"O terror! what hath she perceived? O joy,
What doth she look on? whom hath she perceived?"
WORDSWORTH.
Time wore away, and the Lent Assizes at Winchester had come. Sir
Philip had procured the best legal assistance for his nephew, but in
criminal cases, though the prisoner was allowed the advice of
counsel, the onus of defence rested upon himself. To poor Anne's
dismay, a subpoena was sent to her, as well as to her uncle, to
attend as a witness at the trial. Sir Philip was too anxious to
endure to remain at a distance from Winchester, and they travelled
in his coach, Sir Edmund Nutley escorting them on horseback, while
Lucy was left with her mother, both still in blissful ignorance.
They took rooms at the George Inn. That night was a strange and
grievous one to Anne, trying hard to sleep so as to be physically
capable of composure and presence of mind, yet continually wakened
by ghastly dreams, and then recollecting that the sense of something
terrible was by no means all a dream.
Very white, very silent, but very composed, she came to the sitting-
room, and was constrained by her uncle and Sir Philip to eat, much
as it went against her. On this morning Sir Philip had dropped his
sternness towards her, and finding a moment when his son-in-law was
absent, he said, "Child, I know that this is wellnigh, nay, quite as
hard for you as for me. I can only say, Let no earthly regards hold
you back from whatever is your duty to God and man. Speak the truth
whatever betide, and leave the rest to the God of truth. God bless
you, however it may be;" and he kissed her brow.
The intelligence that the trial was coming on was brought by
Sedley's counsel, Mr. Simon Harcourt. They set forth for the County
Hall up the sharply-rising street, thronged with people, who growled
and murmured at the murderer savagely, Sir Philip, under the care of
his son-in-law, and Anne with her uncle. Mr. Harcourt was very
hopeful; he said the case for the prosecution had not a leg to stand
on, and that the prisoner himself was so intelligent, and had so
readily understood the line of defence to take, that he ought to
have been a lawyer. There would be no fear except that it might be
made a party case, and no stone was likely to be left unturned
against a gentleman of good loyal family. Moreover Mr. William
Cowper, whom Robert Oakshott, or rather his wife, had engaged at
great expense for the prosecution, was one of the most rising of
barristers, noted for his persuasive eloquence, and unfortunately
Mr. Harcourt had not the right of reply.
The melancholy party were conducted into court, Sir Philip and Sir
Edmund to the seats disposed of by the sheriff, beside the judge,
strangely enough only divided by him from Major Oakshott. The judge
was Mr. Baron Hatsel, a somewhat weak-looking man, in spite of his
red robes and flowing wig, as he sat under his canopy beneath King
Arthur's Round Table. Sedley, perhaps a little thinner since his
imprisonment, but with the purple red on his face, and his prominent
eyes so hard and bold that it was galling to know that this was
really the confidence of innocence.
Mr. Cowper was with great ability putting the case. Here were two
families in immediate neighbourhood, divided from the first by
political opinions of the strongest complexion; and he put the
Oakshott views upon liberty, civil and religious, in the most
popular light. The unfortunate deceased he described as having been
a highly promising member of the suite of the distinguished Envoy,
Sir Peregrine Oakshott, whose name he bore. On the death of the
eldest brother he had been recalled, and his accomplishments and
foreign air had, it appeared, excited the spleen of the young
gentlemen of the county belonging to the Tory party, then in the
ascendant, above all of the prisoner. There was then little or no
etiquette as to irrelevant matter, so that Mr. Cowper could dwell at
length on Sedley's antecedents, as abusing the bounty of his uncle,
a known bully expelled for misconduct from Winchester College, then
acting as a suitable instrument in those violences in Scotland which
had driven the nation finally to extremity, noted for his
debaucheries when in garrison, and finally broken for
insubordination in Ireland.
After this unflattering portrait, which Sedley's looks certainly did
not belie, the counsel went back to 1688, proceeded to mention
several disputes which had taken place when Peregrine had met
Lieutenant Archfield at Portsmouth; but, he added with a smile, that
no dart of malice was ever thoroughly winged till Cupid had added
his feather; and he went on to describe in strong colours the insult
to a young gentlewoman, and the interference of the other young man
in her behalf, so that swords were drawn before the appearance of
the reverend gentleman her uncle. Still, he said, there was further
venom to be added to the bolt, and he showed that the two had parted
after the rejoicings on Portsdown Hill with a challenge all but
uttered between them, the Whig upholding religious liberty, the Tory
hotly defending such honour as the King possessed, and both parting
in anger.
Young Mr. Oakshott was never again seen alive, though his family
long hoped against hope. There was no need to dwell on the strange
appearances that had incited them to the search. Certain it was,
that after seven years' silence, the grave had yielded up its
secrets. Then came the description of the discovery of the bones,
and of the garments and sword, followed by the mention of the
evidence as to the blood on the grass, and the prisoner having been
seen in the neighbourhood of the castle at that strange hour. He
was observed to have an amount of money unusual with him soon after,
and, what was still more suspicious, after having gambled this away,
he had sold to a goldsmith at Southampton a ruby ring, which both
Mr. and Mrs. Oakshott could swear to have belonged to the deceased.
In fact, when Mr. Cowper marshalled the facts, and even described
the passionate encounter taking place hastily and without witnesses,
and the subsequent concealment of guilt in the vault, the purse
taken, and whatever could again be identified hidden, while
providentially the blocking up of the vault preserved the evidence
of the crime so long undetected and unavenged, it was hardly
possible to believe the prisoner innocent.
When the examination of the witnesses began, however, Sedley showed
himself equal to his own defence. He made no sign when Robert
Oakshott identified the clothes, sword, and other things, and their
condition was described; but he demanded of him sharply how he knew
the human remains to be those of his brother.
"Of course they were," said Robert.
"Were there any remains of clothes with them?"
"No."
"Can you swear to them? Did you ever before see your brother's
bones?"
At which, and at the witness's hesitating, "No, but--" the court
began to laugh.
"What was the height of the deceased?"
"He reached about up to my ear," said the witness with some
hesitation.
"What was the length of the skeleton?"
"Quite small. It looked like a child's."
"My lord," said Sedley, "I have a witness here, a surgeon, whom I
request may be called to certify the proportion of a skeleton to the
size of a living man."
Though this was done, the whole matter of size was so vague that
there was nothing proved, either as to the inches of Peregrine or
those of the skeleton, but still Sedley made his point that the
identity of the body was unproved at least in some minds. Still,
there remained the other articles, about which there was no doubt.
Mr. Cowper proceeded with his examination as to the disputes at
Portsmouth, but again the prisoner scored a point by proving that
Peregrine had staked the ring against him at a cock-fight at
Southampton, and had lost it.
Dr. Woodford was called, and his evidence could not choose but to be
most damaging as to the conflict on the road at Portsmouth; but as
he had not seen the beginning, 'Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford' was
called for.
There she stood, tall and stately, almost majestic in the stiffness
of intense self-restraint, in her simple gray dress, her black silk
hood somewhat back, her brown curls round her face, a red spot in
each cheek, her earnest brown eyes fixed on the clerk as he gabbled
out the words so awful to her, "The truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth;" and her soul re-echoed the words, "So help
you God."
Mr. Cowper was courteous; he was a gentleman, and he saw she was no
light-minded girl. He asked her the few questions needful as to the
attack made on her, and the defence; but something moved him to go
on and ask whether she had been on Portsdown Hill, and to obtain
from her the account of the high words between the young men. She
answered each question in a clear low voice, which still was audible
to all. Was it over, or would Sedley begin to torture her, when so
much was in his favour? No! Mr. Cowper--oh! why would he? was
asking in an affirmative tone, as if to clench the former evidence,
"And did you ever see the deceased again?"
"Yes." The answer was at first almost choked, then cleared into
sharpness, and every eye turned in surprise on the face that had
become as white as her collar.
"Indeed! And when?"
"The next morning," in a voice as if pronouncing her own doom, and
with hands clinging tight to the front of the witness-box as though
in anguish.
"Where?" said the counsel, like inexorable fate.
"I will save the gentlewoman from replying to that question, sir;"
and a gentleman with long brown hair, in a rich white and gold
uniform, rose from among the spectators. "Perhaps I may be allowed
to answer for her, when I say that it was at Portchester Castle, at
five in the morning, that she saw Peregrine Oakshott slain by my
hand, and thrown into the vault."
There was a moment of breathless amazement in the court, and the
judge was the first to speak. "Very extraordinary, sir! What is
your name?"
"Charles Archfield," said the clear resolute voice.
Then came a general movement and sensation, and Anne, still holding
fast to the support, saw the newcomer start forward with a cry, "My
father!" and with two or three bounds reach the side of Sir Philip,
who had sunk back in his seat for a moment, but recovered himself as
he felt his son's arm round him.
There was a general buzz, and a cry of order, and in the silence
thus produced the judge addressed the witness:--
"Is what this gentleman says the truth?"
And on Anne's reply, "Yes, my Lord," spoken with the clear ring of
anguish, the judge added--
"Was the prisoner present?"
"No, my Lord; he had nothing to do with it."
"Then, brother Cowper, do you wish to proceed with the case?"
Mr. Cowper replied in the negative, and the judge then made a brief
summing-up, and the jury, without retiring, returned a verdict of
'Not guilty.'
In the meantime Anne had been led like one blinded from the witness-
box, and almost dropped into her uncle's arms. "Cheer up, cheer up,
my child," he said. "You have done your part bravely, and after so
upright a confession no one can deal hardly with the young man. God
will surely protect him."
The acquittal had been followed by a few words from Baron Hatsel,
congratulating the late prisoner on his deliverance through this
gentleman's generous confession. Then there was a moment's
hesitation, ended by the sheriff asking Charles, who stood up by his
old father, one arm supporting the trembling form, and the other
hand clasped in the two aged ones, "Then, sir, do you surrender to
take your trial?"
"Certainly, sir," said Charles. "I ought to have done so long ago,
but in the first shock--"
Mr. Harcourt here cautioned him not to say anything that could be
used against him, adding in a low tone, much to Sir Philip's relief,
"It may be brought in manslaughter, sir."
"He should be committed," another authority said. "Is there a
Hampshire magistrate here to sign a warrant?"
Of these there were plenty; and as the clerk asked for his
description, all eyes turned on the tall and robust form in the
prime of manhood, with the noble resolute expression on his fine
features and steadfast eyes, except when, as he looked at his
father, they were full of infinite pity. The brown hair hung over
the rich gold-laced white coat, faced with black, and with a broad
gold-coloured sash fringed with black over his shoulder, and there
was a look of distinction about him that made his answer only
natural. "Charles Archfield, of Archfield House, Fareham,
Lieutenant-Colonel of his Imperial Majesty's Light Dragoons, Knight
of the Holy Roman Empire. Must I give up my sword like a prisoner
of war?" he asked, with a smile.
Sir Philip rose to his feet with an earnest trembling entreaty that
bail might be taken for him, and many voices of gentlemen and men of
substance made offers of it. There was a little consultation, and
it was ruled that bail might be accepted under the circumstances,
and Charles bowed his thanks to the distant and gave his hand to the
nearer, while Mr. Eyre of Botley Grange, and Mr. Brocas of Roche
Court, were accepted as sureties. The gentle old face of Mr.
Cromwell of Hursley, was raised to poor old Sir Philip's with the
words, spoken with a remnant of the authority of the Protector:
"Your son has spoken like a brave man, sir; God bless you, and bring
you well through it."
Charles was then asked whether he wished for time to collect
witnesses. "No, my lord," he said. "I thank you heartily, but I
have no one to call, and the sooner this is over the better for
all."
After a little consultation it was found that the Grand Jury had not
been dismissed, and could find a true bill against him; and it was
decided that the trial should take place after the rest of the
criminal cases were disposed of.
This settled, the sorrowful party with the strangely welcomed son
were free to return to their quarters at the George. Mr. Cromwell
pressed forward to beg that they would make use of his coach. It
was a kind thought, for Sir Philip hung feebly on his son's arm, and
to pass through the curious throng would have been distressing.
After helping him in, Charles turned and demanded--
"Where is she, the young gentlewoman, Miss Woodford?"
She was just within, her uncle waiting to take her out till the
crowd's attention should be called off. Charles lifted her in, and
Sir Edmund and Dr. Woodford followed him, for there was plenty of
room in the capacious vehicle.
Nobody spoke in the very short interval the four horses took in
getting themselves out of the space in front of the County Hall and
down the hill to the George. Only Charles had leant forward, taken
Anne's hand, drawn it to his lips, and then kept fast hold of it.
They were all in the room at the inn at last, they hardly knew how;
indeed, as Charles was about to shut the door there was a smack on
his back, and there stood Sedley holding out his hand.
"So, Charley, old fellow, you were the sad dog after all. You got
me out of it, and I owe you my thanks, but you need not have put
your neck into the noose. I should have come off with flying
colours, and made them all make fools of themselves, if you had only
waited."
"Do you think I could sit still and see _her_ put to the torture?"
said Charles.
"Torture? You are thinking of your barbarous countries. No fear of
the boot here, nor even in Scotland nowadays."
"That's all the torture you understand," muttered Sir Edmund Nutley.
"Not but what I am much beholden to you all the same," went on
Sedley. "And look here, sir," turning to his uncle, "if you wish to
get him let off cheap you had better send up another special
retainer to Harcourt, without loss of time, as he may be off."
Sir Edmund Nutley concurred in the advice, and they hurried off
together in search of the family attorney, through whom the great
man had to be approached.
The four left together could breathe more freely. Indeed Dr.
Woodford would have taken his niece away, but that Charles already
had her in his arms in a most fervent embrace, as he said, "My
brave, my true maid!"
She could not speak, but she lifted up her eyes, with infinite
relief in all her sorrow, as for a moment she rested against him;
but they had to move apart, for a servant came up with some wine,
and Charles, putting her into a chair, began to wait on her and on
his father.
"I have not quite forgotten my manners," he said lightly, as if to
relieve the tension of feeling, "though in Germany the ladies serve
the gentlemen."
It was very hard not to burst into tears at these words, but Anne
knew that would be the way to distress her companions and to have to
leave the room and lose these precious moments. Sir Philip, after
swallowing the wine, succeeded in saying, "Have you been at home?"
Charles explained that he had landed at Gravesend, and had ridden
thence, sleeping at Basingstoke, and taking the road through
Winchester in case his parents should be wintering there, and on
arriving a couple of hours previously and inquiring for them, he had
heard the tidings that Sir Philip Archfield was indeed there, for
his nephew was being tried for his life for the wilful murder of
Major Oakshott's son seven years ago.
"And you had none of my warnings? I wrote to all the ports," said
his father, "to warn you to wait till all this was over."
No; he had crossed from Sluys, and had met no letter. "I suppose,"
he said, "that I must not ride home to-morrow. It might make my
sureties uneasy; but I would fain see them all."
"It would kill your mother to be here," said Sir Philip. "She knows
nothing of what Anne told me on Sedley's arrest. She is grown very
feeble;" and he groaned. "But we might send for your sister, if she
can leave her, and the boy."
"I should like my boy to be fetched," said Charles. "I should wish
him to remember his father--not as a felon convicted!" Then putting
a knee to the ground before Sir Philip, he said, "Sir, I ask your
blessing and forgiveness. I never before thoroughly understood my
errors towards you, especially in hiding this miserable matter, and
leaving all this to come on you, while my poor Anne there was left
to bear all the load. It was a cowardly and selfish act, and I ask
your pardon."
The old man sobbed with his hand on his son's head. "My dear boy!
my poor boy! you were distraught."
"I was then. I did it, as I thought, for my poor Alice's sake at
first, and as it proved, it was all in vain; but at the year's end,
when I was older, it was folly and wrong. I ought to have laid all
before you, and allowed you to judge, and I sincerely repent the not
having so done. And Anne, my sweetest Anne, has borne the burthen
all this time," he added, going back to her. "Let no one say a
woman cannot keep secrets, though I ought never to have laid this on
her."
"Ah! it might have gone better for you then," sighed Sir Philip.
"No one would have visited a young lad's mischance hardly on a loyal
house in those days. What is to be done, my son?"
"That we will discuss when the lawyer fellow comes. Is it old Lee?
Meantime let us enjoy our meeting. So that is Lucy's husband.
Sober and staid, eh? And my mother is feeble, you say. Has she
been ill?"
Charles was comporting himself with the cheerfulness that had become
habitual to him as a soldier, always in possible danger, but it was
very hard to the others to chime in with his tone, and when a
message was brought to ask whether his Honour would be served in
private, the cheery greeting and shake of the hand broke down the
composure of the old servant who brought it, and he cried, "Oh, sir,
to see you thus, and such a fine young gentleman!"
Charles, the only person who could speak, gave the orders, but they
did not eat alone, for Sir Edmund Nutley and Sedley arrived with the
legal advisers, and it was needful, perhaps even better, to have
their company. The chief of the conversation was upon Hungarian and
Transylvanian politics and the Turkish war. Mr. Harcourt seeming
greatly to appreciate the information that Colonel Archfield was
able to give him, and the anecdotes of the war, and descriptions of
scenes therein actually brightened Sir Philip into interest, and
into forgetting for a moment his son's situation in pride in his
conduct, and at the distinction he had gained. "We must save him,"
said Mr. Harcourt to Sir Edmund. "He is far too fine a fellow to be
lost for a youthful mischance."
The meal was a short one, and a consultation was to follow, while
Sedley departed. Anne was about to withdraw, when Mr. Lee the
attorney said, "We shall need Mistress Woodford's evidence, sir, for
the defence."
"I do not see what defence there can be," returned Charles. "I can
only plead guilty, and throw myself on the King's mercy, if he
chooses to extend it to one of a Tory family."
"Not so fast, sir," said Mr. Harcourt; "as far as I have gathered
the facts, there is every reason to hope you may obtain a verdict of
manslaughter, and a nominal penalty, although that rests with the
judge."
On this the discussion began in earnest. Charles, who had never
heard the circumstances which led to the trial, was greatly
astonished to hear what remains had been discovered. He said that
he could only declare himself to have thrown in the body, full
dressed, just as it was, and how it could have been stripped and
buried he could not imagine. "What made folks think of looking into
the vault?" he asked.
"It was Mrs. Oakshott," said Lee, "the young man's wife, she who was
to have married the deceased. She took up some strange notion about
stories of phantoms current among the vulgar, and insisted on having
the vault searched, though it had been walled up for many years
past."
Charles and Anne looked at each other, and the former said, "Again?"
"Oh yes!" said Anne; "indeed there have been enough to make me
remember what you bade me do, in case they recurred, only it was
impossible."
"Phantoms!" said Mr. Harcourt; "what does this mean?"
"Mere vulgar superstitions, sir," said the attorney.
"But very visible," said Charles; "I have seen one myself, of which
I am quite sure, besides many that may be laid to the account of the
fever of my wound."
"I must beg to hear," said the barrister. "Do I understand that
these were apparitions of the deceased?"
"Yes," said Charles. "Miss Woodford saw the first, I think."
"May I beg you to describe it?" said Mr. Harcourt, taking a fresh
piece of paper to make notes on.
Anne narrated the two appearances in London, and Charles added the
story of the figure seen in the street at Douai, seen by both
together, asking what more she knew of.
"Once at night last summer, at the very anniversary, I saw his face
in the trees in the garden," said Anne; "it was gone in a moment.
That has been all I have seen; but little Philip came to me full of
stories of people having seen Penny Grim, as he calls it, and very
strangely, once it rose before him at the great pond, and his fright
saved him from sliding to the dangerous part. What led Mrs.
Oakshott to the examination was that it was seen once on the beach,
once by the sentry at the vault itself, once by the sexton at Havant
Churchyard, and once by my mother's grave."
"Seven?" said the counsel, reviewing the notes he jotted down.
"Colonel Archfield, I should recommend you pleading not guilty, and
basing your defence, like your cousin, on the strong probability
that this same youth is a living man."
"Indeed!" said Charles, starting, "I could have hoped it from these
recent apparitions, but what I myself saw forbids the idea. If any
sight were ever that of a spirit, it was what we saw at Douai;
besides, how should he come thither, a born and bred Whig and
Puritan?"
"There is no need to mention that; you can call witnesses to his
having been seen within these few months. It would rest with the
prosecution to disprove his existence in the body, especially as the
bones in the vault cannot be identified."
"Sir," said Charles, "the defence that would have served my innocent
cousin cannot serve me, who know what I did to Oakshott. I am _now_
aware that it is quite possible that the sword might not have killed
him, but when I threw him into that vault I sealed his fate."
"How deep is the vault?"
Mr. Lee and Dr. Woodford both averred that it was not above twenty
or twenty-four feet deep, greatly to Charles's surprise, for as a
lad he had thought it almost unfathomable; but then he owned his
ideas of Winchester High Street had been likewise far more
magnificent than he found it. The fall need not necessarily have
been fatal, especially to one insensible and opposing no resistance,
but even supposing that death had not resulted, in those Draconian
days, the intent to murder was equally subject with its full
accomplishment to capital punishment. Still, as Colonel Archfield
could plead with all his heart that he had left home with no evil
intentions towards young Oakshott, the lawyers agreed that to prove
that the death of the victim was uncertain would reduce the matter
to a mere youthful brawl, which could not be heavily visited. Mr.
Harcourt further asked whether it were possible to prove that the
prisoner had been otherwise employed than in meddling with the body;
but unfortunately it had been six hours before he came home.
"I was distracted," said Charles; "I rode I knew not whither, till I
came to my senses on finding that my horse was ready to drop, when I
led him into a shed at a wayside public-house, bade them feed him,
took a drink, then I wandered out into the copse near, and lay on
the ground there till I thought him rested, for how long I know not.
I think it must have been near Bishops Waltham, but I cannot
recollect."
Mr. Lee decided on setting forth at peep of dawn the next morning to
endeavour to collect witnesses of Peregrine's appearances. Sir
Edmund Nutley intended to accompany him as far as Fareham to fetch
little Philip and Lady Nutley, if the latter could leave her mother
after the tidings had been broken to them, and also to try to trace
whether Charles's arrival at any public-house were remembered.
To her dismay, Anne received another summons from the other party to
act as witness.
"I hoped to have spared you this, my sweet," said Charles, "but
never mind; you cannot say anything worse of me than I shall own of
myself."
The two were left to each other for a little while in the bay
window. "Oh, sir! can you endure me thus after all?" murmured Anne,
as she felt his arm round her.
"Can you endure me after all I left you to bear?" he returned.
"It was not like what I brought on you," she said.
But they could not talk much of the future; and Charles told how he
had rested through all his campaigns in the knowledge that his Anne
was watching and praying for him, and how his long illness had
brought before him deeper thoughts than he had ever had before, and
made him especially dwell on the wrong done to his parents by his
long absence, and the lightness with which he had treated home
duties and responsibilities, till he had resolved that if his life
were then spared, he would neglect them no longer.
"And now," he said, and paused, "all I shall have done is to break
their hearts. What is that saying, 'Be sure your sin will find you
out.'"
"Oh, sir! they are sure not to deal hardly with you."
"Perhaps the Emperor's Ambassador may claim me. If so, would you go
into banishment with the felon, Anne, love? It would not be quite
so mad as when I asked you before."
"I would go to the ends of the world with you; and we would take
little Phil. Do you know, he is growing a salad, and learning
Latin, all for papa?"
And so she told him of little Phil till his father was seen looking
wistfully at him.
With Sir Philip, Charles was all cheerfulness and hope, taking such
interest in all there was to hear about the family, estate, and
neighbourhood that the old gentleman was beguiled into feeling as if
there were only a short ceremony to be gone through before he had
his son at home, saving him ease and trouble.
But after Sir Philip had been persuaded to retire, worn out with the
day's agitations, and Anne likewise had gone to her chamber to weep
and pray, Charles made his arrangements with Mr. Lee for the future
for all connected with him in case of the worst; and after the
lawyer's departure poured out his heart to Dr. Woodford in deep
contrition, as he said he had longed to do when lying in expectation
of death at the Iron Gates. "However it may end," he said, "and I
expect, as I deserve, the utmost, I am thankful for this
opportunity, though unhappily it gives more pain to those about me
than if I had died out there. Tell them, when they need comfort,
how much better it is for me."
"My dear boy, I cannot believe you will have to suffer."
"There is much against me, sir. My foolish flight, the state of
parties, and the recent conspiracy, which has made loyal families
suspected and odious. I saw something of that as I came down. The
crowd fancied my uniform French, and hooted and hissed me.
Unluckily I have no other clothes to wear. Nor can I from my heart
utterly disclaim all malice or ill will when I remember the thrill
of pleasure in driving my sword home. I have had to put an end to a
Janissary or two more than once in the way of duty, but their black
eyes never haunted me like those parti-coloured ones. Still I
trust, as you tell me I may, that God forgives me, for our Blessed
Lord's sake; but I should like, if I could, to take the Holy
Sacrament with my love while I am still thus far a free man. I have
not done so since the Easter before these troubles."
"You shall, my dear boy, you shall."
There were churches at which the custom freshly begun at the
Restoration was not dropped. The next was St. Matthias's Day, and
Anne and her uncle had already purposed to go to the quiet little
church of St. Lawrence, at no great distance, in the very early
morning. They were joined on their way down the stair into the
courtyard of the inn by a gentleman in a slouched hat and large dark
cloak, who drew Anne's arm within his own.
Truly there was peace on that morning, and strength to the brave man
beyond the physical courage that had often before made him bright in
the face of danger, and Anne, though weeping, had a sense of respite
and repose, if not of hope.
Late in the afternoon, little Philip was lifted down from riding
before old Ralph into the arms of the splendid officer, whose
appearance transcended all his visions. He fumbled in his small
pocket, and held out a handful of something green and limp.
"Here's my salad, papa. I brought it all the way for you to eat."
And Colonel Archfield ate every scrap of it for supper, though it
was much fitter for a rabbit, and all the evening he held on his
knee the tired child, and responded to his prattle about Nana and
dogs and rabbits; nay, ministered to his delight and admiration of
the sheriff's coach, javelin men, and even the judge, with a strange
mixture of wonder, delight, and with melancholy only in eyes and
undertones.