"Heaven awards the vengeance due."
COWPER.
The weary days had begun to lengthen before the door of the hall was
flung open, and little Phil, forgetting his bow at the door, rushed
in, "Here's a big packet from foreign parts! Harry had to pay ever
so much for it."
"I have wellnigh left off hoping," sighed the poor mother. "Tell me
the worst at once."
"No fear, my lady," said her husband. "Thank God! 'Tis our son's
hand."
There was the silence for a moment of intense relief, and then the
little boy was called to cut the silk and break the seals.
Joy ineffable! There were three letters--for Master Philip
Archfield, for Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford, and for Sir Philip
himself. The old gentleman glanced over it, caught the words
'better,' and 'coming home,' then failed to read through tears of
joy as before through tears of sorrow, and was fain to hand the
sheet to his old friend to be read aloud, while little Philip,
handling as a treasure the first letter he had ever received, though
as yet he was unable to decipher it, stood between his grandfather's
knees listening as Dr. Woodford read--
DEAR AND HONOURED SIR--I must ask your pardon for leaving you
without tidings so long, but while my recovery still hung in
doubt I thought it would only distress you to hear of the
fluctuations that I went through, and the pain to which the
surgeons put me for a long time in vain. Indeed frequently I had
no power either to think or speak, until at last with much
difficulty, and little knowledge or volition of my own, my
inestimable friend Graham brought me to Vienna, where I have at
length been relieved from my troublesome companion, and am
enjoying the utmost care and kindness from my friend's mother, a
near kinswoman, as indeed he is himself, of the brave and
lamented Viscount Dundee. My wound is healing finally, as I
hope, and though I have not yet left my bed, my friends assure me
that I am on the way to full and complete recovery, for which I
am more thankful to the Almighty than I could have been before I
knew what suffering and illness meant. As soon as I can ride
again, which they tell me will be in a fortnight or three weeks,
I mean to set forth on my way home. I cannot describe to you how
I am longing after the sight of you all, nor how home-sick I have
become. I never had time for it before, but I have lain for
hours bringing all your faces before me, my father's, and
mother's, my sister's, and that of her whom I hope to call my
own; and figuring to myself that of the little one. I have
thought much over my past life, and become sensible of much that
was amiss, and while earnestly entreating your forgiveness,
especially for having absented myself all these years, I hope to
return so as to be more of a comfort than I was in the days of my
rash and inconsiderate youth. I am of course at present
invalided, but I want to consult you, honoured sir, before
deciding whether it be expedient for me to resign my commission.
How I thank and bless you for the permission you have given me,
and the love you bear to my own heart's joy, no words can tell.
It shall be the study of my life to be worthy of her and of you.--
And so no more from your loving and dutiful son, CHARLES
ARCHFIELD.
Having drunk in these words with her ears, Anne left Phil to have
his note interpreted by his grandparents, and fled away to enjoy her
own in her chamber, yet it was as short as could be and as sweet.
Mine own, mine own sweet Anne, sweetheart of good old days, your
letter gave me strength to go through with it. The doctors could
not guess why I was so much better and smiled through all their
torments. These are our first, I hope our last letters, for I
shall soon follow them home, and mine own darling will be mine.--
Thine own, C. A.
She had but short time to dwell on it and kiss it, for little Philip
was upon her, waving his letter, which he already knew by heart; and
galloping all over the house to proclaim the good news to the old
servants, who came crowding into the hall, trembling with joy, to
ask if there were indeed tidings of Mr. Archfield's return,
whereupon the glad father caused his grandson to carry each a full
glass of wine to drink to the health of the young master.
Anne had at first felt only the surpassing rapture of the
restoration of Charles, but there ensued another delight in the
security his recovery gave to the life of his son. Sedley Archfield
would not be likely to renew his attempt, and if only on that
account the good news should be spread as widely as possible. She
was the first to suggest the relief it would be to Mr. Fellowes, who
had never divested himself of the feeling that he ought to have
divined his pupil's intention.
Dr. Woodford offered to ride to Portchester with the news, and Sir
Philip, in the gladness of his heart, proposed that Anne should go
with him and see her friend.
Shall it be told how on the way Anne's mind was assailed by feminine
misgivings whether three and twenty could be as fair in her
soldier's eyes as seventeen had been? Old maidenhood came earlier
then than in these days, and Anne knew that she was looked upon as
an old waiting-gentlewoman or governess by the belles of Winchester.
Her glass might tell her that her eyes were as softly brown, her
hair as abundant, her cheek as clear and delicately moulded as ever,
but there was no one to assure her that the early bloom had not
passed away, and that she had not rather gained than lost in dignity
of bearing and the stately poise of the head, which the jealous
damsels called Court airs. "And should he be disappointed, I shall
see it in his eyes," she said to herself, "and then his promise
shall not bind him, though it will break my heart, and oh! how hard
to resign my Phil to a strange stepmother." Still her heart was
lighter than for many a long year, as she cantered along in the
brisk March air, while the drops left by the departing frost
glistened in the sunshine, and the sea lay stretched in a delicate
gray haze. The old castle rose before her in its familiar home-like
massiveness as they turned towards the Rectory, where in that
sheltered spot the well-known clusters of crocuses were opening
their golden hearts to the sunshine, and recalling the days when
Anne was as sunny-hearted as they, and she felt as if she could be
as bright again.
In Mrs. Fellowes's parlour they found an unexpected guest, no other
than Mrs. Oakshott.
'Gadding about' not being the fashion of the Archfield household,
Anne had not seen the lady for several years, and was agreeably
surprised by her appearance. Perhaps the marks of smallpox had
faded, perhaps motherhood had given expression, and what had been
gaunt ungainliness in the maiden had rounded into a certain
importance in the matron, nor had her dress, though quiet, any of
the Puritan rigid ugliness that had been complained of, and though
certainly not beautiful, she was a person to inspire respect.
It was explained that she was waiting for her husband, who was gone
with Mr. Fellowes to speak to the officer in command of the soldiers
at the castle. "For," said she, "I am quite convinced that there is
something that ought to be brought to light, and it may be in that
vault."
Anne's heart gave such a throb as almost choked her.
Dr. Woodford asked what the lady meant.
"Well, sir, when spirits and things 'tis not well to talk of are
starting up and about here, there, and everywhere, 'tis plain there
must be cause for it."
"I do not quite take your meaning, madam."
"Ah, well! you gentlemen, reverend ones especially, are the last to
hear such things. There's the poor old Major, he won't believe a
word of it, but you know, Mistress Woodford. I see it in your face.
Have you seen anything?"
"Not here, not now," faltered Anne. "You have, Mrs. Fellowes?"
"I have heard of some foolish fright of the maids," said Naomi,
"partly their own fancy, or perhaps caught from the sentry. There
is no keeping those giddy girls from running after the soldiers."
Perhaps Naomi hoped by throwing out this hint to conduct her
visitors off into the safer topic of domestic delinquencies, but
Mrs. Oakshott was far too earnest to be thus diverted, and she
exclaimed, "Ah, they saw him, I'll warrant!"
"Him?" the Doctor asked innocently.
"Him or his likeness," said Mrs. Oakshott, "my poor brother-in-law,
Peregrine Oakshott; you remember him, sir? He always said, poor
lad, that you and Mrs. Woodford were kinder to him than his own
flesh and blood, except his uncle, Sir Peregrine. For my part, I
never did give in to all the nonsense folk talked about his being a
changeling or at best a limb of Satan. He had more spirit and sense
than the rest of them, and they led him the life of a dog, though
they knew no better. If I had had him at Emsworth, I would have
shown them what he was;" and she sighed heavily. "Well, I did not
so much wonder when he disappeared, I made sure that he could bear
it no longer and had run away. I waited as long as there was any
reason, till there should be tidings of him, and only took his
brother at last because I found they could not do without me at
home."
Remarkable frankness! but it struck both the Doctor and Anne that if
Peregrine could have submitted, his life might have been freer and
less unhappy than he had expected, though Mrs. Martha spoke the
broadest Hampshire.
Naomi asked, "Then you no longer think that he ran away?"
"No, madam; I am certain there was worse than that. You remember
the night of the bonfire for the Bishops' acquittal, Miss Woodford?"
"Indeed I do."
"Well, he was never seen again after that, as you know. The place
was full of wild folk. There was brawling right and left."
"Were you there?" asked Anne surprised.
"Yes; in my coach with my uncle and aunt that lived with me, though,
except Robin, none of the young sparks would come near me, except
some that I knew were after my pockets," said Martha, with a good-
humoured laugh. "Properly frightened we were too by the brawling
sailors ere we got home! Now, what could be more likely than that
some of them got hold of poor Perry? You know he always would go
about with the rapier he brought from Germany, with amber set in the
hilt, and the mosaic snuff-box he got in Italy, and what could be
looked for but that the poor dear lad should be put out of the way
for the sake of these gewgaws?" This supposition was gratifying to
Anne, but her uncle must needs ask why Mrs. Oakshott thought so more
than before.
"Because," she said impressively, "there is no doubt but that he has
been seen, and not in the flesh, once and again, and always about
these ruins."
"By whom, madam, may I ask?"
"Mrs. Fellowes's maids, as she knows, saw him once on the beach at
night, just there. The sentry, who is Tom Hart, from our parish,
saw a shape at the opening of the old vault before the keep and
challenged him, when he vanished out of sight ere there was time to
present a musket. There was once more, when one moonlight night our
sexton, looking out of his cottage window, saw what he declares was
none other than Master Perry standing among the graves of our
family, as if, poor youth, he were asking why he was not among them.
When I heard that, I said to my husband, 'Depend upon it,' says I,
'he met with his death that night, and was thrown into some hole,
and that's the reason he cannot rest. If I pay a hundred pounds for
it, I'll not give up till his poor corpse is found to have Christian
burial, and I'll begin with the old vault at Portchester!' My good
father, the Major, would not hear of it at first, nor my husband
either, but 'tis my money, and I know how to tackle Robin."
It was with strangely mingled feelings that Anne listened. That
search in the vault, inaugurated by faithful Martha, was what she
had always felt ought to be made, and she had even promised to
attempt it if the apparitions recurred. The notion of the deed
being attributed to lawless sailors and smugglers or highwaymen, who
were known to swarm in the neighbourhood, seemed to remove all
danger of suspicion. Yet she could not divest herself of a vague
sense of alarm at this stirring up of what had slept for seven
years. Neither she nor her uncle deemed it needful to mention the
appearance seen by little Philip, but to her surprise Naomi slowly
and hesitatingly said it was very remarkable, that her husband
having occasion to be at the church at dusk one evening just after
Midsummer, had certainly seen a figure close to Mrs. Woodford's
grave, and lost sight of it before he could speak of it. He thought
nothing more of it till these reports began to be spread, but he had
then recollected that it answered the descriptions given of the
phantom.
Here the ladies were interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Fellowes
and Robert Oakshott, now grown into a somewhat heavy but by no means
foolish-looking young man.
"Well, madam," said he, in Hampshire as broad as his wife's, "you
will have your will. Not that Captain Henslowe believes a word of
your ghosts--not he; but he took fire when he heard of queer sights
about the castle. He sent for the chap who stood sentry, and was
downright sharp on him for not reporting what he had seen, and he is
ordering out a sergeant's party to open the vault, so you may come
and see, if you have any stomach for it."
"I could not but come!" said Madam Oakshott, who certainly did not
look squeamish, but who was far more in earnest than her husband,
and perhaps doubted whether without her presence the quest would be
thorough. Anne was full of dread, and almost sick at the thought of
what she might see, but she was far too anxious to stay away. Mrs.
Fellowes made some excuse about the children for not accompanying
them.
It always thrilled Anne to enter that old castle court, the familiar
and beloved play-place of her childhood, full of memories of Charles
and of Lucy, and containing in its wide precincts the churchyard
where her mother lay. She moved along in a kind of dream, glad to
be let alone, since Mr. Fellowes naturally attended Mrs. Oakshott,
and Robert was fully occupied in explaining to the Doctor that he
only gave in to this affair for the sake of pacifying madam, since
women folk would have their little megrims. Assuredly that tall,
solid, resolute figure stalking on in front, looked as little
subject to megrims as any of her sex. Her determination had brought
her husband thither, and her determination further carried the day,
when the captain, after staring at the solid-looking turf, stamping
on the one stone that was visible, and trampling down the bunch of
nettles beside it, declared that the entrance had been so thoroughly
stopped that it was of no use to dig farther. It was Madam Martha
who demanded permission to offer the four soldiers a crown apiece if
they opened the vault, a guinea each if they found anything. The
captain could not choose but grant it, though with something of a
sneer, and the work was begun. He walked up and down with Robert,
joining in hopes that the lady would be satisfied before dinner-
time. The two clergymen likewise walked together, arguing, as was
their wont, on the credibility of apparitions. The two ladies stood
in almost breathless watch, as the bricks that had covered in the
opening were removed, and the dark hole brought to light. Contrary
to expectation, when the opening had been enlarged, it was found
that there were several steps of stone, and where they were broken
away, there was a rude ladder.
A lantern was fetched from the guard-room in the bailey, and after
much shaking and trying of the ladder, one of the soldiers
descended, finding the place less deep than was commonly supposed,
and soon calling out that he was at the bottom. Another followed
him, and presently there was a shout. Something was found! "A
rusty old chain, no doubt," grumbled Robert; but his wife shrieked.
It was a sword in its sheath, the belt rotted, the clasp tarnished,
but of silver. Mrs. Oakshott seized it at once, rubbed away the
dust from the handle, and brought to light a glistening yellow piece
of amber, which she mutely held up, and another touch of her
handkerchief disclosed on a silver plate in the scabbard an oak-
tree, the family crest, and the twisted cypher P. O. Her eyes were
full of tears, and she did not speak. Anne, white and trembling,
was forced to sink down on the stone, unnoticed by all, while Robert
Oakshott, convinced indeed, hastily went down himself. The sword
had been hidden in a sort of hollow under the remains of the broken
stair. Thence likewise came to light the mouldy remnant of a broad
hat and the quill of its plume, and what had once been a coat, even
in its present state showing that it had been soaked through and
through with blood, the same stains visible on the watch and the
mosaic snuff-box. That was all; there was no purse, and no other
garments, though, considering the condition of the coat, they might
have been entirely destroyed by the rats and mice. There was indeed
a fragment of a handkerchief, with the cypher worked on it, which
Mrs. Oakshott showed to Anne with the tears in her eyes: "There! I
worked that, though he never knew it. No! I know he did not like
me! But I would have made him do so at last. I would have been so
good to him. Poor fellow, that he should have been lying there all
this time!"
Lying there; but where, then, was he? No signs of any corpse were
to be found, though one after another all the gentlemen descended to
look, and Mrs. Oakshott was only withheld by her husband's urgent
representations, and promise to superintend a diligent digging in
the ground, so as to ascertain whether there had been a hasty burial
there.
Altogether, Anne was so much astonished and appalled that she could
hardly restrain herself, and her mind reverted to Bishop Ken's
theory that Peregrine still lived; but this was contradicted by the
appearance at Douai, which did not rest on the evidence of her
single perceptions.
Mrs. Fellowes sent out an entreaty that they would come to dinner,
and the gentlemen were actually base enough to wish to comply, so
that the two ladies had no choice save to come with them, especially
as the soldiers were unwilling to work on without their meal.
Neither Mrs. Oakshott nor Anne felt as if they could swallow, and
the polite pressure to eat was only preferable in Anne's eyes to the
conversation on the discoveries that had been made, especially the
conclusion arrived at by all, that though the purse and rings had
not been found, the presence of the watch and snuff-box precluded
the idea of robbery.
"These would be found on the body," said Mr. Oakshott. "I could
swear to the purse. You remember, madam, your uncle bantering him
about French ladies and their finery, asking whose token it was, and
how black my father looked? Poor Perry, if my father could have had
a little patience with him, he would not have gone roaming about and
getting into brawls, and we need not be looking for him in yonder
black pit."
"You'll never find him there, Master Robert," spoke out the old
Oakwood servant, behind Mrs. Oakshott's chair, free and easy after
the manner of the time.
"And wherefore not, Jonadab?" demanded his mistress, by no means
surprised at the liberty.
"Why, ma'am, 'twas the seven years, you sees, and in course when
them you wot of had power to carry him off, they could not take his
sword, nor his hat, not they couldn't."
"How about his purse, then?" put in Dr. Woodford.
"I'll be bound you will find it yet, sir," responded Jonadab, by no
means disconcerted, "leastways unless some two-legged fairies have
got it."
At this some of the party found it impossible not to laugh, and this
so upset poor Martha's composure that she was obliged to leave the
table, and Anne was not sorry for the excuse of attending her,
although there were stings of pain in all her rambling lamentations
and conjectures.
Very tardily, according to the feelings of the anxious women, was
the dinner finished, and their companions ready to take them out
again. Indeed, Madam Oakshott at last repaired to the dining-
parlour, and roused her husband from his glass of Spanish wine to
renew the search. She would not listen to Mrs. Fellowes's advice
not to go out again, and Anne could not abstain either from watching
for what could not be other than grievous and mournful to behold.
The soldiers were called out again by their captain, and reinforced
by the Rectory servant and Jonadab.
There was an interval of anxious prowling round the opening. Mr.
Oakshott and the captain had gone down again, and found, what the
military man was anxious about, that if there were passages to the
outer air, they had been well blocked up and not re-opened.
Meantime the digging proceeded.
It was just at twilight that a voice below uttered an exclamation.
Then came a pause. The old sergeant's voice ordered care and a
pause, somewhere below the opening with, "Sir, the spades have hit
upon a skull."
There was a shuddering pause. All the gentlemen except Dr.
Woodford, who feared the chill, descended again. Mrs. Oakshott and
Anne held each other's hands and trembled.
By and by Mr. Fellowes came up first. "We have found," he said,
looking pale and grave, "a skeleton. Yes, a perfect skeleton, but
no more--no remains except a fine dust."
And Robert Oakshott following, awe-struck and sorrowful, added,
"Yes, there he is, poor Perry--all that is left of him--only his
bones. No, madam, we must leave him there for the present; we
cannot bring it up without preparation."
"You need not fear meddling curiosity, madam," said the captain. "I
will post a sentry here to bar all entrance."
"Thanks, sir," said Robert. "That will be well till I can bury the
poor fellow with all due respect by my mother and Oliver."
"And then I trust his spirit will have rest," said Martha Oakshott
fervently. "And now home to your father. How will he bear it,
sir?"
"I verily believe he will sleep the quieter for knowing for a
certainty what has become of poor Peregrine," said her husband.
And Anne felt as if half her burthen of secrecy was gone when they
all parted, starting early because the Black Gang rendered all the
roads unsafe after dark.