"My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery.
Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history."
JEAN INGELOW.
Lady Worsley was a handsome, commanding old dame, who soon made her
charge feel the social gulf between a county magnate and a
clergyman's niece. She decidedly thought that Mistress Anne
Jacobina held her head too high for her position, and was, moreover,
conceited of an unfortunate amount of good looks.
Therefore the good lady did her best to repress these dangerous
tendencies by making the girl sit on the back seat with two maids,
and uttering long lectures on humility, modesty, and discretion
which made the blood of the sea-captain's daughter boil with
indignation.
Yet she always carried with her the dread of being pursued and
called upon to accuse Charles Archfield of Peregrine's death. It
was a perpetual cloud, dispersed, indeed, for a time by the events
of the day, but returning at night, when not only was the combat
acted over again, but when she fell asleep it was only to be pursued
by Peregrine through endless vaulted dens of darkness, or, what was
far worse, to be trying to hide a stream of blood that could never
be stanched.
It was no wonder that she looked pale in the morning, and felt so
tired and dejected as to make her sensible that she was cast loose
from home and friends when no one troubled her with remarks or
inquiries such as she could hardly have answered. However, when, on
the evening of the second day's journey, Anne was set down at Sir
Theophilus Oglethorpe's house at Westminster, she met with a very
different reception.
Lady Oglethorpe, a handsome, warm-hearted Irish woman, met her at
once in the hall with outstretched hands, and a kiss on each cheek.
"Come in, my dear, my poor orphan, the daughter of one who was very
dear to me! Ah, how you have grown! I could never have thought
this was the little Anne I recollect. You shall come up to your
chamber at once, and rest you, and make ready for supper, by the
time Sir Theophilus comes in from attending the King."
Anne found herself installed in a fresh-smelling wainscotted room,
where a glass of wine and some cake was ready for her, and where she
made herself ready, feeling exhilarated in spirits as she performed
her toilette, putting on her black evening dress, and refreshing the
curls of her brown hair. It was a simple dress of deep mourning,
but it became her well, and the two or three gentlemen who had come
in to supper with Sir Theophilus evidently admired her greatly, and
complimented her on having a situation at Court, which was all that
Lady Oglethorpe mentioned.
"Child," she said afterwards, when they were in private, "if I had
known what you looked like I would have sought a different position
for you. But, there, to get one's foot--were it but the toe of
one's shoe--in at Court is the great point after all, the rest must
come after. I warrant me you are well educated too. Can you speak
French?"
"Oh yes, madam, and Italian, and dance and play on the spinnet. I
was with two French ladies at Winchester every winter who taught
such things."
"Well, well, mayhap we may get you promoted to a sub-governess's
place--though your religion is against you. You are not a Catholic--
eh?"
"No, your ladyship."
"That's the only road to favour nowadays, though for the name of the
thing they may have a Protestant or two. You are the King's
godchild too, so he will expect it the more from you. However, we
may find a better path. You have not left your heart in the
country, eh?"
Anne blushed and denied it.
"You will be mewed up close enough in the nursery," ran on Lady
Oglethorpe. "Lady Powys keeps close discipline there, and I expect
she will be disconcerted to see how fine a fish I have brought to
her net; but we will see--we will see how matters go. But, my dear,
have you no coloured clothes? There is no appearing in the Royal
household in private mourning. It might daunt the Prince's spirits
in his cradle!" and she laughed, though Anne felt much annoyed at
thus disregarding her mother, as well as at the heavy expense.
However, there was no help for it; the gowns and laces hidden in the
bottom of her mails were disinterred, and the former were for the
most part condemned, so that she had to submit to a fresh outfit, in
which Lady Oglethorpe heartily interested herself, but which drained
the purse that the Canon had amply supplied.
These arrangements were not complete when the first letter from home
arrived, and was opened with a beating heart, and furtive glances as
of one who feared to see the contents, but they were by no means
what she expected.
I hope you have arrived safely in London, and that you are not
displeased with your first taste of life in a Court. Neither
town nor country is exempt from sorrow and death. I was summoned
only on the second day after your departure to share in the
sorrows at Archfield, where the poor young wife died early on
Friday morning, leaving a living infant, a son, who, I hope, may
prove a blessing to them, if he is spared, which can scarcely be
expected. The poor young man, and indeed all the family, are in
the utmost distress, and truly there were circumstances that
render the event more than usually deplorable, and for which he
blames himself exceedingly, even to despair. It appears that the
poor young gentlewoman wished to add some trifle to the numerous
commissions with which she was entrusting you on the night of the
bonfire, and that she could not be pacified except by her husband
undertaking to ride over to give the patterns and the orders to
you before your setting forth. You said nothing of having seen
him--nor do I see how it was possible that you could have done
so, seeing that you only left your chamber just before the
breakfast that you never tasted, my poor child. He never
returned till long after noon, and what with fretting after him,
and disappointment, that happened which Lady Archfield had always
apprehended, and the poor fragile young creature worked herself
into a state which ended before midnight in the birth of a puny
babe, and her own death shortly after. She wanted two months of
completing her sixteenth year, and was of so frail a constitution
that Dr. Brown had never much hope of her surviving the birth of
her child. It was a cruel thing to marry her thus early, ungrown
in body or mind, but she had no one to care for her before she
was brought hither. The blame, as I tell Sir Philip, and would
fain persuade poor Charles, is really with those who bred her up
so uncontrolled as to be the victim of her humours; but the
unhappy youth will listen to no consolation. He calls himself a
murderer, shuts himself up, and for the most part will see and
speak to no one, but if forced by his father's command to unlock
his chamber door, returns at once to sit with his head hidden in
his arms crossed upon the table, and if father, mother, or sister
strive to rouse him and obtain answer from him, he will only
murmur forth, "I should only make it worse if I did." It is
piteous to see a youth so utterly overcome, and truly I think his
condition is a greater distress to our good friends than the loss
of the poor young wife. They asked him what name he would have
given to his child, but all the answer they could get was, "As
you will, only not mine;" and in the enforced absence of my
brother of Fareham I baptized him Philip. The funeral will take
place to-morrow, and Sir Philip proposes immediately after to
take his son to Oxford, and there endeavour to find a tutor of
mature age and of prudence, with whom he may either study at New
College or be sent on the grand tour. It is the only notion that
the poor lad has seemed willing to entertain, as if to get away
from his misery, and I cannot but think it well for him. He is
not yet twenty, and may, as it were, begin life again the wiser
and the better man for his present extreme sorrow. Lady
Archfield is greatly wrapped up in the care of the babe, who, I
fear, is in danger of being killed by overcare, if by nothing
else, though truly all is in the hands of God. I have scarce
quitted the afflicted family since I was summoned to them on
Friday, since Sir Philip has no one else on whom to depend for
comfort or counsel; and if I can obtain the services of Mr. Ellis
from Portsmouth for a few Sundays, I shall ride with him to
Oxford to assist in the choice of a tutor to go abroad with Mr.
Archfield.
One interruption however I had, namely, from Major Oakshott, who
came in great perturbation to ask what was the last I had seen of
his son Peregrine. It appears that the unfortunate young man
never returned home after the bonfire on Portsdown Hill, where
his brother Robert lost sight of him, and after waiting as long
as he durst, returned home alone. It has become known that after
parting with us high words passed between him and Lieutenant
Sedley Archfield, insomuch that after the unhappy fashion of
these times, blood was demanded, and early in the morning Sedley
sent the friend who was to act as second to bear the challenge to
young Oakshott. You can conceive the reception that he was
likely to receive at Oakwood; but it was then discovered that
Peregrine had not been in his bed all night, nor had any one seen
or heard of him. Sedley boasts loudly that the youngster has
fled the country for fear of him, and truly things have that
appearance, although to my mind Peregrine was far from wanting in
spirit or courage. But, as he had not received the cartel, he
might not have deemed his honour engaged to await it, and I
incline to the belief that he is on his way to his uncle in
Muscovy, driven thereto by his dread of the marriage with the
gentlewoman whom he holds in so much aversion. I have striven to
console his father by the assurance that such tidings of him will
surely arrive in due time, but the Major is bitterly grieved, and
is galled by the accusation of cowardice. "He could not even be
true to his own maxims of worldly honour," says the poor
gentleman. "So true it is that only by grace we stand fast."
The which is true enough, but the poor gentleman unwittingly did
his best to make grace unacceptable in his son's eyes. I trust
soon to hear again of you, my dear child. I rejoice that Lady
Oglethorpe is so good to you, and I hope that in the palace you
will guard first your faith and then your discretion. And so
praying always for your welfare, alike spiritual and temporal.--
Your loving uncle, JNO. WOODFORD.
Truly it was well that Anne had secluded herself to read this
letter.
So the actual cause for which poor Charles Archfield had entreated
silence was at an end. The very evil he had apprehended had come to
pass, and she could well understand how, on his return in a horror-
stricken, distracted state of mind, the childish petulance of his
wife had worried him into loss of temper, so that he hardly knew
what he said. And what must not his agony of remorse be? She could
scarcely imagine how he had avoided confessing all as a mere relief
to his mind, but then she reflected that when he called himself a
murderer the words were taken in another sense, and no questions
asked, nor would he be willing to add such grief and shame to his
parents' present burthen, especially as no suspicion existed.
That Peregrine's fate had not been discovered greatly relieved her.
She believed the vault to go down to a considerable depth after a
first platform of stone near the opening, and it was generally
avoided as the haunt of hobgoblins, fairies, or evil beings, so that
no one was likely to be in its immediate neighbourhood after the hay
was carried, so that there might have been nothing to attract any
one to the near neighbourhood and thus lead to the discovery. If
not made by this time, Charles would be far away, and there was
nothing to connect him with the deed. No one save herself had even
known of his having been near the castle that morning. How strange
that the only persons aware of that terrible secret should be so far
separated from one another that they could exchange no confidences;
and each was compelled to absolute silence. For as long as no one
else was suspected, Anne felt her part must be not to betray
Charles, though the bare possibility of the accusation of another
was agony to her.
She wrote her condolences in due form to Fareham, and in due time
was answered by Lucy Archfield. The letter was full of details
about the infant, who seemed to absorb her and her mother, and to be
as likely to live as any child of those days ever was--and it was in
his favour that his grandmother and her old nurse had better notions
of management than most of her contemporaries. In spite of all that
Lucy said of her brother's overwhelming grief, and the melancholy of
thus parting with him, there was a strain of cheerfulness throughout
the letter, betraying that the poor young wife of less than a year
was no very great loss to the peace and comfort of the family. The
letter ended with--
There is a report that Sir Peregrine Oakshott is dead in Muscovy.
Nothing has been heard of that unfortunate young man at Oakwood.
If he be gone in quest of his uncle, I wonder what will become of
him? However, nurse will have it that this being the third
seventh year of his life, the fairies have carried off their
changeling--you remember how she told us the story of his being
changed as an infant, when we were children at Winchester; she
believes it as much as ever, and never let little Philip out of
her sight before he was baptized. I ask her, if the changeling
be gone, where is the true Peregrine? but she only wags her head
in answer.
A day or two later Anne heard from her uncle from Oxford. He was
extremely grieved at the condition of his beloved alma mater, with a
Roman Catholic Master reigning at University College, a doctor from
the Sorbonne and Fellows to match, inflicted by military force on
Magdalen, whose lawful children had been ejected with a violence
beyond anything that the colleges had suffered even in the time of
the Rebellion. If things went on as they were, he pronounced Oxford
would be no better than a Popish seminary: and he had the more
readily induced his old friend to consent to Charles's desire not to
remain there as a student, but to go abroad with Mr. Fellowes, one
of the expelled fellows of Magdalen, a clergyman of mature age, but
a man of the world, who had already acted as a travelling tutor.
Considering that the young widower was not yet twenty, and that all
his wife's wealth would be in his hands, also that his cousin Sedley
formed a dangerous link with the questionable diversions of the
garrison at Portsmouth, both father and friend felt that it was well
that he should be out of reach, and have other occupations for the
present.
Change of scene had, Dr. Woodford said, brightened the poor youth,
and he was showing more interest in passing events, but probably he
would never again be the light-hearted boy they used to know.
Anne could well believe it.