"Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door
For glaikit Folly's portals;
I for their thoughtless, careless sakes
Would here propose defences,
Their doucie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances."
BURNS.
For seven years Anne Woodford had kept Lucy Archfield's birthday
with her, and there was no refusing now, though there was more and
more unwillingness to leave Mrs. Woodford, whose declining state
became so increasingly apparent that even the loving daughter could
no longer be blind to it.
The coach was sent over to fetch Mistress Anne to Fareham, and the
invalid was left, comfortably installed in her easy-chair by the
parlour fire, with a little table by her side, holding a hand-bell,
a divided orange, a glass of toast and water, and the Bible and
Prayer-book, wherein lay her chief studies, together with a little
needlework, which still amused her feeble hands. The Doctor,
divided between his parish, his study, and his garden, had promised
to look in from time to time.
Presently, however, the door was gently tapped, and on her call
"Come in," Hans, all one grin, admitted Peregrine Oakshott, bowing
low in his foreign, courteous manner, and entreating her to excuse
his intrusion, "For truly, madam, in your goodness is my only hope."
Then he knelt on one knee and kissed the hand she held out to him,
while desiring him to speak freely to her.
"Nay, madam, I fear I shall startle you, when I lay before you the
only chance that can aid me to overcome the demon that is in me."
"My poor--"
"Call me your boy, as when I was here seven years ago. Let me sit
at your feet as then and listen to me."
"Indeed I will, my dear boy," and she laid her hand on his dark
head. "Tell me all that is in your heart."
"Ah, dear lady, that is not soon done! You and Mistress Anne, as
you well know, first awoke me from my firm belief that I was none
other than an elf, and yet there have since been times when I have
doubted whether it were not indeed the truth."
"Nay, Peregrine, at years of discretion you should have outgrown old
wives' tales."
"Better be an elf at once--a soulless creature of the elements--than
the sport of an evil spirit doomed to perdition," he bitterly
exclaimed.
"Hush, hush! You know not what you are saying!"
"I know it too well, madam! There are times when I long and wish
after goodness--nay, when Heaven seems open to me--and I resolve and
strive after a perfect life; but again comes the wild, passionate
dragging, as it were, into all that at other moments I most loathe
and abhor, and I become no more my own master. Ah!"
There was misery in his voice, and he clutched the long hair on each
side of his face with his hands.
"St. Paul felt the same," said Mrs. Woodford gently.
"'Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?' Ay, ay! how
many times have I not groaned that forth! And so, if that Father at
Turin were right, I am but as Paul was when he was Saul. Madam, is
it not possible that I was never truly baptized?" he cried eagerly.
"Impossible, Peregrine. Was not Mr. Horncastle chaplain when you
were born? Yes; and I have heard my brother say that both he and
your father held the same views as the Church upon baptism."
"So I thought; but Father Geronimo says that at the best it was but
heretical baptism, and belike hastily and ineffectually performed."
"Put that aside, Peregrine. It is only a temptation and
allurement."
"It is an allurement you know not how strong," said the poor youth.
"Could I only bring myself to believe all that Father Geronimo does,
and fall down before his Madonnas and saints, then could I hope for
a new nature, and scourge away the old"--he set his teeth as he
spoke--"till naught remains of the elf or demon, be it what it
will."
"Ah, Peregrine, scourging will not do it, but grace will, and that
grace is indeed yours, as is proved by these higher aspirations."
"I tell you, madam, that if I live on as I am doing now, grace will
be utterly stifled, if it ever abode in me at all. Every hour that
I live, pent in by intolerable forms and immeasurable dulness, the
maddening temper gains on me! Nay, I have had to rush out at night
and swear a dozen round oaths before I could compose myself to sit
down to the endless supper. Ah, I shock you, madam! but that's not
the worst I am driven to do."
"Nor the way to bring the better spirit, my poor youth. Oh, that
you would pray instead of swearing!"
"I cannot pray at Oakwood. My father and Mr. Horncastle drive away
all the prayers that ever were in me, and I mean nothing, even
though I keep my word to you."
"I am glad you do that. While I know you are doing so, I shall
still believe the better angel will triumph."
"How can aught triumph but hatred and disgust where I am pinned
down? Listen, madam, and hear if good spirits have any chance. We
break our fast, ere the sun is up, on chunks of yesterday's half-
dressed beef and mutton. If I am seen seeking for a morsel not half
raw, I am rated for dainty French tastes; and the same with the sour
smallest of beer. I know now what always made me ill-tempered as a
child, and I avoid it, but at the expense of sneers on my French
breeding, even though my drink be fair water; for wine, look you, is
a sinful expense, save for after dinner, and frothed chocolate for a
man is an invention of Satan. The meal is sauced either with blame
of me, messages from the farm-folk, or Bob's exploits in the chase.
Then my father goes his rounds on the farm, and would fain have me
with him to stand knee-deep in mire watching the plough, or feeling
each greasy and odorous old sheep in turn to see if it be ready for
the knife, or gloating over the bullocks or swine, or exchanging
auguries with Thomas Vokes on this or that crop. Faugh! And I am
told I shall never be good for a country gentleman if I contemn such
matters! I say I have no mind to be a country gentleman, whereby I
am told of Esau till I am sick of his very name."
"But surely you have not always to follow on this round?"
"Oh no! I may go out birding with Bob, who is about as lively as an
old jackass, or meet the country boobies for a hunt, and be pointed
at as the Frenchman, and left to ride alone; or there's mine own
chamber, when the maids do not see fit to turn me out with their
pails and besoms, as they do at least twice a week--I sit there in
my cloak and furs (by the way, I am chidden for an effeminate fop if
ever I am seen in them). I would give myself to books, as my uncle
counselled, but what think you? By ill hap Bob, coming in to ask
some question, found me studying the Divina Commedia of Dante
Alighieri, and hit upon one of the engravings representing the
torments of purgatory. What must he do but report it, and
immediately a hue and cry arises that I am being corrupted with
Popish books. In vain do I tell them that their admirable John
Milton, the only poet save Sternhold and Hopkins that my father
deems not absolute pagan, knew, loved, and borrowed from Dante. All
my books are turned over as ruthlessly as ever Don Quixote's by the
curate and the barber, and whatever Mr. Horncastle's erudition
cannot vouch for is summarily handed over to the kitchen wench to
light the fires. The best of it is that they have left me my
classics, as though old Terence and Lucan were lesser heathens than
the great Florentine. However, I have bribed the young maid, and
rescued my Dante and Boiardo with small damage, but I dare not read
them save with door locked."
Mrs. Woodford could scarcely shake her head at the disobedience, and
she asked if there were really no other varieties.
"Such as fencing with that lubber Robert, and trying to bend his
stiff limbs to the noble art of l'escrime. But that is after dinner
work. There is the mountain of half-raw flesh to be consumed first,
and then my father, with Mr. Horncastle and Bob discuss on what they
call the news--happy if a poor rogue has been caught by Tom
Constable stealing faggots. 'Tis argument for a week--almost equal
to the price of a fat mutton at Portsmouth. My father and the
minister nod in due time over their ale-cup, and Bob and I go our
ways till dark, or till the house bell rings for prayers and
exposition. Well, dear good lady, I will not grieve you by telling
you how often they make me wish to be again the imp devoid of every
shred of self-respect, and too much inured to flogging to heed what
my antics might bring on me."
"I am glad you have that shred of self respect; I hope indeed it is
some higher respect."
"Well, I can never believe that Heaven meant to be served by mortal
dullness. Seven years have only made old Horncastle blow his horn
to the same note, only more drearily."
"I can see indeed that it is a great trial to one used to the life
of foreign Courts and to interest in great affairs like you, my poor
Peregrine; but what can I say but to entreat you to be patient, try
to find interest, and endeavour to win your father's confidence so
that he may accord you more liberty? Did I not hear that your
attention made your mother's life happier?"
Peregrine laughed. "My mother! She has never seen aught but
boorishness all her life, and any departure therefrom seems to her
unnatural. I believe she is as much afraid of my courtesy as ever
she was of my mischief, and that in her secret heart she still
believes me a changeling. No, Madam Woodford, there is but one way
to save me from the frenzy that comes over me."
"Your father has already been entreated to let you join your uncle."
"I know it--I know it; but if it were impossible before, that
discovery of Dante has made it impossibilissimo, as the Italian
would say, to deal with him now. There is a better way. Give me
the good angel who has always counteracted the evil one. Give me
Mistress Anne!"
"Anne, my Anne!" exclaimed Mrs. Woodford in dismay. "O Peregrine,
it cannot be!"
"I knew that would be your first word," said Peregrine, "but verily,
madam, I would not ask it but that I know that I should be another
man with her by my side, and that she would have nothing to fear
from the evil that dies at her approach."
"Ah, Peregrine! you think so now; but no man can be sure of himself
with any mere human care. Besides, my child is not of degree to
match with you. Your father would justly be angered if we took
advantage of your attachment to us to encourage you in an
inclination he could never approve."
"I tell you, madam--yes, I must tell you all--my madness and my ruin
will be completed if I am left to my father's will. I know what is
hanging over me. He is only waiting till I am of age--at Midsummer,
and the year of mourning is over for poor Oliver--I am sure no one
mourns for him more heartily than I--to bind me to Martha Browning.
If she would only bring the plague, or something worse than
smallpox, to put an end to it at once!"
"But that would make any such scheme all the more impossible."
"Listen, madam; do but hear me. Even as children the very sight of
Martha Browning's solemn face"--Peregrine drew his countenance down
into a portentous length--"her horror at the slightest word or
sport, her stiff broomstick carriage, all impelled me to the most
impish tricks. And now--letting alone that pock-marks have seamed
her grim face till she is as ugly as Alecto--she is a Precisian of
the Precisians. I declare our household is in her eyes sinfully
free! If she can hammer out a text of Scripture, and write her name
in characters as big and gawky as herself, 'tis as far as her
education has carried her, save in pickling, preserving, stitchery,
and clear starching, the only arts not sinful in her eyes. If I am
to have a broomstick, I had rather ride off on one at once to the
Witches' Sabbath on the Wartburg than be tied to one for life."
"I should think she would scarce accept you."
"There's no such hope. She has been bred up to regard one of us as
her lot, and she would accept me without a murmur if I were
Beelzebub himself, horns and tail and all! Why, she ogles me with
her gooseberry eyes already, and treats me as a chattel of her own."
"Hush, hush, Peregrine! I cannot have you talk thus. If your
father had such designs, it would be unworthy of us to favour you in
crossing them."
"Nay, madam, he hath never expressed them as yet. Only my mother
and brother both refer to his purpose, and if I could show myself
contracted to a young lady of good birth and education, he cannot
gainsay; it might yet save me from what I will not and cannot
endure. Not that such is by any means my chief and only motive. I
have loved Mistress Anne with all my heart ever since she shone upon
me like a being from a better world when I lay sick here. She has
the same power of hushing the wild goblin within me as you have,
madam. I am another man with her, as I am with you. It is my only
hope! Give me that hope, and I shall be able to endure patiently.--
Ah! what have I done? Have I said too much?"
He had talked longer and more eagerly than would have been good for
the invalid even if the topic had been less agitating, and the
emotion caused by this unexpected complication, consternation at the
difficulties she foresaw, and the present difficulty of framing a
reply, were altogether too much for Mrs. Woodford. She turned
deadly white, and gasped for breath, so that Peregrine, in terror,
dashed off in search of the maids, exclaiming that their mistress
was in a swoon.
The Doctor came out of his study much distressed, and in Anne's
absence the household was almost helpless in giving the succours in
which she had always been the foremost. Peregrine lingered about in
remorse and despair, offering to fetch her or to go for the doctor,
and finally took the latter course, thereto impelled by the angry
words of the old cook, an enemy of his in former days.
"No better? no, sir, nor 'tis not your fault if ever she be. You've
been and frought her nigh to death with your terrifying ways."
Peregrine was Hampshire man enough to know that to terrify only
meant to tease, but he was in no mood to justify himself to old
Patience, so he galloped off to Portsmouth, and only returned with
the doctor to hear that Madam Woodford was in bed, and her daughter
with her. She was somewhat better, but still very ill, and it was
plain that this was no moment for pressing his suit even had it not
been time for him to return home. Going to fetch the doctor might
be accepted as a valid reason for missing the evening exhortation
and prayer, but there were mistrustful looks that galled him.
Anne's return was more beneficial to Mrs. Woodford than the doctor's
visit, and the girl was still too ignorant of all that her mother's
attacks of spasms and subsequent weakness implied to be as much
alarmed as to depress her hopes. Yet Mrs. Woodford, lying awake in
the night, detected that her daughter was restless and unhappy, and
asked what ailed her, and how the visit had gone off.
"You do not wish me to speak of such things, madam," was the answer.
"Tell me all that is in your heart, my child."
It all came out with the vehemence of a reserved nature when the
flood is loosed. 'Young Madam' had been more than usually peevish
and exacting, jealous perhaps at Lucy's being the heroine of the
day, and fretful over a cold which confined her to the house, how
she worried and harassed all around her with her whims, megrims and
complaints could only too well be imagined, and how the entire
pleasure of the day was destroyed. Lucy was never allowed a
minute's conversation with her friend without being interrupted by a
whine and complaints of unkindness and neglect.
Lady Archfield's ill-usage, as the young wife was pleased to call
every kind of restriction, was the favourite theme next to the
daughter-in law's own finery, her ailments, and her notions of the
treatment befitting her.
And young Mr. Archfield himself, while handing his old friend out to
the carriage that had fetched her, could not help confiding to her
that he was nearly beside himself. His mother meant to be kind, but
expected too much from one so brought up, and his wife--what could
be done for her? She made herself miserable here, and every one
else likewise. Yet even if his father would consent, she was
utterly unfit to be mistress of a house of her own; and poor Charles
could only utter imprecations on the guardians who could have had no
idea how a young woman ought to be brought up. It was worse than an
ill-trained hound."
Mrs. Woodford heard what she extracted from her daughter with grief
and alarm, and not only for her friends.
"Indeed, my dear child," she said, "you must prevent such
confidences. They are very dangerous things respecting married
people."
"It was all in a few moments, mamma, and I could not stop him. He
is so unhappy;" and Anne's voice revealed tears.
"The more reason why you should avoid hearing what he will soon be
very sorry you have heard. Were he not a mere lad himself, it would
be as inexcusable as it is imprudent thus to speak of the troubles
and annoyances that often beset the first year of wedded life. I am
sorry for the poor youth, who means no harm nor disloyalty, and is
only treating you as his old companion and playmate; but he has no
right thus to talk of his wife, above all to a young maiden too
inexperienced to counsel him, and if he should attempt to do so
again, promise me, my daughter, that you will silence him--if by no
other means, by telling him so."
"I promise!" said Anne, choking back her tears and lifting her head.
"I am sure I never want to go to Fareham again while that Lieutenant
Sedley Archfield is there. If those be army manners, they are what
I cannot endure. He is altogether mean and hateful, above all when
he scoffs at Master Oakshott."
"I am afraid a great many do so, child, and that he often gives some
occasion," put in Mrs. Woodford, a little uneasy that this should be
the offence.
"He is better than Sedley Archfield, be he what he will, madam,"
said the girl. "He never pays those compliments, those insolent
disgusting compliments, such as he--that Sedley, I mean--when he
found me alone in the hall, and I had to keep him at bay from trying
to kiss me, only Mr. Archfield--Charley--came down the stairs before
he was aware, and called out, 'I will thank you to behave yourself
to a lady in my father's house.' And then he, Sedley, sneered 'The
Parson's niece!' with such a laugh, mother, I shall never get it out
of my ears. As if I were not as well born as he!"
"That is not quite the way to take it, my child. I had rather you
stood on your maidenly dignity and discretion than on your birth. I
trust he will soon be away."
"I fear he will not, mamma, for I heard say the troop are coming
down to be under the Duke of Berwick at Portsmouth."
"Then, dear daughter, it is the less mishap that you should be thus
closely confined by loving attendance on me. Now, goodnight.
Compose yourself to sleep, and think no more of these troubles."
Nevertheless mother and daughter lay long awake, side by side, that
night; the daughter in all the flutter of nerves induced by offended
yet flattered feeling--hating the compliment, yet feeling that it
was a compliment to the features that she was beginning to value.
She was substantially a good, well-principled maiden, modest and
discreet, with much dignified reserve, yet it was impossible that
she should not have seen heads turned to look at her in Portsmouth,
and know that she was admired above her contemporaries, so that even
if it brought her inconvenience it was agreeable. Besides, her
heart was beating with pity for the Archfields. The elder ones
might have only themselves to blame, but it was very hard for poor
Charles to have been blindly coupled to a being who did not know how
to value him, still harder that there should be blame for a
confidence where neither meant any harm--blame that made her blush
on her pillow with indignant shame.
Perhaps Mrs. Woodford divined these thoughts, for she too meditated
deeply on the perils of her fair young daughter, and in the morning
could not leave her room. In the course of the day she heard that
Master Peregrine Oakshott had been to inquire for her, and was not
surprised when her brother-in-law sought an interview with her. The
gulf between the hierarchy and squirearchy was sufficient for a
marriage to be thought a mesalliance, and it was with a smile at the
folly as well as with a certain displeased pity that Dr. Woodford
mentioned the proposal so vehemently pressed upon him by Peregrine
Oakshott for his niece's hand.
"Poor boy!" said Mrs. Woodford, "it is a great misfortune. You
forbade him of course to speak of such a thing."
"I told him that I could not imagine how he could think us capable
of entertaining any such proposal without his father's consent. He
seems to have hoped that to pledge himself to us might extort
sanction from his father, not seeing that it would be a highly
improper measure, and would only incense the Major."
"All the more that the Major wishes to pass on Mistress Martha
Browning to him, poor fellow."
"He did not tell me so."
Mrs. Woodford related what he had said to her, and the Doctor could
not but observe: "The poor Major! his whole treatment of that
unfortunate youth is as if he were resolved to drive him to
distraction. But even if the Major were ever so willing, I doubt
whether Master Peregrine be the husband you would choose for our
little maid."
"Assuredly not, poor fellow! though if she loved him as he loves
her--which happily she does not--I should scarce dare to stand in
the way, lest she should be the appointed instrument for his good."
"He assured me that he had never directly addressed her."
"No, and I trust he never will. Not that she is ever like to love
him, although she does not shrink from him quite as much as others
do. Yet there is a strain of ambition in my child's nature that
might make her seek the elevation. But, my good brother, for this
and other reasons we must find another home for my poor child when I
am gone. Nay, brother, do not look at me thus; you know as well as
I do that I can scarcely look to see the spring come in, and I would
fain take this opportunity of speaking to you concerning my dear
daughter. No one can be a kinder father to her than you, and I
would most gladly leave her to cheer and tend you, but as things
stand around us she can scarce remain here without a mother's
watchfulness. She is guarded now by her strict attendance on my
infirmity, but when I am gone how will it be?"
"She is as good and discreet a maiden as parent could wish."
"Good and discreet as far as her knowledge and experience go, but
that is not enough. On the one hand, there is a certain wild temper
about that young Master Oakshott such as makes me never know what he
might attempt if, as he says, his father should drive him to
desperation, and this is a lonely place, with the sea close at
hand."
"Lady Archfield would gladly take charge of her."
Mrs. Woodford here related what Anne had said of Sedley's insolence,
but this the Doctor thought little of, not quite believing in the
regiment coming into the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Woodford most
unwillingly was forced to mention her further unwillingness that her
daughter should be made a party to the troubles caused by the silly
young wife of her old playfellow.
"What more?" said the Doctor, holding up his hands. "I never
thought a discreet young maid could be such a care, but I suppose
that is the price we pay for her good looks. Three of them, eh?
What is it that you propose?"
"I should like to place her in the household of some godly and
kindly lady, who would watch over her and probably provide for her
marriage. That, as you know, was my own course, and I was very
happy in Lady Sandwich's family, till I made the acquaintance of
your dear and honoured brother, and my greater happiness began. The
first day that I am able I will write to some of my earlier friends,
such as Mrs. Evelyn and Mrs. Pepys, and again there is Mistress
Eleanor Wall, who, I hear, is married to Sir Theophilus Oglethorpe,
and who might accept my daughter for my sake. She is a warm,
loving, open-hearted creature of Irish blood, and would certainly be
kind to her."
There was no indignity in such a plan. Most ladies of rank or
quality entertained one or more young women of the clerical or
professional classes as companions, governesses, or ladies' maids,
as the case might be. They were not classed with the servants, but
had their share of the society and amusements of the house, and a
fair chance of marriage in their own degree, though the comfort of
their situation varied a good deal according to the amiability of
their mistress, from that of a confidential friend to a white slave
and souffre douleur.
Dr. Woodford had no cause to object except his own loss of his
niece's society and return to bachelor life, after the eight years
of companionship which he had enjoyed; but such complications as
were induced by the presence of an attractive young girl were, as he
allowed, beyond him, and he acquiesced with a sigh in the judgment
of the mother, whom he had always esteemed so highly.
The letters were written, and in due time received kind replies.
Mrs. Evelyn proposed that the young gentlewoman should come and stay
with her till some situation should offer itself, and Lady
Oglethorpe, a warm-hearted Irishwoman, deeply attached to the Queen,
declared her intention of speaking to the King or the Princess Anne
on the first opportunity of the daughter of the brave Captain
Woodford. There might very possibly be a nursery appointment to be
had either at the Cockpit or at Whitehall in the course of the year.
This was much more than Mrs. Woodford had desired. She had far
rather have placed her daughter immediately under some kind matronly
lady in a private household; but she knew that her good friend was
always eager to promise to the utmost of her possible power. She
did not talk much of this to her daughter, only telling her that the
kind ladies had promised to befriend her, and find a situation for
her; and Anne was too much shocked to find her mother actually
making such arrangements to enter upon any inquiries. The
perception that her mother was looking forward to passing away so
soon entirely overset her; she would not think about it, would not
admit the bare idea of the loss. Only there lurked at the bottom of
her heart the feeling that when the crash had come, and desolation
had over taken her, it would be more dreary at Portchester than
anywhere else; and there might be infinite possibilities beyond for
the King's godchild, almost a knight's daughter.
The next time that Mrs. Woodford heard that Major Oakshott was at
the door inquiring for her health, she begged as a favour that he
would come and see her.
The good gentleman came upstairs treading gently in his heavy boots,
as one accustomed to an invalid chamber.
"I am sorry to see you thus, madam," he said, as she held out her
wasted hand and thanked him. "Did you desire spiritual
consolations? There are times when our needs pass far beyond
prescribed forms and ordinances."
"I am thankful for the prayers of good men," said Mrs. Woodford;
"but for truth's sake I must tell you that this was not foremost in
my mind when I begged for this favour."
He was evidently disappointed, for he was producing from his pocket
the little stout black-bound Bible, which, by a dent in one of the
lids, bore witness of having been with him in his campaigns; and
perhaps half-diplomatically, as well as with a yearning for oneness
of spirit, she gratified him by requesting him to read and pray.
With all his rigidity he was too truly pious a man for his
ministrations to contain anything in which, Churchwoman as she was,
she could not join with all her heart, and feel comforting; but ere
he was about to rise from his knees she said, "One prayer for your
son, sir."
A few fervent words were spoken on behalf of the wandering sheep,
while tears glistened in the old man's eyes, and fell fast from
those of the lady, and then he said, "Ah, madam! have I not wrestled
in prayer for my poor boy?"
"I am sure you have, sir. I know you have a deep fatherly love for
him, and therefore I sent to speak to you as a dying woman."
"And I will gladly hear you, for you have always been good to him,
and, as I confess, have done him more good--if good can be called
the apparent improvement in one unregenerate--than any other."
"Except his uncle," said Mrs. Woodford. "I fear it is vain to say
that I think the best hope of his becoming a good and valuable man,
a comfort and not a sorrow to yourself, would be to let him even now
rejoin Sir Peregrine."
"That cannot be, madam. My brother has not kept to the
understanding on which I entrusted the lad to him, but has carried
him into worldly and debauched company, such as has made the sober
and godly habits of his home distasteful to him, and has further
taken him into Popish lands, where he has become infected with their
abominations to a greater extent than I can yet fathom."
Mrs. Woodford sighed and felt hopeless. "I see your view of the
matter, sir. Yet may I suggest that it is hard for a young man to
find wholesome occupation such as may guard him from temptation on
an estate where the master is active and sufficient like yourself?"
"Protection from temptation must come from within, madam," replied
the Major; "but I so far agree with you that in due time, when he
has attained his twenty-first year, I trust he will be wedded to his
cousin, a virtuous and pious young maiden, and will have the
management of her property, which is larger than my own."
"But if--if--sir, the marriage were distasteful to him, could it be
for the happiness and welfare of either?"
"The boy has been complaining to you? Nay, madam, I blame you not.
You have ever been the boy's best friend according to knowledge; but
he ought to know that his honour and mine are engaged. It is true
that Mistress Martha is not a Court beauty, such as his eyes have
unhappily learnt to admire, but I am acting verily for his true
good. 'Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain.'"
"Most true, sir; but let me say one more word. I fear, I greatly
fear, that all young spirits brook not compulsion."
"That means, they will not bow their stiff necks to the yoke."
"Ah, sir! but on the other hand, 'Fathers, provoke not your children
to wrath.' Forgive me, sir; I spoke but out of true affection to
your son, and the fear that what may seem to him severity may not
drive him to some extremity that might grieve you."
"No forgiveness is needed, madam. I thank you for your interest in
him, and for your plain speaking according to your lights. I can
but act according to those vouchsafed unto me."
"And we both agree in praying for his true good," said Mrs.
Woodford.
And with a mutual blessing they parted, Mrs. Woodford deeply sorry
for both father and son, for whom she had done what she could.
It was her last interview with any one outside the house. Another
attack of spasms brought the end, during the east winds of March, so
suddenly as to leave no time for farewells or last words. When she
was laid to rest in the little churchyard within the castle walls,
no one showed such overwhelming tokens of grief as Peregrine
Oakshott, who lingered about the grave after the Doctor had taken
his niece home, and was found lying upon it late in the evening,
exhausted with weeping.
Yet Sedley Archfield, whose regiment had, after all, been sent to
Portsmouth, reported that he had spent the very next afternoon at a
cock-fight, ending in a carouse with various naval and military
officers at a tavern, not drinking, but contributing to the mirth by
foreign songs, tricks, and jests.