"He looked about as one betrayed,
What hath he done, what promise made?
Oh! weak, weak moment, to what end
Can such a vain oblation tend?"
WORDSWORTH.
For the most part Anne was able to hold her peace and keep out of
sight while Dr. Woodford related the strange revelations of the
vault with all the circumstantiality that was desired by two old
people living a secluded life and concerned about a neighbour of
many years, whom they had come to esteem by force of a certain
sympathy in honest opposition. The mystery occupied them entirely,
for though the murder was naturally ascribed to some of the lawless
coast population, the valuables remaining with the clothes made a
strange feature in the case.
It was known that there was to be an inquest held on the remains
before their removal, and Dr. Woodford, both from his own interest
in the question, and as family intelligencer, rode to the castle.
Sir Philip longed to go, but it was a cold wet day, and he had
threatenings of gout, so that he was persuaded to remain by the
fireside. Inquests were then always held where the body lay, and
the court of Portchester Castle was no place for him on such a day.
Dr. Woodford came home just before twilight, looking grave and
troubled, and, much to Anne's alarm, desired to speak to Sir Philip
privately in the gun-room. Lady Archfield took alarm, and much
distressed her by continually asking what could be the meaning of
the interview, and making all sorts of guesses.
When at last they came together into the parlour the poor lady
looked so anxious and frightened that her husband went up to her and
said, "Do not be alarmed, sweetheart. We shall clear him; but those
foolish fellows have let suspicion fall on poor Sedley."
Nobody looked at Anne, or her deadly paleness must have been
remarked, and the trembling which she could hardly control by
clasping her hands tightly together, keeping her feet hard on the
floor, and setting her teeth.
Lady Archfield was perhaps less fond of the scapegrace nephew than
was her husband, and she felt the matter chiefly as it affected him,
so that she heard with more equanimity than he had done; and as they
sat round the fire in the half-light, for which Anne was thankful,
the Doctor gave his narration in order.
"I found a large company assembled in the castle court, waiting for
the coroner from Portsmouth, though the sentry on guard would allow
no one to go down, in spite of some, even ladies, I am ashamed to
say, who offered him bribes for the permission. Everything, I
heard, had been replaced as we found it. The poor Major himself was
there, looking sadly broken, and much needing the help of his son's
arm. 'To think that I was blaming my poor son as a mere reprobate,
and praying for his conversion,' says he, 'when he was lying here,
cut off without a moment for repentance.' There was your nephew,
suspecting nothing, Squire Brocas, Mr. Eyre, of Botley Grange, Mr.
Biden, Mr. Larcom, and Mr. Bargus, and a good many more, besides Dr.
James Yonge, the naval doctor, and the Mayor of Portsmouth, and more
than I can tell you. When the coroner came, and the jury had been
sworn in, they went down and viewed the spot, and all that was
there. The soldiers had put candles round, and a huge place it is,
all built up with large stones. Then, as it was raining hard, they
adjourned to the great room in the keep and took the evidence.
Robert Oakshott identified the clothes and the watch clearly enough,
and said he had no doubt that the other remains were Peregrine's;
but as to swearing to a brother's bones, no one could do that; and
Dr. Yonge said in my ear that if the deceased were so small a man as
folks said, the skeleton could scarce be his, for he thought it had
belonged to a large-framed person. That struck no one else, for
naturally it is only a chirurgeon who is used to reckon the
proportion that the bones bear to the body, and I also asked him
whether in seven years the other parts would be so entirely
consumed, to which he answered that so much would depend on the
nature of the soil that there was no telling. However, jury and
coroner seemed to feel no doubt, and that old seafaring man, Tom
Block, declared that poor Master Peregrine had been hand and glove
with a lot of wild chaps, and that the vault had been well known to
them before the gentlemen had had it blocked up. Then it was asked
who had seen him last, and Robert Oakshott spoke of having parted
with him at the bonfire, and never seen him again. There, I fancy,
it would have ended in a verdict of wilful murder against some
person or persons unknown, but Robert Oakshott must needs say, "I
would give a hundred pounds to know who the villain was." And then
who should get up but George Rackstone, with "Please your Honour, I
could tell summat." The coroner bade swear him, and he deposed to
having seen Master Peregrine going down towards the castle somewhere
about four o'clock that morning after the bonfire when he was
getting up to go to his mowing. But that was not all. You
remember, Anne, that his father's cottage stands on the road towards
Portsmouth. Well, he brought up the story of your running in there,
frightened, the day before the bonfire, when I was praying with his
sick mother, calling on me to stop a fray between Peregrine and
young Sedley, and I had to get up and tell of Sedley's rudeness to
you, child."
"What was that?" hastily asked Lady Archfield.
"The old story, my lady. The young officer's swaggering attempt to
kiss the girl he meets on the road. I doubt even if he knew at the
moment that it was my niece. Peregrine was coming by at the moment,
and interfered to protect her, and swords were drawn. I could not
deny it, nor that there was ill blood between the lads; and then
young Brocas, who was later on Portsdown than we were, remembered
high words, and had thought to himself that there would be a
challenge. And next old Goody Spore recollects seeing Master Sedley
and another soldier officer out on the Portsmouth road early that
morning. The hay was making in the court then, and Jenny Light
remembered that when the haymakers came she raked up something that
looked like a bloody spot, and showed it to one of the others, but
they told her that most likely a rabbit or a hare had been killed
there, and she had best take no heed. Probably there was dread of
getting into trouble about a smugglers' fray. Well, every one was
looking askance at Master Sedley by this time, and the coroner asked
him if he had anything to say. He spoke out boldly enough. He
owned to the dispute with Peregrine Oakshott, and to having parted
with him that night on terms which would only admit of a challenge.
He wrote a cartel that night, and sent it by his friend Lieutenant
Ainslie, but doubting whether Major Oakshott might not prevent its
delivery, he charged him to try to find Peregrine outside the house,
and arrange with him a meeting on the hill, where you know the
duellists of the garrison are wont to transact such encounters.
Sedley himself walked out part of the way with his friend, but
neither of them saw Peregrine, nor heard anything of him. So he
avers, but when asked for his witness to corroborate the story, he
says that Ainslie, I fear the only person who could have proved an
alibi--if so it were--was killed at Landen; but, he added, certainly
with too much of his rough way, it was a mere absurdity to charge it
upon him. What should a gentleman have to do with private murders
and robberies? Nor did he believe the bones to be Perry Oakshott's
at all. It was all a bit of Whiggish spite! He worked himself into
a passion, which only added to the impression against him; and I own
I cannot wonder that the verdict has sent him to Winchester to take
his trial. Why, Anne, child, how now?"
"'Tis a terrible story. Take my essences, child," said Lady
Archfield, tottering across, and Anne, just saving herself from
fainting by a long gasp at them, let herself be led from the room.
The maids buzzed about her, and for some time she was sensible of
nothing but a longing to get rid of them, and to be left alone to
face the grievous state of things which she did not yet understand.
At last, with kind good-nights from Lady Archfield, such as she
could hardly return, she was left by herself in the darkness to
recover from the stunned helpless feeling of the first moment.
Sedley accused! Charles to be sacrificed to save his worthless
cousin, the would-be murderer of his innocent child, who morally
thus deserved to suffer! Never, never! She could not do so. It
would be treason to her benefactors, nay, absolute injustice, for
Charles had struck in generous defence of herself; but Sedley had
tried to allure the boy to his death merely for his own advantage.
Should she not be justified in simply keeping silence? Yet there
was like an arrow in her heart, the sense of guilt in so doing,
guilt towards God and truth, guilt towards man and justice. She
should die under the load, and it would be for Charles. Might it
only be before he came home, then he would know that she had
perished under his secret to save him. Nay, but would he be
thankful at being saved at the expense of his cousin's life? If he
came, how should she meet him?
The sense of the certain indignation of a good and noble human
spirit often awakes the full perception of what an action would be
in the sight of Heaven, and Anne began to realise the sin more than
at first, and to feel the compulsion of truth. If only Charles were
not coming home she could write to him and warn him, but the thought
that he might be already on the way had turned from joy to agony.
"And to think," she said to herself, "that I was fretting as to
whether he would think me pretty!"
She tossed about in misery, every now and then rising on her knees
to pray--at first for Charles's safety--for she shrank from asking
for Divine protection, knowing only too well what that would be.
Gradually, however, a shudder came over her at the thought that if
she would not commit her way unto the Lord, she might indeed be the
undoing of her lover, and then once more the higher sense of duty
rose on her. She prayed for forgiveness for the thought, and that
it might not be visited upon him; she prayed for strength to do what
must be her duty, for safety for him, and comfort to his parents,
and so, in passing gusts of misery and apprehension, of failing
heart and recovered resolution, of anguish and of prayer, the long
night at length passed, and with the first dawn she arose, shaken
and weak, but resolved to act on her terrible resolution before it
again failed her.
Sir Philip was always an early riser, and she heard his foot on the
stairs before seven o'clock. She came out on the staircase, which
met the flight which he was descending, and tried to speak, but her
lips seemed too dry to part.
"Child! child! you are ill," said the old gentleman, as he saw her
blanched cheek; "you should be in bed this chilly morning. Go back
to your chamber."
"No, no, sir, I cannot. Pray, your Honour, come here, I have
something to say;" and she drew him to the open door of his justice-
room, called the gun-room.
"Bless me," he muttered, "the wench does not mean that she has got
smitten with that poor rogue my nephew!"
"Oh! no, no," said Anne, almost ready for a hysterical laugh, yet
letting the old man seat himself, and then dropping on her knees
before him, for she could hardly stand, "it is worse than that, sir;
I know who it was who did that thing."
"Well, who?" he said hastily; "why have you kept it back so long and
let an innocent man get into trouble?"
"O Sir Philip! I could not help it. Forgive me;" and with clasped
hands, she brought out the words, "It was your son, Mr. Archfield;"
and then she almost collapsed again.
"Child! child! you are ill; you do not know what you are saying. We
must have you to bed again. I will call your uncle."
"Ah! sir, it is only too true;" but she let him fetch her uncle, who
was sure to be at his devotions in a kind of oratory on the farther
side of the hall. She had not gone to him first, from the old
desire to keep him clear of the knowledge, but she longed for such
support as he might give her, or at least to know whether he were
very angry with her.
The two old men quickly came back together, and Dr. Woodford began,
"How now, niece, are you telling us dreams?" but he broke off as he
saw the sad earnest of her face.
"Sir, it is too true. He charged me to speak out if any one else
were brought into danger."
"Come," said Sir Philip, testily; "don't crouch grovelling on the
floor there. Get up and let us know the meaning of this. Good
heavens! the lad may be here any day."
Anne had much rather have knelt where she was, but her uncle raised
her, and placed her in a chair, saying, "Try to compose yourself,
and tell us what you mean, and why it has been kept back so long."
"Indeed he did not intend it," pleaded Anne; "it was almost an
accident--to protect me--Peregrine was--pursuing me."
"Upon my word, young mistress," burst out the father, "you seem to
have been setting all the young fellows together by the ears."
"I doubt if she could help it," said the Doctor. "She tried to be
discreet, but it was the reason her mother--"
"Well, go on," interrupted poor Sir Philip, too unhappy to remember
manners or listen to the defence; "what was it? when was it?"
Anne was allowed then to proceed. "It was the morning I went to
London. I went out to gather some mouse-ear."
"Mouse-ear! mouse-ear!" growled he. "Some one else's ear."
"It was for Lady Oglethorpe."
"It was," said her uncle, "a specific, it seems, for whooping-cough.
I saw the letter, and knew--"
"Umph! let us hear," said Sir Philip, evidently with the idea of a
tryst in his mind. "No wonder mischief comes of maidens running
about at such hours. What next?"
The poor girl struggled on: "I saw Peregrine coming, and hoping he
would not see me, I ran into the keep, meaning to get home by the
battlements out of his sight, but when I looked down he and Mr.
Archfield were fighting. I screamed, but I don't think they heard
me, and I ran down; but I had fastened all the doors, and I was a
long time getting out, and by that time Mr. Archfield had dragged
him to the vault and thrown him in. He was like one distracted, and
said it must be hidden, or it would be the death of his wife and his
mother, and what could I do?"
"Is that all the truth?" said Sir Philip sternly. "What brought
them there--either of them?"
"Mr. Archfield came to bring me a pattern of sarcenet to match for
poor young Madam in London."
No doubt Sir Philip recollected the petulant anger that this had
been forgotten, but he was hardly appeased. "And the other fellow?
Why, he was brawling with my nephew Sedley about you the day
before!"
"I do not think she was to blame there," said Dr. Woodford. "The
unhappy youth was set against marrying Mistress Browning, and had
talked wildly to my sister and me about wedding my niece."
"But why should she run away as if he had the plague, and set the
foolish lads to fight?"
"Sir, I must tell you," Anne owned, "he had beset me, and talked so
desperately that I was afraid of what he might do in that lonely
place and at such an hour in the morning. I hoped he had not seen
me."
"Umph!" said Sir Philip, much as if he thought a silly girl's
imagination had caused all the mischief.
"When did he thus speak to you, Anne?" asked her uncle, not
unkindly.
"At the inn at Portsmouth, sir," said Anne. "He came while you were
with Mr. Stanbury and the rest, and wanted me to marry him and flee
to France, or I know not where, or at any rate marry him secretly so
as to save him from poor Mistress Browning. I could not choose but
fear and avoid him, but oh! I would have faced him ten times over
rather than have brought this on--us all. And now what shall I do?
He, Mr. Archfield, when I saw him in France, said as long as no one
was suspected, it would only give more pain to say what I knew, but
that if suspicion fell on any one--" and her voice died away.
"He could not say otherwise," returned Sir Philip, with a groan.
"And now what shall I do? what shall I do?" sighed the poor girl.
"I must speak truth."
"I never bade you perjure yourself," said Sir Philip sharply, but
hiding his face in his hands, and groaning out, "Oh, my son! my
son!"
Seeing that his distress so overcame poor Anne that she could
scarcely contain herself, Dr. Woodford thought it best to take her
from the room, promising to come again to her. She could do nothing
but lie on her bed and weep in a quiet heart-broken way. Sir
Philip's anger seemed to fill up the measure, by throwing the guilt
back upon her and rousing a bitter sense of injustice, and then she
wept again at her cruel selfishness in blaming the broken-hearted
old man.
She could hardly have come down to breakfast, so heavy were her
limbs and so sick and faint did every movement render her, and she
further bethought herself that the poor old father might not brook
the sight of her under the circumstances. It was a pang to hear
little Philip prancing about the house, and when he had come to her
to say his prayers, she sent him down with a message that she was
not well enough to come downstairs, and that she wanted nothing,
only to be quiet.
The little fellow was very pitiful, and made her cry again by
wanting to know whether she had gout like grandpapa or rheumatics
like grandmamma, and then stroking her face, calling her his dear
Nana, and telling her of the salad in his garden that his papa was
to eat the very first day he came home.
By and by Dr. Woodford knocked at her door. He had had a long
conversation with poor old Sir Philip, who was calmer now than under
the first blow, and somewhat less inclined to anger with the girl,
who might indeed be the cause, but surely the innocent cause, of
all. The Doctor had done his best to show that her going out had no
connection with any of the youths, and he thought Sir Philip would
believe it on quieter reflection. He had remembered too, signs of
self-reproach mixed with his son's grief for his wife, and his
extreme relief at the plan for going abroad, recollecting likewise
that Charles had strongly disliked poor Peregrine, and had much
resented the liking which young Madam had shown for one whose
attentions might have been partly intended to tease the young
husband.
"Of course," said Dr. Woodford, "the unhappy deed was no more than
an unfortunate accident, and if all had been known at first,
probably it would so have been treated. The concealment was an
error, but it is impossible to blame either of you for it."
"Oh never mind that, dear uncle! Only tell me! Must he--must
Charles suffer to save that man? You know what he is, real murderer
in heart! Oh I know. The right must be done! But it is dreadful!"
"The right must be done and the truth spoken at all costs. No one
knows that better than our good old patron," said the Doctor; "but,
my dear child, you are not called on to denounce this young man as
you seem to imagine, unless there should be no other means of saving
his cousin, or unless you are so questioned that you cannot help
replying for truth's sake. Knowing nothing of all this, it struck
others besides myself at the inquest that the evidence against
Sedley was utterly insufficient for a conviction, and if he should
be acquitted, matters will only be as they were before."
"Then you think I am not bound to speak--The truth, the whole truth,
nothing but the truth," she murmured in exceeding grief, yet firmly.
"You certainly may, nay, _must_ keep your former silence till the
trial, at the Lent Assizes. I trust you may not be called on as a
witness to the fray with Sedley, but that I may be sufficient
testimony to that. I could testify to nothing else. Remember, if
you are called, you have only to answer what you are asked, nor is
it likely, unless Sedley have any suspicion of the truth, that you
will be asked any question that will implicate Mr. Archfield. If
so, God give you strength my poor child, to be true to Him. But the
point of the trial is to prove Sedley guilty or not guilty; and if
the latter, there is no more to be said. God grant it."
"But he--Mr. Archfield?"
"His father is already taking measures to send to all the ports to
stop him on his way till the trial is over. Thus there will be no
actual danger, though it is a sore disappointment, and these wicked
attempts of Charnock and Barclay put us in bad odour, so that it may
be less easy to procure a pardon than it once would have been. So,
my dear child, I do not think you need be in terror for his life,
even if you are obliged to speak out plainly."
And then the good old man knelt with Anne to pray for pardon,
direction, and firmness, and protection for Charles. She made an
entreaty after they rose that her uncle would take her away--her
presence must be so painful to their kind hosts. He agreed with
her, and made the proposition, but Sir Philip would not hear of it.
Perhaps he was afraid of any change bringing suspicion of the facts,
and he might have his fears of Anne being questioned into dangerous
admissions, besides which, he hoped to keep his poor old wife in
ignorance to the last. So Anne was to remain at Fareham, and after
that one day's seclusion she gathered strength to be with the family
as usual. Poor old Sir Philip treated her with a studied but icy
courtesy which cut her to the heart; but Lady Archfield's hopes of
seeing her son were almost worse, together with her regrets at her
husband's dejection at the situation of his nephew and the family
disgrace. As to little Philip, his curious inquiries about Cousin
Sedley being in jail for murdering Penny Grim had to be summarily
hushed by the assurance that such things were not to be spoken
about. But why did Nana cry when he talked of papa's coming home?
All the neighbourhood was invited to the funeral in Havant
Churchyard, the burial-place of the Oakshotts. Major Oakshott
himself wrote to Dr. Woodford, as having been one of the kindest
friends of his poor son, adding that he could not ask Sir Philip
Archfield, although he knew him to be no partner in the guilt of his
unhappy nephew, who so fully exemplified that Divine justice may be
slow, but is sure.
Dr. Woodford decided on accepting the invitation, not only for
Peregrine's sake, but to see how the land lay. Scarcely anything
remarkable, however, occurred, except that it was painful to
perceive the lightness of the coffin. A funeral sermon was
previously preached by a young Nonconformist minister in his own
chapel, on the text, "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his
blood be shed;" and then the burial took place, watched by a huge
crowd of people. But just as the procession was starting from the
chapel for the churchyard, over the wall there came a strange peal
of wild laughter.
"Oh, would not the unquiet spirit be at rest till it was avenged?"
thought Anne when she was told of it.