I have had a dream this evening,
While the white and gold were fleeting,
But I need not, need not tell it.
Where would be the good?
Requiescat in Pace.--JEAN INGELOW.
Anne Woodford sat, on a sultry summer night, by the open window in
Archfield House at Fareham, busily engaged over the tail of a kite,
while asleep in a cradle in the corner of the room lay a little boy,
his apple-blossom cheeks and long flaxen curls lying prone upon his
pillow as he had tossed when falling asleep in the heat.
The six years since her return had been eventful. Dr. Woodford had
adhered to his view that his oath of allegiance could not be
forfeited by James's flight; and he therefore had submitted to be
ousted from his preferments, resigning his pleasant prebendal house,
and his sea-side home, and embracing poverty for his personal oath's
sake, although he was willing to acquiesce in the government of
William and Mary, and perhaps to rejoice that others had effected
what he would not have thought it right to do.
Things had been softened to him as regarded his flock by the
appointment of Mr. Fellowes to Portchester, which was a Crown
living, though there had been great demur at thus slipping into a
friend's shoes, so that Dr. Woodford had been obliged to asseverate
that nothing so much comforted him as leaving the parish in such
hands, and that he blamed no man for seeing the question of Divine
right as he did in common with the Non-jurors. The appointment
opened the way to the marriage with Naomi Darpent, and the pair were
happily settled at Portchester.
Dr. Woodford and his niece found a tiny house at Winchester, near
the wharf, with the clear Itchen flowing in front and the green
hills rising beyond, while in the rear were the ruins of Wolvesey,
and the buildings of the Cathedral and College. They retained no
servant except black Hans, poor Peregrine's legacy, who was an
excellent cook, and capable of all that Anne could not accomplish in
her hours of freedom.
It was a fall indeed from her ancient aspirations, though there was
still that bud of hope within her heart. The united means of uncle
and niece were so scanty that she was fain to offer her services
daily at Mesdames Reynaud's still flourishing school, where the
freshness of her continental experiences made her very welcome.
Dr. Woodford occasionally assisted some student preparing for the
university, but this was not regular occupation, and it was poorly
paid, so that it was well that fifty pounds a year went at least
three times as far as it would do in the present day. Though his
gown and cassock lost their richness and lustre, he was as much
respected as ever. Bishop Mews often asked him to Wolvesey, and
allowed him to assist the parochial clergy when it was not necessary
to utter the royal name, the vergers marshalled him to his own stall
at daily prayers, and he had free access to Bishop Morley's
Cathedral library.
The Archfield family still took a house in the Close for the winter
months, and there a very sober-minded and conventional courtship of
Lucy took place by Sir Edmund Nutley, a worthy and well-to-do
gentleman settled on the borders of Parkhurst Forest, in the Isle of
Wight.
Anne, with the thought of her Charles burning within her heart, was
a little scandalised at the course of affairs. Sir Edmund was a
highly worthy man, but not in his first youth, and ponderous--a
Whig, moreover, and an intimate friend of the masterful governor of
the island, Lord Cutts, called the "Salamander." He had seen Miss
Archfield before at the winter and spring Quarter Sessions, and
though her father was no longer in the Commission of the Peace, the
residence at Winchester gave him opportunities, and the chief
obstacle seemed to be the party question. He was more in love than
was the lady, but she was submissive, and believed that he would be
a kind husband. She saw, too, that her parents would be much
disappointed and displeased if she made any resistance to so
prosperous a settlement, and she was positively glad to be out of
reach of Sedley's addresses. Such an entirely unenthusiastic
acceptance was the proper thing, and it only remained to provide for
Lady Archfield's comfort in the loss of her daughter.
For this the elders turned at once to Anne Woodford. Sir Philip
made it his urgent entreaty that the Doctor and his niece would take
up their abode with him, and that Anne would share with the
grandmother the care of the young Philip, a spirited little fellow
who would soon be running wild with the grooms, without the
attention that his aunt had bestowed on him.
Dr. Woodford himself was much inclined to accept the office of
chaplain to his old friend, who he knew would be far happier for his
company; and Anne's heart bounded at the thought of bringing up
Charles's child, but that very start of joy made her blush and
hesitate, and finally surprise the two old gentlemen by saying, with
crimson cheeks--
"Sir, your Honour ought to know what might make you change your
mind. There have been passages between Mr. Archfield and me."
Sir Philip laughed. "Ah, the rogue! You were always little
sweethearts as children. Why, Anne, you should know better than to
heed what a young soldier says."
"No doubt you have other views for your son," said Dr. Woodford,
"and I trust that my niece has too much discretion and sense of
propriety to think that they can be interfered with on her account."
"Passages!" repeated Sir Philip thoughtfully. "Mistress Anne, how
much do you mean by that? Surely there is no promise between you?"
"No, sir," said Anne; "I would not give any; but when we parted in
Flanders he asked me to--to wait for him, and I feel that you ought
to know it."
"Oh, I understand!" said the baronet. "It was only natural to an
old friend in a foreign land, and you have too much sense to dwell
on a young man's folly, though it was an honourable scruple that
made you tell me, my dear maid. But he is not come or coming yet,
more's the pity, so there is no need to think about it at present."
Anne's cheeks did not look as if she had attained that wisdom; but
her conscience was clear, since she had told the fact, and the
father did not choose to take it seriously. To say how she herself
loved Charles would have been undignified and nothing to the
purpose, since her feelings were not what would be regarded, and
there was no need to mention her full and entire purpose to wed no
one else. Time enough for that if the proposal were made.
So the uncle and niece entered on their new life, with some loss of
independence, and to the Doctor a greater loss in the neighbourhood
of the Cathedral and its library; for after the first year or two,
as Lady Archfield grew rheumatic, and Sir Philip had his old friend
to play backgammon and read the Weekly Gazette, they became
unwilling to make the move to Winchester, and generally stayed at
home all the winter.
Before this, however, Princess Anne had been at the King's House at
Winchester for a short time; and Lady Archfield paid due respects to
her, with Anne in attendance. With the royal faculty of remembering
everybody, the Princess recognised her namesake, gave her hand to be
kissed, and was extremely gracious. She was at the moment in the
height of a quarrel with her sister, and far from delighted with the
present regime. She sent for Miss Woodford, and, to Anne's
surprise, laughed over her own escape from the Cockpit, adding, "You
would not come, child. You were in the right on't. There's no
gratitude among them! Had I known how I should be served I would
never have stirred a foot! So 'twas you that carried off the child!
Tell me what he is like."
And she extracted by questions all that Anne could tell her of the
life at St. Germain, and the appearance of her little half-brother.
It was impossible to tell whether she asked from affectionate
remorse or gossiping interest, but she ended by inquiring whether
her father's god-daughter were content with her position, or desired
one--if there were a vacancy--in her own household, where she might
get a good husband.
Anne declined courteously and respectfully, and was forced to hint
at an engagement which she could not divulge. She had heard
Charles's expressions of delight at the arrangement which gave his
boy to her tender care, warming her heart.
Lady Archfield had fits of talking of finding a good husband for
Anne Woodford among the Cathedral clergy, but the maiden was so
necessary to her, and so entirely a mother to little Philip, that
she soon let the idea drop. Perhaps it was periodically revived,
when, about three times a year, there arrived a letter from Charles.
He wrote in good spirits, evidently enjoying his campaigns, and with
no lack of pleasant companions, English, Scotch, and Irish
Jacobites, with whom he lived in warm friendship and wholesome
emulation. He won promotion, and the county Member actually came
out of his way to tell Sir Philip what he had heard from the
Imperial ambassador of young Archfield's distinguished services at
the battle of Salankamen, only regretting that he was not fighting
under King William's colours. Little Philip pranced about cutting
off Turks' heads in the form of poppies, 'like papa,' for whose
safety Anne taught him to pray night and morning.
Pride in his son's exploits was a compensation to the father, who
declared them to be better than vegetating over the sheepfolds, like
Robert Oakshott, or than idling at Portsmouth, like Sedley
Archfield.
That young man's regiment had been ordered to Ireland during the
campaign that followed the battle of Boyne Water. He had suddenly
returned from thence, cashiered: by his own story, the victim of
the enmity of the Dutch General Ginkel; according to another
version, on account of brutal excesses towards the natives and
insolence to his commanding officer. Courts-martial had only just
been introduced, and Sir Philip could believe in a Whig invention
doing injustice to a member of a loyal family, so that his doors
were open to his nephew, and Sedley haunted them whenever he had no
other resource; but he spent most of his time between Newmarket and
other sporting centres, and contrived to get a sort of maintenance
by bets at races, cock-fights, and bull-baitings, and by extensive
gambling. Evil reports of him came from time to time, but Sir
Philip was loth to think ill of the son of his brother, or to
forbode that as his grandson grew older, such influence might be
dangerous.
In his uncle's presence Sedley was on his good behaviour; but if he
caught Miss Woodford without that protection, he attempted rude
compliments, and when repelled by her dignified look and manner,
sneered at the airs of my lady's waiting-woman, and demanded how
long she meant to mope after Charley, who would never look so low.
"She need not be so ungracious to a poor soldier. She might have to
put up with worse."
Moreover, he deliberately incited Philip to mischief, putting foul
words into the little mouth, and likewise giving forbidden food and
drink, lauding evil sports, and mocking at obedience to any
authority, especially Miss Woodford's. Philip was very fond of his
Nana, and in general good and obedient; but what high-spirited boy
is proof against the allurements of the only example before him of
young manhood, assuring him that it was manly not to mind what the
women said, nor to be tied to the apron-strings of his grand-dame's
abigail?
The child had this summer thus been actually taken to the outskirts
of a bull-fight, whence he had been brought home in great disgrace
by Ralph, the old servant who had been charged to look after his
out-door amusements, and to ride with him. The grandfather was
indeed more shocked at the danger and the vulgarity of the sport
than its cruelty, but Philip had received his first flogging, and
his cousin had been so sharply rebuked that--to the great relief of
Anne and of Lady Archfield--he had not since appeared at Fareham
House.
The morrow would be Philip's seventh birthday, a stage which would
take him farther out of Anne's power. He was no longer to sleep in
her chamber, but in one of his own with Ralph for his protector, and
he was to begin Latin with Dr. Woodford. So great was his delight
that he had gone to bed all the sooner in order to bring the great
day more quickly, and Anne was glad of the opportunity of finishing
the kite, which was to be her present, for Ralph to help him fly
upon Portsdown Hill.
That great anniversary, so delightful to him, with pony and whip
prepared for him--what a day of confusion, distress, and
wretchedness did it not recall to his elders? Anne could not choose
but recall the time, as she sat alone in the window, looking out
over the garden, the moon beginning to rise, and the sunset light
still colouring the sky in the north-west, just as it had done when
she returned home after the bonfire. The events of that sad morning
had faded out of the foreground. The Oakshott family seemed to have
resigned themselves to the mystery of Peregrine's fate. Only his
mother had declined from the time of his disappearance. When it was
ascertained that his uncle had died in Russia, and that nothing had
been heard of him there, it seemed to bring on a fresh stage of her
illness, and she had expired at last in Martha Browning's arms, her
last words being a blessing not only to Robert, but to Peregrine,
and a broken entreaty to her husband to forgive the boy, for he
might have been better if they had used him well.
Martha was then found to hold out against the idea of his being
dead. Little affection and scant civility as she had received from
him, her dutiful heart had attached itself to her destined lord, and
no doubt her imagination had been excited by his curious abilities,
and her compassion by the persecution he suffered at home. At any
rate, when, after a proper interval, the Major tried to transfer her
to his remaining son, she held out against it for a long interval,
until at last, after full three years, the desolation and
disorganisation of Oakwood without a mistress, a severe illness of
the Major, and the distress of his son, so worked upon her feelings
that she consented to the marriage with Robert, and had ever since
been the ruling spirit at Oakwood, and a very different one from
what had been expected--sensible, kindly, and beneficent, and
allowing the young husband more liberty and indulgence than he had
ever known before.
The remembrance of Peregrine seemed to have entirely passed away,
and Anne had been troubled with no more apparitions, so that though
she thought over the strange scene of that terrible morning, the
rapid combat, the hasty concealment, the distracted face of the
unhappy youth, it was with the thought that time had been a healer,
and that Charles might surely now return home. And what then?
She raised her eyes to the open window, and what did she behold in
the moonlight streaming full upon the great tree rose below? It was
the same face and figure that had three times startled her before,
the figure dark and the face very white in the moonlight, but like
nothing else, and with that odd, one-sided feather as of old. It
had flitted ere she could point its place--gone in a single flash--
but she was greatly startled! Had it come to protest against the
scheme she had begun to indulge in on that very night of all nights,
or had it merely been her imagination? For nothing was visible,
though she leant from the window, no sound was to be heard, though
when she tried to complete her work, her hands trembled and the
paper rustled, so that Philip showed symptoms of wakening, and she
had to defer her task till early morning.
She said nothing of her strange sight, and Phil had a happy
successful birthday, flying the kite with a propitious wind, and
riding into Portsmouth on his new pony with grandpapa. But there
was one strange event. The servants had a holiday, and some of them
went into Portsmouth, black Hans, who never returned, being one.
The others had lost sight of him, but had not been uneasy, knowing
him to be perfectly well able to find his way home; but as he never
appeared, the conclusion was that he must have been kidnapped by
some ship's crew to serve as a cook. He had not been very happy
among the servants at Fareham, who laughed at his black face and
Dutch English, and he would probably have gone willingly with
Dutchmen; but Anne and her uncle were grieved, and felt as if they
had failed in the trust that poor Sir Peregrine had left them.