"I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in
France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere."
Merchant of Venice.
It was autumn, but in the year 1687, when again Lucy Archfield and
Anne Jacobina Woodford were pacing the broad gravel walk along the
south side of the nave of Winchester Cathedral. Lucy, in spite of
her brocade skirt and handsome gown of blue velvet tucked up over
it, was still devoid of any look of distinction, but was a round-
faced, blooming, cheerful maiden, of that ladylike thoroughly
countrified type happily frequent in English girlhood throughout all
time.
Anne, or Jacobina, as she tried to be called, towered above her
head, and had never lost that tincture of courtly grace that early
breeding had given her, and though her skirt was of gray wool, and
the upper gown of cherry tabinet, she wore both with an air that
made them seem more choice and stylish than those of her companion,
while the simple braids and curls of her brown hair set off an
unusually handsome face, pale and clear in complexion, with regular
features, fine arched eyebrows over clear brown eyes, a short chin,
and a mouth of perfect outline, but capable of looking very
resolute.
Altogether she looked fit for a Court atmosphere, and perhaps she
was not without hopes of it, for Dr. Woodford had become a royal
chaplain under Charles II, and was now continued in the same office;
and though this was a sinecure as regarded the present King, yet
Tory and High Church views were as much in the ascendant as they
could be under a Romanist king, and there were hopes of a canonry at
Windsor or Westminster, or even higher preferment still, if he were
not reckoned too staunch an Anglican. That Mrs. Woodford's health
had been failing for many months past would, her sanguine daughter
thought, be remedied by being nearer the best physicians in London,
which had been quitted with regret. Meantime Lucy's first
experiences of wedding festivities were to be heard. For the
Archfield family had just returned from celebrating the marriage of
the heir. Long ago Anne Jacobina had learnt to reckon Master
Charles's pledges of affection among the sports and follies of
childhood, and the strange sense of disappointment and shame with
which she recollected them had perhaps added to her natural reserve,
and made her feel it due to maidenly dignity to listen with zest to
the account of the bride, who was to be brought to supper at Doctor
Woodford's that eve.
"She is a pretty little thing," said Lucy, "but my mother was much
concerned to find her so mere a child, and would not, if she had
seen her, have consented to the marriage for two years to come,
except for the sake of having her in our own hands."
"I thought she was sixteen."
"Barely fifteen, my dear, and far younger than we were at that age.
She cried because her woman said she must leave her old doll behind
her; and when my brother declared that she should have anything she
liked, she danced about, and kissed him, and made him kiss its
wooden face with half the paint rubbed off."
"He did?"
"Oh, yes! She is like a pretty fresh plaything to him, and they go
about together just like big Towzer and little Frisk at home. He is
very much amused with her, and she thinks him the finest possession
that ever came in her way."
"Well, so he is."
"That is true; but somehow it is scarcely like husband and wife; and
my mother fears that she may be sickly, for she is so small and
slight that it seems as if you could blow her away, and so white
that you would think she had no blood, except when a little heat
brings the purest rose colour to her cheek, and that, my lady says,
betokens weakliness. You know, of course, that she is an orphan;
her father died of a wasting consumption, and her mother not long
after, when she was a yearling babe. It was her grandfather who was
my father's friend in the old cavalier days, and wrote to propose
the contract to my brother not long before his death, when she was
but five years old. The pity was that she was not sent to us at
once, for the old lord, her grand-uncle, never heeded or cared for
her, but left her to servants, who petted her, but understood
nothing of care of her health or her education, so that the only
wonder is that she is alive or so sweet and winning as she is. She
can hardly read without spelling, and I had to make copies for her
of Alice Fitzhubert, to show her how to sign the book. All she knew
she learnt from the old steward, and only when she liked. My father
laughs and is amused, but my lady sighs, and hopes her portion is
not dearly bought."
"Is not she to be a great heiress?"
"Not of the bulk of the lands--they go to heirs male; but there is
much besides, enough to make Charles a richer man than our father.
I wonder what you will think of her. My mother is longing to talk
her over with Mrs Woodford."
"And my mother is longing to see my lady."
"I fear she is still but poorly."
"We think she will be much better when we get home," said Anne. "I
am sure she is stronger, for she walked round the Close yesterday,
and was scarcely tired."
"But tell me, Anne, is it true that poor Master Oliver Oakshott is
dead of smallpox?"
"Quite true. Poor young gentleman, he was to have married that
cousin of his mother's, Mistress Martha Browning, living at
Emsworth. She came on a visit, and they think she brought the
infection, for she sickened at once, and though she had it
favourably, is much disfigured. Master Oliver caught it and died in
three days, and all the house were down with it. They say poor Mrs.
Oakshott forgot her ailments and went to and fro among them all. My
mother would have gone to help in their need if she had been as well
as she used to be."
"How is it with the other son? He was a personable youth enough. I
saw him at the ship launch in the spring, and thought both lads
would fain have staid for the dance on board but for their grim old
father."
"You saw Robert, but he is not the elder."
"What? Is that shocking impish urchin whom we used to call Riquet
with the tuft, older than he?"
"Certainly he is. He writes from time to time to my mother, and
seems to be doing well with his uncle."
"I cannot believe he would come to good. Do you remember his
sending my brother and cousin adrift in the boat?"
"I think that was in great part the fault of your cousin for mocking
and tormenting him."
"Sedley Archfield was a bad boy! There's no denying that. I am
afraid he had good reason for running away from college."
"Have you heard of him since?"
"Yes; he has been serving with the Life-guards in Scotland, and
mayhap he will come home and see us. My father wishes to see
whether he is worthy to have a troop procured by money or favour for
him, and if they are recalled to the camp at November it will be an
opportunity. But see--who is coming through the Slype?"
"My uncle. And who is with him?"
Dr. Woodford advanced, and with him a small slender figure in black.
As the broad hat with sable plume was doffed with a sweep on
approaching the ladies, a dark head and peculiar countenance
appeared, while the Doctor said, "Here is an old acquaintance, young
ladies, whom I met dismounting at the White Hart, and have brought
home with me."
"Mr. Peregrine Oakshott!" exclaimed Anne, feeling bound to offer in
welcome a hand, which he kissed after the custom of the day, while
Lucy dropped a low and formal courtesy, and being already close to
the gate of the house occupied by her family, took her leave till
supper-time.
Even in the few steps before reaching home Anne was able to perceive
that a being very unlike the imp of seven years ago had returned,
though still short in stature and very slight, with long dark hair
hanging straight enough to suggest elf-locks, but his figure was
well proportioned, and had a finished air of high breeding and
training. His riding suit was point device, from the ostrich
feather in his hat, to the toes of his well made boots, and his
sword knew its place, as well as did those of the gentlemen that
Anne remembered at the Duke of York's when she was a little child.
His thin, marked face was the reverse of handsome, but it was keen,
shrewd, perhaps satirical, and the remarkable eyes were very bright
under dark eyebrows and lashes, and the thin lips, devoid of hair,
showed fine white teeth when parted by a smile of gladness--at the
meeting--though he was concerned to hear that Mrs. Woodford had been
very ill all the last spring, and had by no means regained her
former health, and even in the few words that passed it might be
gathered that Anne was far more hopeful than her uncle.
She did indeed look greatly changed, though her countenance was
sweeter than ever, as she rose from her seat by the fire and held
out her arms to receive the newcomer with a motherly embrace, while
the expression of joy and affection was such as could never once
have seemed likely to sit on Peregrine Oakshott's features. They
were left together, for Anne had the final touches to put to the
supper, and Dr. Woodford was sent for to speak to one of the
Cathedral staff.
Peregrine explained that he was on his way home, his father having
recalled him on his brother's death, but he hoped soon to rejoin his
uncle, whose secretary he now was. They had been for the last few
months in London, and were thence to be sent on an embassy to the
young Czar of Muscovy, an expedition to which he looked forward with
eager curiosity. Mrs. Woodford hoped that all danger of infection
at Oakwood was at an end.
"There is none for me, madam," he said, with a curious writhed
smile. "Did you not know that they thought they were rid of me when
I took the disease at seven years old, and lay in the loft over the
hen-house with Molly Owens to tend me? and I believe it was thought
to be fairy work that I came out of it no more unsightly than
before."
"You are seeking for compliments, Peregrine; you are greatly
improved."
"Crooked sticks can be pruned and trained," he responded, with a
courteous bow.
"You are a travelled man. Let me see, how many countries have you
seen?"
"A year at Berlin and Konigsberg--strange places enough, specially
the last, two among the scholars and high roofs of Leyden, half a
year at Versailles and Paris, another year at Turin, whence back for
another half year to wait on old King Louis, then to the Hague, and
the last three months at Court. Not much like buying and selling
cows, or growing wheat on the slopes, or lying out on a cold
winter's night to shoot a few wild fowl; and I have you to thank for
it, my first and best friend!"
"Nay, your uncle is surely your best."
"Never would he have picked up the poor crooked stick save for you,
madam. Moreover, you gave me my talisman," and he laid his hand on
his breast; "it is your face that speaks to me and calls me back
when the elf, or whatever it is, has got the mastery of me."
Somewhat startled, Mrs. Woodford would have asked what he meant, but
that intelligence was brought that Mr. Oakshott's man had brought
his mail, so that he had to repair to his room. Mrs. Woodford had
kept up some correspondence with him, for which his uncle's position
as envoy afforded unusual facilities, and she knew that on the whole
he had been a very different being from what he was at home. Once,
indeed, his uncle had written to the Doctor to express his full
satisfaction in the lad, on whom he seemed to look like a son, but
from some subsequent letters she had an impression that he had got
into trouble of some sort while at the University of Leyden, and she
was afraid that she must accept the belief that the wild elfish
spirit, as he called it, was by no means extinct in him, any more,
she said to herself, than temptation is in any human creature. The
question is, What is there to contend therewith?
The guests were, however, about to assemble. The Doctor, in black
velvet cap and stately silken cassock, sash, and gown, sailed down
to receive them, and again greeted Peregrine, who emerged in black
velvet and satin, delicate muslin cravat and cuffs, dainty silk
stockings and rosetted shoes, in a style such as made the far taller
and handsomer Charles Archfield, in spite of gay scarlet coat,
embroidered flowery vest, rich laced cravat, and thick shining brown
curls, look a mere big schoolboy, almost bumpkin-like in contrast.
However, no one did look at anything but the little creature who
could just reach to hang upon that resplendent bridegroom's arm.
She was in glistening white brocade, too stiff and cumbrous for so
tiny a figure, yet together with the diamonds glistening on her head
and breast giving her the likeness of a fairy queen. The whiteness
was almost startling, for the neck and arms were like pearl in tint,
the hair flowing in full curls on her shoulders was like shining
flax or pale silk just unwound from the cocoon, and the only relief
of colour was the deep blue of the eyes, the delicate tint of the
lips, and the tender rosy flush that was called up by her
presentation to her hosts by stout old Sir Philip, in plum-coloured
coat and full-bottomed wig, though she did not blush half as much as
the husband of nineteen in his new character. Indeed, had it not
been for her childish prettiness, her giggle would have been
unpleasing to more than Lady Archfield, who, broad and matronly,
gave a courtesy and critical glance at Peregrine before subsiding
into a seat beside Mrs. Woodford.
Lucy stood among a few other young people from the Close, watching
for Anne, who came in, trim and bright, though still somewhat
reddened in face and arms from her last attentions to the supper--an
elaborate meal on such occasions, though lighter than the mid-day
repast. There were standing pies of game, lobster and oyster
patties, creams, jellies, and other confections, on which Sir Philip
and his lady highly complimented Anne, who had been engaged on them
for at least a couple of days, her mother being no longer able to
assist except by advice.
"See, daughter Alice, you will learn one day to build up a jelly as
well as to eat it," said Sir Philip good-humouredly, whereat the
small lady pouted a little and said--
"Bet lets me make shapes of the dough, but I won't stir the pans and
get to look like a turkey-cock."
"Ah, ha! and you have always done what you liked, my little madam?"
"Of course, sir! and so I shall," she answered, drawing up her
pretty little head, while Lady Archfield gave hers a boding shake.
"Time, and life, and wifehood teach lessons," murmured Mrs. Woodford
in consolation, and the Doctor changed the subject by asking
Peregrine whether the ladies abroad were given to housewifery.
"The German dames make a great ado about their Wirthschaft, as they
call it," was the reply, "but as to the result! Pah! I know not
how we should have fared had not Hans, my uncle's black, been an
excellent cook; but it was in Paris that we were exquisitely
regaled, and our maitre d'hotel would discourse on ragouts and
entremets till one felt as if his were the first of the sciences."
"So it is to a Frenchman," growled Sir Philip. "French and
Frenchifications are all the rage nowadays, but what will your
father say to your science, my young spark?"
The gesture of head and shoulder that replied had certainly been
caught at Paris. Mrs. Woodford rushed into the breach, asking about
the Princess of Orange, whom she had often seen as a child.
"A stately and sightly dame is she, madam," Peregrine answered,
"towering high above her little mynheer, who outwardly excels her in
naught save the length of nose, and has the manners of a boor."
"The Prince of Orange is the hope of the country," said Sir Philip
severely.
Peregrine's face wore a queer satirical look, which provoked Sir
Philip into saying, "Speak up, sir! what d'ye mean? We don't
understand French grins here."
"Nor does he, nor French courtesies either," said Peregrine.
"So much the better!" exclaimed the baronet.
Here the little clear voice broke in, "O Mr. Oakshott, if I had but
known you were coming, you might have brought me a French doll in
the latest fashion."
"I should have been most happy, madam," returned Peregrine; "but
unfortunately I am six months from Paris, and besides, his honour
might object lest a French doll should contaminate the Dutch
puppets."
"But oh, sir, is it true that French dolls have real hair that will
curl?"
"Don't be foolish," muttered Charles impatiently; and she drew up
her head and made an indescribably droll moue of disgust at him.
Supper ended, the party broke up into old and young, the two elder
gentlemen sadly discussing politics over their tall glasses of wine,
the matrons talking over the wedding and Lady Archfield's stay in
London at the parlour fire, and the young folk in a window, waiting
for the fiddler and a few more of the young people who were to join
them in the dance.
The Archfield ladies had kissed the hand of the Queen, and agreed
with Peregrine in admiration of her beauty and grace, though they
did not go so far as he did, especially when he declared that her
eyes were as soft as Mistress Anne's, and nearly of the same
exquisite brown, which made the damsel blush and experience a
revival of the old feeling of her childhood, as if he put her under
a spell.
He went on to say that he had had the good fortune to pick up and
restore to Queen Mary Beatrice a gold and coral rosary which she had
dropped on her way to St. James's Palace from Whitehall. She
thanked him graciously, letting him kiss her hand, and asking him if
he were of the true Church. "Imagine my father's feelings," he
added, "when she said, 'Ah! but you will be ere long; I give it you
as a pledge.'"
He produced the rosary, handing it first to Anne, who admired the
beautiful filigree work, but it was almost snatched from her by Mrs.
Archfield, who wound it twice on her tiny wrist, tried to get it
over her head, and did everything but ask for it, till her husband,
turning round, said roughly, "Give it back, madam. We want no
Popish toys here."
Lucy put in a hasty question whether Master Oakshott had seen much
sport, and this led to a spirited description of the homely earnest
of wild boar hunting under the great Elector of Brandenburg, in
contrast with the splendours of la chasse aux sangliers at
Fontainebleau with the green and gold uniforms, the fanfares on the
curled horns, the ladies in their coaches, forced to attend whether
ill or well, the very boars themselves too well bred not to conform
to the sport of the great idol of France. And again, he showed the
diamond sleeve buttons, the trophies of a sort of bazaar held at
Marly, where the stalls were kept by the Dauphin, Monsieur, the Duke
of Maine, Madame de Maintenon, and the rest, where the purchases
were winnings at Ombre, made not with coin but with nominal sums,
and other games at cards, and all was given away that was not
purchased. And again the levees, when the King's wig was handed
through the curtains on a stick. Peregrine's profane mimicry of the
stately march of Louis Quatorze, and the cringing obeisances of his
courtiers, together with their strutting majesty towards their own
inferiors, convulsed all with merriment; and the bride shrieked out,
"Do it again! Oh, I shall die of laughing!"
It was very girlish, with a silvery ring, but the elder ladies
looked round, and the bridegroom muttered 'Mountebank.'
The fiddler arrived at that moment, and the young people paired off,
the young couple naturally together, and Peregrine, to the surprise
and perhaps discomfiture of more than one visitor, securing Anne's
hand. The young lady pupils of Madame knew their steps, and Lucy
danced correctly, Anne with an easy, stately grace, Charles
Archfield performed his devoir seriously, his little wife frisked
with childish glee, evidently quite untaught, but Peregrine's light
narrow feet sprang, pointed themselves, and bounded with trained
agility, set off by the tight blackness of his suit. He was like
one of the grotesque figures shaped in black paper, or as Sir
Philip, looking in from the dining-parlour, observed, "like a light-
heeled French fop."
As a rule partners retained one another all the evening, but little
Mrs. Archfield knew no etiquette, and maybe her husband had pushed
and pulled her into place a little more authoritatively than she
quite approved, for she shook him off, and turning round to
Peregrine exclaimed--
"Now, I will dance with you! You do leap and hop so high and
trippingly! Never mind her; she is only a parson's niece!"
"Madam!" exclaimed Charles, in a tone of surprised displeasure; but
she only nodded archly at him, and said, "I must dance with him; he
can jump so high."
"Let her have her way," whispered Lucy, "she is but a child, and it
will be better not to make a pother."
He yielded, though with visible annoyance, asking Anne if she would
put up with a poor deserted swain, and as he led her off muttering,
"That fellow's friskiness is like to be taken out of him at
Oakwood."
Meanwhile the small creature had taken possession of her chosen
partner, who, so far as size went, was far better suited to her than
any of the other men present. They were dancing something original
and unpremeditated, with twirls and springs, sweeps and bends,
bounds and footings, just as the little lady's fancy prompted,
perhaps guided in some degree by her partner's experience of
national dances. White and black, they figured about, she with
floating sheeny hair and glistening robes, he trim and tight and
jetty, like fairy and imp! It was so droll and pretty that talkers
and dancers alike paused to watch them in a strange fascination,
till at last, quite breathless and pink as a moss rosebud, Alice
dropped upon a chair near her husband. He stood grim, stiff, and
vexed, all the more because Peregrine had taken her fan and was
using it so as to make it wave like butterfly's wings, while poor
Charles looked, as the Doctor whispered to his father, far more
inclined to lay it about her ears.
Sir Philip laughed heartily, for both he and the Doctor had been so
much entranced and amused as to be far more diverted at the lad's
discomfiture than scandalised at the bride's escapade, which they
viewed as child's play.
Perhaps, however, he was somewhat comforted by her later
observation, "He is as ugly as Old Nick, and looks like always
laughing at you; but I wish you could dance like him, Mr. Archfield,
only then you wouldn't be my dear old great big husband, or so
beautiful to look at. Oh, yes, to be sure, he is nothing but a
skipjack such as one makes out of a chicken bone!"
And Anne meanwhile was exclaiming to her mother, "Oh, madam! how
could they do such a thing? How could they make poor Charley marry
that foolish ill-mannered little creature?"
"Hush, daughter, you must drop that childish name," said Mrs.
Woodford gravely.
Anne blushed. "I forgot, madam, but I am so sorry for him."
"There is no reason for uneasiness, my dear. She is a mere child,
and under such hands as Lady Archfield she is sure to improve. It
is far better that she should be so young, as it will be the more
easy to mould her."
"I hope there is any stuff in her to be moulded," sighed the maiden.
"My dear child," returned her mother, "I cannot permit you to talk
in this manner. Yes, I know Mr. Archfield has been as a brother to
you, but even his sister ought not to allow herself to discuss or
dwell on what she deems the shortcomings of his wife."
The mother in her prudence had silenced the girl; but none the less
did each fall asleep with a sad and foreboding heart. She knew her
child to be good and well principled, but those early days of notice
and petting from the young Princesses of the House of York had never
faded from the childish mind, and although Anne was dutiful,
cheerful, and outwardly contented, the mother often suspected that
over the spinning-wheel or embroidery frame she indulged in day
dreams of heroism, promotion, and grandeur, which might either fade
away in a happy life of domestic duty or become temptations.
Before going away next morning Peregrine entreated that Mistress
Anne might have the Queen's rosary, but her mother decidedly
refused. "It ought to be an heirloom in your family," said she.
He threw up his hands with one of his strange gestures.