CHAPTER XV: NEWS FROM FAREHAM
"My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery.Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history."
JEAN INGELOW.
Lady Worsley was a handsome, commanding old dame, who soon made hercharge feel the social gulf between a county magnate and aclergyman's niece. She decidedly thought that Mistress AnneJacobina held her head too high for her position, and was, moreover,conceited of an unfortunate amount of good looks.
Therefore the good lady did her best to repress these dangeroustendencies by making the girl sit on the back seat with two maids,and uttering long lectures on humility, modesty, and discretionwhich made the blood of the sea-captain's daughter boil withindignation.
Yet she always carried with her the dread of being pursued andcalled upon to accuse Charles Archfield of Peregrine's death. Itwas a perpetual cloud, dispersed, indeed, for a time by the eventsof the day, but returning at night, when not only was the combatacted over again, but when she fell asleep it was only to be pursuedby Peregrine through endless vaulted dens of darkness, or, what wasfar worse, to be trying to hide a stream of blood that could neverbe stanched.
It was no wonder that she looked pale in the morning, and felt sotired and dejected as to make her sensible that she was cast loosefrom home and friends when no one troubled her with remarks orinquiries such as she could hardly have answered. However, when, onthe evening of the second day's journey, Anne was set down at SirTheophilus Oglethorpe's house at Westminster, she met with a verydifferent reception.
Lady Oglethorpe, a handsome, warm-hearted Irish woman, met her atonce in the hall with outstretched hands, and a kiss on each cheek.
"Come in, my dear, my poor orphan, the daughter of one who was verydear to me! Ah, how you have grown! I could never have thoughtthis was the little Anne I recollect. You shall come up to yourchamber at once, and rest you, and make ready for supper, by thetime Sir Theophilus comes in from attending the King."
Anne found herself installed in a fresh-smelling wainscotted room,where a glass of wine and some cake was ready for her, and where shemade herself ready, feeling exhilarated in spirits as she performedher toilette, putting on her black evening dress, and refreshing thecurls of her brown hair. It was a simple dress of deep mourning,but it became her well, and the two or three gentlemen who had comein to supper with Sir Theophilus evidently admired her greatly, andcomplimented her on having a situation at Court, which was all thatLady Oglethorpe mentioned.
"Child," she said afterwards, when they were in private, "if I hadknown what you looked like I would have sought a different positionfor you. But, there, to get one's foot--were it but the toe ofone's shoe--in at Court is the great point after all, the rest mustcome after. I warrant me you are well educated too. Can you speakFrench?"
"Oh yes, madam, and Italian, and dance and play on the spinnet. Iwas with two French ladies at Winchester every winter who taughtsuch things."
"Well, well, mayhap we may get you promoted to a sub-governess'splace--though your religion is against you. You are not a Catholic--eh?"
"No, your ladyship."
"That's the only road to favour nowadays, though for the name of thething they may have a Protestant or two. You are the King'sgodchild too, so he will expect it the more from you. However, wemay find a better path. You have not left your heart in thecountry, eh?"
Anne blushed and denied it.
"You will be mewed up close enough in the nursery," ran on LadyOglethorpe. "Lady Powys keeps close discipline there, and I expectshe will be disconcerted to see how fine a fish I have brought toher net; but we will see--we will see how matters go. But, my dear,have you no coloured clothes? There is no appearing in the Royalhousehold in private mourning. It might daunt the Prince's spiritsin his cradle!" and she laughed, though Anne felt much annoyed atthus disregarding her mother, as well as at the heavy expense.However, there was no help for it; the gowns and laces hidden in thebottom of her mails were disinterred, and the former were for themost part condemned, so that she had to submit to a fresh outfit, inwhich Lady Oglethorpe heartily interested herself, but which drainedthe purse that the Canon had amply supplied.
These arrangements were not complete when the first letter from homearrived, and was opened with a beating heart, and furtive glances asof one who feared to see the contents, but they were by no meanswhat she expected.
I hope you have arrived safely in London, and that you are notdispleased with your first taste of life in a Court. Neithertown nor country is exempt from sorrow and death. I was summonedonly on the second day after your departure to share in thesorrows at Archfield, where the poor young wife died early onFriday morning, leaving a living infant, a son, who, I hope, mayprove a blessing to them, if he is spared, which can scarcely beexpected. The poor young man, and indeed all the family, are inthe utmost distress, and truly there were circumstances thatrender the event more than usually deplorable, and for which heblames himself exceedingly, even to despair. It appears that thepoor young gentlewoman wished to add some trifle to the numerouscommissions with which she was entrusting you on the night of thebonfire, and that she could not be pacified except by her husbandundertaking to ride over to give the patterns and the orders toyou before your setting forth. You said nothing of having seenhim--nor do I see how it was possible that you could have doneso, seeing that you only left your chamber just before thebreakfast that you never tasted, my poor child. He neverreturned till long after noon, and what with fretting after him,and disappointment, that happened which Lady Archfield had alwaysapprehended, and the poor fragile young creature worked herselfinto a state which ended before midnight in the birth of a punybabe, and her own death shortly after. She wanted two months ofcompleting her sixteenth year, and was of so frail a constitutionthat Dr. Brown had never much hope of her surviving the birth ofher child. It was a cruel thing to marry her thus early, ungrownin body or mind, but she had no one to care for her before shewas brought hither. The blame, as I tell Sir Philip, and wouldfain persuade poor Charles, is really with those who bred her upso uncontrolled as to be the victim of her humours; but theunhappy youth will listen to no consolation. He calls himself amurderer, shuts himself up, and for the most part will see andspeak to no one, but if forced by his father's command to unlockhis chamber door, returns at once to sit with his head hidden inhis arms crossed upon the table, and if father, mother, or sisterstrive to rouse him and obtain answer from him, he will onlymurmur forth, "I should only make it worse if I did." It ispiteous to see a youth so utterly overcome, and truly I think hiscondition is a greater distress to our good friends than the lossof the poor young wife. They asked him what name he would havegiven to his child, but all the answer they could get was, "Asyou will, only not mine;" and in the enforced absence of mybrother of Fareham I baptized him Philip. The funeral will takeplace to-morrow, and Sir Philip proposes immediately after totake his son to Oxford, and there endeavour to find a tutor ofmature age and of prudence, with whom he may either study at NewCollege or be sent on the grand tour. It is the only notion thatthe poor lad has seemed willing to entertain, as if to get awayfrom his misery, and I cannot but think it well for him. He isnot yet twenty, and may, as it were, begin life again the wiserand the better man for his present extreme sorrow. LadyArchfield is greatly wrapped up in the care of the babe, who, Ifear, is in danger of being killed by overcare, if by nothingelse, though truly all is in the hands of God. I have scarcequitted the afflicted family since I was summoned to them onFriday, since Sir Philip has no one else on whom to depend forcomfort or counsel; and if I can obtain the services of Mr. Ellisfrom Portsmouth for a few Sundays, I shall ride with him toOxford to assist in the choice of a tutor to go abroad with Mr.Archfield.
One interruption however I had, namely, from Major Oakshott, whocame in great perturbation to ask what was the last I had seen ofhis son Peregrine. It appears that the unfortunate young mannever returned home after the bonfire on Portsdown Hill, whe
rehis brother Robert lost sight of him, and after waiting as longas he durst, returned home alone. It has become known that afterparting with us high words passed between him and LieutenantSedley Archfield, insomuch that after the unhappy fashion ofthese times, blood was demanded, and early in the morning Sedleysent the friend who was to act as second to bear the challenge toyoung Oakshott. You can conceive the reception that he waslikely to receive at Oakwood; but it was then discovered thatPeregrine had not been in his bed all night, nor had any one seenor heard of him. Sedley boasts loudly that the youngster hasfled the country for fear of him, and truly things have thatappearance, although to my mind Peregrine was far from wanting inspirit or courage. But, as he had not received the cartel, hemight not have deemed his honour engaged to await it, and Iincline to the belief that he is on his way to his uncle inMuscovy, driven thereto by his dread of the marriage with thegentlewoman whom he holds in so much aversion. I have striven toconsole his father by the assurance that such tidings of him willsurely arrive in due time, but the Major is bitterly grieved, andis galled by the accusation of cowardice. "He could not even betrue to his own maxims of worldly honour," says the poorgentleman. "So true it is that only by grace we stand fast."The which is true enough, but the poor gentleman unwittingly didhis best to make grace unacceptable in his son's eyes. I trustsoon to hear again of you, my dear child. I rejoice that LadyOglethorpe is so good to you, and I hope that in the palace youwill guard first your faith and then your discretion. And sopraying always for your welfare, alike spiritual and temporal.--Your loving uncle, JNO. WOODFORD.
Truly it was well that Anne had secluded herself to read thisletter.
So the actual cause for which poor Charles Archfield had entreatedsilence was at an end. The very evil he had apprehended had come topass, and she could well understand how, on his return in a horror-stricken, distracted state of mind, the childish petulance of hiswife had worried him into loss of temper, so that he hardly knewwhat he said. And what must not his agony of remorse be? She couldscarcely imagine how he had avoided confessing all as a mere reliefto his mind, but then she reflected that when he called himself amurderer the words were taken in another sense, and no questionsasked, nor would he be willing to add such grief and shame to hisparents' present burthen, especially as no suspicion existed.
That Peregrine's fate had not been discovered greatly relieved her.She believed the vault to go down to a considerable depth after afirst platform of stone near the opening, and it was generallyavoided as the haunt of hobgoblins, fairies, or evil beings, so thatno one was likely to be in its immediate neighbourhood after the haywas carried, so that there might have been nothing to attract anyone to the near neighbourhood and thus lead to the discovery. Ifnot made by this time, Charles would be far away, and there wasnothing to connect him with the deed. No one save herself had evenknown of his having been near the castle that morning. How strangethat the only persons aware of that terrible secret should be so farseparated from one another that they could exchange no confidences;and each was compelled to absolute silence. For as long as no oneelse was suspected, Anne felt her part must be not to betrayCharles, though the bare possibility of the accusation of anotherwas agony to her.
She wrote her condolences in due form to Fareham, and in due timewas answered by Lucy Archfield. The letter was full of detailsabout the infant, who seemed to absorb her and her mother, and to beas likely to live as any child of those days ever was--and it was inhis favour that his grandmother and her old nurse had better notionsof management than most of her contemporaries. In spite of all thatLucy said of her brother's overwhelming grief, and the melancholy ofthus parting with him, there was a strain of cheerfulness throughoutthe letter, betraying that the poor young wife of less than a yearwas no very great loss to the peace and comfort of the family. Theletter ended with--
There is a report that Sir Peregrine Oakshott is dead in Muscovy.Nothing has been heard of that unfortunate young man at Oakwood.If he be gone in quest of his uncle, I wonder what will become ofhim? However, nurse will have it that this being the thirdseventh year of his life, the fairies have carried off theirchangeling--you remember how she told us the story of his beingchanged as an infant, when we were children at Winchester; shebelieves it as much as ever, and never let little Philip out ofher sight before he was baptized. I ask her, if the changelingbe gone, where is the true Peregrine? but she only wags her headin answer.
A day or two later Anne heard from her uncle from Oxford. He wasextremely grieved at the condition of his beloved alma mater, with aRoman Catholic Master reigning at University College, a doctor fromthe Sorbonne and Fellows to match, inflicted by military force onMagdalen, whose lawful children had been ejected with a violencebeyond anything that the colleges had suffered even in the time ofthe Rebellion. If things went on as they were, he pronounced Oxfordwould be no better than a Popish seminary: and he had the morereadily induced his old friend to consent to Charles's desire not toremain there as a student, but to go abroad with Mr. Fellowes, oneof the expelled fellows of Magdalen, a clergyman of mature age, buta man of the world, who had already acted as a travelling tutor.Considering that the young widower was not yet twenty, and that allhis wife's wealth would be in his hands, also that his cousin Sedleyformed a dangerous link with the questionable diversions of thegarrison at Portsmouth, both father and friend felt that it was wellthat he should be out of reach, and have other occupations for thepresent.
Change of scene had, Dr. Woodford said, brightened the poor youth,and he was showing more interest in passing events, but probably hewould never again be the light-hearted boy they used to know.
Anne could well believe it.