"I then did ask of her, her changeling child."
Midsummer Night's Dream.
Mrs. Woodford was too good a housewife to allow herself any extra
rest on account of her vigil, and she had just put her Juneating
apple-tart into the oven when Anne rushed into the kitchen with the
warning that there was a grand gentleman getting off his horse at
the gateway, and speaking to her uncle--she thought it must be
Peregrine's uncle.
Mrs. Woodford was of the same opinion, and asked where Peregrine
was.
"Fast asleep in the window-seat of the parlour, mother! I did not
waken him, for he looked so tired."
"That was right, my little maiden," said Mrs. Woodford, hastily
washing her hands, taking off her cooking apron, letting down her
black gown from its pocket holes, and arranging her veil-like
widow's coif, after which, in full trim for company, she sallied out
to the front door, to avert, if possible, the wakening of the boy,
whom she wished to appear to the best advantage.
She met in the garden her brother-in-law, and Sir Peregrine
Oakshott, on being presented to her, made such a bow as had seldom
been seen in those parts, as he politely said that he was the bearer
of his brother's thanks for her care of his nephew.
Mrs. Woodford explained that the boy had had so bad a night that it
would be well not to break his present sleep, and invited the guest
to walk in the garden or sit in the Doctor's study or in the shade
of the castle wall.
This last was what he preferred, and there they seated themselves,
with a green slope before them down to the pale gray creek, and the
hill beyond lying in the summer sunshine.
"I have been long in coming hither," said the knight, "partly on
account of letters on affairs of State, and partly likewise because
I desired to come alone, thinking that I might better understand how
it is with the lad without the presence of his father or brothers."
"I am very glad you have so done, sir."
"Then, madam, I entreat of you to speak freely and tell me your
opinion of him without reserve. You need not fear offence by
speaking of the mode in which they have treated him at home. My
poor brother has meant to do his duty, but he has stood so far aloof
from his sons that he has dealt with them in ignorance, and their
mother, between sickliness and timidity, is a mere prey to the folly
of her gossips. So speak plainly, madam, I beg of you."
Mrs. Woodford did speak plainly of the boy's rooted belief in his
own elfish origin, and how when arguing against it she had found the
alternative even sadder and more hopeless, how well he comported
himself as long as he was treated as a human and rational being, but
how the taunts and jests of the young Archfields had renewed all the
mischief, to the poor fellow's own remorse and despair.
Sir Peregrine listened with only a word of comment, or question now
and then, like a man of the world well used to hearing all before he
committed himself, and the description was only just ended when the
clang of the warning dinner-bell sounded and they rose; but as they
were passing the window of the dining-parlour a shriek of Anne's
startled them all, and as they sprang forward, Mrs. Woodford first,
Peregrine's voice was heard, "No, no, Anne, don't be afraid. It is
for me he is come; I knew he would."
Something in a strange language was heard. A black face with round
eyes and gleaming teeth might be seen bending forward. Anne gave
another shriek, but was heard crying, "No, no! Get away, sir. He
is our Lord Christ's! He is! You can't! you shan't have him."
And Anne was seen standing over Peregrine, who had dropped
shuddering and nearly fainting on the floor, while she stood
valiantly up warding off the advance of him whom she took for the
Prince of Darkness, and in her excitement not at first aware of
those who were come to her aid at the window. In one second the
negro was saying something which his master answered, and sent him
off. Mrs. Woodford had called out, "Don't be afraid, dear children.
'Tis Sir Peregrine's black servant"; and the Doctor, "Foolish
children! What is this nonsense?" A moment or two more and they
were in the room, Anne, all trembling, flying up to her mother and
hiding her face against her between fright and shame at not having
thought of the black servant, and the while they lifted up
Peregrine, who, as he met his kind friend's eyes, said faintly, "Is
he gone? Was it the dream again?"
"It was your uncle's blackamoor servant," said Mrs. Woodford. "You
woke up, and no wonder you were startled. Come with me, both of
you, and make you ready for dinner."
Peregrine had rather collapsed than fainted, for he was able to walk
with her hand on his shoulder, and Sir Peregrine understood her sign
and did not attempt to accost either of the children, though as the
Doctor took him to his chamber he expressed his admiration of the
little maiden.
"That's the right woman," he said, "losing herself when there is one
to guard. Nay, sir, she needs no excuse. Such a spirit may well
redeem a child's mistake."
Mrs. Woodford had reassured the children, so that they were more
than half ashamed, though scarce willing to reappear when she had
made Peregrine wash his face and hands, smooth the hair ruffled in
his nap, freshly tying his little cravat and the ribbons on his
shoes and at his knees. To make his hair into anything but elf
locks, or to obliterate the bristly tuft that made him like Riquet,
was impossible, illness had made him additionally lean and sallow,
and his keen eyes, under their black contracted brows and dark
lashes, showed all the more the curious variation in their tints,
and with an obliquity that varied according to the state of the
nerves. There was a satirical mischievous cast in the mould of the
face, though individually the features were not amiss except for
their thinness, and in fact the unpleasantness of the expression had
insensibly been softened during this last month, and there was
nothing repellent, though much that was quaint, in the slight
figure, with the indescribably one-sided air, and stature more
befitting ten than fourteen years. What would the visitor think of
him? The Doctor called to him, "Come, Peregrine, your uncle, Sir
Peregrine Oakshott, has been good enough to come over to see you."
Peregrine had been well trained enough in that bitter school of home
to make a correct bow, though his feelings were betrayed by his
yellow eye going almost out of sight.
"My namesake--your father will not let me say my godson," said Sir
Peregrine smiling. "We ought to be good friends."
The boy looked up. Perhaps he had never been greeted in so human a
manner before, and there was something confiding in the way those
bony fingers of his rested a moment in his uncle's clasp.
"And this is your little daughter, madam, Peregrine's kind playmate?
You may well be proud of her valour," said the knight, while Anne
made her courtesy, which he, in the custom of the day, returned with
a kiss; and she, who had been mortally ashamed of her terror,
marvelled at his praise.
The pair of fowls were by this time on the table, and good manners
required silence on the part of the children, but while Sir
Peregrine explained that he had been appointed by his Majesty as
Envoy to the Elector of Brandenburg, and gave various interesting
particulars of foreign life, Mrs. Woodford saw that he was keeping a
quiet watch over his nephew's habits at table, and she was thankful
that when unmoved by any wayward spirit of mischief they were quite
beyond reproach. Something of the refinement of his poor mother's
tastes must have been inherited by Peregrine, for a certain
daintiness of taste and habit had probably added to his discomforts
in the austere, not to say rude simplicity imposed upon the children
of the family.
When the meal was over the children were dismissed to the garden,
but bidden to keep within call, in case Sir Peregrine should wish to
see his nephew again. The others repaired again to the garden seat,
with wine and fruit, but the knight begged Mrs. Woodford not to
leave them.
"I am satisfied," he said. "The boy shows gentle blood and
breeding. There was cause enough for fright without cowardice, and
there is not, what I was led to fear, such uncouthness or
ungainliness as should hinder me from having him with me."
"Oh, sir, is that your purpose?" cried the lady, almost as eagerly
as if it had been high preferment for her own child.
"I had thought thereon," said the envoy. "There is reason that he
should be my charge, and my brother is like to give a ready consent,
since he is sorely perplexed what to do with this poor untoward
slip."
"He would be less untoward were he happier," said Mrs. Woodford.
"Indeed, sir, I do not think you will repent it, if--" and she
paused.
"What would you say, madam?"
"If only all your honour's household are absolutely ignorant of all
these tales."
"That can well be, madam. I have only one body-servant with me,
this unlucky blackamoor, who speaks nothing save Dutch. I had
already thought of leaving my grooms here, and returning to London
by sea, and this could well be done, and would cut off all channels
of gossiping. The boy is, the chaplain tells me, quick-witted, and
a fair scholar for his years, and I can find good schooling for
him."
"When his head is able to bear it," said Mrs. Woodford.
"Truly, sir," added the Doctor, "you are doing a good work, and I
trust that the boy will requite you worthily."
"I tell your reverence," said Sir Peregrine, "crooked stick though
they term him, I had ten times rather have the dealing with him than
with those comely great lubbers his brothers! The question now is,
shall I tell him what is in store for him?"
"I should say," returned Dr. Woodford, "that provided it is certain
that the intention can be carried out, nothing would be so good for
him as hope. Do you not say so, sister?"
"Indeed I do," she replied. "I believe that he would be a very
different boy if he were relieved from the misery he suffers at home
and requites by mischievous pranks. I do not say he will or can be
a good lad at once, but if your honour can have patience with him, I
do believe there is that in him which can be turned to good. If he
only can believe in the better nature and higher guidings, and pray,
and not give himself up in despair." She had tears in her eyes.
"My good madam, I can believe it all," said Sir Peregrine. "Short
of being supposed an elf, I have gone through the same, and it was
not my good father's fault that I did not loathe the very name of
preaching or prayer. But I had a mother who knew how to deal with
me, whereas this poor child's mother, I am sure, believes in her
secret heart that he is none of hers, though she has enough sense
not to dare to avow it. Alas! I cannot give the boy the woman's
tending by which you have already wrought so much," and Mrs.
Woodford remembered to have heard that his wife had died at
Rotterdam, "but I can treat him like a human being, I hope indeed as
a son; and, at any rate, there will be no one to remind him of these
old wives' tales."
"I can only say that I am heartily rejoiced," said Mrs. Woodford.
So Peregrine was summoned, and shambled up, his eyes showing that he
expected a trying interview, and, moreover, with a certain twinkle
of mischief or perverseness in their corners.
"Soh! my lad, we ought to be better acquainted," said the uncle.
"D'ye know what our name means?"
"Peregrinus, a vagabond," responded the boy.
"Eh! The translation may be correct, but 'tis scarce the most
complimentary. I wonder now if you, like me, were born on a
Wednesday. 'Wednesday's child has far to go.'"
"No. I was born on a Sunday, and if to see goblins and oafs--"
"Nay, I read it, 'Sunday's child is full of grace.'"
Peregrine's mouth twitched ironically, but his uncle continued,
"Look you, my boy, what say you to fulfilling the augury of your
name with me. His Majesty has ordered me off again to represent the
British name to the Elector of Brandenburg, and I have a mind to
carry you with me. What do you say?"
If any one expected Peregrine to be overjoyed his demeanour was
disappointing. He shuffled with his feet, and after two or three
"Ehs?" from his uncle, he mumbled, "I don't care," and then shrank
together, as one prepared for the stripe with the riding-whip which
such a rude answer merited: but his uncle had, as a diplomate,
learnt a good deal of patience, and he said, "Ha! don't care to
leave home and brothers. Eh?"
Peregrine's chin went down, and there was no answer; his hair
dropped over his heavy brow.
"See, boy, this is no jest," said his uncle. "You are too big to be
told that 'I'll put you into my pocket and carry you off.' I am in
earnest."
Peregrine looked up, and with one sudden flash surveyed his uncle.
His lips trembled, but he did not speak.
"It is sudden," said the knight to the other two. "See, boy, I am
not about to take you away with me now. In a week or ten days' time
I start for London; and there we will fit you out for Konigsberg or
Berlin, and I trust we shall make a man of you, and a good man.
Your tutor tells me you have excellent parts, and I mean that you
shall do me credit."
Dr. Woodford could not help telling the lad that he ought to thank
his uncle, whereat he scowled; but Sir Peregrine said, "He is not
ready for that yet. Wait till he feels he has something to thank me
for."
So Peregrine was dismissed, and his friends exclaimed with some
wonder and annoyance that the boy who had been willing to be
decapitated to put an end to his wretchedness, should be so
reluctant to accept such an offer, but Sir Peregrine only laughed,
and said--
"The lad has pith in him! I like him better than if he came like a
spaniel to my foot. But I will say no more till I fully have my
brother's consent. No one knows what crooks there may be in folks'
minds."
He took his leave, and presently Mrs. Woodford had a fresh surprise.
She found this strange boy lying flat on the grass, sobbing as if
his heart would break, and when she tried to soothe and comfort him
it was very hard to get a word from him; but at last, as she asked,
"And does it grieve you so much to leave home?" the answer was--
"No, no! not home!"
"What is it, then? What are you sorry to leave?"
"Oh, _you_ don't know! you and Anne--the only ones that ever were
good to me--and drove away--_it_."
"Nay, my dear boy. Your uncle means to be good to you."
"No, no. No one ever will be like you and Anne. Oh, let me stay
with you, or they will have me at last!"
He was too much shaken, in his still half-recovered state, by the
events of these last days, to be reasoned with. Mrs. Woodford was
afraid he would work himself into delirium, and could only soothe
him into a calmer state. She found from Anne that the children had
some vague hopes of his being allowed to remain at Portchester, and
that this was the ground of his disappointment, since he seemed to
be attaching himself to them as the first who had ever touched his
heart or opened to him a gleam of better things.
By the next day, however, he was in a quieter and more reasonable
state, and Mrs. Woodford was able to have a long talk with him. She
represented that the difference of opinions made it almost certain
that his father would never consent to his remaining under her roof,
and that even if this were possible, Portchester was far too much
infected with the folly from which he had suffered so much; and his
uncle would take care that no one he would meet should ever hear of
it.
"There's little good in that," said the boy moodily. "I'm a thing
they'll jibe at and bait any way."
"I do not see that, if you take pains with yourself. Your uncle
said you showed blood and breeding, and when you are better dressed,
and with him, no one will dare to mock his Excellency's nephew.
Depend upon it, Peregrine, this is the fresh start that you need."
"If you were there--"
"My boy, you must not ask for what is impossible. You must learn to
conquer in God's strength, not mine."
All, however, that passed may not here be narrated, and it
apparently left that wayward spirit unconvinced. Nevertheless, when
on the second day Major Oakshott himself came over with his brother,
and informed Peregrine that his uncle was good enough to undertake
the charge of him, and to see that he was bred up in godly ways in a
Protestant land, free from prelacy and superstition, the boy seemed
reconciled to his fate. Major Oakshott spoke more kindly than usual
to him, being free from fresh irritation at his misdemeanours; but
even thus there was a contrast with the gentler, more persuasive
tones of the diplomatist, and no doubt this tended to increase
Peregrine's willingness to be thus handed over.
The next question was whether he should go home first, but both the
uncle and the friends were averse to his remaining there, amid the
unavoidable gossip and chatter of the household, and it was
therefore decided that he should only ride over with Dr. Woodford
for an hour or two to take leave of his mother and brothers.
This settled, Mrs. Woodford found him much easier to deal with. He
had really, through his midnight invocation of the fairies, obtained
an opening into a new world, and he was ready to believe that with
no one to twit him with being a changeling or worse, he could avoid
perpetual disgrace and punishment and live at peace. Nor was he
unwilling to promise Mrs. Woodford to say daily, and especially when
tempted, one or two brief collects and ejaculations which she
selected to teach him, as being as unlike as possible to the long
extempore exercises which had made him hate the very name of prayer.
The Doctor gave him a Greek Testament, as being least connected with
unpleasant recollections.
"And," entreated Peregrine humbly, in a low voice to Mrs. Woodford
on his last Sunday evening, "may I not have something of yours, to
lay hold of, and remember you if--when--the evil spirit tries to lay
hold of me again?"
She would fain have given him a prayer-book, but she knew that would
be treason to his father, and with tears in her eyes and something
of a pang, she gave him a tiny miniature of herself, which had been
her husband's companion at sea, and hung it round his neck with the
chain of her own hair that had always held it.
"It will always keep my heart warm," said Peregrine, as he hid it
under his vest. There was a shade of disappointment on Anne's face
when he showed it to her, for she had almost deemed it her own.
"Never mind, Anne," he said; "I am coming back a knight like my
uncle to marry you, and then it will be yours again."
"I--I'm not going to wed you--I have another sweetheart," added Anne
in haste, lest he should think she scorned him.
"Oh, that lubberly Charles Archfield! No fear of him. He is
promised long ago to some little babe of quality in London. You may
whistle for him. So you'd better wait for me."
"It is not true. You only say it to plague me."
"It's as true as Gospel! I heard Sir Philip telling one of the big
black gowns one day in the Close, when I was sitting up in a tree
overhead, how they had fixed a marriage between his son and his old
friend's daughter, who would have ever so many estates. So I'd give
that"--snapping his fingers--"for your chances of being my Lady
Archfield in the salt mud at Fareham."
"I shall ask Lucy. It is not kind of you, Perry, when you are just
going away."
"Come, come, don't cry, Anne."
"But I knew Charley ever so long first, and--"
"Oh, yes. Maids always like straight, comely, dull fellows, I know
that. But as you can't have Charles Archfield, I mean to have you,
Anne--for I shall look to you as the only one as can ever make a
good man of me! Ay--your mother--I'd wed her if I could, but as I
can't, I mean to have you, Anne Woodford."
"I don't mean to have you! I shall go to Court, and marry some
noble earl or gentleman! Why do you laugh and make that face,
Peregrine? you know my father was almost a knight--"
"Nobody is long with you without knowing that!" retorted Peregrine;
"but a miss is as good as a mile, and you will find the earls and
the lords will think so, and be fain to take the crooked stick at
last!"
Mistress Anne tossed her head--and Peregrine returned a grimace.
Nevertheless they parted with a kiss, and for some time the thought
of Peregrine haunted the little girl with a strange, fateful
feeling, between aversion and attraction, which wore off, as a folly
of her childhood, with her growth in years.