young Archfields had renewed all the\nmischief, to the poor fellow's own remorse and despair.\n\nSir Peregrine listened with only a word of comment, or question now\nand then, like a man of the world well used to hearing all before he\ncommitted himself, and the description was only just ended when the\nclang of the warning dinner-bell sounded and they rose; but as they\nwere passing the window of the dining-parlour a shriek of Anne's\nstartled them all, and as they sprang forward, Mrs. Woodford first,\nPeregrine's voice was heard, \"No, no, Anne, don't be afraid.  It is\nfor me he is come; I knew he would.\"\n\nSomething in a strange language was heard.  A black face with round\neyes and gleaming teeth might be seen bending forward.  Anne gave\nanother shriek, but was heard crying, \"No, no!  Get away, sir.  He\nis our Lord Christ's!  He is!  You can't! you shan't have him.\"\n\nAnd Anne was seen standing over Peregrine, who had dropped\nshuddering and nearly fainting on the floor, while she stood\nvaliantly up warding off the advance of him whom she took for the\nPrince of Darkness, and in her excitement not at first aware of\nthose who were come to her aid at the window.  In one second the\nnegro was saying something which his master answered, and sent him\noff.  Mrs. Woodford had called out, \"Don't be afraid, dear children.\n'Tis Sir Peregrine's black servant\"; and the Doctor, \"Foolish\nchildren!  What is this nonsense?\"  A moment or two more and they\nwere in the room, Anne, all trembling, flying up to her mother and\nhiding her face against her between fright and shame at not having\nthought of the black servant, and the while they lifted up\nPeregrine, who, as he met his kind friend's eyes, said faintly, \"Is\nhe gone?  Was it the dream again?\"\n\n\"It was your uncle's blackamoor servant,\" said Mrs. Woodford.  \"You\nwoke up, and no wonder you were startled.  Come with me, both of\nyou, and make you ready for dinner.\"\n\nPeregrine had rather collapsed than fainted, for he was able to walk\nwith her hand on his shoulder, and Sir Peregrine understood her sign\nand did not attempt to accost either of the children, though as the\nDoctor took him to his chamber he expressed his admiration of the\nlittle maiden.\n\n\"That's the right woman,\" he said, \"losing herself when there is one\nto guard.  Nay, sir, she needs no excuse.  Such a spirit may well\nredeem a child's mistake.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford had reassured the children, so that they were more\nthan half ashamed, though scarce willing to reappear when she had\nmade Peregrine wash his face and hands, smooth the hair ruffled in\nhis nap, freshly tying his little cravat and the ribbons on his\nshoes and at his knees.  To make his hair into anything but elf\nlocks, or to obliterate the bristly tuft that made him like Riquet,\nwas impossible, illness had made him additionally lean and sallow,\nand his keen eyes, under their black contracted brows and dark\nlashes, showed all the more the curious variation in their tints,\nand with an obliquity that varied according to the state of the\nnerves.  There was a satirical mischievous cast in the mould of the\nface, though individually the features were not amiss except for\ntheir thinness, and in fact the unpleasantness of the expression had\ninsensibly been softened during this last month, and there was\nnothing repellent, though much that was quaint, in the slight\nfigure, with the indescribably one-sided air, and stature more\nbefitting ten than fourteen years.  What would the visitor think of\nhim?  The Doctor called to him, \"Come, Peregrine, your uncle, Sir\nPeregrine Oakshott, has been good enough to come over to see you.\"\n\nPeregrine had been well trained enough in that bitter school of home\nto make a correct bow, though his feelings were betrayed by his\nyellow eye going almost out of sight.\n\n\"My namesake--your father will not let me say my godson,\" said Sir\nPeregrine smiling.  \"We ought to be good friends.\"\n\nThe boy looked up.  Perhaps he had never been greeted in so human a\nmanner before, and there was something confiding in the way those\nbony fingers of his rested a moment in his uncle's clasp.\n\n\"And this is your little daughter, madam, Peregrine's kind playmate?\nYou may well be proud of her valour,\" said the knight, while Anne\nmade her courtesy, which he, in the custom of the day, returned with\na kiss; and she, who had been mortally ashamed of her terror,\nmarvelled at his praise.\n\nThe pair of fowls were by this time on the table, and good manners\nrequired silence on the part of the children, but while Sir\nPeregrine explained that he had been appointed by his Majesty as\nEnvoy to the Elector of Brandenburg, and gave various interesting\nparticulars of foreign life, Mrs. Woodford saw that he was keeping a\nquiet watch over his nephew's habits at table, and she was thankful\nthat when unmoved by any wayward spirit of mischief they were quite\nbeyond reproach.  Something of the refinement of his poor mother's\ntastes must have been inherited by Peregrine, for a certain\ndaintiness of taste and habit had probably added to his discomforts\nin the austere, not to say rude simplicity imposed upon the children\nof the family.\n\nWhen the meal was over the children were dismissed to the garden,\nbut bidden to keep within call, in case Sir Peregrine should wish to\nsee his nephew again.  The others repaired again to the garden seat,\nwith wine and fruit, but the knight begged Mrs. Woodford not to\nleave them.\n\n\"I am satisfied,\" he said.  \"The boy shows gentle blood and\nbreeding.  There was cause enough for fright without cowardice, and\nthere is not, what I was led to fear, such uncouthness or\nungainliness as should hinder me from having him with me.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, is that your purpose?\" cried the lady, almost as eagerly\nas if it had been high preferment for her own child.\n\n\"I had thought thereon,\" said the envoy.  \"There is reason that he\nshould be my charge, and my brother is like to give a ready consent,\nsince he is sorely perplexed what to do with this poor untoward\nslip.\"\n\n\"He would be less untoward were he happier,\" said Mrs. Woodford.\n\"Indeed, sir, I do not think you will repent it, if--\" and she\npaused.\n\n\"What would you say, madam?\"\n\n\"If only all your honour's household are absolutely ignorant of all\nthese tales.\"\n\n\"That can well be, madam.  I have only one body-servant with me,\nthis unlucky blackamoor, who speaks nothing save Dutch.  I had\nalready thought of leaving my grooms here, and returning to London\nby sea, and this could well be done, and would cut off all channels\nof gossiping.  The boy is, the chaplain tells me, quick-witted, and\na fair scholar for his years, and I can find good schooling for\nhim.\"\n\n\"When his head is able to bear it,\" said Mrs. Woodford.\n\n\"Truly, sir,\" added the Doctor, \"you are doing a good work, and I\ntrust that the boy will requite you worthily.\"\n\n\"I tell your reverence,\" said Sir Peregrine, \"crooked stick though\nthey term him, I had ten times rather have the dealing with him than\nwith those comely great lubbers his brothers!  The question now is,\nshall I tell him what is in store for him?\"\n\n\"I should say,\" returned Dr. Woodford, \"that provided it is certain\nthat the intention can be carried out, nothing would be so good for\nhim as hope.  Do you not say so, sister?\"\n\n\"Indeed I do,\" she replied.  \"I believe that he would be a very\ndifferent boy if he were relieved from the misery he suffers at home\nand requites by mischievous pranks.  I do not say he will or can be\na good lad at once, but if your honour can have patience with him, I\ndo believe there is that in him which can be turned to good.  If he\nonly can believe in the better nature and higher guidings, and pray,\nand not give himself up in despair.\"  She had tears in her eyes.\n\n\"My good madam, I can believe it all,\" said Sir Peregrine.  \"Short\nof being supposed an elf, I have gone through the same, and it was\nnot my good father's fault that I did not loathe the very name of\npreaching or prayer.  But I had a mother who knew how to deal with\nme, whereas this poor child's mother, I am sure, believes in her\nsecret heart that he is none of hers, though she has enough sense\nnot to dare to avow it.  Alas!  I cannot give the boy the woman's\ntending by which you have already wrought so much,\" and Mrs.\nWoodford remembered to have heard that his wife had died at\nRotterdam, \"but I can treat him like a human being, I hope indeed as\na son; and, at any rate, there will be no one to remind him of these\nold wives' tales.\"\n\n\"I can only say that I am heartily rejoiced,\" said Mrs. Woodford.\n\nSo Peregrine was summoned, and shambled up, his eyes showing that he\nexpected a trying interview, and, moreover, with a certain twinkle\nof mischief or perverseness in their corners.\n\n\"Soh! my lad, we ought to be better acquainted,\" said the uncle.\n\"D'ye know what our name means?\"\n\n\"Peregrinus, a vagabond,\" responded the boy.\n\n\"Eh!  The translation may be correct, but 'tis scarce the most\ncomplimentary.  I wonder now if you, like me, were born on a\nWednesday.  'Wednesday's child has far to go.'\"\n\n\"No.  I was born on a Sunday, and if to see goblins and oafs--\"\n\n\"Nay, I read it, 'Sunday's child is full of grace.'\"\n\nPeregrine's mouth twitched ironically, but his uncle continued,\n\"Look you, my boy, what say you to fulfilling the augury of your\nname with me.  His Majesty has ordered me off again to represent the\nBritish name to the Elector of Brandenburg, and I have a mind to\ncarry you with me.  What do you say?\"\n\nIf any one expected Peregrine to be overjoyed his demeanour was\ndisappointing.  He shuffled with his feet, and after two or three\n\"Ehs?\" from his uncle, he mumbled, \"I don't care,\" and then shrank\ntogether, as one prepared for the stripe with the riding-whip which\nsuch a rude answer merited:  but his uncle had, as a diplomate,\nlearnt a good deal of patience, and he said, \"Ha! don't care to\nleave home and brothers.  Eh?\"\n\nPeregrine's chin went down, and there was no answer; his hair\ndropped over his heavy brow.\n\n\"See, boy, this is no jest,\" said his uncle.  \"You are too big to be\ntold that 'I'll put you into my pocket and carry you off.'  I am in\nearnest.\"\n\nPeregrine looked up, and with one sudden flash surveyed his uncle.\nHis lips trembled, but he did not speak.\n\n\"It is sudden,\" said the knight to the other two.  \"See, boy, I am\nnot about to take you away with me now.  In a week or ten days' time\nI start for London; and there we will fit you out for Konigsberg or\nBerlin, and I trust we shall make a man of you, and a good man.\nYour tutor tells me you have excellent parts, and I mean that you\nshall do me credit.\"\n\nDr. Woodford could not help telling the lad that he ought to thank\nhis uncle, whereat he scowled; but Sir Peregrine said, \"He is not\nready for that yet.  Wait till he feels he has something to thank me\nfor.\"\n\nSo Peregrine was dismissed, and his friends exclaimed with some\nwonder and annoyance that the boy who had been willing to be\ndecapitated to put an end to his wretchedness, should be so\nreluctant to accept such an offer, but Sir Peregrine only laughed,\nand said--\n\n\"The lad has pith in him!  I like him better than if he came like a\nspaniel to my foot.  But I will say no more till I fully have my\nbrother's consent.  No one knows what crooks there may be in folks'\nminds.\"\n\nHe took his leave, and presently Mrs. Woodford had a fresh surprise.\nShe found this strange boy lying flat on the grass, sobbing as if\nhis heart would break, and when she tried to soothe and comfort him\nit was very hard to get a word from him; but at last, as she asked,\n\"And does it grieve you so much to leave home?\" the answer was--\n\n\"No, no! not home!\"\n\n\"What is it, then?  What are you sorry to leave?\"\n\n\"Oh, _you_ don't know! you and Anne--the only ones that ever were\ngood to me--and drove away--_it_.\"\n\n\"Nay, my dear boy.  Your uncle means to be good to you.\"\n\n\"No, no.  No one ever will be like you and Anne.  Oh, let me stay\nwith you, or they will have me at last!\"\n\nHe was too much shaken, in his still half-recovered state, by the\nevents of these last days, to be reasoned with.  Mrs. Woodford was\nafraid he would work himself into delirium, and could only soothe\nhim into a calmer state.  She found from Anne that the children had\nsome vague hopes of his being allowed to remain at Portchester, and\nthat this was the ground of his disappointment, since he seemed to\nbe attaching himself to them as the first who had ever touched his\nheart or opened to him a gleam of better things.\n\nBy the next day, however, he was in a quieter and more reasonable\nstate, and Mrs. Woodford was able to have a long talk with him.  She\nrepresented that the difference of opinions made it almost certain\nthat his father would never consent to his remaining under her roof,\nand that even if this were possible, Portchester was far too much\ninfected with the folly from which he had suffered so much; and his\nuncle would take care that no one he would meet should ever hear of\nit.\n\n\"There's little good in that,\" said the boy moodily.  \"I'm a thing\nthey'll jibe at and bait any way.\"\n\n\"I do not see that, if you take pains with yourself.  Your uncle\nsaid you showed blood and breeding, and when you are better dressed,\nand with him, no one will dare to mock his Excellency's nephew.\nDepend upon it, Peregrine, this is the fresh start that you need.\"\n\n\"If you were there--\"\n\n\"My boy, you must not ask for what is impossible.  You must learn to\nconquer in God's strength, not mine.\"\n\nAll, however, that passed may not here be narrated, and it\napparently left that wayward spirit unconvinced.  Nevertheless, when\non the second day Major Oakshott himself came over with his brother,\nand informed Peregrine that his uncle was good enough to undertake\nthe charge of him, and to see that he was bred up in godly ways in a\nProtestant land, free from prelacy and superstition, the boy seemed\nreconciled to his fate.  Major Oakshott spoke more kindly than usual\nto him, being free from fresh irritation at his misdemeanours; but\neven thus there was a contrast with the gentler, more persuasive\ntones of the diplomatist, and no doubt this tended to increase\nPeregrine's willingness to be thus handed over.\n\nThe next question was whether he should go home first, but both the\nuncle and the friends were averse to his remaining there, amid the\nunavoidable gossip and chatter of the household, and it was\ntherefore decided that he should only ride over with Dr. Woodford\nfor an hour or two to take leave of his mother and brothers.\n\nThis settled, Mrs. Woodford found him much easier to deal with.  He\nhad really, through his midnight invocation of the fairies, obtained\nan opening into a new world, and he was ready to believe that with\nno one to twit him with being a changeling or worse, he could avoid\nperpetual disgrace and punishment and live at peace.  Nor was he\nunwilling to promise Mrs. Woodford to say daily, and especially when\ntempted, one or two brief collects and ejaculations which she\nselected to teach him, as being as unlike as possible to the long\nextempore exercises which had made him hate the very name of prayer.\nThe Doctor gave him a Greek Testament, as being least connected with\nunpleasant recollections.\n\n\"And,\" entreated Peregrine humbly, in a low voice to Mrs. Woodford\non his last Sunday evening, \"may I not have something of yours, to\nlay hold of, and remember you if--when--the evil spirit tries to lay\nhold of me again?\"\n\nShe would fain have given him a prayer-book, but she knew that would\nbe treason to his father, and with tears in her eyes and something\nof a pang, she gave him a tiny miniature of herself, which had been\nher husband's companion at sea, and hung it round his neck with the\nchain of her own hair that had always held it.\n\n\"It will always keep my heart warm,\" said Peregrine, as he hid it\nunder his vest.  There was a shade of disappointment on Anne's face\nwhen he showed it to her, for she had almost deemed it her own.\n\n\"Never mind, Anne,\" he said; \"I am coming back a knight like my\nuncle to marry you, and then it will be yours again.\"\n\n\"I--I'm not going to wed you--I have another sweetheart,\" added Anne\nin haste, lest he should think she scorned him.\n\n\"Oh, that lubberly Charles Archfield!  No fear of him.  He is\npromised long ago to some little babe of quality in London.  You may\nwhistle for him.  So you'd better wait for me.\"\n\n\"It is not true.  You only say it to plague me.\"\n\n\"It's as true as Gospel!  I heard Sir Philip telling one of the big\nblack gowns one day in the Close, when I was sitting up in a tree\noverhead, how they had fixed a marriage between his son and his old\nfriend's daughter, who would have ever so many estates.  So I'd give\nthat\"--snapping his fingers--\"for your chances of being my Lady\nArchfield in the salt mud at Fareham.\"\n\n\"I shall ask Lucy.  It is not kind of you, Perry, when you are just\ngoing away.\"\n\n\"Come, come, don't cry, Anne.\"\n\n\"But I knew Charley ever so long first, and--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes.  Maids always like straight, comely, dull fellows, I know\nthat.  But as you can't have Charles Archfield, I mean to have you,\nAnne--for I shall look to you as the only one as can ever make a\ngood man of me!  Ay--your mother--I'd wed her if I could, but as I\ncan't, I mean to have you, Anne Woodford.\"\n\n\"I don't mean to have you!  I shall go to Court, and marry some\nnoble earl or gentleman!  Why do you laugh and make that face,\nPeregrine? you know my father was almost a knight--\"\n\n\"Nobody is long with you without knowing that!\" retorted Peregrine;\n\"but a miss is as good as a mile, and you will find the earls and\nthe lords will think so, and be fain to take the crooked stick at\nlast!\"\n\nMistress Anne tossed her head--and Peregrine returned a grimace.\nNevertheless they parted with a kiss, and for some time the thought\nof Peregrine haunted the little girl with a strange, fateful\nfeeling, between aversion and attraction, which wore off, as a folly\nof her childhood, with her growth in years.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII: THE RETURN\n\n\n\"I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in\nFrance, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere.\"\n\nMerchant of Venice.\n\nIt was autumn, but in the year 1687, when again Lucy Archfield and\nAnne Jacobina Woodford were pacing the broad gravel walk along the\nsouth side of the nave of Winchester Cathedral.  Lucy, in spite of\nher brocade skirt and handsome gown of blue velvet tucked up over\nit, was still devoid of any look of distinction, but was a round-\nfaced, blooming, cheerful maiden, of that ladylike thoroughly\ncountrified type happily frequent in English girlhood throughout all\ntime.\n\nAnne, or Jacobina, as she tried to be called, towered above her\nhead, and had never lost that tincture of courtly grace that early\nbreeding had given her, and though her skirt was of gray wool, and\nthe upper gown of cherry tabinet, she wore both with an air that\nmade them seem more choice and stylish than those of her companion,\nwhile the simple braids and curls of her brown hair set off an\nunusually handsome face, pale and clear in complexion, with regular\nfeatures, fine arched eyebrows over clear brown eyes, a short chin,\nand a mouth of perfect outline, but capable of looking very\nresolute.\n\nAltogether she looked fit for a Court atmosphere, and perhaps she\nwas not without hopes of it, for Dr. Woodford had become a royal\nchaplain under Charles II, and was now continued in the same office;\nand though this was a sinecure as regarded the present King, yet\nTory and High Church views were as much in the ascendant as they\ncould be under a Romanist king, and there were hopes of a canonry at\nWindsor or Westminster, or even higher preferment still, if he were\nnot reckoned too staunch an Anglican.  That Mrs. Woodford's health\nhad been failing for many months past would, her sanguine daughter\nthought, be remedied by being nearer the best physicians in London,\nwhich had been quitted with regret.  Meantime Lucy's first\nexperiences of wedding festivities were to be heard.  For the\nArchfield family had just returned from celebrating the marriage of\nthe heir.  Long ago Anne Jacobina had learnt to reckon Master\nCharles's pledges of affection among the sports and follies of\nchildhood, and the strange sense of disappointment and shame with\nwhich she recollected them had perhaps added to her natural reserve,\nand made her feel it due to maidenly dignity to listen with zest to\nthe account of the bride, who was to be brought to supper at Doctor\nWoodford's that eve.\n\n\"She is a pretty little thing,\" said Lucy, \"but my mother was much\nconcerned to find her so mere a child, and would not, if she had\nseen her, have consented to the marriage for two years to come,\nexcept for the sake of having her in our own hands.\"\n\n\"I thought she was sixteen.\"\n\n\"Barely fifteen, my dear, and far younger than we were at that age.\nShe cried because her woman said she must leave her old doll behind\nher; and when my brother declared that she should have anything she\nliked, she danced about, and kissed him, and made him kiss its\nwooden face with half the paint rubbed off.\"\n\n\"He did?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!  She is like a pretty fresh plaything to him, and they go\nabout together just like big Towzer and little Frisk at home.  He is\nvery much amused with her, and she thinks him the finest possession\nthat ever came in her way.\"\n\n\"Well, so he is.\"\n\n\"That is true; but somehow it is scarcely like husband and wife; and\nmy mother fears that she may be sickly, for she is so small and\nslight that it seems as if you could blow her away, and so white\nthat you would think she had no blood, except when a little heat\nbrings the purest rose colour to her cheek, and that, my lady says,\nbetokens weakliness.  You know, of course, that she is an orphan;\nher father died of a wasting consumption, and her mother not long\nafter, when she was a yearling babe.  It was her grandfather who was\nmy father's friend in the old cavalier days, and wrote to propose\nthe contract to my brother not long before his death, when she was\nbut five years old.  The pity was that she was not sent to us at\nonce, for the old lord, her grand-uncle, never heeded or cared for\nher, but left her to servants, who petted her, but understood\nnothing of care of her health or her education, so that the only\nwonder is that she is alive or so sweet and winning as she is.  She\ncan hardly read without spelling, and I had to make copies for her\nof Alice Fitzhubert, to show her how to sign the book.  All she knew\nshe learnt from the old steward, and only when she liked.  My father\nlaughs and is amused, but my lady sighs, and hopes her portion is\nnot dearly bought.\"\n\n\"Is not she to be a great heiress?\"\n\n\"Not of the bulk of the lands--they go to heirs male; but there is\nmuch besides, enough to make Charles a richer man than our father.\nI wonder what you will think of her.  My mother is longing to talk\nher over with Mrs Woodford.\"\n\n\"And my mother is longing to see my lady.\"\n\n\"I fear she is still but poorly.\"\n\n\"We think she will be much better when we get home,\" said Anne.  \"I\nam sure she is stronger, for she walked round the Close yesterday,\nand was scarcely tired.\"\n\n\"But tell me, Anne, is it true that poor Master Oliver Oakshott is\ndead of smallpox?\"\n\n\"Quite true.  Poor young gentleman, he was to have married that\ncousin of his mother's, Mistress Martha Browning, living at\nEmsworth.  She came on a visit, and they think she brought the\ninfection, for she sickened at once, and though she had it\nfavourably, is much disfigured.  Master Oliver caught it and died in\nthree days, and all the house were down with it.  They say poor Mrs.\nOakshott forgot her ailments and went to and fro among them all.  My\nmother would have gone to help in their need if she had been as well\nas she used to be.\"\n\n\"How is it with the other son?  He was a personable youth enough.  I\nsaw him at the ship launch in the spring, and thought both lads\nwould fain have staid for the dance on board but for their grim old\nfather.\"\n\n\"You saw Robert, but he is not the elder.\"\n\n\"What?  Is that shocking impish urchin whom we used to call Riquet\nwith the tuft, older than he?\"\n\n\"Certainly he is.  He writes from time to time to my mother, and\nseems to be doing well with his uncle.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe he would come to good.  Do you remember his\nsending my brother and cousin adrift in the boat?\"\n\n\"I think that was in great part the fault of your cousin for mocking\nand tormenting him.\"\n\n\"Sedley Archfield was a bad boy!  There's no denying that.  I am\nafraid he had good reason for running away from college.\"\n\n\"Have you heard of him since?\"\n\n\"Yes; he has been serving with the Life-guards in Scotland, and\nmayhap he will come home and see us.  My father wishes to see\nwhether he is worthy to have a troop procured by money or favour for\nhim, and if they are recalled to the camp at November it will be an\nopportunity.  But see--who is coming through the Slype?\"\n\n\"My uncle.  And who is with him?\"\n\nDr. Woodford advanced, and with him a small slender figure in black.\nAs the broad hat with sable plume was doffed with a sweep on\napproaching the ladies, a dark head and peculiar countenance\nappeared, while the Doctor said, \"Here is an old acquaintance, young\nladies, whom I met dismounting at the White Hart, and have brought\nhome with me.\"\n\n\"Mr. Peregrine Oakshott!\" exclaimed Anne, feeling bound to offer in\nwelcome a hand, which he kissed after the custom of the day, while\nLucy dropped a low and formal courtesy, and being already close to\nthe gate of the house occupied by her family, took her leave till\nsupper-time.\n\nEven in the few steps before reaching home Anne was able to perceive\nthat a being very unlike the imp of seven years ago had returned,\nthough still short in stature and very slight, with long dark hair\nhanging straight enough to suggest elf-locks, but his figure was\nwell proportioned, and had a finished air of high breeding and\ntraining.  His riding suit was point device, from the ostrich\nfeather in his hat, to the toes of his well made boots, and his\nsword knew its place, as well as did those of the gentlemen that\nAnne remembered at the Duke of York's when she was a little child.\nHis thin, marked face was the reverse of handsome, but it was keen,\nshrewd, perhaps satirical, and the remarkable eyes were very bright\nunder dark eyebrows and lashes, and the thin lips, devoid of hair,\nshowed fine white teeth when parted by a smile of gladness--at the\nmeeting--though he was concerned to hear that Mrs. Woodford had been\nvery ill all the last spring, and had by no means regained her\nformer health, and even in the few words that passed it might be\ngathered that Anne was far more hopeful than her uncle.\n\nShe did indeed look greatly changed, though her countenance was\nsweeter than ever, as she rose from her seat by the fire and held\nout her arms to receive the newcomer with a motherly embrace, while\nthe expression of joy and affection was such as could never once\nhave seemed likely to sit on Peregrine Oakshott's features.  They\nwere left together, for Anne had the final touches to put to the\nsupper, and Dr. Woodford was sent for to speak to one of the\nCathedral staff.\n\nPeregrine explained that he was on his way home, his father having\nrecalled him on his brother's death, but he hoped soon to rejoin his\nuncle, whose secretary he now was.  They had been for the last few\nmonths in London, and were thence to be sent on an embassy to the\nyoung Czar of Muscovy, an expedition to which he looked forward with\neager curiosity.  Mrs. Woodford hoped that all danger of infection\nat Oakwood was at an end.\n\n\"There is none for me, madam,\" he said, with a curious writhed\nsmile.  \"Did you not know that they thought they were rid of me when\nI took the disease at seven years old, and lay in the loft over the\nhen-house with Molly Owens to tend me? and I believe it was thought\nto be fairy work that I came out of it no more unsightly than\nbefore.\"\n\n\"You are seeking for compliments, Peregrine; you are greatly\nimproved.\"\n\n\"Crooked sticks can be pruned and trained,\" he responded, with a\ncourteous bow.\n\n\"You are a travelled man.  Let me see, how many countries have you\nseen?\"\n\n\"A year at Berlin and Konigsberg--strange places enough, specially\nthe last, two among the scholars and high roofs of Leyden, half a\nyear at Versailles and Paris, another year at Turin, whence back for\nanother half year to wait on old King Louis, then to the Hague, and\nthe last three months at Court.  Not much like buying and selling\ncows, or growing wheat on the slopes, or lying out on a cold\nwinter's night to shoot a few wild fowl; and I have you to thank for\nit, my first and best friend!\"\n\n\"Nay, your uncle is surely your best.\"\n\n\"Never would he have picked up the poor crooked stick save for you,\nmadam.  Moreover, you gave me my talisman,\" and he laid his hand on\nhis breast; \"it is your face that speaks to me and calls me back\nwhen the elf, or whatever it is, has got the mastery of me.\"\n\nSomewhat startled, Mrs. Woodford would have asked what he meant, but\nthat intelligence was brought that Mr. Oakshott's man had brought\nhis mail, so that he had to repair to his room.  Mrs. Woodford had\nkept up some correspondence with him, for which his uncle's position\nas envoy afforded unusual facilities, and she knew that on the whole\nhe had been a very different being from what he was at home.  Once,\nindeed, his uncle had written to the Doctor to express his full\nsatisfaction in the lad, on whom he seemed to look like a son, but\nfrom some subsequent letters she had an impression that he had got\ninto trouble of some sort while at the University of Leyden, and she\nwas afraid that she must accept the belief that the wild elfish\nspirit, as he called it, was by no means extinct in him, any more,\nshe said to herself, than temptation is in any human creature.  The\nquestion is, What is there to contend therewith?\n\nThe guests were, however, about to assemble.  The Doctor, in black\nvelvet cap and stately silken cassock, sash, and gown, sailed down\nto receive them, and again greeted Peregrine, who emerged in black\nvelvet and satin, delicate muslin cravat and cuffs, dainty silk\nstockings and rosetted shoes, in a style such as made the far taller\nand handsomer Charles Archfield, in spite of gay scarlet coat,\nembroidered flowery vest, rich laced cravat, and thick shining brown\ncurls, look a mere big schoolboy, almost bumpkin-like in contrast.\nHowever, no one did look at anything but the little creature who\ncould just reach to hang upon that resplendent bridegroom's arm.\nShe was in glistening white brocade, too stiff and cumbrous for so\ntiny a figure, yet together with the diamonds glistening on her head\nand breast giving her the likeness of a fairy queen.  The whiteness\nwas almost startling, for the neck and arms were like pearl in tint,\nthe hair flowing in full curls on her shoulders was like shining\nflax or pale silk just unwound from the cocoon, and the only relief\nof colour was the deep blue of the eyes, the delicate tint of the\nlips, and the tender rosy flush that was called up by her\npresentation to her hosts by stout old Sir Philip, in plum-coloured\ncoat and full-bottomed wig, though she did not blush half as much as\nthe husband of nineteen in his new character.  Indeed, had it not\nbeen for her childish prettiness, her giggle would have been\nunpleasing to more than Lady Archfield, who, broad and matronly,\ngave a courtesy and critical glance at Peregrine before subsiding\ninto a seat beside Mrs. Woodford.\n\nLucy stood among a few other young people from the Close, watching\nfor Anne, who came in, trim and bright, though still somewhat\nreddened in face and arms from her last attentions to the supper--an\nelaborate meal on such occasions, though lighter than the mid-day\nrepast.  There were standing pies of game, lobster and oyster\npatties, creams, jellies, and other confections, on which Sir Philip\nand his lady highly complimented Anne, who had been engaged on them\nfor at least a couple of days, her mother being no longer able to\nassist except by advice.\n\n\"See, daughter Alice, you will learn one day to build up a jelly as\nwell as to eat it,\" said Sir Philip good-humouredly, whereat the\nsmall lady pouted a little and said--\n\n\"Bet lets me make shapes of the dough, but I won't stir the pans and\nget to look like a turkey-cock.\"\n\n\"Ah, ha! and you have always done what you liked, my little madam?\"\n\n\"Of course, sir! and so I shall,\" she answered, drawing up her\npretty little head, while Lady Archfield gave hers a boding shake.\n\n\"Time, and life, and wifehood teach lessons,\" murmured Mrs. Woodford\nin consolation, and the Doctor changed the subject by asking\nPeregrine whether the ladies abroad were given to housewifery.\n\n\"The German dames make a great ado about their Wirthschaft, as they\ncall it,\" was the reply, \"but as to the result!  Pah!  I know not\nhow we should have fared had not Hans, my uncle's black, been an\nexcellent cook; but it was in Paris that we were exquisitely\nregaled, and our maitre d'hotel would discourse on ragouts and\nentremets till one felt as if his were the first of the sciences.\"\n\n\"So it is to a Frenchman,\" growled Sir Philip.  \"French and\nFrenchifications are all the rage nowadays, but what will your\nfather say to your science, my young spark?\"\n\nThe gesture of head and shoulder that replied had certainly been\ncaught at Paris.  Mrs. Woodford rushed into the breach, asking about\nthe Princess of Orange, whom she had often seen as a child.\n\n\"A stately and sightly dame is she, madam,\" Peregrine answered,\n\"towering high above her little mynheer, who outwardly excels her in\nnaught save the length of nose, and has the manners of a boor.\"\n\n\"The Prince of Orange is the hope of the country,\" said Sir Philip\nseverely.\n\nPeregrine's face wore a queer satirical look, which provoked Sir\nPhilip into saying, \"Speak up, sir! what d'ye mean?  We don't\nunderstand French grins here.\"\n\n\"Nor does he, nor French courtesies either,\" said Peregrine.\n\n\"So much the better!\" exclaimed the baronet.\n\nHere the little clear voice broke in, \"O Mr. Oakshott, if I had but\nknown you were coming, you might have brought me a French doll in\nthe latest fashion.\"\n\n\"I should have been most happy, madam,\" returned Peregrine; \"but\nunfortunately I am six months from Paris, and besides, his honour\nmight object lest a French doll should contaminate the Dutch\npuppets.\"\n\n\"But oh, sir, is it true that French dolls have real hair that will\ncurl?\"\n\n\"Don't be foolish,\" muttered Charles impatiently; and she drew up\nher head and made an indescribably droll moue of disgust at him.\n\nSupper ended, the party broke up into old and young, the two elder\ngentlemen sadly discussing politics over their tall glasses of wine,\nthe matrons talking over the wedding and Lady Archfield's stay in\nLondon at the parlour fire, and the young folk in a window, waiting\nfor the fiddler and a few more of the young people who were to join\nthem in the dance.\n\nThe Archfield ladies had kissed the hand of the Queen, and agreed\nwith Peregrine in admiration of her beauty and grace, though they\ndid not go so far as he did, especially when he declared that her\neyes were as soft as Mistress Anne's, and nearly of the same\nexquisite brown, which made the damsel blush and experience a\nrevival of the old feeling of her childhood, as if he put her under\na spell.\n\nHe went on to say that he had had the good fortune to pick up and\nrestore to Queen Mary Beatrice a gold and coral rosary which she had\ndropped on her way to St. James's Palace from Whitehall.  She\nthanked him graciously, letting him kiss her hand, and asking him if\nhe were of the true Church.  \"Imagine my father's feelings,\" he\nadded, \"when she said, 'Ah! but you will be ere long; I give it you\nas a pledge.'\"\n\nHe produced the rosary, handing it first to Anne, who admired the\nbeautiful filigree work, but it was almost snatched from her by Mrs.\nArchfield, who wound it twice on her tiny wrist, tried to get it\nover her head, and did everything but ask for it, till her husband,\nturning round, said roughly, \"Give it back, madam.  We want no\nPopish toys here.\"\n\nLucy put in a hasty question whether Master Oakshott had seen much\nsport, and this led to a spirited description of the homely earnest\nof wild boar hunting under the great Elector of Brandenburg, in\ncontrast with the splendours of la chasse aux sangliers at\nFontainebleau with the green and gold uniforms, the fanfares on the\ncurled horns, the ladies in their coaches, forced to attend whether\nill or well, the very boars themselves too well bred not to conform\nto the sport of the great idol of France.  And again, he showed the\ndiamond sleeve buttons, the trophies of a sort of bazaar held at\nMarly, where the stalls were kept by the Dauphin, Monsieur, the Duke\nof Maine, Madame de Maintenon, and the rest, where the purchases\nwere winnings at Ombre, made not with coin but with nominal sums,\nand other games at cards, and all was given away that was not\npurchased.  And again the levees, when the King's wig was handed\nthrough the curtains on a stick.  Peregrine's profane mimicry of the\nstately march of Louis Quatorze, and the cringing obeisances of his\ncourtiers, together with their strutting majesty towards their own\ninferiors, convulsed all with merriment; and the bride shrieked out,\n\"Do it again!  Oh, I shall die of laughing!\"\n\nIt was very girlish, with a silvery ring, but the elder ladies\nlooked round, and the bridegroom muttered 'Mountebank.'\n\nThe fiddler arrived at that moment, and the young people paired off,\nthe young couple naturally together, and Peregrine, to the surprise\nand perhaps discomfiture of more than one visitor, securing Anne's\nhand.  The young lady pupils of Madame knew their steps, and Lucy\ndanced correctly, Anne with an easy, stately grace, Charles\nArchfield performed his devoir seriously, his little wife frisked\nwith childish glee, evidently quite untaught, but Peregrine's light\nnarrow feet sprang, pointed themselves, and bounded with trained\nagility, set off by the tight blackness of his suit.  He was like\none of the grotesque figures shaped in black paper, or as Sir\nPhilip, looking in from the dining-parlour, observed, \"like a light-\nheeled French fop.\"\n\nAs a rule partners retained one another all the evening, but little\nMrs. Archfield knew no etiquette, and maybe her husband had pushed\nand pulled her into place a little more authoritatively than she\nquite approved, for she shook him off, and turning round to\nPeregrine exclaimed--\n\n\"Now, I will dance with you!  You do leap and hop so high and\ntrippingly!  Never mind her; she is only a parson's niece!\"\n\n\"Madam!\" exclaimed Charles, in a tone of surprised displeasure; but\nshe only nodded archly at him, and said, \"I must dance with him; he\ncan jump so high.\"\n\n\"Let her have her way,\" whispered Lucy, \"she is but a child, and it\nwill be better not to make a pother.\"\n\nHe yielded, though with visible annoyance, asking Anne if she would\nput up with a poor deserted swain, and as he led her off muttering,\n\"That fellow's friskiness is like to be taken out of him at\nOakwood.\"\n\nMeanwhile the small creature had taken possession of her chosen\npartner, who, so far as size went, was far better suited to her than\nany of the other men present.  They were dancing something original\nand unpremeditated, with twirls and springs, sweeps and bends,\nbounds and footings, just as the little lady's fancy prompted,\nperhaps guided in some degree by her partner's experience of\nnational dances.  White and black, they figured about, she with\nfloating sheeny hair and glistening robes, he trim and tight and\njetty, like fairy and imp!  It was so droll and pretty that talkers\nand dancers alike paused to watch them in a strange fascination,\ntill at last, quite breathless and pink as a moss rosebud, Alice\ndropped upon a chair near her husband.  He stood grim, stiff, and\nvexed, all the more because Peregrine had taken her fan and was\nusing it so as to make it wave like butterfly's wings, while poor\nCharles looked, as the Doctor whispered to his father, far more\ninclined to lay it about her ears.\n\nSir Philip laughed heartily, for both he and the Doctor had been so\nmuch entranced and amused as to be far more diverted at the lad's\ndiscomfiture than scandalised at the bride's escapade, which they\nviewed as child's play.\n\nPerhaps, however, he was somewhat comforted by her later\nobservation, \"He is as ugly as Old Nick, and looks like always\nlaughing at you; but I wish you could dance like him, Mr. Archfield,\nonly then you wouldn't be my dear old great big husband, or so\nbeautiful to look at.  Oh, yes, to be sure, he is nothing but a\nskipjack such as one makes out of a chicken bone!\"\n\nAnd Anne meanwhile was exclaiming to her mother, \"Oh, madam! how\ncould they do such a thing?  How could they make poor Charley marry\nthat foolish ill-mannered little creature?\"\n\n\"Hush, daughter, you must drop that childish name,\" said Mrs.\nWoodford gravely.\n\nAnne blushed.  \"I forgot, madam, but I am so sorry for him.\"\n\n\"There is no reason for uneasiness, my dear.  She is a mere child,\nand under such hands as Lady Archfield she is sure to improve.  It\nis far better that she should be so young, as it will be the more\neasy to mould her.\"\n\n\"I hope there is any stuff in her to be moulded,\" sighed the maiden.\n\n\"My dear child,\" returned her mother, \"I cannot permit you to talk\nin this manner.  Yes, I know Mr. Archfield has been as a brother to\nyou, but even his sister ought not to allow herself to discuss or\ndwell on what she deems the shortcomings of his wife.\"\n\nThe mother in her prudence had silenced the girl; but none the less\ndid each fall asleep with a sad and foreboding heart.  She knew her\nchild to be good and well principled, but those early days of notice\nand petting from the young Princesses of the House of York had never\nfaded from the childish mind, and although Anne was dutiful,\ncheerful, and outwardly contented, the mother often suspected that\nover the spinning-wheel or embroidery frame she indulged in day\ndreams of heroism, promotion, and grandeur, which might either fade\naway in a happy life of domestic duty or become temptations.\n\nBefore going away next morning Peregrine entreated that Mistress\nAnne might have the Queen's rosary, but her mother decidedly\nrefused.  \"It ought to be an heirloom in your family,\" said she.\n\nHe threw up his hands with one of his strange gestures.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX: ON HIS TRAVELS\n\n\n\"For Satan finds some mischief still\nFor idle hands to do.\"\n\nISAAC WATTS.\n\nPeregrine went off in good spirits, promising a visit on his return\nto London, of which he seemed to have no doubt; but no more was\nheard of him for ten days.  At the end of that time the Portsmouth\ncarrier conveyed the following note to Winchester:--\n\nHONOURED AND REVEREND SIR--Seven years since your arguments and\nintercession induced my father to consent to what I hoped had\nbeen the rescue of me, body and soul.  I know not whether to ask\nof your goodness to make the same endeavour again.  My father\ndeclares that nothing shall induce him again to let me go abroad\nwith my uncle, and persists in declaring that the compact has\nbeen broken by our visits to Papist lands, nor will aught that I\ncan say persuade him that the Muscovite abhors the Pope quite as\nmuch as he can.  He likewise deems that having unfortunately\nbecome his heir, I must needs remain at home to thin the timber\nand watch the ploughmen; and when I have besought him to let me\nyield my place to Robert he replies that I am playing the part of\nEsau.  I have written to my uncle, who has been a true father to\nme, and would be loth to part from me for his own sake as well as\nmine but I know not whether he will be able to prevail; and I\nentreat of you, reverend sir, to add your persuasions, for I well\nknow that it would be my perdition to remain bound where I am.\n\nCommend me to Mrs. Woodford and Mistress Anne.  I trust that the\nformer is in better health.--I remain, reverend sir, Your humble\nservant to command, PEREGRINE OAKSHOTT.\n\nGiven at Oakwood House,\nThis 10th of October 1687.\n\nThis was very bad news, but Dr. Woodford knew not how to interfere;\nmoreover, being in course at the Cathedral, he could not absent\nhimself long enough for an expedition to Oakwood, through wintry\nroads in short days.  He could only write an encouraging letter to\nthe poor lad, and likewise one to Mr. Horncastle, who under the\nIndulgence had a chapel of his own.  The Doctor had kept up the\nacquaintance formed by Peregrine's accident, and had come to regard\nhim with much esteem, and as likely to exercise a wholesome\ninfluence upon his patron.  Nothing more was heard for a week, and\nthen came another visitor to the Doctor's door, Sir Peregrine\nhimself, on his way down, at considerable inconvenience, to\nendeavour to prevail with his brother to allow him to retain his\nnephew in his suite.\n\n\"Surely,\" he said, \"my brother had enough of camps in his youth to\nunderstand that his son will be none the worse squire for having\ngone a little beyond Hampshire bogs, and learnt what the world is\nmade of.\"\n\n\"I cannot tell,\" said Dr. Woodford; \"I have my fears that he thinks\nthe less known of the world the better.\"\n\n\"That might answer with a heavy clod of a lad such as the poor youth\nwho is gone, and such as, for his own sake and my brother's, I trust\nthe younger one is, fruges consumere natus; but as for this boy,\ndulness and vacancy are precisely what would be the ruin of him.\nLet my brother keep Master Robert at home, and give him Oakwood; I\nwill provide for Perry as I always promised to do.\"\n\n\"If he is wise he will accept the offer,\" said Dr. Woodford; \"but\n'tis hard to be wise for others.\"\n\n\"Nothing harder, sir.  I would that I had gone home with Perry, but\nmine audience of his Majesty was fixed for the ensuing week, and my\nbrother's summons was peremptory.\"\n\n\"I trust your honour will prevail,\" said Mrs. Woodford gently.  \"You\nhave effected a mighty change in the poor boy, and I can well\nbelieve that he is as a son to you.\"\n\n\"Well, madam, yes--as sons go,\" said the knight in a somewhat\ndisappointing tone.\n\nShe looked at him anxiously, and ventured to murmur a hope so very\nlike an inquiry, and so full of solicitous hope, that it actually\nunlocked the envoy's reserve, and he said, \"Ah, madam, you have been\nthe best mother that the poor youth has ever had!  I will speak\nfreely to you, for should I fail in overcoming my brother's\nprejudices, you will be able to do more for him than any one else,\nand I know you will be absolutely secret.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford sighed, with forebodings of not long being able to aid\nany one in this world, but still she listened with earnest interest\nand sympathy.\n\n\"Yes, madam, you implanted in him that which yet may conquer his\nstrange nature.  Your name is as it were a charm to conjure up his\nbetter spirit.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" she said, \"I never durst hope, that he could be tamed\nand under control all at once, but--\" and she paused.\n\n\"He has improved--vastly improved,\" said the uncle.  \"Indeed, when\nfirst I took him with me, while he was still weak, and moreover much\novercome by sea-sickness, while all was strange to him, and he was\nrelieved by not finding himself treated as an outcast, I verily\nthought him meeker than other urchins, and that the outcry against\nhim was unmerited.  But no sooner had we got to Berlin, and while I\nwas as yet too busy to provide either masters or occupations for my\nyoung gentleman, than he did indeed make me feel that I had charge\nof a young imp, and that if I did not watch the better, it might be\na case of war with his Spanish Majesty.  For would you believe it,\nhis envoy's gardens joined ours, and what must my young master do,\nbut sit atop of our wall, making grimaces at the dons and donnas as\nthey paced the walks, and pelting them from time to time with\nwalnuts.  Well, I was mindful of your counsel, and did not flog him,\nnor let my chaplain do so, though I know the good man's fingers\nitched to be at him; but I reasoned with him on the harm he was\ndoing me, and would you believe it, the poor lad burst into tears,\nand implored me to give him something to do, to save him from his\nown spirit.  I set him to write out and translate a long roll of\nLatin despatches sent up by that pedant Court in Hungary, and I\ndeclare to you I had no more trouble with him till next he was left\nidle.  I gave him tutors, and he studied with fervour, and made\nprogress at which they were amazed.  He learnt the High Dutch faster\nthan any other of my people, and could soon jabber away in it with\nthe best of the Elector's folk, and I began to think I had a nephew\nwho would do me no small credit.  I sent him to perfect his studies\nat Leyden, but shall I confess it to you? it was to find that no\nmaster nor discipline could keep him out of the riotings and\nquarrels of the worse sort of students.  Nay, I found him laid by\nwith a rapier thrust in the side from a duel, for no better cause\nthan biting his thumb at a Scots law student in chapel, his apology\nbeing that to sit through a Dutch sermon drove him crazy.  'Tis not\nthat he is not trustworthy.  Find employment for the restless demon\nthat is in him, and all is well with him; moreover, he is full of\nwit and humour, and beguiles a long journey or tedious evening at an\ninn better than any comrade I ever knew, extracting mirth from all\naround, even the very discomforts, and searching to the quick all\nthat is to be seen.  But if left to himself, the restless demon that\npreys on him is sure to set him to something incalculable.  At Turin\nit set him to scraping acquaintance with a Capuchin friar, a dirty\nrogue whom I would have kept on the opposite side of the street.\nThat was his graver mood; but what more must he do, but borrow or\nsteal, I know not how, the ghastly robes of the Confraternity of\nDeath--the white garb and peaked cap with two holes for the eyes,\nwherewith men of all degrees disguise themselves while doing the\npious work of bearing the dead to the grave.  None suspected him,\nfor the disguise is complete, and a duke may walk unknown beside a\nwater-carrier, bearing the corpse of a cobbler.  All would have been\nwell, but that at the very brink of the grave the boy's fiend--'tis\nhis own word--impelled him to break forth into his wild \"Ho! ho!\nho!\" with an eldritch shriek, and slipping out of his cerements,\ndash off headlong over the wall of the cemetery.  He was not\nfollowed.  I believe the poor body belonged to a fellow whose\nsalvation was more than doubtful in spite of all the priests could\ndo, and that the bearers really took him for the foul fiend.  It was\nnot till a week or two after that the ring of his voice and laugh\ncaused him to be recognised by one of the Duke of Savoy's gentlemen,\nhappily a prudent man, loth to cause a tumult against one of my\nsuite, and he told me all privately in warning.  Ay, and when I\nspoke to Peregrine, I found him thoroughly penitent at having\ninsulted the dead; he had been unhappy ever since, and had actually\nbestowed his last pocket-piece on the widow.  He made handsome\napologies in good Italian, which he had picked up as fast as the\nGerman, to the gentleman, who promised that it should go no farther,\nand kept his word.  It was the solemnity, Peregrine assured me, that\nbrought back all the intolerableness of the preachings at home, and\nawoke the same demon.\"\n\n\"How long ago was this, sir?\"\n\n\"About eighteen months.\"\n\n\"And has all been well since?\"\n\n\"Fairly well.  He has had fuller and more responsible work to do for\nme, his turn for languages making him a most valuable secretary; and\nin the French Court, really the most perilous of all to a young\nman's virtue, he behaved himself well.  It is not debauchery that he\nhas a taste for, but he must be doing something, and if wholesome\noccupations do not stay his appetite, he will be doing mischief.  He\nbrought on himself a very serious rebuke from the Prince of Orange,\nchurlishly and roughly given, I allow, but fully merited, for making\ngrimaces at his acquaintance among the young officers at a military\ninspection.  Heaven help the lad if he be left with his father,\nwhose most lively notion of innocent sport is scratching the heads\nof his hogs!\"\n\nNothing could be said in answer save earnest wishes that the knight\nmight persuade his brother.  Mrs. Woodford wished her brother-in-law\nto go with him to add force to his remonstrance; but on the whole it\nwas thought better to leave the family to themselves, Dr. Woodford\nonly writing to Major Oakshott, as well as to the youth himself.\n\nThe result was anxiously watched for, and in another week, earlier\nin the day than Mrs. Woodford was able to leave her room, Sir\nPeregrine's horses stopped at the door, and as Anne ascertained by a\npeep from the window, he was only accompanied by his servants.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said to the Doctor in his vexation, \"one would really\nthink that by force of eating Southdown mutton my poor brother had\nacquired the brains of one of his own rams!  I declare 'tis a\npiteous sight to see a man resolute on ruining his son and breaking\nhis own heart all for conscience sake!\"\n\n\"Say you so, sir!  I had hoped that the sight of what you have made\nof your nephew might have had some effect.\"\n\n\"All the effect it has produced is to make him more determined to\ntake him from me.  The Hampshire mind abhors foreign breeding, and\nthe old Cromwellian spirit thinks good manners sprung from the\nworld, and wit from the Evil One!\"\n\n\"I can quite believe that Peregrine's courtly airs are not welcomed\nhere; I could see what our good neighbour, Sir Philip Archfield,\nthought of them; but whereas no power on earth could make the young\ngentleman a steady-going clownish youth after his father's heart,\nmethought he might prefer his present polish to impishness.\"\n\n\"So I told him, but I might as well have talked to the horse block.\nIt is his duty, quotha, to breed his heir up in godly simplicity!\"\n\n\"Simplicity is all very well to begin with, but once flown, it\ncannot be restored.\"\n\n\"And that is what my brother cannot see.  Well, my poor boy must be\nleft to his fate.  There is no help for it, and all I can hope is\nthat you, sir, and the ladies, will stand his friend, and do what\nmay lie in your power to make him patient and render his life less\nintolerable.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, we will do what we can; I wish that I could hope that\nit would be of much service.\"\n\n\"My brother has more respect for your advice than perhaps you\nsuppose; and to you, madam, the poor lad looks with earnest\ngratitude.  Nay, even his mother reaps the benefit of the respect\nwith which you have inspired him.  Peregrine treats her with a\ngentleness and attention such as she never knew before from her bear\ncubs.  Poor soul!  I think she likes it, though it somewhat\nperplexes her, and she thinks it all French manners.  There is one\nmore favour, your reverence, which I scarce dare lay before you.\nYou have seen my black boy Hans?\"\n\n\"He was with you at Oakwood seven years ago.\"\n\n\"Even so.  I bought the poor fellow when a mere child from a Dutch\nskipper who had used him scurvily, and he has grown up as faithful\nas a very spaniel, and mightily useful too, not only as body\nservant, but he can cook as well as any French maitre d'hotel, froth\nchocolate, and make the best coffee I ever tasted; is as honest as\nthe day, and, I believe, would lay down his life for Peregrine or\nme.  I shall be cruelly at a loss without him, but a physician I met\nin London tells me it would be no better than murder to take the\npoor rogue to so cold a country as Muscovy.  I would leave him to\nwait on Perry, but they will not hear of it at Oakwood.  My sister-\nin-law wellnigh had a fit every time she looked at him when I was\nthere before, and I found, moreover, that even when I was at hand,\nthe servants jeered at the poor blackamoor, gave him his meals\napart, and only the refuse of their own, so that he would fare but\nill if I left him to their mercy.  I had thought of offering him to\nMr. Evelyn of Says Court, who would no doubt use him well, but it\nwas Peregrine who suggested that if you of your goodness would\nreceive the poor fellow, they could sometimes meet, and that would\ncheer his heart, and he really is far from a useless knave, but is\nworth two of any serving-men I ever saw.\"\n\nTo take an additional man-servant was by no means such a great\nproposal as it would be in most houses at present.  Men swarmed in\nmuch larger proportion than maids in all families of condition, and\nthe Doctor was wealthy enough for one--more or less--to make little\ndifference, but the question was asked as to what wages Hans should\nreceive.\n\nThe knight laughed.  \"Wages, poor lad, what should he do with them?\nHe is but a slave, I tell you.  Meat, clothes, and fire, that is all\nhe needs, and I will so deal with him that he will serve you in all\nfaithfulness and obedience.  He can speak English enough to know\nwhat you bid him do, but not enough for chatter with the servants.\"\n\nSo the agreement was made, and poor Hans was to be sent down by the\nPortsmouth coach together with Peregrine's luggage.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X: THE MENAGERIE\n\n\n\"The head remains unchanged within,\n   Nor altered much the face,\nIt still retains its native grin,\n   And all its old grimace.\n\n\"Men with contempt the brute surveyed,\n   Nor would a name bestow,\nBut women liked the motley beast,\n   And called the thing a beau.\"\n\nThe Monkies, MERRICK.\n\nThe Woodford family did not long remain at Winchester.  Anne\ndeclared the cold to be harming her mother, and became very anxious\nto bring her to the milder sea breezes of Portchester, and though\nMrs. Woodford had little expectation that any place would make much\ndifference to her, she was willing to return to the quiet and repose\nof her home under the castle walls beside the tranquil sea.\n\nThus they travelled back, as soon as the Doctor's Residence was\nended, plodding through the heavy chalk roads as well as the big\nhorses could drag the cumbrous coach up and down the hills, only\nhalting for much needed rest at Sir Philip Archfield's red house,\nround three sides of a quadrangle, the fourth with a low wall backed\nby a row of poplar trees, looking out on the alternate mud and\nsluggish waters of Fareham creek, but with a beautiful garden behind\nthe house.\n\nThe welcome was hearty.  Lady Archfield at once conducted Mrs.\nWoodford to her own bedroom, where she was to rest and be served\napart, and Anne disrobed her of her wraps, covered her upon the bed,\nand at her hostess's desire was explaining what refreshment would\nbest suit her, when there was a shrill voice at the door:  \"I want\nMistress Anne!  I want to show her my clothes and jewels.\"\n\n\"Coming, child, she is coming when she has attended to her mother,\"\nresponded the lady.  \"White wine, or red, did you say, Anne, and a\nlittle ginger?\"\n\n\"Is she never coming?\" was again the call; and Lady Archfield\nmuttering, \"Was there ever such an impatient poppet?\" released Anne,\nwho was instantly pounced upon by young Mrs. Archfield.  Linking her\narm into that of her visitor, and thrusting Lucy into the\nbackground, the little heiress proceeded to her own wainscotted\nbedroom, bare according to modern views, but very luxurious\naccording to those of the seventeenth century, and with the toilette\napparatus, scanty indeed, but of solid silver, and with a lavish\namount of perfumery.  Her 'own woman' was in waiting to display and\nrefold the whole wedding wardrobe, brocade, satin, taffetas,\ncambric, Valenciennes, and point d'Alencon.  Anne had to admire each\nin detail, and then to give full meed to the whole casket of jewels,\nnumerous and dazzling as befitted a constellation of heirlooms upon\none small head.  They were beautiful, but it was wearisome to repeat\n'Vastly pretty!' 'How exquisite!' 'That becomes you very well,'\nalmost mechanically, when Lucy was standing about all the time,\nlonging to exchange the girlish confidences that were burning to\ncome forth.  'Young Madam,' as every one called her in those times\nwhen Christian names were at a discount, seemed to be jealous of\nattention to any one else, and the instant she saw the guest attempt\nto converse with her sister-in-law peremptorily interrupted, almost\nas if affronted.\n\nPerhaps if Anne had enjoyed freedom of speech with Lucy she would\nnot have learnt as much as did her mother, for the young are often\nmore scrupulous as to confidences than their seniors, who view them\nas still children, and freely discuss their affairs among\nthemselves.\n\nSo Lady Archfield poured out her troubles:  how her daughter-in-law\nrefused employment, and disdained instruction in needlework,\nhousewifery, or any domestic art, how she jangled the spinnet, but\nwould not learn music, and was unoccupied, fretful, and exacting, a\nburthen to herself and every one else, and treating Lucy as the\nslave of her whims and humours.  As to such discipline as mothers-\nin-law were wont to exercise upon young wives, the least restraint\nor contradiction provoked such a tempest of passion as to shake the\ntiny, delicate frame to a degree that alarmed the good old matron\nfor the consequences.  Her health was a continual difficulty, for\nher constitution was very frail, every imprudence cost her\nsuffering, and yet any check to her impulses as to food, exertion,\nor encountering weather was met by a spoilt child's resentment.\nMoreover, her young husband, and even his father, always thought the\nladies were hard upon her, and would not have her vexed; and as\ntheir presence always brightened and restrained her, they never\nunderstood the full amount of her petulance and waywardness, and\nwhen they found her out of spirits, or out of temper, they charged\nall on her ailments or on want of consideration from her mother and\nsister-in-law.\n\nPoor Lady Archfield, it was trying for her that her husband should\nbe nearly as blind as his son.  The young husband was wonderfully\ntender, indulgent, and patient with the little creature, but it\nwould not be easy to say whether the affection were not a good deal\nlike that for his dog or his horse, as something absolutely his own,\nwith which no one else had a right to interfere.  It was a relief to\nthe family that she always wanted to be out of doors with him\nwhenever the weather permitted, nay, often when it was far from\nsuitable to so fragile a being; but if she came home aching and\ncrying ever so much with chill or fatigue, even if she had to keep\nher bed afterwards, she was equally determined to rush out as soon\nas she was up again, and as angry as ever at remonstrance.\n\nCharles was gone to try a horse; and as the remains of the effects\nof her last imprudence had prevented her accompanying him, the\narrival of the guests had been a welcome diversion to the monotony\nof the morning.\n\nHe was, however, at home again by the time the dinner-bell summoned\nthe younger ladies from the inspection of the trinkets and the\ngentlemen from the live stock, all to sit round the heavy oaken\ntable draped with the whitest of napery, spun by Lady Archfield in\nher maiden days, and loaded with substantial joints, succeeded by\ndelicacies manufactured by herself and Lucy.\n\nAs to the horse, Charles was fairly satisfied, but 'that fellow,\nyoung Oakshott, had been after him, and had the refusal.'\n\n\"Don't you be outbid, Mr. Archfield,\" exclaimed the wife.  \"What is\nthe matter of a few guineas to us?\"\n\n\"Little fear,\" replied Charles.  \"The old Major is scarcely like to\npay down twenty gold caroluses, but if he should, the bay is his.\"\n\n\"Oh, but why not offer thirty?\" she cried.\n\nCharles laughed.  \"That would be a scurvy trick, sweetheart, and if\nPeregrine be a crooked stick, we need not be crooked too.\"\n\n\"I was about to ask,\" said the Doctor, \"whether you had heard aught\nof that same young gentleman.\"\n\n\"I have seen him where I never desire to see him again,\" said Sir\nPhilip, \"riding as though he would be the death of the poor hounds.\"\n\n\"Nick Huntsman swears that he bewitches them,\" said Charles, \"for\nthey always lose the scent when he is in the field, but I believe\n'tis the wry looks of him that throw them all out.\"\n\n\"And I say,\" cried the inconsistent bride, \"that 'tis all jealousy\nthat puts the gentlemen beside themselves, because none of them can\ndance, nor make a bow, nor hand a cup of chocolate, nor open a gate\non horseback like him.\"\n\n\"What does a man on horseback want with opening gates?\" exclaimed\nCharles.\n\n\"That's your manners, sir,\" said young Madam with a laugh.  \"What's\nthe poor lady to do while her cavalier flies over and leaves her in\nthe lurch?\"\n\nHer husband did not like the general laugh, and muttered, \"You know\nwhat I mean well enough.\"\n\n\"Yes, so do I!  To fumble at the fastening till your poor beast can\nbear it no longer and swerves aside, and I sit waiting a good half\nhour before you bring down your pride enough to alight and open it.\"\n\n\"All because you _would_ send Will home for your mask.\"\n\n\"You would like to have had my poor little face one blister with the\nglare of sun and sea.\"\n\n\"Blisters don't come at this time of the year.\"\n\n\"No, nor to those who have no complexion to lose,\" she cried, with a\ntriumphant look at the two maidens, who certainly had not the lilies\nnor the roses that she believed herself to have, though, in truth,\nher imprudences had left her paler and less pretty than at\nWinchester.\n\nIf this were the style of the matrimonial conversations, Anne again\ngrieved for her old playfellow, and she perceived that Lucy looked\nuncomfortable; but there was no getting a moment's private\nconversation with her before the coach was brought round again for\nthe completion of the journey.  All that neighbourhood had a very\nbad reputation as the haunt of lawless characters, prone to\nviolence; and though among mere smugglers there was little danger of\nan attack on persons well known like the Woodford family, they were\noften joined by far more desperate men from the seaport, so that it\nwas never desirable to be out of doors after dark.\n\nThe journey proved to have been too much for Mrs. Woodford's\nstrength, and for some days she was so ill that Anne never left the\nhouse; but she rallied again, and on coming downstairs became very\nanxious that her daughter should not be more confined by attendance\nthan was wholesome, and insisted on every opportunity of change or\namusement being taken.\n\nOne day as Anne was in the garden she was surprised by Peregrine\ndashing up on horseback.\n\n\"You would not take the Queen's rosary before,\" he said.  \"You must\nnow, to save it.  My father has smelt it out.  He says it is\nteraphim!  Micah--Rachel, what not, are quoted against it.  He would\nhave smashed it into fragments, but that Martha Browning said it\nwould be a pretty bracelet.  I'd sooner see it smashed than on her\nred fist.  To think of her giving in to such vanities!  But he said\nshe might have it, only to be new strung.  When he was gone she\nsaid, 'I don't really want the thing, but it was hard you should\nlose the Queen's keepsake.  Can you bestow it safely?'  I said I\ncould, and brought it hither.  Keep it, Anne, I pray.\"\n\nAnne hesitated, and referred it to her mother upstairs.\n\n\"Tell him,\" she said, \"that we will keep it in trust for him as a\nroyal gift.\"\n\nPeregrine was disappointed, but had to be content.\n\nA Dutch vessel from the East Indies had brought home sundry strange\nanimals, which were exhibited at the Jolly Mariner at Portsmouth,\nand thus announced on a bill printed on execrable paper, brought out\nto Portchester by some of the market people:--\n\n\"An Ellefante twice the Bignesse of an Ocks, the Trunke or Probosces\nwhereof can pick up a Needle or roote up an Ellum Tree.  Also the\nRoyale Tyger, the same as has slaine and devoured seven yonge Gentoo\nbabes, three men, and two women at the township at Chuttergong, nie\nto Bombay, in the Eastern Indies.  Also the sacred Ape, worshipped\nby the heathen of the Indies, the Dancing Serpent which weareth\nSpectacles, and whose Bite is instantly mortal, with other rare\nFish, Fowle, Idols and the like.  All to be seene at the Charge of\none Groat per head.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford declared herself to be extremely desirous that her\ndaughter should see and bring home an account of all these marvels,\nand though Anne had no great inclination to face the tiger with the\nformidable appetite, she could not refuse to accompany her uncle.\n\nThe Jolly Mariner stood in one of the foulest and narrowest of the\nstreets of the unsavoury seaport, and Dr. Woodford sighed, and\nfumed, and wished for a good pipe of tobacco more than once as he\nhesitated to try to force a way for his niece through the throng\nround the entrance to the stable-yard of the Jolly Mariner,\napparently too rough to pay respect to gown and cassock.  Anne clung\nto his arm, ready to give up the struggle, but a voice said, \"Allow\nme, sir.  Mistress Anne, deign to take my arm.\"\n\nIt was Peregrine Oakshott with his brother Robert, and she could\nhardly tell how in a few seconds she had been squeezed through the\ncrowd, and stood in the inn-yard, in a comparatively free space, for\na groat was a prohibitory charge to the vulgar.\n\n\"Peregrine!  Master Oakshott!\"  They heard an exclamation of\npleasure, at which Peregrine shrugged his shoulders and looked\nexpressively at Anne, before turning to receive the salutations of\nan elderly gentleman and a tall young woman, very plainly but\nhandsomely clad in mourning deeper than his own.  She was of a tall,\ngaunt, angular figure, and a face that never could have been\nhandsome, and now bore evident traces of smallpox in redness and\npits.\n\nDr. Woodford knew the guardian Mr. Browning, and his ward Mistress\nMartha and Mistress Anne Jacobina were presented to one another.\nThe former gave a good-humoured smile, as if perfectly unconscious\nof her own want of beauty, and declared she had hoped to meet all\nthe rest here, especially Mistress Anne Woodford, of whom she had\nheard so much.  There was just a little patronage about the tone\nwhich repelled the proud spirit that was in Anne, and in spite of\nthe ordinary dread and repulsion she felt for Peregrine, she was\nnaughty enough to have the feeling of a successful beauty when\nPeregrine most manifestly turned away from the heiress in her silk\nand velvet to do the honours of the exhibition to the parson's\nniece.\n\nThe elephant was fastened by the leg to a post, which perhaps he\ncould have pulled up, had he thought it worth his while, but he was\nwell contented to wave his trunk about and extend its clever finger\nto receive contributions of cakes and apples, and he was too well\namused to resort to any strong measures.  The tiger, to Anne's\nrelief, proved to be only a stuffed specimen.  Peregrine, who had\nseen a good many foreign animals in Holland, where the Dutch\ncaptains were in the habit of bringing curiosities home for the\ndelectation of their families in their Lusthausen, was a very\namusing companion, having much to tell about bird and beast, while\nRobert stood staring with open mouth.  The long-legged secretary and\nthe beautiful doves were, however, only stuffed, but Anne was much\nentertained at second hand with the relation of the numerous\nobjects, which on the word of a Leyden merchant had been known to\ndisappear in the former bird's capacious crop, and with stories of\nthe graceful dancing of the cobra, though she was not sorry that the\npresent specimen was only visible in a bottle of arrack, where his\nspectacled hood was scarcely apparent.  Presently a well known\nshrill young voice was heard.  \"Yes, yes, I know I shall swoon at\nthat terrible tiger!  Oh, don't!  I can't come any farther.\"\n\n\"Why, you would come, madam,\" said Charles.\n\n\"Yes, yes! but--oh, there's a two-tailed monster!  I know it is the\ntiger!  It is moving!  I shall die if you take me any farther.\"\n\n\"Plague upon your folly, madam!  It is only the elephant,\" said a\ngruffer, rude voice.\n\n\"Oh, it is dreadful!  'Tis like a mountain!  I can't!  Oh no, I\ncan't!\"\n\n\"Come, madam, you have brought us thus far, you must come on, and\nnot make fools of us all,\" said Charles's voice.  \"There's nothing\nto hurt you.\"\n\nAnne, understanding the distress and perplexity, here turned back to\nthe passage into the court, and began persuasively to explain to\nlittle Mrs. Archfield that the tiger was dead, and only a skin, and\nthat the elephant was the mildest of beasts, till she coaxed forward\nthat small personage, who had of course never really intended to\nturn back, supported and guarded as she was by her husband, and\nlikewise by a tall, glittering figure in big boots and a handsome\nscarlet uniform and white feather who claimed her attention as he\nstrode into the court.  \"Ha!  Mistress Anne and the Doctor on my\nlife.  What, don't you know me?\"\n\n\"Master Sedley Archfield!\" said the Doctor; \"welcome home, sir!\n'Tis a meeting of old acquaintance.  You and this gentleman are both\nso much altered that it is no wonder if you do not recognise one\nanother at once.\"\n\n\"No fear of Mr. Perry Oakshott not being recognised,\" said Sedley\nArchfield, holding out his hand, but with a certain sneer in his\nrough voice that brought Peregrine's eyebrows together.  \"Kenspeckle\nenough, as the fools of Whigs say in Scotland.\"\n\n\"Are you long from Scotland, sir?\" asked Dr. Woodford, by way of\npreventing personalities.\n\n\"Oh ay, sir; these six months and more.  There's not much more sport\nto be had since the fools of Cameronians have been pretty well got\nunder, and 'tis no loss to be at Hounslow.\"\n\n\"And oh, what a fright!\" exclaimed Mrs. Archfield, catching sight of\nthe heiress.  \"Keep her away!  She makes me ill.\"\n\nThey were glad to divert her attention to feeding the elephant, and\nshe was coquetting a little about making up her mind to approach\neven the defunct tiger, while she insisted on having the number of\nhis victims counted over to her.  Anne asked for Lucy, to whom she\nwanted to show the pigeons, but was answered that, \"my lady wanted\nLucy at home over some matter of jellies and blancmanges.\"\n\nCharles shrugged his shoulders a little and Sedley grumbled to Anne.\n\"The little vixen sets her heart on cates that she won't lay a\nfinger to make, and poor Lucy is like to be no better than a cook-\nmaid, while they won't cross her, for fear of her tantrums.\"\n\nAt that instant piercing screams, shriek upon shriek, rang through\nthe court, and turning hastily round, Anne beheld a little monkey\nperched on Mrs. Archfield's head, having apparently leapt thither\nfrom the pole to which it was chained.\n\nThe keeper was not in sight, being in fact employed over a sale of\nsome commodities within.  There was a general springing to the\nrescue.  Charles tried to take the creature off, Sedley tugged at\nthe chain fastened to a belt round its body, but the monkey held\ntight by the curls on the lady's forehead with its hands, and\ncrossed its legs round her neck, clasping the hands so that the\neffect of the attempts of her husband and his cousin was only to\nthrottle her, so that she could no longer scream and was almost in a\nfit, when on Peregrine holding out a nut and speaking coaxingly in\nDutch, the monkey unloosed its hold, and with another bound was on\nhis arm.  He stood caressing and feeding it, talking to it in the\nsame tongue, while it made little squeaks and chatterings, evidently\ndelighted, though its mournful old man's visage still had the same\npiteous expression.  There was something most grotesque and almost\nweird in the sight of Peregrine's queer figure toying with its odd\nhands which seemed to be in black gloves, and the strange language\nhe talked to it added to the uncanny effect.  Even the Doctor felt\nit as he stood watching, and would have muttered 'Birds of a\nfeather,' but that the words were spoken more gruffly and plainly by\nSedley Archfield, who said something about the Devil and his dam,\nwhich the good Doctor did not choose to hear, and only said to\nPeregrine, \"You know how to deal with the jackanapes.\"\n\n\"I have seen some at Leyden, sir.  This is a pretty little beast.\"\n\nPretty!  There was a recoil in horror, for the creature looked to\nthe crowd demoniacal.  Something the same was the sensation of\nCharles, who, assisted by Anne and Martha, had been rather carrying\nthan leading his wife into the inn parlour, where she immediately\nhad a fit of hysterics--vapours, as they called it--bringing all the\nwomen of the inn about her, while Martha and Anne soothed her as\nbest they could, and he was reduced to helplessly leaning out at the\nbay window.\n\nWhen the sobs and cries subsided, under cold water and essences\nwithout and strong waters within, and the little lady in Martha's\nstrong arms, between the matronly coaxing of the fat hostess and the\nkind soothings of the two young ladies, had been restored to\nsomething of equanimity, Mistress Martha laid her down and said with\nthe utmost good humour and placidity to the young husband, \"Now I'll\ngo, sir.  She is better now, but the sight of my face might set her\noff again.\"\n\n\"Oh, do not say so, madam.  We are infinitely obliged.  Let her\nthank you.\"\n\nBut Martha shook her hand and laughed, turning to leave the room, so\nthat he was fain to give her his arm and escort her back to her\nguardian.\n\nThen ensued a scream.  \"Where's he going?  Mr. Archfield, don't\nleave me.\"\n\n\"He is only taking Mistress Browning back to her guardian,\" said\nAnne.\n\n\"Eh? oh, how can he?  A hideous fright!\" she cried.\n\nTo say the truth, she was rather pleased to have had such a dreadful\nadventure, and to have made such a commotion, though she protested\nthat she must go home directly, and could never bear the sight of\nthose dreadful monsters again, or she should die on the spot.\n\n\"But,\" said she, when the coach was at the door, and Anne had\nrestored her dress to its dainty gaiety, \"I must thank Master\nPeregrine for taking off that horrible jackanapes.\"\n\n\"Small thanks to him,\" said Charles crossly.  \"I wager it was all\nhis doing out of mere spite.\"\n\n\"He is too good a beau ever to spite _me_,\" said Mrs. Alice, her\nhead a little on one side.\n\n\"Then to show off what he could do with the beast--Satan's imp, like\nhimself.\"\n\n\"No, no, Mr. Archfield,\" pleaded Anne, \"that was impossible; I saw\nhim myself.  He was with that sailor-looking man measuring the\nheight of the secretary bird.\"\n\n\"I believe you are always looking after him,\" grumbled Charles.  \"I\ncan't guess what all the women see in him to be always gazing after\nhim.\"\n\n\"Because he is so charmingly ugly,\" laughed the young wife, tripping\nout in utter forgetfulness that she was to die if she went near the\nbeasts again.  She met Peregrine half way across the yard with\noutstretched hands, exclaiming--\n\n\"O Mr. Oakshott! it was so good in you to take away that nasty\nbeast.\"\n\n\"I am glad, madam, to have been of use,\" said Peregrine, bowing and\nsmiling, a smile that might explain something of his fascination.\n\"The poor brute was only drawn, as all of our kind are.  He wanted\nto see so sweet a lady nearer.  He is quite harmless.  Will you\nstroke him?  See, there he sits, gazing after you.  Will you give\nhim a cake and make friends?\"\n\n\"No, no, madam, it cannot be; it is too much,\" grumbled Charles; and\nthough Alice had backed at first, perhaps for the pleasure of\nteasing him, or for that of being the centre of observation,\nactually, with all manner of pretty airs and graces, she let herself\nbe led forward, lay a timid hand on the monkey's head, and put a\ncake in its black fingers, while all the time Peregrine held it fast\nand talked Dutch to it; and Charles Archfield hardly contained his\nrage, though Anne endeavoured to argue the impossibility of\nPeregrine's having incited the attack; and Sedley blustered that\nthey ought to interfere and make the fellow know the reason why.\nHowever, Charles had sense enough to know that though he might\nexhale his vexation in grumbling, he had no valid cause for\nquarrelling with young Oakshott, so he contented himself with black\nlooks and grudging thanks, as he was obliged to let Peregrine hand\nhis wife into her carriage amid her nods and becks and wreathed\nsmiles.\n\nThey would have taken Dr. Woodford and his niece home in the coach,\nbut Anne had an errand in the town, and preferred to return by boat.\nShe wanted some oranges and Turkey figs to allay her mother's\nconstant thirst, and Peregrine begged permission to accompany them,\nsaying that he knew where to find the best and cheapest.\nAccordingly he took them to a tiny cellar, in an alley by the boat\ncamber, where the Portugal oranges certainly looked riper and were\ncheaper than any that Anne had found before; but there seemed to be\nan odd sort of understanding between Peregrine and the withered old\nweather-beaten sailor who sold them, such as rather puzzled the\nDoctor.\n\n\"I hope these are not contraband,\" he said to Peregrine, when the\noranges had been packed in the basket of the servant who followed\nthem.\n\nPeregrine shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"Living is hard, sir.  Ask no questions.\"\n\nThe Doctor looked tempted to turn back with the fruit, but such\ndoubts were viewed as ultra scruples, and would hardly have been\nentertained even by a magistrate such as Sir Philip Archfield.\n\nIt was not a time for questions, and Peregrine remained with them\ntill they embarked at the point, asking to be commended to Mrs.\nWoodford, and hoping soon to come and see both her and poor Hans, he\nleft them.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI: PROPOSALS\n\n\n\"Hear me, ye venerable core,\n   As counsel for poor mortals,\nThat frequent pass douce Wisdom's door\n   For glaikit Folly's portals;\nI for their thoughtless, careless sakes\n   Would here propose defences,\nTheir doucie tricks, their black mistakes,\n   Their failings and mischances.\"\n\nBURNS.\n\nFor seven years Anne Woodford had kept Lucy Archfield's birthday\nwith her, and there was no refusing now, though there was more and\nmore unwillingness to leave Mrs. Woodford, whose declining state\nbecame so increasingly apparent that even the loving daughter could\nno longer be blind to it.\n\nThe coach was sent over to fetch Mistress Anne to Fareham, and the\ninvalid was left, comfortably installed in her easy-chair by the\nparlour fire, with a little table by her side, holding a hand-bell,\na divided orange, a glass of toast and water, and the Bible and\nPrayer-book, wherein lay her chief studies, together with a little\nneedlework, which still amused her feeble hands.  The Doctor,\ndivided between his parish, his study, and his garden, had promised\nto look in from time to time.\n\nPresently, however, the door was gently tapped, and on her call\n\"Come in,\" Hans, all one grin, admitted Peregrine Oakshott, bowing\nlow in his foreign, courteous manner, and entreating her to excuse\nhis intrusion, \"For truly, madam, in your goodness is my only hope.\"\n\nThen he knelt on one knee and kissed the hand she held out to him,\nwhile desiring him to speak freely to her.\n\n\"Nay, madam, I fear I shall startle you, when I lay before you the\nonly chance that can aid me to overcome the demon that is in me.\"\n\n\"My poor--\"\n\n\"Call me your boy, as when I was here seven years ago.  Let me sit\nat your feet as then and listen to me.\"\n\n\"Indeed I will, my dear boy,\" and she laid her hand on his dark\nhead.  \"Tell me all that is in your heart.\"\n\n\"Ah, dear lady, that is not soon done!  You and Mistress Anne, as\nyou well know, first awoke me from my firm belief that I was none\nother than an elf, and yet there have since been times when I have\ndoubted whether it were not indeed the truth.\"\n\n\"Nay, Peregrine, at years of discretion you should have outgrown old\nwives' tales.\"\n\n\"Better be an elf at once--a soulless creature of the elements--than\nthe sport of an evil spirit doomed to perdition,\" he bitterly\nexclaimed.\n\n\"Hush, hush!  You know not what you are saying!\"\n\n\"I know it too well, madam!  There are times when I long and wish\nafter goodness--nay, when Heaven seems open to me--and I resolve and\nstrive after a perfect life; but again comes the wild, passionate\ndragging, as it were, into all that at other moments I most loathe\nand abhor, and I become no more my own master.  Ah!\"\n\nThere was misery in his voice, and he clutched the long hair on each\nside of his face with his hands.\n\n\"St. Paul felt the same,\" said Mrs. Woodford gently.\n\n\"'Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?'  Ay, ay! how\nmany times have I not groaned that forth!  And so, if that Father at\nTurin were right, I am but as Paul was when he was Saul.  Madam, is\nit not possible that I was never truly baptized?\" he cried eagerly.\n\n\"Impossible, Peregrine.  Was not Mr. Horncastle chaplain when you\nwere born?  Yes; and I have heard my brother say that both he and\nyour father held the same views as the Church upon baptism.\"\n\n\"So I thought; but Father Geronimo says that at the best it was but\nheretical baptism, and belike hastily and ineffectually performed.\"\n\n\"Put that aside, Peregrine.  It is only a temptation and\nallurement.\"\n\n\"It is an allurement you know not how strong,\" said the poor youth.\n\"Could I only bring myself to believe all that Father Geronimo does,\nand fall down before his Madonnas and saints, then could I hope for\na new nature, and scourge away the old\"--he set his teeth as he\nspoke--\"till naught remains of the elf or demon, be it what it\nwill.\"\n\n\"Ah, Peregrine, scourging will not do it, but grace will, and that\ngrace is indeed yours, as is proved by these higher aspirations.\"\n\n\"I tell you, madam, that if I live on as I am doing now, grace will\nbe utterly stifled, if it ever abode in me at all.  Every hour that\nI live, pent in by intolerable forms and immeasurable dulness, the\nmaddening temper gains on me!  Nay, I have had to rush out at night\nand swear a dozen round oaths before I could compose myself to sit\ndown to the endless supper.  Ah, I shock you, madam! but that's not\nthe worst I am driven to do.\"\n\n\"Nor the way to bring the better spirit, my poor youth.  Oh, that\nyou would pray instead of swearing!\"\n\n\"I cannot pray at Oakwood.  My father and Mr. Horncastle drive away\nall the prayers that ever were in me, and I mean nothing, even\nthough I keep my word to you.\"\n\n\"I am glad you do that.  While I know you are doing so, I shall\nstill believe the better angel will triumph.\"\n\n\"How can aught triumph but hatred and disgust where I am pinned\ndown?  Listen, madam, and hear if good spirits have any chance.  We\nbreak our fast, ere the sun is up, on chunks of yesterday's half-\ndressed beef and mutton.  If I am seen seeking for a morsel not half\nraw, I am rated for dainty French tastes; and the same with the sour\nsmallest of beer.  I know now what always made me ill-tempered as a\nchild, and I avoid it, but at the expense of sneers on my French\nbreeding, even though my drink be fair water; for wine, look you, is\na sinful expense, save for after dinner, and frothed chocolate for a\nman is an invention of Satan.  The meal is sauced either with blame\nof me, messages from the farm-folk, or Bob's exploits in the chase.\nThen my father goes his rounds on the farm, and would fain have me\nwith him to stand knee-deep in mire watching the plough, or feeling\neach greasy and odorous old sheep in turn to see if it be ready for\nthe knife, or gloating over the bullocks or swine, or exchanging\nauguries with Thomas Vokes on this or that crop.  Faugh!  And I am\ntold I shall never be good for a country gentleman if I contemn such\nmatters!  I say I have no mind to be a country gentleman, whereby I\nam told of Esau till I am sick of his very name.\"\n\n\"But surely you have not always to follow on this round?\"\n\n\"Oh no!  I may go out birding with Bob, who is about as lively as an\nold jackass, or meet the country boobies for a hunt, and be pointed\nat as the Frenchman, and left to ride alone; or there's mine own\nchamber, when the maids do not see fit to turn me out with their\npails and besoms, as they do at least twice a week--I sit there in\nmy cloak and furs (by the way, I am chidden for an effeminate fop if\never I am seen in them).  I would give myself to books, as my uncle\ncounselled, but what think you?  By ill hap Bob, coming in to ask\nsome question, found me studying the Divina Commedia of Dante\nAlighieri, and hit upon one of the engravings representing the\ntorments of purgatory.  What must he do but report it, and\nimmediately a hue and cry arises that I am being corrupted with\nPopish books.  In vain do I tell them that their admirable John\nMilton, the only poet save Sternhold and Hopkins that my father\ndeems not absolute pagan, knew, loved, and borrowed from Dante.  All\nmy books are turned over as ruthlessly as ever Don Quixote's by the\ncurate and the barber, and whatever Mr. Horncastle's erudition\ncannot vouch for is summarily handed over to the kitchen wench to\nlight the fires.  The best of it is that they have left me my\nclassics, as though old Terence and Lucan were lesser heathens than\nthe great Florentine.  However, I have bribed the young maid, and\nrescued my Dante and Boiardo with small damage, but I dare not read\nthem save with door locked.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford could scarcely shake her head at the disobedience, and\nshe asked if there were really no other varieties.\n\n\"Such as fencing with that lubber Robert, and trying to bend his\nstiff limbs to the noble art of l'escrime.  But that is after dinner\nwork.  There is the mountain of half-raw flesh to be consumed first,\nand then my father, with Mr. Horncastle and Bob discuss on what they\ncall the news--happy if a poor rogue has been caught by Tom\nConstable stealing faggots.  'Tis argument for a week--almost equal\nto the price of a fat mutton at Portsmouth.  My father and the\nminister nod in due time over their ale-cup, and Bob and I go our\nways till dark, or till the house bell rings for prayers and\nexposition.  Well, dear good lady, I will not grieve you by telling\nyou how often they make me wish to be again the imp devoid of every\nshred of self-respect, and too much inured to flogging to heed what\nmy antics might bring on me.\"\n\n\"I am glad you have that shred of self respect; I hope indeed it is\nsome higher respect.\"\n\n\"Well, I can never believe that Heaven meant to be served by mortal\ndullness.  Seven years have only made old Horncastle blow his horn\nto the same note, only more drearily.\"\n\n\"I can see indeed that it is a great trial to one used to the life\nof foreign Courts and to interest in great affairs like you, my poor\nPeregrine; but what can I say but to entreat you to be patient, try\nto find interest, and endeavour to win your father's confidence so\nthat he may accord you more liberty?  Did I not hear that your\nattention made your mother's life happier?\"\n\nPeregrine laughed.  \"My mother!  She has never seen aught but\nboorishness all her life, and any departure therefrom seems to her\nunnatural.  I believe she is as much afraid of my courtesy as ever\nshe was of my mischief, and that in her secret heart she still\nbelieves me a changeling.  No, Madam Woodford, there is but one way\nto save me from the frenzy that comes over me.\"\n\n\"Your father has already been entreated to let you join your uncle.\"\n\n\"I know it--I know it; but if it were impossible before, that\ndiscovery of Dante has made it impossibilissimo, as the Italian\nwould say, to deal with him now.  There is a better way.  Give me\nthe good angel who has always counteracted the evil one.  Give me\nMistress Anne!\"\n\n\"Anne, my Anne!\" exclaimed Mrs. Woodford in dismay.  \"O Peregrine,\nit cannot be!\"\n\n\"I knew that would be your first word,\" said Peregrine, \"but verily,\nmadam, I would not ask it but that I know that I should be another\nman with her by my side, and that she would have nothing to fear\nfrom the evil that dies at her approach.\"\n\n\"Ah, Peregrine! you think so now; but no man can be sure of himself\nwith any mere human care.  Besides, my child is not of degree to\nmatch with you.  Your father would justly be angered if we took\nadvantage of your attachment to us to encourage you in an\ninclination he could never approve.\"\n\n\"I tell you, madam--yes, I must tell you all--my madness and my ruin\nwill be completed if I am left to my father's will.  I know what is\nhanging over me.  He is only waiting till I am of age--at Midsummer,\nand the year of mourning is over for poor Oliver--I am sure no one\nmourns for him more heartily than I--to bind me to Martha Browning.\nIf she would only bring the plague, or something worse than\nsmallpox, to put an end to it at once!\"\n\n\"But that would make any such scheme all the more impossible.\"\n\n\"Listen, madam; do but hear me.  Even as children the very sight of\nMartha Browning's solemn face\"--Peregrine drew his countenance down\ninto a portentous length--\"her horror at the slightest word or\nsport, her stiff broomstick carriage, all impelled me to the most\nimpish tricks.  And now--letting alone that pock-marks have seamed\nher grim face till she is as ugly as Alecto--she is a Precisian of\nthe Precisians.  I declare our household is in her eyes sinfully\nfree!  If she can hammer out a text of Scripture, and write her name\nin characters as big and gawky as herself, 'tis as far as her\neducation has carried her, save in pickling, preserving, stitchery,\nand clear starching, the only arts not sinful in her eyes.  If I am\nto have a broomstick, I had rather ride off on one at once to the\nWitches' Sabbath on the Wartburg than be tied to one for life.\"\n\n\"I should think she would scarce accept you.\"\n\n\"There's no such hope.  She has been bred up to regard one of us as\nher lot, and she would accept me without a murmur if I were\nBeelzebub himself, horns and tail and all!  Why, she ogles me with\nher gooseberry eyes already, and treats me as a chattel of her own.\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, Peregrine!  I cannot have you talk thus.  If your\nfather had such designs, it would be unworthy of us to favour you in\ncrossing them.\"\n\n\"Nay, madam, he hath never expressed them as yet.  Only my mother\nand brother both refer to his purpose, and if I could show myself\ncontracted to a young lady of good birth and education, he cannot\ngainsay; it might yet save me from what I will not and cannot\nendure.  Not that such is by any means my chief and only motive.  I\nhave loved Mistress Anne with all my heart ever since she shone upon\nme like a being from a better world when I lay sick here.  She has\nthe same power of hushing the wild goblin within me as you have,\nmadam.  I am another man with her, as I am with you.  It is my only\nhope!  Give me that hope, and I shall be able to endure patiently.--\nAh! what have I done?  Have I said too much?\"\n\nHe had talked longer and more eagerly than would have been good for\nthe invalid even if the topic had been less agitating, and the\nemotion caused by this unexpected complication, consternation at the\ndifficulties she foresaw, and the present difficulty of framing a\nreply, were altogether too much for Mrs. Woodford.  She turned\ndeadly white, and gasped for breath, so that Peregrine, in terror,\ndashed off in search of the maids, exclaiming that their mistress\nwas in a swoon.\n\nThe Doctor came out of his study much distressed, and in Anne's\nabsence the household was almost helpless in giving the succours in\nwhich she had always been the foremost.  Peregrine lingered about in\nremorse and despair, offering to fetch her or to go for the doctor,\nand finally took the latter course, thereto impelled by the angry\nwords of the old cook, an enemy of his in former days.\n\n\"No better? no, sir, nor 'tis not your fault if ever she be.  You've\nbeen and frought her nigh to death with your terrifying ways.\"\n\nPeregrine was Hampshire man enough to know that to terrify only\nmeant to tease, but he was in no mood to justify himself to old\nPatience, so he galloped off to Portsmouth, and only returned with\nthe doctor to hear that Madam Woodford was in bed, and her daughter\nwith her.  She was somewhat better, but still very ill, and it was\nplain that this was no moment for pressing his suit even had it not\nbeen time for him to return home.  Going to fetch the doctor might\nbe accepted as a valid reason for missing the evening exhortation\nand prayer, but there were mistrustful looks that galled him.\n\nAnne's return was more beneficial to Mrs. Woodford than the doctor's\nvisit, and the girl was still too ignorant of all that her mother's\nattacks of spasms and subsequent weakness implied to be as much\nalarmed as to depress her hopes.  Yet Mrs. Woodford, lying awake in\nthe night, detected that her daughter was restless and unhappy, and\nasked what ailed her, and how the visit had gone off.\n\n\"You do not wish me to speak of such things, madam,\" was the answer.\n\n\"Tell me all that is in your heart, my child.\"\n\nIt all came out with the vehemence of a reserved nature when the\nflood is loosed.  'Young Madam' had been more than usually peevish\nand exacting, jealous perhaps at Lucy's being the heroine of the\nday, and fretful over a cold which confined her to the house, how\nshe worried and harassed all around her with her whims, megrims and\ncomplaints could only too well be imagined, and how the entire\npleasure of the day was destroyed.  Lucy was never allowed a\nminute's conversation with her friend without being interrupted by a\nwhine and complaints of unkindness and neglect.\n\nLady Archfield's ill-usage, as the young wife was pleased to call\nevery kind of restriction, was the favourite theme next to the\ndaughter-in law's own finery, her ailments, and her notions of the\ntreatment befitting her.\n\nAnd young Mr. Archfield himself, while handing his old friend out to\nthe carriage that had fetched her, could not help confiding to her\nthat he was nearly beside himself.  His mother meant to be kind, but\nexpected too much from one so brought up, and his wife--what could\nbe done for her?  She made herself miserable here, and every one\nelse likewise.  Yet even if his father would consent, she was\nutterly unfit to be mistress of a house of her own; and poor Charles\ncould only utter imprecations on the guardians who could have had no\nidea how a young woman ought to be brought up.  It was worse than an\nill-trained hound.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford heard what she extracted from her daughter with grief\nand alarm, and not only for her friends.\n\n\"Indeed, my dear child,\" she said, \"you must prevent such\nconfidences.  They are very dangerous things respecting married\npeople.\"\n\n\"It was all in a few moments, mamma, and I could not stop him.  He\nis so unhappy;\" and Anne's voice revealed tears.\n\n\"The more reason why you should avoid hearing what he will soon be\nvery sorry you have heard.  Were he not a mere lad himself, it would\nbe as inexcusable as it is imprudent thus to speak of the troubles\nand annoyances that often beset the first year of wedded life.  I am\nsorry for the poor youth, who means no harm nor disloyalty, and is\nonly treating you as his old companion and playmate; but he has no\nright thus to talk of his wife, above all to a young maiden too\ninexperienced to counsel him, and if he should attempt to do so\nagain, promise me, my daughter, that you will silence him--if by no\nother means, by telling him so.\"\n\n\"I promise!\" said Anne, choking back her tears and lifting her head.\n\"I am sure I never want to go to Fareham again while that Lieutenant\nSedley Archfield is there.  If those be army manners, they are what\nI cannot endure.  He is altogether mean and hateful, above all when\nhe scoffs at Master Oakshott.\"\n\n\"I am afraid a great many do so, child, and that he often gives some\noccasion,\" put in Mrs. Woodford, a little uneasy that this should be\nthe offence.\n\n\"He is better than Sedley Archfield, be he what he will, madam,\"\nsaid the girl.  \"He never pays those compliments, those insolent\ndisgusting compliments, such as he--that Sedley, I mean--when he\nfound me alone in the hall, and I had to keep him at bay from trying\nto kiss me, only Mr. Archfield--Charley--came down the stairs before\nhe was aware, and called out, 'I will thank you to behave yourself\nto a lady in my father's house.'  And then he, Sedley, sneered 'The\nParson's niece!' with such a laugh, mother, I shall never get it out\nof my ears.  As if I were not as well born as he!\"\n\n\"That is not quite the way to take it, my child.  I had rather you\nstood on your maidenly dignity and discretion than on your birth.  I\ntrust he will soon be away.\"\n\n\"I fear he will not, mamma, for I heard say the troop are coming\ndown to be under the Duke of Berwick at Portsmouth.\"\n\n\"Then, dear daughter, it is the less mishap that you should be thus\nclosely confined by loving attendance on me.  Now, goodnight.\nCompose yourself to sleep, and think no more of these troubles.\"\n\nNevertheless mother and daughter lay long awake, side by side, that\nnight; the daughter in all the flutter of nerves induced by offended\nyet flattered feeling--hating the compliment, yet feeling that it\nwas a compliment to the features that she was beginning to value.\nShe was substantially a good, well-principled maiden, modest and\ndiscreet, with much dignified reserve, yet it was impossible that\nshe should not have seen heads turned to look at her in Portsmouth,\nand know that she was admired above her contemporaries, so that even\nif it brought her inconvenience it was agreeable.  Besides, her\nheart was beating with pity for the Archfields.  The elder ones\nmight have only themselves to blame, but it was very hard for poor\nCharles to have been blindly coupled to a being who did not know how\nto value him, still harder that there should be blame for a\nconfidence where neither meant any harm--blame that made her blush\non her pillow with indignant shame.\n\nPerhaps Mrs. Woodford divined these thoughts, for she too meditated\ndeeply on the perils of her fair young daughter, and in the morning\ncould not leave her room.  In the course of the day she heard that\nMaster Peregrine Oakshott had been to inquire for her, and was not\nsurprised when her brother-in-law sought an interview with her.  The\ngulf between the hierarchy and squirearchy was sufficient for a\nmarriage to be thought a mesalliance, and it was with a smile at the\nfolly as well as with a certain displeased pity that Dr. Woodford\nmentioned the proposal so vehemently pressed upon him by Peregrine\nOakshott for his niece's hand.\n\n\"Poor boy!\" said Mrs. Woodford, \"it is a great misfortune.  You\nforbade him of course to speak of such a thing.\"\n\n\"I told him that I could not imagine how he could think us capable\nof entertaining any such proposal without his father's consent.  He\nseems to have hoped that to pledge himself to us might extort\nsanction from his father, not seeing that it would be a highly\nimproper measure, and would only incense the Major.\"\n\n\"All the more that the Major wishes to pass on Mistress Martha\nBrowning to him, poor fellow.\"\n\n\"He did not tell me so.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford related what he had said to her, and the Doctor could\nnot but observe:  \"The poor Major! his whole treatment of that\nunfortunate youth is as if he were resolved to drive him to\ndistraction.  But even if the Major were ever so willing, I doubt\nwhether Master Peregrine be the husband you would choose for our\nlittle maid.\"\n\n\"Assuredly not, poor fellow! though if she loved him as he loves\nher--which happily she does not--I should scarce dare to stand in\nthe way, lest she should be the appointed instrument for his good.\"\n\n\"He assured me that he had never directly addressed her.\"\n\n\"No, and I trust he never will.  Not that she is ever like to love\nhim, although she does not shrink from him quite as much as others\ndo.  Yet there is a strain of ambition in my child's nature that\nmight make her seek the elevation.  But, my good brother, for this\nand other reasons we must find another home for my poor child when I\nam gone.  Nay, brother, do not look at me thus; you know as well as\nI do that I can scarcely look to see the spring come in, and I would\nfain take this opportunity of speaking to you concerning my dear\ndaughter.  No one can be a kinder father to her than you, and I\nwould most gladly leave her to cheer and tend you, but as things\nstand around us she can scarce remain here without a mother's\nwatchfulness.  She is guarded now by her strict attendance on my\ninfirmity, but when I am gone how will it be?\"\n\n\"She is as good and discreet a maiden as parent could wish.\"\n\n\"Good and discreet as far as her knowledge and experience go, but\nthat is not enough.  On the one hand, there is a certain wild temper\nabout that young Master Oakshott such as makes me never know what he\nmight attempt if, as he says, his father should drive him to\ndesperation, and this is a lonely place, with the sea close at\nhand.\"\n\n\"Lady Archfield would gladly take charge of her.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford here related what Anne had said of Sedley's insolence,\nbut this the Doctor thought little of, not quite believing in the\nregiment coming into the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Woodford most\nunwillingly was forced to mention her further unwillingness that her\ndaughter should be made a party to the troubles caused by the silly\nyoung wife of her old playfellow.\n\n\"What more?\" said the Doctor, holding up his hands.  \"I never\nthought a discreet young maid could be such a care, but I suppose\nthat is the price we pay for her good looks.  Three of them, eh?\nWhat is it that you propose?\"\n\n\"I should like to place her in the household of some godly and\nkindly lady, who would watch over her and probably provide for her\nmarriage.  That, as you know, was my own course, and I was very\nhappy in Lady Sandwich's family, till I made the acquaintance of\nyour dear and honoured brother, and my greater happiness began.  The\nfirst day that I am able I will write to some of my earlier friends,\nsuch as Mrs. Evelyn and Mrs. Pepys, and again there is Mistress\nEleanor Wall, who, I hear, is married to Sir Theophilus Oglethorpe,\nand who might accept my daughter for my sake.  She is a warm,\nloving, open-hearted creature of Irish blood, and would certainly be\nkind to her.\"\n\nThere was no indignity in such a plan.  Most ladies of rank or\nquality entertained one or more young women of the clerical or\nprofessional classes as companions, governesses, or ladies' maids,\nas the case might be.  They were not classed with the servants, but\nhad their share of the society and amusements of the house, and a\nfair chance of marriage in their own degree, though the comfort of\ntheir situation varied a good deal according to the amiability of\ntheir mistress, from that of a confidential friend to a white slave\nand souffre douleur.\n\nDr. Woodford had no cause to object except his own loss of his\nniece's society and return to bachelor life, after the eight years\nof companionship which he had enjoyed; but such complications as\nwere induced by the presence of an attractive young girl were, as he\nallowed, beyond him, and he acquiesced with a sigh in the judgment\nof the mother, whom he had always esteemed so highly.\n\nThe letters were written, and in due time received kind replies.\nMrs. Evelyn proposed that the young gentlewoman should come and stay\nwith her till some situation should offer itself, and Lady\nOglethorpe, a warm-hearted Irishwoman, deeply attached to the Queen,\ndeclared her intention of speaking to the King or the Princess Anne\non the first opportunity of the daughter of the brave Captain\nWoodford.  There might very possibly be a nursery appointment to be\nhad either at the Cockpit or at Whitehall in the course of the year.\n\nThis was much more than Mrs. Woodford had desired.  She had far\nrather have placed her daughter immediately under some kind matronly\nlady in a private household; but she knew that her good friend was\nalways eager to promise to the utmost of her possible power.  She\ndid not talk much of this to her daughter, only telling her that the\nkind ladies had promised to befriend her, and find a situation for\nher; and Anne was too much shocked to find her mother actually\nmaking such arrangements to enter upon any inquiries.  The\nperception that her mother was looking forward to passing away so\nsoon entirely overset her; she would not think about it, would not\nadmit the bare idea of the loss.  Only there lurked at the bottom of\nher heart the feeling that when the crash had come, and desolation\nhad over taken her, it would be more dreary at Portchester than\nanywhere else; and there might be infinite possibilities beyond for\nthe King's godchild, almost a knight's daughter.\n\nThe next time that Mrs. Woodford heard that Major Oakshott was at\nthe door inquiring for her health, she begged as a favour that he\nwould come and see her.\n\nThe good gentleman came upstairs treading gently in his heavy boots,\nas one accustomed to an invalid chamber.\n\n\"I am sorry to see you thus, madam,\" he said, as she held out her\nwasted hand and thanked him.  \"Did you desire spiritual\nconsolations?  There are times when our needs pass far beyond\nprescribed forms and ordinances.\"\n\n\"I am thankful for the prayers of good men,\" said Mrs. Woodford;\n\"but for truth's sake I must tell you that this was not foremost in\nmy mind when I begged for this favour.\"\n\nHe was evidently disappointed, for he was producing from his pocket\nthe little stout black-bound Bible, which, by a dent in one of the\nlids, bore witness of having been with him in his campaigns; and\nperhaps half-diplomatically, as well as with a yearning for oneness\nof spirit, she gratified him by requesting him to read and pray.\n\nWith all his rigidity he was too truly pious a man for his\nministrations to contain anything in which, Churchwoman as she was,\nshe could not join with all her heart, and feel comforting; but ere\nhe was about to rise from his knees she said, \"One prayer for your\nson, sir.\"\n\nA few fervent words were spoken on behalf of the wandering sheep,\nwhile tears glistened in the old man's eyes, and fell fast from\nthose of the lady, and then he said, \"Ah, madam! have I not wrestled\nin prayer for my poor boy?\"\n\n\"I am sure you have, sir.  I know you have a deep fatherly love for\nhim, and therefore I sent to speak to you as a dying woman.\"\n\n\"And I will gladly hear you, for you have always been good to him,\nand, as I confess, have done him more good--if good can be called\nthe apparent improvement in one unregenerate--than any other.\"\n\n\"Except his uncle,\" said Mrs. Woodford.  \"I fear it is vain to say\nthat I think the best hope of his becoming a good and valuable man,\na comfort and not a sorrow to yourself, would be to let him even now\nrejoin Sir Peregrine.\"\n\n\"That cannot be, madam.  My brother has not kept to the\nunderstanding on which I entrusted the lad to him, but has carried\nhim into worldly and debauched company, such as has made the sober\nand godly habits of his home distasteful to him, and has further\ntaken him into Popish lands, where he has become infected with their\nabominations to a greater extent than I can yet fathom.\"\n\nMrs. Woodford sighed and felt hopeless.  \"I see your view of the\nmatter, sir.  Yet may I suggest that it is hard for a young man to\nfind wholesome occupation such as may guard him from temptation on\nan estate where the master is active and sufficient like yourself?\"\n\n\"Protection from temptation must come from within, madam,\" replied\nthe Major; \"but I so far agree with you that in due time, when he\nhas attained his twenty-first year, I trust he will be wedded to his\ncousin, a virtuous and pious young maiden, and will have the\nmanagement of her property, which is larger than my own.\"\n\n\"But if--if--sir, the marriage were distasteful to him, could it be\nfor the happiness and welfare of either?\"\n\n\"The boy has been complaining to you?  Nay, madam, I blame you not.\nYou have ever been the boy's best friend according to knowledge; but\nhe ought to know that his honour and mine are engaged.  It is true\nthat Mistress Martha is not a Court beauty, such as his eyes have\nunhappily learnt to admire, but I am acting verily for his true\ngood.  'Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain.'\"\n\n\"Most true, sir; but let me say one more word.  I fear, I greatly\nfear, that all young spirits brook not compulsion.\"\n\n\"That means, they will not bow their stiff necks to the yoke.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir! but on the other hand, 'Fathers, provoke not your children\nto wrath.'  Forgive me, sir; I spoke but out of true affection to\nyour son, and the fear that what may seem to him severity may not\ndrive him to some extremity that might grieve you.\"\n\n\"No forgiveness is needed, madam.  I thank you for your interest in\nhim, and for your plain speaking according to your lights.  I can\nbut act according to those vouchsafed unto me.\"\n\n\"And we both agree in praying for his true good,\" said Mrs.\nWoodford.\n\nAnd with a mutual blessing they parted, Mrs. Woodford deeply sorry\nfor both father and son, for whom she had done what she could.\n\nIt was her last interview with any one outside the house.  Another\nattack of spasms brought the end, during the east winds of March, so\nsuddenly as to leave no time for farewells or last words.  When she\nwas laid to rest in the little churchyard within the castle walls,\nno one showed such overwhelming tokens of grief as Peregrine\nOakshott, who lingered about the grave after the Doctor had taken\nhis niece home, and was found lying upon it late in the evening,\nexhausted with weeping.\n\nYet Sedley Archfield, whose regiment had, after all, been sent to\nPortsmouth, reported that he had spent the very next afternoon at a\ncock-fight, ending in a carouse with various naval and military\nofficers at a tavern, not drinking, but contributing to the mirth by\nforeign songs, tricks, and jests.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII: THE ONE HOPE\n\n\n   \"There's some fearful tie\nBetween me and that spirit world, which God\nBrands with His terrors on my troubled mind.\"\n\nKINGSLEY.\n\nThe final blow had fallen upon Anne Woodford so suddenly that for\nthe first few days she moved about as one in a dream.  Lady\nArchfield came to her on the first day, and showed her motherly\nkindness, and Lucy was with her as much as was possible under the\nexactions of young Madam, who was just sufficiently unwell to resent\nattention being paid to any other living creature.  She further\ndeveloped a jealousy of Lucy's affection for any other friend such\nas led to a squabble between her and her husband, and made her\nmother-in-law unwillingly acquiesce in the expediency of Anne's\nbeing farther off.\n\nAnd indeed Anne herself felt so utterly forlorn and desolate that an\nimpatience of the place came over her.  She was indeed fond of her\nuncle, but he was much absorbed in his studies, his parish, and in\nanxious correspondence on the state of the Church, and was scarcely\na companion to her, and without her mother to engross her love and\nattention, and cut off from the Archfields as she now was, there was\nlittle to counterbalance the restless feeling that London and the\nprecincts of the Court were her natural element.  So she wrote her\nletters according to her mother's desire, and waited anxiously for\nthe replies, feeling as if anything would be preferable to her\npresent unhappiness and solitude.\n\nThe answers came in due time.  Mrs. Evelyn promised to try to find a\nvirtuous and godly lady who would be willing to receive Mistress\nAnne Woodford into her family, and Lady Oglethorpe wrote with vaguer\npromises of high preferment, which excited Anne's imagination during\nthose lonely hours that she had to spend while her strict mourning,\nafter the custom of the time, secluded her from all visitors.\n\nMeantime, in that anxious spring of 1688, when the Church of England\nwas looking to her defences, the Doctor could not be much at home,\nand when he had time to listen to private affairs, he heard reports\nwhich did not please him of Peregrine Oakshott.  That the young men\nin the county all abhorred his fine foreign airs was no serious\nevil, though it might be suspected that his sharp ironical tongue\nhad quite as much to do with their dislike as his greater refinement\nof manner.\n\nHis father was reported to be very seriously displeased with him,\nfor he openly expressed contempt of the precise ways of the\nhousehold, and absented himself in a manner that could scarcely be\nattributed to aught but the licentious indulgences of the time; and\nas he seldom mingled in the amusements of the young country\ngentlemen, it was only too probable that he found a lower grade of\ncompanions in Portsmouth.  Moreover his talk, random though it might\nbe, offended all the Whig opinions of his father.  He talked with\nthe dogmatism of the traveller of the glories of Louis XIV, and\nbroadly avowed his views that the grandeur of the nation was best\nestablished under a king who asked no questions of people or\nParliament, 'that senseless set of chattering pies,' as he was\nreported to have called the House of Commons.\n\nHe sang the praises of the gracious and graceful Queen Mary\nBeatrice, and derided 'the dried-up Orange stick,' as he called the\nhope of the Protestants; nor did he scruple to pronounce Popery the\nfaith of chivalrous gentlemen, far preferable to the whining of\nsullen Whiggery.  No one could tell how far all this was genuine\nopinion, or simply delight in contradiction, especially of his\nfather, who was in a constant state of irritation at the son whom he\ncould so little manage.\n\nAnd in the height of the wrath of the whole of the magistracy at the\nexpulsion of their lord-lieutenant, the Earl of Gainsborough, and\nthe substitution of the young Duke of Berwick, what must Peregrine\ndo but argue in high praise of that youth, whom he had several times\nseen and admired.  And when not a gentleman in the neighbourhood\nchose to greet the intruder when he arrived as governor of\nPortsmouth, Peregrine actually rode in to see him, and dined with\nhim.  Words cannot express the Major's anger and shame at such\nconsorting with a person, whom alike, on account of parentage,\nreligion, and education, he regarded as a son of perdition.  Yet\nPeregrine would only coolly reply that he knew many a Protestant who\nwould hardly compare favourably with young Berwick.\n\nIt was an anxious period that spring of 1688.  The order to read the\nKing's Declaration of Indulgence from the pulpit had come as a\nthunder-clap upon the clergy.  The English Church had only known\nrest for twenty-eight years, and now, by this unconstitutional\nassumption of prerogative, she seemed about to be given up to be the\nprey of Romanists on the one hand and Nonconformists on the other;\nthough for the present the latter were so persuaded that the\nIndulgence was merely a disguised advance of Rome that they were not\nat all grateful, expecting, as Mr. Horncastle observed, only to be\nthe last devoured, and he was as much determined as was Dr. Woodford\nnot to announce it from his pulpit, whatever might be the\nconsequence; the latter thus resigning all hopes of promotion.\n\nNews letters, public and private, were eagerly scanned.  Though the\ndiocesan, Bishop Mew, took no active part in the petition called a\nlibel, being an extremely aged man, the imprisonment of Ken, so\ndeeply endeared to Hampshire hearts when Canon of Winchester and\nRector of Brighstone, and with the Bloody Assize and the execution\nof Alice Lisle fresh in men's memories, there could not but be\nextreme anxiety.\n\nIn the midst arrived the tidings that a son had been born to the\nking--a son instantly baptized by a Roman Catholic priest, and no\ndoubt destined by James to rivet the fetters of Rome upon the\nkingdom, destroying at once the hope of his elder sister's\naccession.  Loyal Churchmen like the Archfields still hoped,\nrecollecting how many infants had been born in the royal family only\nto die; but at Oakwood the Major and his chaplain shook their heads,\nand spoke of warming pans, to the vehement displeasure of Peregrine,\nwho was sure to respond that the Queen was an angel, and that the\nWhigs credited every one with their own sly tricks.\n\nThe Major groaned, and things seemed to have reached a pass very\nlike open enmity between father and son, though Peregrine still\nlived at home, and reports were rife that the year of mourning for\nhis brother being expired, he was, as soon as he came of age, to be\nmarried to Mistress Martha Browning, and have an establishment of\nhis own at Emsworth.\n\nUnder these circumstances, it was with much satisfaction that Dr.\nWoodford said to his niece:  \"Child, here is an excellent offer for\nyou.  Lady Russell, who you know has returned to live at Stratton,\nhas heard you mentioned by Lady Mildmay.  She has just married her\neldest daughter, and needs a companion to the other, and has been\ntold of you as able to speak French and Italian, and otherwise well\ntrained.  What! do you not relish the proposal?\"\n\n\"Why, sir, would not my entering such a house do you harm at Court,\nand lessen your chance of preferment?\"\n\n\"Think not of _that_, my child.\"\n\n\"Besides,\" added Anne, \"since Lady Oglethorpe has written, it would\nnot be fitting to engage myself elsewhere before hearing from her\nagain.\"\n\n\"You think so, Anne.  Lady Russell's would be a far safer, better\nhome for you than the Court.\"\n\nAnne knew it, but the thought of that widowed home depressed her.\nIt might, she thought, be as dull as Oakwood, and there would be\ninfinite chances of preferment at Court.  What she said, however,\nwas:  \"It was by my mother's wish that I applied to Lady\nOglethorpe.\"\n\n\"That is true, child.  Yet I cannot but believe that if she had\nknown of Lady Russell's offer, she would gladly and thankfully have\naccepted it.\"\n\nSo said the secret voice within the girl herself, but she did not\nyet yield to it.  \"Perhaps she would, sir,\" she answered, \"if the\nother proposal were not made.  'Tis a Whig household though.\"\n\n\"A Whig household is a safer one than a Popish one,\" answered the\nDoctor.  \"Lady Russell is, by all they tell me, a very saint upon\nearth.\"\n\nShall it be owned?  Anne thought of Oakwood, and was not attracted\ntowards a saint upon earth.  \"How soon was the answer to be given?\"\nshe asked.\n\n\"I believe she would wish you to meet her at Winchester next week,\nwhen, if you pleased her, you might return with her to Stratton.\"\n\nThe Doctor hoped that Lady Oglethorpe's application might fail, but\nbefore the week was over she forwarded the definite appointment of\nMistress Anne Jacobina Woodford as one of the rockers of his Royal\nHighness the Prince of Wales, his Majesty having been graciously\npleased to remember her father's services and his own sponsorship.\n\"If your friends consider the office somewhat beneath you,\" wrote\nLady Oglethorpe, \"it is still open to you to decline it.\"\n\n\"Oh no; I would certainly not decline it!\" cried Anne.  \"I could not\npossibly do so; could I, sir?\"\n\n\"Lady Oglethorpe says you might,\" returned the Doctor; \"and for my\npart, niece, I should prefer the office of a gouvernante to that of\na rocker.\"\n\n\"Ah, but it is to a Prince!\" said Anne.  \"It is the way to something\nfurther.\"\n\n\"And what may that something further be?  That is the question,\"\nsaid her uncle.  \"I will not control you, my child, for the\napplication to this Court lady was by the wish of your good mother,\nwho knew her well, but I own that I should be far more at rest on\nyour account if you were in a place of less temptation.\"\n\n\"The Court is very different from what it was in the last King's\ntime,\" pleaded Anne.\n\n\"In some degree it may be; but on the other hand, the influence\nwhich may have purified it is of the religion that I fear may be a\nseduction.\"\n\n\"Oh no, never, uncle; nothing could make me a Papist.\"\n\n\"Do not be over confident, Anne.  Those who run into temptation are\napt to be left to themselves.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, I cannot think that the course my mother shaped for me\ncan be a running into temptation.\"\n\n\"Well, Anne, as I say, I cannot withstand you, since it was your\nmother who requested Lady Oglethorpe's patronage for you, though I\ntell you sincerely that I believe that had the two courses been set\nbefore her she would have chosen the safer and more private one.\n\n\"Nay but, dear sir,\" still pleaded the maiden, \"what would become of\nyour chances of preferment if it were known that you had placed me\nwith Lord Russell's widow in preference to the Queen?\"\n\n\"Let not that weigh with you one moment, child.  I believe that no\nstaunch friend of our Protestant Church will be preferred by his\nMajesty; nay, while the Archbishop and my saintly friend of Bath and\nWells are persecuted, I should be ashamed to think of promotion.\nSpurn the thought from you, child.\"\n\n\"Nay, 'twas only love for you, dear uncle.\"\n\n\"I know it, child.  I am not displeased, only think it over, and\npray over it, since the post will not go out until to-morrow.\"\n\nAnne did think, but not quite as her uncle intended.  The\nremembrance of the good-natured young Princesses, the large stately\nrooms, the brilliant dresses, the radiance of wax lights, had\nfloated before her eyes ever since her removal from Chelsea to the\nquieter regions of Winchester, and she had longed to get back to\nthem.  She really loved her uncle, and whatever he might say, she\nlonged to push his advancement, and thought his unselfish abnegation\nthe greater reason for working for him; and in spite of knowing well\nthat it was only a dull back-stair appointment, she could look to\nthe notice of Princess Anne, when once within her reach, and\nfurther, with the confidence of youth, believed that she had that\nwithin her which would make her way upwards, and enable her to\nconfer promotion, honour, and dignity, on all her friends.  Her\nuncle should be a Bishop, Charles a Peer (fancy his wife being under\nobligations to the parson's niece!), Lucy should have a perfect\nhusband, and an appointment should be found for poor Peregrine which\nhis father could not gainsay.  It was her bounden duty not to throw\naway such advantages; besides loyalty to her Royal godfather could\nnot permit his offer to be rejected, and her mother, when writing to\nLady Oglethorpe, must surely have had some such expectation.  Nor\nshould she be entirely cut off from her uncle, who was a Royal\nchaplain; and this was some consolation to the good Doctor when he\nfound her purpose fixed, and made arrangements for her to travel up\nto town in company with Lady Worsley of Gatcombe, whom she was to\nmeet at Southampton on the 1st of July.\n\nMeantime the Doctor did his best to arm his niece against the\nallurements to Romanism that he feared would be held out.  Lady\nOglethorpe and other friends had assured him of the matronly care of\nLady Powys and Lady Strickland to guard their department from all\nevil; but he did fear these religious influences and Anne, resolute\nto resist all, perhaps not afraid of the conflict, was willing to\narm herself for defence, and listened readily.  She was no less\nanxious to provide for her uncle's comfort in his absence, and many\nsmall matters of housewifery that had stood over for some time were\nnow to be purchased, as well as a few needments for her own outfit,\nalthough much was left for the counsel of her patroness in the\nmatter of garments.\n\nAccordingly her uncle rode in with her to Portsmouth on a shopping\nexpedition, and as the streets of the seaport were scarcely safe for\na young woman without an escort, he carried a little book in his\npocket wherewith he beguiled the time that she spent in the\nselection of his frying-pans, fire-irons, and the like, and her own\ngloves and kerchiefs.  They dined at the 'ordinary' at the inn, and\nthere Dr. Woodford met his great friends Mr. Stanbury of Botley, and\nMr. Worsley of Gatcombe, in the Isle of Wight, who both, like him,\nwere opposed to the reading of the Declaration of Indulgence, as\nunconstitutional, and deeply anxious as to the fate of the greatly\nbeloved Bishop of Bath and Wells.  It was inevitable that they\nshould fall into deep and earnest council together, and when dinner\nwas over they agreed to adjourn to the house of a friend learned in\necclesiastical law to hunt up the rights of the case, leaving Anne\nto await them in a private room at the Spotted Dog, shown to her by\nthe landlady.\n\nAnne well knew what such a meeting betided, and with a certain\nprevision, had armed herself with some knotting, wherewith she sat\ndown in a bay window overlooking the street, whence she could see\nmarket-women going home with empty baskets, pigs being reluctantly\ndriven down to provision ships in the harbour, barrels of biscuit,\nsalt meat, or beer, being rolled down for the same purpose, sailors\nin loose knee-breeches, and soldiers in tall peaked caps and cross-\nbelts, and officers of each service moving in different directions.\nShe sat there day-dreaming, feeling secure in her loneliness, and\npresently saw a slight figure, daintily clad in gray and black, who\ncatching her eye made an eager gesture, doffing his plumed hat and\nbowing low to her.  She returned his salute, and thought he passed\non, but in another minute she was startled to find him at her side,\nexclaiming:  \"This is the occasion I have longed and sought for,\nMistress Anne; I bless and thank the fates.\"\n\n\"I am glad to see you once more before I depart,\" said Anne, holding\nout her hand as frankly as she could to the old playfellow whom she\nalways thought ill-treated, but whom she could never meet without a\ncertain shudder.\n\n\"Then it is true?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes; I am to go up with Lady Worsley from Southampton next week.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" he cried, \"but must that be?\" and she felt his strange power,\nso that she drew into herself and said haughtily--\n\n\"My dear mother wished me to be with her friends, nor can the King's\nappointment be neglected, though of course I am extremely grieved to\ngo.\"\n\n\"And you are dazzled with all these gewgaws of Court life, no\ndoubt?\"\n\n\"I shall not be much in the way of gewgaws just yet,\" said Anne\ndrily.  \"It will be dull enough in some back room of Whitehall or\nSt. James's.\"\n\n\"Say you so.  You will wish yourself back--you, the lady of my\nheart--mine own good angel!  Hear me.  Say but the word, and your\nhome will be mine, to say nothing of your own most devoted servant.\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, sir!  I cannot hear this,\" said Anne, anxiously\nglancing down the street in hopes of seeing her uncle approaching.\n\n\"Nay, but listen!  This is my only hope--my only chance--I must\nspeak--you doom me to you know not what if you will not hear me!\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, I neither will nor ought!\"\n\n\"Ought!  Ought!  Ought you not to save a fellow-creature from\ndistraction and destruction?  One who has loved and looked to you\never since you and that saint your mother lifted me out of the\nmisery of my childhood.\"\n\nThen as she looked softened he went on:  \"You, you are my one hope.\nNo one else can lift me out of the reach of the demon that has beset\nme even since I was born.\"\n\n\"That is profane,\" she said, the more severe for the growing\nattraction of repulsion.\n\n\"What do I care?  It is true!  What was I till you and your mother\ntook pity on the wild imp?  My old nurse said a change would come to\nme every seven years.  That blessed change came just seven years\nago.  Give me what will make a more blessed--a more saving change--\nor there will be one as much for the worse.\"\n\n\"But--I could not.  No! you must see for yourself that I could not--\neven if I would,\" she faltered, really pitying now, and unwilling to\ngive more pain than she could help.\n\n\"Could not?  It should be possible.  I know how to bring it about.\nGive me but your promise, and I will make you mine--ay, and I will\nmake myself as worthy of you as man can be of saint-like maid.\"\n\n\"No--no!  This is very wrong--you are pledged already--\"\n\n\"No such thing--believe no such tale.  My promise has never been\ngiven to that grim hag of my father's choice--no, nor should be\nforced from me by the rack.  Look you here.  Let me take this hand,\ncall in the woman of the house, give me your word, and my father\nwill own his power to bind me to Martha is at an end.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!  It would be a sin--never.  Besides--\" said Anne, holding\nher hands tightly clasped behind her in alarm, lest against her will\nshe should let them be seized, and trying to find words to tell him\nhow little she felt disposed to trust her heart and herself to one\nwhom she might indeed pity, but with a sort of shrinking as from\nsomething not quite human.  Perhaps he dreaded her 'besides'--for he\ncut her short.\n\n\"It would save ten thousand greater sins.  See, here are two ways\nbefore us.  Either give me your word, your precious word, go silent\nto London, leave me to struggle it out with my father and your uncle\nand follow you.  Hope and trust will be enough to bear me through\nthe battle without, and within deafen the demon of my nature, and\nrender me patient of my intolerable life till I have conquered and\ncan bring you home.\"\n\nHer tongue faltered as she tried to say such a secret unsanctioned\nengagement would be treachery, but he cut off the words.\n\n\"You have not heard me out.  There is another way.  I know those who\nwill aid me.  We can meet in early dawn, be wedded in one of these\nchurches in all secrecy and haste, and I would carry you at once to\nmy uncle, who, as you well know, would welcome you as a daughter.\nOr, better still, we would to those fair lands I have scarce seen,\nbut where I could make my way with sword or pen with you to inspire\nme.  I have the means.  My uncle left this with me.  Speak!  It is\ndeath or life to me.\"\n\nThis last proposal was thoroughly alarming, and Anne retreated,\ndrawing herself to her full height, and speaking with the dignity\nthat concealed considerable terror.\n\n\"No, indeed, sir.  You ought to know better than to utter such\nproposals.  One who can make such schemes can certainly obtain no\nrespect nor regard from the lady he addresses.  Let me pass\"--for\nshe was penned up in the bay window--\"I shall seek the landlady till\nmy uncle returns.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mistress Anne, do not fear me.  Do not drive me to utter\ndespair.  Oh, pardon me!  Nothing but utter desperation could drive\nme to have thus spoken; but how can I help using every effort to win\nher whose very look and presence is bliss!  Nothing else soothes and\ncalms me; nothing else so silences the demon and wakens the better\npart of my nature.  Have you no pity upon a miserable wretch, who\nwill be dragged down to his doom without your helping hand?\"\n\nHe flung himself on his knee before her, and tried to grasp her\nhand.\n\n\"Indeed, I am sorry for you, Master Oakshott,\" said Anne,\ncompassionate, but still retreating as far as the window would let\nher; \"but you are mistaken.  If this power be in me, which I cannot\nquite believe--yes, I see what you want to say, but if I did what I\nknow to be wrong, I should lose it at once; God's grace can save you\nwithout me.\"\n\n\"I will not ask you to do what you call wrong; no, nor to transgress\nany of the ties you respect, you, whose home is so unlike mine; only\ntell me that I may have hope, that if I deserve you, I may win you;\nthat you could grant me--wretched me--a share of your affection.\"\n\nThis was hardest of all; mingled pity and repugnance, truth and\ncompassion strove within the maiden as well as the strange influence\nof those extraordinary eyes.  She was almost as much afraid of\nherself as of her suitor.  At last she managed to say, \"I am very\nsorry for you; I grieve from my heart for your troubles; I should be\nvery glad to hear of your welfare and anything good of you, but--\"\n\n\"But, but--I see--it is mere frenzy in me to think the blighted elf\ncan aspire to be aught but loathsome to any lady--only, at least,\ntell me you love no one else.\"\n\n\"No, certainly not,\" she said, as if his eyes drew it forcibly from\nher.\n\n\"Then you cannot hinder me from making you my guiding star--hoping\nthat if yet I can--\"\n\n\"There's my uncle!\" exclaimed Anne, in a tone of infinite relief.\n\"Stand up, Mr. Oakshott, compose yourself.  Of course I cannot\nhinder your thinking about me, if it will do you any good, but there\nare better things to think about which would conquer evil and make\nyou happy more effectually.\"\n\nHe snatched her hand and kissed it, nor did she withhold it, since\nshe really pitied him, and knew that her uncle was near, and all\nwould soon be over.\n\nPeregrine dashed away by another door as Dr. Woodford's foot was on\nthe stairs.  \"I have ordered the horses,\" he began.  \"They told me\nyoung Oakshott was here.\"\n\n\"He was, but he is gone;\" and she could not quite conceal her\nagitation.\n\n\"Crimson cheeks, my young mistress?  Ah, the foolish fellow!  You do\nnot care for him, I trust?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, poor fellow.  What, did you know, sir?\"\n\n\"Know.  Yes, truly--and your mother likewise, Anne.  It was one\ncause of her wishing to send you to safer keeping than mine seems to\nbe.  My young spark made his proposals to us both, though we would\nnot disturb your mind therewith, not knowing how he would have dealt\nwith his father, nor viewing him, for all he is heir to Oakwood, as\na desirable match in himself.  I am glad to see you have sense and\ndiscretion to be of the same mind, my maid.\"\n\n\"I cannot but grieve for his sad condition, sir,\" replied Anne, \"but\nas for anything more--it would make me shudder to think of it--he is\nstill too like Robin Goodfellow.\"\n\n\"That's my good girl,\" said her uncle.  \"And do you know, child,\nthere are the best hopes for the Bishops.  There's a gentleman come\ndown but now from London, who says 'twas like a triumph as the\nBishops sat in their barge on the way to the Tower; crowds swarming\nalong the banks, begging for their blessing, and they waving it with\ntears in their eyes.  The King will be a mere madman if he dares to\ntouch a hair of their heads.  Well, when I was a lad, Bishops were\nsent to the Tower by the people; I little thought to live to see\nthem sent thither by the King.\"\n\nAll the way home Dr. Woodford talked of the trial, beginning perhaps\nto regret that his niece must go to the very focus of Roman\ninfluence in England, where there seemed to be little scruple as to\nthe mode of conversion.  Would it be possible to alter her\ndestination? was his thought, when he rose the next day, but loyalty\nstood in the way, and that very afternoon another event happened\nwhich made it evident that the poor girl must leave Portchester as\nsoon as possible.\n\nShe had gone out with him to take leave of some old cottagers in the\nvillage, and he finding himself detained to minister to a case of\nunexpected illness, allowed her to go home alone for about a quarter\nof a mile along the white sunny road at the foot of Portsdown, with\nthe castle full in view at one end, and the cottage where he was at\nthe other.  Many a time previously had she trodden it alone, but she\nhad not reckoned on two officers coming swaggering from a cross road\ndown the hill, one of them Sedley Archfield, who immediately called\nout, \"Ha, ha! my pretty maid, no wench goes by without paying toll;\"\nand they spread their arms across the road so as to arrest her.\n\n\"Sir,\" said Anne, drawing herself up with dignity, \"you mistake--\"\n\n\"Not a whit, my dear; no exemption here;\" and there was a horse\nlaugh, and an endeavour to seize her, as she stepped back, feeling\nthat in quietness lay her best chance of repelling them, adding--\n\n\"My uncle is close by.\"\n\n\"The more cause for haste;\" and they began to close upon her.  But\nat that moment Peregrine Oakshott, leaping from his horse, was among\nthem, with the cry--\n\n\"Dastards! insulting a lady.\"\n\n\"Lady, forsooth! the parson's niece.\"\n\nIn a few seconds--very long seconds to her--her flying feet had\nbrought her back to the cottage, where she burst in with--\"Pardon,\npardon, sir; come quick; there are swords drawn; there will be\nbloodshed if you do not come.\"\n\nHe obeyed the summons without further query, for when all men wore\nswords the neighbourhood of a garrison were only too liable to such\nencounters outside.  There was no need for her to gasp out more;\nfrom the very cottage door he could see the need of haste, for the\nswords were actually flashing, and the two young men in position to\nfight.  Anne shook her head, unable to do more than sign her thanks\nto the good woman of the cottage, who offered her a seat.  She leant\nagainst the door, and watched as her uncle, sending his voice before\nhim, called on them to desist.\n\nThere was a start, then each drew back and held down his weapon, but\nwith a menacing gesture on one side, a shrug of the shoulders on the\nother, which impelled the Doctor to use double speed in the fear\nthat the parting might be with a challenge reserved.\n\nHe was in time to stand warning, and arguing that if he pardoned the\nslighting words and condoned the insult to his niece, no one had a\nright to exact vengeance; and in truth, whatever were his arguments,\nhe so dealt with the two young men as to force them into shaking\nhands before they separated, though with a contemptuous look on\neither side--a scowl from Sedley, a sneer from Peregrine, boding ill\nfor the future, and making him sigh.\n\n\"Ah! sister, sister, you judged aright.  Would that I could have\nsent the maid sooner away rather than that all this ill blood should\nhave been bred.  Yet I may only be sending her to greater temptation\nand danger.  But she is a good maiden; God bless her and keep her\nhere and there, now and for evermore, as I trust He keepeth our good\nDr. Ken in this sore strait.  The trial may even now be over.  Ah,\nmy child, here you are!  Frightened were you by that rude fellow?\nNay, I believe you were almost equally terrified by him who came to\nthe rescue.  You will soon be out of their reach, my dear.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is one great comfort in going,\" sighed Anne.  One\ncomfort--yes--though she would not have stayed had the choice been\ngiven her now.  And shall the thought be told that flashed over her\nand coloured her cheeks with a sort of shame yet of pleasure, \"I\nsurely must have power over men!  I know mother would say it is a\nterrible danger one way, and a great gift another.  I will not\nmisuse it; but what will it bring me?  Or am I only a rustic beauty\nafter all, who will be nobody elsewhere?\"\n\nStill heartily she wished that her rescuer had been any one else in\nthe wide world.  It was almost uncanny that he should have sprung\nout of the earth at such a moment.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII: THE BONFIRE\n\n\n\"From Eddystone to Berwick bounds,\n   From Lynn to Milford Bay,\nThat time of slumber was as\n   Bright and busy as the day;\nFor swift to east and swift to west\n   The fiery herald sped,\nHigh on St. Michael's Mount it shone:\n   It shone on Beachy Head.\"\n\nMACAULAY.\n\nDoctor Woodford and his niece had not long reached their own door\nwhen the clatter of a horse's hoofs was heard, and Charles Archfield\nwas seen, waving his hat and shouting 'Hurrah!' before he came near\nenough to speak,\n\n\"Good news, I see!\" said the Doctor.\n\n\"Good news indeed!  Not guilty!  Express rode from Westminster Hall\nwith the news at ten o'clock this morning.  All acquitted.\nExpresses could hardly get away for the hurrahing of the people.\nHurrah! hurrah! hurrah!\" cried the young man, throwing up his hat,\nwhile Doctor Woodford, taking off his own, gave graver, deeper\nthanks that justice was yet in England, that these noble and\nhonoured confessors were safe, and that the King had been saved from\nfurther injustice and violence to the Church.\n\n\"We are to have a bonfire on Portsdown hill,\" added Charles.  \"They\nwill be all round the country, in the Island, and everywhere.  My\nfather is rid one way to spread the tidings, and give orders.  I'm\ngoing on into Portsmouth, to see after tar barrels.  You'll be\nthere, sir, and you, Anne?\"  There was a moment's hesitation after\nthe day's encounters, but he added, \"My mother is going, and my\nlittle Madam, and Lucy.  They will call for you in the coach if you\nwill be at Ryder's cottage at nine o'clock.  It will not be dark\nenough to light up till ten, so there will be time to get a noble\npile ready.  Come, Anne, 'tis Lucy's last chance of seeing you--so\nstrange as you have made yourself of late.\"\n\nThis plea decided Anne, who had been on the point of declaring that\nshe should have an excellent view from the top of the keep.\nHowever, not only did she long to see Lucy again, but the enthusiasm\nwas contagious, and there was an attraction in the centre of popular\nrejoicing that drew both her and her uncle, nor could there be a\ndoubt of her being sufficiently protected when among the Archfield\nladies.  So the arrangement was accepted, and then there was the\ncry--\n\n\"Hark! the Havant bells!  Ay! and the Cosham!  Portsmouth is pealing\nout.  That's Alverstoke.  They know it there.  A salute!  Another.\"\n\n\"Scarce loyal from the King's ships,\" said the Doctor, smiling.\n\n\"Nay, 'tis only loyalty to rejoice that the King can't make a fool\nof himself.  So my father says,\" rejoined Charles.\n\nAnd that seemed to be the mood of all England.  When Anne and her\nuncle set forth in the summer sunset light the great hill above them\nwas dark with the multitudes thronging around the huge pyre rising\nin the midst.  They rested for some minutes at the cottage indicated\nbefore the arrival of Sir Philip, who rode up accompanying the coach\nin which his three ladies were seated, and which was quite large\nenough to receive Dr. Woodford and Mistress Anne.  Charles was in\nthe throng, in the midst of most of the younger gentlemen of the\nneighbourhood, and a good many of the naval and military officers,\ndirecting the arrangement of the pile.\n\nWhat a scene it was, as seen even from the windows of the coach\nwhere the ladies remained, for the multitude of sailors, soldiers,\ntown and village people, though all unanimous, were far too\ntumultuous for them to venture beyond their open door, especially as\nlittle Mrs. Archfield was very far from well, and nothing but her\neagerness for amusement could have brought her hither, and of course\nshe could not be left.  Probably she knew as little of the real\nbearings of the case or the cause of rejoicing as did the boys who\npervaded everything with their squibs, and were only restrained from\nfiring them in the faces of the horses by wholesome fear of the big\nwhips of the coachman and outriders who stood at the horses' heads.\n\nIt was hardly yet dark when the match was put to the shavings, and\nto the sound of the loud 'Hurrahs!' and cries of 'Long live the\nBishops!'  'Down with the Pope!' the flame kindled, crackled, and\nleapt up, while a responsive fire was seen on St. Catherine's Down\nin the Isle of Wight, and northward, eastward, westward, on every\navailable point, each new light greeted by fresh acclamations, as it\nshone out against the summer night sky, while the ships in the\nharbour showed their lights, reflected in the sea, as the sky grew\ndarker.  Then came a procession of sailors and other rough folk,\nbearing between poles a chair with a stuffed figure with a kind of\ntiara, followed by others with scarlet hats and capes, and with\nreiterated shouts of 'Down with the Pope!' these were hurled into\nthe fire with deafening hurrahs, their more gorgeous trappings being\ncleverly twitched off at the last moment, as part of the properties\nfor the 5th of November.\n\nLittle Mrs. Archfield clapped her hands and screamed with delight as\neach fresh blaze shot up, and chattered with all her might,\nsometimes about some lace and perfumes which she wanted Anne to\nprocure for her in London at the sign of the Flower Pot, sometimes\ngrumbling at her husband having gone off to the midst of the party\nclosest to the fire, \"Just like Mr. Archfield, always leaving her to\nherself,\" but generally very well amused, especially when a group of\ngentlemen, officers, and county neighbours gathered round the open\ndoor talking to the ladies within.\n\nPeregrine was there with his hands in his pockets, and a queer\nironical smile writhing his features.  He was asked if his father\nand brother were present.\n\n\"Not my father,\" he replied.  \"He has a logical mind.  Martha is up\nhere with her guardian, and I am keeping out of her way, and my\nbrother is full in the thick of the fray.  A bonfire is a bonfire to\nmost folks, were it to roast their grandsire!\"\n\n\"Oh, fie, Mr. Oakshott, how you do talk!\" laughed Mrs. Archfield.\n\n\"Nay, but you rejoice in the escape of the good Bishops,\" put in\nLucy.\n\n\"For what?\" asked Peregrine.  \"For refusing to say live and let\nlive?\"\n\n\"Not against letting _live_, but against saying so\nunconstitutionally, my young friend,\" said Dr. Woodford, \"or\ntyrannising over our consciences.\"\n\nGenerally Peregrine was more respectful to Dr. Woodford than to any\none else; but there seemed to be a reckless bitterness about him on\nthat night, and he said, \"I marvel with what face those same Eight\nReverend Seigniors will preach against the French King.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" thrust in Sedley Archfield, \"I am not to hear opprobrious\nepithets applied to the Bishops.\"\n\n\"What was the opprobrium?\" lazily demanded Peregrine, and in spite\nof his unpopularity, the laugh was with him.  Sedley grew more\nangry.\n\n\"You likened them to the French King--\"\n\n\"The most splendid monarch in Europe,\" said Peregrine coolly.\n\n\"A Frenchman!\" quoth one of the young squires with withering\ncontempt.\n\n\"He has that ill fortune, sir,\" said Peregrine.  \"Mayhap he would be\nsensible of the disadvantage, if he evened himself with some of my\nreasonable countrymen.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that for an insult, sir?\" exclaimed Sedley Archfield,\nstriding forward.\n\n\"As you please,\" said Peregrine.  \"To me it had the sound of\ncompliment.\"\n\n\"Oh la! they'll fight,\" cried Mrs. Archfield.  \"Don't let them!\nWhere's the Doctor?  Where's Sir Philip?\"\n\n\"Hush, my dear,\" said Lady Archfield; \"these gentlemen would not\nfall out close to us.\"\n\nDr. Woodford was out of sight, having been drawn into controversy\nwith a fellow-clergyman on the limits of toleration.  Anne looked\nanxiously for him, but with provoking coolness Peregrine presently\nsaid, \"There's no crowd near, and if you will step out, the fires on\nthe farther hills are to be seen well from the knoll hard by.\"\n\nHe spoke chiefly to Anne, but even if she had not a kind of\nshrinking from trusting herself with him in this strange wild scene,\nshe would have been prevented by Mrs. Archfield's eager cry--\n\n\"Oh, I'll come, let me come!  I'm so weary of sitting here.  Thank\nyou, Master Oakshott.\"\n\nLady Archfield's remonstrance was lost as Peregrine helped the\nlittle lady out, and there was nothing for it but to follow her, as\nclose as might be, as she hung on her cavalier's arm chattering, and\nnow and then giving little screams of delight or alarm.  Lady\nArchfield and her daughter each was instantly squired, but Mistress\nWoodford, a nobody, was left to keep as near them as she could, and\ngaze at the sparks of light of the beacons in the distance, thinking\nhow changed the morrow would be to her.\n\nPresently a figure approached, and Charles Archfield's voice said,\n\"Is that you, Anne?  Did I hear my wife's voice?\"\n\n\"Yes, she is there.\"\n\n\"And with that imp of evil!  I would his own folk had him!\" muttered\nCharles, dashing forward with \"How now, madam? you were not to leave\nthe coach!\"\n\nShe laughed exultingly.  \"Ha, sir! see what comes of leaving me to\nbetter cavaliers, while you run after your fire!  I should have seen\nnothing but for Master Oakshott.\"\n\n\"Come with me now,\" said Charles; \"you ought not to be standing here\nin the dew.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha! what a jealous master,\" she said; but she put her arm into\nhis, saying with a courtesy, \"Thank you, Master Oakshott, lords must\nbe obeyed.  I should have been still buried in the old coach but for\nyou.\"\n\nPeregrine fell back to Anne.  \"That blaze is at St. Helen's,\" he\nbegan.  \"That--what! will you not wait a moment?\"\n\n\"No, no!  They will want to be going home.\"\n\n\"And have you forgotten that it is only just over Midsummer?  This\nis the week of my third seventh--the moment for change.  O Anne!\nmake it a change for the better.  Say the word, and the die will be\ncast.  All is ready!  Come!\"\n\nHe tried to take her hand, but the vehemence of his words, spoken\nunder his breath, terrified her, and with a hasty \"No, no! you know\nnot what you talk of,\" she hastened after her friends, and was glad\nto find herself in the safe haven of the interior of the coach.\n\nEre long they drove down the hill, and at the place of parting were\nset down, the last words in Anne's ears being Mrs. Archfield's\ninjunctions not to forget the orange flower-water at the sign of the\nFlower Pot, drowning Lucy's tearful farewells.\n\nAs they walked away in the moonlight a figure was seen in the\ndistance.\n\n\"Is that Peregrine Oakshott?\" asked the Doctor.  \"That young man is\nin a desperate mood, ready to put a quarrel on any one.  I hope no\nharm will come of it.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV: GATHERING MOUSE-EAR\n\n\n\"I heard the groans, I marked the tears,\n   I saw the wound his bosom bore.\"\n\nSCOTT.\n\nAfter such an evening it was not easy to fall asleep, and Anne\ntossed about, heated, restless, and uneasy, feeling that to remain\nat home was impossible, yet less satisfied about her future\nprospects, and doubtful whether she had not done herself harm by\nattending last night's rejoicings, and hoping that nothing would\nhappen to reveal her presence there.\n\nShe was glad that the night was not longer, and resolved to take\nadvantage of the early morning to fulfil a commission of Lady\nOglethorpe, whose elder children, Lewis and Theophilus, had the\nwhooping-cough.  Mouse-ear, namely, the little sulphur-coloured\nhawk-weed, was, and still is, accounted a specific, and Anne had\nbeen requested to bring a supply--a thing easily done, since it grew\nplentifully in the court of the castle.\n\nShe dressed herself in haste, made some of her preparations for the\njourney, and let herself out of the house, going first for one last\nlook at her mother's green grave in the dewy churchyard, and\ngathering from it a daisy, which she put into her bosom, then in the\nfair morning freshness, and exhilaration of the rising sun, crossing\nthe wide tilt-yard, among haycocks waiting to be tossed, and\narriving at the court within, filling her basket between the\nchurchyard and the gateway tower and keep, when standing up for a\nmoment she was extremely startled to see Peregrine Oakshott's\nunmistakable figure entering at the postern of the court.\n\nWith vague fears of his intentions, and instinctive terror of\nmeeting him alone, heightened by that dread of his power, she flew\nin at the great bailey tower door, hoping that he had not seen her,\nbut tolerably secure that even if he had, and should pursue her, she\nwas sufficiently superior in knowledge of the stairs and passages to\nbaffle him, and make her way along the battlements to the tower at\nthe corner of the court nearest the parsonage, where there was a\nturret stair by which she could escape.\n\nUp the broken stairs she went, shutting behind her every available\ndoor in the chambers and passages, but not as quickly as she wished,\nsince attention to her feet was needful in the ruinous state of\nsteps and walls.  Through those massive walls she could hear nothing\ndistinctly, but she fancied voices and a cry, making her seek more\nintricate windings, nor did she dare to look out till she had gained\na thick screen of bushy ivy at the corner of the turret, where a\nlittle door opened on the broad summit of the battlemented wall.\n\nThen, what horror was it that she beheld?  Or was it a dream?  She\neven passed her hands over her face and looked again.  Peregrine and\nCharles, yes, it was Charles Archfield, were fighting with swords in\nthe court beneath.  She gave a shriek, in a wild hope of parting\nthem, but at that instant she saw Peregrine fall, and with the\nimpulse of rushing to aid she hurried down, impeded however by\nstumbles, and by the doors, she herself had shut, and when she\nemerged, she saw only Charles, standing like one dazed and white as\ndeath.\n\n\"O Mr Archfield! where is he?  What have you done?\"  The young man\npointed to the opening of the vault.  Then, speaking with an effort,\n\"He was quite dead; my sword went through him.  He forced it on me--\nhe was pursuing you.  I withstood him--and--\"\n\nHe gasped heavily as the words came one by one.  She trembled\nexceedingly, and would have looked into the vault, with, \"Are you\nquite sure?\" but he grasped her hand and withheld her.\n\n\"Only too sure!  Yes, I have done it!  It could not be helped.  I\nwould give myself up at once, but, Anne, there is my wife.  They\ntell me any shock would kill her as she is now.  I should be double\nmurderer.  Will you keep the secret, Anne, always my friend?  And\n'twas for you.\"\n\n\"Indeed, indeed, I will not betray you.  I go away in two hours,\"\nsaid Anne; and he caught her hand.  \"But oh!\" and she pointed to the\nblood on the grass, then with sudden thought, \"Heap the hay over\nit,\" running to fill her arms with the lately-cut grass.\n\nHe mechanically did the same, and then they stood for a moment, awe-\nstricken.\n\n\"God forgive me!\" said the poor young man.  \"How to hide it I hardly\nknow, but for _her_ sake, ah--'twas that brought me here.  She could\nnot rest last night till I had promised to be here early enough in\nthe morning to give you a piece of sarcenet to be matched in London.\nWhere is it?  Ah!  I forget.  It seems to be ages ago that she was\ninsisting that I should ride over so as to be in time.\"\n\n\"Lucy must write,\" said Anne, \"O Charley! wipe that dreadful sword,\nlook like yourself.  I am going in a couple of hours.  There is no\nfear of me! but oh! that you should have done such a thing! and\nthrough me!\"\n\n\"Hush! hush! don't talk.  I must be gone ere folks are about.  My\nhorse is outside.\"  He wrung her hand and kissed it, forgetting to\ngive her the pattern, and Anne, still stunned, walked back to the\nparsonage, her one thought how to control herself so as to guard\nCharles's secret.\n\nIt must be remembered that in the generation succeeding that which\nhad fought a long civil war, and when duels were common assertions\nof honour and self-respect among young gentlemen, homicide was not\nso exceptional and heinous an offence in ordinary eyes as when a\nhigher value has come to be set on life, and acts of violence are\nfar less frequent.\n\nCharles had drawn his sword in fair fight, and in her own defence,\nand thus it was natural that Anne Woodford should think of his deed,\ncertainly with a shudder, but with more of pity than of horror, and\nwith gratitude that made her feel bound to do her utmost to guard\nhim from the consequences; also there was a sense of relief, and\nperhaps a feeling as if the victim were scarcely a human creature\nlike others.  It never occurred to her till some time after to\nrecollect it would have had an unpleasant sound that she had been\nthe occasion of such an 'unseemly brawl' between two young men, one\nof them a married man.  When the thought occurred to her it made the\nblood rash hotly to her cheeks.\n\nIt was well for her that the pain of leaving home and the bustle of\npreparation concealed that she had suffered a great shock, and\naccounted for her not being able to taste any breakfast beyond a\ndraught of milk.  Her ears were intent all the time to perceive any\ntoken whether the haymakers had come into the court and had\ndiscovered any trace of the ghastly thing in the vault, and she\nhardly heard the kind words of her uncle or the coaxings of his old\nhousekeeper.  She dreaded especially the sight of Hans, so fondly\nattached to his master's nephew, and it was with a sense of infinite\nrelief--instead of the tender grief otherwise natural--that she was\nseated in the boat for Portsmouth, and her uncle believing her to be\ncrying, left her undisturbed till she had composed herself to wear\nthe front that she knew was needful, however her heart might throb\nbeneath it, and as their boat threaded its way through the ships,\neven then numerous, she looked wistfully up at the tall tower of the\ncastle, with earnest prayers for the living, and a longing she durst\nnot utter, to ask her uncle whether it were right to pray for the\npoor strange, struggling soul, always so cruelly misunderstood, and\nnow so summarily dismissed from the world of trial.\n\nYet presently there was a revulsion of feeling as she was roused\nfrom her meditations by the coxswain's answer to her uncle, who had\nasked what was a smart, swift little smack, which after receiving\nsomething from a boat, began stretching her wings and making all\nsail for the Isle of Wight.\n\nThe men looked significant and hesitated.\n\n\"Smugglers, eh?  Traders in French brandy?\" asked the Doctor.\n\n\"Well, your reverence, so they says.  They be a rough lot out there\nby at the back of the Island.\"\n\n\"There would be small harm in letting a poor man get a drink of\nspirits cheap to warm his heart,\" said one of the other men; \"but\nthey say as how 'tis a very nest of 'em out there, and that's how no\none can ever pitch on the highwaymen, such as robbed Farmer Vine\nt'other day a coming home from market.\"\n\n\"They do say,\" added the other, \"that there's them as ought to know\nbetter that is thick with them.  There's that young master up at\nOakwood--that crooked slip as they used to say was a changeling--\ngets out o' window o' nights and sails with them.\"\n\n\"He has nought to do with the robberies, they say,\" added the\ncoxswain; \"but I could tell of many a young spark who has gone out\nwith the fair traders for the sport's sake, and because gentle folk\ndon't know what to do with their time.\"\n\n\"And they do say the young chap is kept uncommon tight at home.\"\n\nHere the sight of a vessel of war coming in changed the topic, but\nit had given Anne something more to think of.  Peregrine had spoken\nof means arranged for making her his own.  Could that smuggling\nyacht have anything to do with them?  He could hardly have reckoned\non meeting her alone in the morning, but he might have attempted to\nfind her thus--or failing that, he might have run down the boat.  If\nso, she had a great deliverance to be thankful for, and Charles's\ntimely appearance had been a great blessing.  But Peregrine! poor\nPeregrine! it became doubly terrible that he should have perished on\nthe eve of such a deed.  It was cruel to entertain such thoughts of\nthe dead, yet it was equally impossible not to feel comfort in being\nrid for ever of one who had certainly justified the vague alarm\nwhich he had always excited in her.  She could not grieve for him\nnow that the first shock was over, but she must suppress all tokens\nof her extreme anxiety on account of Charles Archfield.\n\nThus she was landed at Portsmouth, and walked up the street to the\nSpotted Dog, where Lady Worsley was taking an early noonchine before\nstarting for London, having crossed from the little fishing village\nof Ryde.  Here Anne parted with her uncle, who promised an early\nletter, though she could hardly restrain a shudder at the thought of\nthe tidings that it might contain.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV: NEWS FROM FAREHAM\n\n\n\"My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery.\nHopeless the evil is, I have not told its history.\"\n\nJEAN INGELOW.\n\nLady Worsley was a handsome, commanding old dame, who soon made her\ncharge feel the social gulf between a county magnate and a\nclergyman's niece.  She decidedly thought that Mistress Anne\nJacobina held her head too high for her position, and was, moreover,\nconceited of an unfortunate amount of good looks.\n\nTherefore the good lady did her best to repress these dangerous\ntendencies by making the girl sit on the back seat with two maids,\nand uttering long lectures on humility, modesty, and discretion\nwhich made the blood of the sea-captain's daughter boil with\nindignation.\n\nYet she always carried with her the dread of being pursued and\ncalled upon to accuse Charles Archfield of Peregrine's death.  It\nwas a perpetual cloud, dispersed, indeed, for a time by the events\nof the day, but returning at night, when not only was the combat\nacted over again, but when she fell asleep it was only to be pursued\nby Peregrine through endless vaulted dens of darkness, or, what was\nfar worse, to be trying to hide a stream of blood that could never\nbe stanched.\n\nIt was no wonder that she looked pale in the morning, and felt so\ntired and dejected as to make her sensible that she was cast loose\nfrom home and friends when no one troubled her with remarks or\ninquiries such as she could hardly have answered.  However, when, on\nthe evening of the second day's journey, Anne was set down at Sir\nTheophilus Oglethorpe's house at Westminster, she met with a very\ndifferent reception.\n\nLady Oglethorpe, a handsome, warm-hearted Irish woman, met her at\nonce in the hall with outstretched hands, and a kiss on each cheek.\n\n\"Come in, my dear, my poor orphan, the daughter of one who was very\ndear to me!  Ah, how you have grown!  I could never have thought\nthis was the little Anne I recollect.  You shall come up to your\nchamber at once, and rest you, and make ready for supper, by the\ntime Sir Theophilus comes in from attending the King.\"\n\nAnne found herself installed in a fresh-smelling wainscotted room,\nwhere a glass of wine and some cake was ready for her, and where she\nmade herself ready, feeling exhilarated in spirits as she performed\nher toilette, putting on her black evening dress, and refreshing the\ncurls of her brown hair.  It was a simple dress of deep mourning,\nbut it became her well, and the two or three gentlemen who had come\nin to supper with Sir Theophilus evidently admired her greatly, and\ncomplimented her on having a situation at Court, which was all that\nLady Oglethorpe mentioned.\n\n\"Child,\" she said afterwards, when they were in private, \"if I had\nknown what you looked like I would have sought a different position\nfor you.  But, there, to get one's foot--were it but the toe of\none's shoe--in at Court is the great point after all, the rest must\ncome after.  I warrant me you are well educated too.  Can you speak\nFrench?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, madam, and Italian, and dance and play on the spinnet.  I\nwas with two French ladies at Winchester every winter who taught\nsuch things.\"\n\n\"Well, well, mayhap we may get you promoted to a sub-governess's\nplace--though your religion is against you.  You are not a Catholic--\neh?\"\n\n\"No, your ladyship.\"\n\n\"That's the only road to favour nowadays, though for the name of the\nthing they may have a Protestant or two.  You are the King's\ngodchild too, so he will expect it the more from you.  However, we\nmay find a better path.  You have not left your heart in the\ncountry, eh?\"\n\nAnne blushed and denied it.\n\n\"You will be mewed up close enough in the nursery,\" ran on Lady\nOglethorpe.  \"Lady Powys keeps close discipline there, and I expect\nshe will be disconcerted to see how fine a fish I have brought to\nher net; but we will see--we will see how matters go.  But, my dear,\nhave you no coloured clothes?  There is no appearing in the Royal\nhousehold in private mourning.  It might daunt the Prince's spirits\nin his cradle!\" and she laughed, though Anne felt much annoyed at\nthus disregarding her mother, as well as at the heavy expense.\nHowever, there was no help for it; the gowns and laces hidden in the\nbottom of her mails were disinterred, and the former were for the\nmost part condemned, so that she had to submit to a fresh outfit, in\nwhich Lady Oglethorpe heartily interested herself, but which drained\nthe purse that the Canon had amply supplied.\n\nThese arrangements were not complete when the first letter from home\narrived, and was opened with a beating heart, and furtive glances as\nof one who feared to see the contents, but they were by no means\nwhat she expected.\n\nI hope you have arrived safely in London, and that you are not\ndispleased with your first taste of life in a Court.  Neither\ntown nor country is exempt from sorrow and death.  I was summoned\nonly on the second day after your departure to share in the\nsorrows at Archfield, where the poor young wife died early on\nFriday morning, leaving a living infant, a son, who, I hope, may\nprove a blessing to them, if he is spared, which can scarcely be\nexpected.  The poor young man, and indeed all the family, are in\nthe utmost distress, and truly there were circumstances that\nrender the event more than usually deplorable, and for which he\nblames himself exceedingly, even to despair.  It appears that the\npoor young gentlewoman wished to add some trifle to the numerous\ncommissions with which she was entrusting you on the night of the\nbonfire, and that she could not be pacified except by her husband\nundertaking to ride over to give the patterns and the orders to\nyou before your setting forth.  You said nothing of having seen\nhim--nor do I see how it was possible that you could have done\nso, seeing that you only left your chamber just before the\nbreakfast that you never tasted, my poor child.  He never\nreturned till long after noon, and what with fretting after him,\nand disappointment, that happened which Lady Archfield had always\napprehended, and the poor fragile young creature worked herself\ninto a state which ended before midnight in the birth of a puny\nbabe, and her own death shortly after.  She wanted two months of\ncompleting her sixteenth year, and was of so frail a constitution\nthat Dr. Brown had never much hope of her surviving the birth of\nher child.  It was a cruel thing to marry her thus early, ungrown\nin body or mind, but she had no one to care for her before she\nwas brought hither.  The blame, as I tell Sir Philip, and would\nfain persuade poor Charles, is really with those who bred her up\nso uncontrolled as to be the victim of her humours; but the\nunhappy youth will listen to no consolation.  He calls himself a\nmurderer, shuts himself up, and for the most part will see and\nspeak to no one, but if forced by his father's command to unlock\nhis chamber door, returns at once to sit with his head hidden in\nhis arms crossed upon the table, and if father, mother, or sister\nstrive to rouse him and obtain answer from him, he will only\nmurmur forth, \"I should only make it worse if I did.\"  It is\npiteous to see a youth so utterly overcome, and truly I think his\ncondition is a greater distress to our good friends than the loss\nof the poor young wife.  They asked him what name he would have\ngiven to his child, but all the answer they could get was, \"As\nyou will, only not mine;\" and in the enforced absence of my\nbrother of Fareham I baptized him Philip.  The funeral will take\nplace to-morrow, and Sir Philip proposes immediately after to\ntake his son to Oxford, and there endeavour to find a tutor of\nmature age and of prudence, with whom he may either study at New\nCollege or be sent on the grand tour.  It is the only notion that\nthe poor lad has seemed willing to entertain, as if to get away\nfrom his misery, and I cannot but think it well for him.  He is\nnot yet twenty, and may, as it were, begin life again the wiser\nand the better man for his present extreme sorrow.  Lady\nArchfield is greatly wrapped up in the care of the babe, who, I\nfear, is in danger of being killed by overcare, if by nothing\nelse, though truly all is in the hands of God.  I have scarce\nquitted the afflicted family since I was summoned to them on\nFriday, since Sir Philip has no one else on whom to depend for\ncomfort or counsel; and if I can obtain the services of Mr. Ellis\nfrom Portsmouth for a few Sundays, I shall ride with him to\nOxford to assist in the choice of a tutor to go abroad with Mr.\nArchfield.\n\nOne interruption however I had, namely, from Major Oakshott, who\ncame in great perturbation to ask what was the last I had seen of\nhis son Peregrine.  It appears that the unfortunate young man\nnever returned home after the bonfire on Portsdown Hill, where\nhis brother Robert lost sight of him, and after waiting as long\nas he durst, returned home alone.  It has become known that after\nparting with us high words passed between him and Lieutenant\nSedley Archfield, insomuch that after the unhappy fashion of\nthese times, blood was demanded, and early in the morning Sedley\nsent the friend who was to act as second to bear the challenge to\nyoung Oakshott.  You can conceive the reception that he was\nlikely to receive at Oakwood; but it was then discovered that\nPeregrine had not been in his bed all night, nor had any one seen\nor heard of him.  Sedley boasts loudly that the youngster has\nfled the country for fear of him, and truly things have that\nappearance, although to my mind Peregrine was far from wanting in\nspirit or courage.  But, as he had not received the cartel, he\nmight not have deemed his honour engaged to await it, and I\nincline to the belief that he is on his way to his uncle in\nMuscovy, driven thereto by his dread of the marriage with the\ngentlewoman whom he holds in so much aversion.  I have striven to\nconsole his father by the assurance that such tidings of him will\nsurely arrive in due time, but the Major is bitterly grieved, and\nis galled by the accusation of cowardice.  \"He could not even be\ntrue to his own maxims of worldly honour,\" says the poor\ngentleman.  \"So true it is that only by grace we stand fast.\"\nThe which is true enough, but the poor gentleman unwittingly did\nhis best to make grace unacceptable in his son's eyes.  I trust\nsoon to hear again of you, my dear child.  I rejoice that Lady\nOglethorpe is so good to you, and I hope that in the palace you\nwill guard first your faith and then your discretion.  And so\npraying always for your welfare, alike spiritual and temporal.--\nYour loving uncle, JNO.  WOODFORD.\n\nTruly it was well that Anne had secluded herself to read this\nletter.\n\nSo the actual cause for which poor Charles Archfield had entreated\nsilence was at an end.  The very evil he had apprehended had come to\npass, and she could well understand how, on his return in a horror-\nstricken, distracted state of mind, the childish petulance of his\nwife had worried him into loss of temper, so that he hardly knew\nwhat he said.  And what must not his agony of remorse be?  She could\nscarcely imagine how he had avoided confessing all as a mere relief\nto his mind, but then she reflected that when he called himself a\nmurderer the words were taken in another sense, and no questions\nasked, nor would he be willing to add such grief and shame to his\nparents' present burthen, especially as no suspicion existed.\n\nThat Peregrine's fate had not been discovered greatly relieved her.\nShe believed the vault to go down to a considerable depth after a\nfirst platform of stone near the opening, and it was generally\navoided as the haunt of hobgoblins, fairies, or evil beings, so that\nno one was likely to be in its immediate neighbourhood after the hay\nwas carried, so that there might have been nothing to attract any\none to the near neighbourhood and thus lead to the discovery.  If\nnot made by this time, Charles would be far away, and there was\nnothing to connect him with the deed.  No one save herself had even\nknown of his having been near the castle that morning.  How strange\nthat the only persons aware of that terrible secret should be so far\nseparated from one another that they could exchange no confidences;\nand each was compelled to absolute silence.  For as long as no one\nelse was suspected, Anne felt her part must be not to betray\nCharles, though the bare possibility of the accusation of another\nwas agony to her.\n\nShe wrote her condolences in due form to Fareham, and in due time\nwas answered by Lucy Archfield.  The letter was full of details\nabout the infant, who seemed to absorb her and her mother, and to be\nas likely to live as any child of those days ever was--and it was in\nhis favour that his grandmother and her old nurse had better notions\nof management than most of her contemporaries.  In spite of all that\nLucy said of her brother's overwhelming grief, and the melancholy of\nthus parting with him, there was a strain of cheerfulness throughout\nthe letter, betraying that the poor young wife of less than a year\nwas no very great loss to the peace and comfort of the family.  The\nletter ended with--\n\nThere is a report that Sir Peregrine Oakshott is dead in Muscovy.\nNothing has been heard of that unfortunate young man at Oakwood.\nIf he be gone in quest of his uncle, I wonder what will become of\nhim?  However, nurse will have it that this being the third\nseventh year of his life, the fairies have carried off their\nchangeling--you remember how she told us the story of his being\nchanged as an infant, when we were children at Winchester; she\nbelieves it as much as ever, and never let little Philip out of\nher sight before he was baptized.  I ask her, if the changeling\nbe gone, where is the true Peregrine? but she only wags her head\nin answer.\n\nA day or two later Anne heard from her uncle from Oxford.  He was\nextremely grieved at the condition of his beloved alma mater, with a\nRoman Catholic Master reigning at University College, a doctor from\nthe Sorbonne and Fellows to match, inflicted by military force on\nMagdalen, whose lawful children had been ejected with a violence\nbeyond anything that the colleges had suffered even in the time of\nthe Rebellion.  If things went on as they were, he pronounced Oxford\nwould be no better than a Popish seminary:  and he had the more\nreadily induced his old friend to consent to Charles's desire not to\nremain there as a student, but to go abroad with Mr. Fellowes, one\nof the expelled fellows of Magdalen, a clergyman of mature age, but\na man of the world, who had already acted as a travelling tutor.\nConsidering that the young widower was not yet twenty, and that all\nhis wife's wealth would be in his hands, also that his cousin Sedley\nformed a dangerous link with the questionable diversions of the\ngarrison at Portsmouth, both father and friend felt that it was well\nthat he should be out of reach, and have other occupations for the\npresent.\n\nChange of scene had, Dr. Woodford said, brightened the poor youth,\nand he was showing more interest in passing events, but probably he\nwould never again be the light-hearted boy they used to know.\n\nAnne could well believe it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI: A ROYAL NURSERY\n\n\n\"The duty that I owe unto your Majesty\nI seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.\"\n\nKing Richard III.\n\nIt was not till the Queen had moved from St. James's, where her son\nhad been born, to take up her abode at Whitehall, that Lady\nOglethorpe was considered to be disinfected from her children's\nwhooping-cough, and could conduct Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford to\nher new situation.\n\nAnne remembered the place from times past, as she followed the lady\nup the broad stairs to the state rooms, where the child was daily\ncarried for inspection by the nation to whom, it was assumed, he was\nso welcome, but who, on the contrary, regarded him with the utmost\ndislike and suspicion.\n\nWhitehall was, in those days, free to all the world, and though\nsentries in the Life-guards' uniform with huge grenadier caps were\nposted here and there, every one walked up and down.  Members of\nParliament and fine gentlemen in embroidered coats and flowing wigs\ncame to exchange news; country cousins came to stare and wonder,\nsome to admire, some to whisper their disbelief in the Prince's\nidentity; clergy in gown, cassock, and bands came to win what they\ncould in a losing cause; and one or two other clergy, who were\nlooked at askance, whose dress had a foreign air, and whose tonsure\ncould be detected as they threaded their way with quick, gliding\nsteps to the King's closet.\n\nLady Oglethorpe, as one to the manner born, made her way through the\nmidst of this throng in the magnificent gallery, and Anne followed\nher closely, conscious of words of admiration and inquiries who she\nwas.  Into the Prince's presence chamber, in fact his day-nursery,\nthey came, and a sweet and gentle-looking lady met them, and\nembraced Lady Oglethorpe, who made known Mistress Woodford to Lady\nStrickland, of Sizergh, the second governess, as the fourth rocker\nwho had been appointed.\n\n\"You are welcome, Miss Woodford,\" said the lady, looking at Anne's\nhigh, handsome head and well-bred action in courtesying, with a\nshade of surprise.  \"You are young, but I trust you are discreet.\nThere is much need thereof.\"\n\nFollowing to a kind of alcove, raised by a step or two, Anne found\nherself before a half-circle of ladies and gentlemen round a chair\nof state, in front of which stood a nurse, with an infant in her\narms, holding him to be caressed and inspected by the lady on the\nthrone.  Her beautiful soft dark eyes and hair, and an ivory\ncomplexion, with her dignified and graceful bearing, her long,\nslender throat and exquisite figure, were not so much concealed as\nenhanced by the simple mob cap and 'night-gown,' as it was then the\nfashion to call a morning wrapper, which she wore, and Anne's first\nimpression was that no wonder Peregrine raved about her.  Poor\nPeregrine! that very thought came like a stab, as, after courtesying\nlow, she stood at the end of the long room--silent, and observing.\n\nA few gentlemen waited by the opposite door, but not coming far into\nthe apartment, and Lady Oglethorpe was announced by one of them.\nThe space was so great that Anne could not hear the words, and she\nonly saw the gracious smile and greeting as Lady Oglethorpe knelt\nand kissed the Queen's hand.  After a long conversation between the\nmothers, during which Lady Oglethorpe was accommodated with a\ncushion, Anne was beckoned forward, and was named to the Queen, who\nhonoured her with an inclination of the head and a few low murmured\nwords.\n\nThen there was an announcement of 'His Majesty,' and Anne, following\nthe general example of standing back with low obeisances, beheld the\ntall active figure and dark heavy countenance of her Royal\ngodfather, under his great black, heavily-curled wig.  He returned\nLady Oglethorpe's greeting, and his face lighted up with a pleasant\nsmile that greatly changed the expression as he took his child into\nhis arms for a few moments; but the little one began to cry,\nwhereupon he was carried off, and the King began to consult Lady\nOglethorpe upon the water-gruel on which the poor little Prince was\nbeing reared, and of which she emphatically disapproved.\n\nBefore he left the room, however, Lady Oglethorpe took care to\npresent to him his god-daughter, Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford,\nand very low was the girl's obeisance before him, but with far more\nfright and shyness than before the sweet-faced Queen.\n\n\"Oh ay!\" he said, \"I remember honest Will Woodford.  He did good\nservice at Southwold.  I wish he had left a son like him.  Have you\na brother, young mistress?\"\n\n\"No, please your Majesty, I am an only child.\"\n\n\"More's the pity,\" he said kindly, and with a smile brightening his\nheavy features.  \"'Tis too good a breed to die out.  You are\nCatholic?\"\n\n\"I am bred in the English Church, so please your Majesty.\"\n\nHis Majesty was evidently less pleased than before, but he only\nsaid, \"Ha! and my godchild!  We must amend that,\" and waved her\naside.\n\nThe royal interview over, the newcomer was presented to the State\nGoverness, the Countess of Powys, a fair and gracious matron, who\nwas, however, almost as far removed from her as the Queen.  Then she\nwas called on to take a solemn oath before the Master of the\nHousehold, of dutiful loyalty to the Prince.\n\nMrs. Labadie was head nurse as well as being wife to the King's\nFrench valet.  She was a kindly, portly Englishwoman, who seemed\nwrapped up in her charge, and she greeted her new subordinate in a\nfriendly way, which, however, seemed strange in one who at home\nwould have been of an inferior degree, expressed hopes of her\nsteadiness and discretion, and called to Miss Dunord to show Miss\nWoodford her chamber.  The abbreviation Miss sounded familiar and\nunsuitable, but it had just come into use for younger spinsters,\nthough officially they were still termed Mistress.\n\nMistress or Miss Dunord was sallow and gray-eyed, somewhat older\nthan Anne, and looking thoroughly French, though her English was\nperfect.  She was entirely dressed in blue and white, and had a\nrosary and cross at her girdle.  \"This way,\" she said, tripping up a\nsteep wooden stair.  \"We sleep above.  'Tis a huge, awkward place.\nHer Majesty calls it the biggest and most uncomfortable palace she\never was in.\"\n\nOpening a heavy door, she showed a room of considerable size, hung\nwith faded frayed tapestry, and containing two huge bedsteads, with\nfour heavy posts, and canopies of wood, as near boxes as could well\nbe.  Privacy was a luxury not ordinarily coveted, and the\narrangement did not surprise Anne, though she could have wished that\non that summer day curtains and tapestry had been less fusty.  Two\nyoung women were busy over a dress spread on one of the beds, and\nwith French ease and grace the guide said, \"Here is our new\ncolleague, Miss Jacobina Woodford.  Let me present Miss Hester\nBridgeman and Miss Jane Humphreys.\"\n\n\"Miss Woodford is welcome,\" said Miss Bridgeman, a keen, brown,\nlively, somewhat anxious-looking person, courtesying and holding out\nher hand, and her example was followed by Jane Humphreys, a stout,\nrosy, commonplace girl.\n\n\"Oh!  I am glad,\" this last cried.  \"Now I shall have a bedfellow.\"\n\nThis Anne was the less sorry for, as she saw that the bed of the\nother two was furnished with a holy water stoup and a little shrine\nwith a waxen Madonna.  There was only one looking-glass among the\nfour, and not much apparatus either for washing or the toilet, but\nMiss Bridgeman believed that they would soon go to Richmond, where\nthings would be more comfortable.  Then she turned to consult Miss\nDunord on her endeavour to improve the trimmings of a dress of Miss\nHumphreys.\n\n\"Yes, I know you are always in Our Lady's colours, Pauline, but you\nhave a pretty taste, and can convince Jane that rose colour and\nscarlet cannot go together.\"\n\n\"My father chose the ribbons,\" said Jane, as if that were\nunanswerable.\n\n\"City taste,\" said Miss Bridgeman.\n\n\"They are pretty, very pretty with anything else,\" observed Pauline,\nwith more tact.  \"See, now, with your white embroidered petticoat\nand the gray train they are ravishing--and the scarlet coat will\nenliven the black.\"\n\nThere was further a little murmur about what a Mr. Hopkins admired,\nbut it was lost in the arrival of Miss Woodford's mails.\n\nThey clustered round, as eager as a set of schoolgirls, over Anne's\ndresses.  Happily even the extreme of fashion had not then become\nungraceful.\n\n\"Her Majesty will not have the loose drapery that folks used to\nwear,\" said Hester Bridgeman.\n\n\"No,\" said Pauline; \"it was all very well for those who could\ndispose it with an artless negligence, but for some I could name, it\nwas as though they had tumbled it on with a hay-fork and had their\nhair tousled by being tickled in the hay.\"\n\n\"Now we have the tight bodice with plenty of muslin and lace, the\ngown open below to show the petticoat,\" said Hester; \"and to my mind\nit is more decorous.\"\n\n\"Decorum was not the vogue then,\" laughed Pauline, \"perhaps it will\nbe now.  Oh, what lovely lace! real Flanders, on my word!  Where did\nyou get it, Miss Woodford?\"\n\n\"It was my mother's.\"\n\n\"And this?  Why, 'tis old French point, you should hang it to your\nsleeves.\"\n\n\"My Lady Archfield gave it to me in case I should need it.\"\n\n\"Ah!  I see you have good friends and are a person of some\ncondition,\" put in Hester Bridgeman.  \"I shall be happy to consort\nwith you.  Let us--\"\n\nAnne courtesied, and at the moment a bell was heard, Pauline at once\ncrossed herself and fell on her knees before the small shrine with a\nfigure of the Blessed Virgin, and Hester, breaking off her words,\nfollowed her example; but Jane Humphreys stood twisting the corner\nof her apron.\n\nIn a very short time, almost before Anne had recovered from her\nbewilderment, the other two were up and chattering again.\n\n\"You are not a Catholic?\" demanded Miss Bridgeman.\n\n\"I was bred in the Church,\" said Anne.\n\n\"And you the King's godchild!\" exclaimed Pauline.  \"But we shall\nsoon amend that and make a convert of you like Miss Bridgeman\nthere.\"\n\nAnne shook her head, but was glad to ask, \"And what means the bell\nthat is ringing now?\"\n\n\"That is the supper bell.  It rings just after the Angelus,\" said\nHester.  \"No, it is not ours.  The great folks, Lady Powys, Lady\nStrickland, and the rest sup first.  We have the dishes after them,\nwith Nurses Labadie and Royer and the rest--no bad ones either.\nThey are allowed five dishes and two bottles of wine apiece, and\nthey always leave plenty for us, and it is served hot too.\"\n\nThe preparations for going down to the second table now absorbed the\nparty.\n\nAs Hester said, the fare at this second table was not to be\ndespised.  It was a formal meal shared with the two nurses and the\ntwo pages of the backstairs.  Not the lads usually associated with\nthe term, but men of mature age, and of gentle, though not noble,\nbirth and breeding; and there were likewise the attendants of the\nKing and Queen of the same grade, such as Mr. Labadie, the King's\nvalet, some English, but besides these, Dusian, the Queen's French\npage, and Signer and Signora Turini, who had come with her from\nModena, Pere Giverlai, her confessor, and another priest.  Pere\nGiverlai said grace, and the conversation went on briskly between\nthe elders, the younger ones being supposed to hold their peace.\n\nTheir dishes went in reversion to the inferior class of servants,\nlaundress, sempstress, chambermaids, and the like, who had much more\nliberty than their betters, and not such a lack of occupation as\nAnne soon perceived that she should suffer from.\n\nThere was, however, a great muster of all the Prince's\nestablishment, who stood round, as many as could, with little\ngarments in their hands, while he was solemnly undressed and laid in\nhis richly inlaid and carved cradle--over which Pere Giverlai\npronounced a Latin benediction.\n\nThe nursery establishment was then released, except one of the\nnurses, who was to sleep or wake on a couch by his side, and one of\nthe rockers.  These damsels had, two at a time, to divide the night\nbetween them, one being always at hand to keep the food warm, touch\nthe rocker at need with her foot, or call up the nurse on duty if\nthe child awoke, but not presume herself to handle his little Royal\nHighness.\n\nIt was the night when Mistresses Dunord and Bridgeman were due, and\nAnne followed Jane Humphreys to her room, asking a little about the\nduties of the morrow.\n\n\"We must be dressed before seven,\" said the girl.  \"One of us will\nbe left on duty while the others go to Mass.  I am glad you are a\nProtestant, Miss Woodford, for the Catholics put everything on me\nthat they can.\"\n\n\"We must do our best to help and strengthen each other,\" said Anne.\n\n\"It is very hard,\" said Jane; \"and the priests are always at me!  I\nwould change as Hester Bridgeman has done, but that I know it would\nbreak my grand-dame's heart.  My father might not care so much, if I\ngot advancement, but I believe it would kill my grandmother.\"\n\n\"Advancement! oh, but faith comes first,\" exclaimed Anne, recalling\nthe warning.\n\n\"Hester says one religion is as good as another to get to Heaven\nby,\" murmured Jane.\n\n\"Not if we deny our own for the world's sake,\" said Anne.  \"Is the\nchapel here a Popish one?\"\n\n\"No; the Queen has an Oratory, but the Popish chapel is at St.\nJames's--across the Park.  The Protestant one is here at Whitehall,\nand there are daily prayers at nine o'clock, and on Sunday music\nwith three fiddlers, and my grandmother says it might almost as well\nbe Popish at once.\"\n\n\"Did your grandmother bring you up?\"\n\n\"Yes.  My mother died when I was seven years old, and my grandmother\nbred us all up.  You should hear her talk of the good old times\nbefore the Kings came back and there were no Bishops and no book\nprayers--but my father says we must swim with the stream, or he\nwould not have got any custom at his coffee-house.\"\n\n\"Is that his calling?\"\n\n\"Ay!  No one has a better set of guests than in the Golden Lamb.\nThe place is full.  The great Dr. Hammond sees his patients there,\nand it is all one buzz of the wits.  It was because of that that my\nLord Sunderland made interest, and got me here.  How did you come?\"\n\nAnne briefly explained, and Jane broke out--\n\n\"Then you will be my friend, and we will tell each other all our\nsecrets.  You are a Protestant too.  You will be mine, and not\nBridgeman's or Dunord's--I hate them.\"\n\nIn point of fact Anne did not feel much attracted by the proffer of\nfriendship, and she certainly did not intend to tell Jane Humphreys\nall her secrets, nor to vow enmity to the other colleagues, but she\ngravely answered that she trusted they would be friends and help to\nmaintain one another's faith.  She was relieved that Miss Bridgeman\nhere came in to take her first turn of rest till she was to be\ncalled up at one o'clock.\n\nAs Jane Humphreys had predicted, Mrs. Royer and Anne alone were left\nin charge of the nursling while every one went to morning Mass.\nThen followed breakfast and the levee of his Royal Highness, lasting\nas on the previous day till dinner-time; and the afternoon was as\nbefore, except that the day was fine enough for the child to be\ncarried out with all his attendants behind him to take the air in\nthe private gardens.\n\nIf this was to be the whole course of life at the palace, Anne began\nto feel that she had made a great mistake.  She was by no means\nattracted by her companions, though Miss Bridgeman decided that she\nmust know persons of condition, and made overtures of friendship, to\nbe sealed by calling one another Oriana and Portia.  She did not\napprove of such common names as Princess Anne and Lady Churchill\nused--Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman!  They must have something better\nthan what was used by the Cockpit folks, and she was sure that her\ndear Portia would soon be of the only true faith.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII: MACHINATIONS\n\n\n\"Baby born to woe.\"\n\nF. T. PALGRAVE.\n\nWhen Anne Woodford began to wake from the constant thought of the\ngrief and horror she had left at Portchester, and to feel more alive\nto her surroundings and less as if they were a kind of dream, in\nwhich she only mechanically took her part, one thing impressed\nitself on her gradually, and that was disappointment.  If the\nprevious shock had not blunted all her hopes and aspirations,\nperhaps she would have felt it sooner and more keenly; but she could\nnot help realising that she had put herself into an inferior\nposition whence there did not seem to be the promotion she had once\nanticipated.  Her companion rockers were of an inferior grade to\nherself.  Jane Humphreys was a harmless but silly girl, not much\nwiser, though less spoilt, than poor little Madam, and full of\nCockney vulgarities.  Education was unfashionable just then, and\nthough Hester Bridgeman was bettor born and bred, being the daughter\nof an attorney in the city, she was not much better instructed, and\nhad no pursuits except that of her own advantage.  Pauline Dunord\nwas by far the best of the three, but she seemed to live a life\napart, taking very little interest in her companions or anything\naround her except her devotions and the bringing them over to her\nChurch.  The nursery was quite a separate establishment; there was\nno mingling with the guests of royalty, who were only seen in\nexcited peeps from the window, or when solemnly introduced to the\npresence chamber to pay their respects to the Prince.  As to books,\nthe only secular one that Anne saw while at Whitehall was an odd\nvolume of Parthenissa.  The late King's summary of the Roman\ncontroversy was to be had in plenty, and nothing was more evident\nthan that the only road to favour or promotion was in being thereby\nconvinced.\n\n\"Don't throw it down as if it were a hot chestnut,\" said her Oriana.\n\"That's what they all do at first, but they come to it at last.\"\n\nAnne made no answer, but a pang smote her as she thought of her\nuncle's warnings.  Yet surely she might hope for other modes of\nprospering, she who was certainly by far the best looking and best\neducated of all the four, not that this served her much in her\npresent company, and those of higher rank did not notice her at all.\nPrincess Anne would surely recollect her, and then she might be safe\nin a Protestant household, where her uncle would be happy about her.\n\nThe Princess had been at Bath when first she arrived, but at the end\nof a week preparations were made at the Cockpit, a sort of appendage\nto Whitehall, where the Prince and Princess of Denmark lived, and in\ndue time there was a visit to the nursery.  Standing in full\nceremony behind Lady Powys, Anne saw the plump face and form she\nrecollected in the florid bloom of a young matron, not without a\ncertain royal dignity in the pose of the head, though in grace and\nbeauty far surpassed by the tall, elegant figure and face of Lady\nChurchill, whose bright blue eyes seemed to be taking in everything\neverywhere.  Anne's heart began to beat high at the sight of a once\nfamiliar face, and with hopes of a really kind word from one who as\nan elder girl had made much of the pretty little plaything.  The\nPrincess Anne's countenance was, however, less good-natured than\nusual; her mouth was made up to a sullen expression, and when her\nbrother was shown to her she did not hold out her arms to him nor\nvouchsafe a kiss.\n\nThe Queen looked at her wistfully, asking--\n\n\"Is he not like the King?\"\n\n\"Humph!\" returned Princess Anne, \"I see no likeness to any living\nsoul of our family.\"\n\n\"Nay, but see his little nails,\" said the Queen, spreading the tiny\nhand over her finger.  \"See how like your father's they are framed!\nMy treasure, you can clasp me!\"\n\n\"My brother, Edgar!  He was the beauty,\" said the Princess.  \"_He_\nwas exactly like my father; but there's no judging of anything so\npuny as this!\"\n\n\"He was very suffering last week, the poor little angel,\" said the\nmother sadly; \"but they say this water-gruel is very nourishing, and\nnot so heavy as milk.\"\n\n\"It does not look as if it agreed with him,\" said the Princess.\n\"Poor little mammet!  Did I hear that you had the little Woodford\nhere?  Is that you, girl?\"\n\nAnne courtesied herself forward.\n\n\"Ay, I remember you.  I never forget a face, and you have grown up\nfair enough.  Where's your mother?\"\n\n\"I lost her last February, so please your Royal Highness.\"\n\n\"Oh!  She was a good woman.  Why did she not send you to me?  Well,\nwell!  Come to my toilette to-morrow.\"\n\nSo Princess Anne swept away in her rich blue brocade.  Her behest\nwas obeyed, of course, though it was evidently displeasing to the\nnursery authorities, and Lady Strickland gave a warning to be\ndiscreet and to avoid gossip with the Cockpit folks.\n\nAnne could not but be excited.  Perhaps the Princess would ask for\nher, and take her into the number of her own attendants, where she\nwould no longer be in a Romish household, and would certainly be in\na higher position.  Why, she remembered that very Lady Churchill as\nSarah Jennings in no better a position than she could justly aspire\nto.  Her coming to Court would thus be truly justified.\n\nThe Princess sat in a silken wrapper, called a night-gown, in her\nchamber, which had a richly-curtained bed in the alcove, and a\ntoilet-table with a splendid Venetian mirror, and a good deal of\nsilver sparkling on it, while a strange mixture of perfumes came\nfrom the various boxes and bottles.  Ladies and tirewomen stood in\nattendance; a little black boy in a turban and gold-embroidered\ndress held a salver with her chocolate cup; a cockatoo soliloquised\nin low whispers in the window; a monkey was chained to a pole at a\nsafe distance from him; a French friseur was manipulating the\nPrincess's profuse brown hair with his tongs; and a needy-looking,\npale thin man, in a semi-clerical suit, was half-reading, half-\ndeclaiming a poem, in which 'Fair Anna' seemed mixed up with Juno,\nCeres, and other classical folk, but to which she was evidently\npaying very little attention.\n\n\"Ah! there you are, little one.  Thank you, Master--what's name;\nthat is enough.  'Tis a fine poem, but I never can remember which is\nwhich of all your gods and goddesses.  Oh yes, I accept the\ndedication.  Give him a couple of guineas, Ellis; it will serve him\nfor board and lodging for a fortnight, poor wretch!\" Then, after\ngiving a smooth, well-shaped white hand to be kissed, and inviting\nher visitor to a cushion at her feet, she began a long series of\nquestions, kindly ones at first, though of the minute gossiping\nkind, and extending to the Archfields, for poor young Madam had been\nof the rank about which royalty knew everything in those days.  The\ninquiries were extremely minute, and the comments what from any one\nelse, Anne would have thought vulgar, especially in the presence of\nthe hairdresser, but her namesake observed her blush and hesitation,\nand said, \"Oh, never mind a creature like that.  He is French,\nbesides, and does not understand a word we say.\"\n\nAnne, looking over the Princess's head, feared that she saw a\ntwinkle in the man's eye, and could only look down and try to ignore\nhim through the catechism that ensued, on when she came to\nWhitehall, on the Prince of Wales's health, the management of him,\nand all the circumstances connected with his birth.\n\nVery glad was Anne that she knew nothing, and had not picked up any\ninformation as to what had happened before she came to the palace.\nAs to the present, Lady Strickland's warning and her own sense of\nhonour kept her reticent to a degree that evidently vexed the\nPrincess, for she dropped her caressing manner, and sent her away\nwith a not very kind, \"You may go now; you will be turning Papist\nnext, and what would your poor mother say?\"\n\nAnd as Anne departed in backward fashion she heard Lady Churchill\nsay, \"You will make nothing of her.  She is sharper than she\naffects, and a proud minx!  I see it in her carriage.\"\n\nThe visit had only dashed a few hopes and done her harm with her\nimmediate surroundings, who always disliked and distrusted\nintercourse with the other establishment.\n\nHowever, in another day the nursery was moved to Richmond.  This was\na welcome move to Anne, who had spent her early childhood near\nenough to be sometimes taken thither, and to know the Park well, so\nthat there was a home feeling in the sight of the outline of the\ntrees and the scenery of the neighbourhood.  The Queen intended\ngoing to Bath, so that the establishment was only that of the\nPrince, and the life was much quieter on the whole; but there was no\ngratifying any yearning for country walks, for it was not safe nor\nperhaps decorous for one young woman to be out alone in a park open\nto the public and haunted by soldiers from Hounslow--nor could\neither of her fellow-rockers understand her preference for a\nsecluded path through the woods.  Miss Dunord never went out at all,\nexcept on duty, when the Prince was carried along the walks in the\ngarden, and the other two infinitely preferred the open spaces,\nwhere tables were set under the horse-chestnut trees for parties who\nboated down from London to eat curds and whey, sometimes bringing a\nfiddler so as to dance under the trees.\n\nJane Humphreys especially was always looking out for acquaintances,\nand once, with a cry of joy, a stout, homely-looking young woman\nstarted up, exclaiming, \"Sister Jane!\" and flew into her arms.  Upon\nwhich Miss Woodford was introduced to 'My sister Coles' and her\nhusband, and had to sit down under a tree and share the festivities,\nwhile there was an overflow of inquiries and intelligence, domestic\nand otherwise.  Certainly these were persons whom she would not have\ntreated as equals at home.\n\nBesides, it was all very well to hear of the good old grandmother's\nrheumatics, and of little Tommy's teething, and even to see Jane\nhang her head and be teased about remembering Mr. Hopkins; nor was\nit wonderful to hear lamentations over the extreme dulness of the\nlife where one never saw a creature to speak to who was not as old\nas the hills; but when it came to inquiries as minute as the\nPrincess's about the Prince of Wales, Anne thought the full details\nlavishly poured out scarcely consistent with loyalty to their oaths\nof service and Lady Strickland's warning, and she told Jane so.\n\nShe was answered, \"Oh la! what harm can it do?  You are such a proud\npeat!  Grand-dame and sister like to know all about His Royal\nHighness.\"\n\nThis was true; but Anne was far more uncomfortable two or three days\nlater.  The Prince was ailing, so much so that Lady Powys had sent\nan express for the Queen, who had not yet started for Bath, when\nAnne and Jane, being relieved from duty by the other pair, went out\nfor a stroll.\n\n\"Oh la!\" presently exclaimed Jane, \"if that is not Colonel Sands,\nthe Princess's equerry.  I do declare he is coming to speak to us,\nthough he is one of the Cockpit folks.\"\n\nHe was a very fine gentleman indeed, all scarlet and gold, and no\nwonder Jane was flattered and startled, so that she jerked her fan\nviolently up and down as he accosted her with a wave of his cocked\nhat, saying that he was rejoiced to meet these two fair ladies,\nhaving been sent by the Princess of Denmark to inquire for the\nhealth of the Prince.  She was very anxious to know more than could\nbe learnt by formal inquiry, he said, and he was happy to have met\nthe young gentlewomen who could gratify him.\n\nThe term 'gentlewoman' highly flattered Miss Humphreys, who blushed\nand bridled, and exclaimed, \"Oh la, sir!\" but Anne thought it\nneedful to say gravely--\n\n\"We are in trust, sir, and have no right to speak of what passes\nwithin the royal household.\"\n\n\"Madam, I admire your discretion, but to the--(a-hem)--sister of\nthe--(a-hem)--Prince of Wales it is surely uncalled for.\"\n\n\"Miss Woodford is so precise,\" said Jane Humphreys, with a giggle;\n\"I do not know what harm can come of saying that His Royal Highness\npeaks and pines just as he did before.\"\n\n\"He is none the better for country air then?\"\n\n\"Oh no? except that he cries louder.  Such a time as we had last\nnight!  Mrs. Royer never slept a wink all the time I was there, but\nwalked about with him all night.  You had the best of it, Miss\nWoodford.\"\n\n\"He slept while I was there,\" said Anne briefly, not thinking it\nneedful to state that the tired nurse had handed the child over to\nher, and that he had fallen asleep in her arms.  She tried to put an\nend to the conversation by going indoors, but she was vexed to find\nthat, instead of following her closely, Miss Humphreys was still\nlingering with the equerry.\n\nAnne found the household in commotion.  Pauline met her, weeping\nbitterly, and saying the Prince had had a fit, and all hope was\nover, and in the rockers' room, she found Hester Bridgeman\nexclaiming that her occupation was gone.  Water-gruel, she had no\ndoubt, had been the death of the Prince.  The Queen was come, and\nwellnigh distracted.  She had sent out in quest of a wet-nurse, but\nit was too late; he was going the way of all Her Majesty's children.\n\nGoing down again together the two girls presently had to stand aside\nas the poor Queen, seeing and hearing nothing, came towards her own\nroom with her handkerchief over her face.  They pressed each other's\nhands awe-stricken, and went on to the nursery.  There Mrs. Labadie\nwas kneeling over the cradle, her hood hanging over her face, crying\nbitterly over the poor little child, who had a blue look about his\nface, and seemed at the last gasp, his features contorted by a\nconvulsion.\n\nAt that moment Jane Humphreys was seen gently opening the door and\nletting in Colonel Sands, who moved as quietly as possible, to give\na furtive look at the dying child.  His researches were cut short,\nhowever.  Lady Strickland, usually the gentlest of women, darted out\nand demanded what he was doing in her nursery.\n\nHe attempted to stammer some excuse about Princess Anne, but Lady\nStrickland only answered by standing pointing to the door and he was\nforced to retreat in a very undignified fashion.\n\n\"Who brought him?\" she demanded, when the door was shut.  \"Those\nCockpit folk are not to come prying here, hap what may!\"\n\nMiss Humphreys had sped away for fear of questions being asked, and\nattention was diverted by Mrs. Royer arriving with a stout, healthy-\nlooking young woman in a thick home-spun cloth petticoat, no\nstockings, and old shoes, but with a clean white cap on her head--a\ntilemaker's wife who had been captured in the village.\n\nNo sooner was the suffering, half-starved child delivered over to\nher than he became serene and contented.  The water-gruel regime was\nover, and he began to thrive from that time.  Even when later in the\nafternoon the King himself brought in Colonel Sands, whom in the joy\nof his heart he had asked to dine with him, the babe lay tranquilly\non the cradle, waving his little hands and looking happy.\n\nThe intrusion seemed to have been forgotten, but that afternoon\nAnne, who had been sent on a message to one of the Queen's ladies,\nmore than suspected that she saw Jane in a deep recess of a window\nin confabulation with the Colonel.  And when they were alone at bed-\ntime the girl said--\n\n\"Is it not droll?  The Colonel cannot believe that 'tis the same\nchild.  He has been joking and teasing me to declare that we have a\ndead Prince hidden somewhere, and that the King showed him the\nbrick-bat woman's child.\"\n\n\"How can you prattle in that mischievous way--after what Lady\nStrickland said, too?  You do not know what harm you may do!\"\n\n\"Oh lack, it was all a jest!\"\n\n\"I am not so sure that it was.\"\n\n\"But you will not tell of me, dear friend, you will not.  I never\nsaw Lady Strickland like that; I did not know she could be in such a\nrage.\"\n\n\"No wonder, when a fellow like that came peeping and prying like a\nraven to see whether the poor babe was still breathing,\" cried Anne\nindignantly.  \"How could you bring him in?\"\n\n\"Fellow indeed!  Why he is a colonel in the Life-guards, and the\nPrincess's equerry; and who has a right to know about the child if\nnot his own sister--or half-sister?\"\n\n\"She is not a very loving sister,\" replied Anne.  \"You know well,\nJane, how many would not be sorry to make out that it is as that man\nwould fain have you say.\"\n\n\"Well, I told him it was no such thing, and laughed the very notion\nto scorn.\"\n\n\"It were better not to talk with him at all.\"\n\n\"But you will not speak of it.  If I were turned away my father\nwould beat me.  Nay, I know not what he might not do to me.  You\nwill not tell, dear darling Portia, and I will love you for ever.\"\n\n\"I have no call to tell,\" said Anne coldly, but she was disgusted\nand weary, and moreover not at all sure that she, as the other\nProtestant rocker, and having been in the Park on that same day, was\nnot credited with some of the mischievous gossip that had passed.\n\n\"There, Portia, that is what you get by walking with that stupid\nHumphreys,\" said Oriana.  \"She knows no better than to blab to any\none who will be at the trouble to seem sweet upon her, though she\nmay get nothing by it.\"\n\n\"Would it be better if she did?\" asked Anne.\n\n\"Oh well, we must all look out for ourselves, and I am sure there is\nno knowing what may come next.  But I hear we are to move to Windsor\nas soon as the child is strong enough, so as to be farther out of\nreach of the Cockpit tongues.\"\n\nThis proved to be true, but the Prince and his suite were not lodged\nin the Castle itself, a house in the cloisters being thought more\nsuitable, and here the Queen visited her child daily, for since that\nlast alarm she could not bear to be long absent from him.  Such\nemissaries as Colonel Sands did not again appear, but after that\nprecedent Lady Strickland had become much more unwilling to allow\nany of those under her authority to go out into any public place,\nand the rockers seldom got any exercise except as swelling the\nPrince's train when he was carried out to take the air.\n\nAnne looked with longing eyes at the Park, but a ramble there was a\nforbidden pleasure.  She could not always even obtain leave to\nattend St. George's Chapel; the wish was treated as a sort of\nweakness, or folly, and she was always the person selected to stay\nat home when any religious ceremony called away the rest of the\nestablishment.\n\nAs the King's god-daughter it was impressed on her that she ought to\nconform to his Church, and one of the many priests about the Court\nwas appointed to instruct her.  In the dearth of all intellectual\nintercourse, and the absolute deficiency of books, she could not but\nbecome deeply interested in the arguments.  Her uncle had forearmed\nher with instruction, and she wrote to him on any difficulty which\narose, and this became the chief occupation of her mind, distracting\nher thoughts from the one great cloud that hung over her memory.\nIndeed one of the foremost bulwarks her feelings erected to fortify\nher conscience against the temptations around, was the knowledge\nthat she would have, though of course under seal of confession, to\nrelate that terrible story to a priest.\n\nHester Bridgeman could not imagine how her Portia could endure to\nhear the old English Prayer-book droned out.  For her part, she\nliked one thing or the other, either a rousing Nonconformist sermon\nin a meeting-house or a splendid Mass.\n\n\"But, after all,\" as Anne overheard her observing to Miss Dunord,\n\"it may be all the better for us.  What with her breeding and her\nforeign tongues, she would be sure to be set over our heads as\nunder-governess, or the like, if she were not such an obstinate\nheretic, and keeping that stupid Humphreys so.  We could have\nconverted her long ago, if it were not for that Woodford and for her\nCity grand-dame!  Portia is the King's godchild, too, so it is just\nas well that she does not see what is for her own advantage.\"\n\n\"I do not care for promotion.  I only want to save my own soul and\nhers,\" said Pauline.  \"I wish she would come over to the true\nChurch, for I could love her.\"\n\nAnd certainly Pauline Dunord's gentle devotional example, and her\nperfect rest and peace in the practice of her religion, were strong\ninfluences with Anne.  She was waiting till circumstances should\nmake it possible to her to enter a convent, and in the meantime she\nlived a strictly devout life, abstracted as far as duty and kindness\npermitted from the little cabals and gossipry around.\n\nAnne could not help feeling that the girl was as nearly a saint as\nany one she had ever seen--far beyond herself in goodness.\nMoreover, the Queen inspired strong affection.  Mary Beatrice was\nnot only a very beautiful person, full of the grace and dignity of\nthe House of Este, but she was deeply religious, good and gentle,\nkindly and gracious to all who approached her, and devoted to her\nhusband and child.  A word or look from her was always a delight,\nand Anne, by her knowledge of Italian, was able sometimes to obtain\na smiling word or remark.\n\nThe little Prince, after those first miserable weeks of his life,\nhad begun to thrive, and by and by manifested a decided preference\nnot only for his beautiful mother, but for the fresh face, bright\nsmile, and shining brown eyes of Miss Woodford.  She could almost\nalways, with nods and becks, avert a passion of roaring, which\nsometimes went beyond the powers of even his foster-mother, the\ntiler's wife.  The Queen watched with delight when he laughed and\nflourished his arms in response, and the King was summoned to see\nthe performance, which he requited by taking out a fat gold watch\nset with pearls, and presenting it to Anne, as his grave gloomy face\nlighted up with a smile.\n\n\"Are you yet one of us?\" he asked, as she received his gift on her\nknee.\n\n\"No, sir, I cannot--\"\n\n\"That must be amended.  You have read his late Majesty's paper?\"\n\n\"I have, sir.\"\n\n\"And seen Father Giverlai?\"\n\n\"Yes, please your Majesty.\"\n\n\"And still you are not convinced.  That must not be.  I would gladly\nconsider and promote you, but I can only have true Catholics around\nmy son.  I shall desire Father Crump to see you.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII: HALLOWMAS EVE\n\n\n   \"This more strange\nThan such a murder is.\"\n\nMacbeth.\n\n\"Bambino mio, bambino mio,\" wailed Mary Beatrice, as she pressed her\nchild to her bosom, and murmured to him in her native tongue.  \"And\ndid they say he was not his mother's son, his poor mother, whose\ndearest treasure he is!  Oime, crudeli, crudelissimi!  Even his\nsisters hate him and will not own him, the little jewel of his\nmother's heart!\"\n\nAnne, waiting in the window, was grieved to have overheard the words\nwhich the poor Queen had poured out, evidently thinking no one near\ncould understand her.\n\nThat evening there were orders to prepare for a journey to Whitehall\nthe next morning.\n\n\"And,\" said Hester Bridgeman, \"I can tell you why, in all\nconfidence, but I have it from a sure hand.  The Prince of Orange is\ncollecting a fleet and army to come and inquire into certain\nmatters, especially into the birth of a certain young gentleman we\nwot of.\"\n\n\"How can he have the insolence?\" cried Anne.\n\n\"'Tis no great wonder, considering the vipers in the Cockpit,\" said\nHester.\n\n\"But what will they do to us?\" asked Jane Humphreys in terror.\n\n\"Nothing to you, my dear, nor to Portia; you are good Protestants,\"\nsaid Hester with a sneer.\n\n\"Mrs. Royer told me it was for the christening,\" said Jane, \"and\nthen we shall all have new suits.  I am glad we are going back to\ntown.  It cannot be so mortal dull as 'tis here, with all the leaves\nfalling--enough to give one the vapours.\"\n\nThere were auguries on either hand in the palace that if the Prince\ncame it would be only another Monmouth affair, and this made Anne\nshrink, for she had partaken of the grief and indignation of\nWinchester at the cruel execution of Lady Lisle, and had heard\nrumours enough of the progress of the Assize to make her start in\nhorror when called to watch the red-faced Lord Chancellor Jeffreys\ngetting out of his coach.\n\nIt really seemed for the time as if the royal household were\nconfident in this impression, though as soon as they were again\nsettled in Whitehall there was a very close examination of the\nwitnesses of the Prince's birth, and a report printed of their\nevidence, enough it might be thought to satisfy any one; but Jane\nHumphreys, who went to spend a day at the Golden Lamb, her father's\nwarehouse, reported that people only laughed at it.\n\nAnne's spirit burned at the injustice, and warmed the more towards\nthe Queen and little Prince, whose pretty responses to her caresses\ncould not but win her love.  Moreover, Pauline's example continued\nto attract her, and Father Crump was a better controversialist, or\nperhaps a better judge of character, than Pere Giverlai, and took\nher on sides where she was more vulnerable, so as to make her begin\nto feel unsettled, and wonder whether she were not making a vain\nsacrifice, and holding out after all against the better way.\n\nThe sense of the possible gain, and disgust at the shallow\nconversions of some around her, helped to keep her back.  She could\nnot help observing that while Pauline persuaded, Hester had ceased\nto persuade, and seemed rather willing to hinder her.  Just before\nthe State christening or rather admission into the Church, Lady\nPowys, in the name of the King and Queen, offered her the post of\nsub-governess, which really would mean for the present chief\nplayfellow to the little Prince, and would place her on an entirely\ndifferent platform of society from the comparatively menial one she\noccupied, but of course on the condition of conformity to Rome.\n\nTo be above the familiarity of Jane and Hester was no small\ntemptation, but still she hesitated.\n\n\"Madam, I thank you, I thank their Majesties,\" she said, \"but I\ncannot do it thus.\"\n\n\"I see what you mean, Miss Woodford,\" said Lady Powys, who was a\ntruly noble woman.  \"Your motives must be above suspicion even to\nyourself.  I respect you, and would not have made you the offer\nexcept by express command, but I still trust that when your\ndisinterestedness is above suspicion you will still join us.\"\n\nIt was sore mortification when Hester Bridgeman was preferred to the\noffice, for which she was far less fitted, being no favourite with\nthe babe, and being essentially vulgar in tastes and habits, and\nknowing no language save her own, and that ungrammatically and with\nan accent which no one could wish the Prince to acquire.  Yet there\nshe was, promoted to the higher grade of the establishment and at\nthe christening, standing in the front ranks, while Miss Woodford\nwas left far in the rear among the servants.\n\nA report of the Dutch fleet having been destroyed by a storm had\nrestored the spirits of the Court; and in the nursery very little\nwas known of the feelings of the kingdom at large.  Dr. Woodford did\nnot venture on writing freely to his niece, lest he should\ncompromise her, and she only vaguely detected that he was uneasy.\n\nSo came All Saints' Day Eve, when there was to be a special service\nlate in the evening at the Romanised Chapel Royal at St. James's,\nwith a sermon by a distinguished Dominican, to which all the elder\nand graver members of the household were eager to go.  And there was\nanother very different attraction at the Cockpit, where good-natured\nPrincess Anne had given permission for a supper, to be followed by\nburning of nuts and all the divinations proper to Hallowmas Eve, to\nwhich were invited all the subordinates of the Whitehall\nestablishment who could be spared.\n\nPauline Dunord was as eager for the sermon as Jane Humphreys was for\nthe supper, and Hester Bridgeman was in an odd mood of uncertainty,\nevidently longing after the sports, but not daring to show that she\ndid so, and trying to show great desire to hear the holy man preach,\ntogether with a polite profession of self-denial in giving up her\nplace in case there should not be room for all.  However, as it\nappeared that even the two chief nurses meant to combine sermon and\nthe latter end of the supper, she was at ease.  The foster-mother\nand one of the Protestant rockers were supposed to be enough to\nwatch over the Prince, but the former, who had been much petted and\nspoilt since she had been at the palace, and was a young creature,\nuntrained and wilful, cried so much at the idea of missing the\nmerrymaking, that as it was reckoned important to keep her in good\nhumour and good spirits, Mrs. Labadie decided on winking at her\nabsence from the nursery, since Miss Woodford was quite competent to\nthe charge for the short time that both the church-goers and the\nsupper-goers would all be absent together.\n\n\"But are you not afraid to stay alone?\" asked Mrs. Labadie, with a\nlittle compunction.\n\n\"What is there to be afraid of?\" asked Anne.  \"There are the\nsentinels at the foot of the stairs, and what should reach us here?\"\n\n\"I would not be alone here,\" said more than one voice.  \"Nor I!\"--\n\"Nor I!\"\n\n\"And on this night of all others!\" said Hester.\n\n\"But why?\"\n\n\"They say he walks!\" whispered Jane in a voice of awe.\n\n\"Who walks?\"\n\n\"The old King?\" asked Hester.\n\n\"No; the last King,\" said Jane.\n\n\"No, no:  it was Oliver Cromwell--old Noll himself!\" put in another\nvoice.\n\n\"I tell you, no such thing,\" said Jane.  \"It was the last King.  I\nheard it from them that saw it, at least the lady's cousin.  'Twas\nin the long gallery, in a suit of plain black velvet, with white\nmuslin ruffles and cravat quilled very neat.  Why do you laugh, Miss\nWoodford?\"\n\nThis was too much for Anne, who managed to say, \"Who was his\nlaundress?\"\n\n\"I tell you I heard it from them that told no lies.  The gentleman\ncould swear to it.  He took a candle to him, and there was nought\nbut the wainscot behind.  Think of that.\"\n\n\"And that we should be living here!\" said another voice.  \"I never\nventure about the big draughty place alone at night,\" said the\nlaundress.\n\n\"No! nor I would not for twenty princes,\" added the sempstress.\n\n\"Nay, I have heard steps,\" said Mrs. Royer, \"and wailing--wailing.\nNo wonder after all that has happened here.  Oh yes, steps as of the\nguard being turned out!\"\n\n\"That is like our Squire's manor-house, where--\"\n\nEvery one contributed a story, and only the announcement of Her\nMajesty's approach put an end to these reminiscences.\n\nAnne held to her purpose.  She had looked forward to this time of\nsolitude, for she wanted leisure to consider the situation, and\nfairly to revolve the pleas by which Father Crump had shaken her,\nmore in feeling than in her reason, and made her question whether\nher allegiance to her mother and uncle, and her disgust at\ninterested conversions, were not making her turn aside from what\nmight be the only true Church, the Mother of Saints, and therewith\nperversely give up earthly advancement.  But, oh! how to write to\nher uncle.\n\nThe very intention made her imagination and memory too powerful for\nthe consideration of controversy.  She went back first to a merry\nHallowmas Eve long ago, among the Archfield party and other\nWinchester friends, and how the nuts had bounced in a manner which\nmade the young ones shout in ecstasy of glee, but seemed to\ndisplease some of the elders, and had afterwards been the occasion\nof her being told that it was all folly, and therewith informed of\nCharles Archfield's contract to poor little Alice Fitzhubert.  Then\ncame other scenes.  All the various ghostly tales she had heard, and\nas she sat with her knitting in the shaded room with no sound but\nthe soft breathing of her little charge in his cradle, no light save\nfrom a shaded lamp and the fire on the hearth, strange thoughts and\ndreams floated over her; she started at mysterious cracks in the\nwainscotting from time to time, and beheld in the dark corners of\nthe great room forms that seemed grotesque and phantom-like till she\nwent up to them and resolved them into familiar bits of furniture or\ngowns and caps of Mrs. Labadie.  She repeated half aloud numerous\nPsalms and bits of poetry, but in the midst would come some\ndisturbing noise, a step or a shout from the street, though the\nchamber being at the back of the house looking into the Park few of\nsuch sounds penetrated thither.  She began to think of King\nCharles's last walk from St. James's to Whitehall, and of the fatal\nwindow of the Banqueting-hall which had been pointed out to her, and\nthen her thoughts flew back again to that vault in the castle yard,\nand she saw only too vividly in memory that open vault, veiled\npartly by nettles and mulleins, which was the unblest, unknown grave\nof the old playfellow who had so loved her mother and herself.\nPerhaps she had hitherto more dwelt on and pitied the living than\nthe dead, as one whom fears and prayers still concerned, but now as\nshe thought of the lively sprite-like being who had professed such\naffection for her, and for whom her mother had felt so much, and\nrecollected him so soon and suddenly cut down and consigned to that\ndreary darkness, the strange yearning spirit dismissed to the\nunknown world, instead of her old terror and repulsion, a great\ntenderness and compunction came over her, and she longed to join\nthose who would in two days more be keeping All Souls' Day in\nintercessions for their departed, so as to atone for her past\ndislike; and there was that sort of feeling about her which can only\nbe described by the word 'eerie.'  To relieve it Anne walked to the\nwindow and undid a small wicket in the shutter, so as to look out\ninto the quiet moonlight park where the trees cast their long\nshadows on the silvery grass, and there was a great calm that seemed\nto reach her heart and spirits.\n\nSuddenly, across the sward towards the palace there came the slight,\nimpish, almost one-sided figure, with the peculiar walk, swift\nthough suggestive of a limp, the elfish set of the plume, the\nforeign adjustment of short cloak.  Anne gazed with wide-stretched\neyes and beating heart, trying to rally her senses and believe it\nfancy, when the figure crossed into a broad streak of light cast by\nthe lamp over the door, the face was upturned for a moment.  It was\ndeadly pale, and the features were beyond all doubt Peregrine\nOakshott's.\n\nShe sprang back from the window, dropped on her knees, with her face\nhidden in her hands, and was hardly conscious till sounds of the\nothers returning made her rally her powers so as to prevent all\ninquiries or surmises.  It was Mrs. Labadie and Pauline Dunord, the\nformer to see that all was well with the Prince before repairing to\nthe Cockpit.\n\n\"How pale you are!\" she exclaimed.  \"Have you seen anything?\"\n\n\"I--It may be nothing.  He is dead!\" stammered Anne.\n\n\"Oh then, 'tis naught but a maid's fancies,\" said the nurse good-\nhumouredly.  \"Miss Dunord is in no mind for the sports, so she will\nstay with His Highness, and you had best come with me and drive the\ncobwebs out of your brain.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I thank you, ma'am, but I could not,\" said Anne.\n\n\"You had best, I tell you, shake these megrims out of your brain,\"\nsaid Mrs. Labadie; but she was in too great haste not to lose her\nshare of the amusements to argue the point, and the two young women\nwere left together.  Pauline was in a somewhat exalted state, full\nof the sermon on the connection of the Church with the invisible\nworld.\n\n\"You have seen one of your poor dead,\" she said.  \"Oh, may it not be\nthat he came to implore you to have pity, and join the Church, where\nyou could intercede and offer the Holy Sacrifice for him?\"\n\nAnne started.  This seemed to chime in with proclivities of poor\nPeregrine's own, and when she thought of his corpse in that\nunhallowed vault, it seemed to her as if he must be calling on her\nto take measures for his rest, both of body and of spirit.  Yet\nsomething seemed to seal her tongue.  She could not open her lips on\nwhat she had seen, and while Pauline talked on, repeating the sermon\nwhich had so deeply touched her feelings, Anne heard without\nlistening to aught besides her own perturbations, mentally debating\nwhether she could endure to reveal the story to Father Crump, if she\nconfessed to him, or whether she should write to her uncle; and she\neven began to compose the letter in her own mind, with the terrible\nrevelation that must commence it, but every moment the idea became\nmore formidable.  How transfer her own heavy burthen to her uncle,\nwho might feel bound to take steps that would cut young Archfield\noff from parents, sister, child, and home.  Or supposing Dr.\nWoodford disbelieved the apparition of to-night, the whole would be\ndiscredited in his eyes, and he might suppose the summer morning's\nduel as much a delusion of her fancy as the autumn evening's\nphantom, and what evidence had she to adduce save Charles's despair,\nPeregrine's absence, and what there might be in the vault?\n\nYet if all that Father Crump and Pauline said was true, that dear\nuncle might be under a fatal delusion, and it might be the best hope\nfor herself--nay, even for that poor restless spirit--to separate\nherself from them.  Here was Pauline talking of the blessedness of\nbeing able to offer prayers on 'All Souls' Day' for all those of\nwhose ultimate salvation there were fears, or who might be in a\nstate of suffering.  It even startled her as she thought of her\nmother, whom she always gave thanks for as one departed in faith and\nfear.  Would Father Crump speak of her as one in a state of\ninevitable ignorance to be expiated in the invisible world?  It\nshocked the daughter as almost profane.  Yet if it were true, and\nprayers and masses could aid her?\n\nAltogether Anne was in a mood on which the voices broke strangely\nreturning from the supper full of news.  Jane Humphreys was voluble\non her various experiments.  The nuts had burnt quietly together,\nand that was propitious to the Life-guardsman, Mr. Shaw, who had\nshared hers; but on the other hand, the apple-paring thrown over her\nshoulder had formed a P, and he whom she had seen in the vista of\nlooking-glasses had a gold chain but neither a uniform nor a P in\nhis name, and Mrs. Buss declared that it meant that she should be\nthree times married, and the last would be an Alderman, if not Lord\nMayor; and Mrs. Royer was joking Miss Bridgeman on the I of her\napple-paring, which could stand for nothing but a certain Incle\namong 'the Cockpit folk,' who was her special detestation.\n\nPrincess Anne and her husband had come down to see the nuts flying,\nand had laughed enough to split their sides, till Lord Cornbury came\nin and whispered something to Prince George, who said, \"Est il\npossible?\" and spoke to the Princess, and they all went away\ntogether.  Yes, and the Bishop of Bath and Wells, who had been\nlaughing before looked very grave, and went with them.\n\n\"Oh!\" exclaimed Anne, \"is the Bishop of Bath and Wells here?\"\n\n\"Yes, in spite of his disgrace.  I hear he is to preach in your\nProtestant chapel to-morrow.\"\n\nAnne had brought a letter of introduction from her uncle in case she\nshould have any opportunity of seeing his old fellow canon, who had\noften been kind to her when she was a little girl at Winchester.\nShe was in many minds of hope and fear as to the meeting him or\nspeaking to him, under the consciousness of the possible defection\nfrom his Church, and the doubt and dread whether to confide her\nsecret and consult him.  However, the extreme improbability of her\nbeing able to do so made the yearning for the sight of a Winchester\nface predominate, and her vigil of the night past made the nursery\nauthorities concede that she had fairly earned her turn to go to\nchurch in the forenoon, since she was obstinate enough to want to\nrun after an old heretic so-called Bishop who had so pragmatically\nwithstood His Majesty.  Jane Humphreys went too, for though she was\nnot fond of week-day services, any escape from the nursery was\nwelcome, and there was a chance of seeing Lady Churchill's new\nmantle.\n\nIn this she was disappointed, for none of the grandees were present,\nindeed it was whispered as the two girls made their way to the\nchapel, that there was great excitement over the Declaration of the\nPrince of Orange, which had arrived last night, that he had been\ninvited by the lords spiritual and temporal to take up the cause of\nthe liberties of England, and inquire into the evidence of the birth\nof the Prince of Wales.\n\nPeople shrugged their shoulders, but looked volumes, though it was\nno time nor place for saying more; and when in the chapel, that\ncountenance of Bishop Ken, so beautiful in outward form, so\nexpressive of strength, sweetness, and devotion, brought back such a\nflood of old associations to Anne, that it was enough to change the\nwhole current of her thoughts and make her her own mother's child\nagain, even before he opened his mouth.  She caught his sweet voice\nin the Psalms, and closing her eyes seemed to be in the Cathedral\nonce more among those mighty columns and arches; and when he began\nhis sermon, on the text, 'Let the Saints be joyful with glory, let\nthem rejoice in their beds,' she found the Communion of Saints in\nParadise and on earth knit together in one fellowship as truly and\npreciously brought home to her as ever it had been to Pauline, and\nmoreover when she thought of her mother, 'the lurid mist' was\ndispelled which had so haunted her the night before.\n\nThe longing to speak to him awoke; and as he was quitting the chapel\nin full procession his kindly eye lit upon her with a look of\nrecognition; and before she had moved from her place, one of the\nattendant clergy came back by his desire to conduct her to him.\n\nHe held out his hand as she courtesied low.\n\n\"Mistress Woodford,\" he said, \"my old friend's niece!  He wrote to\nme of you, but I have had no opportunity of seeing you before.\"\n\n\"Oh, my Lord!  I was so much longing to see and speak with you.\"\n\n\"I am lodging at Lambeth,\" said the Bishop, \"and it is too far to\ntake you with me thither, but perhaps my good brother here,\" turning\nto the chaplain, \"can help us to a room where we can be private.\"\n\nThis was done; the chaplain's parlour at the Cockpit was placed at\ntheir disposal, and there a few kind words from Bishop Ken led to\nthe unburthening of her heavy heart.  Of Ken's replies to the\ncontroversial difficulties there is no need to tell.  Indeed,\nambition was far more her temptation than any real difficulties as\nto doctrine.  Her dissatisfaction at being unable to answer the\nquestions raised by Father Crump was exaggerated as the excuse and\ncover to herself of her craving for escape from her present\nsubordinate post; and this the Bishop soon saw, and tenderly but\nfirmly drew her to own both this and to confess the ambitious spirit\nwhich had led her into this scene of temptation.  \"It was true\nindeed,\" he said, \"that trial by our own error is hardest to\nencounter, but you have repented, and by God's grace, my child, I\ntrust you will be enabled to steer your course aright through the\ntrials of loyalty to our God and to our King that are coming upon us\nall.  Ever remember God and the plain duty first, His anointed next.\nIs there more that you would like to tell me? for you still bear a\ntroubled look, and I have full time.\"\n\nThen Anne told him all the strange adventure of Portchester Castle,\nand even of the apparition of the night before.  That gentleness and\nsympathy seemed to draw out all that was in her heart, and to her\nsurprise, he did not treat the story of that figure as necessarily a\ndelusion.  He had known and heard too much of spiritual\nmanifestations to the outward senses to declare that such things\ncould not be.\n\nWhat she had seen might be explained by one of four hypotheses.  It\nwas either a phantom of her brain, and her being fully awake,\nalthough recently dwelling on the recollection, rendered that idea\nless probable, or the young man had not been killed and she had seen\nhim in propria persona.\n\nShe had Charles Archfield's word that the death was certain.  He had\nnever been heard of again, and if alive, the walk before Whitehall\nwas the last place where he would be.  As to mistaking any one else\nfor him, the Bishop remembered enough of the queer changeling elf to\nagree with her that it was not a very probable contingency.  And if\nit were indeed a spirit, why should it visit her?  There had been\none good effect certainly in the revival of home thoughts and\nturning her mind from the allurements of favour, but that did not\nseem to account for the spirit seeking her out.\n\nWas it, Anne faltered, a sign that she ought to confess all, for the\nsake of procuring Christian burial for him.  Yet how should she,\nwhen she had promised silence to young Archfield?  True, it was for\nhis wife's sake, and she was dead; but there were the rest of his\nfamily and himself to be considered.  What should she do?\n\nThe Bishop thought a little while, then said that he did not believe\nthat she ought to speak without Mr. Archfield's consent, unless she\nsaw any one else brought into danger by her silence.  If it ever\nbecame possible, he thought, that she should ascertain whether the\nbody were in the vault, and if so, it might be possible to procure\nburial for it, perhaps without identification, or at any rate\nwithout making known what could only cause hostility and distress\nbetween the two families, unless the young man himself on his return\nshould make the confession.  This the Bishop evidently considered\nthe sounder, though the harder course, but he held that Anne had no\nright to take the initiative.  She could only wait, and bear her\nload alone; but the extreme kindness and compassion with which he\ntalked to her soothed and comforted her so much that she felt\ninfinitely relieved and strengthened when he dismissed her with his\nblessing, and far happier and more at peace than she had been since\nthat terrible summer morning, though greatly humbled, and taught to\nrepent of her aspirations after earthly greatness, and to accept her\npresent condition as a just retribution, and a trial of constancy.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX: THE DAUGHTER'S SECRET\n\n\n\"Thy sister's naught:  O Regan, she hath tied\nSharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, _here_:\nI can scarce speak to thee.\"\n\nKing Lear.\n\n\"Am I--oh! am I going home?\" thought Anne.  \"My uncle will be at\nWinchester.  I am glad of it.  I could not yet bear to see\nPortchester again.  That Shape would be there.  Yet how shall I deal\nwith what seems laid on me?  But oh! the joy of escaping from this\nweary, weary court!  Oh, the folly that took me hither!  Now that\nthe Prince is gone, Lady Strickland will surely speak to the Queen\nfor my dismissal.\"\n\nThere had been seventeen days of alarms, reports, and counter-\nreports, and now the King, with the Prince of Denmark, had gone to\njoin the army on Salisbury Plain, and at the same time the little\nPrince of Wales had been sent off to his half-brother, the Duke of\nBerwick, at Portsmouth, under charge of Lady Powys, there to be\nembarked for France.  Anne had been somewhat disappointed at not\ngoing with them, hoping that when at Portsmouth or in passing\nWinchester she might see her uncle and obtain her release, for she\nhad no desire to be taken abroad; but it was decreed otherwise.\nMiss Dunord went, rejoicing and thankful to be returning to France,\nand the other three rockers remained.\n\nThere had already been more than one day of alarms and tumults.  The\nBody-guards within were always on duty; the Life-guards without were\nconstantly patrolling; and on the 5th of November, when the Prince\nof Orange was known to be near at hand, and was in fact actually\nlanding at Torbay, the mob had with difficulty been restrained from\nburning in effigy, not only Guy Fawkes, but Pope, cardinals, and\nmitred bishops, in front of the palace, and actually paraded them\nall, with a figure of poor Sir Edmondbury Godfrey bearing his head\nin his hand, tied on horseback behind a Jesuit, full before the\nwindows, with yells of\n\n\"The Pope, the Pope,\nUp the ladder and down the rope,\"\n\nand clattering of warming-pans.\n\nJane Humphreys was dreadfully frightened.  Anne found her crouching\nclose to her bed, with the curtains wrapped round her.  \"Have they\ngot in?\" she cried.  \"O Miss Woodford, how shall we make them\nbelieve we are good Protestants?\"\n\nAnd when this terror had subsided, and it was well known that the\nDutch were at Exeter, there was another panic, for one of the Life-\nguardsmen had told her to beware, since if the Royal troops at\nHounslow were beaten, the Papists would surely take their revenge.\n\n\"I am to scream from the windows to Mr. Shaw,\" she said; but what\ngood will that do if the priests and the Frenchmen have strangled\nme?  And perhaps he won't be on guard.\"\n\n\"He was only trying to frighten you,\" suggested Anne.\n\n\"Dear me, Miss Woodford, aren't you afraid?  You have the stomach of\na lion.\"\n\n\"Why, what would be the good of hurting us?\"\n\nHowever, Anne was not at all surprised, when on the very evening of\nthe Prince's departure, old Mrs. Humphreys, a venerable-looking dame\nin handsome but Puritanically-fashioned garments, came in a hackney\ncoach to request in her son's name that her granddaughter might\nreturn with her, as her occupation was at an end.\n\nJane was transported with joy.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" said the grandmother, \"look at you now, and think how\ncrazy you were to go to the palace, though 'twas always against my\njudgment.\"\n\n\"Ah, I little knew how mortal dull it would be!\" said Jane.\n\n\"Ye've found it no better than the husks that the swine did eat, eh?\nSo much the better and safer for your soul, child.\"\n\nNobody wanted to retain Jane, and while she was hastily putting her\nthings together, the grandmother turned to Anne:  \"And you, Mistress\nWoodford, from what I hear, you have been very good in keeping my\nsilly child stanch to her religion and true to her duty.  If ever on\na pinch you needed a friend in London, my son and I would be proud\nto serve you--Master Joshua Humphreys, at the Golden Lamb,\nGracechurch Street, mind you.  No one knows what may hap in these\nstrange and troublesome times, and you might be glad of a house to\ngo to till you can send to your own friends--that is, if we are not\nall murdered by the Papists first.\"\n\nThough Anne did not expect such a catastrophe as this, she was\nreally grateful for the offer, and thought it possible that she\nmight avail herself of it, as she had not been able to communicate\nwith any of her mother's old friends, and Bishop Ken was not to her\nknowledge still in London.\n\nShe watched anxiously for the opportunity of asking Lady Strickland\nwhether she might apply for her dismissal, and write to her uncle to\nfetch her home.\n\n\"Child,\" said the lady, \"I think you love the Queen.\"\n\n\"Indeed I do, madam.\"\n\n\"It is well that at this juncture all Protestants should not leave\nher.  You are a gentlewoman in manner, and can speak her native\ntongue, friends are falling from her, scarcely ladies are left\nenough to make a fit appearance around her; if you are faithful to\nher, remain, I entreat of you.\"\n\nThere was no resisting such an appeal, and Anne remained in the\nrooms now left bare and empty, until a message was brought to her to\ncome to the Queen.  Mary Beatrice sat in a chair by her fire,\nlooking sad and listless, her eyes red with weeping, but she gave\nher sweet smile as the girl entered, and held out her hand, saying\nin her sweet Italian, \"You are faithful, Signorina Anna! you remain!\nThat is well; but now my son is gone, Anna, you must be mine.  I\nmake you my reader instead of his rocker.\"\n\nAs Anne knelt on one knee to kiss hands with tears in her eyes, the\nQueen impulsively threw her arms round her neck and kissed her.\n\"Ah, you loved him, and he loved you, il mio tesorino?\"\n\nPromotion _had_ come--how strangely.  She had to enter on her duties\nat once, and to read some chapters of an Italian version of the\nImitation.  A reader was of a higher grade of importance than a\nrocker, and for the ensuing days, when not in attendance on the\nQueen, Anne was the companion of Lady Strickland and Lady\nOglethorpe.  In the absence of the King and Prince, the Queen\nreceived Princess Anne at her own table, and Lady Churchill and Lady\nFitzhardinge joined that of her ladies-in-waiting.\n\nLady Churchill, with her long neck, splendid hair and complexion,\nshort chin, and sparkling blue eyes, was beautiful to look at, but\nnot at all disposed to be agreeable to the Queen's ladies, whom she\ntreated with a sort of blunt scorn, not at all disguised by the\nforms of courtesy.  However, she had, to their relief, a good deal\nof leave of absence just then to visit her children, as indeed the\nladies agreed that she did pretty much as she chose, and that the\nfaithful Mrs. Morley was somewhat afraid of the dear Mrs. Freeman.\n\nOne evening in coming up some steps Princess Anne entangled her foot\nin her pink taffetas petticoat, nearly fell, and tore a large rent,\nbesides breaking the thread of the festoons of seed pearls which\nbordered it, and scattering them on the floor.\n\n\"Lack-a-day!  Lack-a-day!\" sighed she, as after a little screaming\nshe gathered herself up again.  \"That new coat!  How shall I ever\nface Danvers again such a figure?  She's an excellent tirewoman, but\nshe will be neither to have nor to hold when she sees that gown--\nthat she set such store by!  Nay, I can hardly step for it.\"\n\n\"I think I could repair it, with Her Majesty's and your Royal\nHighness's permission,\" said Anne, who was creeping about on her\nknees picking up the pearls.\"\n\n\"Oh! do! do!  There's a good child, and then Danvers and Dawson need\nknow nothing about it,\" cried the Princess in great glee.  \"You\nremember Dawson, don't you, little Woodie, as we used to call you,\nand how she used to rate us when we were children if we soiled our\nfrocks?\"\n\nSo, in the withdrawing-room, Anne sat on the floor with needle and\nsilk, by the light of the wax candles, deftly repairing the rent,\nand then threading the scattered pearls, and arranging the festoon\nso as to hide the darn.  The Princess was delighted, and while the\npoor wife lay back in her chair, thankful that behind her fan she\ncould give way to her terrible anxieties about her little son, who\nmight be crossing to France, and her husband, suffering from fearful\nnose-bleeding, and wellnigh alone among traitors and deserters, the\nstep-daughter, on the other side of the great hearth, chattered away\ncomplacently to 'little Woodford.'\n\n\"Do you recollect old Dawson, and how she used to grumble when I\nwent to sup with the Duchess--my own mother--you know, because she\nused to give me chocolate, and she said it made me scream at night,\nand be over fat by day?  Ah! that was before you used to come among\nus.  It was after I went to France to my poor aunt of Orleans.  I\nremember she never would let us kiss her for fear of spoiling her\ncomplexion, and Mademoiselle and I did so hate living maigre on the\nfast days.  I was glad enough to get home at last, and then my\nsister was jealous because I talked French better than she did.\"\n\nSo the Princess prattled on without needing much reply, until her\nnamesake had finished her work, with which she was well pleased, and\npromised to remember her.  To Anne it was an absolute marvel how she\ncould thus talk when she knew that her husband had deserted her\nfather in his need, and that things were in a most critical\nposition.\n\nThe Queen could not refrain from a sigh of relief when her step-\ndaughter had retired to the Cockpit; and after seeking her sleepless\nbed, she begged Anne, \"if it did not too much incommode her, to read\nto her from the Gospel.\"\n\nThe next day was Sunday, and Anne felt almost as if deserting her\ncause, when going to the English service in Whitehall Chapel Royal,\nnow almost emptied except of the Princess's suite, and some of these\nhad the bad taste and profanity to cough and chatter all through the\nspecial prayer drawn up by the Archbishop for the King's safety.\n\nPeople were not very reverent, and as all stood up at the end of the\nAdvent Sunday service to let the Princess sweep by in her glittering\ngreen satin petticoat, peach-coloured velvet train, and feather-\ncrowned head, she laid a hand on Anne's arm, and whispered, \"Follow\nme to my closet, little Woodford.\"\n\nThere was no choice but to obey, as the Queen would not require her\nreader till after dinner, and Anne followed after the various\nattendants, who did not seem very willing to forward a private\ninterview with a possible rival, though, as Anne supposed, the\nobject must be to convey some message to the Queen.  By the time she\narrived and had been admitted to the inner chamber or dressing-room,\nthe Princess had thrown off her more cumbrous finery, and sat at\nease in an arm-chair.  She nodded her be-curled head, and said, \"You\ncan keep a secret, little Woodie?\"\n\n\"I can, madam, but I do not love one,\" said Anne, thinking of her\nmost burthensome one.\n\n\"Well, no need to keep this long.  You are a good young maiden, and\nmy own poor mother's godchild, and you are handy and notable.  You\ndeserve better preferment than ever you will get in that Popish\nhousehold, where your religion is in danger.  Now, I am not going to\nbe in jeopardy here any longer, nor let myself be kept hostage for\nhis Highness.  Come to my rooms at bedtime.  Slip in when I wish the\nQueen good-night, and I'll find an excuse.  Then you shall come with\nme to--no, I'll not say where, and I'll make your fortune, only\nmum's the word.\"\n\n\"But--Your Royal Highness is very good, but I am sworn to the Prince\nand Queen.  I could not leave them without permission.\"\n\n\"Prince!  Prince!  Pretty sort of a Prince.  Prince of brickbats, as\nChurchill says.  Nay, girl, don't turn away in that fashion.\nConsider.  Your religion is in danger.\"\n\n\"Nay, madam, my religion would not be served by breaking my oath.\"\n\n\"Pooh!  What's your oath to a mere pretender?  Besides, consider\nyour fortune.  Rocker to a puling babe--even if he was what they say\nhe is.  And don't build on the Queen's favour--even if she remains\nwhat she is now, she is too much beset with Papists and foreigners\nto do anything for you.\"\n\n\"I do not,\" Anne began to say, but the Princess gave her no time.\n\n\"Besides, pride will have a fall, and if you are a good maid, and\nhold your tongue, and serve me well in this strait, I'll make you my\nmaid of honour, and marry you so that you shall put Lady before your\nname.  Ay, and get good preferment for your uncle, who has had only\na poor stall from the King here.\"\n\nAnne repressed an inclination to say this was not the way in which\nher uncle would wish to get promotion, and only replied, \"Your Royal\nHighness is very good, but--\"\n\nWhereat the Princess, in a huff, exclaimed, \"Oh, very well, if you\nchoose to be torn to pieces by the mob, and slaughtered by the\npriests, like poor Godfrey, and burnt by the Papists at last, unless\nyou go to Mass, you may stay for aught I care, and joy go with you.\nI thought I was doing you a kindness for my poor mother's sake, but\nit seems you know best.  If you like to cast in your lot with the\nPope, I wash my hands of you.\"\n\nAccordingly Anne courtesied herself off, not seriously alarmed as to\nthe various catastrophes foretold by the Princess, though a little\nshaken in nerves.  Here then was another chance of promotion,\ncertainly without treason to her profession of faith, but so offered\nthat honour could not but revolt against it, though in truth poor\nPrincess Anne was neither so foolish nor so heartless a woman as she\nappeared in the excitement to which an uneasy conscience, the\nexpectation of a great enterprise, and a certain amount of terror\nhad worked her up; but she had high words again in the evening, as\nwas supposed, with the Queen.  Certainly Anne found her own Royal\nMistress weeping and agitated, though she only owned to being very\nanxious about the health of the King, who had had a second violent\nattack of bleeding at the nose, and she did not seem consoled by the\nassurances of her elder attendants that the relief had probably\nsaved him from a far more dangerous attack.  Again Anne read to her\ntill a late hour, but next morning was strangely disturbed.\n\nThe Royal household had not been long dressed, and breakfast had\njust been served to the ladies, when loud screams were heard, most\nstartling in the unsettled and anxious state of affairs.  The Queen,\npale and trembling, came out of her chamber with her hair on her\nshoulders.  \"Tell me at once, for pity's sake.  Is it my husband or\nmy son?\" she asked with clasped hands, as two or three of the\nPrincess's servants rushed forward.\n\n\"The Princess, the Princess!\" was the cry, \"the priests have\nmurdered her.\"\n\n\"What have you done with her, madam?\" rudely demanded Mrs. Buss, one\nof the lost lady's nurses.\n\nMary Beatrice drew herself up with grave dignity, saying, \"I suppose\nyour mistress is where she likes to be.  I know nothing of her, but\nI have no doubt that you will soon hear of her.\"\n\nThere was something in the Queen's manner that hushed the outcry in\nher presence, but the women, with Lady Clarendon foremost of them,\ncontinued to seek up and down the two palaces as if they thought the\nsubstantial person of the Princess Anne could be hidden in a\ncupboard.\n\nAnne, in the first impulse, exclaimed, \"She is gone!\"\n\nIn a moment Mrs. Royer turned, \"Gone, did you say?  Do you know it?\"\n\n\"You knew it and kept it secret!\" cried Lady Strickland.\n\n\"A traitor too!\" said Lady Oglethorpe, in her vehement Irish tone.\n\"I would not have thought it of Nanny Moore's daughter!\" and she\nturned her eyes in sad reproach on Anne.\n\n\"If you know, tell me where she is gone,\" cried Mrs. Buss, and the\ncry was re-echoed by the other women, while Anne's startled \"I\ncannot tell!  I do not know!\" was unheeded.\n\nOnly the Queen raising her hand gravely said, \"Silence!  What is\nthis?\"\n\n\"Miss Woodford knew.\"\n\n\"And never told!\" cried the babble of voices.\n\n\"Come hither, Mistress Woodford,\" said the Queen.  \"Tell me, do you\nknow where Her Highness is?\"\n\n\"No, please your Majesty,\" said Anne, trembling from head to foot.\n\"I do not know where she is.\"\n\n\"Did you know of her purpose?\"\n\n\"Your Majesty pardon me.  She called me to her closet yesterday and\npledged me to secrecy before I knew what she would say.\"\n\n\"Only youthful inexperience will permit that pledge to be implied in\nmatters of State,\" said the Queen.  \"Continue, Mistress Woodford;\nwhat did she tell you?\"\n\n\"She said she feared to be made a hostage for the Prince of Denmark,\nand meant to escape, and she bade me come to her chamber at night to\ngo with her.\"\n\n\"And wherefore did you not?  You are of her religion,\" said the\nQueen bitterly.\n\n\"Madam, how could I break mine oath to your Majesty and His Royal\nHighness?\"\n\n\"And you thought concealing the matter according to that oath?  Nay,\nnay, child, I blame you not.  It was a hard strait between your\nhonour to her and your duty to the King and to me, and I cannot but\nbe thankful to any one who does regard her word.  But this desertion\nwill be a sore grief to His Majesty.\"\n\nMary Beatrice was fairer-minded than the women, who looked askance\nat the girl, Princess Anne's people resenting that one of the other\nhousehold should have been chosen as confidante, and the Queen's\nbeing displeased that the secret had been kept.  But at that moment\nfrightful yells and shouts arose, and a hasty glance from the\nwindows showed a mass of men, women, and children howling for their\nPrincess.  They would tear down Whitehall if she were not delivered\nup to them.  However, a line of helmeted Life-guards on their heavy\nhorses was drawn up between, with sabres held upright, and there\nseemed no disposition to rush upon these.  Lord Clarendon, uncle to\nthe Princess, had satisfied himself that she had really escaped, and\nhe now came out and assured the mob, in a stentorian voice, that he\nwas perfectly satisfied of his niece's safety, waving the letter she\nhad left on her toilet-table.\n\nThe mob shouted, \"Bless the Princess!  Hurrah for the Protestant\nfaith!  No warming-pans!\" but in a good-tempered mood; and the poor\nlittle garrison breathed more freely; but Anne did not feel herself\nforgiven.  She was in a manner sent to Coventry, and treated as if\nshe were on the enemy's side.  Never had her proud nature suffered\nso much, and she shed bitter tears as she said to herself, \"It is\nvery unjust!  What could I have done?  How could I stop Her Highness\nfrom speaking?  Could they expect me to run in and accuse her?  Oh,\nthat I were at home again!  Mother, mother, you little know!  Of\nwhat use am I now?\"\n\nIt was the very question asked by Hester Bridgeman, whom she found\npacking her clothes in her room.\n\n\"Take care that this is sent after me,\" she said, \"when a messenger\nI shall send calls for it.\"\n\n\"What, you have your dismissal?\"\n\n\"No, I should no more get it than you have done.  They cannot afford\nto let any one go, you see, or they will have to dress up the\nchambermaids to stand behind the Queen's chair.  I have settled it\nwith my cousin, Harry Bridgeman, I shall mix with the throng that\ncome to ask for news, and be off with him before the crowd breaks\nin, as they will some of these days, for the guards are but half-\nhearted.  My Portia, why did not you take a good offer, and go with\nthe Princess?\"\n\n\"I thought it would be base.\"\n\n\"And much you gained by it!  You are only suspected and accused.\"\n\n\"I can't be a rat leaving a sinking ship.\"\n\n\"That is courteous, but I forgive it, Portia, as I know you will\nrepent of your folly.  But you never did know which side to look for\nthe butter.\"\n\nPerhaps seeing how ugly desertion and defection looked in others\nmade constancy easier to Anne, much as she longed for the Close at\nWinchester, and she even thought with a hope of the Golden Lamb,\nGracechurch, as an immediate haven sure to give her a welcome.\n\nHer occupation of reading to the Queen was ended by the King's\nreturn, so physically exhausted by violent nose-bleeding, so\ndespondent at the universal desertion, and so broken-hearted at his\ndaughter's defection, that his wife was absorbed in attending upon\nhim.\n\nAnne began to watch for an opportunity to demand a dismissal, which\nshe thought would exempt her from all blame, but she was surprised\nand a little dismayed by being summoned to the King in the Queen's\nchamber.  He was lying on a couch clad in a loose dressing-gown\ninstead of his laced coat, and a red night-cap replacing his heavy\nperuke, and his face was as white and sallow as if he were\nrecovering from a long illness.\n\n\"Little godchild,\" he said, holding out his hand as Anne made her\nobeisance, \"the Queen tells me you can read well.  I have a fancy to\nhear.\"\n\nImmensely relieved at the kindness of his tone, Anne courtesied, and\nmurmured out her willingness.\n\n\"Read this,\" he said; \"I would fain hear this; my father loved it.\nHere.\"\n\nAnne felt her task a hard one when the King pointed to the third Act\nof Shakespeare's Richard II.  She steeled herself and strengthened\nher voice as best she could, and struggled on till she came to--\n\n\"I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,\nMy gay apparel for an almsman's gown,\nMy figured goblets for a dish of wood,\nMy sceptre for a palmer's walking-staff,\nMy subjects for a pair of carved saints,\nAnd my large kingdom for a little grave,\nA little, little grave.\"\n\nThere she fairly broke down, and sobbed.\n\n\"Little one, little one,\" said James, you are sorry for poor\nRichard, eh?\"\n\n\"Oh, sir!\" was all she could say.\n\n\"And you are in disgrace, they tell me, because my daughter chose to\ntry to entice you away,\" said James, \"and you felt bound not to\nbetray her.  Never mind; it was an awkward case of conscience, and\nthere's not too much faithfulness to spare in these days.  We shall\nknow whom to trust to another time.  Can you continue now?  I would\ntake a lesson how, 'with mine own hands to give away my crown.'\"\n\nIt was well for Anne that fresh tidings were brought in at that\nmoment, and she had to retire, with the sore feeling turned into an\nenthusiastic pity and loyalty, which needed the relief of sobs and\nmental vows of fidelity.  She felt herself no longer in disgrace\nwith her Royal master and mistress, but she was not in favour with\nher few companions left--all who could not get over her secrecy, and\nthought her at least a half traitor as well as a heretic.\n\nWhitehall was almost in a state of siege, the turbulent mob\ncontinually coming to shout, 'No Popery!' and the like, though they\nproceeded no farther.  The ministers and other gentlemen came and\nwent, but the priests and the ladies durst not venture out for fear\nof being recognised and insulted, if not injured.  Bad news came in\nfrom day to day, and no tidings of the Prince of Wales being in\nsafety in France.  Once Anne received a letter from her uncle, which\ncheered her much.\n\nDEAR CHILD--So far as I can gather, your employment is at an end,\nif it be true as reported that the Prince of Wales is at\nPortsmouth, with the intent that he should be carried to France;\nbut the gentlemen of the navy seem strongly disposed to prevent\nsuch a transportation of the heir of the realm to a foreign\ncountry.  I fear me that you are in a state of doubt and anxiety,\nbut I need not exhort your good mother's child to be true and\nloyal to her trust and to the Anointed of the Lord in all things\nlawful at all costs.  If you are left in any distress or\nperplexity, go either to Sir Theophilus Oglethorpe's house, or to\nthat of my good old friend, the Dean of Westminster; and as soon\nas I hear from you I will endeavour to ride to town and bring you\nhome to my house, which is greatly at a loss without its young\nmistress.\n\nThe letter greatly refreshed Anne's spirits, and gave her something\nto look forward to, giving her energy to stitch at a set of lawn\ncuffs and bands for her uncle, and think with the more pleasure of a\nreturn that his time of residence at Winchester lay between her and\nthat vault in the castle.\n\nThere were no more attempts made at her conversion.  Every one was\ntoo anxious and occupied, and one or more of the chiefly obnoxious\npriests were sent privately away from day to day.  While summer\nfriends departed, Anne often thought of Bishop Ken's counsel as to\nloyalty to Heaven and man.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX: THE FLIGHT\n\n\n\"Storms may rush in, and crimes and woes\n   Deform that peaceful bower;\nThey may not mar the deep repose\n   Of that immortal flower.\nThough only broken hearts be found\n   To watch his cradle by,\nNo blight is on his slumbers sound,\n   No touch of harmful eye.\"\n\nKEBLE.\n\nThe news was even worse and worse in that palace of despondency and\nterror.  Notice had arrived that Lord Dartmouth was withheld from\ndespatching the young Prince to France by his own scruples and those\nof the navy; and orders were sent for the child's return.  Then came\na terrible alarm.  The escort sent to meet him were reported to have\nbeen attacked by the rabble on entering London and dispersed, so\nthat each man had to shift for himself.\n\nThere was a quarter of an hour which seemed many hours of fearful\nsuspense, while King and Queen both knelt at their altar, praying in\nagony for the child whom they pictured to themselves in the hands of\nthe infuriated mob, too much persuaded of his being an imposture to\npity his unconscious innocence.  No one who saw the blanched cheeks\nand agonised face of Mary Beatrice, or James's stern, mute misery,\ncould have believed for a moment in the cruel delusion that he was\nno child of theirs.\n\nThe Roman Catholic women were with them.  To enter the oratory would\nin those circumstances have been a surrender of principle, but none\nthe less did Anne pray with fervent passion in her chamber for pity\nfor the child, and comfort for his parents.  At last there was a\nstir, and hurrying out to the great stair, Anne saw a man in plain\nclothes replying in an Irish accent to the King, who was supporting\nthe Queen with his arm.  Happily the escort had missed the Prince of\nWales.  They had been obliged to turn back to London without meeting\nhim, and from that danger he had been saved.\n\nA burst of tears and a cry of fervent thanksgiving relieved the\nQueen's heart, and James gave eager thanks instead of the reprimand\nthe colonel had expected for his blundering.\n\nA little later, another messenger brought word that Lord and Lady\nPowys had halted at Guildford with their charge.  A French\ngentleman, Monsieur de St. Victor, was understood to have undertaken\nto bring him to London--understood--for everything was whispered\nrather than told among the panic-stricken women.  No one who knew\nthe expectation could go to bed that night except that the King and\nQueen had--in order to disarm suspicion--to go through the\naccustomed ceremonies of the coucher.  The ladies sat or lay on\ntheir beds intently listening, as hour after hour chimed from the\nclocks.\n\nAt last, at about three in the morning, the challenge of the\nsentinels was heard from point to point.  Every one started up, and\nhurried almost pell-mell towards the postern door.  The King and\nQueen were both descending a stair leading from the King's dressing-\nroom, and as the door was cautiously opened, it admitted a figure in\na fur cloak, which he unfolded, and displayed the sleeping face of\nthe infant well wrapped from the December cold.\n\nWith rapture the Queen gathered him into her arms, and the father\nkissed him with a vehemence that made him awake and cry.  St. Victor\nhad thought it safer that his other attendants should come in by\ndegrees in the morning, and thus Miss Woodford was the only actually\neffective nursery attendant at hand.  His food was waiting by the\nfire in his own sleeping chamber, and thither he was carried.  There\nthe Queen held him on her lap, while Anne fed him, and he smiled at\nher and held out his arms.\n\nThe King came, and making a sign to Anne not to move, stood\nwatching.\n\nPresently he said, \"She has kept one secret, we may trust her with\nanother.\"\n\n\"Oh, not yet, not yet,\" implored the Queen.  \"Now I have both my\ntreasures again, let me rest in peace upon them for a little while.\"\n\nThe King turned away with eyes full of tears while Anne was lulling\nthe child to sleep.  She wondered, but durst not ask the Queen,\nwhere was the tiler's wife; but later she learnt from Miss Dunord,\nthat the woman had been so terrified by the cries of the multitude\nagainst the 'pretender,' and still more at the sight of the sea,\nthat she had gone into transports of fright, implored to go home,\nand perhaps half wilfully, become useless, so that the weaning\nalready commenced had to be expedited, and the fretfulness of the\npoor child had been one of the troubles for some days.  However, he\nseemed on his return to have forgotten his troubles, and Anne had\nhim in her arms nearly all the next day.\n\nIt was not till late in the evening that Anne knew what the King had\nmeant.  Then, while she was walking up and down the room, amusing\nthe little Prince with showing by turns the window and his face in a\nlarge mirror, the Queen came in, evidently fresh from weeping, and\nholding out her arms for him, said, after looking to see that there\nwas no other audience--\n\n\"Child, the King would repose a trust in you.  He wills that you\nshould accompany me to-night on a voyage to France to put this\nlittle angel in safety.\"\n\n\"As your Majesty will,\" returned Anne; \"I will do my best.\"\n\n\"So the King said.  He knew his brave sailor's daughter was worthy\nof his trust, and you can speak French.  It is well, for we go under\nthe escort of Messieurs de Lauzun and St. Victor.  Be ready at\nmidnight.  Lady Strickland or the good Labadie will explain more to\nyou, but do not speak of this to anyone else.  You have leave now,\"\nshe added, as she herself carried the child towards his father's\nrooms.\n\nThe maiden's heart swelled at the trust reposed in her, and the\nKing's kind words, and she kept back the sense of anxiety and doubt\nas to so vague a future.  She found Mrs. Labadie lying on her bed\nawake, but trying to rest between two busy nights, and she was then\ntold that there was to be a flight from the palace of the Queen and\nPrince at midnight, Mrs. Labadie and Anne alone going with them,\nthough Lord and Lady Powys and Lady Strickland, with the Queen's\nItalian ladies, would meet them on board the yacht which was waiting\nat Gravesend.  The nurse advised Anne to put a few necessary\nequipments into a knapsack bound under a cloak, and to leave other\ngarments with her own in charge of Mr. Labadie, who would despatch\nthem with those of the suite, and would follow in another day with\nthe King.  Doubt or refusal there could of course be none in such\ncircumstances, and a high-spirited girl like Anne could not but feel\na thrill of heart at selection for such confidential and signal\nservice at her age, scarcely seventeen.  Her one wish was to write\nto her uncle what had become of her.  Mrs. Labadie hardly thought it\nsafe, but said her husband would take charge of a note, and if\npossible, post it when they were safe gone, but nothing of the\nKing's plans must be mentioned.\n\nThe hours passed away anxiously, and yet only too fast.  So many had\nquitted the palace that there was nothing remarkable in packing, but\nas Anne collected her properties, she could not help wondering\nwhether she should ever see them again.  Sometimes her spirit rose\nat the thought of serving her lovely Queen, saving the little\nPrince, and fulfilling the King's trust; at others, she was full of\nvague depression at the thought of being cut off from all she knew\nand loved, with seas between, and with so little notice to her\nuncle, who might never learn where she was; but she knew she had his\napproval in venturing all, and making any sacrifice for the King\nwhom all deserted; and she really loved her Queen and little Prince.\n\nThe night came, and she and Mrs. Labadie, fully equipped in cloaks\nand hoods, waited together, Anne moving about restlessly, the elder\nwoman advising her to rest while she could.  The little Prince, all\nunconscious of the dangers of the night, or of his loss of a throne,\nlay among his wraps in his cradle fast asleep.\n\nBy and by the door opened, and treading softly in came the King in\nhis dressing-gown and night-cap, the Queen closely muffled, Lady\nStrickland also dressed for a journey, and two gentlemen, the one\ntall and striking-looking, the other slim and dark, in their cloaks,\nnamely, Lauzun and St. Victor.\n\nIt was one of those supreme moments almost beyond speech or\nmanifestation of feeling.\n\nThe King took his child in his arms, kissed him, and solemnly said\nto Lauzun, \"I confide my wife and son to you.\"\n\nBoth Frenchmen threw themselves on their knees kissing his hand with\na vow of fidelity.  Then giving the infant to Mrs. Labadie, James\nfolded his wife in his arms in a long mute embrace; Anne carried the\nbasket containing food for the child; and first with a lantern went\nSt. Victor, then Lauzun, handing the Queen; Mrs. Labadie with the\nchild, and Anne following, they sped down the stairs, along the\ngreat gallery, with steps as noiseless as they could make them, down\nanother stair to a door which St. Victor opened.\n\nA sentry challenged, sending a thrill of dismay through the anxious\nhearts, but St. Victor had the word, and on they went into the privy\ngardens, where often Anne had paced behind Mrs. Labadie as the\nPrince took his airing.  Startling lights from the windows fell on\nthem, illuminating the drops of rain that plashed round them on that\ngrim December night, and their steps sounded on the gravel, while\nstill the babe, sheltered under the cloak, slept safely.  Another\ndoor was reached, more sentries challenged and passed; here was a\nstreet whose stones and silent houses shone for a little space as\nSt. Victor raised his lantern and exchanged a word with a man on the\nbox of a carriage.\n\nOne by one they were handed in, the Queen, the child, the nurse,\nAnne, and Lauzun, St. Victor taking his place outside.  As if in a\ndream they rattled on through the dark street, no one speaking\nexcept that Lauzun asked the Queen if she were wet.\n\nIt was not far before they stopped at the top of the steps called\nthe Horseferry.  A few lights twinkled here and there, and were\nreflected trembling in the river, otherwise a black awful gulf, from\nwhich, on St. Victor's cautious hail, a whistle ascended, and a\ncloaked figure with a lantern came up the steps glistening in the\nrain.\n\nOne by one again, in deep silence, they were assisted down, and into\nthe little boat that rocked ominously as they entered it.  There the\nwomen crouched together over the child unable to see one another,\nAnne returning the clasp of a hand on hers, believing it Mrs.\nLabadie's, till on Lauzun's exclaiming, \"Est ce que j'incommode sa\nMajeste?\" the reply showed her that it was the Queen's hand that she\nheld, and she began a startled \"Pardon, your Majesty,\" but the sweet\nreply in Italian was, \"Ah, we are as sisters in this stress.\"\n\nThe eager French voice of Lauzun went on, in undertones certainly,\nbut as if he had not the faculty of silence, and amid the plash of\nthe oars, the rush of the river, and the roar of the rain, it was\nnot easy to tell what he said, his voice was only another of the\nnoises, though the Queen made little courteous murmurs in reply.  It\nwas a hard pull against wind and tide towards a little speck of\ngreen light which was shown to guide the rowers; and when at last\nthey reached it, St. Victor's hail was answered by Dusions, one of\nthe servants, and they drew to the steps where he held a lantern.\n\n\"To the coach at once, your Majesty.\"\n\n\"It is at the inn--ready--but I feared to let it stand.\"\n\nLauzun uttered a French imprecation under his breath, and danced on\nthe step with impatience, only restrained so far as to hand out the\nQueen and her two attendants.  He was hotly ordering off Dusions and\nSt. Victor to bring the coach, when the former suggested that they\nmust find a place for the Queen to wait in where they could find\nher.\n\n\"What is that dark building above?\"\n\n\"Lambeth Church,\" Dusions answered.\n\n\"Ah, your Protestant churches are not open; there is no shelter for\nus there,\" sighed the Queen.\n\n\"There is shelter in the angle of the buttress; I have been there,\nyour Majesty,\" said Dusions.\n\nThither then they turned.\n\n\"What can that be?\" exclaimed the Queen, starting and shuddering as\na fierce light flashed in the windows and played on the wall.\n\n\"It is not within, madame,\" Lauzun encouraged; \"it is reflected\nlight from a fire somewhere on the other side of the river.\"\n\n\"A bonfire for our expulsion.  Ah! why should they hate us so?\"\nsighed the poor Queen.\n\n\"'Tis worse than that, only there's no need to tell Her Majesty so,\"\nwhispered Mrs. Labadie, who, in the difficulties of the ascent, had\nbeen fain to hand the still-sleeping child to Anne.  \"'Tis the\nCatholic chapel of St. Roque.  The heretic miscreants!\"\n\n\"Pray Heaven no life be lost,\" sighed Anne.\n\nSinister as the light was, it aided the poor fugitives at that dead\nhour of night to find an angle between the church wall and a\nbuttress where the eaves afforded a little shelter from the rain,\nwhich slackened a little, when they were a little concealed from the\nroad, so that the light need not betray them in case any passenger\nwas abroad at such an hour, as two chimed from the clock overhead.\n\nThe women kept together close against the wall to avoid the drip of\nthe eaves.  Lauzun walked up and down like a sentinel, his arms\nfolded, and talking all the while, though, as before, his utterances\nwere only an accompaniment to the falling rain and howling wind;\nMary Beatrice was murmuring prayers over the sleeping child, which\nshe now held in the innermost corner; Anne, with wide-stretched\neyes, was gazing into the light cast beyond the buttress by the fire\non the opposite side, when again there passed across it that form\nshe had seen on All Saints' Eve--the unmistakable phantom of\nPeregrine.\n\nIt was gone into the darkness in another second; but a violent start\non her part had given a note of alarm, and brought back the Count,\nwhose walk had been in the opposite direction.\n\n\"What was it?  Any spy?\"\n\n\"Oh no--no--nothing!  It was the face of one who is dead,\" gasped\nAnne.\n\n\"The poor child's nerve is failing her,\" said the Queen gently, as\nLauzun drawing his sword burst out--\n\n\"If it be a spy it _shall_ be the face of one who is dead;\" and he\ndarted into the road, but returned in a few moments, saying no one\nhad passed except one of the rowers returning after running up to\nthe inn to hasten the coach; how could he have been seen from the\nchurch wall?  The wheels were heard drawing up at that moment, so\nthat the only thought was to enter it as quickly as might be in the\nsame order as before, after which the start was made, along the road\nthat led through the marshes of Lambeth; and then came the inquiry--\nan anxious one--whom or what mademoiselle, as Lauzun called her, had\nseen.\n\n\"O monsieur!\" exclaimed the poor girl in her confusion, her best\nFrench failing, \"it was nothing--no living man.\"\n\n\"Can mademoiselle assure me of that?  The dead I fear not, the\nliving I would defy.\"\n\n\"He lives not,\" said she in an undertone, with a shudder.\n\n\"But who is he that mademoiselle can be so certain?\" asked the\nFrenchman.\n\n\"Oh!  I know him well enough,\" said Anne, unable to control her\nvoice.\n\n\"Mademoiselle must explain herself,\" said M. de Lauzun.  \"If he be\nspirit--or phantom--there is no more to say, but if he be in the\nflesh, and a spy--then--\"  There was a little rattle of his sword.\n\n\"Speak, I command,\" interposed the Queen; \"you must satisfy M. le\nComte.\"\n\nThus adjured, Anne said in a low voice of horror:  \"It was a\ngentleman of our neighbourhood; he was killed in a duel last\nsummer!\"\n\n\"Ah!  You are certain?\"\n\n\"I had the misfortune to see the fight,\" sighed Anne.\n\n\"That accounts for it,\" said the Queen kindly.  \"If mademoiselle's\nnerves were shaken by such a remembrance, it is not wonderful that\nit should recur to her at so strange a watch as we have been\nkeeping.\"\n\n\"It might account for her seeing this revenant cavalier in any\npassenger,\" said Lauzun, not satisfied yet.\n\n\"No one ever was like him,\" said Anne.  \"I could not mistake him.\"\n\n\"May I ask mademoiselle to describe him?\" continued the count.\n\nFeeling all the time as if this first mention were a sort of\nbetrayal, Anne faltered the words:  \"Small, slight, almost\nmisshapen--with a strange one-sided look--odd, unusual features.\"\n\nLauzun's laugh jarred on her.  \"Eh! it is not a flattering portrait.\nMademoiselle is not haunted by a hero of romance, it appears, so\nmuch as by a demon.\"\n\n\"And none of those monsieur has employed in our escape answer to\nthat description?\" asked the Queen.\n\n\"Assuredly not, your Majesty.  Crooked person and crooked mind go\ntogether, and St. Victor would only have trusted to your big honest\nrowers of the Tamise.  I think we may be satisfied that the\ndemoiselle's imagination was excited so as to evoke a phantom\nimpressed on her mind by a previous scene of terror.  Such things\nhave happened in my native Gascony.\"\n\nAnne was fain to accept the theory in silence, though it seemed to\nher strange that at a moment when she was for once not thinking of\nPeregrine, her imagination should conjure him up, and there was a\nstrong feeling within her that it was something external that had\nflitted across the shadow, not a mere figment of her brain, though\nthe notion was evidently accepted, and she could hear a muttering of\nMrs. Labadie that this was the consequence of employing young\nwenches with their whims and megrims.\n\nThe Count de Lauzun did his best to entertain the Queen with stories\nof revenants in Gascony and elsewhere, and with reminiscences of his\neleven years' captivity at Pignerol, and his intercourse with\nFouquet; but whenever in aftertimes Anne Woodford tried to recall\nher nocturnal drive with this strange personage, the chosen and very\nunkind husband of the poor old Grande Mademoiselle, she never could\nrecollect anything but the fierce glare of his eyes in the light of\nthe lamps as he put her to that terrible interrogation.\n\nThe talk was chiefly monologue.  Mrs. Labadie certainly slept,\nperhaps the Queen did so too, and Anne became conscious that she\nmust have slumbered likewise, for she found every one gazing at her\nin the pale morning dawn and asking why she cried, \"O Charles,\nhold!\"\n\nAs she hastily entreated pardon, Lauzun was heard to murmur, \"Je\nparie que le revenant se nomme Charles,\" and she collected her\nsenses just in time to check her contradiction, recollecting that\nhappily such a name as Charles revealed nothing.  The little Prince,\nwho had slumbered so opportunely all night, awoke and received\ninfinite praise, and what he better appreciated, the food that had\nbeen provided for him.  They were near their journey's end, and it\nwas well, for people were awakening and going to their work as they\npassed one of the villages, and once the remark was heard, \"There\ngoes a coach full of Papists.\"\n\nHowever, no attempt was made to stop the party, and as it would be\ndaylight when they reached Gravesend, the Queen arranged her\ndisguise to resemble, as she hoped, a washerwoman--taking off her\ngloves, and hiding her hair, while the Prince, happily again asleep,\nwas laid in a basket of linen.  Anne could not help thinking that\nshe thus looked more remarkable than if she had simply embarked as a\nlady; but she meant to represent the attendant of her Italian friend\nCountess Almonde, whom she was to meet on board.\n\nLeaving the coach outside a little block of houses, the party\nreached a projecting point of land, where three Irish officers\nreceived them, and conducted them to a boat.  Then, wrapped closely\nin cloaks from the chill morning air, they were rowed to the yacht,\non the deck of which stood Lord and Lady Powys, Lady Strickland,\nPauline Dunord, and a few more faithful followers, who had come more\nrapidly.  There was no open greeting nor recognition, for the\ncaptain and crew were unaware whom they were carrying, and, on the\ndiscovery, either for fear of danger or hope of reward, might have\ncaptured such a prize.\n\nTherefore all the others, with whispered apologies, were hoisted up\nbefore her, and Countess Almonde had to devise a special entreaty\nthat the chair might be lowered again for her poor laundress as well\nas for the other two women.\n\nThe yacht, which had been hired by St. Victor, at once spread her\nsails; Mrs. Labadie conversed with the captain while the countess\ntook the Queen below into the stifling crowded little cabin.  It was\naltogether a wretched voyage; the wind was high, and the pitching\nand tossing more or less disabled everybody in the suite.  The Queen\nwas exceedingly ill, so were the countess and Mrs. Labadie.  Nobody\ncould be the least effective but Signora Turini, who waited on her\nMajesty, and Anne, who was so far seasoned by excursions at\nPortsmouth that she was capable of taking sole care of the little\nPrince, as the little vessel dashed along on her way with her cargo\nof alarm and suffering through the Dutch fleet of fifty vessels,\nnone of which seemed to notice her--perhaps by express desire not to\nbe too curious as to English fugitives.\n\nBetween the care of the little one, who needed in the tossing of the\nship to be constantly in arms though he never cried and when awake\nwas always merry, and the giving as much succour as possible to her\nsuffering companions, Anne could not either rest or think, but\nseemed to live in one heavy dazed dream of weariness and endurance,\nhardly knowing whether it were day or night, till the welcome sound\nwas heard that Calais was in sight.\n\nThen, as well as they could, the poor travellers crawled from the\ncorners, and put themselves in such array as they could contrive,\nthough the heaving of the waves, as the little yacht lay to, did not\nconduce to their recovery.  The Count de Lauzun went ashore as soon\nas a boat could be lowered to apprise M. Charot, the Governor of\nCalais, of the guest he was to receive, and after an interval of\nconsiderable discomfort, in full view of the massive fortifications,\nboats came off to bring the Queen and her attendants on shore, this\ntime as a Queen, though she refused to receive any honours.  Lady\nStrickland, recovering as soon as she was on dry land, resumed her\nPrince, who was fondled with enthusiastic praises for his excellent\nconduct on the voyage.\n\nAnne could not help feebly thinking some of the credit might be due\nto her, since she had held him by land and water nearly ever since\nleaving Whitehall, but she was too much worn out by her nights of\nunrest, and too much battered and beaten by the tossings of her\nvoyage, to feel anything except in a languid half-conscious way,\nunder a racking headache; and when the curious old house where they\nwere to rest was reached, and all the rest were eating with ravenous\nappetites, she could taste nothing, and being conducted by a\ncompassionate Frenchwoman in a snow-white towering cap to a straw\nmattress spread on the ground, she slept the twenty-four hours round\nwithout moving.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI: EXILE\n\n\n\"'Oh, who are ye, young man?' she said.\n'What country come ye frae?'\n'I flew across the sea,' he said;\n''Twas but this very day.'\"\n\nOld Ballad.\n\nFive months had passed away since the midnight flight from England,\nwhen Anne Woodford was sitting on a stone bench flanked with statues\nin the stately gardens of the Palace of St. Germain, working away at\nsome delicate point lace, destined to cover some of the deficiencies\nof her dress, for her difficulties were great, and these months had\nbeen far from happy ones.\n\nThe King was in Ireland, the Queen spent most of the time of his\nabsence in convents, either at Poissy or Chaillot, carrying her son\nwith her to be the darling of the nuns, who had for the most part\nnever even seen a baby, and to whom a bright lively child of a year\nold was a perfect treasure of delight.  Not wishing to encumber the\ngood Sisters with more attendants than were needful, the Queen only\ntook with her one lady governess, one nurse, and one rocker, and\nthis last naturally was Pauline Dunord, both a Frenchwoman and a\nRoman Catholic.\n\nThis was in itself no loss to Anne.  Her experience of the nunnery\nat Boulogne, where had been spent three days in expectation of the\nKing, had not been pleasant.  The nuns had shrunk from her as a\nheretic, and kept their novices and pensionnaires from the taint of\ncommunication with her; and all the honour she might have deserved\nfor the Queen's escape seemed to have been forfeited by that moment\nof fear, which in the telling had become greatly exaggerated.\n\nIt was true that the Queen had never alluded to it; but probably\nthrough Mrs. Labadie, it had become current that Miss Woodford had\nbeen so much alarmed under the churchyard wall that her fancy had\nconjured up a phantom and she had given a loud scream, which but for\nthe mercy of the Saints would have betrayed them all.\n\nAnne was persuaded that she had done nothing worse than give an\ninvoluntary start, but it was not of the least use to say so, and\nshe began to think that perhaps others knew better than she did.\nMiss Dunord, who had never been more than distantly polite to her in\nEngland, was of course more thrown with her at St. Germain, and\nexamined her closely.  Who was it?  What was it?  Had she seen it\nbefore?  It was of no use to deny.  Pauline knew she had seen\nsomething on that All Saints' Eve.  Was it true that it was a lover\nof hers, and that she had seen him killed in a duel on her account?\nWho would have imagined it in cette demoiselle si sage!  Would she\nnot say who it was!\n\nBut though truth forced more than one affirmative to be pumped out\nof Anne, she clung to that last shred of concealment, and kept her\nown counsel as to the time, place, and persons of the duel, and thus\nshe so far offended Pauline as to prevent that damsel from having\nany scruples in regarding her as an obnoxious and perilous rival,\nwith a dark secret in her life.  Certainly Miss Dunord did earnestly\nassure her that to adopt her Church, invoke the Saints, and have\nMasses for the dead was the only way to lay such ghosts; but Anne\nremained obdurate, and thus was isolated, for there were very few\nProtestants in the fugitive Court, and those were of too high a\ndegree to consort with her.  Perhaps that undefined doubt of her\ndiscretion was against her; perhaps too her education and knowledge\nof languages became less useful to the Queen when surrounded by\nFrench, for she was no longer called upon to act as reader; and the\nlittle Prince, during his residence in the convent, had time to\nforget her and lose his preference for her.  She was not discharged,\nbut except for taking her turn as a nursery-maid when the Prince was\nat St. Germain, she was a mere supernumerary, nor was there any\nsalary forthcoming.  The small amount of money she had with her had\ndwindled away, and when she applied to Lady Strickland, who was\nkinder to her than any one else, she was told that the Queen was far\ntoo much distressed for money wherewith to aid the King to be able\nto pay any one, and that they must all wait till the King had his\nown again.  Her clothes were wearing out, and scarcely in condition\nfor attendance on the Prince when he was shown in state to the King\nof France.  Worse than all, she seemed entirely cut off from home.\nShe had written several times to her uncle when opportunity seemed\nto offer, but had never heard from him, and she did not know whether\nher letters could reach him, or if he were even aware of what had\nbecome of her.  People came with passports from England to join the\nexiled Court, but no one returned thither, or she would even have\noffered herself as a waiting-maid to have a chance of going back.\nLady Strickland would have forwarded her, but no means or\nopportunity offered, and there was nothing for it but to look to the\ntime that everybody declared to be approaching when the King was to\nbe reinstated, and they would all go home in triumph.\n\nMeanwhile Anne Woodford felt herself a supernumerary, treated with\ncivility, and no more, as she ate her meals with a very feminine\nCourt, for almost all the gentlemen were in Ireland with the King.\nShe had a room in the entresol to herself, in Pauline's absence, and\nhere she could in turn sit and dream, or mend and furbish up her\nclothes--a serious matter now--or read the least scrap of printed\nmatter in her way, for books were scarcer than even at Whitehall;\nand though her 'mail' had safely been forwarded by Mr. Labadie, some\njealous censor had abstracted her Bible and Prayer-book.  Probably\nthere was no English service anywhere in France at that time, unless\namong the merchants at Bordeaux--certainly neither English nor\nReformed was within her reach--and she had to spend her Sundays in\nrecalling all she could, and going over it, feeling thankful to the\nmother who had made her store Psalms, Gospels, and Collects in her\nmemory week by week.\n\nShe was so far forgotten that active attempts to convert her had\nbeen dropped, except by Pauline.  Perhaps it was thought that\nisolation would be effectual, but in fact the sight of popular\nRomanism not kept in check by Protestant surroundings shocked her,\nand made her far more averse to change than when she saw it at its\nbest at Whitehall.  In fine, the end of her ambition had been\nneglect and poverty, and the real service that she had rendered was\nunacknowledged, and marred by that momentary alarm.  No wonder she\nfelt sore.\n\nShe had never once been to Paris, and seldom beyond the gardens,\nwhich happily were free in the absence of the Queen, and always had\nsecluded corners apart from the noble terraces, safe from the\nintrusion of idle gallants.  Anne had found a sort of bower of her\nown, shaded by honeysuckles and wild roses, where she could sit\nlooking over the slopes and the windings of the Seine and indulge\nher musings and longings.\n\nThe lonely life brought before her all the anxieties that had been\nstifled for the time by the agitations of the escape.  Again and\nagain she lived over the scene in the ruins.  Again and again she\nrecalled those two strange appearances, and shivering at the thought\nof the anniversary that was approaching in another month, still felt\nsometimes that, alive or dead, Peregrine's would be a home face, and\nframed to herself imaginary scenes in which she addressed him, and\ndemanded whether he could not rest in his unhallowed grave.  What\nwould Bishop Ken say?  Sometimes even she recollected the strange\ntheory which had made him crave execution from the late King, seven\nyears, yes, a little more than seven years ago, and marvel whether\nat that critical epoch he had indeed between life and death been\nsnatched away to his native land of faery.  Imagination might well\nrun riot in the solitary, unoccupied condition to which she was\nreduced; and she also brooded much over the fragments of doubtful\nnews which reached her.\n\nSomething was said of all loyal clergy being expelled and\npersecuted, and this of course suggested those sufferings of the\nclergy during the Commonwealth, of which she had often heard, making\nher very anxious about her uncle, and earnestly long for wings to\nfly to him.  The Archfields too!  Had Charles returned, and did that\nsecret press upon him as it did upon her?  Did Lucy think herself\nutterly forgotten and cast aside, receiving no word or message from\nher friend?  \"Perhaps,\" thought Anne, \"they fancy me sailing about\nat Court in silks and satins, jewels and curls, and forgetting them\nall, as I remember Lucy said I should when she first heard that I\nwas going to Whitehall.  Nay, and I even took pleasure in the\npicture of myself so decked out, though I never, never meant to\nforget her.  Foolish, worse than foolish, that I was!  And to think\nthat I might now be safe and happy with good Lady Russell, near my\nuncle and all of them.  I could almost laugh to think how my fine\nnotions of making my fortune have ended in sitting here, neglected,\nforgotten, banished, almost in rags!  I suppose it was all self-\nseeking, and that I must take it meekly as no more than I deserve.\nBut oh, how different! how different is this captivity!  'Oh that I\nhad wings like a dove, for then would I flee away, and be at rest.'\nSwallow, swallow! you are sweeping through the air.  Would that my\nspirit could fly like you! if only for one glimpse to tell me what\nthey are doing.  Ah! there's some one coming down this unfrequented\nwalk, where I thought myself safe.  A young gentleman!  I must rise\nand go as quietly as I can before he sees me.  Nay,\" as the action\nfollowing the impulse, she was gathering up her work, \"'tis an old\nabbe with him! no fear!  Abbe?  Nay, 'tis liker to an English\nclergyman!  Can a banished one have strayed hither?  The younger man\nis in mourning.  Could it be?  No graver, older, more manly--Oh!\"\n\n\"Anne!  Anne!  We have found you!\"\n\n\"Mr. Archfield!  You!\"\n\nAnd as Charles Archfield, in true English fashion, kissed her cheek,\nAnne fairly choked with tears of joy, and she ever after remembered\nthat moment as the most joyful of her life, though the joy was\nalmost agony.\n\n\"This is Mistress Anne Woodford, sir,\" said Charles, the next\nmoment.  \"Allow me, madam, to present Mr. Fellowes, of Magdalen\nCollege.\"\n\nAnne held out her hand, and courtesied in response to the bow and\nwave of the shovel hat.\n\n\"How did you know that I was here?\" she said.\n\n\"Doctor Woodford thought it likely, and begged us to come and see\nwhether we could do anything for you,\" said Charles; \"and you may\nbelieve that we were only too happy to do so.  A lady to whom we had\nletters, who is half English, the Vicomtesse de Bellaise, was so\ngood as to go to the convent at Poissy and discover for us from some\nof the suite where you were.\"\n\n\"My uncle--my dear uncle--is he well?\"\n\n\"Quite well, when last we heard,\" said Charles.  \"That was at\nFlorence, nearly a month ago.\"\n\n\"And all at Fareham, are they well?\"\n\n\"All just as usual,\" said Charles, \"at the last hearing, which was\nat the same time.  I hoped to have met letters at Paris, but no\ndoubt the war prevents the mails from running.\"\n\n\"Ah!  I have never had a single letter,\" said Anne.  \"Did my uncle\nknow anything of me?  Has he never had one of mine?\"\n\n\"Up to the time when he wrote, last March, that is to say, he had\nreceived nothing.  He had gone to London to make inquiries--\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear good uncle!\"\n\n\"And had ascertained that you had been chosen to accompany the Queen\nand Prince in their escape from Whitehall.  You have played the\nheroine, Miss Anne.\"\n\n\"Oh! if you knew--\"\n\n\"And,\" said Mr. Fellowes, \"both he and Sir Philip Archfield\nrequested us, if we could make our way home through Paris, to come\nand offer our services to Mistress Woodford, in case she should wish\nto send intelligence to England, or if she should wish to make use\nof our escort to return home.\"\n\n\"Oh sir! oh sir! how can I thank you enough!  You cannot guess the\nhappiness you have brought me,\" cried Anne with clasped hands, tears\nwelling up again.\n\n\"You _will_ come with us then,\" cried Charles.  \"I am sure you\nought.  They have not used you well, Anne; how pale and thin you\nhave grown.\"\n\n\"That is only pining!  I am quite well, only home-sick,\" she said\nwith a smile.  \"I am sure the Queen will let me go.  I am nothing\nbut a burthen now.  She has plenty of her own people, and they do\nnot like a Protestant about the Prince.\"\n\n\"There is Madame de Bellaise,\" said Mr. Fellowes, \"advancing along\nthe walk with Lady Powys.  Let me present you to her.\"\n\n\"You have succeeded, I see,\" a kind voice said, as Anne found\nherself making her courtesy to a tall and stately old lady, with a\nmass of hair of the peculiar silvered tint of flaxen mixed with\nwhite.\n\n\"I am sincerely glad,\" said Lady Powys, \"that Miss Woodford has met\nher friends.\"\n\n\"Also,\" said Madame de Bellaise, \"Lady Powys is good enough to say\nthat if mademoiselle will honour me with a visit, she gives\npermission for her to return with me to Paris.\"\n\nThis was still greater joy, except for that one recollection,\nformidable in the midst of her joy, of her dress.  Did Madame de\nBellaise divine something? for she said, \"These times remind me of\nmy youth, when we poor cavalier families well knew what sore straits\nwere.  If mademoiselle will bring what is most needful, the rest can\nbe sent afterwards.\"\n\nMaking her excuses for the moment, Anne with light and gladsome foot\nsped along the stately alley, up the stairs to her chamber, round\nwhich she looked much as if it had been a prison cell, fell on her\nknees in a gush of intense thankfulness, and made her rapid\npreparations, her hands trembling with joy, and a fear that she\nmight wake to find all again a dream.  She felt as if this\ndeliverance were a token of forgiveness for her past wilfulness, and\nas if hope were opened to her once more.  Lady Powys met her as she\ncame down, and spoke very kindly, thanking her for her services, and\nhoping that she would enjoy the visit she was about to make.\n\n\"Does your ladyship think Her Majesty will require me any longer?\"\nasked Anne timidly.\n\n\"If you wish to return to the country held by the Prince of Orange,\"\nsaid the Countess coldly, \"you must apply for dismissal to Her\nMajesty herself.\"\n\nAnne perceived from the looks of her friends that it was no time for\ndiscussing her loyalty, and all taking leave, she was soon seated\nbeside Madame de Bellaise, while the coach and four rolled down the\nmagnificent avenue, and scene after scene disappeared, beautiful and\nstately indeed, but which she was as glad to leave behind her as if\nthey had been the fetters and bars of a dungeon, and she almost\nwondered at the words of admiration of her companions.\n\nMadame de Bellaise sat back, and begged the others to speak English,\nsaying that it was her mother tongue, and she loved the sound of it,\nbut really trying to efface herself, while the eager conversation\nbetween the two young people went on about their homes.\n\nCharles had not been there more recently than Anne, and his letters\nwere at least two months old, but the intelligence in them was as\nwater to her thirsty soul.  All was well, she heard, including the\nlittle heir of Archfield, though the young father coloured a little,\nand shuffled over the answers to the inquiries with a rather sad\nsmile.  Charles was, however, greatly improved.  He had left behind\nhim the loutish, unformed boy, and had become a handsome, courteous,\nwell-mannered gentleman.  The very sight of him handing Madame de\nBellaise in and out of her coach was a wonder in itself when Anne\nrecollected how he had been wont to hide himself in the shrubbery to\nprevent being called upon for such services, and how uncouthly in\nthe last extremity he would perform them.\n\nMadame de Bellaise was inhabiting her son's great Hotel de\nNidemerle.  He was absent in garrison, and she was presiding over\nthe family of grandchildren, their mother being in bad health.  So\nmuch Anne heard before she was conducted to a pleasant little\nbedroom, far more home-like and comfortable than in any of the\npalaces she had inhabited.  It opened into another, whence merry\nyoung voices were heard.\n\n\"That is the apartment of my sister's youngest daughter,\" said\nMadame de Bellaise, \"Noemi Darpent.  I borrowed her for a little\nwhile to teach her French and dancing, but now that we are gone to\nwar, they want to have her back again, and it will be well that she\nshould avail herself of the same escort as yourself.  All will then\nbe selon les convenances, which had been a difficulty to me,\" she\nadded with a laugh.\n\nThen opening the door of communication she said; \"Here, Noemi, we\nhave found your countrywoman, and I put her under your care.  Ah!\nyou two chattering little pies, I knew the voices were yours.  This\nis my granddaughter, Marguerite de Nidemerle, and my niece--a la\nmode de Bretagne--Cecile d'Aubepine, all bestowing their chatter on\ntheir cousin.\"\n\nNoemi Darpent was a tall, fair, grave-faced maiden, some years over\ntwenty, and so thoroughly English that it warmed Anne's heart to\nlook at her, and the other two were bright little Frenchwomen--\nMarguerite a pretty blonde, Cecile pale, dark, and sallow, but full\nof life.  Both were at the age at which girls were usually in\nconvents, but as Anne learnt, Madame de Bellaise was too English at\nheart to give up the training of her grandchildren, and she had an\nEnglish governess for them, daughter to a Romanist cavalier ruined\nby sequestration.\n\nShe was evidently the absolute head of the family.  Her daughter-in-\nlaw was a delicate little creature, who scarcely seemed able to bear\nthe noise of the family at the long supper-table, when all talked\nwith shrill French voices, from the two youths and their abbe tutor\ndown to the little four-year-old Lolotte in her high chair.  But to\nAnne, after the tedious formality of the second table at the palace,\nstiff without refinement, this free family life was perfectly\ndelightful and refreshing, though as yet she was too much cramped,\nas it were, by long stiffness, silence, and treatment as an inferior\nto join, except by the intelligent dancing of her brown eyes, and\nreplies when directly addressed.\n\nAfter Mrs. Labadie's homeliness, Pauline's exclusive narrowness,\nJane's petty frivolity, Hester's vulgar worldliness, and the general\nwant of cultivation in all who treated her on an equality, it was\nlike returning to rational society; and she could not but observe\nthat Mr. Archfield altogether held his own in conversation with the\nrest, whether in French or English.  Little more than a year ago he\nwould hardly have opened his mouth, and would have worn the true\nbumpkin look of contemptuous sheepishness.  Now he laughed and made\nothers laugh as readily and politely as--Ah!  With whom was she\ncomparing him?  Did the thought of poor Peregrine dwell on his mind\nas it did upon hers?  But perhaps things were not so terrible to a\nman as to a woman, and he had not seen those apparitions!  Indeed,\nwhen not animated, she detected a certain thoughtful melancholy on\nhis brow which certainly had not belonged to former times.\n\nMr. Fellowes early made known to Anne that her uncle had asked him\nto be her banker, and the first care of her kind hostess was to\nassist her in supplying the deficiencies of her wardrobe, so that\nshe was able to go abroad without shrinking at her own shabby\nappearance.\n\nThe next thing was to take her to Poissy to request her dismissal\nfrom the Queen, without which it would be hardly decorous to depart,\nthough in point of fact, in the present state of affairs, as Noemi\nsaid, there was nothing to prevent it.\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Fellowes; \"but for that reason Miss Woodford would\nfeel bound to show double courtesy to the discrowned Queen.\"\n\n\"And she has often been very kind to me--I love her much,\" said\nAnne.\n\n\"Noemi is a little Whig,\" said Madame de Bellaise.  \"I shall not\ntake her with us, because I know her father would not like it, but\nto me it is only like the days of my youth to visit an exiled queen.\nWill these gentlemen think fit to be of the party?\"\n\n\"Thank you, madam, not I,\" said the Magdalen man.  \"I am very sorry\nfor the poor lady, but my college has suffered too much at her\nhusband's hands for me to be very anxious to pay her my respects;\nand if my young friend will take my advice, neither will he.  It\nmight be bringing his father into trouble.\"\n\nTo this Charles agreed, so M. L'Abbe undertook to show them the\npictures at the Louvre, and Anne and Madame de Bellaise were the\nonly occupants of the carriage that conveyed them to the great old\nconvent of Poissy, the girl enjoying by the way the comfort of the\nkindness of a motherly woman, though even to her there could be no\nconfiding of the terrible secret that underlay all her thoughts.\nMadame de Bellaise, however, said how glad she was to secure this\ncompanionship for her niece.  Noemi had been more attached than her\nfamily realised to Claude Merrycourt, a neighbour who had had the\nfolly, contrary to her prudent father's advice, to rush into\nMonmouth's rebellion, and it had only been by the poor girl's agony\nwhen he suffered under the summary barbarities of Kirke that her\nmother had known how much her heart was with him.  The depression of\nspirits and loss of health that ensued had been so alarming that\nwhen Madame de Bellaise, after some months, paid a long visit to her\nsister in England, Mrs. Darpent had consented to send the girl to\nmake acquaintance with her French relations, and try the effect of\nchange of scene.  She had gone, indifferent, passive, and broken-\nhearted, but her aunt had watched over her tenderly, and she had\ngradually revived, not indeed into a joyous girl, but into a calm\nand fairly cheerful woman.\n\nWhen she had left home, France and England were only too closely\nconnected, but now they were at daggers drawn, and probably would be\nso for many years, and the Revolution had come so suddenly that\nMadame de Bellaise had not been able to make arrangements for her\nniece's return home, and Noemi was anxiously waiting for an\nopportunity of rejoining her parents.\n\nThe present plan was this.  Madame de Bellaise's son, the Marquis de\nNidemerle, was Governor of Douai, where his son, the young Baron de\nRibaumont, with his cousin, the Chevalier d'Aubepine, were to join\nhim with their tutor, the Abbe Leblanc.  The war on the Flemish\nfrontier was not just then in an active state, and there were often\nfriendly relations between the commandants of neighbouring\ngarrisons, so that it might be possible to pass a party on to the\nSpanish territory with a flag of truce, and then the way would be\neasy.  This passing, however, would be impossible for Noemi alone,\nsince etiquette would not permit of her thus travelling with the two\nyoung gentlemen, nor could she have proceeded after reaching Douai,\nso that the arrival of the two Englishmen and the company of Miss\nWoodford was a great boon.  Madame de Bellaise had already\ndespatched a courier to ask her son whether he could undertake the\ntransit across the frontier, and hoped to apply for passports as\nsoon as his answer was received.  She told Anne her niece's history\nto prevent painful allusions on the journey.\n\n\"Ah, madame!\" said Anne, \"we too have a sad day connected with that\nunfortunate insurrection.  We grieved over Lady Lisle, and burnt\nwith indignation.\"\n\n\"M. Barillon tells me that her judge, the Lord Chancellor, was\nactually forced to commit himself to the Tower to escape being torn\nto pieces by the populace, and it is since reported that he has\nthere died of grief and shame.  I should think his prison cell must\nhave been haunted by hundreds of ghosts.\"\n\n\"I pray you, madame! do you believe that there are apparitions?\"\n\n\"I have heard of none that were not explained by some accident, or\nelse were the produce of an excited brain;\" and Anne said no more on\nthat head, though it was a comfort to tell of her own foolish\npreference for the chances of Court preferment above the security of\nLady Russell's household, and Madame de Bellaise smiled, and said\nher experience of Courts had not been too agreeable.\n\nAnd thus they reached Poissy, where Queen Mary Beatrice had separate\nrooms set apart for visitors, and thus did not see them from behind\nthe grating, but face to face.\n\n\"You wish to leave me, signorina,\" she said, using the appellation\nof their more intimate days, as Anne knelt to kiss her hand.  \"I\ncannot wonder.  A poor exile has nothing wherewith to reward the\nfaithful.\"\n\n\"Ah! your Majesty, that is not the cause; if I were of any use to\nyou or to His Royal Highness.\"\n\n\"True, signorina; you have been faithful and aided me to the best of\nyour power in my extremity, but while you will not embrace the true\nfaith I cannot keep you about the person of my son as he becomes\nmore intelligent.  Therefore it may be well that you should leave\nus, until such time as we shall be recalled to our kingdom, when I\nhope to reward you more suitably.  You loved my son, and he loved\nyou--perhaps you would like to bid him farewell.\"\n\nFor this Anne was very grateful, and the Prince was sent for by the\nmother, who was too proud of him to miss any opportunity of\nexhibiting him to an experienced mother and grandmother like the\nvicomtesse.  He was a year old, and had become a very beautiful\nchild, with large dark eyes like his mother's, and when Mrs. Labadie\ncarried him in, he held out his arms to Anne with a cry of glad\nrecognition that made her feel that if she could have been allowed\nthe charge of him she could hardly have borne to part with him.  And\nwhen the final leave-taking came, the Queen made his little hand\npresent her with a little gold locket, containing his soft hair,\nwith a J in seed pearls outside, in memory, said Mary Beatrice, of\nthat night beneath the church wall.\n\n\"Ah, yes, you had your moment of fear, but we were all in terror,\nand you hushed him well.\"\n\nThus with another kiss to the white hand, returned on her own\nforehead, ended Anne Jacobina's Court life.  Never would she be\nJacobina again--always Anne or sweet Nancy!  It was refreshing to be\nso called, when Charles Archfield let the name slip out, then\nblushed and apologised, while she begged him to resume it, which he\nwas now far too correct to do in public.  Noemi quite readily\nadopted it.\n\n\"I am tired of fine French names,\" she said:  \"an English voice is\nquite refreshing; and do you call me Naomi, not Noemi.  I did not\nmind it so much at first, because my father sometimes called me so,\nafter his good old mother, who was bred a Huguenot, but it is like\nthe first step towards home to hear Naomi--Little Omy, as my\nbrothers used to shout over the stairs.\"\n\nThat was a happy fortnight.  Madame de Bellaise said it would be a\nshame to let Anne have spent a half year in France and have seen\nnothing, so she took the party to the theatre, where they saw the\nCid with extreme delight.  She regretted that the season was so far\nadvanced that the winter representations of Esther, at St. Cyr by\nthe young ladies, were over, but she invited M. Racine for an\nevening, when Mr. Fellowes took extreme pleasure in his\nconversation, and he was prevailed on to read some of the scenes.\nShe also used her entree at Court to enable them to see the\nfountains at Versailles, which Winchester was to have surpassed but\nfor King Charles's death.\n\n\"Just as well otherwise,\" remarked Charles to Anne.  \"These fine\nfeathers and flowers of spray are beautiful enough in themselves,\nbut give me the clear old Itchen not tortured into playing tricks,\nwith all the trout killed; and the open down instead of all these\nterraces and marble steps where one feels as cramped as if it were a\nperpetual minuet.  And look at the cost!  Ah! you will know what I\nmean when we travel through the country.\"\n\nAnother sight was from a gallery, whence they beheld the King eat\nhis dinner alone at a silver-loaded table, and a lengthy ceremony it\nwas.  Four plates of soup to begin with, a whole capon with ham,\nfollowed by a melon, mutton, salad, garlic, pate de foie gras,\nfruit, and confitures.  Charles really grew so indignant, that, in\nspite of his newly-acquired politeness, Anne, who knew his\ncountenance, was quite glad when she saw him safe out of hearing.\n\n\"The old glutton!\" he said; \"I should like to put him on a diet of\nbuckwheat and sawdust like his poor peasants for a week, and then\nsee whether he would go on gormandising, with his wars and his\nbuildings, starving his poor.  It is almost enough to make a Whig of\na man to see what we might have come to.  How can you bear it,\nmadame?\"\n\n\"Alas! we are powerless,\" said the Vicomtesse.  \"A seigneur can do\nlittle for his people, but in Anjou we have some privileges, and our\npeasants are better off than those you have seen, though indeed I\ngrieved much for them when first I came among them from England.\"\n\nShe was perhaps the less sorry that Paris was nearly emptied of\nfashionable society since her guest had the less chance of uttering\ndangerous sentiments before those who might have repeated them, and\nmuch as she liked him, she was relieved when letters came from her\nson undertaking to expedite them on their way provided they made\nhaste to forestall any outbreak of the war in that quarter.\n\nMeantime Naomi and Anne had been drawn much nearer together by a\ncommon interest.  The door between their rooms having some\nimperfection in the latch swung open as they were preparing for bed,\nand Anne was aware of a sound of sobbing, and saw one of the white-\ncapped, short-petticoated femmes de chambre kneeling at Naomi's\nfeet, ejaculating, \"Oh, take me! take me, mademoiselle!  Madame is\nan angel of goodness, but I cannot go on living a lie.  I shall do\nsomething dreadful.\"\n\n\"Poor Suzanne! poor Suzanne!\" Naomi was answering:  \"I will do what\nI can, I will see if it is possible--\"\n\nThey started at the sound of the step, Suzanne rising to her feet in\nterror, but Naomi, signing to Anne and saying, \"It is only\nMademoiselle Woodford, a good Protestant, Suzanne.  Go now; I will\nsee what can be done; I know my aunt would like to send a maid with\nus.\"\n\nThen as Suzanne went out with her apron to her eyes, and Anne would\nhave apologised, she said, \"Never mind; I must have told you, and\nasked your help.  Poor Suzanne, she is one of the Rotrous, an old\nrace of Huguenot peasants whom my aunt always protected; she would\nprotect any one, but these people had a special claim because they\nsheltered our great-grandmother, Lady Walwyn, when she fled after\nthe S. Barthelemi.  When the Edict of Nantes was revoked, the two\nbrothers fled.  I believe she helped them, and they got on board\nship, and brought a token to my father; but the old mother was\nfeeble and imbecile, and could not move, and the monks and the\ndragoons frightened and harassed this poor wench into what they\ncalled conforming.  When the mother died, my aunt took Suzanne and\ntaught her, and thought she was converted; and indeed if all Papists\nwere like my aunt it would not be so hard to become one.\"\n\n\"Oh yes!  I know others like that.\"\n\n\"But this poor Suzanne, knowing that she only was converted out of\nterror, has always had an uneasy conscience, and the sight of me has\nstirred up everything.  She says, though I do not know if it be\ntrue, that she was fast drifting into bad habits, when finding my\nBible, though it was English and she could not read it, seems to\nhave revived everything, and recalled the teaching of her good old\nfather and pastor, and now she is wild to go to England with us.\"\n\n\"You will take her?\" exclaimed Anne.\n\n\"Of course I will.  Perhaps that is what I was sent here for.  I\nwill ask her of my aunt, and I think she will let me have her.  You\nwill keep her secret, Anne.\"\n\n\"Indeed I will.\"\n\nMadame de Bellaise granted Suzanne to her niece without difficulty,\nevidently guessing the truth, but knowing the peril of the situation\ntoo well to make any inquiry.  Perhaps she was disappointed that her\nendeavours to win the girl to her Church had been ineffectual, but\nto have any connection with one 'relapsed' was so exceedingly\nperilous that she preferred to ignore the whole subject, and merely\nlet it be known that Suzanne was to accompany Mademoiselle Darpent,\nand this was only disclosed to the household on the very last\nmorning, after the passports had been procured and the mails packed,\nand she hushed any remark of the two English girls in such a decided\nmanner as quite startled them by the manifest need of caution.\n\n\"We should have come to that if King James were still allowed to\nhave his own way,\" said Naomi.\n\n\"Oh no! we are too English,\" said Anne.\n\n\"Our generation might not see it,\" said Naomi; \"but who can be safe\nwhen a Popish king can override law?  Oh, I shall breathe more\nfreely when I am on the other side of the Channel.  My aunt is much\ntoo good for this place, and they don't approve of her, and keep her\ndown.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII: REVENANTS\n\n\n\"But soft, behold! lo, where it comes again!\nI'll cross it, though it blast me.\"\n\nHamlet.\n\nFloods of tears were shed at the departure of the two young officers\nof sixteen and seventeen.  The sobs of the household made the\nEnglish party feel very glad when it was over and the cavalcade was\nin motion.  A cavalcade it was, for each gentleman rode and so did\nhis body-servant, and each horse had a mounted groom.  The two young\nofficers had besides each two chargers, requiring a groom and horse\nboy, and each conducted half a dozen fresh troopers to join the\narmy.  A coach was the regulation mode of travelling for ladies, but\nboth the English girls had remonstrated so strongly that Madame de\nBellaise had consented to their riding, though she took them and\nSuzanne the first day's journey well beyond the ken of the Parisians\nin her own carriage, as far as Senlis, where there was a fresh\nparting with the two lads, fewer tears, and more counsel and\nencouragement, with many fond messages to her son, many to her\nsister in England, and with affectionate words to her niece a\nwhisper to her to remember that she would not be in a Protestant\ncountry till she reached Holland or England.\n\nThe last sight they had of the tall dignified figure of the old lady\nwas under the arch of the cathedral, where she was going to pray for\ntheir safety.  Suzanne was to ride on a pillion behind the Swiss\nvalet of Mr. Fellowes, whom Naomi had taken into her confidence, and\nthe two young ladies each mounted a stout pony.  Mr. Fellowes had\nmade friends with the Abbe Leblanc, who was of the old Gallican\ntype, by no means virulently set against Anglicanism, and also a\nhighly cultivated man, so that they had many subjects in common,\nbesides the question of English Catholicity.  The two young cousins,\nRibaumont and D'Aubepine, were chiefly engaged in looking out for\nsport, setting their horses to race with one another, and the like,\nin which Charles Archfield sometimes took a share, but he usually\nrode with the two young ladies, and talked to them very pleasantly\nof his travels in Italy, the pictures and antiquities which had made\ninto an interesting reality the studies that he had hated when a\nboy, also the condition of the country he had seen with a mind which\nseemed to have opened and enlarged with a sudden start beyond the\ninterests of the next fox-hunt or game at bowls.  All were, as he\nhad predicted, greatly shocked at the aspect of the country through\nwhich they passed:  the meagre crops ripening for harvest, the hay-\ncarts, sometimes drawn by an equally lean cow and woman, the haggard\nwomen bearing heavy burthens, and the ragged, barefooted children\nleading a wretched cow or goat to browse by the wayside, the gaunt\nmen toiling at road-mending with their poor starved horses, or at\ntheir seigneur's work, alike unpaid, even when drawn off from their\nown harvests.  And in the villages the only sound buildings were the\nchurch and presbytere by its side, the dwellings being miserable\nhovels, almost sunk into the earth, an old crone or two, marvels of\nskinniness, spinning at the door, or younger women making lace, and\nnearly naked children rushing out to beg.  Sometimes the pepper-box\nturrets of a chateau could be seen among distant woods, or the walls\nof a cloister, with a taper spire in the midst, among greener\nfields; and the towns were approached through long handsome avenues,\nand their narrow streets had a greater look of prosperity, while\ntheir inns, being on the way to the place of warfare, were almost\nluxurious, with a choice of dainty meats and good wines.  Everywhere\nelse was misery, and Naomi said it was the vain endeavour to reform\nthe source of these grievances that had forced her father to become\nan exile from his native country, and that he had much apprehended\nthat the same blight might gradually be brought over his adopted\nland, on which Charles stood up for the constitution, and for the\nresolute character of Englishmen, and Anne, as in duty bound, for\nthe good intentions of her godfather.  Thus they argued, and Anne\nnot only felt herself restored to the company of rational beings,\nbut greatly admired Charles's sentiments and the ability with which\nhe put them forward, and now and then the thought struck her, and\nwith a little twinge of pain of which she was ashamed, would Naomi\nDarpent be the healer of the wound nearly a year old, and find in\nhim consolation for the hero of her girlhood?  Somehow there would\nbe a sense of disappointment in them both if so it were.\n\nAt length the spires and towers of Douai came in sight, fenced in by\nstern lines of fortification according to the science of Vauban--\nsmooth slopes of glacis, with the terrible muzzles of cannon peeping\nout on the summits of the ramparts, and the line of salient angle\nand ravelin with the moat around, beautiful though formidable.  The\nMarquis de Nidemerle had sent a young officer and sergeant's party\nto meet the travellers several miles off, and bring them\nunquestioned through the outposts of the frontier town, so closely\nwatched in this time of war, and at about half a mile from the gates\nhe himself, with a few attendants, rode out all glittering and\nclanking in their splendid uniforms and accoutrements.  He doffed\nhis hat with the heavy white plume, and bowed his greeting to the\nladies and clergymen, but both the young Frenchmen, after a military\nsalute, hastily dismounted and knelt on one knee, while he sprang\nfrom his horse, and then, making the sign of the Cross over his son,\nraised him, and folding him in his arms pressed him to his breast\nand kissed him on each cheek, not without tears, then repeated the\nsame greeting with young D'Aubepine.  He then kissed the hand of his\nbelle cousine, whom, of course, he knew already, and bowed almost to\nthe ground on being presented to Mademoiselle Woodford, a little\nless low to Monsieur Archfield, who was glad the embracing was not\nto be repeated, politely received Mr. Fellowes, and honoured the\ndomestic abbe with a kindly word and nod.  The gradation was\namusing, and he was a magnificent figure, with his noble horse and\ngrand military dress, while his fine straight features, sunburnt\nthough naturally fair, and his tall, powerful frame, well became his\nsurroundings--'a true white Ribaumont,' as Naomi said, as she looked\nat the long fair hair drawn back and tied with ribbon.  \"He is just\nlike the portrait of our great-grandfather who was almost killed on\nthe S. Barthelemi!\"  However, Naomi had no more time to talk _of_\nhim, for he rode by her side inquiring for his mother, wife, and\nchildren, but carefully doing the honours to the stranger lady and\ngentleman.\n\nMoat and drawbridge there were at Portsmouth, and a sentry at the\nentrance, but here there seemed endless guards, moats, bridges, and\ngates, and there was a continual presenting of arms and\nacknowledging of salutes as the commandant rode in with the\ntravellers.  It was altogether a very new experience in life.  They\nwere lodged in the governor's quarters in the fortress, where the\naccommodation for ladies was of the slenderest, and M. de Nidemerle\nmade many apologies, though he had evidently given up his own\nsleeping chamber to the two ladies, who would have to squeeze into\nhis narrow camp-bed, with Suzanne on the floor, and the last was to\nremain there entirely, there being no woman with whom she could have\nher meals.  The ladies were invited to sup with the staff, and\nwould, as M. de Nidemerle assured them, be welcomed with the\ngreatest delight.  So Naomi declared that they must make their\ntoilette do as much justice as possible to their country; and though\nfull dress was not attainable, they did their best with ribbons and\nlaces, and the arrangement of her fair locks and Anne's brown ones,\nwhen Suzanne proved herself an adept; the ladies meantime finding no\nsmall amusement in the varieties of swords, pistols, spurs, and\nother accoutrements, for which the marquis had apologised, though\nNaomi told him that they were the fittest ornaments possible.\n\n\"And my cousin Gaspard is a really good man,\" she said, indicating\nto her friend the little shrine with holy-water stoup, ivory\ncrucifix, print of the Madonna, two or three devotional books, and\nthe miniatures of mother, wife, and children hung not far off; also\nof two young cavaliers, one of whom Naomi explained to be the young\nfather whom Gaspard could not recollect, the other, that of the\nuncle Eustace, last Baron Walwyn and Ribaumont, of whom her own\nmother talked with such passionate affection, and whose example had\nalways been a guiding star to the young marquis.\n\nHe came to their door to conduct them down to supper, giving his arm\nto Miss Woodford as the greatest stranger, while Miss Darpent was\nconducted by a resplendent ducal colonel.  The supper-room was in\nfestal guise, hung round with flags, and the table adorned with\nflowers; a band was playing, and never had either Anne or Naomi been\nmade so much of.  All were eagerly talking, Charles especially so,\nand Anne thought, with a thrill, \"Did he recollect that this was the\nvery anniversary of that terrible 1st of July?\"\n\nIt was a beautiful summer evening, and the supper taking place at\nfive o'clock there was a considerable time to spare afterwards, so\nthat M. de Nidemerle proposed to show the strangers the place, and\nthe view from the ramparts.\n\n\"In my company you can see all well,\" he said, \"but otherwise there\nmight be doubts and jealousies.\"\n\nHe took them through the narrow Flemish streets of tall houses with\nprojecting upper stories, and showed them that seminary which was\npopularly supposed in England to be the hotbed of truculent plots,\nbut where they only saw a quiet academic cloister and an exquisite\ngarden, green turf, roses and white lilies in full perfection, and\nstudents flitting about in cassocks and square caps, more like an\nOxford scene, as Mr. Fellowes said, than anything he had yet seen.\nHe was joined by an English priest from his own original\nneighbourhood.  The Abbe Leblanc found another acquaintance, and\nthese two accompanied their friends to the ramparts.  The marquis\nhad a great deal to hear from his cousin about his home, and thus it\nhappened that Charles Archfield and Anne found themselves more\npractically alone together than they had yet been.  As they looked\nat the view over the country, he told her of a conversation that he\nhad had with an officer now in the French army, but who had served\nin the Imperial army against the Turks, and that he had obtained\nmuch useful information.\n\n\"Useful?\" asked Anne.\n\n\"Yes.  I have been watching for the moment to tell you, Anne; I have\nresolved what to do.  I intend to make a few campaigns there against\nthe enemy of Christendom.\"\n\n\"O Mr. Archfield!\" was all she could say.\n\n\"See here, I have perceived plainly that to sink down into my lady's\neldest son is no wholesome life for a man with all his powers about\nhim.  I understand now what a set of oafs we were to despise the\npoor fellow you wot of, because he was not such a lubber as\nourselves.  I have no mind to go through the like.\"\n\n\"You are so different; it could not be the same.\"\n\n\"Not quite; but remember there is nothing for me to do.  My father\nis still an active man, and I am not old enough to take my part in\npublic affairs, even if I loved greatly either the Prince of Orange\nor King James.  I could not honestly draw my sword for either.  I\nhave no estate to manage, my child's inheritance is all in money,\nand it would drive me mad, or worse, to go home to be idle.  No; I\nwill fight against the common enemy till I have made me a name, and\nwon reputation and standing; or if I should not come back, there's\nthe babe at home to carry on the line.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir! your father and mother--Lucy--all that love you.  What\nwill they say?\"\n\n\"It would only put them to needless pain to ask them.  I shall not.\nI shall write explaining all my motives--all except one, and that\nyou alone know, Anne.\"\n\nShe shuddered a little, and felt him press her arm tightly.  They\nhad fallen a good deal behind the marquis and his cousin, and were\ndescending as twilight fell into a narrow, dark, lonely street, with\nall the houses shut up.  \"No one has guessed, have they?\" she\nfaltered.\n\n\"Not that I know of.  But I cannot--no!  I can_not_ go home, to have\nthat castle near me, and that household at Oakwood.  I see enough in\nmy dreams without that.\"\n\n\"See!  Ah, yes!\"\n\n\"Then, Anne, you have suffered then too--guiltless as you are in\nkeeping my terrible secret!  I have often thought and marvelled\nwhether it were so with you.\"\n\nShe was about to tell him what she had seen, when he began, \"There\nis one thing in this world that would sweeten and renew my life--and\nthat?\"\n\nHer heart was beating violently at what was so suddenly coming on\nher, when at that instant Charles broke off short with \"Good\nHeavens!  What's that?\"\n\nOn the opposite side of the street, where one of the many churches\nstood some way back, making an opening, there was a figure,\nessentially the same that Anne had seen at Lambeth, but bare-headed,\nclad apparently in something long and white, and with a pale bluish\nlight on the ghastly but unmistakable features.\n\nShe uttered a faint gasping cry scarcely audible, Charles's impulse\nwas to exclaim, \"Man or spirit, stand!\" and drawing his sword to\nrush across the street; but in that second all had vanished, and he\nonly struck against closed doors, which he shook, but could not\nopen.\n\n\"Mr. Archfield!  Oh, come back!  I have seen it before,\" entreated\nAnne; and he strode back, with a gesture of offering her support,\nand trembling, she clung to his arm.  \"It does not hurt,\" she said.\n\"It comes and goes--\"\n\n\"You have seen it before!\"\n\n\"Twice.\"\n\nNo more could be said, for through the gloom the white plume and\ngold-laced uniform of the marquis were seen.  He had missed them,\nand come back to look for them, beginning to apologise.\n\n\"I am confounded at having left Mademoiselle behind.--Comment!\"--as\nthe sound betrayed that Charles was sheathing his sword.  \"I trust\nthat Monsieur has met with no unpleasant adventure from my people.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, Monsieur,\" was the answer, as he added--\n\n\"One can never be sure as to these fiery spirits towards an\nEnglishman in the present state of feeling, and I blame myself\nextremely for having permitted myself to lose sight of Monsieur and\nMademoiselle.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, we have met with no cause of complaint,\" said Charles,\nadding as if casually, \"What is that church?\"\n\n\"'Tis the Jesuits' Church,\" replied the governor.  \"There is the\nbest preaching in the town, they say, and Jansenists as we are, I\nwas struck with the Lenten course.\"\n\nAnne went at once to her room on returning to the house.  Naomi, who\nwas there already, exclaimed at her paleness, and insisted on\nadministering a glass of wine from what the English called the rere\nsupper, the French an encas, the substantial materials for which had\nbeen left in the chamber.  Then Anne felt how well it had been for\nher that her fellows at the palace had been so uncongenial, for she\ncould hardly help disclosing to Naomi the sight she had seen, and\nthe half-finished words she had heard.  It was chiefly the feeling\nthat she could not bear Naomi to know of the blood on Charles's hand\nwhich withheld her in her tumult of feeling, and made her only\nentreat, \"Do not ask me, I cannot tell you.\"  And Naomi, who was\nsome years older, and had had her own sad experience, guessed\nperhaps at one cause for her agitation, and spared her inquiries,\nthough as Anne, tired out by the long day, and forced by their close\nquarters to keep herself still, dropped asleep, strange mutterings\nfell from her lips about \"The vault--the blood--come back.  There he\nis.  The secret has risen to forbid.  O, poor Peregrine!\"\n\nBetween the July heat, the narrow bed, and the two chamber fellows,\nAnne had little time to collect her thoughts, except for the general\nimpression that if Charles finished what he had begun to say, the\nliving and the dead alike must force her to refuse, though something\nwithin foreboded that this would cost her more than she yet durst\nperceive, and her heart was ready to spring forth and enclose him as\nit were in an embrace of infinite tenderness, above all when she\nthought of his purpose of going to those fearful Hungarian wars.\n\nBut after the hot night, it was a great relief to prepare for an\nearly start.  M. de Nidemerle had decided on sending the travellers\nto Tournay, the nearest Spanish town, on the Scheldt, since he had\nsome acquaintance with the governor, and when no campaign was\nactually on foot the courtesies of generous enemies passed between\nthem.  He had already sent an intimation of his intention of\nforwarding an English kinswoman of his own with her companions, and\nbespoken the good offices of his neighbour, and they were now to set\noff in very early morning under the escort of a flag of truce, a\ntrumpeter, and a party of troopers, commanded by an experienced old\nofficer with white moustaches and the peaked beard of the last\ngeneration, contrasting with a face the colour of walnut wood.\n\nThe marquis himself and his son, however, rode with the travellers\nfor their first five miles, through a country where the rich green\nof the natural growth showed good soil, all enamelled with flowers\nand corn crops run wild; but the villages looked deserted, the\nremains of burnt barns and houses were frequent, and all along that\nfrontier, it seemed as if no peaceful inhabitants ventured to\nsettle, and only brigands often rendered such by misery might prowl\nabout.  The English party felt as if they had never understood what\nwar could be.\n\nHowever, in a melancholy orchard run wild, under the shade of an\napple-tree laden with young fruit, backed by a blackened gable half\nconcealed by a luxuriant untrimmed vine, the avant couriers of the\ncommandant had cleared a space in the rank grass, and spread a\nmorning meal, of cold pate, fowl and light wines, in which the\nFrench officers drank to the good journey of their friends, and then\nwhen the horses had likewise had their refreshment the parting took\nplace with much affection between the cousins.  The young Ribaumont\naugured that they should meet again when he had to protect Noemi in\na grand descent on Dorsetshire in behalf of James, and she merrily\nshook her fist at him and defied him, and his father allowed that\nthey were a long way from that.\n\nM. de Nidemerle hinted to Mr. Archfield that nobody could tell him\nmore about the war with the Turks than M. le Capitaine Delaune, who\nwas, it appeared, a veteran Swiss who had served in almost every\narmy in Europe, and thus could give information by no means to be\nneglected.  So that, to Anne's surprise and somewhat to her\nmortification, since she had no knowledge of the cause, she saw\nCharles riding apart with this wooden old veteran, who sat as\nupright as a ramrod on his wiry-looking black horse, leaving her to\nthe company of Naomi and Mr. Fellowes.  Did he really wish not to\npursue the topic which had brought Peregrine from his grave?  It\nwould of course be all the better, but it cost her some terrible\npangs to think so.\n\nThere were far more formalities and delays before the travellers\ncould cross the Tournay bridge across the Scheldt.  They were\nbrought to a standstill a furlong off, and had to wait while the\ntrumpeter rode forward with the white flag, and the message was\nreferred to the officer on guard, while a sentry seemed to be\nwatching over them.  Then the officer came to the gateway of the\nbridge, and Captain Delaune rode forward to him, but there was still\na long weary waiting in the sun before he came back, after having\nshown their credentials to the governor, and then he was accompanied\nby a Flemish officer, who, with much courtesy, took them under his\ncharge, and conducted them through all the defences, over the\nbridge, and to the gate where their baggage had to be closely\nexamined.  Naomi had her Bible in her bosom, or it would not have\nescaped; Anne heartily wished she had used the same precaution on\nher flight from England, but she had not, like her friend, been\nwarned beforehand.\n\nWhen within the city there was more freedom, and the Fleming\nconducted the party to an inn, where, unlike English inns, they\ncould not have a parlour to themselves, but had to take their meals\nin common with other guests at a sort of table d'hote, and the\nladies had no refuge but their bedroom, where the number of beds did\nnot promise privacy.  An orderly soon arrived with an invitation to\nDon Carlos Arcafila to sup with the Spanish governor, and of course\nthe invitation could not be neglected.  The ladies walked about a\nlittle in the town with Mr. Fellowes, looking without appreciation\nat the splendid five-towered cathedral, but recollecting with due\nEnglish pride that the place had been conquered by Henry VIII.\nThence they were to make for Ostend, where they were certain of\nfinding a vessel bound for England.\n\nIt was a much smaller party that set forth from Tournay than from\nParis, and soon they fell into pairs, Mr. Fellowes and Naomi riding\ntogether, sufficiently out of earshot of the others for Charles to\nbegin--\n\n\"I have not been able to speak to you, Anne, since that strange\ninterruption--if indeed it were not a dream.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, it was no dream!  How could it be?\"\n\n\"How could it, indeed, when we both saw it, and both of us awake and\nafoot, and yet I cannot believe my senses.\"\n\n\"Oh, I can believe it only too truly!  I have seen him twice before.\nI thought you said you had.\"\n\n\"Merely in dreams, and that is bad enough.\"\n\n\"Are you sure? for I was up and awake.\"\n\n\"Are _you_ sure?  I might ask again.  I was asleep in bed, and glad\nenough to shake myself awake.  Where were you?\"\n\n\"Once on Hallowmas Eve, looking from the window at Whitehall; once\nwhen waiting with the Queen under the wall of Lambeth Church, on the\nnight of our flight.\"\n\n\"Did others see him then?\"\n\n\"I was alone the first time.  The next time when he flitted across\nthe light, no one else saw him; but they cried out at my start.  Why\nshould he appear except to us?\"\n\n\"That is true,\" muttered Charles.\n\n\"And oh, sir, those two times he looked as he did in life--not\nghastly as now.  There can be no doubt now that--\"\n\n\"What, sweet Anne?\"\n\n\"Sir, I must tell you!  I could bear it no longer, and I _did_\nconsult the Bishop of Bath and Wells.\"\n\n\"Any more?\" he asked in a somewhat displeased voice.\n\n\"No one, not a soul, and he is as safe as any of the priests here;\nhe regards a confession in the same way.  Mr. Archfield, forgive me.\nHe seemed divinely sent to me on that All Saints' day!  Oh, forgive\nme!\" and tears were in her eyes.\n\n\"He is Dr. Ken--eh?  I remember him.  I suppose he is as safe as any\nman, and a woman must have some relief.  You have borne enough\nindeed,\" said Charles, greatly touched by her tears.  \"What did he\nsay?\"\n\n\"He asked, was I certain of the--death,\" said she, bringing out the\nword with difficulty; \"but then I had only seen _it_ at Whitehall;\nand these other appearances, in such places too, take away all hope\nthat it is otherwise!\"\n\n\"Assuredly,\" said Charles; \"I had not the least doubt at the moment.\nI know I ran my sword through his body, and felt a jar that I\nbelieve was his backbone,\" he said with a shudder, \"and he fell\nprone and breathless; but since I have seen more of fencing, and\nheard more of wounds, the dread has crossed me that I acted as an\ninexperienced lad, and that I ought to have tried whether the life\nwas in him, or if he could be recovered.  If so, I slew him twice,\nby launching him into that pit.  God forgive me!\"\n\n\"Is it so deep?\" asked Anne, shuddering.  \"I know there is a sort of\nstep at the top; but I always shunned the place, and never looked\nin.\"\n\n\"There are two or three steps at the top, but all is broken away\nbelow.  Sedley and I once threw a ball down, and I am sure it\ndropped to a depth down which no man could fall and _live_.  I\nbelieve there once were underground passages leading to the harbour\non one hand, and out to Portsdown Hill on the other, but that the\ncommunication was broken away and the openings destroyed when Lord\nGoring was governor of Portsmouth, to secure the castle.  Be that as\nit may, he could not have been living after he reached that floor.\nI heard the thud, and the jingle of his sword, and it will haunt me\nto my dying day.\"\n\n\"And yet you never intended it.  You did it in defence of me.  You\ndid not mean to strike thus hard.  It was an accident.\"\n\n\"Would that I could so feel it!\" he sighed.  \"Nay, of course I had\nno evil design when my poor little wife drove me out to give you her\nrag of ribbon, or whatever it was; but I hated as well as despised\nthe fellow.  He had angered me with his scorn--well deserved, as now\nI see--of our lubberly ways.  She had vexed me with her teasing\ncommendations--out of harmless mischief, poor child.  I hated him\nmore every time you looked at him, and when I had occasion to strike\nhim I was glad of it.  There was murder in my heart, and I felt as\nif I were putting a rat or a weasel out of the way when I threw him\ndown that pit.  God forgive me!  Then, in my madness, I so acted\nthat in a manner I was the death of that poor young thing.\"\n\n\"No, no, sir.  Your mother had never thought she would live.\"\n\n\"So they say; but her face comes before me in reproach.  There are\ntimes when I feel myself a double murderer.  I have been on the\npoint of telling all to Mr. Fellowes, or going home to accuse\nmyself.  Only the thought of my father and mother, and of leaving\nsuch a blight on that poor baby, has withheld me; but I cannot go\nhome to face the sight of the castle.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Anne, choked with tears.\n\n\"Nor is there any suspicion of the poor fellow's fate,\" he added.\n\n\"Not that I ever heard.\"\n\n\"His family think him fled, as was like enough, considering the way\nin which they treated him,\" said Charles.  \"Nor do I see what good\nit would do them to know the truth.\"\n\n\"It would only be a grief and bitterness to all.\"\n\n\"I hope I have repented, and that God accepts my forgiveness,\" said\nCharles sadly.  \"I am banishing myself from all I love, and there is\na weight on me for life; but, unless suspicion falls on others, I do\nnot feel bound to make it worse for all by giving myself up.  Yet\nthose appearances--to you, to me, to us both!  At such a moment,\ntoo, last night!\"\n\n\"Can it be because of his unhallowed grave?\" said Anne, in a low\nvoice of awe.\n\n\"If it were!\" said Charles, drawing up his horse for a moment in\nthought.  \"Anne, if there be one more appearance, the place shall be\nsearched, whether it incriminate me or not.  It would be adding to\nall my wrongs towards the poor fellow, if that were the case.\"\n\n\"Even if he were found,\" said Anne, \"suspicion would not light on\nyou.  And at home it will be known if he haunts the place.  I will--\n\"\n\n\"Nay, but, Anne, he will not interrupt me now.  I have much more to\nsay.  I want you to remember that we were sweethearts ere ever I, as\na child of twelve, knew that I was contracted to that poor babe, and\nbidden to think only of her.  Poor child!  I honestly did my best to\nlove her, so far as I knew how, and mayhap we could have rubbed on\nthrough life passably well as things go.  But--but--It skills not\ntalking of things gone by, except to show that it is a whole heart--\nnot the reversion of one that is yours for ever, mine only love.\"\n\n\"Oh, but--but--I am no match for you.\"\n\n\"I've had enough of grand matches.\"\n\n\"Your father would never endure it.\"\n\n\"My father would soon rejoice.  Besides, if we are wedded here--say\nat Ostend--and you make me a home at Buda, or Vienna, or some place\nat our winter quarters, as my brave wench will, my father will be\nglad enough to see us both at home again.\"\n\n\"No; it cannot be.  It would be plain treachery to your parents; Mr.\nFellowes would say so.  I am sure he would not marry us.\"\n\n\"There are English chaplains.  Is that all that holds you back?\"\n\n\"No, sir.  If the Archbishop of Canterbury were here himself, it\ncould not make it other than a sin, and an act of mean ingratitude,\nfor me, the Prince's rocker, to take advantage of their goodness in\npermitting you to come and bring me home--to do what would be pain,\ngrief, and shame to them.\"\n\n\"Never shame.\"\n\n\"What is wrong is shame!  Cannot you see how unworthy it would be in\nme, and how it would grieve my uncle that I should have done such a\nthing?\"\n\n\"Love would override scruples.\"\n\n\"Not _true_ love.\"\n\n\"True!  Then you own to some love for me, Anne.\"\n\n\"I do--not--know.  I have guarded--I mean--cast away--I mean--never\nentertained any such thought ever since I was old enough to know how\nwicked it would be.\"\n\n\"Anne!  Anne!\" (in an undertone very like rapture), \"you have\nconfessed all!  It is no sin _now_.  Even you cannot say so.\"\n\nShe hung her head and did not answer, but silence was enough for\nhim.\n\n\"It is enough!\" he said; \"you will wait.  I shall know you are\nwaiting till I return in such sort that nothing can be denied me.\nLet me at least have that promise.\"\n\n\"You need not fear,\" murmured Anne.  \"How could I need?  The secret\nwould withhold me, were there nothing else.\"\n\n\"And there is something else?  Eh, sweetheart?  Is that all I am to\nbe satisfied with?\"\n\n\"Oh sir!--Mr. Archfield, I mean--O Charles!\" she stammered.\n\nMr. Fellowes turned round to consult his pupil as to whether the\nhalt should be made at the village whose peaked roofs were seen over\nthe fruit trees.\n\nBut when Anne was lifted down from the steed it was with no grasp of\ncommon courtesy, and her hand was not relinquished till it had been\nfervently kissed.\n\nCharles did not again torment her with entreaties to share his\nexile.  Mayhap he recognised, though unwillingly, that her judgment\nhad been right, but there was no small devotion in his whole\ndemeanour, as they dined, rode, and rested on that summer's day amid\nfields of giant haycocks, and hostels wreathed with vines, with long\nvistas of sleek cows and plump dappled horses in the sheds behind.\nThe ravages of war had lessened as they rode farther from the\nfrontier, and the rich smiling landscape lay rejoicing in the summer\nsunshine; the sturdy peasants looked as if they had never heard of\nmarauders, as they herded their handsome cattle and responded\ncivilly when a draught of milk was asked for the ladies.\n\nThere was that strange sense of Eden felicity that sometimes comes\nwith the knowledge that the time is short for mutual enjoyment in\nfull peace.  Charles and Anne would part, their future was\nundefined; but for the present they reposed in the knowledge of each\nother's hearts, and in being together.  It was as in their\nchildhood, when by tacit consent he had been Anne's champion from\nthe time she came as a little Londoner to be alarmed at rough\ncountry ways, and to be easily scared by Sedley.  It had been then\nthat Charles had first awakened to the chivalry of the better part\nof boyhood's nature, instead of following his cousin's lead, and\ntreating girls as creatures meant to be bullied.  Many a happy\nreminiscence was shared between the two as they rode together, and\nit was not till the pale breadth of sea filled their horizon, broken\nby the tall spires and peaked gables and many-windowed steep roofs\nof Ostend, that the future was permitted to come forward and trouble\nthem.  Then Anne's heart began to feel that persistence in her\nabsolute refusal was a much harder thing than at the first, when the\nidea was new and strange to her.  And there were strange yearnings\nthat Charles should renew the proposal, mixed with dread of herself\nand of her own resolution in case of his doing so.  As her\naffections embraced him more and more she pictured him sick,\nwounded, dying, out of reach of all, among Germans, Hungarians,\nTurks,--no one at hand to comfort him or even to know his fate.\n\nThere was even disappointment in his acquiescence, though her better\nmind told her that it was in accordance with her prayer against\ntemptation.  Moreover, he was of a reserved nature, not apt to\ndiscuss what was once fixed, and perhaps it showed that he respected\nher judgment not to try to shake her decision.  Though for once love\nhad carried him away, he might perhaps be grateful to her for\nsparing him the perplexities of dragging her about with him and of\ngiving additional offence to his parents.  The affection born of\nlifelong knowledge is not apt to be of the vehement character that\ndisregards all obstacles or possible miseries to the object thereof.\nYet enough feeling was betrayed to make Naomi whisper at night,\n\"Sweet Nan, are you not some one else's sweet?\"\n\nAnd Anne, now with another secret on her heart, only replied with\nembraces, and, \"Do not talk of it!  I cannot tell how it is to be.\nI cannot tell you all.\"\n\nNaomi was discreet enough only to caress.\n\nWith strict formalities at outworks, moat, drawbridge, and gates,\nand the customary inquisitorial search of the luggage, the\ntravellers were allowed to repair to a lofty inn, with the Lion of\nFlanders for its sign, and a wide courtyard, the successive outside\ngalleries covered with luxuriant vines.  Here, as usual, though the\nparty of females obtained one bedroom together, the gentlemen had to\nshare one vast sleeping chamber with a variety of merchants, Dutch,\nFlemish, Spanish, and a few English.  Meals were at a great table\nd'hote in the public room, opening into the court, and were shared\nby sundry Spanish, Belgic, and Swiss officers of the garrison, who\nmade this their mess-room.  Two young English gentlemen, like\nCharles Archfield, making the grand tour, whom he had met in Italy,\nwere delighted to encounter him again, and still more so at the\ncompany of English ladies.\n\n\"No wonder the forlorn widower has recovered his spirits!\" Anne\nheard one say with a laugh that made her blush and turn away; and\nthere was an outcry that after a monopoly of the fair ones all the\nway from Paris, the seats next to them must be yielded.\n\nAnne was disappointed, and could not bring herself to be agreeable\nto the obtrusive cavalier with the rich lace cravat and perfumed\nhair, both assumed in her honour.\n\nThe discussion was respecting the vessels where a passage might be\nobtained.  The cavaliers were to sail in a couple of days for\nLondon, but another ship would go out of harbour with the tide on\nthe following day for Southampton, and this was decided on by\nacclamation by the Hampshire party, though no good accommodation was\npromised them.\n\nThere was little opportunity for a tete-a-tetes, for the young men\ninsisted on escorting the ladies to the picture galleries, palaces,\nand gardens, and Charles did not wish to reawaken the observations\nthat, according to the habits of the time, might not be of the\nchoicest description.  Anne watched him under her eyelashes, and\nwondered with beating heart whether after all he intended to return\nhome, and there plead his cause, for he gave no token of intending\nto separate from the rest.\n\nThe Hampshire Hog was to sail at daybreak, so the passengers went on\nboard over night, after supper, when the summer twilight was sinking\ndown and the far-off west still had a soft golden tint.\n\nAnne felt Charles's arm round her in the boat and grasping her hand,\nthen pulling off her glove and putting a ring on her finger--all in\nsilence.  She still felt that arm on the deck in the confusion of\nmen, ropes, and bales of goods, and the shouts and hails on all\nsides that nearly deafened her.  There was imminent danger of being\nhurled down, if not overboard, among the far from sober sailors, and\nMr. Fellowes urged the ladies to go below at once, conducting Miss\nDarpent himself as soon as he could ascertain where to go.  Anne\nfelt herself almost lifted down.  Then followed a strong embrace, a\nkiss on brow, lips, and either cheek, and a low hoarse whisper--\"So\nbest!  Mine own!  God bless you,\"--and as Suzanne came tumbling aft\ninto the narrow cabin, Anne found herself left alone with her two\nfemale companions, and knew that these blissful days were over.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII: FRENCH LEAVE\n\n\n\"When ye gang awa, Jamie,\n   Far across the sea, laddie,\nWhen ye gang to Germanie\n   What will ye send to me, laddie?\"\n\nHuntingtower.\n\nFides was the posy on the ring.  That was all Anne could discover,\nand indeed only this much with the morning light of the July sun\nthat penetrated the remotest corners.  For the cabin was dark and\nstifling, and there was no leaving it, for both Miss Darpent and her\nattendant were so ill as to engross her entirely.\n\nShe could hardly leave them when there was a summons to a meal in\nthe captain's cabin, and there she found herself the only passenger\nable to appear, and the rest of the company, though intending\ncivility, were so rough that she was glad to retreat again, and\nwretched as the cabin was, she thought it preferable to the deck.\n\nMr. Fellowes, she heard, was specially prostrated, and jokes were\npassing round that it was the less harm, since it might be the worse\nfor him if the crew found out that there was a parson on board.\n\nThus Anne had to forego the first sight of her native land, and only\nby the shouts above and the decreased motion of the vessel knew when\nshe was within lee of the Isle of Wight, and on entering the Solent\ncould encourage her companions that their miseries were nearly over,\nand help them to arrange themselves for going upon deck.\n\nWhen at length they emerged, as the ship lay-to in sight of the red\nroofs and white steeples of Southampton, and of the green mazes of\nthe New Forest, Mr. Fellowes was found looking everywhere for the\npupil whom he had been too miserable to miss during the voyage.\nNeither Charles Archfield nor his servant was visible, but Mr.\nFellowes's own man coming forward, delivered to the bewildered tutor\na packet which he said that his comrade had put in his charge for\nthe purpose.  In the boat, on the way to land, Mr. Fellowes read to\nhimself the letter, which of course filled him with extreme\ndistress.  It contained much of what Charles had already explained\nto Anne of his conviction that in the present state of affairs it\nwas better for so young a man as himself, without sufficient\noccupation at home, to seek honourable service abroad, and that he\nthought it would spare much pain and perplexity to depart without\nrevisiting home.  He added full and well-expressed thanks for all\nthat Mr. Fellowes had done for him, and for kindness for which he\nhoped to be the better all his life.  He enclosed a long letter to\nhis father, which he said would, he hoped, entirely exonerate his\nkind and much-respected tutor from any remissness or any\nparticipation in the scheme which he had thought it better on all\naccounts to conceal till the last.\n\n\"And indeed,\" said poor Mr. Fellowes, \"if I had had any inkling of\nit, I should have applied to the English Consul to restrain him as a\nward under trust.  But no one would have thought it of him.  He had\nalways been reasonable and docile beyond his years, and I trusted\nhim entirely.  I should as soon have thought of our President giving\nme the slip in this way.  Surely he came on board with us.\"\n\n\"He handed me into the boat,\" said Miss Darpent.  \"Who saw him last?\nDid you, Miss Woodford?\"\n\nAnne was forced to own that she had seen him on board, and her\ncheeks were in spite of herself such tell-tales that Mr. Fellowes\ncould not help saying, \"It is not my part to rebuke you, madam, but\nif you were aware of this evasion, you will have a heavy reckoning\nto pay to the young man's parents.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Anne, \"I knew indeed that he meant to join the Imperial\narmy, but I knew not how nor when.\"\n\n\"Ah, well!  I ask no questions.  You need not justify yourself to\nme, young lady; but Sir Philip and Lady Archfield little knew what\nthey did when they asked us to come by way of Paris.  Not that I\nregret it on all accounts,\" he added, with a courteous bow to Naomi\nwhich set her blushing in her turn.  He avoided again addressing\nMiss Woodford, and she thought with consternation of the prejudice\nhe might excite against her.  It had been arranged between the two\nmaidens that Naomi should be a guest at Portchester Rectory till she\ncould communicate with Walwyn, and her father or brother could come\nand fetch her.\n\nThey landed at the little wharf, among the colliers, and made their\nway up the street to an inn, where, after ordering a meal to satisfy\nthe ravenous sea-appetite, Mr. Fellowes, after a few words with\nNaomi, left the ladies to their land toilet, while he went to hire\nhorses for the journey.\n\nThen Naomi could not help saying, \"O Anne!  I did not think you\nwould have done this.  I am grieved!\"\n\n\"You do not know all,\" said Anne sadly, \"or you would not think so\nhardly.\"\n\n\"I saw you had an understanding with him.  I see you have a new ring\non your finger; but how could I suppose you would encourage an only\nson thus to leave his parents?\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, Naomi!\" cried Anne, as the uncontrollable tears broke\nout.  \"Don't you believe that it is quite as hard for me as for them\nthat he should have gone off to fight those dreadful blood-thirsty\nTurks?  Indeed I would have hindered him, but that--but that--I know\nit is best for him.  No!  I can't tell you why, but I _know_ it is;\nand even to the very last, when he helped me down the companion-\nladder, I hoped he might be coming home first.\"\n\n\"But you are troth-plight to him, and secretly?\"\n\n\"I am not troth-plight; I know I am not his equal, I told him so,\nbut he thrust this ring on me in the boat, in the dark, and how\ncould I give it back!\"\n\nNaomi shook her head, but was more than half-disarmed by her\nfriend's bitter weeping.  Whether she gave any hint to Mr. Fellowes\nAnne did not know, but his manner remained drily courteous, and as\nAnne had to ride on a pillion behind a servant she was left in a\nstate of isolation as to companionship, which made her feel herself\nin disgrace, and almost spoilt the joy of dear familiar recognition\nof hill, field, and tree, after her long year's absence, the longest\nyear in her life, and substituted the sinking of heart lest she\nshould be returning to hear of misfortune and disaster, sickness or\ndeath.\n\nHer original plan had been to go on with Naomi to Portchester at\nonce, if by inquiry at Fareham she found that her uncle was at home,\nbut she perceived that Mr. Fellowes decidedly wished that Miss\nDarpent should go first to the Archfields, and something within her\ndetermined first to turn thither in spite of all there was to\nencounter, so that she might still her misgivings by learning\nwhether her uncle was well.  So she bade the man turn his horse's\nhead towards the well-known poplars in front of Archfield House.\n\nThe sound of the trampling horses brought more than one well-known\nold 'blue-coated serving-man' into the court, and among them a woman\nwith a child in her arms.  There was the exclamation, \"Mistress\nAnne!  Sure Master Charles be not far behind,\" and the old groom ran\nto help her down.\n\n\"Oh!  Ralph, thanks.  All well?  My uncle?\"\n\n\"He is here, with his Honour,\" and in scarcely a moment more Lucy,\nswift of foot, had flown out, and had Anne in her embrace, and\ncrying out--\n\n\"Ah, Charles! my brother!  I don't see him.\"\n\nAnne was glad to have no time to answer before she was in her\nuncle's arms.  \"My child, at last!  God bless thee!  Safe in soul\nand body!\"\n\nSir Philip was there too, greeting Mr. Fellowes, and looking for his\nson, and with the cursory assurance that Mr. Archfield was well, and\nthat they would explain, a hasty introduction of Miss Darpent was\nmade, and all moved in to where Lady Archfield, more feeble and slow\nof movement, had come into the hall, and the nurse stood by with the\nlittle heir to be shown to his father, and Sedley Archfield stood in\nthe background.  It was a cruel moment for all, when the words came\nfrom Mr. Fellowes, \"Sir, I have to tell you, Mr. Archfield is not\nhere.  This letter, he tells me, is to explain.\"\n\nThere was an outburst of exclamation, during which Sir Philip\nwithdrew into a window with his spectacles to read the letter, while\nall to which the tutor or Anne ventured to commit themselves was\nthat Mr. Archfield had only quitted them without notice on board the\nHampshire Hog.\n\nThe first tones of the father had a certain sound of relief, \"Gone\nto the Imperialist army to fight the Turks in Hungary!\"\n\nPoor Lady Archfield actually shrieked, and Lucy turned quite pale,\nwhile Anne caught a sort of lurid flush of joy on Sedley Archfield's\nfeatures, and he was the first to exclaim, \"Undutiful young dog!\"\n\n\"Tut! tut!\" returned Sir Philip, \"he might as well have come home\nfirst, and yet I do not know but that it is the best thing he could\ndo.  There might have been difficulties in the way of getting out\nagain, you see, my lady, as things stand now.  Ay! ay! you are in\nthe right of it, my boy.  It is just as well to let things settle\nthemselves down here before committing himself to one side or the\nother.  'Tis easy enough for an old fellow like me who has to let\nnothing go but his Commission of the Peace, but not the same for a\nstirring young lad; and he is altogether right as to not coming back\nto idle here as a rich man.  It would be the ruin of him.  I am glad\nhe has the sense to see it.  I was casting about to obtain an estate\nfor him to give him occupation.\"\n\n\"But the wars,\" moaned the mother; \"if he had only come home we\ncould have persuaded him.\"\n\n\"The wars, my lady!  Why, they will be a feather in his cap; and may\nbe if he had come home, the Dutchman would have claimed him for his,\nand let King James be as misguided as he may, I cannot stomach\nfighting against his father's son for myself or mine.  No, no; it\nwas the best thing there was for the lad to do.  You shall hear his\nletter, it does him honour, and you, too, Mr. Fellowes.  He could\nnot have written such a letter when he left home barely a year ago.\"\n\nSir Philip proceeded to read the letter aloud.  There was a full\nexplanation of the motives, political and private, only leaving out\none, and that the most powerful of all of those which led Charles\nArchfield to absent himself for the present.  He entreated pardon\nfor having made the decision without obtaining permission from his\nfather on returning home; but he had done so in view of possible\nobstacles to his leaving England again, and to the belief that a\nbrief sojourn at home would cause more grief and perplexity than his\nabsence.  He further explained, as before, his reasons for secrecy\ntowards his travelling companion, and entreated his father not to\nsuppose for a moment that Mr. Fellowes had been in any way culpable\nfor what he could never have suspected; warmly affectionate messages\nto mother and sister followed, and an assurance of feeling that 'the\nlittle one' needed for no care or affection while with them.\n\nLady Archfield was greatly disappointed, and cried a great deal,\nmaking sure that the poor dear lad's heart was still too sore to\nbrook returning after the loss of his wife, who had now become the\nsweetest creature in the world; but Sir Philip's decision that the\nmeasure was wise, and the secrecy under the circumstances so\nexpedient as to be pardonable, prevented all public blame; Mr.\nFellowes, however, was drawn apart, and asked whether he suspected\nany other motive than was here declared, and which might make his\npupil unwilling to face the parental brow, and he had declared that\nnothing could have been more exemplary than the whole demeanour of\nthe youth, who had at first gone about as one crushed, and though\nslowly reviving into cheerfulness, had always been subdued, until\nquite recently, when the meeting with his old companion had\ncertainly much enlivened his spirits.  Poor Mr. Fellowes had been\nrejoicing in the excellent character he should have to give, when\nthis evasion had so utterly disconcerted him, and it was an infinite\nrelief to him to find that all was thought comprehensible and\npardonable.\n\nAnne might be thankful that none of the authorities thought of\nasking her the question about hidden motives; and Naomi, looking\nabout with her bright eyes, thought she had perhaps judged too\nhardly when she saw the father's approval, and that the mother and\nsister only mourned at the disappointment at not seeing the beloved\none.\n\nThe Archfields would not hear of letting any of the party go on to\nPortchester that evening.  Dr. Woodford, who had ridden over for\nconsultation with Sir Philip, must remain, he would have plenty of\ntime for his niece by and by, and she and Miss Darpent must tell\nthem all about the journey, and about Charles; and Anne must tell\nthem hundreds of things about herself that they scarcely knew, for\nnot one letter from St. Germain had ever reached her uncle.\n\nHow natural it all looked! the parlour just as when she saw it last,\nand the hall, with the long table being laid for supper, and the hot\nsun streaming in through the heavy casements.  She could have\nfancied it yesterday that she had left it, save for the plump rosy\nlittle yearling with flaxen curls peeping out under his round white\ncap, who had let her hold him in her arms and fondle him all through\nthat reading of his father's letter.  Charles's child!  He was her\nprince indeed now.\n\nHe was taken from her and delivered over to Lady Archfield to be\ncaressed and pitied because his father would not come home 'to see\nhis grand-dame's own beauty,' while Lucy took the guests upstairs to\nprepare for supper, Naomi and her maid being bestowed in the best\nguest-chamber, and Lucy taking her friend to her own, the scene of\nmany a confabulation of old.\n\n\"Oh, how I love it!\" cried Anne, as the door opened on the well-\nknown little wainscotted abode.  \"The very same beau-pot.  One would\nthink they were the same clove gillyflowers as when I went away.\"\n\n\"O Anne, dear, and you are just the same after all your kings and\nqueens, and all you have gone through;\" and the two friends were\nlocked in another embrace.\n\n\"Kings and queens indeed!  None of them all are worth my Lucy.\"\n\n\"And now, tell me all; tell me all, Nancy, and first of all about my\nbrother.  How does he look, and is he well?\"\n\n\"He looks!  O Lucy, he is grown such a noble cavalier; most like the\npicture of that uncle of yours who was killed, and that Sir Philip\nalways grieves for.\"\n\n\"My father always hoped Charley would be like him,\" said Lucy.  \"You\nmust tell him that.  But I fear he may be grave and sad.\"\n\n\"Graver, but not sad now.\"\n\n\"And you have seen him and talked to him, Anne?  Did you know he was\ngoing on this terrible enterprise?\"\n\n\"He spoke of it, but never told me when.\"\n\n\"Ah!  I was sure you knew more about it than the old tutor man.  You\nalways were his little sweetheart before poor little Madam came in\nthe way, and he would tell you anything near his heart.  Could you\nnot have stopped him?\"\n\n\"I think not, Lucy; he gave his reasons like a man of weight and\nthought, and you see his Honour thinks them sound ones.\"\n\n\"Oh yes; but somehow I cannot fancy our Charley doing anything for\ngrand, sound, musty reasons, such as look well marshalled out in a\nletter.\"\n\n\"You don't know how much older he is grown,\" said Anne, again, with\nthe tell-tale colour in her cheeks.  \"Besides, he cannot bear to\ncome home.\"\n\n\"Don't tell me that, Nan.  My mother does not see it; but though he\nwas fond of poor little Madam in a way, and tried to think himself\nmore so, as in duty bound, she really was fretting and wearing the\nvery life--no, perhaps not the life, but the temper--out of him.\nWhat I believe it to be the cause is, that my father must have been\nwriting to him about that young gentlewoman in the island that he is\nso set upon, because she would bring a landed estate which would\ngive Charles something to do.  They say that Peregrine Oakshott ran\naway to escape wedding his cousin; Charley will banish himself for\nthe like cause.\"\n\n\"He said nothing of it,\" said Anne.\n\n\"O Anne, I wish you had a landed estate!  You would make him happier\nthan any other, and would love his poor little Phil!  Anne! is it\nso?  I have guessed!\" and Lucy kissed her on each cheek.\n\n\"Indeed, indeed I have not promised.  I know it can never, never be--\nand that I am not fit for him.  Do not speak of it, Lucy?  He spoke\nof it once as we rode together--\"\n\n\"And you could not be so false as to tell him you did not love him?\nNo, you could not?\" and Lucy kissed her again.\n\n\"No,\" faltered Anne; \"but I would not do as he wished.  I have given\nhim no troth-plight.  I told him it would never be permitted.  And\nhe said no more, but he put this ring on my finger in the boat\nwithout a word.  I ought not to wear it; I shall not.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, you shall.  Indeed you shall.  No one need understand it\nbut myself, and it makes us sisters.  Yes, Anne, Charley was right.\nMy father will not consent now, but he will in due time, if he does\nnot hear of it till he wearies to see Charles again.  Trust it to\nme, my sweet sister that is to be.\"\n\n\"It is a great comfort that you know,\" said Anne, almost moved to\ntell her the greater and more perilous secret that lay in the\nbackground, but withheld by receiving Lucy's own confidence that she\nherself was at present tormented by her cousin Sedley's courtship.\nHe was still, more's the pity, she said, in garrison at Portsmouth,\nbut there were hopes of his regiment being ere long sent to the Low\nCountries, since it was believed to be more than half inclined to\nKing James.  In the meantime he certainly had designs on Lucy's\nportion, and as her father never believed half the stories of his\ndebaucheries that were rife, and had a kindness for his only\nbrother's orphan, she did not feel secure against his yielding so as\nto provide for Sedley without continuance in the Dutch service.\n\n\"I could almost follow the example of running away!\" said Lucy.\n\n\"I suppose,\" Anne ventured to say, faltering, \"that nothing has been\nheard of poor Mr. Oakshott.\"\n\n\"Nothing at all.  His uncle's people, who have come home from\nMuscovy, know nothing of him, and it is thought he may have gone off\nto the plantations.  The talk is that Mistress Martha is to be\nhanded on to the third brother, but that she is not willing.\"  It\nwas clear that there could have been no spectres here, and Lucy went\non, \"But you have told me nothing yet of yourself and your doings,\nmy Anne.  How well you look, and more than ever the Court lady, even\nin your old travelling habit.  Is that the watch the King gave you?\"\n\nIn private and in public there was quite enough to tell on that\nevening for intimate friends who had not met for a year, and one of\nwhom had gone through so many vicissitudes.  Nor were the other two\nguests by any means left out of the welcome, and the evening was a\nvery happy one.\n\nMr. Fellowes intimated his intention of going himself to Walwyn with\nthe news of Miss Darpent's arrival, and Naomi accepted the\ninvitation to remain at Portchester till she could be sent for from\nhome.\n\nIt was not till the next morning that Anne Woodford could be alone\nwith her uncle.  As she came downstairs in the morning she saw him\nwaiting for her; he held out his hands, and drew her out with him\ninto the walled garden that lay behind the house.\n\n\"Child! dear child!\" said he, \"you are welcome to my old eyes.  May\nGod bless you, as He has aided you to be faithful alike to Him and\nto your King through much trial.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir!  I have sorely repented the folly and ambition that would\nnot heed your counsel.\"\n\n\"No doubt, my maid; but the spirit of humility and repentance hath\nworked well in you.  I fear me, however, that you are come back to\nfurther trials, since probably Portchester may be no longer our\nhome.\"\n\n\"Nor Winchester?\"\n\n\"Nor Winchester.\"\n\n\"Then is this new King going to persecute as in the old times you\ntalk of?  He who was brought over to save the Church!\"\n\n\"He accepts the English Church, my maid, so far as it accepts him.\nAll beneficed clergy are required to take the oath of allegiance to\nhim before the first of August, now approaching, under pain of\nlosing their preferments.  Many of my brethren, even our own Bishop\nand Dean, think this merely submission to the powers that be, and\nthat it may be lawfully done; but as I hear neither the Archbishop\nhimself, nor my good old friends Doctors Ken and Frampton can\nreconcile it to their conscience, any more than my brother Stanbury,\nof Botley, nor I, to take this fresh oath, while the King to whom we\nhave sworn is living.  Some hold that he has virtually renounced our\nallegiance by his flight.  I cannot see it, while he is fighting for\nhis crown in Ireland.  What say you, Anne, who have seen him; did he\ntreat his case as that of an abdicated prince?\"\n\n\"No, sir, certainly not.  All the talk was of his enjoying his own\nagain.\"\n\n\"How can I then, consistently with my duty and loyalty, swear to\nthis William and Mary as my lawful sovereigns?  I say not 'tis\nincumbent on me to refuse to live under them a peaceful life, but\nmake oath to them as my King and Queen I cannot, so long as King\nJames shall live.  True, he has not been a friend to the Church, and\nhas wofully trampled on the rights of Englishmen, but I cannot hold\nthat this absolves me from my duty to him, any more than David was\nfreed from duty to Saul.  So, Anne, back must we go to the poverty\nin which I was reared with your own good father.\"\n\nAnne might grieve, but she felt the gratification of being talked to\nby her uncle as a woman who could understand, as he had talked to\nher mother.\n\n\"The first of August!\" she repeated, as if it were a note of doom.\n\n\"Yes; I hear whispers of a further time of grace, but I know not\nwhat difference that should make.  A Christian man's oath may not be\nbroken sooner or later.  Well, poverty is the state blessed by our\nLord, and it may be that I have lived too much at mine ease; but I\ncould wish, dear child, that you were safely bestowed in a house of\nyour own.\"\n\n\"So do not I,\" said Anne, \"for now I can work for you.\"\n\nHe smiled faintly, and here Mr. Fellowes joined them; a good man\nlikewise, but intent on demonstrating the other side of the\nquestion, and believing that the Popish, persecuting King had\nforfeited his rights, so that there need be no scruple as to\nrenouncing what he had thrown up by his flight.  It was an endless\nargument, in which each man could only act according to his own\nconscience, and endeavour that this conscience should be as little\nbiassed as possible by worldly motives or animosity.\n\nMr. Fellowes started at once with his servant for Walwyn, and Naomi\naccompanied the two Woodfords to Portchester.  In spite of the\ncavalier sentiments of her family, Naomi had too much of the spire\nof her Frondeur father to understand any feeling for duty towards\nthe King, who had so decidedly broken his covenant with his people,\nand moreover had so abominably treated the Fellows of Magdalen\nCollege; and her pity for Anne as a sufferer for her uncle's whim\nquite angered her friend into hot defence of him and his cause.\n\nThe dear old parsonage garden under the gray walls, the honeysuckle\nand monthly roses trailing over the porch, the lake-like creek\nbetween it and green Portsdown Hill, the huge massive keep and\ntowers, and the masts in the harbour, the Island hills sleeping in\nblue summer haze--Anne's heart clave to them more than ever for the\nknowledge that the time was short and that the fair spot must be\ngiven up for the right's sake.  Certainly there was some trepidation\nat the thought of the vault, and she had made many vague schemes for\nascertaining that which her very flesh trembled at the thought of\nany one suspecting; but these were all frustrated, for since the war\nwith France had begun, the bailey had been put under repair and\ngarrisoned by a detachment of soldiers, the vault had been covered\nin, there was a sentry at the gateway of the castle, and the postern\ndoor towards the vicarage was fastened up, so that though the parish\nstill repaired to church through the wide court solitary wanderings\nthere were no longer possible, nor indeed safe for a young woman,\nconsidering what the soldiery of that period were.\n\nThe thought came over her with a shudder as she gazed from her\nwindow at the creek where she remembered Peregrine sending Charles\nand Sedley adrift in the boat.\n\nThe tide was out, the mud glistened in the moonlight, but nothing\nwas to be seen more than Anne had beheld on many a summer night\nbefore, no phantom was evoked before her eyes, no elfin-like form\nrevealed his presence, nor did any spirit take shape to upbraid her\nwith his unhallowed grave, so close at hand.\n\nNo, but Naomi Darpent, yearning for sympathy, came to her side,\ncaressed her on that summer night, and told her that Mr. Fellowes\nhad gone to ask her of her father, and though she could never love\nagain as she had once loved, she thought if her parents wished it,\nshe could be happy with so good a man.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV: IN THE MOONLIGHT\n\n\nI have had a dream this evening,\nWhile the white and gold were fleeting,\nBut I need not, need not tell it.\nWhere would be the good?\n\nRequiescat in Pace.--JEAN INGELOW.\n\nAnne Woodford sat, on a sultry summer night, by the open window in\nArchfield House at Fareham, busily engaged over the tail of a kite,\nwhile asleep in a cradle in the corner of the room lay a little boy,\nhis apple-blossom cheeks and long flaxen curls lying prone upon his\npillow as he had tossed when falling asleep in the heat.\n\nThe six years since her return had been eventful.  Dr. Woodford had\nadhered to his view that his oath of allegiance could not be\nforfeited by James's flight; and he therefore had submitted to be\nousted from his preferments, resigning his pleasant prebendal house,\nand his sea-side home, and embracing poverty for his personal oath's\nsake, although he was willing to acquiesce in the government of\nWilliam and Mary, and perhaps to rejoice that others had effected\nwhat he would not have thought it right to do.\n\nThings had been softened to him as regarded his flock by the\nappointment of Mr. Fellowes to Portchester, which was a Crown\nliving, though there had been great demur at thus slipping into a\nfriend's shoes, so that Dr. Woodford had been obliged to asseverate\nthat nothing so much comforted him as leaving the parish in such\nhands, and that he blamed no man for seeing the question of Divine\nright as he did in common with the Non-jurors.  The appointment\nopened the way to the marriage with Naomi Darpent, and the pair were\nhappily settled at Portchester.\n\nDr. Woodford and his niece found a tiny house at Winchester, near\nthe wharf, with the clear Itchen flowing in front and the green\nhills rising beyond, while in the rear were the ruins of Wolvesey,\nand the buildings of the Cathedral and College.  They retained no\nservant except black Hans, poor Peregrine's legacy, who was an\nexcellent cook, and capable of all that Anne could not accomplish in\nher hours of freedom.\n\nIt was a fall indeed from her ancient aspirations, though there was\nstill that bud of hope within her heart.  The united means of uncle\nand niece were so scanty that she was fain to offer her services\ndaily at Mesdames Reynaud's still flourishing school, where the\nfreshness of her continental experiences made her very welcome.\n\nDr. Woodford occasionally assisted some student preparing for the\nuniversity, but this was not regular occupation, and it was poorly\npaid, so that it was well that fifty pounds a year went at least\nthree times as far as it would do in the present day.  Though his\ngown and cassock lost their richness and lustre, he was as much\nrespected as ever.  Bishop Mews often asked him to Wolvesey, and\nallowed him to assist the parochial clergy when it was not necessary\nto utter the royal name, the vergers marshalled him to his own stall\nat daily prayers, and he had free access to Bishop Morley's\nCathedral library.\n\nThe Archfield family still took a house in the Close for the winter\nmonths, and there a very sober-minded and conventional courtship of\nLucy took place by Sir Edmund Nutley, a worthy and well-to-do\ngentleman settled on the borders of Parkhurst Forest, in the Isle of\nWight.\n\nAnne, with the thought of her Charles burning within her heart, was\na little scandalised at the course of affairs.  Sir Edmund was a\nhighly worthy man, but not in his first youth, and ponderous--a\nWhig, moreover, and an intimate friend of the masterful governor of\nthe island, Lord Cutts, called the \"Salamander.\"  He had seen Miss\nArchfield before at the winter and spring Quarter Sessions, and\nthough her father was no longer in the Commission of the Peace, the\nresidence at Winchester gave him opportunities, and the chief\nobstacle seemed to be the party question.  He was more in love than\nwas the lady, but she was submissive, and believed that he would be\na kind husband.  She saw, too, that her parents would be much\ndisappointed and displeased if she made any resistance to so\nprosperous a settlement, and she was positively glad to be out of\nreach of Sedley's addresses.  Such an entirely unenthusiastic\nacceptance was the proper thing, and it only remained to provide for\nLady Archfield's comfort in the loss of her daughter.\n\nFor this the elders turned at once to Anne Woodford.  Sir Philip\nmade it his urgent entreaty that the Doctor and his niece would take\nup their abode with him, and that Anne would share with the\ngrandmother the care of the young Philip, a spirited little fellow\nwho would soon be running wild with the grooms, without the\nattention that his aunt had bestowed on him.\n\nDr. Woodford himself was much inclined to accept the office of\nchaplain to his old friend, who he knew would be far happier for his\ncompany; and Anne's heart bounded at the thought of bringing up\nCharles's child, but that very start of joy made her blush and\nhesitate, and finally surprise the two old gentlemen by saying, with\ncrimson cheeks--\n\n\"Sir, your Honour ought to know what might make you change your\nmind.  There have been passages between Mr. Archfield and me.\"\n\nSir Philip laughed.  \"Ah, the rogue!  You were always little\nsweethearts as children.  Why, Anne, you should know better than to\nheed what a young soldier says.\"\n\n\"No doubt you have other views for your son,\" said Dr. Woodford,\n\"and I trust that my niece has too much discretion and sense of\npropriety to think that they can be interfered with on her account.\"\n\n\"Passages!\" repeated Sir Philip thoughtfully.  \"Mistress Anne, how\nmuch do you mean by that?  Surely there is no promise between you?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Anne; \"I would not give any; but when we parted in\nFlanders he asked me to--to wait for him, and I feel that you ought\nto know it.\"\n\n\"Oh, I understand!\" said the baronet.  \"It was only natural to an\nold friend in a foreign land, and you have too much sense to dwell\non a young man's folly, though it was an honourable scruple that\nmade you tell me, my dear maid.  But he is not come or coming yet,\nmore's the pity, so there is no need to think about it at present.\"\n\nAnne's cheeks did not look as if she had attained that wisdom; but\nher conscience was clear, since she had told the fact, and the\nfather did not choose to take it seriously.  To say how she herself\nloved Charles would have been undignified and nothing to the\npurpose, since her feelings were not what would be regarded, and\nthere was no need to mention her full and entire purpose to wed no\none else.  Time enough for that if the proposal were made.\n\nSo the uncle and niece entered on their new life, with some loss of\nindependence, and to the Doctor a greater loss in the neighbourhood\nof the Cathedral and its library; for after the first year or two,\nas Lady Archfield grew rheumatic, and Sir Philip had his old friend\nto play backgammon and read the Weekly Gazette, they became\nunwilling to make the move to Winchester, and generally stayed at\nhome all the winter.\n\nBefore this, however, Princess Anne had been at the King's House at\nWinchester for a short time; and Lady Archfield paid due respects to\nher, with Anne in attendance.  With the royal faculty of remembering\neverybody, the Princess recognised her namesake, gave her hand to be\nkissed, and was extremely gracious.  She was at the moment in the\nheight of a quarrel with her sister, and far from delighted with the\npresent regime.  She sent for Miss Woodford, and, to Anne's\nsurprise, laughed over her own escape from the Cockpit, adding, \"You\nwould not come, child.  You were in the right on't.  There's no\ngratitude among them!  Had I known how I should be served I would\nnever have stirred a foot!  So 'twas you that carried off the child!\nTell me what he is like.\"\n\nAnd she extracted by questions all that Anne could tell her of the\nlife at St. Germain, and the appearance of her little half-brother.\nIt was impossible to tell whether she asked from affectionate\nremorse or gossiping interest, but she ended by inquiring whether\nher father's god-daughter were content with her position, or desired\none--if there were a vacancy--in her own household, where she might\nget a good husband.\n\nAnne declined courteously and respectfully, and was forced to hint\nat an engagement which she could not divulge.  She had heard\nCharles's expressions of delight at the arrangement which gave his\nboy to her tender care, warming her heart.\n\nLady Archfield had fits of talking of finding a good husband for\nAnne Woodford among the Cathedral clergy, but the maiden was so\nnecessary to her, and so entirely a mother to little Philip, that\nshe soon let the idea drop.  Perhaps it was periodically revived,\nwhen, about three times a year, there arrived a letter from Charles.\nHe wrote in good spirits, evidently enjoying his campaigns, and with\nno lack of pleasant companions, English, Scotch, and Irish\nJacobites, with whom he lived in warm friendship and wholesome\nemulation.  He won promotion, and the county Member actually came\nout of his way to tell Sir Philip what he had heard from the\nImperial ambassador of young Archfield's distinguished services at\nthe battle of Salankamen, only regretting that he was not fighting\nunder King William's colours.  Little Philip pranced about cutting\noff Turks' heads in the form of poppies, 'like papa,' for whose\nsafety Anne taught him to pray night and morning.\n\nPride in his son's exploits was a compensation to the father, who\ndeclared them to be better than vegetating over the sheepfolds, like\nRobert Oakshott, or than idling at Portsmouth, like Sedley\nArchfield.\n\nThat young man's regiment had been ordered to Ireland during the\ncampaign that followed the battle of Boyne Water.  He had suddenly\nreturned from thence, cashiered:  by his own story, the victim of\nthe enmity of the Dutch General Ginkel; according to another\nversion, on account of brutal excesses towards the natives and\ninsolence to his commanding officer.  Courts-martial had only just\nbeen introduced, and Sir Philip could believe in a Whig invention\ndoing injustice to a member of a loyal family, so that his doors\nwere open to his nephew, and Sedley haunted them whenever he had no\nother resource; but he spent most of his time between Newmarket and\nother sporting centres, and contrived to get a sort of maintenance\nby bets at races, cock-fights, and bull-baitings, and by extensive\ngambling.  Evil reports of him came from time to time, but Sir\nPhilip was loth to think ill of the son of his brother, or to\nforbode that as his grandson grew older, such influence might be\ndangerous.\n\nIn his uncle's presence Sedley was on his good behaviour; but if he\ncaught Miss Woodford without that protection, he attempted rude\ncompliments, and when repelled by her dignified look and manner,\nsneered at the airs of my lady's waiting-woman, and demanded how\nlong she meant to mope after Charley, who would never look so low.\n\"She need not be so ungracious to a poor soldier.  She might have to\nput up with worse.\"\n\nMoreover, he deliberately incited Philip to mischief, putting foul\nwords into the little mouth, and likewise giving forbidden food and\ndrink, lauding evil sports, and mocking at obedience to any\nauthority, especially Miss Woodford's.  Philip was very fond of his\nNana, and in general good and obedient; but what high-spirited boy\nis proof against the allurements of the only example before him of\nyoung manhood, assuring him that it was manly not to mind what the\nwomen said, nor to be tied to the apron-strings of his grand-dame's\nabigail?\n\nThe child had this summer thus been actually taken to the outskirts\nof a bull-fight, whence he had been brought home in great disgrace\nby Ralph, the old servant who had been charged to look after his\nout-door amusements, and to ride with him.  The grandfather was\nindeed more shocked at the danger and the vulgarity of the sport\nthan its cruelty, but Philip had received his first flogging, and\nhis cousin had been so sharply rebuked that--to the great relief of\nAnne and of Lady Archfield--he had not since appeared at Fareham\nHouse.\n\nThe morrow would be Philip's seventh birthday, a stage which would\ntake him farther out of Anne's power.  He was no longer to sleep in\nher chamber, but in one of his own with Ralph for his protector, and\nhe was to begin Latin with Dr. Woodford.  So great was his delight\nthat he had gone to bed all the sooner in order to bring the great\nday more quickly, and Anne was glad of the opportunity of finishing\nthe kite, which was to be her present, for Ralph to help him fly\nupon Portsdown Hill.\n\nThat great anniversary, so delightful to him, with pony and whip\nprepared for him--what a day of confusion, distress, and\nwretchedness did it not recall to his elders?  Anne could not choose\nbut recall the time, as she sat alone in the window, looking out\nover the garden, the moon beginning to rise, and the sunset light\nstill colouring the sky in the north-west, just as it had done when\nshe returned home after the bonfire.  The events of that sad morning\nhad faded out of the foreground.  The Oakshott family seemed to have\nresigned themselves to the mystery of Peregrine's fate.  Only his\nmother had declined from the time of his disappearance.  When it was\nascertained that his uncle had died in Russia, and that nothing had\nbeen heard of him there, it seemed to bring on a fresh stage of her\nillness, and she had expired at last in Martha Browning's arms, her\nlast words being a blessing not only to Robert, but to Peregrine,\nand a broken entreaty to her husband to forgive the boy, for he\nmight have been better if they had used him well.\n\nMartha was then found to hold out against the idea of his being\ndead.  Little affection and scant civility as she had received from\nhim, her dutiful heart had attached itself to her destined lord, and\nno doubt her imagination had been excited by his curious abilities,\nand her compassion by the persecution he suffered at home.  At any\nrate, when, after a proper interval, the Major tried to transfer her\nto his remaining son, she held out against it for a long interval,\nuntil at last, after full three years, the desolation and\ndisorganisation of Oakwood without a mistress, a severe illness of\nthe Major, and the distress of his son, so worked upon her feelings\nthat she consented to the marriage with Robert, and had ever since\nbeen the ruling spirit at Oakwood, and a very different one from\nwhat had been expected--sensible, kindly, and beneficent, and\nallowing the young husband more liberty and indulgence than he had\never known before.\n\nThe remembrance of Peregrine seemed to have entirely passed away,\nand Anne had been troubled with no more apparitions, so that though\nshe thought over the strange scene of that terrible morning, the\nrapid combat, the hasty concealment, the distracted face of the\nunhappy youth, it was with the thought that time had been a healer,\nand that Charles might surely now return home.  And what then?\n\nShe raised her eyes to the open window, and what did she behold in\nthe moonlight streaming full upon the great tree rose below?  It was\nthe same face and figure that had three times startled her before,\nthe figure dark and the face very white in the moonlight, but like\nnothing else, and with that odd, one-sided feather as of old.  It\nhad flitted ere she could point its place--gone in a single flash--\nbut she was greatly startled!  Had it come to protest against the\nscheme she had begun to indulge in on that very night of all nights,\nor had it merely been her imagination?  For nothing was visible,\nthough she leant from the window, no sound was to be heard, though\nwhen she tried to complete her work, her hands trembled and the\npaper rustled, so that Philip showed symptoms of wakening, and she\nhad to defer her task till early morning.\n\nShe said nothing of her strange sight, and Phil had a happy\nsuccessful birthday, flying the kite with a propitious wind, and\nriding into Portsmouth on his new pony with grandpapa.  But there\nwas one strange event.  The servants had a holiday, and some of them\nwent into Portsmouth, black Hans, who never returned, being one.\nThe others had lost sight of him, but had not been uneasy, knowing\nhim to be perfectly well able to find his way home; but as he never\nappeared, the conclusion was that he must have been kidnapped by\nsome ship's crew to serve as a cook.  He had not been very happy\namong the servants at Fareham, who laughed at his black face and\nDutch English, and he would probably have gone willingly with\nDutchmen; but Anne and her uncle were grieved, and felt as if they\nhad failed in the trust that poor Sir Peregrine had left them.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV: TIDINGS FROM THE IRON GATES\n\n\n\"He has more cause to be proud.  Where is he wounded?\"\n\nCoriolanus.\n\nIt was a wet autumn day, when the yellow leaves of the poplars in\nfront of the house were floating down amid the misty rain; Dr.\nWoodford had gone two days before to consult a book in the Cathedral\nlibrary, and was probably detained at Winchester by the weather;\nLady Archfield was confined to her bed by a sharp attack of\nrheumatism.  Sir Philip was taking his after-dinner doze in his arm-\nchair; and little Philip was standing by Anne, who was doing her\nbest to keep him from awakening his grandfather, as she partly read,\npartly romanced, over the high-crowned hatted fishermen in the\nillustrations to Izaak Walton's Complete Angler.\n\nHe had just, caught by the musical sound, made her read to him a\nsecond time Marlowe's verses,\n\n'Come live with me and be my love,'\n\nand informed her that his Nana was his love, and that she was to\nwatch him fish in the summer rivers, when the servant who had been\nsent to meet His Majesty's mail and extract the Weekly Gazette came\nin, bringing not only that, but a thick, sealed packet, the aspect\nof which made the boy dance and exclaim, \"A packet from my papa!\nOh! will he have written an answer to my own letter to him?\"\n\nBut Sir Philip, who had started up at the opening of the door, had\nno sooner glanced at the packet than he cried out, \"'Tis not his\nhand!\" and when he tried to break the heavy seals and loosen the\nstring, his hands shook so much that he pushed it over to Anne,\nsaying, \"You open it; tell me if my boy is dead.\"\n\nAnne's alarm took the course of speed.  She tore off the wrapper,\nand after one glance said, \"No, no, it cannot be the worst; here is\nsomething from himself at the end.  Here, sir.\"\n\n\"I cannot!  I cannot,\" said the poor old man, as the tears dimmed\nhis spectacles, and he could not adjust them.  \"Read it, my dear\nwench, and let me know what I am to tell his poor mother.\"\n\nAnd he sank into a chair, holding between his knees his little\ngrandson, who stood gazing with widely-opened blue eyes.\n\n\"He sends love, duty, blessing.  Oh, he talks of coming home, so do\nnot fear, sir!\" cried Anne, a vivid colour on her cheeks.\n\n\"But what is it?\" asked the father.  \"Tell me first--the rest\nafter.\"\n\n\"It is in the side--the left side,\" said Anne, gathering up in her\nagitation the sense of the crabbed writing as best she could.  \"They\nhave not extracted the bullet, but when they have, he will do well.\"\n\n\"God grant it!  Who writes?\"\n\n\"Norman Graham of Glendhu--captain in his K. K. Regiment of\nVolunteer Dragoons.  That's his great friend!  Oh, sir, he has\nbehaved so gallantly!  He got his wound in saving the colours from\nthe Turks, and kept his hands clutched over them as his men carried\nhim out of the battle.\"\n\nPhilip gave another little spring, and his grandfather bade Anne\nread the letter to him in detail.\n\nIt told how the Imperial forces had met a far superior number of\nTurks at Lippa, and had sustained a terrible defeat, with the loss\nof their General Veterani, how Captain Archfield had received a\nscimitar wound in the cheek while trying to save his commander, but\nhad afterwards dashed forward among the enemy, recovered the colours\nof the regiment, and by a desperate charge of his fellow-soldiers,\nwho were devotedly attached to him, had been borne off the field\nwith a severe wound on the left side.  Retreat had been immediately\nnecessary, and he had been taken on an ammunition waggon along rough\nroads to the fortress called the Iron Gates of Transylvania, whence\nthis letter was written, and sent by the messenger who was to summon\nthe Elector of Saxony to the aid of the remnant of the army.  It had\nnot yet been possible to probe the wound, but Charles gave a\npersonal message, begging his parents not to despond but to believe\nhim recovering, so long as they did not see his servant return\nwithout him, and he added sundry tender and dutiful messages to his\nparents, and a blessing to his son, with thanks for the pretty\nletter he had not been able to answer (but which, his friend said,\nwas lying spread on his pillow, not unstained with blood), and he\nalso told his boy always to love and look up to her who had ever\nbeen as a mother to him.  Anne could hardly read this, and the scrap\nin feeble irregular lines she handed to Sir Philip.  It was--\n\nWith all my heart I entreat pardon for all the errors that have\ngrieved you.  I leave you my child to comfort you, and mine own\ntrue love, whom yon will cherish.  She will cherish you as a\ndaughter, as she will be, with your consent, if God spares me to\ncome home.  The love of all my soul to her, my mother, sister,\nand you.\"\n\nThere was a scrawl for conclusion and signature, and Captain Graham\nadded--\n\nWriting and dictating have greatly exhausted him.  He would have\nsaid more, but he says the lady can explain much, and he repeats\nhis urgent entreaties that you will take her to your heart as a\ndaughter, and that his son will love and honour her.\n\nThere was a final postscript--\n\nThe surgeon thinks him better for having disburthened his mind.\n\n\"My child,\" said Sir Philip, with a long sigh, looking up at Anne,\nwho had gathered the boy into her arms, and was hiding her face\nagainst his little awe-struck head, \"my child, have you read?\"\n\n\"No,\" faltered Anne.\n\n\"Read then.\"  And as she would have taken it, he suddenly drew her\ninto his embrace and kissed her as the eyes of both overflowed.  \"My\npoor girl!\" he said, \"this is as hard to you as to us!  Oh, my brave\nboy!\" and he let her lay her head on his shoulder and held her hand\nas they wept together, while little Phil stared for a moment or two\nat so strange a sight and then burst out with a great cry--\n\n\"You shall not cry! you shall not! my papa is not dead!\" and he\nstamped his little foot.  \"No, he isn't.  He will get well; the\nletter said so, and I will go and tell grandmamma.\"\n\nThe need of stopping this roused them both; Sir Philip, heavily\ngroaning, went away to break the tidings to his wife, and Anne went\ndown on her knees on the hearth to caress the boy, and help him to\nunderstand his father's state and realise the valorous deeds that\nwould always be a crown to him, and which already made the little\nfellow's eye flash and his fair head go higher.\n\nBy and by she was sent for to Lady Archfield's room, and there she\nhad again to share the grief and the fears and try to dwell on the\nglory and the hopes.  When in a calmer moment the parents\ninterrogated her on what had passed with Charles, it was not in the\nspirit of doubt and censure, but rather as dwelling on all that was\nto be told of one whom alike they loved, and finally Sir Philip\nsaid, \"I see, dear child, I would not believe how far it had gone\nbefore, though you tried to tell me.  Whatever betide, you have won\na daughter's place.\"\n\nIt was true that naturally a far more distinguished match would have\nbeen sought for the heir, and he could hardly have carried out his\npurpose without more opposition than under their present feelings,\nhis parents supposed themselves likely to make, but they really\nloved Anne enough to have yielded at last; and Lady Nutley, coming\nhome with a fuller knowledge of her brother's heart, prevented any\nreaction, and Anne was allowed full sympathies as a betrothed\nmaiden, in the wearing anxiety that continued in the absence of all\nintelligence.  On the principle of doing everything to please him,\nshe was even encouraged to write to Charles in the packet in which\nhe was almost implored to recover, though all felt doubts whether he\nwere alive even while the letters were in hand, and this doubt\nlasted long and long.  It was all very well to say that as long as\nthe servant did not return his master must be safe--perhaps himself\non the way home; but the journey from Transylvania was so long, and\nthere were so many difficulties in the way of an Englishman, that\nthere was little security in this assurance.  And so the winter set\nin while the suspense lasted; and still Dr. Woodford spoke Charles's\nname in the intercessions in the panelled household chapel, and his\nmother and Anne prayed together and separately, and his little son\nmorning and evening entreated God to \"Bless papa, and make him well,\nand bring him home.\"\n\nThus passed more than six weeks, during which Sir Philip's attention\nwas somewhat diverted from domestic anxieties by an uninvited visit\nto Portchester from Mr. Charnock, who had once been a college mate\nof Mr. Fellowes, and came professing anxiety, after all these years,\nto renew the friendship which had been broken when they took\ndifferent sides on the election of Dr. Hough to the Presidency of\nMagdalen College.  From his quarters at the Rectory Mr. Charnock had\ngone over to Fareham, and sounded Sir Philip on the practicability\nof a Jacobite rising, and whether he and his people would join it.\nThe old gentleman was much distressed, his age would not permit him\nto exert himself in either cause, and he had been too much disturbed\nby James's proceedings to feel desirous of his restoration, though\nhis loyal heart would not permit of his opposing it, and he had\nnever overtly acknowledged William of Orange as his sovereign.\n\nHe could only reply that in the present state of his family he\nneither could nor would undertake anything, and he urgently pleaded\nagainst any insurrection that could occasion a civil war.\n\nThere was reason to think that Sedley had no hesitation in promising\nto use all his influence over his uncle's tenants, and considerably\nmagnifying their extremely small regard to him--nay, probably,\ndwelling on his own expectations.\n\nAt any rate, even when Charnock was gone, Sedley continued to talk\nbig of the coming changes and his own distinguished part in them.\nIndeed one very trying effect of the continued alarm about Charles\nwas that he took to haunting the place, and report declared that he\nhad talked loudly and coarsely of his cousin's death and his uncle's\ndotage, and of his soon being called in to manage the property for\nthe little heir--insomuch that Sir Edmund Nutley thought it\nexpedient to let him know that Charles, on going on active service\nsoon after he had come of age, had sent home a will, making his son,\nwho was a young gentleman of very considerable property on his\nmother's side, ward to his grandfather first, and then to Sir Edmund\nNutley himself and to Dr. Woodford.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI: THE LEGEND OF PENNY GRIM\n\n\n\"O dearest Marjorie, stay at hame,\n   For dark's the gate ye have to go,\nFor there's a maike down yonder glen\n   Hath frightened me and many me.\"\n\nHOGG.\n\n\"Nana,\" said little Philip in a meditative voice, as he looked into\nthe glowing embers of the hall fire, \"when do fairies leave off\nstealing little boys?\"\n\n\"I do not believe they ever steal them, Phil.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes they do;\" and he came and stood by her with his great\nlimpid blue eyes wide open.  \"Goody Dearlove says they stole a\nlittle boy, and his name was Penny Grim.\"\n\n\"Goody Dearlove is a silly old body to tell my boy such stories,\"\nsaid Anne, disguising how much she was startled.\n\n\"Oh, but Ralph Huntsman says 'tis true, and he knew him.\"\n\n\"How could he know him when he was stolen?\"\n\n\"They put another instead,\" said the boy, a little puzzled, but too\nyoung to make his story consistent.  \"And he was an elf--a cross\nspiteful elf, that was always vexing folk.  And they stole him again\nevery seven years.  Yes--that was it--they stole him every seven\nyears.\"\n\n\"Whom, Phil; I don't understand--the boy or the elf?\" she said,\nhalf-diverted, even while shocked at the old story coming up in such\na form.\n\n\"The elf, I think,\" he said, bending his brows; \"he comes back, and\nthen they steal him again.  Yes; and at last they stole him quite--\nquite away--but it is seven years, and Goody Dearlove says he is to\nbe seen again!\"\n\n\"No!\" exclaimed Anne, with an irrepressible start of dismay.  \"Has\nany one seen him, or fancied so?\" she added, though feeling that her\nchance of maintaining her rational incredulity was gone.\n\n\"Goody Dearlove's Jenny did,\" was the answer.  \"She saw him stand\nout on the beach at night by moonlight, and when she screamed out,\nhe was gone like the snuff of a candle.\"\n\n\"Saw him?  What was he like?\" said Anne, struggling for the\ndispassionate tone of the governess, and recollecting that Jenny\nDearlove was a maid at Portchester Rectory.\n\n\"A little bit of a man, all twisty on one side, and a feather\nsticking out.  Ralph said they always were like that;\" and Phil's\nimitation, with his lithe, graceful little figure, of Ralph's clumsy\nmimicry was sufficient to show that there was some foundation for\nthis story, and she did not answer at once, so that he added, \"I am\nseven, Nana; do you think they will get me?\"\n\n\"Oh no, no, Phil, there's no fear at all of that.  I don't believe\nfairies steal anybody, but even old women like Goody Dearlove only\nsay they steal little tiny babies if they are left alone before they\nare christened.\"\n\nThe boy drew a long breath, but still asked, \"Was Penny Grim a\nlittle baby?\"\n\n\"So they said,\" returned Anne, by no means interfering with the\nname, and with a quailing heart as she thought of the child's ever\nknowing what concern his father had in that disappearance.  She was\nby no means sorry to have the conversation broken off by Sir\nPhilip's appearance, booted and buskined, prepared for an expedition\nto visit a flock of sheep and their lambs under the shelter of\nPortsdown Hill, and in a moment his little namesake was frisking\nround eager to go with grandpapa.\n\n\"Well, 'tis a brisk frost.  Is it too far for him, think you,\nMistress Anne?\"\n\n\"Oh no, sir; he is a strong little man and a walk will only be good\nfor him, if he does not stand still too long and get chilled.  Run,\nPhil, and ask nurse for your thick coat and stout shoes and\nleggings.\"\n\n\"His grandmother only half trusts me with him,\" said Sir Philip,\nlaughing.  \"I tell her she was not nearly so careful of his father.\nI remember him coming in crusted all over with ice, so that he could\nhardly get his clothes off, but she fancies the boy may have some of\nhis poor mother's weakliness about him.\"\n\n\"I see no tokens of it, sir.\"\n\n\"Grand-dames will be anxious, specially over one chick.  Heigho!\nWinter travelling must be hard in Germany, and posts do not come.\nHow now, my man!  Are you rolled up like a very Russian bear?  The\npoor ewes will think you are come to eat up their lambs.\"\n\n\"I'll growl at them,\" said Master Philip, uttering a sound\nsufficient to disturb the nerves of any sheep if he were permitted\nto make it, and off went grandfather and grandson together, Sir\nPhilip only pausing at the door to say--\n\n\"My lady wants you, Anne; she is fretting over the delay.  I fear,\nthough I tell her it bodes well.\"\n\nAnne watched for a moment the hale old gentleman briskly walking on,\nthe merry child frolicking hither and thither round him, and the\nsturdy body-servant Ralph, without whom he never stirred, plodding\nafter, while Keeper, the only dog allowed to follow to the\nsheepfolds, marched decorously along, proud of the distinction.\nThen she went up to Lady Archfield, who could not be perfectly easy\nas to the precious grandchild being left to his own devices in the\ncold, while Sir Philip was sure to run into a discussion with the\nshepherd over the turnips, which were too much of a novelty to be\napproved by the Hampshire mind.  It was quite true that she could\nnot watch that little adventurous spirit with the same absence of\nanxiety as she had felt for her own son in her younger days, and\nAnne had to devote herself to soothing and diverting her mind, till\nDr. Woodford knocked at the door to read and converse with her.\n\nThe one o'clock dinner waited for the grandfather and grandson, and\nwhen they came at last, little Philip looked somewhat blue with cold\nand more subdued than usual, and his grandfather observed severely\nthat he had been a naughty boy, running into dangerous places,\nsliding where he ought not, and then muttered under his breath that\nSedley ought to have known better than to have let him go there.\n\nDiscipline did not permit even a darling like little Phil to speak\nat dinner-time; but he fidgeted, and the tears came into his eyes,\nand Anne hearing a little grunt behind Sir Philip's chair, looked\nup, and was aware that old Ralph was mumbling what to her ears\nsounded like:  'Knew too well.'  But his master, being slightly\ndeaf, did not hear, and went on to talk of his lambs and of how\nSedley had joined them on the road, but had not come back to dinner.\n\nPhil was certainly quieter than usual that afternoon, and sat at\nAnne's feet by the fire, filling little sacks with bran to be loaded\non his toy cart to go to the mill, but not chattering as usual.  She\nthought him tired, and hearing a sort of sigh took him on her knee,\nwhen he rested his fair little head on her shoulder, and presently\nsaid in a low voice--\n\n\"I've seen him.\"\n\n\"Who?  Not your father?  Oh, my child!\" cried Anne, in a sudden\nhorror.\n\n\"Oh no--the Penny Grim thing.\"\n\n\"What?  Tell me, Phil dear, how or where?\"\n\n\"By the end of the great big pond; and he threw up his arms, and\nmade a horrid grin.\"  The boy trembled and hid his face against her.\n\n\"But go on, Phil.  He can't hurt you, you know.  Do tell me.  Where\nwere you?\"\n\n\"I was sliding on the ice.  Grandpapa was ever so long talking to\nBill Shepherd, and looking at the men cutting turnips, and I got\ncold and tired, and ran about with Cousin Sedley till we got to the\nbig pond, and we began to slide, and the ice was so nice and hard--\nyou can't think.  He showed me how to take a good long slide, and\nsaid I might go out to the other end of the pond by the copse, by\nthe great old tree.  And I set off, but before I got there, out it\njumped, out of the copse, and waved its arms, and made _that_ face.\"\n\nHe cowered into her bosom again and almost cried.  Anne knew the\nplace, and was ready to start with dismay in her turn.  It was such\na pool as is frequent in chalk districts--shallow at one end, but\ndeep and dangerous with springs at the other.\n\n\"But, Phil dear,\" she said, \"it was well you were stopped; the ice\nmost likely would have broken at that end, and then where would\nNana's little man have been?\"\n\n\"Cousin Sedley never told me not,\" said the boy in self-defence; \"he\nwas whistling to me to go on.  But when I tumbled down Ralph and\ngrandpapa and all _did_ scold me so--and Cousin Sedley was gone.\nWhy did they scold me, Nana?  I thought it was brave not to mind\ndanger--like papa.\"\n\n\"It is brave when one can do any good by it, but not to slide on bad\nice, when one must be drowned,\" said Anne.  \"Oh, my dear, dear\nlittle fellow, it was a blessed thing you saw _that_, whatever it\nwas!  But why do you call it Pere--Penny Grim?\"\n\n\"It was, Nana!  It was a little man--rather.  And one-sided looking,\nwith a bit of hair sticking out, just like the picture of Riquet-\nwith-a-tuft in your French fairy-book.\"\n\nThis last was convincing to Anne that the child must have seen the\nphantom of seven years ago, since he was not repeating the popular\ndescription he had given her in the morning, but one quite as\nindividual.  She asked if grandpapa had seen it.\n\n\"Oh no; he was in the shed, and only came out when he heard Ralph\nscolding me.  Was it a wicked urchin come to steal me, Nana?\"\n\n\"No, I think not,\" she answered.  \"Whatever it was, I think it came\nbecause God was taking care of His child, and warning him from\nsliding into the deep pool.  We will thank him, Phil.  'He shall\ngive his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.'\"\nAnd to that verse she soothed the tired child till he fell asleep,\nand she could lay him on the settle, and cover him with a cloak,\nmusing the while on the strange story, until presently she started\nup and repaired to the buttery in search of the old servant.\n\n\"Ralph, what is this Master Philip tells me?\" she asked.  \"What has\nhe seen?\"\n\n\"Well, Mistress Anne, that is what I can't tell--no, not I; but I\nknows this, that the child has had a narrow escape of his precious\nlife, and I'd never trust him again with that there Sedley--no, not\nfor hundreds of pounds.\"\n\n\"You _really_ think, Ralph--?\"\n\n\"What can I think, ma'am?  When I finds he's been a-setting that\nthere child to slide up to where he'd be drownded as sure as he's\nalive, and you see, if we gets ill news of Master Archfield (which\nGod forbid), there's naught but the boy atween him and this here\nplace--and he over head and ears in debt.  Be it what it might that\nthe child saw, it saved the life of him.\"\n\n\"Did you see it?\"\n\n\"No, Mistress Anne; I can't say as I did.  I only heard the little\nmaster cry out as he fell.  I was in the shed, you see, taking a\npipe to keep me warm.  And when I took him up, he cried out like one\ndazed.  'Twas Penny Grim, Ralph!  Keep me.  He is come to steal me.\"\nBut Sir Philip wouldn't hear nothing of it, only blamed Master Phil\nfor being foolhardy, and for crying for the fall, and me for letting\nhim out of sight.\"\n\n\"And Mr. Sedley--did he see it?\"\n\n\"Well, mayhap he did, for I saw him as white as a sheet and his eyes\nstaring out of his head; but that might have been his evil\nconscience.\"\n\n\"What became of him?\"\n\n\"To say the truth, ma'am, I believe he be at the Brocas Arms, a-\ndrowning of his fright--if fright it were, with Master Harling's\nstrong waters.\"\n\n\"But this apparition, this shape--or whatever it is?  What put it\ninto Master Philip's head?  What has been heard of it?\"\n\nRalph looked unwilling.  \"Bless you, Mistress Anne, there's been\nsome idle talk among the women folk, as how that there crooked slip\nof Major Oakshott's, as they called Master Perry or Penny, and said\nwas a changeling, has been seen once and again.  Some says as the\nfairies have got him, and 'tis the seven year for him to come back\nagain.  And some says that he met with foul play, and 'tis the ghost\nof him, but I holds it all mere tales, and I be sure 'twere nothing\nbad as stopped little master on that there pond.  So I be.\"\n\nAnne could not but be of the same mind, but her confusion, alarm,\nand perplexity were great.  It seemed strange, granting that this\nwere either spirit or elf connected with Peregrine Oakshott, that it\nshould interfere on behalf of Charles Archfield's child, and on the\nsweet hypothesis that a guardian angel had come to save the child,\nit was in a most unaccountable form.\n\nAnd more pressing than any such mysterious idea was the tangible\nhorror of Ralph's suggestion, too well borne out by the boy's own\nunconscious account of the adventure.  It was too dreadful, too real\na peril to be kept to herself, and she carried the story to her\nuncle on his return, but without speaking of the spectral warning.\nNot only did she know that he would not attend to it, but the hint,\nheard for the first time, that Peregrine was supposed to have met\nwith foul play, sealed her lips, just when she still was hoping\nagainst hope that Charles might be on the way home.  But that Ralph\nbelieved, and little Philip's own account confirmed, that his cousin\nhad incited the little heir to the slide that would have been fatal\nsave for his fall, she told with detail, and entreated that the\ngrandfather might be warned, and some means be found of ensuring the\nsafety of her darling, the motherless child!\n\nTo her disappointment Dr. Woodford was not willing to take alarm.\nHe did not think so ill of Sedley as to believe him capable of such\na secret act of murder, and he had no great faith in Ralph's\nsagacity, besides that he thought his niece's nerves too much\nstrained by the long suspense to be able to judge fairly.  He\nthought it would be cruel to the grandparents, and unjust to Sedley,\nto make such a frightful suggestion without further grounds during\ntheir present state of anxiety, and as to the boy's safety, which\nAnne pleaded with an uncontrollable passion of tears, he believed\nthat it was provided for by watchfulness on the part of his two\nconstant guardians, as well as himself, since, even supposing the\nshocking accusation to be true, Sedley would not involve himself in\ndanger of suspicion, and it was already understood that he was not a\nfit companion for his little cousin to be trusted with.  Philip had\nalready brought home words and asked questions that distressed his\ngrandmother, and nobody was willing to leave him alone with the ex-\nlieutenant.  So again the poor maiden had to hold her peace under an\nadded burthen of anxiety and many a prayer.\n\nWhen the country was ringing with the tidings of Sir George\nBarclay's conspiracy for the assassination of William III, it was\nimpossible not to hope that Sedley's boastful tongue might have\nbrought him sufficiently under suspicion to be kept for a while\nunder lock and key; but though he did not appear at Fareham, there\nwas reason to suppose that he was as usual haunting the taverns and\ncockpits of Portsmouth.\n\nNo one went much abroad that winter.  Sir Philip, perhaps from\nanxiety and fretting, had a fit of the gout, and Anne kept herself\nand her charge within the garden or the street of the town.  In fact\nthere was a good deal of danger on the roads.  The neighbourhood of\nthe seaport was always lawless, and had become more so since Sir\nPhilip had ceased to act as Justice of the Peace, and there were\nreports of highway robberies of an audacious kind, said to be\nperpetrated by a band calling themselves the Black Gang, under a\nleader known as Piers Pigwiggin, who were alleged to be half\nsmuggler, half Jacobite, and to have their headquarters somewhere in\nthe back of the Isle of Wight, in spite of the Governor, the\nterrible Salamander, Lord Cutts, who was, indeed, generally absent\nwith the army.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII: THE VAULT\n\n\n\"Heaven awards the vengeance due.\"\n\nCOWPER.\n\nThe weary days had begun to lengthen before the door of the hall was\nflung open, and little Phil, forgetting his bow at the door, rushed\nin, \"Here's a big packet from foreign parts!  Harry had to pay ever\nso much for it.\"\n\n\"I have wellnigh left off hoping,\" sighed the poor mother.  \"Tell me\nthe worst at once.\"\n\n\"No fear, my lady,\" said her husband.  \"Thank God!  'Tis our son's\nhand.\"\n\nThere was the silence for a moment of intense relief, and then the\nlittle boy was called to cut the silk and break the seals.\n\nJoy ineffable!  There were three letters--for Master Philip\nArchfield, for Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford, and for Sir Philip\nhimself.  The old gentleman glanced over it, caught the words\n'better,' and 'coming home,' then failed to read through tears of\njoy as before through tears of sorrow, and was fain to hand the\nsheet to his old friend to be read aloud, while little Philip,\nhandling as a treasure the first letter he had ever received, though\nas yet he was unable to decipher it, stood between his grandfather's\nknees listening as Dr. Woodford read--\n\nDEAR AND HONOURED SIR--I must ask your pardon for leaving you\nwithout tidings so long, but while my recovery still hung in\ndoubt I thought it would only distress you to hear of the\nfluctuations that I went through, and the pain to which the\nsurgeons put me for a long time in vain.  Indeed frequently I had\nno power either to think or speak, until at last with much\ndifficulty, and little knowledge or volition of my own, my\ninestimable friend Graham brought me to Vienna, where I have at\nlength been relieved from my troublesome companion, and am\nenjoying the utmost care and kindness from my friend's mother, a\nnear kinswoman, as indeed he is himself, of the brave and\nlamented Viscount Dundee.  My wound is healing finally, as I\nhope, and though I have not yet left my bed, my friends assure me\nthat I am on the way to full and complete recovery, for which I\nam more thankful to the Almighty than I could have been before I\nknew what suffering and illness meant.  As soon as I can ride\nagain, which they tell me will be in a fortnight or three weeks,\nI mean to set forth on my way home.  I cannot describe to you how\nI am longing after the sight of you all, nor how home-sick I have\nbecome.  I never had time for it before, but I have lain for\nhours bringing all your faces before me, my father's, and\nmother's, my sister's, and that of her whom I hope to call my\nown; and figuring to myself that of the little one.  I have\nthought much over my past life, and become sensible of much that\nwas amiss, and while earnestly entreating your forgiveness,\nespecially for having absented myself all these years, I hope to\nreturn so as to be more of a comfort than I was in the days of my\nrash and inconsiderate youth.  I am of course at present\ninvalided, but I want to consult you, honoured sir, before\ndeciding whether it be expedient for me to resign my commission.\nHow I thank and bless you for the permission you have given me,\nand the love you bear to my own heart's joy, no words can tell.\nIt shall be the study of my life to be worthy of her and of you.--\nAnd so no more from your loving and dutiful son, CHARLES\nARCHFIELD.\n\nHaving drunk in these words with her ears, Anne left Phil to have\nhis note interpreted by his grandparents, and fled away to enjoy her\nown in her chamber, yet it was as short as could be and as sweet.\n\nMine own, mine own sweet Anne, sweetheart of good old days, your\nletter gave me strength to go through with it.  The doctors could\nnot guess why I was so much better and smiled through all their\ntorments.  These are our first, I hope our last letters, for I\nshall soon follow them home, and mine own darling will be mine.--\nThine own, C. A.\n\nShe had but short time to dwell on it and kiss it, for little Philip\nwas upon her, waving his letter, which he already knew by heart; and\ngalloping all over the house to proclaim the good news to the old\nservants, who came crowding into the hall, trembling with joy, to\nask if there were indeed tidings of Mr. Archfield's return,\nwhereupon the glad father caused his grandson to carry each a full\nglass of wine to drink to the health of the young master.\n\nAnne had at first felt only the surpassing rapture of the\nrestoration of Charles, but there ensued another delight in the\nsecurity his recovery gave to the life of his son.  Sedley Archfield\nwould not be likely to renew his attempt, and if only on that\naccount the good news should be spread as widely as possible.  She\nwas the first to suggest the relief it would be to Mr. Fellowes, who\nhad never divested himself of the feeling that he ought to have\ndivined his pupil's intention.\n\nDr. Woodford offered to ride to Portchester with the news, and Sir\nPhilip, in the gladness of his heart, proposed that Anne should go\nwith him and see her friend.\n\nShall it be told how on the way Anne's mind was assailed by feminine\nmisgivings whether three and twenty could be as fair in her\nsoldier's eyes as seventeen had been?  Old maidenhood came earlier\nthen than in these days, and Anne knew that she was looked upon as\nan old waiting-gentlewoman or governess by the belles of Winchester.\nHer glass might tell her that her eyes were as softly brown, her\nhair as abundant, her cheek as clear and delicately moulded as ever,\nbut there was no one to assure her that the early bloom had not\npassed away, and that she had not rather gained than lost in dignity\nof bearing and the stately poise of the head, which the jealous\ndamsels called Court airs.  \"And should he be disappointed, I shall\nsee it in his eyes,\" she said to herself, \"and then his promise\nshall not bind him, though it will break my heart, and oh! how hard\nto resign my Phil to a strange stepmother.\"  Still her heart was\nlighter than for many a long year, as she cantered along in the\nbrisk March air, while the drops left by the departing frost\nglistened in the sunshine, and the sea lay stretched in a delicate\ngray haze.  The old castle rose before her in its familiar home-like\nmassiveness as they turned towards the Rectory, where in that\nsheltered spot the well-known clusters of crocuses were opening\ntheir golden hearts to the sunshine, and recalling the days when\nAnne was as sunny-hearted as they, and she felt as if she could be\nas bright again.\n\nIn Mrs. Fellowes's parlour they found an unexpected guest, no other\nthan Mrs. Oakshott.\n\n'Gadding about' not being the fashion of the Archfield household,\nAnne had not seen the lady for several years, and was agreeably\nsurprised by her appearance.  Perhaps the marks of smallpox had\nfaded, perhaps motherhood had given expression, and what had been\ngaunt ungainliness in the maiden had rounded into a certain\nimportance in the matron, nor had her dress, though quiet, any of\nthe Puritan rigid ugliness that had been complained of, and though\ncertainly not beautiful, she was a person to inspire respect.\n\nIt was explained that she was waiting for her husband, who was gone\nwith Mr. Fellowes to speak to the officer in command of the soldiers\nat the castle.  \"For,\" said she, \"I am quite convinced that there is\nsomething that ought to be brought to light, and it may be in that\nvault.\"\n\nAnne's heart gave such a throb as almost choked her.\n\nDr. Woodford asked what the lady meant.\n\n\"Well, sir, when spirits and things 'tis not well to talk of are\nstarting up and about here, there, and everywhere, 'tis plain there\nmust be cause for it.\"\n\n\"I do not quite take your meaning, madam.\"\n\n\"Ah, well! you gentlemen, reverend ones especially, are the last to\nhear such things.  There's the poor old Major, he won't believe a\nword of it, but you know, Mistress Woodford.  I see it in your face.\nHave you seen anything?\"\n\n\"Not here, not now,\" faltered Anne.  \"You have, Mrs. Fellowes?\"\n\n\"I have heard of some foolish fright of the maids,\" said Naomi,\n\"partly their own fancy, or perhaps caught from the sentry.  There\nis no keeping those giddy girls from running after the soldiers.\"\n\nPerhaps Naomi hoped by throwing out this hint to conduct her\nvisitors off into the safer topic of domestic delinquencies, but\nMrs. Oakshott was far too earnest to be thus diverted, and she\nexclaimed, \"Ah, they saw him, I'll warrant!\"\n\n\"Him?\" the Doctor asked innocently.\n\n\"Him or his likeness,\" said Mrs. Oakshott, \"my poor brother-in-law,\nPeregrine Oakshott; you remember him, sir?  He always said, poor\nlad, that you and Mrs. Woodford were kinder to him than his own\nflesh and blood, except his uncle, Sir Peregrine.  For my part, I\nnever did give in to all the nonsense folk talked about his being a\nchangeling or at best a limb of Satan.  He had more spirit and sense\nthan the rest of them, and they led him the life of a dog, though\nthey knew no better.  If I had had him at Emsworth, I would have\nshown them what he was;\" and she sighed heavily.  \"Well, I did not\nso much wonder when he disappeared, I made sure that he could bear\nit no longer and had run away.  I waited as long as there was any\nreason, till there should be tidings of him, and only took his\nbrother at last because I found they could not do without me at\nhome.\"\n\nRemarkable frankness! but it struck both the Doctor and Anne that if\nPeregrine could have submitted, his life might have been freer and\nless unhappy than he had expected, though Mrs. Martha spoke the\nbroadest Hampshire.\n\nNaomi asked, \"Then you no longer think that he ran away?\"\n\n\"No, madam; I am certain there was worse than that.  You remember\nthe night of the bonfire for the Bishops' acquittal, Miss Woodford?\"\n\n\"Indeed I do.\"\n\n\"Well, he was never seen again after that, as you know.  The place\nwas full of wild folk.  There was brawling right and left.\"\n\n\"Were you there?\" asked Anne surprised.\n\n\"Yes; in my coach with my uncle and aunt that lived with me, though,\nexcept Robin, none of the young sparks would come near me, except\nsome that I knew were after my pockets,\" said Martha, with a good-\nhumoured laugh.  \"Properly frightened we were too by the brawling\nsailors ere we got home!  Now, what could be more likely than that\nsome of them got hold of poor Perry?  You know he always would go\nabout with the rapier he brought from Germany, with amber set in the\nhilt, and the mosaic snuff-box he got in Italy, and what could be\nlooked for but that the poor dear lad should be put out of the way\nfor the sake of these gewgaws?\"  This supposition was gratifying to\nAnne, but her uncle must needs ask why Mrs. Oakshott thought so more\nthan before.\n\n\"Because,\" she said impressively, \"there is no doubt but that he has\nbeen seen, and not in the flesh, once and again, and always about\nthese ruins.\"\n\n\"By whom, madam, may I ask?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Fellowes's maids, as she knows, saw him once on the beach at\nnight, just there.  The sentry, who is Tom Hart, from our parish,\nsaw a shape at the opening of the old vault before the keep and\nchallenged him, when he vanished out of sight ere there was time to\npresent a musket.  There was once more, when one moonlight night our\nsexton, looking out of his cottage window, saw what he declares was\nnone other than Master Perry standing among the graves of our\nfamily, as if, poor youth, he were asking why he was not among them.\nWhen I heard that, I said to my husband, 'Depend upon it,' says I,\n'he met with his death that night, and was thrown into some hole,\nand that's the reason he cannot rest.  If I pay a hundred pounds for\nit, I'll not give up till his poor corpse is found to have Christian\nburial, and I'll begin with the old vault at Portchester!'  My good\nfather, the Major, would not hear of it at first, nor my husband\neither, but 'tis my money, and I know how to tackle Robin.\"\n\nIt was with strangely mingled feelings that Anne listened.  That\nsearch in the vault, inaugurated by faithful Martha, was what she\nhad always felt ought to be made, and she had even promised to\nattempt it if the apparitions recurred.  The notion of the deed\nbeing attributed to lawless sailors and smugglers or highwaymen, who\nwere known to swarm in the neighbourhood, seemed to remove all\ndanger of suspicion.  Yet she could not divest herself of a vague\nsense of alarm at this stirring up of what had slept for seven\nyears.  Neither she nor her uncle deemed it needful to mention the\nappearance seen by little Philip, but to her surprise Naomi slowly\nand hesitatingly said it was very remarkable, that her husband\nhaving occasion to be at the church at dusk one evening just after\nMidsummer, had certainly seen a figure close to Mrs. Woodford's\ngrave, and lost sight of it before he could speak of it.  He thought\nnothing more of it till these reports began to be spread, but he had\nthen recollected that it answered the descriptions given of the\nphantom.\n\nHere the ladies were interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Fellowes\nand Robert Oakshott, now grown into a somewhat heavy but by no means\nfoolish-looking young man.\n\n\"Well, madam,\" said he, in Hampshire as broad as his wife's, \"you\nwill have your will.  Not that Captain Henslowe believes a word of\nyour ghosts--not he; but he took fire when he heard of queer sights\nabout the castle.  He sent for the chap who stood sentry, and was\ndownright sharp on him for not reporting what he had seen, and he is\nordering out a sergeant's party to open the vault, so you may come\nand see, if you have any stomach for it.\"\n\n\"I could not but come!\" said Madam Oakshott, who certainly did not\nlook squeamish, but who was far more in earnest than her husband,\nand perhaps doubted whether without her presence the quest would be\nthorough.  Anne was full of dread, and almost sick at the thought of\nwhat she might see, but she was far too anxious to stay away.  Mrs.\nFellowes made some excuse about the children for not accompanying\nthem.\n\nIt always thrilled Anne to enter that old castle court, the familiar\nand beloved play-place of her childhood, full of memories of Charles\nand of Lucy, and containing in its wide precincts the churchyard\nwhere her mother lay.  She moved along in a kind of dream, glad to\nbe let alone, since Mr. Fellowes naturally attended Mrs. Oakshott,\nand Robert was fully occupied in explaining to the Doctor that he\nonly gave in to this affair for the sake of pacifying madam, since\nwomen folk would have their little megrims.  Assuredly that tall,\nsolid, resolute figure stalking on in front, looked as little\nsubject to megrims as any of her sex.  Her determination had brought\nher husband thither, and her determination further carried the day,\nwhen the captain, after staring at the solid-looking turf, stamping\non the one stone that was visible, and trampling down the bunch of\nnettles beside it, declared that the entrance had been so thoroughly\nstopped that it was of no use to dig farther.  It was Madam Martha\nwho demanded permission to offer the four soldiers a crown apiece if\nthey opened the vault, a guinea each if they found anything.  The\ncaptain could not choose but grant it, though with something of a\nsneer, and the work was begun.  He walked up and down with Robert,\njoining in hopes that the lady would be satisfied before dinner-\ntime.  The two clergymen likewise walked together, arguing, as was\ntheir wont, on the credibility of apparitions.  The two ladies stood\nin almost breathless watch, as the bricks that had covered in the\nopening were removed, and the dark hole brought to light.  Contrary\nto expectation, when the opening had been enlarged, it was found\nthat there were several steps of stone, and where they were broken\naway, there was a rude ladder.\n\nA lantern was fetched from the guard-room in the bailey, and after\nmuch shaking and trying of the ladder, one of the soldiers\ndescended, finding the place less deep than was commonly supposed,\nand soon calling out that he was at the bottom.  Another followed\nhim, and presently there was a shout.  Something was found!  \"A\nrusty old chain, no doubt,\" grumbled Robert; but his wife shrieked.\nIt was a sword in its sheath, the belt rotted, the clasp tarnished,\nbut of silver.  Mrs. Oakshott seized it at once, rubbed away the\ndust from the handle, and brought to light a glistening yellow piece\nof amber, which she mutely held up, and another touch of her\nhandkerchief disclosed on a silver plate in the scabbard an oak-\ntree, the family crest, and the twisted cypher P. O.  Her eyes were\nfull of tears, and she did not speak.  Anne, white and trembling,\nwas forced to sink down on the stone, unnoticed by all, while Robert\nOakshott, convinced indeed, hastily went down himself.  The sword\nhad been hidden in a sort of hollow under the remains of the broken\nstair.  Thence likewise came to light the mouldy remnant of a broad\nhat and the quill of its plume, and what had once been a coat, even\nin its present state showing that it had been soaked through and\nthrough with blood, the same stains visible on the watch and the\nmosaic snuff-box.  That was all; there was no purse, and no other\ngarments, though, considering the condition of the coat, they might\nhave been entirely destroyed by the rats and mice.  There was indeed\na fragment of a handkerchief, with the cypher worked on it, which\nMrs. Oakshott showed to Anne with the tears in her eyes:  \"There!  I\nworked that, though he never knew it.  No!  I know he did not like\nme!  But I would have made him do so at last.  I would have been so\ngood to him.  Poor fellow, that he should have been lying there all\nthis time!\"\n\nLying there; but where, then, was he?  No signs of any corpse were\nto be found, though one after another all the gentlemen descended to\nlook, and Mrs. Oakshott was only withheld by her husband's urgent\nrepresentations, and promise to superintend a diligent digging in\nthe ground, so as to ascertain whether there had been a hasty burial\nthere.\n\nAltogether, Anne was so much astonished and appalled that she could\nhardly restrain herself, and her mind reverted to Bishop Ken's\ntheory that Peregrine still lived; but this was contradicted by the\nappearance at Douai, which did not rest on the evidence of her\nsingle perceptions.\n\nMrs. Fellowes sent out an entreaty that they would come to dinner,\nand the gentlemen were actually base enough to wish to comply, so\nthat the two ladies had no choice save to come with them, especially\nas the soldiers were unwilling to work on without their meal.\nNeither Mrs. Oakshott nor Anne felt as if they could swallow, and\nthe polite pressure to eat was only preferable in Anne's eyes to the\nconversation on the discoveries that had been made, especially the\nconclusion arrived at by all, that though the purse and rings had\nnot been found, the presence of the watch and snuff-box precluded\nthe idea of robbery.\n\n\"These would be found on the body,\" said Mr. Oakshott.  \"I could\nswear to the purse.  You remember, madam, your uncle bantering him\nabout French ladies and their finery, asking whose token it was, and\nhow black my father looked?  Poor Perry, if my father could have had\na little patience with him, he would not have gone roaming about and\ngetting into brawls, and we need not be looking for him in yonder\nblack pit.\"\n\n\"You'll never find him there, Master Robert,\" spoke out the old\nOakwood servant, behind Mrs. Oakshott's chair, free and easy after\nthe manner of the time.\n\n\"And wherefore not, Jonadab?\" demanded his mistress, by no means\nsurprised at the liberty.\n\n\"Why, ma'am, 'twas the seven years, you sees, and in course when\nthem you wot of had power to carry him off, they could not take his\nsword, nor his hat, not they couldn't.\"\n\n\"How about his purse, then?\" put in Dr. Woodford.\n\n\"I'll be bound you will find it yet, sir,\" responded Jonadab, by no\nmeans disconcerted, \"leastways unless some two-legged fairies have\ngot it.\"\n\nAt this some of the party found it impossible not to laugh, and this\nso upset poor Martha's composure that she was obliged to leave the\ntable, and Anne was not sorry for the excuse of attending her,\nalthough there were stings of pain in all her rambling lamentations\nand conjectures.\n\nVery tardily, according to the feelings of the anxious women, was\nthe dinner finished, and their companions ready to take them out\nagain.  Indeed, Madam Oakshott at last repaired to the dining-\nparlour, and roused her husband from his glass of Spanish wine to\nrenew the search.  She would not listen to Mrs. Fellowes's advice\nnot to go out again, and Anne could not abstain either from watching\nfor what could not be other than grievous and mournful to behold.\n\nThe soldiers were called out again by their captain, and reinforced\nby the Rectory servant and Jonadab.\n\nThere was an interval of anxious prowling round the opening.  Mr.\nOakshott and the captain had gone down again, and found, what the\nmilitary man was anxious about, that if there were passages to the\nouter air, they had been well blocked up and not re-opened.\n\nMeantime the digging proceeded.\n\nIt was just at twilight that a voice below uttered an exclamation.\nThen came a pause.  The old sergeant's voice ordered care and a\npause, somewhere below the opening with, \"Sir, the spades have hit\nupon a skull.\"\n\nThere was a shuddering pause.  All the gentlemen except Dr.\nWoodford, who feared the chill, descended again.  Mrs. Oakshott and\nAnne held each other's hands and trembled.\n\nBy and by Mr. Fellowes came up first.  \"We have found,\" he said,\nlooking pale and grave, \"a skeleton.  Yes, a perfect skeleton, but\nno more--no remains except a fine dust.\"\n\nAnd Robert Oakshott following, awe-struck and sorrowful, added,\n\"Yes, there he is, poor Perry--all that is left of him--only his\nbones.  No, madam, we must leave him there for the present; we\ncannot bring it up without preparation.\"\n\n\"You need not fear meddling curiosity, madam,\" said the captain.  \"I\nwill post a sentry here to bar all entrance.\"\n\n\"Thanks, sir,\" said Robert.  \"That will be well till I can bury the\npoor fellow with all due respect by my mother and Oliver.\"\n\n\"And then I trust his spirit will have rest,\" said Martha Oakshott\nfervently.  \"And now home to your father.  How will he bear it,\nsir?\"\n\n\"I verily believe he will sleep the quieter for knowing for a\ncertainty what has become of poor Peregrine,\" said her husband.\n\nAnd Anne felt as if half her burthen of secrecy was gone when they\nall parted, starting early because the Black Gang rendered all the\nroads unsafe after dark.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII: THE DISCLOSURE\n\n\n\"He looked about as one betrayed,\nWhat hath he done, what promise made?\nOh! weak, weak moment, to what end\nCan such a vain oblation tend?\"\n\nWORDSWORTH.\n\nFor the most part Anne was able to hold her peace and keep out of\nsight while Dr. Woodford related the strange revelations of the\nvault with all the circumstantiality that was desired by two old\npeople living a secluded life and concerned about a neighbour of\nmany years, whom they had come to esteem by force of a certain\nsympathy in honest opposition.  The mystery occupied them entirely,\nfor though the murder was naturally ascribed to some of the lawless\ncoast population, the valuables remaining with the clothes made a\nstrange feature in the case.\n\nIt was known that there was to be an inquest held on the remains\nbefore their removal, and Dr. Woodford, both from his own interest\nin the question, and as family intelligencer, rode to the castle.\nSir Philip longed to go, but it was a cold wet day, and he had\nthreatenings of gout, so that he was persuaded to remain by the\nfireside.  Inquests were then always held where the body lay, and\nthe court of Portchester Castle was no place for him on such a day.\n\nDr. Woodford came home just before twilight, looking grave and\ntroubled, and, much to Anne's alarm, desired to speak to Sir Philip\nprivately in the gun-room.  Lady Archfield took alarm, and much\ndistressed her by continually asking what could be the meaning of\nthe interview, and making all sorts of guesses.\n\nWhen at last they came together into the parlour the poor lady\nlooked so anxious and frightened that her husband went up to her and\nsaid, \"Do not be alarmed, sweetheart.  We shall clear him; but those\nfoolish fellows have let suspicion fall on poor Sedley.\"\n\nNobody looked at Anne, or her deadly paleness must have been\nremarked, and the trembling which she could hardly control by\nclasping her hands tightly together, keeping her feet hard on the\nfloor, and setting her teeth.\n\nLady Archfield was perhaps less fond of the scapegrace nephew than\nwas her husband, and she felt the matter chiefly as it affected him,\nso that she heard with more equanimity than he had done; and as they\nsat round the fire in the half-light, for which Anne was thankful,\nthe Doctor gave his narration in order.\n\n\"I found a large company assembled in the castle court, waiting for\nthe coroner from Portsmouth, though the sentry on guard would allow\nno one to go down, in spite of some, even ladies, I am ashamed to\nsay, who offered him bribes for the permission.  Everything, I\nheard, had been replaced as we found it.  The poor Major himself was\nthere, looking sadly broken, and much needing the help of his son's\narm.  'To think that I was blaming my poor son as a mere reprobate,\nand praying for his conversion,' says he, 'when he was lying here,\ncut off without a moment for repentance.'  There was your nephew,\nsuspecting nothing, Squire Brocas, Mr. Eyre, of Botley Grange, Mr.\nBiden, Mr. Larcom, and Mr. Bargus, and a good many more, besides Dr.\nJames Yonge, the naval doctor, and the Mayor of Portsmouth, and more\nthan I can tell you.  When the coroner came, and the jury had been\nsworn in, they went down and viewed the spot, and all that was\nthere.  The soldiers had put candles round, and a huge place it is,\nall built up with large stones.  Then, as it was raining hard, they\nadjourned to the great room in the keep and took the evidence.\nRobert Oakshott identified the clothes and the watch clearly enough,\nand said he had no doubt that the other remains were Peregrine's;\nbut as to swearing to a brother's bones, no one could do that; and\nDr. Yonge said in my ear that if the deceased were so small a man as\nfolks said, the skeleton could scarce be his, for he thought it had\nbelonged to a large-framed person.  That struck no one else, for\nnaturally it is only a chirurgeon who is used to reckon the\nproportion that the bones bear to the body, and I also asked him\nwhether in seven years the other parts would be so entirely\nconsumed, to which he answered that so much would depend on the\nnature of the soil that there was no telling.  However, jury and\ncoroner seemed to feel no doubt, and that old seafaring man, Tom\nBlock, declared that poor Master Peregrine had been hand and glove\nwith a lot of wild chaps, and that the vault had been well known to\nthem before the gentlemen had had it blocked up.  Then it was asked\nwho had seen him last, and Robert Oakshott spoke of having parted\nwith him at the bonfire, and never seen him again.  There, I fancy,\nit would have ended in a verdict of wilful murder against some\nperson or persons unknown, but Robert Oakshott must needs say, \"I\nwould give a hundred pounds to know who the villain was.\"  And then\nwho should get up but George Rackstone, with \"Please your Honour, I\ncould tell summat.\"  The coroner bade swear him, and he deposed to\nhaving seen Master Peregrine going down towards the castle somewhere\nabout four o'clock that morning after the bonfire when he was\ngetting up to go to his mowing.  But that was not all.  You\nremember, Anne, that his father's cottage stands on the road towards\nPortsmouth.  Well, he brought up the story of your running in there,\nfrightened, the day before the bonfire, when I was praying with his\nsick mother, calling on me to stop a fray between Peregrine and\nyoung Sedley, and I had to get up and tell of Sedley's rudeness to\nyou, child.\"\n\n\"What was that?\" hastily asked Lady Archfield.\n\n\"The old story, my lady.  The young officer's swaggering attempt to\nkiss the girl he meets on the road.  I doubt even if he knew at the\nmoment that it was my niece.  Peregrine was coming by at the moment,\nand interfered to protect her, and swords were drawn.  I could not\ndeny it, nor that there was ill blood between the lads; and then\nyoung Brocas, who was later on Portsdown than we were, remembered\nhigh words, and had thought to himself that there would be a\nchallenge.  And next old Goody Spore recollects seeing Master Sedley\nand another soldier officer out on the Portsmouth road early that\nmorning.  The hay was making in the court then, and Jenny Light\nremembered that when the haymakers came she raked up something that\nlooked like a bloody spot, and showed it to one of the others, but\nthey told her that most likely a rabbit or a hare had been killed\nthere, and she had best take no heed.  Probably there was dread of\ngetting into trouble about a smugglers' fray.  Well, every one was\nlooking askance at Master Sedley by this time, and the coroner asked\nhim if he had anything to say.  He spoke out boldly enough.  He\nowned to the dispute with Peregrine Oakshott, and to having parted\nwith him that night on terms which would only admit of a challenge.\nHe wrote a cartel that night, and sent it by his friend Lieutenant\nAinslie, but doubting whether Major Oakshott might not prevent its\ndelivery, he charged him to try to find Peregrine outside the house,\nand arrange with him a meeting on the hill, where you know the\nduellists of the garrison are wont to transact such encounters.\nSedley himself walked out part of the way with his friend, but\nneither of them saw Peregrine, nor heard anything of him.  So he\navers, but when asked for his witness to corroborate the story, he\nsays that Ainslie, I fear the only person who could have proved an\nalibi--if so it were--was killed at Landen; but, he added, certainly\nwith too much of his rough way, it was a mere absurdity to charge it\nupon him.  What should a gentleman have to do with private murders\nand robberies?  Nor did he believe the bones to be Perry Oakshott's\nat all.  It was all a bit of Whiggish spite!  He worked himself into\na passion, which only added to the impression against him; and I own\nI cannot wonder that the verdict has sent him to Winchester to take\nhis trial.  Why, Anne, child, how now?\"\n\n\"'Tis a terrible story.  Take my essences, child,\" said Lady\nArchfield, tottering across, and Anne, just saving herself from\nfainting by a long gasp at them, let herself be led from the room.\nThe maids buzzed about her, and for some time she was sensible of\nnothing but a longing to get rid of them, and to be left alone to\nface the grievous state of things which she did not yet understand.\nAt last, with kind good-nights from Lady Archfield, such as she\ncould hardly return, she was left by herself in the darkness to\nrecover from the stunned helpless feeling of the first moment.\n\nSedley accused!  Charles to be sacrificed to save his worthless\ncousin, the would-be murderer of his innocent child, who morally\nthus deserved to suffer!  Never, never!  She could not do so.  It\nwould be treason to her benefactors, nay, absolute injustice, for\nCharles had struck in generous defence of herself; but Sedley had\ntried to allure the boy to his death merely for his own advantage.\nShould she not be justified in simply keeping silence?  Yet there\nwas like an arrow in her heart, the sense of guilt in so doing,\nguilt towards God and truth, guilt towards man and justice.  She\nshould die under the load, and it would be for Charles.  Might it\nonly be before he came home, then he would know that she had\nperished under his secret to save him.  Nay, but would he be\nthankful at being saved at the expense of his cousin's life?  If he\ncame, how should she meet him?\n\nThe sense of the certain indignation of a good and noble human\nspirit often awakes the full perception of what an action would be\nin the sight of Heaven, and Anne began to realise the sin more than\nat first, and to feel the compulsion of truth.  If only Charles were\nnot coming home she could write to him and warn him, but the thought\nthat he might be already on the way had turned from joy to agony.\n\"And to think,\" she said to herself, \"that I was fretting as to\nwhether he would think me pretty!\"\n\nShe tossed about in misery, every now and then rising on her knees\nto pray--at first for Charles's safety--for she shrank from asking\nfor Divine protection, knowing only too well what that would be.\nGradually, however, a shudder came over her at the thought that if\nshe would not commit her way unto the Lord, she might indeed be the\nundoing of her lover, and then once more the higher sense of duty\nrose on her.  She prayed for forgiveness for the thought, and that\nit might not be visited upon him; she prayed for strength to do what\nmust be her duty, for safety for him, and comfort to his parents,\nand so, in passing gusts of misery and apprehension, of failing\nheart and recovered resolution, of anguish and of prayer, the long\nnight at length passed, and with the first dawn she arose, shaken\nand weak, but resolved to act on her terrible resolution before it\nagain failed her.\n\nSir Philip was always an early riser, and she heard his foot on the\nstairs before seven o'clock.  She came out on the staircase, which\nmet the flight which he was descending, and tried to speak, but her\nlips seemed too dry to part.\n\n\"Child! child! you are ill,\" said the old gentleman, as he saw her\nblanched cheek; \"you should be in bed this chilly morning.  Go back\nto your chamber.\"\n\n\"No, no, sir, I cannot.  Pray, your Honour, come here, I have\nsomething to say;\" and she drew him to the open door of his justice-\nroom, called the gun-room.\n\n\"Bless me,\" he muttered, \"the wench does not mean that she has got\nsmitten with that poor rogue my nephew!\"\n\n\"Oh! no, no,\" said Anne, almost ready for a hysterical laugh, yet\nletting the old man seat himself, and then dropping on her knees\nbefore him, for she could hardly stand, \"it is worse than that, sir;\nI know who it was who did that thing.\"\n\n\"Well, who?\" he said hastily; \"why have you kept it back so long and\nlet an innocent man get into trouble?\"\n\n\"O Sir Philip!  I could not help it.  Forgive me;\" and with clasped\nhands, she brought out the words, \"It was your son, Mr. Archfield;\"\nand then she almost collapsed again.\n\n\"Child! child! you are ill; you do not know what you are saying.  We\nmust have you to bed again.  I will call your uncle.\"\n\n\"Ah! sir, it is only too true;\" but she let him fetch her uncle, who\nwas sure to be at his devotions in a kind of oratory on the farther\nside of the hall.  She had not gone to him first, from the old\ndesire to keep him clear of the knowledge, but she longed for such\nsupport as he might give her, or at least to know whether he were\nvery angry with her.\n\nThe two old men quickly came back together, and Dr. Woodford began,\n\"How now, niece, are you telling us dreams?\" but he broke off as he\nsaw the sad earnest of her face.\n\n\"Sir, it is too true.  He charged me to speak out if any one else\nwere brought into danger.\"\n\n\"Come,\" said Sir Philip, testily; \"don't crouch grovelling on the\nfloor there.  Get up and let us know the meaning of this.  Good\nheavens! the lad may be here any day.\"\n\nAnne had much rather have knelt where she was, but her uncle raised\nher, and placed her in a chair, saying, \"Try to compose yourself,\nand tell us what you mean, and why it has been kept back so long.\"\n\n\"Indeed he did not intend it,\" pleaded Anne; \"it was almost an\naccident--to protect me--Peregrine was--pursuing me.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, young mistress,\" burst out the father, \"you seem to\nhave been setting all the young fellows together by the ears.\"\n\n\"I doubt if she could help it,\" said the Doctor.  \"She tried to be\ndiscreet, but it was the reason her mother--\"\n\n\"Well, go on,\" interrupted poor Sir Philip, too unhappy to remember\nmanners or listen to the defence; \"what was it? when was it?\"\n\nAnne was allowed then to proceed.  \"It was the morning I went to\nLondon.  I went out to gather some mouse-ear.\"\n\n\"Mouse-ear! mouse-ear!\" growled he.  \"Some one else's ear.\"\n\n\"It was for Lady Oglethorpe.\"\n\n\"It was,\" said her uncle, \"a specific, it seems, for whooping-cough.\nI saw the letter, and knew--\"\n\n\"Umph! let us hear,\" said Sir Philip, evidently with the idea of a\ntryst in his mind.  \"No wonder mischief comes of maidens running\nabout at such hours.  What next?\"\n\nThe poor girl struggled on:  \"I saw Peregrine coming, and hoping he\nwould not see me, I ran into the keep, meaning to get home by the\nbattlements out of his sight, but when I looked down he and Mr.\nArchfield were fighting.  I screamed, but I don't think they heard\nme, and I ran down; but I had fastened all the doors, and I was a\nlong time getting out, and by that time Mr. Archfield had dragged\nhim to the vault and thrown him in.  He was like one distracted, and\nsaid it must be hidden, or it would be the death of his wife and his\nmother, and what could I do?\"\n\n\"Is that all the truth?\" said Sir Philip sternly.  \"What brought\nthem there--either of them?\"\n\n\"Mr. Archfield came to bring me a pattern of sarcenet to match for\npoor young Madam in London.\"\n\nNo doubt Sir Philip recollected the petulant anger that this had\nbeen forgotten, but he was hardly appeased.  \"And the other fellow?\nWhy, he was brawling with my nephew Sedley about you the day\nbefore!\"\n\n\"I do not think she was to blame there,\" said Dr. Woodford.  \"The\nunhappy youth was set against marrying Mistress Browning, and had\ntalked wildly to my sister and me about wedding my niece.\"\n\n\"But why should she run away as if he had the plague, and set the\nfoolish lads to fight?\"\n\n\"Sir, I must tell you,\" Anne owned, \"he had beset me, and talked so\ndesperately that I was afraid of what he might do in that lonely\nplace and at such an hour in the morning.  I hoped he had not seen\nme.\"\n\n\"Umph!\" said Sir Philip, much as if he thought a silly girl's\nimagination had caused all the mischief.\n\n\"When did he thus speak to you, Anne?\" asked her uncle, not\nunkindly.\n\n\"At the inn at Portsmouth, sir,\" said Anne.  \"He came while you were\nwith Mr. Stanbury and the rest, and wanted me to marry him and flee\nto France, or I know not where, or at any rate marry him secretly so\nas to save him from poor Mistress Browning.  I could not choose but\nfear and avoid him, but oh!  I would have faced him ten times over\nrather than have brought this on--us all.  And now what shall I do?\nHe, Mr. Archfield, when I saw him in France, said as long as no one\nwas suspected, it would only give more pain to say what I knew, but\nthat if suspicion fell on any one--\" and her voice died away.\n\n\"He could not say otherwise,\" returned Sir Philip, with a groan.\n\n\"And now what shall I do? what shall I do?\" sighed the poor girl.\n\"I must speak truth.\"\n\n\"I never bade you perjure yourself,\" said Sir Philip sharply, but\nhiding his face in his hands, and groaning out, \"Oh, my son! my\nson!\"\n\nSeeing that his distress so overcame poor Anne that she could\nscarcely contain herself, Dr. Woodford thought it best to take her\nfrom the room, promising to come again to her.  She could do nothing\nbut lie on her bed and weep in a quiet heart-broken way.  Sir\nPhilip's anger seemed to fill up the measure, by throwing the guilt\nback upon her and rousing a bitter sense of injustice, and then she\nwept again at her cruel selfishness in blaming the broken-hearted\nold man.\n\nShe could hardly have come down to breakfast, so heavy were her\nlimbs and so sick and faint did every movement render her, and she\nfurther bethought herself that the poor old father might not brook\nthe sight of her under the circumstances.  It was a pang to hear\nlittle Philip prancing about the house, and when he had come to her\nto say his prayers, she sent him down with a message that she was\nnot well enough to come downstairs, and that she wanted nothing,\nonly to be quiet.\n\nThe little fellow was very pitiful, and made her cry again by\nwanting to know whether she had gout like grandpapa or rheumatics\nlike grandmamma, and then stroking her face, calling her his dear\nNana, and telling her of the salad in his garden that his papa was\nto eat the very first day he came home.\n\nBy and by Dr. Woodford knocked at her door.  He had had a long\nconversation with poor old Sir Philip, who was calmer now than under\nthe first blow, and somewhat less inclined to anger with the girl,\nwho might indeed be the cause, but surely the innocent cause, of\nall.  The Doctor had done his best to show that her going out had no\nconnection with any of the youths, and he thought Sir Philip would\nbelieve it on quieter reflection.  He had remembered too, signs of\nself-reproach mixed with his son's grief for his wife, and his\nextreme relief at the plan for going abroad, recollecting likewise\nthat Charles had strongly disliked poor Peregrine, and had much\nresented the liking which young Madam had shown for one whose\nattentions might have been partly intended to tease the young\nhusband.\n\n\"Of course,\" said Dr. Woodford, \"the unhappy deed was no more than\nan unfortunate accident, and if all had been known at first,\nprobably it would so have been treated.  The concealment was an\nerror, but it is impossible to blame either of you for it.\"\n\n\"Oh never mind that, dear uncle!  Only tell me!  Must he--must\nCharles suffer to save that man?  You know what he is, real murderer\nin heart!  Oh I know.  The right must be done!  But it is dreadful!\"\n\n\"The right must be done and the truth spoken at all costs.  No one\nknows that better than our good old patron,\" said the Doctor; \"but,\nmy dear child, you are not called on to denounce this young man as\nyou seem to imagine, unless there should be no other means of saving\nhis cousin, or unless you are so questioned that you cannot help\nreplying for truth's sake.  Knowing nothing of all this, it struck\nothers besides myself at the inquest that the evidence against\nSedley was utterly insufficient for a conviction, and if he should\nbe acquitted, matters will only be as they were before.\"\n\n\"Then you think I am not bound to speak--The truth, the whole truth,\nnothing but the truth,\" she murmured in exceeding grief, yet firmly.\n\n\"You certainly may, nay, _must_ keep your former silence till the\ntrial, at the Lent Assizes.  I trust you may not be called on as a\nwitness to the fray with Sedley, but that I may be sufficient\ntestimony to that.  I could testify to nothing else.  Remember, if\nyou are called, you have only to answer what you are asked, nor is\nit likely, unless Sedley have any suspicion of the truth, that you\nwill be asked any question that will implicate Mr. Archfield.  If\nso, God give you strength my poor child, to be true to Him.  But the\npoint of the trial is to prove Sedley guilty or not guilty; and if\nthe latter, there is no more to be said.  God grant it.\"\n\n\"But he--Mr. Archfield?\"\n\n\"His father is already taking measures to send to all the ports to\nstop him on his way till the trial is over.  Thus there will be no\nactual danger, though it is a sore disappointment, and these wicked\nattempts of Charnock and Barclay put us in bad odour, so that it may\nbe less easy to procure a pardon than it once would have been.  So,\nmy dear child, I do not think you need be in terror for his life,\neven if you are obliged to speak out plainly.\"\n\nAnd then the good old man knelt with Anne to pray for pardon,\ndirection, and firmness, and protection for Charles.  She made an\nentreaty after they rose that her uncle would take her away--her\npresence must be so painful to their kind hosts.  He agreed with\nher, and made the proposition, but Sir Philip would not hear of it.\nPerhaps he was afraid of any change bringing suspicion of the facts,\nand he might have his fears of Anne being questioned into dangerous\nadmissions, besides which, he hoped to keep his poor old wife in\nignorance to the last.  So Anne was to remain at Fareham, and after\nthat one day's seclusion she gathered strength to be with the family\nas usual.  Poor old Sir Philip treated her with a studied but icy\ncourtesy which cut her to the heart; but Lady Archfield's hopes of\nseeing her son were almost worse, together with her regrets at her\nhusband's dejection at the situation of his nephew and the family\ndisgrace.  As to little Philip, his curious inquiries about Cousin\nSedley being in jail for murdering Penny Grim had to be summarily\nhushed by the assurance that such things were not to be spoken\nabout.  But why did Nana cry when he talked of papa's coming home?\n\nAll the neighbourhood was invited to the funeral in Havant\nChurchyard, the burial-place of the Oakshotts.  Major Oakshott\nhimself wrote to Dr. Woodford, as having been one of the kindest\nfriends of his poor son, adding that he could not ask Sir Philip\nArchfield, although he knew him to be no partner in the guilt of his\nunhappy nephew, who so fully exemplified that Divine justice may be\nslow, but is sure.\n\nDr. Woodford decided on accepting the invitation, not only for\nPeregrine's sake, but to see how the land lay.  Scarcely anything\nremarkable, however, occurred, except that it was painful to\nperceive the lightness of the coffin.  A funeral sermon was\npreviously preached by a young Nonconformist minister in his own\nchapel, on the text, \"Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his\nblood be shed;\" and then the burial took place, watched by a huge\ncrowd of people.  But just as the procession was starting from the\nchapel for the churchyard, over the wall there came a strange peal\nof wild laughter.\n\n\"Oh, would not the unquiet spirit be at rest till it was avenged?\"\nthought Anne when she was told of it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX: THE ASSIZE COURT\n\n\n\"O terror! what hath she perceived?  O joy,\nWhat doth she look on? whom hath she perceived?\"\n\nWORDSWORTH.\n\nTime wore away, and the Lent Assizes at Winchester had come.  Sir\nPhilip had procured the best legal assistance for his nephew, but in\ncriminal cases, though the prisoner was allowed the advice of\ncounsel, the onus of defence rested upon himself.  To poor Anne's\ndismay, a subpoena was sent to her, as well as to her uncle, to\nattend as a witness at the trial.  Sir Philip was too anxious to\nendure to remain at a distance from Winchester, and they travelled\nin his coach, Sir Edmund Nutley escorting them on horseback, while\nLucy was left with her mother, both still in blissful ignorance.\nThey took rooms at the George Inn.  That night was a strange and\ngrievous one to Anne, trying hard to sleep so as to be physically\ncapable of composure and presence of mind, yet continually wakened\nby ghastly dreams, and then recollecting that the sense of something\nterrible was by no means all a dream.\n\nVery white, very silent, but very composed, she came to the sitting-\nroom, and was constrained by her uncle and Sir Philip to eat, much\nas it went against her.  On this morning Sir Philip had dropped his\nsternness towards her, and finding a moment when his son-in-law was\nabsent, he said, \"Child, I know that this is wellnigh, nay, quite as\nhard for you as for me.  I can only say, Let no earthly regards hold\nyou back from whatever is your duty to God and man.  Speak the truth\nwhatever betide, and leave the rest to the God of truth.  God bless\nyou, however it may be;\" and he kissed her brow.\n\nThe intelligence that the trial was coming on was brought by\nSedley's counsel, Mr. Simon Harcourt.  They set forth for the County\nHall up the sharply-rising street, thronged with people, who growled\nand murmured at the murderer savagely, Sir Philip, under the care of\nhis son-in-law, and Anne with her uncle.  Mr. Harcourt was very\nhopeful; he said the case for the prosecution had not a leg to stand\non, and that the prisoner himself was so intelligent, and had so\nreadily understood the line of defence to take, that he ought to\nhave been a lawyer.  There would be no fear except that it might be\nmade a party case, and no stone was likely to be left unturned\nagainst a gentleman of good loyal family.  Moreover Mr. William\nCowper, whom Robert Oakshott, or rather his wife, had engaged at\ngreat expense for the prosecution, was one of the most rising of\nbarristers, noted for his persuasive eloquence, and unfortunately\nMr. Harcourt had not the right of reply.\n\nThe melancholy party were conducted into court, Sir Philip and Sir\nEdmund to the seats disposed of by the sheriff, beside the judge,\nstrangely enough only divided by him from Major Oakshott.  The judge\nwas Mr. Baron Hatsel, a somewhat weak-looking man, in spite of his\nred robes and flowing wig, as he sat under his canopy beneath King\nArthur's Round Table.  Sedley, perhaps a little thinner since his\nimprisonment, but with the purple red on his face, and his prominent\neyes so hard and bold that it was galling to know that this was\nreally the confidence of innocence.\n\nMr. Cowper was with great ability putting the case.  Here were two\nfamilies in immediate neighbourhood, divided from the first by\npolitical opinions of the strongest complexion; and he put the\nOakshott views upon liberty, civil and religious, in the most\npopular light.  The unfortunate deceased he described as having been\na highly promising member of the suite of the distinguished Envoy,\nSir Peregrine Oakshott, whose name he bore.  On the death of the\neldest brother he had been recalled, and his accomplishments and\nforeign air had, it appeared, excited the spleen of the young\ngentlemen of the county belonging to the Tory party, then in the\nascendant, above all of the prisoner.  There was then little or no\netiquette as to irrelevant matter, so that Mr. Cowper could dwell at\nlength on Sedley's antecedents, as abusing the bounty of his uncle,\na known bully expelled for misconduct from Winchester College, then\nacting as a suitable instrument in those violences in Scotland which\nhad driven the nation finally to extremity, noted for his\ndebaucheries when in garrison, and finally broken for\ninsubordination in Ireland.\n\nAfter this unflattering portrait, which Sedley's looks certainly did\nnot belie, the counsel went back to 1688, proceeded to mention\nseveral disputes which had taken place when Peregrine had met\nLieutenant Archfield at Portsmouth; but, he added with a smile, that\nno dart of malice was ever thoroughly winged till Cupid had added\nhis feather; and he went on to describe in strong colours the insult\nto a young gentlewoman, and the interference of the other young man\nin her behalf, so that swords were drawn before the appearance of\nthe reverend gentleman her uncle.  Still, he said, there was further\nvenom to be added to the bolt, and he showed that the two had parted\nafter the rejoicings on Portsdown Hill with a challenge all but\nuttered between them, the Whig upholding religious liberty, the Tory\nhotly defending such honour as the King possessed, and both parting\nin anger.\n\nYoung Mr. Oakshott was never again seen alive, though his family\nlong hoped against hope.  There was no need to dwell on the strange\nappearances that had incited them to the search.  Certain it was,\nthat after seven years' silence, the grave had yielded up its\nsecrets.  Then came the description of the discovery of the bones,\nand of the garments and sword, followed by the mention of the\nevidence as to the blood on the grass, and the prisoner having been\nseen in the neighbourhood of the castle at that strange hour.  He\nwas observed to have an amount of money unusual with him soon after,\nand, what was still more suspicious, after having gambled this away,\nhe had sold to a goldsmith at Southampton a ruby ring, which both\nMr. and Mrs. Oakshott could swear to have belonged to the deceased.\nIn fact, when Mr. Cowper marshalled the facts, and even described\nthe passionate encounter taking place hastily and without witnesses,\nand the subsequent concealment of guilt in the vault, the purse\ntaken, and whatever could again be identified hidden, while\nprovidentially the blocking up of the vault preserved the evidence\nof the crime so long undetected and unavenged, it was hardly\npossible to believe the prisoner innocent.\n\nWhen the examination of the witnesses began, however, Sedley showed\nhimself equal to his own defence.  He made no sign when Robert\nOakshott identified the clothes, sword, and other things, and their\ncondition was described; but he demanded of him sharply how he knew\nthe human remains to be those of his brother.\n\n\"Of course they were,\" said Robert.\n\n\"Were there any remains of clothes with them?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Can you swear to them?  Did you ever before see your brother's\nbones?\"\n\nAt which, and at the witness's hesitating, \"No, but--\" the court\nbegan to laugh.\n\n\"What was the height of the deceased?\"\n\n\"He reached about up to my ear,\" said the witness with some\nhesitation.\n\n\"What was the length of the skeleton?\"\n\n\"Quite small.  It looked like a child's.\"\n\n\"My lord,\" said Sedley, \"I have a witness here, a surgeon, whom I\nrequest may be called to certify the proportion of a skeleton to the\nsize of a living man.\"\n\nThough this was done, the whole matter of size was so vague that\nthere was nothing proved, either as to the inches of Peregrine or\nthose of the skeleton, but still Sedley made his point that the\nidentity of the body was unproved at least in some minds.  Still,\nthere remained the other articles, about which there was no doubt.\n\nMr. Cowper proceeded with his examination as to the disputes at\nPortsmouth, but again the prisoner scored a point by proving that\nPeregrine had staked the ring against him at a cock-fight at\nSouthampton, and had lost it.\n\nDr. Woodford was called, and his evidence could not choose but to be\nmost damaging as to the conflict on the road at Portsmouth; but as\nhe had not seen the beginning, 'Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford' was\ncalled for.\n\nThere she stood, tall and stately, almost majestic in the stiffness\nof intense self-restraint, in her simple gray dress, her black silk\nhood somewhat back, her brown curls round her face, a red spot in\neach cheek, her earnest brown eyes fixed on the clerk as he gabbled\nout the words so awful to her, \"The truth, the whole truth, and\nnothing but the truth;\" and her soul re-echoed the words, \"So help\nyou God.\"\n\nMr. Cowper was courteous; he was a gentleman, and he saw she was no\nlight-minded girl.  He asked her the few questions needful as to the\nattack made on her, and the defence; but something moved him to go\non and ask whether she had been on Portsdown Hill, and to obtain\nfrom her the account of the high words between the young men.  She\nanswered each question in a clear low voice, which still was audible\nto all.  Was it over, or would Sedley begin to torture her, when so\nmuch was in his favour?  No!  Mr. Cowper--oh! why would he? was\nasking in an affirmative tone, as if to clench the former evidence,\n\"And did you ever see the deceased again?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"  The answer was at first almost choked, then cleared into\nsharpness, and every eye turned in surprise on the face that had\nbecome as white as her collar.\n\n\"Indeed!  And when?\"\n\n\"The next morning,\" in a voice as if pronouncing her own doom, and\nwith hands clinging tight to the front of the witness-box as though\nin anguish.\n\n\"Where?\" said the counsel, like inexorable fate.\n\n\"I will save the gentlewoman from replying to that question, sir;\"\nand a gentleman with long brown hair, in a rich white and gold\nuniform, rose from among the spectators.  \"Perhaps I may be allowed\nto answer for her, when I say that it was at Portchester Castle, at\nfive in the morning, that she saw Peregrine Oakshott slain by my\nhand, and thrown into the vault.\"\n\nThere was a moment of breathless amazement in the court, and the\njudge was the first to speak.  \"Very extraordinary, sir!  What is\nyour name?\"\n\n\"Charles Archfield,\" said the clear resolute voice.\n\nThen came a general movement and sensation, and Anne, still holding\nfast to the support, saw the newcomer start forward with a cry, \"My\nfather!\" and with two or three bounds reach the side of Sir Philip,\nwho had sunk back in his seat for a moment, but recovered himself as\nhe felt his son's arm round him.\n\nThere was a general buzz, and a cry of order, and in the silence\nthus produced the judge addressed the witness:--\n\n\"Is what this gentleman says the truth?\"\n\nAnd on Anne's reply, \"Yes, my Lord,\" spoken with the clear ring of\nanguish, the judge added--\n\n\"Was the prisoner present?\"\n\n\"No, my Lord; he had nothing to do with it.\"\n\n\"Then, brother Cowper, do you wish to proceed with the case?\"\n\nMr. Cowper replied in the negative, and the judge then made a brief\nsumming-up, and the jury, without retiring, returned a verdict of\n'Not guilty.'\n\nIn the meantime Anne had been led like one blinded from the witness-\nbox, and almost dropped into her uncle's arms.  \"Cheer up, cheer up,\nmy child,\" he said.  \"You have done your part bravely, and after so\nupright a confession no one can deal hardly with the young man.  God\nwill surely protect him.\"\n\nThe acquittal had been followed by a few words from Baron Hatsel,\ncongratulating the late prisoner on his deliverance through this\ngentleman's generous confession.  Then there was a moment's\nhesitation, ended by the sheriff asking Charles, who stood up by his\nold father, one arm supporting the trembling form, and the other\nhand clasped in the two aged ones, \"Then, sir, do you surrender to\ntake your trial?\"\n\n\"Certainly, sir,\" said Charles.  \"I ought to have done so long ago,\nbut in the first shock--\"\n\nMr. Harcourt here cautioned him not to say anything that could be\nused against him, adding in a low tone, much to Sir Philip's relief,\n\"It may be brought in manslaughter, sir.\"\n\n\"He should be committed,\" another authority said.  \"Is there a\nHampshire magistrate here to sign a warrant?\"\n\nOf these there were plenty; and as the clerk asked for his\ndescription, all eyes turned on the tall and robust form in the\nprime of manhood, with the noble resolute expression on his fine\nfeatures and steadfast eyes, except when, as he looked at his\nfather, they were full of infinite pity.  The brown hair hung over\nthe rich gold-laced white coat, faced with black, and with a broad\ngold-coloured sash fringed with black over his shoulder, and there\nwas a look of distinction about him that made his answer only\nnatural.  \"Charles Archfield, of Archfield House, Fareham,\nLieutenant-Colonel of his Imperial Majesty's Light Dragoons, Knight\nof the Holy Roman Empire.  Must I give up my sword like a prisoner\nof war?\" he asked, with a smile.\n\nSir Philip rose to his feet with an earnest trembling entreaty that\nbail might be taken for him, and many voices of gentlemen and men of\nsubstance made offers of it.  There was a little consultation, and\nit was ruled that bail might be accepted under the circumstances,\nand Charles bowed his thanks to the distant and gave his hand to the\nnearer, while Mr. Eyre of Botley Grange, and Mr. Brocas of Roche\nCourt, were accepted as sureties.  The gentle old face of Mr.\nCromwell of Hursley, was raised to poor old Sir Philip's with the\nwords, spoken with a remnant of the authority of the Protector:\n\"Your son has spoken like a brave man, sir; God bless you, and bring\nyou well through it.\"\n\nCharles was then asked whether he wished for time to collect\nwitnesses.  \"No, my lord,\" he said.  \"I thank you heartily, but I\nhave no one to call, and the sooner this is over the better for\nall.\"\n\nAfter a little consultation it was found that the Grand Jury had not\nbeen dismissed, and could find a true bill against him; and it was\ndecided that the trial should take place after the rest of the\ncriminal cases were disposed of.\n\nThis settled, the sorrowful party with the strangely welcomed son\nwere free to return to their quarters at the George.  Mr. Cromwell\npressed forward to beg that they would make use of his coach.  It\nwas a kind thought, for Sir Philip hung feebly on his son's arm, and\nto pass through the curious throng would have been distressing.\nAfter helping him in, Charles turned and demanded--\n\n\"Where is she, the young gentlewoman, Miss Woodford?\"\n\nShe was just within, her uncle waiting to take her out till the\ncrowd's attention should be called off.  Charles lifted her in, and\nSir Edmund and Dr. Woodford followed him, for there was plenty of\nroom in the capacious vehicle.\n\nNobody spoke in the very short interval the four horses took in\ngetting themselves out of the space in front of the County Hall and\ndown the hill to the George.  Only Charles had leant forward, taken\nAnne's hand, drawn it to his lips, and then kept fast hold of it.\n\nThey were all in the room at the inn at last, they hardly knew how;\nindeed, as Charles was about to shut the door there was a smack on\nhis back, and there stood Sedley holding out his hand.\n\n\"So, Charley, old fellow, you were the sad dog after all.  You got\nme out of it, and I owe you my thanks, but you need not have put\nyour neck into the noose.  I should have come off with flying\ncolours, and made them all make fools of themselves, if you had only\nwaited.\"\n\n\"Do you think I could sit still and see _her_ put to the torture?\"\nsaid Charles.\n\n\"Torture?  You are thinking of your barbarous countries.  No fear of\nthe boot here, nor even in Scotland nowadays.\"\n\n\"That's all the torture you understand,\" muttered Sir Edmund Nutley.\n\n\"Not but what I am much beholden to you all the same,\" went on\nSedley.  \"And look here, sir,\" turning to his uncle, \"if you wish to\nget him let off cheap you had better send up another special\nretainer to Harcourt, without loss of time, as he may be off.\"\n\nSir Edmund Nutley concurred in the advice, and they hurried off\ntogether in search of the family attorney, through whom the great\nman had to be approached.\n\nThe four left together could breathe more freely.  Indeed Dr.\nWoodford would have taken his niece away, but that Charles already\nhad her in his arms in a most fervent embrace, as he said, \"My\nbrave, my true maid!\"\n\nShe could not speak, but she lifted up her eyes, with infinite\nrelief in all her sorrow, as for a moment she rested against him;\nbut they had to move apart, for a servant came up with some wine,\nand Charles, putting her into a chair, began to wait on her and on\nhis father.\n\n\"I have not quite forgotten my manners,\" he said lightly, as if to\nrelieve the tension of feeling, \"though in Germany the ladies serve\nthe gentlemen.\"\n\nIt was very hard not to burst into tears at these words, but Anne\nknew that would be the way to distress her companions and to have to\nleave the room and lose these precious moments.  Sir Philip, after\nswallowing the wine, succeeded in saying, \"Have you been at home?\"\n\nCharles explained that he had landed at Gravesend, and had ridden\nthence, sleeping at Basingstoke, and taking the road through\nWinchester in case his parents should be wintering there, and on\narriving a couple of hours previously and inquiring for them, he had\nheard the tidings that Sir Philip Archfield was indeed there, for\nhis nephew was being tried for his life for the wilful murder of\nMajor Oakshott's son seven years ago.\n\n\"And you had none of my warnings?  I wrote to all the ports,\" said\nhis father, \"to warn you to wait till all this was over.\"\n\nNo; he had crossed from Sluys, and had met no letter.  \"I suppose,\"\nhe said, \"that I must not ride home to-morrow.  It might make my\nsureties uneasy; but I would fain see them all.\"\n\n\"It would kill your mother to be here,\" said Sir Philip.  \"She knows\nnothing of what Anne told me on Sedley's arrest.  She is grown very\nfeeble;\" and he groaned.  \"But we might send for your sister, if she\ncan leave her, and the boy.\"\n\n\"I should like my boy to be fetched,\" said Charles.  \"I should wish\nhim to remember his father--not as a felon convicted!\"  Then putting\na knee to the ground before Sir Philip, he said, \"Sir, I ask your\nblessing and forgiveness.  I never before thoroughly understood my\nerrors towards you, especially in hiding this miserable matter, and\nleaving all this to come on you, while my poor Anne there was left\nto bear all the load.  It was a cowardly and selfish act, and I ask\nyour pardon.\"\n\nThe old man sobbed with his hand on his son's head.  \"My dear boy!\nmy poor boy! you were distraught.\"\n\n\"I was then.  I did it, as I thought, for my poor Alice's sake at\nfirst, and as it proved, it was all in vain; but at the year's end,\nwhen I was older, it was folly and wrong.  I ought to have laid all\nbefore you, and allowed you to judge, and I sincerely repent the not\nhaving so done.  And Anne, my sweetest Anne, has borne the burthen\nall this time,\" he added, going back to her.  \"Let no one say a\nwoman cannot keep secrets, though I ought never to have laid this on\nher.\"\n\n\"Ah! it might have gone better for you then,\" sighed Sir Philip.\n\"No one would have visited a young lad's mischance hardly on a loyal\nhouse in those days.  What is to be done, my son?\"\n\n\"That we will discuss when the lawyer fellow comes.  Is it old Lee?\nMeantime let us enjoy our meeting.  So that is Lucy's husband.\nSober and staid, eh?  And my mother is feeble, you say.  Has she\nbeen ill?\"\n\nCharles was comporting himself with the cheerfulness that had become\nhabitual to him as a soldier, always in possible danger, but it was\nvery hard to the others to chime in with his tone, and when a\nmessage was brought to ask whether his Honour would be served in\nprivate, the cheery greeting and shake of the hand broke down the\ncomposure of the old servant who brought it, and he cried, \"Oh, sir,\nto see you thus, and such a fine young gentleman!\"\n\nCharles, the only person who could speak, gave the orders, but they\ndid not eat alone, for Sir Edmund Nutley and Sedley arrived with the\nlegal advisers, and it was needful, perhaps even better, to have\ntheir company.  The chief of the conversation was upon Hungarian and\nTransylvanian politics and the Turkish war.  Mr. Harcourt seeming\ngreatly to appreciate the information that Colonel Archfield was\nable to give him, and the anecdotes of the war, and descriptions of\nscenes therein actually brightened Sir Philip into interest, and\ninto forgetting for a moment his son's situation in pride in his\nconduct, and at the distinction he had gained.  \"We must save him,\"\nsaid Mr. Harcourt to Sir Edmund.  \"He is far too fine a fellow to be\nlost for a youthful mischance.\"\n\nThe meal was a short one, and a consultation was to follow, while\nSedley departed.  Anne was about to withdraw, when Mr. Lee the\nattorney said, \"We shall need Mistress Woodford's evidence, sir, for\nthe defence.\"\n\n\"I do not see what defence there can be,\" returned Charles.  \"I can\nonly plead guilty, and throw myself on the King's mercy, if he\nchooses to extend it to one of a Tory family.\"\n\n\"Not so fast, sir,\" said Mr. Harcourt; \"as far as I have gathered\nthe facts, there is every reason to hope you may obtain a verdict of\nmanslaughter, and a nominal penalty, although that rests with the\njudge.\"\n\nOn this the discussion began in earnest.  Charles, who had never\nheard the circumstances which led to the trial, was greatly\nastonished to hear what remains had been discovered.  He said that\nhe could only declare himself to have thrown in the body, full\ndressed, just as it was, and how it could have been stripped and\nburied he could not imagine.  \"What made folks think of looking into\nthe vault?\" he asked.\n\n\"It was Mrs. Oakshott,\" said Lee, \"the young man's wife, she who was\nto have married the deceased.  She took up some strange notion about\nstories of phantoms current among the vulgar, and insisted on having\nthe vault searched, though it had been walled up for many years\npast.\"\n\nCharles and Anne looked at each other, and the former said, \"Again?\"\n\n\"Oh yes!\" said Anne; \"indeed there have been enough to make me\nremember what you bade me do, in case they recurred, only it was\nimpossible.\"\n\n\"Phantoms!\" said Mr. Harcourt; \"what does this mean?\"\n\n\"Mere vulgar superstitions, sir,\" said the attorney.\n\n\"But very visible,\" said Charles; \"I have seen one myself, of which\nI am quite sure, besides many that may be laid to the account of the\nfever of my wound.\"\n\n\"I must beg to hear,\" said the barrister.  \"Do I understand that\nthese were apparitions of the deceased?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Charles.  \"Miss Woodford saw the first, I think.\"\n\n\"May I beg you to describe it?\" said Mr. Harcourt, taking a fresh\npiece of paper to make notes on.\n\nAnne narrated the two appearances in London, and Charles added the\nstory of the figure seen in the street at Douai, seen by both\ntogether, asking what more she knew of.\n\n\"Once at night last summer, at the very anniversary, I saw his face\nin the trees in the garden,\" said Anne; \"it was gone in a moment.\nThat has been all I have seen; but little Philip came to me full of\nstories of people having seen Penny Grim, as he calls it, and very\nstrangely, once it rose before him at the great pond, and his fright\nsaved him from sliding to the dangerous part.  What led Mrs.\nOakshott to the examination was that it was seen once on the beach,\nonce by the sentry at the vault itself, once by the sexton at Havant\nChurchyard, and once by my mother's grave.\"\n\n\"Seven?\" said the counsel, reviewing the notes he jotted down.\n\"Colonel Archfield, I should recommend you pleading not guilty, and\nbasing your defence, like your cousin, on the strong probability\nthat this same youth is a living man.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" said Charles, starting, \"I could have hoped it from these\nrecent apparitions, but what I myself saw forbids the idea.  If any\nsight were ever that of a spirit, it was what we saw at Douai;\nbesides, how should he come thither, a born and bred Whig and\nPuritan?\"\n\n\"There is no need to mention that; you can call witnesses to his\nhaving been seen within these few months.  It would rest with the\nprosecution to disprove his existence in the body, especially as the\nbones in the vault cannot be identified.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Charles, \"the defence that would have served my innocent\ncousin cannot serve me, who know what I did to Oakshott.  I am _now_\naware that it is quite possible that the sword might not have killed\nhim, but when I threw him into that vault I sealed his fate.\"\n\n\"How deep is the vault?\"\n\nMr. Lee and Dr. Woodford both averred that it was not above twenty\nor twenty-four feet deep, greatly to Charles's surprise, for as a\nlad he had thought it almost unfathomable; but then he owned his\nideas of Winchester High Street had been likewise far more\nmagnificent than he found it.  The fall need not necessarily have\nbeen fatal, especially to one insensible and opposing no resistance,\nbut even supposing that death had not resulted, in those Draconian\ndays, the intent to murder was equally subject with its full\naccomplishment to capital punishment.  Still, as Colonel Archfield\ncould plead with all his heart that he had left home with no evil\nintentions towards young Oakshott, the lawyers agreed that to prove\nthat the death of the victim was uncertain would reduce the matter\nto a mere youthful brawl, which could not be heavily visited.  Mr.\nHarcourt further asked whether it were possible to prove that the\nprisoner had been otherwise employed than in meddling with the body;\nbut unfortunately it had been six hours before he came home.\n\n\"I was distracted,\" said Charles; \"I rode I knew not whither, till I\ncame to my senses on finding that my horse was ready to drop, when I\nled him into a shed at a wayside public-house, bade them feed him,\ntook a drink, then I wandered out into the copse near, and lay on\nthe ground there till I thought him rested, for how long I know not.\nI think it must have been near Bishops Waltham, but I cannot\nrecollect.\"\n\nMr. Lee decided on setting forth at peep of dawn the next morning to\nendeavour to collect witnesses of Peregrine's appearances.  Sir\nEdmund Nutley intended to accompany him as far as Fareham to fetch\nlittle Philip and Lady Nutley, if the latter could leave her mother\nafter the tidings had been broken to them, and also to try to trace\nwhether Charles's arrival at any public-house were remembered.\n\nTo her dismay, Anne received another summons from the other party to\nact as witness.\n\n\"I hoped to have spared you this, my sweet,\" said Charles, \"but\nnever mind; you cannot say anything worse of me than I shall own of\nmyself.\"\n\nThe two were left to each other for a little while in the bay\nwindow.  \"Oh, sir! can you endure me thus after all?\" murmured Anne,\nas she felt his arm round her.\n\n\"Can you endure me after all I left you to bear?\" he returned.\n\n\"It was not like what I brought on you,\" she said.\n\nBut they could not talk much of the future; and Charles told how he\nhad rested through all his campaigns in the knowledge that his Anne\nwas watching and praying for him, and how his long illness had\nbrought before him deeper thoughts than he had ever had before, and\nmade him especially dwell on the wrong done to his parents by his\nlong absence, and the lightness with which he had treated home\nduties and responsibilities, till he had resolved that if his life\nwere then spared, he would neglect them no longer.\n\n\"And now,\" he said, and paused, \"all I shall have done is to break\ntheir hearts.  What is that saying, 'Be sure your sin will find you\nout.'\"\n\n\"Oh, sir! they are sure not to deal hardly with you.\"\n\n\"Perhaps the Emperor's Ambassador may claim me.  If so, would you go\ninto banishment with the felon, Anne, love?  It would not be quite\nso mad as when I asked you before.\"\n\n\"I would go to the ends of the world with you; and we would take\nlittle Phil.  Do you know, he is growing a salad, and learning\nLatin, all for papa?\"\n\nAnd so she told him of little Phil till his father was seen looking\nwistfully at him.\n\nWith Sir Philip, Charles was all cheerfulness and hope, taking such\ninterest in all there was to hear about the family, estate, and\nneighbourhood that the old gentleman was beguiled into feeling as if\nthere were only a short ceremony to be gone through before he had\nhis son at home, saving him ease and trouble.\n\nBut after Sir Philip had been persuaded to retire, worn out with the\nday's agitations, and Anne likewise had gone to her chamber to weep\nand pray, Charles made his arrangements with Mr. Lee for the future\nfor all connected with him in case of the worst; and after the\nlawyer's departure poured out his heart to Dr. Woodford in deep\ncontrition, as he said he had longed to do when lying in expectation\nof death at the Iron Gates.  \"However it may end,\" he said, \"and I\nexpect, as I deserve, the utmost, I am thankful for this\nopportunity, though unhappily it gives more pain to those about me\nthan if I had died out there.  Tell them, when they need comfort,\nhow much better it is for me.\"\n\n\"My dear boy, I cannot believe you will have to suffer.\"\n\n\"There is much against me, sir.  My foolish flight, the state of\nparties, and the recent conspiracy, which has made loyal families\nsuspected and odious.  I saw something of that as I came down.  The\ncrowd fancied my uniform French, and hooted and hissed me.\nUnluckily I have no other clothes to wear.  Nor can I from my heart\nutterly disclaim all malice or ill will when I remember the thrill\nof pleasure in driving my sword home.  I have had to put an end to a\nJanissary or two more than once in the way of duty, but their black\neyes never haunted me like those parti-coloured ones.  Still I\ntrust, as you tell me I may, that God forgives me, for our Blessed\nLord's sake; but I should like, if I could, to take the Holy\nSacrament with my love while I am still thus far a free man.  I have\nnot done so since the Easter before these troubles.\"\n\n\"You shall, my dear boy, you shall.\"\n\nThere were churches at which the custom freshly begun at the\nRestoration was not dropped.  The next was St. Matthias's Day, and\nAnne and her uncle had already purposed to go to the quiet little\nchurch of St. Lawrence, at no great distance, in the very early\nmorning.  They were joined on their way down the stair into the\ncourtyard of the inn by a gentleman in a slouched hat and large dark\ncloak, who drew Anne's arm within his own.\n\nTruly there was peace on that morning, and strength to the brave man\nbeyond the physical courage that had often before made him bright in\nthe face of danger, and Anne, though weeping, had a sense of respite\nand repose, if not of hope.\n\nLate in the afternoon, little Philip was lifted down from riding\nbefore old Ralph into the arms of the splendid officer, whose\nappearance transcended all his visions.  He fumbled in his small\npocket, and held out a handful of something green and limp.\n\n\"Here's my salad, papa.  I brought it all the way for you to eat.\"\n\nAnd Colonel Archfield ate every scrap of it for supper, though it\nwas much fitter for a rabbit, and all the evening he held on his\nknee the tired child, and responded to his prattle about Nana and\ndogs and rabbits; nay, ministered to his delight and admiration of\nthe sheriff's coach, javelin men, and even the judge, with a strange\nmixture of wonder, delight, and with melancholy only in eyes and\nundertones.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX: SENTENCE\n\n\n\"I have hope to live, and am prepared to die.\"\n\nMeasure for Measure.\n\nRalph was bidden to be ready to take his young master home early the\nnext morning.  At eight o'clock the boy, who had slept with his\nfather, came down the stair, clinging to his father's hand, and Miss\nWoodford coming closely with him.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Charles, as he held the little fair fellow in his arms,\nere seating him on the horse, \"he knows all, Ralph.  He knows that\nhis father did an evil thing, and that what we do in our youth finds\nus out later, and must be paid for.  He has promised me to be a\ncomfort to the old people, and to look on this lady as a mother.\nNay, no more, Ralph; 'tis not good-bye to any of you yet.  There,\nPhil, don't lug my head off, nor catch my hair in your buttons.\nGive my dutiful love to your grandmamma and to Aunt Nutley, and be a\ngood boy to them.\"\n\n\"And when I come to see you again I'll bring another salad,\" quoth\nPhilip, as he rode out of the court; and his father, by way of\nexcusing a contortion of features, smoothed the entangled lock of\nhair, and muttered something about, \"This comes of not wearing a\nperiwig.\"  Then he said--\n\n\"And to think that I have wasted the company of such a boy as that,\nall his life except for this mere glimpse!\"\n\n\"Oh! you will come back to him,\" was all that could be said.\n\nFor it was time for Charles Archfield to surrender himself to take\nhis trial.\n\nHe had been instructed over and over again as to the line of his\ndefence, and cautioned against candour for himself and delicacy\ntowards others, till he had more than once to declare that he had no\nintention of throwing his life away; but the lawyers agreed in\nheartily deploring the rules that thus deprived the accused of the\nassistance of an advocate in examining witnesses and defending\nhimself.  All depended, as they knew and told Sir Edmund Nutley, on\nthe judge and jury.  Now Mr. Baron Hatsel had shown himself a well-\nmeaning but weak and vacillating judge, whose summing up was apt\nrather to confuse than to elucidate the evidence; and as to the\njury, Mr. Lee scanned their stolid countenances somewhat ruefully\nwhen they were marshalled before the prisoner, to be challenged if\ndesirable.  A few words passed, into which the judge inquired.\n\n\"I am reminded, my Lord,\" said Colonel Archfield, bowing, \"that I\nonce incurred Mr. Holt's displeasure as a mischievous boy by\nthrowing a stone which injured one of his poultry; but I cannot\nbelieve such a trifle would bias an honest man in a question of life\nand death.\"\n\nNevertheless the judge put aside Mr. Holt.\n\n\"I like his spirit,\" whispered Mr. Harcourt.\n\n\"But,\" returned Lee, \"I doubt if he has done himself any good with\nthose fellows by calling it a trifle to kill an old hen.  I should\nlike him to have challenged two or three more moody old Whiggish\nrascals; but he has been too long away from home to know how the\nland lies.\"\n\n\"Too generous and high-spirited for this work,\" sighed Sir Edmund,\nwho sat with them.\n\nThe indictment was read, the first count being \"That of malice\naforethought, by the temptation of the Devil, Charles Archfield did\nwilfully kill and slay Peregrine Oakshott,\" etc.  The second\nindictment was that \"By misadventure he had killed and slain the\nsaid Peregrine Oakshott.\"  To the first he pleaded 'Not guilty;' to\nthe second 'Guilty.'\n\nTall, well-made, manly, and soldierly he stood, with a quiet set\nface, while Mr. Cowper proceeded to open the prosecution, with a\ncertain compliment to the prisoner and regret at having to push the\ncase against one who had so generously come forward on behalf of a\nkinsman; but he must unwillingly state the circumstances that made\nit doubtful, nay, more than doubtful, whether the prisoner's plea of\nmere misadventure could stand.  The dislike to the unfortunate\ndeceased existing among the young Tory country gentlemen of the\ncounty was, he should prove, intensified in the prisoner on account\nof not inexcusable jealousies, as well as of the youthful squabbles\nwhich sometimes lead to fatal results.  On the evening of the 30th\nof June 1688 there had been angry words between the prisoner and the\ndeceased on Portsdown Hill, respecting the prisoner's late lady.  At\nfour or five o'clock on the ensuing morning, the 1st of July, the\none fell by the sword of the other in the then unfrequented court of\nPortchester Castle.  It was alleged that the stroke was fatal only\nthrough the violence of youthful impetuosity; but was it consistent\nwith that supposition that the young gentleman's time was\nunaccounted for afterwards, and that the body should have been\ndisposed of in a manner that clearly proved the assistance of an\naccomplice, and with so much skill that no suspicion had arisen for\nseven years and a half, whilst the actual slayer was serving, not\nhis own country, but a foreign prince, and had only returned at a\nmost suspicious crisis?\n\nThe counsel then proceeded to construct a plausible theory.  He\nreminded the jury that at that very time, the summer of 1688,\nmessages and invitations were being despatched to his present\nGracious Majesty to redress the wrongs of the Protestant Church, and\nprotect the liberties of the English people.  The father of the\ndeceased was a member of a family of the country party, his uncle a\ndistinguished diplomatist, to whose suite he had belonged.  What was\nmore obvious than that he should be employed in the correspondence,\nand that his movements should be dogged by parties connected with\nthe Stewart family?  Already there was too much experience of how\nfar even the most estimable and conscientious might be blinded by\nthe sentiment that they dignified by the title of loyalty.  The\ndeceased had already been engaged in a struggle with one of the\nArchfield family, who had been acquitted of his actual slaughter;\nbut considering the strangeness of the hour at which the two cousins\nwere avowedly at or near Portchester, the condition of the clothes,\nstripped of papers, but not of valuables, and the connection of the\nprincipal witness with the pretended Prince of Wales, he could not\nhelp thinking that though personal animosity might have added an\nedge to the weapon, yet that there were deeper reasons, to prompt\nthe assault and the concealment, than had yet been brought to light.\n\n\"He will make nothing of that,\" whispered Mr. Lee.  \"Poor Master\nPeregrine was no more a Whig than old Sir Philip there.\"\n\n\"'Twill prejudice the jury,\" whispered back Mr. Harcourt, \"and\ndiscredit the lady's testimony.\"\n\nMr. Cowper concluded by observing that half truths had come to light\nin the former trial, but whole truths would give a different aspect\nto the affair, and show the unfortunate deceased to have given\noffence, not only as a man of gallantry, but as a patriot, and to\nhave fallen a victim to the younger bravoes of the so-called Tory\nparty.  To his (the counsel's) mind, it was plain that the prisoner,\nwho had hoped that his crime was undiscovered and forgotten, had\nreturned to take his share in the rising against Government so\nhappily frustrated.  He was certain that the traitor Charnock had\nbeen received at his father's house, and that Mr. Sedley Archfield\nhad used seditious language on several occasions, so that the cause\nof the prisoner's return at this juncture was manifest, and only to\nthe working of Providence could it be ascribed that the evidence of\nthe aggravated murder should have at that very period been brought\nto light.\n\nThere was an evident sensation, and glances were cast at the\nupright, military figure, standing like a sentinel, as if the\naudience expected him to murder them all.\n\nAs before, the examination began with Robert Oakshott's\nidentification of the clothes and sword, but Mr. Cowper avoided the\nsubject of the skeleton, and went on to inquire about the terms on\nwhich the two young men had lived.\n\n\"Well,\" said Robert, \"they quarrelled, but in a neighbourly sort of\nway.\"\n\n\"What do you call a neighbourly way?\"\n\n\"My poor brother used to be baited for being so queer.  But then we\nwere as bad to him as the rest,\" said Robert candidly.\n\n\"That is, when you were boys?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And after his return from his travels?\"\n\n\"It was the same then.  He was too fine a gentleman for any one's\ntaste.\"\n\n\"You speak generally.  Was there any especial animosity?\"\n\n\"My brother bought a horse that Archfield was after.\"\n\n\"Was there any dispute over it?\"\n\n\"Not that I know of.\"\n\n\"Can you give an instance of displeasure manifested by the prisoner\nat the deceased?\"\n\n\"I have seen him look black when my brother held a gate open for his\nwife.\"\n\n\"Then there were gallant attentions towards Mrs. Archfield?\"\n\nCharles's face flushed, and he made a step forward, but Robert\ngruffly answered:  \"No more than civility; but he had got\nFrenchified manners, and liked to tease Archfield.\"\n\n\"Did they ever come to high words before you?\"\n\n\"No.  They knew better.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Oakshott,\" said the prisoner, as it was intimated\nthat Mr. Cowper had finished.  \"You bear witness that only the most\ninnocent civility ever passed between your brother and my poor young\nwife?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" responded Robert.\n\n\"Nothing that could cause serious resentment, if it excited passing\nannoyance.\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"What were your brother's political opinions?\"\n\n\"Well\"--with some slow consideration--\"he admired the Queen as was,\nand could not abide the Prince of Orange.  My father was always _at\nhim_ for it.\"\n\n\"Would you think him likely to be an emissary to Holland?\"\n\n\"No one less likely.\"\n\nBut Mr. Cowper started up.  \"Sir, I believe you are the younger\nbrother?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How old were you at the time?\"\n\n\"Nigh upon nineteen.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" as if that accounted for his ignorance.\n\nThe prisoner continued, and asked whether search was made when the\ndeceased was missed.\n\n\"Hardly any.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"He was never content at home, and we believed he had gone to my\nuncle in Muscovy.\"\n\n\"What led you to examine the vault?\"\n\n\"My wife was disquieted by stories of my brother's ghost being\nseen.\"\n\n\"Did you ever see this ghost?\"\n\n\"No, never.\"\n\nThat was all that was made of Robert Oakshott, and then again came\nAnne Woodford's turn, and Mr. Cowper was more satirical and less\nconsiderate than the day before.  Still it was a less dreadful\nordeal than previously, though she had to tell the worst, for she\nknew her ground better, and then there was throughout wonderful\nsupport in Charles's eyes, which told her, whenever she glanced\ntowards him, that she was doing right and as he wished.  As she had\nnot heard the speech for the prosecution it was a shock, after\nidentifying herself a niece to a 'non-swearing' clergyman, to be\nasked about the night of the bonfire, and to be forced to tell that\nMrs. Archfield had insisted on getting out of the carriage and\nwalking about with Mr. Oakshott.\n\n\"Was the prisoner present?\"\n\n\"He came up after a time.\"\n\n\"Did he show any displeasure?\"\n\n\"He thought it bad for her health.\"\n\n\"Did any words pass between him and the deceased?\"\n\n\"Not that I remember.\"\n\n\"And now, madam, will you be good enough to recur to the following\nmorning, and continue the testimony in which you were interrupted\nthe day before yesterday?  What was the hour?\"\n\n\"The church clock struck five just after.\"\n\n\"May I ask what took a young gentlewoman out at such an untimely\nhour?  Did you expect to meet any one?\"\n\n\"No indeed, sir,\" said Anne hotly.  \"I had been asked to gather some\nherbs to carry to a friend.\"\n\n\"Ah!  And why at that time in the morning?\"\n\n\"Because I was to leave home at seven, when the tide served.\"\n\n\"Where were you going?\"\n\n\"To London, sir.\"\n\n\"And for what reason?\"\n\n\"I had been appointed to be a rocker in the Royal nursery.\"\n\n\"I see.  And your impending departure may explain certain strange\ncoincidences.  May I ask what was this same herb?\" in a mocking\ntone.\n\n\"Mouse-ear, sir,\" said Anne, who would fain have called it by some\nless absurd title, but knew no other.  \"A specific for the whooping-\ncough.\"\n\n\"Oh!  Not 'Love in a mist.'  Are your sure?\"\n\n\"My lord,\" here Simon Harcourt ventured, \"may I ask, is this\nregular?\"\n\nThe judge intimated that his learned brother had better keep to the\npoint, and Mr. Cowper, thus called to order, desired the witness to\ncontinue, and demanded whether she was interrupted in her quest.\n\n\"I saw Mr. Peregrine Oakshott enter the castle court, and I hurried\ninto the tower, hoping he had not seen me.\"\n\n\"You said before he had protected you.  Why did you run from him?\"\n\nShe had foreseen this, and quietly answered, \"He had made me an\noffer of marriage which I had refused, and I did not wish to meet\nhim.\"\n\n\"Did you see any one else?\"\n\n\"Not till I had reached the door opening on the battlements.  Then I\nheard a clash, and saw Mr. Archfield and Mr. Oakshott fighting.\"\n\n\"Mr. Archfield!  The prisoner?  Did he come to gather mouse-ear\ntoo?\"\n\n\"No.  His wife had sent him over with a pattern of sarcenet for me\nto match in London.\"\n\n\"Early rising and prompt obedience.\"  And there ensued the inquiries\nthat brought out the history of what she had seen of the encounter,\nof the throwing the body into the vault, full dressed, and of her\npromise of silence and its reason.  Mr. Cowper did not molest her\nfurther except to make her say that she had been five months at the\nCourt, and had accompanied the late Queen to France.\n\nThen came the power of cross-examination on the part of the\nprisoner.  He made no attempt to modify what had been said before,\nbut asked in a gentle apologetic voice:  \"Was that the last time you\never saw, or thought you saw, Peregrine Oakshott?\"\n\n\"No.\"  And here every one in court started and looked curious.\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"The 31st of October 1688, in the evening.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Looking from the window in the palace at Whitehall, I saw him, or\nhis likeness, walking along in the light of the lantern over the\ngreat door.\"\n\nThe appearance at Lambeth was then described, and that in the garden\nat Archfield House.  This strange cross-examination was soon over,\nfor Charles could not endure to subject her to the ordeal, while she\nequally longed to be able to say something that might not damage\nhim, and dreaded every word she spoke.  Moreover, Mr. Cowper looked\nexceedingly contemptuous, and made the mention of Whitehall and\nLambeth a handle for impressing on the jury that the witness had\nbeen deep in the counsels of the late royal family, and that she was\nescorted from St. Germain by the prisoner just before he entered on\nforeign service.\n\nOne of the servants at Fareham was called upon to testify to the\nhour of his young master's return on the fatal day.  It was long\npast dinner-time, he said.  It must have been about three o'clock.\n\nCharles put in an inquiry as to the condition of his horse.  \"Hard\nridden, sir, as I never knew your Honour bring home Black Bess in\nsuch a pickle before.\"\n\nAfter a couple of young men had been called who could speak to some\noutbreaks of dislike to poor Peregrine, in which all had shared, the\ncase for the prosecution was completed.  Cowper, in a speech that\nwould be irregular now, but was permissible then, pointed out that\nthe jealousy, dislike, and Jacobite proclivities of the Archfield\nfamily had been fully made out, that the coincidence of visits to\nthe castle at that untimely hour had been insufficiently explained,\nthat the condition of the remains in the vault was quite\ninconsistent with the evidence of the witness, Mistress Woodford,\nunless there were persons waiting below unknown to her, and that the\nprisoner had been absent from Fareham from four or five o'clock in\nthe morning till nearly three in the afternoon.  As to the strange\nstory she had further told, he (Mr. Cowper) was neither\nsuperstitious nor philosophic, but the jury would decide whether\nconscience and the sense of an awful secret were not sufficient to\nconjure up such phantoms, if they were not indeed spiritual,\noccurring as they did in the very places and at the very times when\nthe spirit of the unhappy young man, thus summarily dismissed from\nthe world, his corpse left in an unblessed den, would be most likely\nto reappear, haunting those who felt themselves to be most\naccountable for his lamentable and untimely end.\n\nThe words evidently told, and it was at a disadvantage that the\nprisoner rose to speak in his own defence and to call his witnesses.\n\n\"My lord,\" he said, \"and gentlemen of the jury, let me first say\nthat I am deeply grieved and hurt that the name of my poor young\nwife has been brought into this matter.  In justice to her who is\ngone, I must begin by saying that though she was flattered and\ngratified by the polite manners that I was too clownish and awkward\nto emulate, and though I may have sometimes manifested ill-humour,\nyet I never for a moment took serious offence nor felt bound to\ndefend her honour or my own.  If I showed displeasure it was because\nshe was fatiguing herself against warning.  I can say with perfect\ntruth, that when I left home on that unhappy morning, I bore no\nserious ill-will to any living creature.  I had no political\npurpose, and never dreamt of taking the life of any one.  I was a\nheedless youth of nineteen.  I shall be able to prove the commission\nof my wife's on which this learned gentleman has thought fit to cast\na doubt.  For the rest, Mistress Anne Woodford was my sister's\nfriend and playfellow from early childhood.  When I entered the\ncastle court I saw her hurrying into the keep, pursued by Oakshott,\nwhom I knew her to dread and dislike.  I naturally stepped between.\nAngry words passed.  He challenged my right to interfere, and in a\npassion drew upon me.  Though I was the taller and stronger, I knew\nhim to be proud of his skill in fencing, and perhaps I may therefore\nhave pressed him the harder, and the dislike I acknowledge made me\ndrive home my sword.  But I was free from all murderous intention up\nto that moment.  In my inexperience I had no doubt but that he was\ndead, and in a terror and confusion which I regret heartily, I threw\nhim into the vault, and for the sake of my wife and mother bound\nMiss Woodford to secrecy.  I mounted my horse, and scarcely knowing\nwhat I did, rode till I found it ready to drop.  I asked for rest\nfor it in the first wayside public-house I came to.  I lay down\nmeanwhile among some bushes adjoining, and there waited till my\nhorse could take me home again.  I believe it was at the White\nHorse, near Bishops Waltham, but the place has changed hands since\nthat time, so that I can only prove my words, as you have heard, by\nthe state of my horse when I came home.  For the condition of the\nremains in the vault I cannot account; I never touched the poor\nfellow after throwing him there.  My wife died a few hours after my\nreturn home, where I remained for a week, nor did I suggest flight,\nthough I gladly availed myself of my father's suggestion of sending\nme abroad with a tutor.  Let me add, to remove misconception, that I\nvisited Paris because my tutor, the Reverend George Fellowes, one of\nthe Fellows of Magdalen College expelled by the late King, and now\nRector of Portchester, had been asked to provide for Miss Woodford's\nreturn to her home, and he is here to testify that I never had any\nconcern with politics.  I did indeed accompany him to St. Germain,\nbut merely to find the young gentlewoman, and in the absence of the\nlate King and Queen, nor did I hold intercourse with any other\nperson connected with their Court.  After escorting her to Ostend, I\nwent to Hungary to serve in the army of our ally, the Emperor,\nagainst the Turks, the enemies of all Christians.  After a severe\nwound, I have come home, knowing nothing of conspiracies, and I was\ntaken by surprise on arriving here at Winchester at finding that my\ncousin was on his trial for the unfortunate deed into which I was\nbetrayed by haste and passion, but entirely without premeditation or\nintent to do more than to defend the young lady.  So that I plead\nthat my crime does not amount to murder from malicious intent; and\nlikewise, that those who charge me with the actual death of\nPeregrine Oakshott should prove him to be dead.\"\n\nCharles's first witness was Mrs. Lang, his late wife's 'own woman,'\nwho spared him many questions by garrulously declaring 'what a work'\npoor little Madam had made about the rose-coloured sarcenet, causing\nthe pattern to be searched out as soon as she came home from the\nbonfire, and how she had 'gone on at' her husband till he promised\nto give it to Mistress Anne, and how he had been astir at four\no'clock in the morning, and had called to her (Mrs. Lang) to look to\nher mistress, who might perhaps get some sleep now that she had her\nwill and hounded him out to go over to Portchester about that silk.\n\nNothing was asked of this witness by the prosecution except the time\nof Mr. Archfield's return.  The question of jealousy was passed\nover.\n\nOf the pond apparition nothing was said.  Anne had told Charles of\nit, but no one could have proved its identity but Sedley, and his\nshare in it was too painful to be brought forward.  Three other\nghost seers were brought forward:  Mrs. Fellowes's maid, the sentry,\nand the sexton; but only the sexton had ever seen Master Perry\nalive, and he would not swear to more than that it was something in\nhis likeness; the sentry was already bound to declare it something\nunsubstantial; and the maid was easily persuaded into declaring that\nshe did not know what she had seen or whether she had seen anything.\n\nThere only remained Mr. Fellowes to bear witness of his pupil's\nentire innocence of political intrigues, together with a voluntary\ntestimony addressed to the court, that the youth had always appeared\nto him a well-disposed but hitherto boyish lad, suddenly sobered and\nrendered thoughtful by a shock that had changed the tenor of his\nmind.\n\nMr. Baron Hatsel summed up in his dreary vacillating way.  He told\nthe gentlemen of the jury that young men would be young men,\nespecially where pretty wenches were concerned, and that all knew\nthat there was bitterness where Whig and Tory were living nigh\ntogether.  Then he went over the evidence, at first in a tone\nfavourable to the encounter having been almost accidental, and the\nstroke an act of passion.  But he then added, it was strange, and he\ndid not know what to think of these young sparks and the young\ngentlewoman all meeting in a lonely place when honest folks were\nabed, and the hiding in the vault, and the state of the clothes were\nstrange matters scarce agreeing with what either prisoner or witness\nsaid.  It looked only too like part of a plot of which some one\nshould make a clean breast.  On the other hand, the prisoner was a\nfine young gentleman, an only son, and had been fighting the Turks,\nthough it would have been better to have fought the French among his\nown countrymen.  He had come ingenuously forward to deliver his\ncousin, and a deliberate murderer was not wont to be so generous,\nthough may be he expected to get off easily on this same plea of\nmisadventure.  If it was misadventure, why did he not try to do\nsomething for the deceased, or wait to see whether he breathed\nbefore throwing him into this same pit? though, to be sure, a lad\nmight be inexperienced.  For the rest, as to these same sights of\nthe deceased or his likeness, he (the judge) was no believer in\nghosts, though he would not say there were no such things, and the\ngentlemen of the jury must decide whether it was more likely the\npoor youth was playing pranks in the body, or whether he were\nhaunting in the spirit those who had most to do with his untimely\nend.  This was the purport, or rather the no-purport, of the charge.\n\nThe jury were absent for a very short time, and as it leaked out\nafterwards, their intelligence did not rise above the idea that the\nyoung gentleman was thick with they Frenchies who wanted to bring in\nmurder and popery, warming-pans and wooden shoes.  He called stoning\npoultry a trifle, so of what was he not capable?  Of course he\nspited the poor young chap, and how could the fact be denied when\nthe poor ghost had come back to ask for his blood?\n\nSo the awful suspense ended with 'Guilty, my Lord.'\n\n\"Of murder or manslaughter?\"\n\n\"Of murder.\"\n\nThe prisoner stood as no doubt he had faced Turkish batteries.\n\nThe judge asked the customary question whether he had any reason to\nplead why he should not be condemned to death.\n\n\"No, my lord.  I am guilty of shedding Peregrine Oakshott's blood,\nand though I declare before God and man that I had no such purpose,\nand it was done in the heat of an undesigned struggle, I hated him\nenough to render the sentence no unjust one.  I trust that God will\npardon me, if man does not.\"\n\nThe gentlemen around drew the poor old father out of the court so as\nnot to hear the final sentence, and Anne, half stunned, was taken\naway by her uncle, and put into the same carriage with him.  The old\nman held her hands closely and could not speak, but she found voice,\n\"Sir, sir, do not give up hope.  God will save him.  I know what I\ncan do.  I will go to Princess Anne.  She is friendly with the King\nnow.  She will bring me to tell him all.\"\n\nHurriedly she spoke, her object, as it seemed to be that of every\none, to keep up such hope and encouragement as to drown the terrible\nsense of the actual upshot of the trial.  The room at the George was\nfull in a moment of friends declaring that all would go well in the\nend, and consulting what to do.  Neither Sir Philip nor Dr. Woodford\ncould be available, as their refusal to take the oaths to King\nWilliam made them marked men.  The former could only write to the\nImperial Ambassador, beseeching him to claim the prisoner as an\nofficer of the Empire, though it was doubtful whether this would be\nallowed in the case of an Englishman born.  Mr. Fellowes undertook\nto be the bearer of the letter, and to do his best through\nArchbishop Tenison to let the King know the true bearings of the\ncase.  Almost in pity, to spare Anne the misery of helpless waiting,\nDr. Woodford consented to let her go under his escort, starting very\nearly the next morning, since the King might immediately set off for\nthe army in Holland, and the space was brief between condemnation\nand execution.\n\nSir Edmund proposed to hurry to Carisbrooke Castle, being happily on\ngood terms with that fiery personage, Lord Cutts, the governor of\nthe Isle of Wight as well as a favoured general of the King, whose\nintercession might do more than Princess Anne's.  Moreover, a\nmessage came from old Mr. Cromwell, begging to see Sir Edmund.  It\nwas on behalf of Major Oakshott, who entreated that Sir Philip might\nbe assured of his own great regret at the prosecution and the\nresult, and his entire belief that the provocation came from his\nunhappy son.  Both he and Richard Cromwell were having a petition\nfor pardon drawn up, which Sir Henry Mildmay and almost all the\nleading gentlemen of Hampshire of both parties were sure to sign,\nwhile the sheriff would defer the execution as long as possible.\nPardons, especially in cases of duelling, had been marketable\narticles in the last reigns, and there could not but be a sigh for\nsuch conveniences.  Sir Philip wanted to go at once to the jail,\nwhich was very near the inn, but consented on strong persuasion to\nlet his son-in-law precede him.\n\nAnne longed for a few moments to herself, but durst not leave the\npoor old man, who sat holding her hand, and at each interval of\nsilence saying how this would kill the boy's mother, or something\nequally desponding, so that she had to talk almost at random of the\nvarious gleams of hope, and even to describe how the little Duke of\nGloucester might be told of Philip and sent to the King, who was\nknown to be very fond of him.  It was a great comfort when Dr.\nWoodford came and offered to pray with them.\n\nBy and by Sir Edmund returned, having been making arrangements for\nCharles's comfort.  Ordinary prisoners were heaped together and\nmiserably treated, but money could do something, and by application\nto the High Sheriff, permission had been secured for Charles to\noccupy a private room, on a heavy fee to the jailor, and for his\nfriends to have access to him, besides other necessaries, purchased\nat more than their weight in gold.  Sir Edmund brought word that\nCharles was in good heart; sent love and duty to his father, whom he\nwould welcome with all his soul, but that as Miss Woodford was--in\nher love and bravery--going so soon to London, he prayed that she\nmight be his first visitor that evening.\n\nThere was little more to do than to cross the street, and Sir Edmund\nhurried her through the flagged and dirty yard, and the dim, foul\nhall, filled with fumes of smoke and beer, where melancholy debtors\nheld out their hands, idle scapegraces laughed, heavy degraded faces\nscowled, and evil sounds were heard, up the stairs to a nail-studded\ndoor, where Anne shuddered to hear the heavy key turned by the\ncoarse, rude-looking warder, only withheld from insolence by the\npresence of a magistrate.  Her escort tarried outside, and she saw\nCharles, his rush-light candle gleaming on his gold lace as he wrote\na letter to the ambassador to be forwarded by his father.\n\nHe sprang up with outstretched arms and an eager smile.  \"My brave\nsweetheart! how nobly you have done.  Truth and trust.  It did my\nheart good to hear you.\"\n\nHer head was on his shoulder.  She wanted to speak, but could not\nwithout loosing the flood of tears.\n\n\"Faith entire,\" he went on; \"and you are still striving for me.\"\n\n\"Princess Anne is--\" she began, then the choking came.\n\n\"True!\" he said.  \"Come, do not expect the worst.  I have not made\nup my mind to that!  If the ambassador will stir, the King will not\nbe disobliging, though it will probably not be a free pardon, but\nHungary for some years to come--and you are coming with me.\"\n\n\"If you will have one who might be--may have been--your death.  Oh,\nevery word I said seemed to me stabbing you;\" and the tears would\ncome now.\n\n\"No such thing!  They only showed how true my love is to God and me,\nand made my heart swell with pride to hear her so cheering me\nthrough all.\"\n\nHis strength seemed to allow her to break down.  She had all along\nhad to bear up the spirits of Sir Philip and Lady Archfield, and\nthough she had struggled for composure, the finding that she had in\nhim a comforter and support set the pent-up tears flowing fast, as\nhe held her close.\n\n\"Oh, I did not mean to vex you thus!\" she said.\n\n\"Vex! no indeed!  'Tis something to be wept for.  But cheer up, Anne\nmine.  I have often been in far worse plights than this, when I have\nridden up in the face of eight big Turkish guns.  The balls went\nover my head then, by God's good mercy.  Why not the same now?  Ay!\nand I was ready to give all I had to any one who would have put a\npistol to my head and got me out of my misery, jolting along on the\nway to the Iron Gates.  Yet here I am!  Maybe the Almighty brought\nme back to save poor Sedley, and clear my own conscience, knowing\nwell that though it does not look so, it is better for me to die\nthus than the other way.  No, no; 'tis ten to one that you and the\nrest of you will get me off.  I only meant to show you that\nsupposing it fails, I shall only feel it my due, and much better for\nme than if I had died out there with it unconfessed.  I shall try to\nget them all to feel it so, and, after all, now the whole is out, my\nheart feels lighter than it has done these seven years.  And if I\ncould only believe that poor fellow alive, I could almost die\ncontent, though that sounds strange.  It will quiet his poor\nrestless spirit any way.\"\n\n\"You are too brave.  Oh!  I hoped to come here to comfort you, and I\nhave only made you comfort me.\"\n\n\"The best way, sweetest.  Now, I will seal and address this letter,\nand you shall take it to Mr. Fellowes to carry to the ambassador.\"\n\nThis gave Anne a little time to compose herself, and when he had\nfinished, he took the candle, and saying, \"Look here,\" he held it to\nthe wall, and they read, scratched on the rough bricks, \"Alice\nLisle, 1685.  This is thankworthy.\"\n\n\"Lady Lisle's cell!  Oh, this is no good omen!\"\n\n\"I call it a goodly legacy even to one who cannot claim to suffer\nwrongfully,\" said Charles.  \"There, they knock--one kiss more--we\nshall meet again soon.  Don't linger in town, but give me all the\ndays you can.  Yes, take her back, Sir Edmund, for she must rest\nbefore her journey.  Cheer up, love, and do not lie weeping all\nnight, but believe that your prayers to God and man must prevail one\nway or another.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI: ELF-LAND\n\n\n\"Three ruffians seized me yestermorn,\n   Alas! a maiden most forlorn;\nThey choked my cries with wicked might,\n   And bound me on a palfrey white.\"\n\nS. T. COLERIDGE.\n\nYet after the night it was with more hope than despondency, Anne, in\nthe February morning, mounted en croupe behind Mr. Fellowes's\nservant, that being decided on as the quickest mode of travelling.\nShe saw the sunrise behind St. Catherine's Hill, and the gray mists\nfilling the valley of the Itchen, and the towers of the Cathedral\nand College barely peeping beyond them.  Would her life rise out of\nthe mist?\n\nThrough hoar-frosted hedges, deeply crested with white, they rode,\nemerging by and by on downs, becoming dully green above, as the sun\ntouched them, but white below.  Suddenly, in passing a hollow,\noverhung by two or three yew-trees, they found themselves surrounded\nby masked horsemen.  The servant on her horse was felled, she\nherself snatched off and a kerchief covered her face, while she was\ncrying, \"Oh sir, let me go!  I am on business of life and death.\"\n\nThe covering was stuffed into her mouth, and she was borne along\nsome little way; then there was a pause, and she freed herself\nenough to say, \"You shall have everything; only let me go;\" and she\nfelt for the money with which Sir Philip had supplied her, and for\nthe watch given her by King James.\n\n\"We want you; nothing of yours,\" said a voice.  \"Don't be afraid.\nNo one will hurt you; but we must have you along with us.\"\n\nTherewith she was pinioned by two large hands, and a bandage was\nmade fast over her eyes, and when she shrieked out, \"Mr. Fellowes!\nOh! where are you?\" she was answered--\n\n\"No harm has been done to the parson.  He will be free as soon as\nany one comes by.  'Tis you we want.  Now, I give you fair notice,\nfor we don't want to choke you; there's no one to hear a squall.  If\nthere were, we should gag you, so you had best be quiet, and you\nshall suffer no hurt.  Now then, by your leave, madam.\"\n\nShe was lifted on horseback again, and a belt passed round her and\nthe rider in front of her.  Again she strove, in her natural voice,\nto plead that to stop her would imperil a man's life, and to implore\nfor release.  \"We know all that,\" she was told.  It was not rudely\nsaid.  The voice was not that of a clown; it was a gentleman's\npronunciation, and this was in some ways more inexplicable and\nalarming.  The horses were put in rapid motion; she heard the\ntrampling of many hoofs, and felt that they were on soft turf, and\nshe knew that for many miles round Winchester it was possible to\nkeep on the downs so as to avoid any inhabited place.  She tried to\nguess, from the sense of sunshine that came through her bandage, in\nwhat direction she was being carried, and fancied it must be\nsoutherly.  On--on--on--still the turf.  It seemed absolutely\nendless.  Time was not measurable under such circumstances, but she\nfancied noon must have more than passed, when the voice that had\nbefore spoken said, \"We halt in a moment, and shift you to another\nhorse, madam; but again I forewarn you that our comrades here have\nno ears for you, and that cries and struggles will only make it the\nworse for you.\"  Then came the sound as of harder ground and a stop--\nundertones, gruff and manly, could be heard, the peculiar noise of\nhorses' drinking; and her captor came up this time on foot, saying,\n\"Plaguy little to be had in this accursed hole; 'tis but the choice\nbetween stale beer and milk.  Which will you prefer?\"\n\nShe could not help accepting the milk, and she was taken down to\ndrink it, and a hunch of coarse barley bread was given to her, with\nit the words, \"I would offer you bacon, but it tastes as if Old Nick\nhad smoked it in his private furnace.\"\n\nSuch expressions were no proof that gentle blood was lacking, but\nwhose object could her abduction be--her, a penniless dependent?\nCould she have been seized by mistake for some heiress?  In that\nmoment's hope she asked, \"Sir, do you know who I am--Anne Woodford,\na poor, portionless maid, not--\"\n\n\"I know perfectly well, madam,\" was the reply.  \"May I trouble you\nto permit me to mount you again?\"\n\nShe was again placed behind one of the riders, and again fastened to\nhim, and off they went, on a rougher horse, on harder ground, and,\nas she thought, occasionally through brushwood.  Again a space, to\nher illimitable, went by, and then came turf once more, and by and\nby what seemed to her the sound of the sea.\n\nAnother halt, another lifting down, but at once to be gathered up\nagain, and then a splashing through water.  \"Be careful,\" said the\nvoice.  A hand, a gentleman's hand, took hers; her feet were on\nboards--on a boat; she was drawn down to sit on a low thwart.\nPutting her hand over, she felt the lapping of the water and tasted\nthat it was salt.\n\n\"Oh, sir, where are you taking me?\" she asked, as the boat was\npushed off.\n\n\"That you will know in due time,\" he answered.\n\nSome more refreshment was offered her in a decided but not\ndiscourteous manner, and she partook of it, remembering that\nexhaustion might add to her perils.  She perceived that after\npushing off from shore sounds of eating and low gruff voices mingled\nwith the plash of oars.  Commands seemed to be given in French, and\nthere were mutterings of some strange language.  Darkness was coming\non.  What were they doing with her?  And did Charles's fate hang\nupon hers?\n\nYet in spite of terrors and anxieties, she was so much worn out as\nto doze long enough to lose count of time, till she was awakened by\nthe rocking and tossing of the boat and loud peremptory commands.\nShe became for the first time in her life miserable with sea-\nsickness, for how long it was impossible to tell, and the pitching\nof the boat became so violent that when she found herself bound to\none of the seats she was conscious of little but a longing to be\nallowed to go to the bottom in peace, except that some great cause--\nshe could hardly in her bewildered wretchedness recollect what--\nforbade her to die till her mission was over.\n\nThere were loud peremptory orders, oaths, sea phrases, in French and\nEnglish, sometimes in that unknown tongue.  Something expressed that\na light was directing to a landing-place, but reaching it was\ndoubtful.\n\n\"Unbind her eyes,\" said a voice; \"let her shift for herself.\"\n\n\"Better not.\"\n\nThere followed a fresh upheaval, as if the boat were perpendicular;\na sudden sinking, some one fell over and bruised her; another\nfrightful rising and falling, then smoothness; the rope that held\nher fast undone; the keel grating; hands apparently dragging up the\nboat.  She was lifted out like a doll, carried apparently through\nwater over shingle.  Light again made itself visible; she was in a\nhouse, set down on a chair, in the warmth of fire, amid a buzz of\nvoices, which lulled as the bandage was untied and removed.  Her\neyes were so dazzled, her head so giddy, her senses so faint, that\neverything swam round her, and there that strange vision recurred.\nPeregrine Oakshott was before her.  She closed her eyes again, as\nshe lay back in the chair.\n\n\"Take this; you will be better.\"  A glass was at her lips, and she\nswallowed some hot drink, which revived her so that she opened her\neyes again, and by the lights in an apparently richly curtained\nroom, she again beheld that figure standing by her, the glass in his\nhand.\n\n\"Oh!\" she gasped.  \"Are you alive?\"\n\nThe answer was to raise her still gloved hand with substantial\nfingers to a pair of lips.\n\n\"Then--then--he is safe!  Thank God!\" she murmured, and shut her\neyes again, dizzy and overcome, unable even to analyse her\nconviction that all would be well, and that in some manner he had\ncome to her rescue.\n\n\"Where am I?\" she murmured dreamily.  \"In Elf-land?\"\n\n\"Yes; come to be Queen of it.\"\n\nThe words blended with her confused fancies.  Indeed she was hardly\nfully conscious of anything, except that a woman's hands were about\nher, and that she was taken into another room, where her drenched\nclothes were removed, and she was placed in a warm, narrow bed,\nwhere some more warm nourishment was put into her mouth with a\nspoon, after which she sank into a sleep of utter exhaustion.  That\nsleep lasted long.  There was a sensation of the rocking of the\nboat, and of aching limbs, through great part of the time; also\nthere seemed to be a continual roaring and thundering around her,\nand such strange misty visions, that when she finally awoke, after a\nlong interval of deeper and sounder slumber, she was incapable of\nseparating the fact from the dream, more especially as head and\nlimbs were still heavy, weary, and battered.  The strange roaring\nstill sounded, and sometimes seemed to shake the bed.  Twilight was\ncoming in at a curtained window, and showed a tiny chamber, with\nrafters overhead and thatch, a chest, a chair, and table.  There was\na pallet on the floor, and Anne suspected that she had been wakened\nby the rising of its occupant.  Her watch was on the chair by her\nside, but it had not been wound, and the dim light did not increase,\nso that there was no guessing the time; and as the remembrance of\nher dreadful adventures made themselves clear, she realised with\nexceeding terror that she must be a prisoner, while the evening's\napparition relegated itself to the world of dreams.\n\nBeing kidnapped to be sent to the plantations was the dread of those\ndays.  But if such were the case, what would become of Charles?  In\nthe alarm of that thought she sat up in bed and prepared to rise,\nbut could nowhere see her clothes, only the little cloth bag of\ntoilet necessaries that she had taken with her.\n\nAt that moment, however, the woman came in with a steaming cup of\nchocolate in her hand and some of the garments over her arm.  She\nwas a stout, weather-beaten, kindly-looking woman with a high white\ncap, gold earrings, black short petticoat, and many-coloured apron.\n\"Monsieur veut savoir si mademoiselle va bien?\" said she in slow\ncareful French, and when questions in that language were eagerly\npoured out, she shook her head, and said, \"Ne comprends pas.\"  She,\nhowever, brought in the rest of the clothes, warm water, and a\nlight, so that Anne rose and dressed, exceedingly perplexed, and\nwondering whether she could be in a ship, for the sounds seemed to\nsay so, and there was no corresponding motion.  Could she be in\nFrance?  Certainly the voyage had seemed interminable, but she did\nnot think it _could_ have been long enough for that, nor that any\nperson in his senses would try to cross in an open boat in such\nweather.  She looked at the window, a tiny slip of glass, too thick\nto show anything but what seemed to be a dark wall rising near at\nhand.  Alas! she was certainly a prisoner!  In whose hands?  With\nwhat intent?  How would it affect that other prisoner at Winchester?\nWas that vision of last night substantial or the work of her\nexhausted brain?  What could she do?  It was well for her that she\ncould believe in the might of prayer.\n\nShe durst not go beyond her door, for she heard men's tones,\nsuppressed and gruff, but presently there was a knock, and wonder of\nwonders, she beheld Hans, black Hans, showing all his white teeth in\na broad grin, and telling her that Missee Anne's breakfast was\nready.  The curtain that overhung the door was drawn back, and she\npassed into another small room, with a fire on the open hearth, and\na lamp hung from a beam, the walls all round covered with carpets or\nstuffs of thick glowing colours, so that it was like the inside of a\ntent.  And in the midst, without doubt, stood Peregrine Oakshott, in\nsuch a dress as was usually worn by gentlemen in the morning--a\nloose wrapping coat, though with fine lace cuffs and cravat, all,\nlike the shoes and silk stockings, worn with his peculiar\ndaintiness, and, as was usual when full-bottomed wigs were the rule\nin grande tenue, its place supplied by a silken cap.  This was olive\ngreen with a crimson tassel, which had assumed exactly the\ncharacteristic one-sided Riquet-with-a-tuft aspect.  For the rest,\nthese years seemed to have made the slight form slighter and more\nwiry, and the face keener, more sallow, and more marked.\n\nHe bowed low with the foreign courtesy which used to be so offensive\nto his contemporaries, and offered a delicate, beringed hand to lead\nthe young lady to the little table, where grilled fowl and rolls,\nboth showing the cookery of Hans, were prepared for her.\n\n\"I hope you rested well, and have an appetite this morning.\"\n\n\"Sir, what does it all mean?  Where am I?\" asked Anne, drawing\nherself up with the native dignity that she felt to be her defence.\n\n\"In Elf-land,\" he said, with a smile, as he heaped her plate.\n\n\"Speak in earnest,\" she entreated.  \"I cannot eat till I understand.\nIt is no time for trifling!  Life and death hang on my reaching\nLondon!  If you saved me from those men, let me go free.\"\n\n\"No one can move at present,\" he said.  \"See here.\"\n\nHe drew back a curtain, opened first one door and then another, and\nshe saw sheets of driving rain, and rising, roaring waves, with surf\nwhich came beating in on the force of such a fearful gust of wind\nthat Peregrine hastily shut the door, not without difficulty.\n\"Nobody can stir at present,\" he said, as they came into the warm\nbright room again.  \"It is a frightful tempest, the worst known here\nfor years, they say.  The dead-lights, as they call them, have been\nput in, or the windows would be driven in.  Come and taste Hans's\nwork; you know it of old.  Will you drink tea?  Do you remember how\nyour mother came to teach mine to brew it, and how she forgave me\nfor being graceless enough to squirt at her?\"\n\nThere was something so gentle and reassuring in the demeanour of\nthis strange being that Anne, convinced of the utter hopelessness of\nconfronting the storm, as well as of the need of gathering strength,\nallowed herself to be placed in a chair, and to partake of the food\nset before her, and the tea, which was served without milk, in an\nexquisite dragon china cup, but with a saucer that did not match it.\n\n\"We don't get our sets perfect,\" said Peregrine, with a smile, who\nwas waiting on her as if she were a princess.\n\n\"I entreat you to tell me where we are!\" said Anne.  \"Not in\nFrance?\"\n\n\"No, not in France!  I wish we were.\"\n\n\"Then--can this be the Island?\"\n\n\"Yes, the Island it is,\" said Peregrine, both speaking as South\nHants folk; \"this is the strange cave or chasm called Black Gang\nChine.\"\n\n\"Black Gang!  Oh! the highwaymen, the pirates!  You have saved me\nfrom them.  Were they going to send me to the plantations?\"\n\n\"You need have no fears.  No one shall touch you, or hurt you.  You\nshall see no one save by your own consent, my queen.\"\n\n\"And when this storm is passed--Oh!\" as a more fearful roar and dash\nsounded as if the waves were about to sweep away their frail\nshelter--\"you will come with me and save Mr. Archfield's life?  You\ncannot know--\"\n\n\"I know,\" he interrupted; \"but why should I be solicitous for his\nlife?  That I am here now is no thanks to him, and why should I give\nup mine for the sake of him who meant to make an end of me?\"\n\n\"You little know how he repented.  And your own life?  What do you\nmean?\"\n\n\"People don't haunt the Black Gang Chine when their lives are secure\nfrom Dutch Bill,\" he answered.  \"Don't be terrified, my queen;\nthough I cannot lay claim, like Prospero, to having raised this\nstorm by my art magic, yet it perforce gives me time to make you\nunderstand who and what I am, and how I have recovered my better\nangel to give her no mean nor desperate career.  It will be better\nthus than with the suddenness with which I might have had to act.\"\n\nA new alarm seized upon Anne as to his possible intentions, but she\nwould not forestall what she so much apprehended, and, sensible that\nself-control alone could guard her, since escape at present was\nclearly impossible, she resigned herself to sit opposite to him by\nthe ample hearth of what she perceived to be a fisherman's hut, thus\nfitted up luxuriously with, it might be feared, the spoils of the\nsea.\n\nThe story was a long one, and not by any means told consecutively or\nwithout interruption, and all the time those eyes were upon her, one\nyellow the other green, with the effect she knew so well of old in\nchildish days, of repulsion yet compulsion, of terror yet\nattraction, as if irresistibly binding a reluctant will.  Several\ntimes Peregrine was called off to speak to some one outside the\ndoor, and at noon he begged permission for his friends to dine with\nthem, saying that there was no other place where the dinner could be\ntaken to them comfortably in this storm.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII: SEVEN YEARS\n\n\n\"It was between the night and day,\n   When the Fairy King has power,\nThat I sunk down in a sinful fray,\nAnd 'twixt life and death was snatched away\n   To the joyless Elfin bower.\"\n\nSCOTT.\n\nThis motto was almost the account that the twisted figure, with\nqueer contortions of face, yet delicate feet and hands, and dainty\nutterance, might have been expected to give, when Anne asked him,\n\"Was it you, really?\"\n\n\"I--or my double?\" he asked.  \"When?\"\n\nShe told him, and he seemed amazed.\n\n\"So you were there?  Well, you shall hear.  You know how things\nstood with me--your mother, my good spirit, dead, my uncle away, my\nfather bent on driving me to utter desperation, and Martha Browning\nlaying her great red hands on me--\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, she really loved you, and is far wiser and more tolerant\nthan you thought her.\"\n\n\"I know,\" he smiled grimly.  \"She buried the huge Scot that was\nkilled in the great smuggling fray under the Protector, with all\nhonours, in our family vault, and had a long-winded sermon preached\non my untimely end.  Ha! ha!\" with his mocking laugh.\n\n\"Don't, sir!  If you had seen your father then!  Why did no one come\nforward and explain?\"\n\n\"Mayhap there were none at hand who knew, or wished to meddle with\nthe law,\" he said.  \"Well, things were beyond all bearing at home,\nand you were going away, and would not so much as look at me.  Now,\none of the few sports my father did not look askance at was fishing,\nand he would endure my being out at night with, as he thought, poor\nman, old Pete Perring, who was as stern a Puritan as himself; but I\nhad livelier friends, and more adventurous.  They had connections\nwith French free-traders for brandy and silks, and when they found I\nwas one with them, my French tongue was a boon to them, till I came\nto have a good many friends among the Norman fishermen, and to know\nthe snug hiding-places about the coast.  So at last I made up my\nmind to be off with them, and make my way to my uncle in Muscovy.  I\nhad raised money enough at play and on the jewels one picks up in an\nenvoy's service, and there was one good angel whom I meant to take\nwith me if I could secure her and bind her wings.  Now you know with\nwhat hopes I saw you gathering flowers alone that morning.\"\n\nAnne clasped her hands; Charles had truly interfered with good\ncause.\n\n\"I had all arranged,\" he continued; \"my uncle would have given you a\nhearty welcome, and made our peace with my father, or if not, he\nwould have left us all his goods, and secured my career.  What call\nhad that great lout, with a wife of his own too, to come thrusting\nbetween us?  I thought I should make short work of him, and give him\na lesson against meddling--great unlicked cub as he was, while I had\nhad the best training at Berlin and Paris in fencing; but somehow\nthose big strong fellows, from their very clumsiness, throw one out.\nAnd he meant mischief--yes, that he did.  I saw it in his eyes.  I\nsuppose his sulky rustic jealousy was a-fire at a few little\ncivilities to that poor little wife of his.  Any way, when he bore\nme down like the swing of a windmill, he drove his sword home.  Talk\nof his being innocent!  Why should he never look whether I were dead\nor alive, but fling me headlong into that pit?\"\n\nAnne could not but utter her eager defence, but it was met with a\nsinister smile, half of scorn, half of pity, and as she would have\ngone on, \"Hush! your pleading only fills up the measure of my\nloathing.\"\n\nHer heart sank, but she let him go on, listening perhaps less\nattentively as she considered how to take him.\n\n\"In fact,\" he continued, \"little as the lubber knew it, 'twas the\nbest he could have done for me.  For though I never looked for such\nluck as your being out in the court at that hour, I did think the\nchance not to be lost of visiting the garden or the churchyard, and\nthere were waiting in the vault a couple of stout Normans, who were\nto come at my whistle.  It seems that when I came tumbling down in\ntheir midst, senseless and bleeding like a calf, they did not take\nit quite so easily as your champion above, but began doing what they\ncould for me, and were trying to staunch the wound, when they heard\na trampling and a rumbling overhead, and being aware that our\nundertaking might look ugly in the sight of the law, and thinking\nthis might be pursuers, they carried me off with all speed, not so\nmuch as stopping to pick up the things that have made such a\ncommotion.  Was there any pursuit?\"\n\n\"Oh no; it must have been the haymakers.\"\n\n\"No doubt.  The place was in no great favour with our own people;\nthey were in awe of the big Scot, who is in comfortable quarters in\nmy grave, and the Frenchmen could not have found their way thither,\nso it was let alone till Mistress Martha's researches.  So I came to\nmyself in the boat in which they took me on board the lugger that\nwas waiting for us; and instead of making for Alderney, as I had\nintended, so as to get the knot safely tied to your satisfaction,\nthey sailed straight for Havre.  They had on board a Jesuit father,\nwhom I had met once or twice among the Duke of Berwick's people, but\nwho had found Portsmouth too hot to hold him in the frenzy of\nProtestant zeal on the Bishops' account.  He had been beset, and\nowed his life, he says, to the fists of the Breton and Norman\nsailors, who had taken him on board.  It was well for me, for I\ndoubt if ever I was tough enough to have withstood my good friends'\ntreatment.  He had me carried to a convent in Havre, where the\nfathers nursed me well; and before I was on my legs again, I had\nmade up my mind to cast in my lot with them, or rather with their\nChurch.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"I had been baulked of winning the one being near whom my devil\nnever durst come.  And blood-letting had pretty well disposed of\nhim.  I was as meek and mild as milk under the good fathers.\nMoreover, as my good friend at Turin had told me, and they repeated\nit, such a doubly heretical baptism as mine was probably invalid,\nand accounted for my being as much a vessel of wrath as even my\nfather was pleased to call me.  There was the Queen's rosary drawing\nme too.  Everything else was over with me, and it seemed to open a\nnew life.  So, bless me, what a soft and pious frame I was in when\nthey chastened me, water, oil, salt and all, on what my father raged\nat folks calling Lammas Day, but which it seems really belongs to\nSt. Peter in the Fetters.  So I was named Pierre or Piers after him,\nthus keeping my own initial.\"\n\n\"Piers! oh! not Piers Pigwiggin?\"\n\n\"Pierre de Pilpignon, if you please.  I have a right to that too;\nbut we shall come to it by and by.  I can laugh now, or perhaps\nweep, over the fervid state I was in then, as if I had trodden down\nmy snake, and by giving up everything--you, estate, career, I could\nkeep him down.  So it was settled that I would devote myself to the\npriesthood--don't laugh!--and I was ordered off to their seminary in\nLondon, partly, I believe, for the sake of piloting a couple of\nfathers, who could not speak a word of English.  It was, as they\nrightly judged, the last place where my father would think of\nlooking for me, but they did not as rightly judge that we should\nlong keep possession there.  Matters grew serious, and it was not\nover safe in the streets.  There was a letter of importance from a\nfriend in Holland, carrying the Prince of Orange's hypocritical\nDeclaration, which was to be got to Father Petre or the King on the\nnight--Hallowmas Eve it was--and I was told off to put on a secular\ndress, which I could wear more naturally than most of them, and\nconvey it.\"\n\n\"Ah, that explains!\"\n\n\"Apparition number one!  I guessed you were somewhere in those\nparts, and looked up at the windows, and though I did not see you, I\nbelieve it was your eyes that first sent a thrill through me that\nboded ill for Roman orders.  After that we lived in a continual\nstate of rumours and alarms, secret messages and expeditions, until\nI, being strong in the arm and the wind and a feather-weight, was\none of those honoured by rowing the Queen and Prince across the\nriver.  M. de St. Victor accepted me.  He told me there would be two\nnurses, but never knew or cared who they were, nor did I guess, as\nwe sat in the dark, how near I was to you.  And only for one second\ndid I see your face, as you were entering the carriage, and I\nblessed you the more for what you were doing for Her Majesty.\"\n\nHe proceeded to tell how he had accompanied the Jesuit fathers, on\ntheir leaving London, to the great English seminary at Douai, and\nbeing for the time convinced by them that his feelings towards Anne\nwere a delusion of the enemy, he had studied with all his might, and\nas health and monotony of life began to have their accustomed effect\nin rousing the restlessness and mischievousness of his nature, with\nall the passions of manhood growing upon him, he strove to force\nthem down by fasting and scourging.  He told, in a bitter, almost\nsavage way, of his endeavours to flog his demon out of himself, and\nof his anger and disappointment at finding Piers Pilgrim in the\nseminary of Douai, quite as subject to his attacks as ever was Perry\nOakshott under a sermon of Mr. Horncastle's.\n\nThen came the information among the students that the governor of\nthe city, the Marquis de Nidemerle, had brought some English\ngentlemen and ladies to visit the gardens.  As most of the students\nwere of British families there was curiosity as to who they were,\nand thus Peregrine heard that one was young Archfield of the\nHampshire family, with his tutor, and the lady was Mistress Darpent,\ndaughter to a French lawyer, who had settled in England after the\nFronde.  Anne's name had not transpired, for she was viewed merely\nas an attendant.  Peregrine had been out on some errand in the town,\nand had a distant view of his enemy as he held him, flaunting about\nwith a fine lady on his arm, forgetting the poor little pretty wife\nwhom no doubt he had frightened to death.\"\n\n\"Oh! you little know how tenderly he speaks of her.\"\n\n\"Tenderly!--that's the way they speak of me at Oakwood, eh?  Human,\nnot to say elf, nature, could not withstand giving the fellow a\nstart.  I sped off, whipped into the Church, popped into a surplice\nI found ready to hand, caught up a candle, and!--Little did I think\nwho it was that was hanging on his arm.  So little did I know it\nthat my heart began to be drawn to St. Germain, where I still\nimagined you.  Altogether, after that prank, all broke out again.  I\nentertained the lads with a few more freaks, for which I did ample\npenance, but it grew on me that in my case all was a weariness and a\nsham, and that my demon might get a worse hold of me if I got into a\ncourse of hypocrisy.  They were very good to me, those fathers, but\nJesuits as they were, I doubt whether they ever fathomed me.  Any\nway, perhaps they thought I should be a scandal, but they agreed\nwith me that their order was not my vocation, and that we had better\npart before my fiend drove me to do so with dishonour.  They even\ngave me recommendations to the French officers that were besieging\nTournay.  I knew the Duke of Berwick a little at Portsmouth, and it\nended in my becoming under-secretary to the Duke of Chartres.  A man\nwho knows languages has his value among Frenchmen, who despise all\nbut their own.\"\n\nPeregrine did not enter into full details of this stage of his\ncareer, and Anne was not fully informed of the habits that the young\nDuke of Chartres, the future Regent Duke of Orleans, was already\ndeveloping, but she gathered that, what the young man called his\ndemon, had nearly undisputed sway over him, and she had not spent\neight months at St. Germain without knowing by report of the\ndissolute manners of the substratum of fashionable society at Paris,\neven though outward decorum had been restored by Madame de\nMaintenon.  Yet he seemed to have been crossed by fits of vehement\npenitence, and almost the saddest part of the story was the mocking\ntone in which he alluded to these.\n\nHe had sought service at the Court in the hope of meeting Miss\nWoodford there, and had been grievously disappointed when he found\nthat she had long since returned to England.  The sight of the\ngracious and lovely countenance of the exiled Queen seemed always to\nhave moved and touched him, as in some inexplicable manner her eyes\nand expression recalled to him those of Mrs. Woodford and Anne; but\nthe thought had apparently only stung him into the sense of being\nforsaken and abandoned to his own devices or those of his evil\nspirit.\n\nOne incident, occurring some three years previously, he told more\nfully, as it had a considerable effect on his life.  \"I was\nattending the Duke in the gardens at Versailles,\" he said, \"when we\nwere aware of a great commotion.  All the gentlemen were standing\ngazing up into the top of a great chestnut tree, the King and all,\nand in the midst stood the Abbe de Fenelon with his little pupils,\nthe youngest, the Duke of Anjou, sobbing piteously, and the Duke of\nBurgundy in a furious passion, stamping and raging, and only\nwithheld from rolling on the ground by the Abbe's hand grasping his\nshoulder.  'I will not have him killed!  He is mine,' he cried.  And\nup in the tree, the object of all their gaze, was a monkey with a\npaper fluttering in his hand.  Some one had made a present of the\ncreature to the King's grandsons; he was the reigning favourite, and\nhaving broken his chain, had effected an entrance by the window into\nthe King's cabinet, where after giving himself the airs of a\nminister of state, on being interrupted, he had made off through the\nwindow with an important document, which he was affecting to peruse\nat his leisure, only interrupting himself to hurl down leaves or\nunripe chestnuts at those who attempted to pelt him with stones, and\nthis only made him mount higher and higher, entirely out of their\nreach, for no one durst climb after him.  I believe it was a letter\nfrom the King of Spain; at any rate the whole Cabinet was in agony\nlest the brute should proceed to tear it into fragments, and a\nmusqueteer had been sent for to shoot him down.  I remembered my\nsuccess with the monkey on poor little Madam Archfield's back--nay,\nperhaps 'twas the same, my familiar taking shape.  I threw myself at\nthe King's feet, and desired permission to deal with the beast.  By\ngood luck it had not been so easy as they supposed to find a musquet\nfit for immediate use, so I had full time.  To ascend the tree was\nno more than I had done many times before, and I went high in the\nbranches, but cautiously, not to give Monsieur le Singe the idea of\nbeing pursued, lest he should leap to a bough incapable of\nsupporting me.  When I had reached a fork tolerably high, and where\nhe could see me, I settled myself, took out a letter, which\nfortunately was in my pocket, read it with the greatest\ndeliberation, the monkey watching me all the time, and finally I\nproceeded to fold it neatly in all its creases.  The creature\nimitated me with its black fingers, little aware, poor thing, that\nthe musqueteer had covered him with his weapon, and was waiting for\nthe first sign of tearing the letter to pull the trigger, but\nwithheld by a sign from the King, who did not wish to sacrifice his\ngrandson's pet before his eyes.  Finally, after finishing the\nfolding, I doubled it a second time, and threw it at the animal.  To\nmy great joy he returned the compliment by throwing the other at my\nhead.  I was able to catch it, and moreover, as he was disposed to\ngo in pursuit of his plaything, he swung his chain so near me that I\ngot hold of it, twisted it round my arm, and made the best of my way\ndown the tree, amid the 'Bravos!' started by the royal lips\nthemselves, and repeated with ecstasy by all the crowd, who waved\ntheir hats, and made such a hallooing that I had much ado to get the\nmonkey down safely; but finally, all dishevelled, with my best cuffs\nand cravat torn to ribbons, and my wig happily detached, unlike\nAbsalom's, for it remained in the tree, I had the honour of\npresenting on my knee the letter to the King, and the monkey to the\nPrinces.  I kissed His Majesty's hand, the little Duke of Anjou\nkissed the monkey, and the Duke of Burgundy kissed me with arms\nround my neck, then threw himself on his knees before his\ngrandfather to ask pardon for his passion.  Every one said my\nfortune was made, and that my agility deserved at least the cordon\nbleu.  My own Duke of Chartres, who in many points is like his\ncousin, our late King Charles, gravely assured me that a new office\nwas to be invented for me, and that I was to be Grand Singier du\nRoi.  I believe he pushed my cause, and so did the little Duke of\nBurgundy, and finally I got the pension without the office, and a\ngood deal of occasional employment besides, in the way of\ntranslation of documents.  There were moments of success at play.\nOh yes, quite fairly, any one with wits about him can make his\nprofit in the long-run among the Court set.  And thus I had enough\nto purchase a pretty little estate and chateau on the coast of\nNormandy, the confiscated property of a poor Huguenot refugee, so\nthat it went cheap.  It gives the title of Pilpignon, which I\nassumed in kindness to the tongues of my French friends.  So you\nsee, I have a station and property to which to carry you, my fair\none, won by myself, though only by catching an ape.\"\n\nHe went on to say that the spot had been chosen advisedly, with a\nview to communication with the opposite coast, where his old\nconnection with the smugglers was likely to be useful in the\nJacobite plots.  \"As you well know,\" he said, \"my father had done\nhis utmost to make Whiggery stink in my nostrils, to say nothing of\nthe kindness I have enjoyed from our good Queen; and I was ready to\ndo my utmost in the cause, especially after I had stolen a glimpse\nof you, and when Charnock, poor fellow, returning from reconnoitring\namong the loyal, told me that you were still unmarried, and living\nas a dependent in the Archfields' house.  Our headquarters were in\nRomney Marsh, but it was as well to have, as it were, a back door\nhere, and as it has turned out it has been the saving of some of\nus.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir! you were not in that wicked plot?\"\n\n\"Nay; surely _you_ are not turned Whig.\"\n\n\"But this was assassination.\"\n\n\"Not at all, if they would have listened to me.  The Dutchman is no\nbigger than I am.  I could have dropped on him from one of his trees\nat Hampton Court, or through a window, via presto, and we would have\nhad him off by the river, given him an interview to beg his uncle's\npardon, and despatched him for the benefit of his asthma to the\ncompany of the Iron Mask at St. Marguerite; then back again, the\nKing to enjoy his own again, Dr. Woodford, archbishop or bishop of\nwhatever you please, and a lady here present to be Marquise de\nPilpignon, or Countess of Havant, whichever she might prefer.  Yes,\ntruly those were the hopes with which I renewed my communications\nwith the contraband trade on this coast, a good deal more numerous\nsince the Dutchman and his wars have raised the duties and driven\nmany good men to holes and corners.\n\n\"Ever since last spring, when the Princess Royal died, and thus\nextinguished the last spark of forbearance in the King's breast, I\nhave been here, there, and everywhere--Romney Marsh, Drury Lane,\nParis, besides this place and Pilpignon, where I have a snug harbour\nfor the yacht, Ma Belle Annik, as the Breton sailors call her.  The\ncrew are chiefly Breton; it saves gossip; but I have a boat's crew\nof our own English folk here, stout fellows, ready for anything by\nland or sea.\"\n\n\"The Black Gang,\" said Anne faintly.\n\n\"Don't suppose I have meddled in their exploits on the road,\" he\nsaid, \"except where a King's messenger or a Royal mail was\nconcerned, and that is war, you know, for the cause.  Unluckily my\npersonal charms are not easily disguised, so that I have had to lurk\nin the background, and only make my private investigations in the\nguise of my own ghost.\"\n\n\"Then so it was you saved the dear little Philip?\" said Anne.\n\n\"The Archfield boy?  I could not see a child sent to his destruction\nby that villain Sedley, whoever were his father, for he meant\nmischief if ever man did.  'Twas superhuman scruple not to hold your\npeace and let him swing.\"\n\n\"What was it, then, on his cousin's part?\"\n\nPeregrine only answered with a shrug.  It appeared further, that as\nlong as the conspirators had entertained any expectation of success,\nhe had merely kept a watch over Anne, intending to claim her in the\nhour of the triumph of his party, when he looked to enjoy such a\nposition as would leave his brother free to enjoy his paternal\ninheritance.  In the failure of all their schemes through Mr.\nPendergrast's denunciation, Sir George Barclay, and one or two\ninferior plotters, had succeeded in availing themselves of the\nassistance of the Black Gang, and had been conducted by Peregrine to\nthe hut that he had fitted up for himself.  Still trusting to the\nsecurity there, although his name of Piers Pilgrim or de Pilpignon\nhad been among those given up to the Privy Council, he had insisted\non lingering, being resolved that an attempt should be made to carry\naway the woman he had loved for so many years.  Captain Burford had\nso disguised himself as to be able to attend the trial, loiter about\nthe inn, and collect intelligence, while the others waited on the\ndowns.  Peregrine had watched over the capture, but being unwilling\nto disclose himself, had ridden on faster and crossed direct,\ntraversing the Island on horseback, while the captive was rounding\nit in the boat.  \"As should never have been done,\" he said, \"could I\nhave foretold to what stress of weather you would be exposed while I\nwas preparing for your reception.  But for this storm--it rages\nlouder than ever--we would have been married by a little parson whom\nBurford would have fetched from Portsmouth, and we should have been\nover the Channel, and my people hailing my bride with ecstasy.\"\n\n\"Never!\" exclaimed Anne.  \"Can you suppose I could accept one who\nwould leave an innocent man to suffer?\"\n\n\"People sometimes are obliged to accept,\" said Peregrine.  Then at\nher horrified start, \"No, no, fear no violence; but is not something\ndue to one who has loved you through exile all these years, and\nwould lay down his life for you? you, the only being who overcomes\nhis evil angel!\"\n\n\"This is what you call overcoming it,\" she said.\n\n\"Nay; indeed, Mistress Anne, I would let the authorities know that\nthey are hanging a man for murdering one who is still alive if I\ncould; but no one would believe without seeing, and I and all who\ncould bear witness to my existence would be rushing to an end even\nworse than a simple noose.  You were ready enough to denounce him to\nsave that worthless fellow.\"\n\n\"Not ready.  It tore my heart.  But truth is truth.  I could not do\nthat wickedness.  Oh! how can you?  This _is_ the prompting of the\nevil spirit indeed, to expect me to join in leaving that innocent,\ngenerous spirit to die in cruel injustice.  Let me go.  I will not\nbetray where you are.  You will be safe in France; but there will\nyet be time for me to bear witness to your life.  Write a letter.\nYour father would thankfully swear to your handwriting, and I think\nthey would believe me.  Only let me go.\"\n\n\"And what then becomes of the hopes of a lifetime?\" demanded\nPeregrine.  \"I, who have waited as long as Jacob, to be defrauded\nnow I have you; and for the sake of the fellow who killed me in will\nif not in deed, and then ran away like a poltroon leaving you to\nbear the brunt!\"\n\n\"He did not act like a poltroon when he saved the life of his\ngeneral, or when he rescued the colours of his regiment, still less\nwhen he stood up to save me from the pain of bearing witness against\nhim, and to save a guiltless man,\" cried Anne, with flashing eyes.\n\nBefore she had finished her indignant words, Hans was coming in from\nsome unknown region to lay the cloth for supper, and Peregrine, with\nan imprecation under his breath, had gone to the door to admit his\ntwo comrades, who came into the narrow entry on a gust of wind as it\nwere, struggling out of their cloaks, stamping and swearing.\n\nIn the middle of the day, they had been much more restrained in\ntheir behaviour.  There had at that time been a slight clearance in\nthe sky, though the wind was as furious as ever, and they were in\nhaste to despatch the meal and go out again to endeavour to stand on\nthe heights and to watch some vessels that were being tossed by the\nstorm.  Almost all the conversation had then been on the chances of\ntheir weathering the tempest, and the probability of its lasting on,\nand they had hurried away as soon as possible.  Anne had not then\nknown who they were, and only saw that they were fairly civil to\nher, and kept under a certain constraint by Pilpignon, as they\ncalled their host.  Now she fully knew the one who was addressed as\nSir George to be Barclay, the prime mover in the wicked scheme of\nassassination of which all honest Tories had been so much ashamed,\nand she could see Captain Burford to be one of those bravoes who\nwere only too plentiful in those days, attending on dissolute and\nviolent nobles.\n\nShe was the less inclined to admit their attentions, and shielded\nherself with a grave coldness of stately manners; but their talk was\nfar more free than at noon, suggesting the thought that they had\nanticipated the meal with some of the Nantz or other liquors that\nseemed to be in plenty.\n\nThey began by low bows of affected reverence, coarser and worse in\nthe ruffian of inferior grade, and the knight complimented Pilpignon\non being a lucky dog, and hoped he had made the best use of his time\nin spite of the airs of his duchess.  It was his own fault if he\nwere not enjoying such fair society, while they, poor devils, were\nbuffeting with the winds, which had come on more violently than\never.  Peregrine broke in with a question about the vessels in\nsight.\n\nThere was an East Indiaman, Dutch it was supposed, laying-to, that\nwas the cause of much excitement.  \"If she drives ashore our fellows\nwill neither be to have nor to hold,\" said Sir George.\n\n\"They will obey me,\" said Peregrine quietly.\n\n\"More than the sea will just yet,\" laughed the captain.  \"However,\nas soon as this villainous weather is a bit abated, I'll be off\nacross the Island to do your little errand, and only ask a kiss of\nthe bride for my pains; but if the parson be at Portsmouth there\nwill be no getting him to budge till the water is smooth.  Never\nmind, madam, we'll have a merry wedding feast, whichever side of the\nwater it is.  I should recommend the voyage first for my part.\"\n\nAll Anne could do was to sit as upright and still as she could,\napparently ignoring the man's meaning.  She did not know how\ndignified she looked, and how she was daunting his insolence.  When\npresently Sir George Barclay proposed as a toast a health to the\nbride of to-morrow, she took her part by raising the glass to her\nlips as well as the gentlemen, and adding, \"May the brides be happy,\nwherever they may be.\"\n\n\"Coy, upon my soul,\" laughed Sir George.  \"You have not made the\nbest of your opportunities, Pil.\"  But with an oath, \"It becomes her\nwell.\"\n\n\"A truce with fooling, Barclay,\" muttered Peregrine.\n\n\"Come, come, remember faint heart--no lowering your crest, more than\nenough to bring that devilish sparkle in the eyes, and turn of the\nneck!\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Anne rising, \"Monsieur de Pilpignon is an old neighbour,\nand understands how to respect his most unwilling guest.  I wish you\na good-night, gentlemen.  Guennik, venez ici, je vous prie.\"\n\nGuennik, the Breton boatswain's wife, understood French thus far,\nand comprehended the situation enough to follow willingly, leaving\nthe remainder of the attendance to Hans, who was fully equal to it.\nThe door was secured by a long knife in the post, but Anne could\nhear plainly the rude laugh at her entrenchment within her fortress\nand much of the banter of Peregrine for having proceeded no further.\nIt was impossible to shut out all the voices, and very alarming they\nwere, as well as sometimes so coarse that they made her cheeks glow,\nwhile she felt thankful that the Bretonne could not understand.\n\nThese three men were all proscribed traitors in haste to be off, but\nPeregrine, to whom the yacht and her crew belonged, had lingered to\nobtain possession of the lady, and they were declaring that now they\nhad caught his game and given him his toy, they would brook no\nlonger delay than was absolutely necessitated by the storm, and\nmarried or not married, he and she should both be carried off\ntogether, let the damsel-errant give herself what haughty airs she\nwould.  It was a weak concession on their part to the old Puritan\nscruples that he might have got rid of by this time, to attempt to\nbring about the marriage.  They jested at him for being afraid of\nher, and then there were jokes about gray mares.\n\nThe one voice she could not hear was Peregrine's, perhaps because he\nrealised more than they did that she was within ear-shot, and\nbesides, he was absolutely sober; but she thought he silenced them;\nand then she heard sounds of card-playing, which made an\naccompaniment to her agonised prayers.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII: BLACK GANG CHINE\n\n\n\"Come, Lady; while Heaven lends us grace,\nLet us fly this cursed place,\nLest the sorcerer us entice\nWith some other new device.\nNot a word or needless sound\nTill we come to holier ground.\nI shall be your faithful guide\nThrough this gloomy covert wide.\"\n\nMILTON.\n\nNever was maiden in a worse position than that in which Anne\nWoodford felt herself when she revolved the matter.  The back of the\nIsle of Wight, all along the Undercliff, had always had a wild\nreputation, and she was in the midst of the most lawless of men.\nPeregrine alone seemed to have any remains of honour or conscience,\nand apparently he was in some degree in the hands of his associates.\nEven if the clergyman came, there was little hope in an appeal to\nhim.  Naval chaplains bore no good reputation, and Portsmouth and\nCowes were haunted by the scum of the profession.  All that seemed\npossible was to commit herself and Charles to Divine protection, and\nin that strength to resist to the uttermost.  The tempest had\nreturned again, and seemed to be raging as much as ever, and the\ndelay was in her favour, for in such weather there could be no\nputting to sea.\n\nShe was unwilling to leave the stronghold of her chamber, but Hans\ncame to announce breakfast to her, telling her that the Mynheeren\nwere gone, all but Massa Perry; and that gentleman came forward to\nmeet her just as before, hoping 'those fellows had not disturbed her\nlast night.'\n\n\"I could not help hearing much,\" she said gravely.\n\n\"Brutes!\" he said.  \"I am sick of them, and of this life.  Save for\nthe King's sake, I would never have meddled with it.\"\n\nThe roar of winds and waves and the beat of spray was still to be\nheard, and in the manifest impossibility of quitting the place and\nthe desire of softening him, Anne listened while he talked in a\ndifferent mood from the previous day.  The cynical tone was gone, as\nhe spoke of those better influences.  He talked of Mrs. Woodford and\nhis deep affection for her, of the kindness of the good priests at\nHavre and Douai, and especially of one Father Seyton, who had tried\nto reason with him in his bitter disappointment, and savage\npenitence on finding that 'behind the Cross lurks the Devil,' as\nmuch at Douai as at Havant.  He told how a sermon of the Abbe\nFenelon's had moved him, and how he had spent half a Lent in the\nseverest penance, but only to have all swept away again in the wild\nand wicked revelry with which Easter came in.  Again he described\nhow his heart was ready to burst as he stood by Mrs. Woodford's\ngrave at night and vowed to disentangle himself and lead a new life.\n\n\"And with you I shall,\" he said.\n\n\"No,\" she answered; \"what you win by a crime will never do you\ngood.\"\n\n\"A crime!  'Tis no crime.  You _know_ I mean honourable marriage.\nYou owe no duty to any one.\"\n\n\"It is a crime to leave the innocent to undeserved death,\" she said.\n\n\"Do you love the fellow?\" he cried, with a voice rising to a shout\nof rage.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said firmly.\n\n\"Why did not you say so before?\"\n\n\"Because I hoped to see you act for right and justice sake,\" was\nAnne's answer, fixing her eyes on him.  \"For God's sake, not mine.\"\n\n\"Yours indeed!  Think, what can be his love to mine?  He who let\nthem marry him to that child, while I struggled and gave up\neverything.  Then he runs away--_runs away_--leaving you all the\ndistress; never came near you all these years.  Oh yes! he looks\ndown on you as his child's governess!  What's the use of loving him?\nThere's another heiress bespoken for him no doubt.\"\n\n\"No.  His parents consent, and we have known one another's love for\nsix years.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's the way he bound you to keep his secret!  He would sing\nanother song as soon as he was out of this scrape.\"\n\n\"You little know!\" was all she said.\n\n\"Ay!\" continued Peregrine, pacing up and down the room, \"you know\nthat all that was wanting to fill up the measure of my hatred was\nthat he should have stolen your heart.\"\n\n\"You cannot say that, sir.  He was my kind protector and helper from\nour very childhood.  I have loved him with all my heart ever since I\ndurst.\"\n\n\"Ay, the great straight comely lubbers have it all their own way\nwith the women,\" said he bitterly.  \"I remember how he rushed\nheadlong at me with the horse-whip when I tripped you up at the\nSlype, and you have never forgiven that.\"\n\n\"Oh! indeed I forgot that childish nonsense long ago.  You never\nserved me so again.\"\n\n\"No indeed, never since you and your mother were the first to treat\nme like a human being.  You will be able to do anything with me,\nsweetest lady; the very sense that you are under the same roof makes\nanother man of me.  I loathe what I used to enjoy.  Why, the very\nsight of you, sitting at supper like the lady in Comus, in your\nsweet grave dignity, made me feel what I am, and what those men are.\nI heard their jests with your innocent ears.  With you by my side\nthe Devil's power is quelled.  You shall have a peaceful beneficent\nlife among the poor folk, who will bless you; our good and gracious\nQueen will welcome you with joy and gratitude; and when the good\ntime comes, as it must in a few years, you will have honours and\ndignities lavished on you.  Can you not see what you will do for\nme?\"\n\n\"Do you think a broken-hearted victim would be able to do you any\ngood?\" said she, looking up with tears in her eyes.  \"I _do_\nbelieve, sir, that you mean well by me, in your own way, and I\ncould, yes, I can, be sorry for you, for my mother did feel for you,\nand yours has been a sad life; but how could I be of any use or\ncomfort to you if you dragged me away as these cruel men propose,\nknowing that he who has all my heart is dying guiltless, and\nthinking I have failed him!\" and here she broke down in an agony of\nweeping, as she felt the old power in his eyes that enforced\nsubmission.\n\nHe marched up and down in a sort of passion.  \"Don't let me see you\nweep for him!  It makes me ready to strangle him with my own hands!\"\n\nA shout of 'Pilpignon!' at the door here carried him off, leaving\nAnne to give free course to the tears that she had hitherto been\nable to restrain, feeling the need of self-possession.  She had very\nlittle hope, since her affection for Charles Archfield seemed only\nto give the additional sting of jealousy, 'cruel as the grave,' to\nthe vindictive temper Peregrine already nourished, and which\ncertainly came from his evil spirit.  She shed many tears, and\nsobbed unrestrainingly till the Bretonne came and patted her\nshoulder, and said, \"Pauvre, pauvre!\"  And even Hans looked in,\nsaying, \"Missee Nana no cry, Massa Perry great herr--very goot.\"\n\nShe tried to compose herself, and think over alternatives to lay\nbefore Peregrine.  He might let her go, and carry to Sir Edmund\nNutley letters to which his father would willingly swear, while he\nwas out of danger in Normandy.  Or if this was far beyond what could\nbe hoped for, surely he could despatch a letter to his father, and\nfor such a price she _must_ sacrifice herself, though it cost her\nanguish unspeakable to call up the thought of Charles, of little\nPhilip, of her uncle, and the old people, who loved her so well, all\nforsaken, and with what a life in store for her!  For she had not\nthe slightest confidence in the power of her influence, whatever\nPeregrine might say and sincerely believe at present.  If there\nwere, more palpably than with all other human beings, angels of good\nand evil contending for him, swaying him now this way and now that;\nit was plain from his whole history that nothing had yet availed to\nkeep him under the better influence for long together; and she\nbelieved that if he gained herself by these unjust and cruel means\nthe worse spirit would thereby gain the most absolute advantage.  If\nher heart had been free, and she could have loved him, she might\nhave hoped, though it would have been a wild and forlorn hope; but\nas it was, she had never entirely surmounted a repulsion from him,\nas something strange and unnatural, a feeling involving fear, though\nhere he was her only hope and protector, and an utter uncertainty as\nto what he might do.  She could only hope that she might pine away\nand die quickly, and _perhaps_ Charles Archfield might know at last\nthat it had been for his sake.  And would it be in her power to make\neven such terms as these?\n\nHow long she wept and prayed and tried to 'commit her way unto the\nLord' she did not know, but light seemed to be making its way far\nmore than previously through the shutters closed against the storm\nwhen Peregrine returned.\n\n\"You will not be greatly troubled with those fellows to-day,\" he\nsaid; \"there's a vessel come on the rocks at Chale, and every man\nand mother's son is gone after it.\"  So saying he unfastened the\nshutters and let in a flood of sunshine.  \"You would like a little\nair,\" he said; \"'tis all quiet now, and the tide is going down.\"\n\nAfter two days' dark captivity, Anne could not but be relieved by\ncoming out, and she was anxious to understand where she was.  It\nwas, though only in March, glowing with warmth, as the sun beat\nagainst the cliffs behind, of a dark red brown, in many places\nabsolutely black, in especial where a cascade, swelled by the rains\ninto imposing size, came roaring, leaping, and sparkling down a\nsheer precipice.  On either side the cove or chine was closely shut\nin by treeless, iron-coloured masses of rock, behind one of which\nthe few inhabited hovels were clustered, and the boat which had\nbrought her was drawn up.  In front was the sea, still lashed by a\nfierce wind, which was driving the fantastically shaped remains of\nthe great storm cloud rapidly across an intensely blue sky.  The\nwaves, although it was the ebb, were still tremendous, and their\nroar re-echoed as they reared to fearful heights and broke with the\nreverberations that she had heard all along.  Peregrine kept quite\nhigh up, not venturing below the washed line of shingle, saying that\nthe back draught of the waves was most perilous, and in a high wind\ncould not be reckoned upon.\n\n\"No escape!\" he said, as he perceived Anne's gaze on the\ninaccessible cliff and the whole scene, the wild beauty of which was\nlost to her in its terrors.\n\n\"Where's your ship?\" she asked.\n\n\"Safe in Whale Chine.  No putting to sea yet, though it may be fair\nto-morrow.\"\n\nThen she put before him the first scheme she had thought out, of\nletting her escape to Sir Edmund Nutley's house, whence she could\nmake her way back, taking with her a letter that would prove his\nexistence without involving him or his friends in danger.  And\neagerly she argued, \"You do not know me really!  It is only an\nimagination that you can be the better for my presence.\"  Then,\nunheeding his fervid exclamation, \"It was my dear mother who did you\ngood.  What would she think of the way in which you are trying to\ngain me?\"\n\n\"That I cannot do without you.\"\n\n\"And what would you have in me?  I could be only wretched, and feel\nall my life--such a life as it would be--that you had wrecked my\nhappiness.  Oh yes!  I do believe that you would try to make me\nhappy, but don't you see that it would be quite impossible with such\na grief as that in my heart, and knowing that you had caused it?  I\nknow you hate him, and he did you the wrong; but he has grieved for\nit, and banished himself.  But above all, of this I am quite sure,\nthat to persist in this horrible evil of leaving him to die, because\nof your revenge, and stealing me away, is truly giving Satan such a\nfrightful advantage over you that it is mere folly to think that\nwinning me in such a way could do you any good.  It is just a mere\ndelusion of his, to ruin us both, body and soul.  Peregrine, will\nyou not recollect my mother, and what she would think?  Have pity on\nme, and help me away, and I would pledge myself never to utter a\nword of this place nor that could bring you and yours into danger.\nWe would bless and pray for you always.\"\n\n\"No use,\" he gloomily said.  \"I believe you, but the others will\nnever believe a woman.  No doubt we are watched even now by\ndesperate men, who would rather shoot you than let you escape from\nour hands.\"\n\nIt seemed almost in connection with these words that at that moment,\nfrom some unknown quarter, where probably there was an entrance to\nthe Chine, Sir George Barclay appeared with a leathern case under\nhis arm.  It had been captured on the wreck, and contained papers\nwhich he wanted assistance in deciphering, since they were in Dutch,\nand he believed them to be either despatches or bonds, either of\nwhich might be turned to profit.  These were carried indoors, and\nspread on the table, and as Anne sat by the window, dejected and\nalmost hopeless as she was, she could not help perceiving that,\nthough Peregrine was so much smaller and less robust than his\ncompanions, he exercised over them the dominion of intellect,\nenergy, and will, as if they too felt the force of his strange eyes;\nand it seemed to her as if, supposing he truly desired it, whatever\nhe might say, he must be able to deliver her and Charles; but that a\nbeing such as she had always known him should sacrifice both his\nlove and his hate seemed beyond all hope, and \"Change his heart!\nTurn our captivity, O Lord,\" could only be her cry.\n\nOnly very late did Burford come back, full of the account of the\nwreck and of the spoils, and the struggles between the wreckers for\nthe flotsam and jetsam.  There was much of savage brutality mated\nwith a cool indifference truly horrible to Anne, and making her\nrealise into what a den of robbers she had fallen, especially as\nthese narratives were diversified by consultations over the Dutch\nletters and bills of exchange in the wrecked East Indiaman, and how\nto turn them to the best advantage.  Barclay and Burford were so\nfull of these subjects that they took comparatively little notice of\nthe young lady, only when she rose to retire, Burford made a sort of\napology that this little business had hindered his going after the\nparson.  He heard that the Salamander was at the castle, and\nredcoats all about, he said, and if the Annick could be got out to-\nmorrow they must sail any way; and if Pil was still so squeamish, a\nPopish priest could couple them in a leash as tight as a Fleet\nparson could.  And then Peregrine demanded whether Burford thought a\nFleet parson the English for a naval chaplain, and there was some\nboisterous laughter, during which Anne shut herself up in her room\nin something very like despair, with that one ray of hope that He\nwho had brought her back from exile before would again save her from\nthat terrible fate.\n\nShe heard card-playing and the jingle of glasses far into the night,\nas she believed, but it seemed to her as if she had scarcely fallen\nasleep before, to her extreme terror, she heard a knock and a low\ncall at her door of 'Guennik.'  Then as the Bretonne went to the\ndoor, through which a light was seen, a lantern was handed in, and a\nscrap of paper on which the words were written:  \"On second\nthoughts, my kindred elves at Portchester shall not be scared by a\nworricow.  Dress quickly, and I will bring you out of this.\"\n\nFor a moment Anne did not perceive the meaning of the missive, the\nghastly idea never having occurred to her that if Charles had\nsuffered, the gibbet would have been at Portchester.  Then, with an\nelectric flash of joy, she saw that it meant relenting on\nPeregrine's part, deliverance for them both.  She put on her clothes\nwith hasty, trembling hands, thankful to Guennik for helping her,\npressed a coin into the strong toil-worn hand, and with an earnest\nthrill of thankful prayer opened the door.  The driftwood fire was\nbright, and she saw Peregrine, looking deadly white, and equipped\nwith slouched hat, short wrapping cloak, pistols and sword at his\nbelt, dark lantern lighted on the table, and Hans also cloaked by\nhis side.  He bent his head in salutation, and put his finger to his\nlips, giving one hand to Anne, and showing by example instead of\nwords that she must tread as softly as possible, as she perceived\nthat he was in his slippers, Hans carrying his boots as well as the\nlantern she had used.  Yet to her ears the roar of the advancing\ntide seemed to stifle all other sounds.  Past the other huts they\nwent in silence, then came a precipitous path up the cliff, steps\ncut in the hard sandy grit, but very crumbling, and in places\nsupplemented by a rude ladder of sticks and rope.  Peregrine went\nbefore Anne, Hans behind.  Each had hung the lantern from his neck,\nso as to have hands free to draw her, support her, or lift her, as\nmight be needful.  How it was done she never could tell in after\nyears.  She might jestingly say that her lightened heart bore her\nup, but in her soul and in her deeper moments she thought that truly\nangels must have had charge over her.  Up, up, up!  At last they had\nreached standing ground, a tolerably level space, with another high\ncliff seeming to rise behind it.  Here it was lighter--a pale streak\nof dawn was spreading over the horizon, both on sky and sea, and the\nwaves still leaping glanced in the light of a golden waning moon,\nwhile Venus shone in the brightening sky, a daystar of hope.\n\nPeregrine drew a long breath, and gave an order in a very low voice\nin Dutch to Hans, who placed his boots before him, and went off\ntowards a shed.  \"He will bring you a pony,\" said his master.\n\n\"Excuse me;\" and he was withdrawing his hand, when Anne clasped it\nwith both hers, and said in a voice of intense feeling--\n\n\"Oh, how can I thank you and bless you!  This _is_ putting the Evil\nAngel to flight.\"\n\n\"'Tis you that have done it!  You see, I cannot do the wicked act\nwhere you are,\" he answered gloomily, as he turned aside to draw on\nhis boots.\n\n\"Ah! but you have won the victory over him!\"\n\n\"Do not be too sure.  We are not out of reach of those rascals yet.\"\n\nHe was evidently anxious for silence, and Anne said no more.  Hans\npresently brought from some unknown quarter, a little stout pony\nbridled and saddled; of course not with a side saddle, but cloaks\nwere arranged so as to make a fairly comfortable seat for Anne, and\nPeregrine led the animal on the ascent to St. Catherine's Down.  It\nwas light enough to dispense with the lanterns, and as they mounted\nhigher the glorious sight of daybreak over the sea showed itself--\nalmost due east, the sharp points of the Needles showing up in a\nflood of pale golden light above and below, with gulls flashing\nwhite as they floated into sunlight, all seeming to Anne's thankful\nheart to be a new radiance of joy and hope after the dark roaring\nterrors of the Chine.\n\nAs they came out into the open freedom of the down, with crisp\nsilvery grass under their feet, the breadth of sea on one side,\nbefore them fertile fields and hills, and farther away, dimly seen\nin gray mist, the familiar Portsdown outlines, not a sound to be\nheard but the exulting ecstasies of larks, far, far above in the\ndepths of blue, Peregrine dared to speak above his breath, with a\nquestion whether Anne were at ease in her extemporary side saddle,\nproducing at the same time a slice of bread and meat, and a flask of\nwine.\n\n\"Oh, how kind!  What care you take of me!\" she said.  \"But where are\nwe going?\"\n\n\"Wherever you command,\" he said.  \"I had thought of Carisbrooke.\nCutts is there, and it would be the speediest way.\"\n\n\"Would it not be the most dangerous for you?\"\n\n\"I care very little for my life after this.\"\n\n\"Oh no, no, you must not say so.  After what you are doing for me\nyou will be able to make it better than ever it has been.  This is\nwhat I thought.  If you would bring me in some place whence I could\nreach Sir Edmund Nutley's house at Parkhurst, his servants would\nhelp me to do the rest, even if he be not there himself.  I would\nnever betray you!  You know I would not!  And you would have full\ntime to get away to your place in Normandy with your friends.\"\n\n\"You care?\" asked he.\n\n\"Of course I do!\" exclaimed she.  \"Do I not feel grateful to you,\nand like and honour you better than ever I could have thought?\"\n\n\"You do?\" in a strange choked tone.\n\n\"Of course I do.  You are doing a noble, thankworthy thing.  It is\nnot only that I thank you for _his_ sake, but it is a grand and\nbeautiful deed in itself; and if my dear mother know, she is\nblessing you for it.\"\n\n\"I shall remember those words,\" he said, \"if--\" and he passed his\nhand over his eyes.  \"See here,\" he presently said; \"I have written\nout a confession of my identity, and explanation that it was I who\ndrew first on Archfield.  It is enough to save him, and in case my\nhandwriting has altered, as I think it has, and there should be\nfurther doubt, I shall be found at Pilpignon, if I get away.  You\nhad better keep it in case of accidents, or if you carry out your\ngenerous plan.  Say whatever you please about me, but there is no\nneed to mention Barclay or Burford; and it would not be fair to the\nhonest free-traders here to explain where their Chine lies.  I\nshould have brought you up blindfold, if I could have done so with\nsafety, not that _I_ do not trust you, but I should be better able\nto satisfy those fellows if I ever see them again, by telling them I\nhave sworn you to secrecy.\"\n\nThen he laughed.  \"The gowks!  I won all those Indian bonds of them\nlast night, but left them in a parcel addressed to them as a\nlegacy.\"\n\nAnne took the required pledge, and ventured to ask, \"Shall I say\nanything for you to your father?\"\n\n\"My poor old father!  Let him know that I neither would nor could\ndisturb Robert in his inheritance, attainted traitor as the laws\nesteem me.  For the rest, mayhap I shall write to him if the good\nangel you talk of will help me.\"\n\n\"Oh do!  I am sure he would rejoice to forgive.  He is much\nsoftened.\"\n\n\"Now, we must hush, and go warily.  I see sheep, and if there is a\nshepherd, I want him not to see us, or point our way.  It is well\nthese Isle of Wight folk are not early risers.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV: LIFE FOR LIFE\n\n\n\"Follow Light, and do the Right--for man can half-control his doom--\nTill you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb.\n\nForward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle with the Past.\nI that loathed, have come to love him.  Love will conquer at the last.\"\n\nTENNYSON.\n\nOn they had gone in silence for the most part, avoiding villages,\nbut as the morning advanced and they came into more inhabited\nplaces, they were not able entirely to avoid meeting labourers going\nout to work, who stared at Hans's black face with curiosity.  The\nsun was already high when they reached a cross-road whence the\nmassive towers of Carisbrooke were seen above the hedges, and\nanother turn led to Parkhurst.  They paused a moment, and Anne was\nbeginning to entreat her escort to leave her to proceed alone, when\nthe sound of horses' feet galloping was heard behind them.\nPeregrine looked back.\n\n\"Ah!\" he said.  \"Ride on as fast as you can towards the castle.  You\nwill be all right.  I will keep them back.  Go, I say.\"\n\nAnd as some figures were seen at the end of the road, he pricked the\npony with the point of his sword so effectually that it bolted\nforward, quite beyond Anne's power of checking it, and in a second\nor two its speed was quickened by shouts and shots behind.  Anne\nfelt, but scarcely understood at the moment, a sharp pang and thrill\nin her left arm, as the steed whirled her round the corner of the\nlane and full into the midst of a party of gentlemen on horseback\ncoming down from the castle.\n\n\"Help! help!\" she cried.  \"Down there.\"\n\nAttacks by highwaymen were not uncommon experiences, though scarcely\nat eight o'clock in the morning, or so near a garrison, but the\nhorsemen, having already heard the shots, galloped forward.  Perhaps\nAnne could hardly have turned her pony, but it chose to follow the\nlead of its fellows, and in a few seconds they were in the midst of\na scene of utter confusion.  Peregrine was grappling with Burford\ntrying to drag him from his horse.  Both fell together, and as the\nauxiliaries came in sight there was another shot and two more men\nrode off headlong.\n\n\"Follow them!\" said a commanding voice.  \"What have we here?\"\n\nThe two struggling figures both lay still for a moment or two, but\nas some of the riders drew them apart Peregrine sat up, though blood\nwas streaming down his breast and arm.  \"Sir,\" he said, \"I am\nPeregrine Oakshott, on whose account young Archfield lies under\nsentence of death.  If a magistrate will take my affidavit while I\ncan make it, he will be safe.\"\n\nThen Anne heard a voice exclaiming:  \"Oakshott!  Nay--why, this is\nMistress Woodford!  How came she here?\" and she knew Sir Edmund\nNutley.  Still it was Peregrine who answered--\n\n\"I captured her, in the hope of marrying her, but that cannot be--I\nhave brought her back in all safety and honour.\"\n\n\"Sir!  Sir, indeed he has been very good to me.  Pray let him be\nlooked to.\"\n\n\"Let him be carried to the castle,\" said the commander of the party,\na tall man sunburnt to a fiery red.  \"Is the other alive?\"\n\n\"Only stunned, my lord, I think and not much hurt,\" was the answer\nof an attendant officer; \"but here is a poor blackamoor dead.\"\n\n\"Poor Hans!  Best so perhaps,\" murmured Peregrine, as he was lifted.\nThen in a voice of alarm, \"Look to the lady, she is hurt.\"\n\n\"It is nothing,\" cried she.  \"O Mr. Oakshott! that this should have\nhappened!\"\n\n\"My lord, this is the young gentlewoman I told you of, betrothed to\npoor young Archfield,\" said Sir Edmund Nutley.\n\nLord Cutts, for it was indeed William's favoured 'Salamander,' took\noff his plumed hat in salutation, and both gentlemen perceiving that\nshe too was bleeding, she was solicitously invited to the castle, to\nbe placed under the charge of the lieutenant-governor's wife.  She\nfound by this time that she was in a good deal of pain, and\nthankfully accepted the support Sir Edmund offered her, when he\ndismounted and walked beside her pony, while explanations passed\nbetween them.  The weather had prevented any communication with the\nmainland, so that he was totally ignorant of her capture, and did\nnot know what had become of Mr. Fellowes.  He himself had been just\nstarting with Lord Cutts, who was going to join the King for his\nnext campaign, and they were to represent the case to the King.\nAnne told him in return what she dared to say, but she was becoming\nso faint and dazed that she was in great fear of not saying what she\nought; and indeed she could hardly speak, when after passing under\nthe great gateway, she was lifted off her horse, at the door of the\ndwelling-house, and helped upstairs to a bedroom, where the wife of\nthe lieutenant-governor, Mrs. Dudley, was very tender over her with\nessences and strong waters, and a surgeon of the suite almost\nimmediately came to her.\n\n\"Oh,\" she exclaimed, \"you should be with Mr. Oakshott.\"\n\nThe surgeon explained that Mr. Oakshott would have nothing done for\nhim till he had fully made and signed his deposition, in case the\npower should afterwards be wanting.\n\nSo Anne submitted to the dressing of her hurt, which was only a\nflesh wound, the bone being happily untouched.  Both the surgeon and\nMrs. Dudley urged her going to bed immediately, but she was\nunwilling to put herself out of reach; and indeed the dressing was\nscarcely finished before Sir Edmund Nutley knocked at the door to\nask whether she could admit him.\n\n\"Lord Cutts is very desirous of speaking with you, if you are able,\"\nhe said.  \"Here has this other fellow come round, declaring that\nOakshott is the Pilpignon who was in the Barclay Plot, and besides,\nthe prime leader of the Black Gang, of whom we have heard so much.\"\n\n\"The traitor!\" cried Anne.  \"Poor Mr. Oakshott was resolved not to\nbetray him!  How is he--Mr. Oakshott, I mean?\"\n\n\"The surgeon has him in his hands.  We will send another from\nPortsmouth, but it looks like a bad case.  He made his confession\nbravely, though evidently in terrible suffering, seeming to keep up\nby force of will till he had totally exonerated Archfield and signed\nthe deposition, and then he fainted, so that I thought him dead, but\nI fear he has more to go through.  Can you come to the hall, or\nshall I bring Lord Cutts to you?  We must hasten in starting that we\nmay bring the news to Winchester to-night.\"\n\nAnne much preferred going to the hall, though she felt weak enough\nto be very glad to lean on Sir Edmund's arm.\n\nLord Cutts, William's high-spirited and daring officer, received her\nwith the utmost courtesy and kindness, inquired after her hurt, and\nlamented having to trouble her, but said that though he would not\ndetain her long, her testimony was important, and he begged to hear\nwhat had happened to her.\n\nShe gave the account of her capture and journey as shortly as she\ncould.\n\n\"Whither was she taken?\"\n\nShe paused.  \"I promised Mr. Oakshott for the sake of others--\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"You need have no scruples on that score,\" said Lord Cutts.\n\"Burford hopes to get off for the murder by turning King's evidence,\nand has told all.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added Sir Edmund; \"and poor Oakshott managed to say, 'Tell\nher she need keep nothing back.  It is all up.'\"\n\nSo Anne answered all the questions put to her, and they were the\nfewer both out of consideration for her condition, and because the\ngovernor wanted to take advantage of the tide to embark on the\nMedina.\n\nIn a very few hours the Archfields would have no more fears.  Anne\nlonged to go with Sir Edmund, but she was in no state for a ride,\nand could not be a drag.  Sir Edmund said that either his wife would\ncome to her at once and take her to Parkhurst, or else her uncle\nwould be sure to come for her.  She would be the guest of Major and\nMrs. Dudley, who lived in the castle, the actual Lord Warden only\nvisiting it from time to time; and though Major Dudley was a stern\nman, both were very kind to her.\n\nAs a Whig, Major Dudley knew the Oakshott family, and was willing to\nextend his hospitality even to the long-lost Peregrine.  The Lord\nWarden, who was evidently very favourably impressed, saying that\nthere was no need at present to treat him as a prisoner, but that\nevery attention should be paid to him, as indeed he was evidently a\ndying man.  Burford and another of his associates were to be carried\noff, handcuffed, with the escort to Winchester jail, but before the\ndeparture, the soldiers who had been sent to the Chine returned\nbaffled; the place was entirely deserted, and Barclay had escaped.\n\nAnne allowed herself to be put to bed, being indeed completely\nexhausted, and scarcely able to think of anything but the one\nblessed certainty that Charles was safe, and freed from all stigma.\nWhen, after the pain in her arm lulled enough to allow her to sleep,\nshe had had a few hours' rest, she inquired for Peregrine, she heard\nthat for many hours the surgeon had been trying to extract the\nballs, and that they considered that the second shot had made his\ncase hopeless, as it was in the body.  He was so much exhausted as\nto be almost unconscious; but the next morning, when Anne, against\nthe persuasions of her hostess, had risen and been dressed, though\nstill feeling weak and shaken, she received a message, begging her\nto do him the great kindness of visiting him.\n\nDeadly pale, almost gray, as he looked, lying so propped with\npillows as to relieve his shattered shoulder, his face had a strange\nlook of peace, almost of relief, and he smiled at her as she\nentered.  He held out the hand he could use, and his first word was\nof inquiry after her hurt.\n\n\"That is nothing--it will soon be well; I wish it were the same with\nyou.\"\n\n\"Nay, I had rather cheat the hangman.  I told those doctors\nyesterday that they were giving themselves and me a great deal of\nuseless trouble.  The villains, as I told you, could not believe we\nshould not betray them, and meant to make an end of us all.  It's\nbest as it is.  My poor faithful Hans would never have had another\nhappy moment.\"\n\n\"But you must be better, Peregrine,\" for his voice, though low, was\nsteady.\n\n\"There's no living with what I have here,\" he said, laying his hand\non his side; \"and--I dreamt of your mother last night.\"  With the\nwords there was a look of gladness exceeding.\n\n\"Ah! the Evil Angel is gone!\"\n\n\"I want your prayers that he may not come back at the last.\"  Then,\nas she clasped her hands, and her lips moved, he added, \"There were\nsome things I could only say to you.  If they don't treat my body as\nthat of an attainted traitor, let me lie at your mother's feet.\nDon't disturb the big Scot for me, but let me rest at last near her.\nThen tell Robin 'tis not out of want of regard for him that I have\nnot bequeathed Pilpignon to him, but he could do no good with a\nFrench estate full of Papists; and there's a poor loyal fellow,\nliving ruined at Paris--a Catholic too--with a wife and children\nhalf starved, to whom it will do more good.\"\n\n\"I meant to ask--Shall a priest be sent for?  Surely Major Dudley\nwould consent.\"\n\n\"I don't know.  I have not loved such priests lately.  I had rather\ndie as near your mother as may be.\"\n\n\"Miss Woodford,\" said a voice at the door, and going to it, Anne\nfound herself clasped in her uncle's arms.  With very few words she\nled him to the bedside, and the first thing he said was \"God bless\nyou, Peregrine, for what you have done.\"\n\nAgain Peregrine's face lighted up, but fell again when he was told\nof the Portsmouth surgeon's arrival at the same time, saying with\none of his strange looks that it was odd sort of mercy to try to\ncure a man for Jack Ketch, but that he should baffle them yet.\n\n\"Do not set your mind on that,\" said Dr. Woodford, \"for Lord Cutts\nwas so much pleased with you that he would do his utmost on your\nbehalf.\"\n\n\"Much good that would do me,\" said poor Peregrine, setting his teeth\nas his tormentor came in.\n\nMeantime, in Mrs. Dudley's parlour, while that good lady was\nassisting the surgeon at the dressing, Anne and her uncle exchanged\ninformation.  Mr. Fellowes had arrived on foot at about noon, with\nhis servant, having only been released after two hours by a\ntraveller, and having been deprived both of money and horses, so\nthat he could not proceed on his journey; besides that he had given\nthe alarm about the abduction, and raised the hue and cry at the\nvillages on his way.  There had been great distress, riding and\nsearching, and the knowledge had been kept from poor Charles\nArchfield in his prison.  Mr. Fellowes had gone on to London as soon\nas possible, and Dr. Woodford had just returned from a fruitless\nattempt to trace his niece, when Sir Edmund Nutley and Lord Cutts\nappeared, with the joyful tidings, which, however, could be hardly\nunderstood.\n\nNothing, Dr. Woodford said, could be more thorough than the\nvindication of Charles Archfield.  Peregrine had fully stated that\nthe young man had merely interposed to prevent the pursuit of Anne\nWoodford, that it was he himself who had made the first attack, and\nthat his opponent had been forced to fight in self-defence.  Lord\nCutts had not only shown his affidavit to Sir Philip, but had paid a\nvisit to the Colonel himself in his prison, had complimented him\nhighly on his services in the Imperial army, only regretting that\nthey had not been on behalf of his own country, and had assured him\nof equal, if not superior rank, in the British army if he would join\nit on the liberation that he might reckon upon in the course of a\nvery few days.\n\n\"How did you work on the unhappy young man to bring about this\nblessed change?\" asked the Doctor.\n\n\"Oh, sir, I do not think it was myself.  It was first the mercy of\nthe Almighty, and then my blessed mother's holy memory working on\nhim, revived by the sight of myself.  I cannot describe to you how\ngentle, and courteous, and respectful he was to me all along, though\nI am sure those dreadful men mocked at him for it.  Do you know\nwhether his father has heard?\"\n\n\"Robert Oakshott is gone in search of him.  He had set off to beat\nup the country, good old man, to obtain signatures to the petition\nin favour of our prisoner, and Robert expected to find him with Mr.\nChute at the Vine.  It is much to that young man's credit, niece, he\nwas so eager to see his brother that he longed to come with me\nhimself; but he thought that the shock to his father would be so\ngreat that he ought to bear the tidings himself.  And what do you\nthink his good wife is about?  Perhaps you did not know that Sedley\nArchfield brought away jail fever with him, and Mrs. Oakshott,\nfeeling that she was the cause by her hasty action, has taken\nlodgings for him in Winchester, and is nursing him like a sister.\nNo.  You need not fear for your colonel, my dear maid.  Sedley\ncaught the infection because he neither was, nor wished to be,\nsecluded from the rest of the prisoners, some of whom were, I fear,\nonly too congenial society to him.  But now tell me the story of\nyour own deliverance, which seems to me nothing short of\nmiraculous.\"\n\nThe visit of the Portsmouth surgeon only confirmed Peregrine's own\nimpression that it was impossible that he should live, and he was\nonly surviving by the strong vitality in his little, spare, wiry\nframe.  Dr. Woodford, after hearing Anne's story, thought it well to\nask him whether he would prefer the ministrations of a Roman\nCatholic priest; but whether justly or unjustly, Peregrine seemed to\nimpute to that Church the failure to exorcise the malignant spirit\nwhich had led him to far worse aberrations than he had confessed to\nAnne.  Though by no means deficient in knowledge or controversian\ntheology, as Dr. Woodford soon found in conversation with him, his\nreal convictions were all as to what personally affected him, and\nhis strong Protestant ingrain education, however he might have\ndisavowed it, no doubt had affected his point of view.  He had\nadmired and been strongly influenced by the sight of real devotion\nand holiness, though as his temptations and hatred of monotony\nrecurred, he had more than once swung back again.  Then, however, he\nhad been revolted by the perception of the concessions to popular\nsuperstition and the morality of a wicked state of society.  His\nreal sense of any religion had been infused by Mrs. Woodford, and to\nher belongings, and the faith they involved, he was clinging in\nthese last days.\n\nDr. Woodford could not but be glad that thus it was, not only on the\npenitent's own account, but on that of the father, who might have\nlost the comfort of finding him truly repentant in the shock of\nfinding a Popish priest at his bedside.  And indeed the contrition\nseemed to have gathered force in many a past fit of remorse, and now\nwas deep but not unhopeful.\n\nIn the evening the father and brother arrived.  The Major was now an\nold man, hale indeed, and with the beauty that a pure, self-\nrestrained life often sheds on an aged man.  He was much shaken, and\nwhen he came in, with his own white hair on his shoulders, and\nactually tears in his eyes, the look that passed between them was\nlike nothing but the spirit of the parable so often, but never too\noften, repeated.\n\nPeregrine, who never perhaps had spent a happy or fearless hour with\nhim, and had dreaded his coming, felt probably for the first time\nthe mysterious sense of home and peace given by the presence of\nthose between whom there is the tie of blood.  Not many words\npassed; he was hardly in a state for them, but from that time, he\nwas never so happy as when his father and brother were beside him;\nand they seldom left him, the Major sitting day and night by his\npillow attending to his wants, or saying words of prayer.\n\nThe old man had become much softened, by nothing more perhaps than\nwatching the way in which his daughter-in-law dealt with the\nmanifestations of the Oakshott imp nature in her eldest child.\n\n\"If I had understood,\" he said to Dr. Woodford.  \"If I had so\ntreated that poor boy, never would he have been as he is now.\"\n\n\"You acted according to your conscience.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir! a man does not grow old without learning that the\nconscience may be blinded, above all by the spirit of opposition and\nparty.\"\n\n\"I will not say there were no mistakes,\" said the Doctor; \"and yet,\nsir, the high standard, sound principle, and strong faith he learnt\nfrom you and your example have prevailed to bear him through.\"\n\nThe Major answered with a groan, but added, \"And yet, even now,\nstained as he tells me he is, and cut off in the flower of his age,\nI thank my God and his Saviour, and after Him, you and yours, that I\nam happier about him than I have been these eight and twenty years.\"\n\nWith no scruple, Major Oakshott threw his heart into the\nministrations of Dr. Woodford, which Peregrine declared kept at bay\nthe Evil Angel who more than once seemed to his consciousness to be\nstriving to make him despair, while friend and father brought him\nback to the one hope.\n\nFrom time to time Anne visited him for a short interval, always to\nhis joy and gratitude.  There was one visit at last which all knew\nwould be the final one, when she shared in his first and last\nEnglish Communion.  As she was about to leave him, he held her hand,\nand signed to her to bend down to hear him better.  \"If you can, let\ngood Father Seyton at Douai know that peace is come--the Evil One\nbeaten, thanks to Him who giveth us the victory--and I thank them\nall there--and ask their prayers.\"\n\n\"I will, I will.\"\n\nSome one at the door said, \"May I come in?\"\n\nThere was a sunburnt face, a head with long brown hair, a white\ncoat.\n\n\"Archfield?\" asked Peregrine.  \"Come, send me away with pardon.\"\n\n\"'Tis yours I need;\" and as Charles knelt by the bed the two faces,\none all health, the other gray and deathly, were close together.\n\"You have given your life for mine, and given _her_.  How shall I\nthank you?\"\n\n\"Make her happy.  She deserves it.\"\n\nCharles clasped her hand with a look that was enough.  Then with a\nstrange smile, half sweetness, half the contortion of a mortal pang,\nthe dying man said, \"May she kiss me once?\"\n\nAnd when her lips had touched the cold damp brow--\n\n\"There--My fourth seven.  At last!  The change is come.  Old--\nimpish--evil--self left behind.  At last!  Thanks to Him who treads\ndown Satan under our feet.  Thanks!  Take her away now.\"\n\nCharles took her away, scarce knowing where they went,--out into the\nspring sunshine, on the slopes above the turf bowling-green, where\nthe captive King had beguiled his weary hours.  Only then would awe\nand emotion let them speak, though his arm was round her, her hand\nin his, and his first words were, as he looked at the scarf that\nstill bore up her arm, \"And this is what you have borne for me?\"\n\n\"It is all but healed.  Don't think of it.\"\n\n\"I shall all my life!  Poor fellow, he might well bid me deserve\nyou.  I never can.  'Tis to you I owe all.  I believe, indeed, the\nambassador might have claimed me, but he is so tardy that probably I\nshould have been hanged long before the proper form was ready; and\nit would have been to exile, and with a tainted name.  You have won\nfor me the clearing of name and honour--home, parents and child and\nall, besides your sweet self.\"\n\n\"And it was not me, but he whom we so despised and dreaded.  Had I\nnot been seized, I could only have implored for you.\"\n\n\"I know this, that if you had not been what you are, my boy would\nhave borne a dishonoured name, and we should never have been\ntogether as now.\"\n\nIt was in truth their first meeting in freedom and security as\nlovers; but it could only be in a grave, quiet fashion, under the\nknowledge that he, to whom their re-union was chiefly owing, was\nbreathing out the life he had sacrificed for them.  Thus they only\ngently and in a low voice went over their past doings and feelings\nas they walked up and down together, till Dr. Woodford came in the\nsunset to tell them that the change so longed for had come in peace,\nand with a smile that told of release from the Evil Angel.\n\n* * * * *\n\nPeregrine's wish was fulfilled, and he was buried in Portchester\nChurchyard at Mrs. Woodford's feet.  This time it was Mr.\nHorncastle, old as he was, who preached the funeral sermon, the In\nMemoriam of our forefathers; and by special desire of Major Oakshott\ntook for his text, 'At evening time there shall be light.'  He\nspoke, sometimes in a voice broken, as much by feeling as by age, of\nthe childhood blighted by a cruel superstition, and perverted, as he\nfreely made confession, by discipline without comprehension, because\nno confidence had been sought.  Then ensued a tribute of earnest,\ngenerous justice to her who had done her best to undo the warp in\nthe boy's nature, and whose blessed influence the young man had\nowned to the last, through all the temptations, errors, and frenzies\nof his life.  Nor did the good man fail to make this a means of\ntestifying to the entire neighbourhood, who had flocked to hear him,\nall that might be desirable to be known respecting the conflict at\nPortchester, actually reading Peregrine's affidavit, as indeed was\ndue to Colonel Archfield, so as to prove that this was no mere\npardon, though technically it had so to stand, but actual acquittal.\nNor was the struggle with evil at the end forgotten, nor the\nsurrender alike of love and of hatred, as well as of his own life,\nwhich had been the final conquest, the decisive passing from\ndarkness to light.\n\nIt was a strange sermon according to present ideas, but not to those\nwho had grown up to the semi-political preaching of the century then\nin its last decade; and it filled many eyes with tears, many hearts\nwith a deeper spirit of that charity which hopeth all things.\n\n* * * * *\n\nA month later Charles Archfield and Anne Jacobina Woodford were\nmarried at the little parish church of Fareham.  Sir Philip insisted\non making it a gay and brilliant wedding, in order to demonstrate to\nthe neighbourhood that though the maiden had been his grandson's\ngoverness, she was a welcomed and honoured acquisition to the\nfamily.  Perhaps too he perceived the error of his middle age, when\nhe contrasted that former wedding, the work of worldly\nconventionality, with the present.  In the first, an unformed,\nundeveloped lad, unable to understand his own true feelings and\naffections had been passively linked to a shallow, frivolous, ill-\ntrained creature, utterly incapable of growing into a helpmeet for\nhim; whereas the love and trust of the stately-looking pair, in the\nfresh bloom of manhood and womanhood, had been proved in the furnace\nof trial, so that the troth they plighted had deep foundation for\nthe past, and bright hope for the future.\n\nNor was anybody more joyous than little Philip, winning his Nana for\na better mother to him than his own could ever have been\n\nIt was in a blue velvet coat that Colonel Archfield was married.  He\nhad resigned his Austrian commission; and though the 'Salamander,'\nwas empowered to offer him an excellent staff appointment in the\nEnglish army, he decided to refuse.  Sir Philip showed signs of\nhaving been aged and shaken by the troubles of the winter, and\nrequired his son's assistance in the care of his property, and\nlittle Philip was growing up to need a father's hand, so that\nCharles came to the conclusion that there was no need to cross the\nold Cavalier's dislike to the new regime, nor to make his mother and\nwife again suffer the anxieties of knowing him on active service,\nwhile his duties lay at home.\n\nSedley Archfield, after a long illness, owed recovery both in body\nand mind to Mrs. Oakshott, and by her arrangement finally obtained a\nfresh commission in a regiment raised for the defence of the\npossessions of the East India Company.  And that the poor changeling\nwas still tenderly remembered might be proved by the fact that when\nthe bells rung for Queen Anne's coronation there was one baby\nPeregrine at Fareham and another at Oakwood.","title":"A Reputed Changeling; Or, Three Seventh Years Two Centuries Ago","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":132132}