A Reputed Changeling

“Hush, hush, Peregrine!  I cannot have you talk thus.  If your father had such designs, it would be unworthy of us to favour you in crossing them.”

“Nay, madam, he hath never expressed them as yet.  Only my mother and brother both refer to his purpose, and if I could show myself contracted to a young lady of good birth and education, he cannot gainsay; it might yet save me from what I will not and cannot endure.  Not that such is by any means my chief and only motive.  I have loved Mistress Anne with all my heart ever since she shone upon me like a being from a better world when I lay sick here.  She has the same power of hushing the wild goblin within me as you have, madam.  I am another man with her, as I am with you.  It is my only hope!  Give me that hope, and I shall be able to endure patiently.—Ah! what have I done?  Have I said too much?”

He had talked longer and more eagerly than would have been good for the invalid even if the topic had been less agitating, and the emotion caused by this unexpected complication, consternation at the difficulties she foresaw, and the present difficulty of framing a reply, were altogether too much for Mrs. Woodford.  She turned deadly white, and gasped for breath, so that Peregrine, in terror, dashed off in search of the maids, exclaiming that their mistress was in a swoon.

The Doctor came out of his study much distressed, and in Anne’s absence the household was almost helpless in giving the succours in which she had always been the foremost.  Peregrine lingered about in remorse and despair, offering to fetch her or to go for the doctor, and finally took the latter course, thereto impelled by the angry words of the old cook, an enemy of his in former days.

“No better? no, sir, nor ’tis not your fault if ever she be.  You’ve been and frought her nigh to death with your terrifying ways.”

Peregrine was Hampshire man enough to know that to terrify only meant to tease, but he was in no mood to justify himself to old Patience, so he galloped off to Portsmouth, and only returned with the doctor to hear that Madam Woodford was in bed, and her daughter with her.  She was somewhat better, but still very ill, and it was plain that this was no moment for pressing his suit even had it not been time for him to return home.  Going to fetch the doctor might be accepted as a valid reason for missing the evening exhortation and prayer, but there were mistrustful looks that galled him.

Anne’s return was more beneficial to Mrs. Woodford than the doctor’s visit, and the girl was still too ignorant of all that her mother’s attacks of spasms and subsequent weakness implied to be as much alarmed as to depress her hopes.  Yet Mrs. Woodford, lying awake in the night, detected that her daughter was restless and unhappy, and asked what ailed her, and how the visit had gone off.

“You do not wish me to speak of such things, madam,” was the answer.

“Tell me all that is in your heart, my child.”

It all came out with the vehemence of a reserved nature when the flood is loosed.  ‘Young Madam’ had been more than usually peevish and exacting, jealous perhaps at Lucy’s being the heroine of the day, and fretful over a cold which confined her to the house, how she worried and harassed all around her with her whims, megrims and complaints could only too well be imagined, and how the entire pleasure of the day was destroyed.  Lucy was never allowed a minute’s conversation with her friend without being interrupted by a whine and complaints of unkindness and neglect.

Lady Archfield’s ill-usage, as the young wife was pleased to call every kind of restriction, was the favourite theme next to the daughter-in law’s own finery, her ailments, and her notions of the treatment befitting her.

And young Mr. Archfield himself, while handing his old friend out to the carriage that had fetched her, could not help confiding to her that he was nearly beside himself.  His mother meant to be kind, but expected too much from one so brought up, and his wife—what could be done for her?  She made herself miserable here, and every one else likewise.  Yet even if his father would consent, she was utterly unfit to be mistress of a house of her own; and poor Charles could only utter imprecations on the guardians who could have had no idea how a young woman ought to be brought up.  It was worse than an ill-trained hound.”

Mrs. Woodford heard what she extracted from her daughter with grief and alarm, and not only for her friends.

“Indeed, my dear child,” she said, “you must prevent such confidences.  They are very dangerous things respecting married people.”

“It was all in a few moments, mamma, and I could not stop him.  He is so unhappy;” and Anne’s voice revealed tears.

“The more reason why you should avoid hearing what he will soon be very sorry you have heard.  Were he not a mere lad himself, it would be as inexcusable as it is imprudent thus to speak of the troubles and annoyances that often beset the first year of wedded life.  I am sorry for the poor youth, who means no harm nor disloyalty, and is only treating you as his old companion and playmate; but he has no right thus to talk of his wife, above all to a young maiden too inexperienced to counsel him, and if he should attempt to do so again, promise me, my daughter, that you will silence him—if by no other means, by telling him so.”

“I promise!” said Anne, choking back her tears and lifting her head.  “I am sure I never want to go to Fareham again while that Lieutenant Sedley Archfield is there.  If those be army manners, they are what I cannot endure.  He is altogether mean and hateful, above all when he scoffs at Master Oakshott.”

“I am afraid a great many do so, child, and that he often gives some occasion,” put in Mrs. Woodford, a little uneasy that this should be the offence.

“He is better than Sedley Archfield, be he what he will, madam,” said the girl.  “He never pays those compliments, those insolent disgusting compliments, such as he—that Sedley, I mean—when he found me alone in the hall, and I had to keep him at bay from trying to kiss me, only Mr. Archfield—Charley—came down the stairs before he was aware, and called out, ‘I will thank you to behave yourself to a lady in my father’s house.’  And then he, Sedley, sneered ‘The Parson’s niece!’ with such a laugh, mother, I shall never get it out of my ears.  As if I were not as well born as he!”

“That is not quite the way to take it, my child.  I had rather you stood on your maidenly dignity and discretion than on your birth.  I trust he will soon be away.”

“I fear he will not, mamma, for I heard say the troop are coming down to be under the Duke of Berwick at Portsmouth.”

“Then, dear daughter, it is the less mishap that you should be thus closely confined by loving attendance on me.  Now, goodnight.  Compose yourself to sleep, and think no more of these troubles.”

Nevertheless mother and daughter lay long awake, side by side, that night; the daughter in all the flutter of nerves induced by offended yet flattered feeling—hating the compliment, yet feeling that it was a compliment to the features that she was beginning to value.  She was substantially a good, well-principled maiden, modest and discreet, with much dignified reserve, yet it was impossible that she should not have seen heads turned to look at her in Portsmouth, and know that she was admired above her contemporaries, so that even if it brought her inconvenience it was agreeable.  Besides, her heart was beating with pity for the Archfields.  The elder ones might have only themselves to blame, but it was very hard for poor Charles to have been blindly coupled to a being who did not know how to value him, still harder that there should be blame for a confidence where neither meant any harm—blame that made her blush on her pillow with indignant shame.

Perhaps Mrs. Woodford divined these thoughts, for she too meditated deeply on the perils of her fair young daughter, and in the morning could not leave her room.  In the course of the day she heard that Master Peregrine Oakshott had been to inquire for her, and was not surprised when her brother-in-law sought an interview with her.  The gulf between the hierarchy and squirearchy was sufficient for a marriage to be thought a mesalliance, and it was with a smile at the folly as well as with a certain displeased pity that Dr. Woodford mentioned the proposal so vehemently pressed upon him by Peregrine Oakshott for his niece’s hand.

“Poor boy!” said Mrs. Woodford, “it is a great misfortune.  You forbade him of course to speak of such a thing.”

“I told him that I could not imagine how he could think us capable of entertaining any such proposal without his father’s consent.  He seems to have hoped that to pledge himself to us might extort sanction from his father, not seeing that it would be a highly improper measure, and would only incense the Major.”

“All the more that the Major wishes to pass on Mistress Martha Browning to him, poor fellow.”

“He did not tell me so.”

Mrs. Woodford related what he had said to her, and the Doctor could not but observe: “The poor Major! his whole treatment of that unfortunate youth is as if he were resolved to drive him to distraction.  But even if the Major were ever so willing, I doubt whether Master Peregrine be the husband you would choose for our little maid.”

“Assuredly not, poor fellow! though if she loved him as he loves her—which happily she does not—I should scarce dare to stand in the way, lest she should be the appointed instrument for his good.”

“He assured me that he had never directly addressed her.”

“No, and I trust he never will.  Not that she is ever like to love him, although she does not shrink from him quite as much as others do.  Yet there is a strain of ambition in my child’s nature that might make her seek the elevation.  But, my good brother, for this and other reasons we must find another home for my poor child when I am gone.  Nay, brother, do not look at me thus; you know as well as I do that I can scarcely look to see the spring come in, and I would fain take this opportunity of speaking to you concerning my dear daughter.  No one can be a kinder father to her than you, and I would most gladly leave her to cheer and tend you, but as things stand around us she can scarce remain here without a mother’s watchfulness.  She is guarded now by her strict attendance on my infirmity, but when I am gone how will it be?”

“She is as good and discreet a maiden as parent could wish.”

“Good and discreet as far as her knowledge and experience go, but that is not enough.  On the one hand, there is a certain wild temper about that young Master Oakshott such as makes me never know what he might attempt if, as he says, his father should drive him to desperation, and this is a lonely place, with the sea close at hand.”

“Lady Archfield would gladly take charge of her.”

Mrs. Woodford here related what Anne had said of Sedley’s insolence, but this the Doctor thought little of, not quite believing in the regiment coming into the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Woodford most unwillingly was forced to mention her further unwillingness that her daughter should be made a party to the troubles caused by the silly young wife of her old playfellow.

“What more?” said the Doctor, holding up his hands.  “I never thought a discreet young maid could be such a care, but I suppose that is the price we pay for her good looks.  Three of them, eh?  What is it that you propose?”

“I should like to place her in the household of some godly and kindly lady, who would watch over her and probably provide for her marriage.  That, as you know, was my own course, and I was very happy in Lady Sandwich’s family, till I made the acquaintance of your dear and honoured brother, and my greater happiness began.  The first day that I am able I will write to some of my earlier friends, such as Mrs. Evelyn and Mrs. Pepys, and again there is Mistress Eleanor Wall, who, I hear, is married to Sir Theophilus Oglethorpe, and who might accept my daughter for my sake.  She is a warm, loving, open-hearted creature of Irish blood, and would certainly be kind to her.”

There was no indignity in such a plan.  Most ladies of rank or quality entertained one or more young women of the clerical or professional classes as companions, governesses, or ladies’ maids, as the case might be.  They were not classed with the servants, but had their share of the society and amusements of the house, and a fair chance of marriage in their own degree, though the comfort of their situation varied a good deal according to the amiability of their mistress, from that of a confidential friend to a white slave and souffre douleur.

Dr. Woodford had no cause to object except his own loss of his niece’s society and return to bachelor life, after the eight years of companionship which he had enjoyed; but such complications as were induced by the presence of an attractive young girl were, as he allowed, beyond him, and he acquiesced with a sigh in the judgment of the mother, whom he had always esteemed so highly.

The letters were written, and in due time received kind replies.  Mrs. Evelyn proposed that the young gentlewoman should come and stay with her till some situation should offer itself, and Lady Oglethorpe, a warm-hearted Irishwoman, deeply attached to the Queen, declared her intention of speaking to the King or the Princess Anne on the first opportunity of the daughter of the brave Captain Woodford.  There might very possibly be a nursery appointment to be had either at the Cockpit or at Whitehall in the course of the year.

This was much more than Mrs. Woodford had desired.  She had far rather have placed her daughter immediately under some kind matronly lady in a private household; but she knew that her good friend was always eager to promise to the utmost of her possible power.  She did not talk much of this to her daughter, only telling her that the kind ladies had promised to befriend her, and find a situation for her; and Anne was too much shocked to find her mother actually making such arrangements to enter upon any inquiries.  The perception that her mother was looking forward to passing away so soon entirely overset her; she would not think about it, would not admit the bare idea of the loss.  Only there lurked at the bottom of her heart the feeling that when the crash had come, and desolation had over taken her, it would be more dreary at Portchester than anywhere else; and there might be infinite possibilities beyond for the King’s godchild, almost a knight’s daughter.

The next time that Mrs. Woodford heard that Major Oakshott was at the door inquiring for her health, she begged as a favour that he would come and see her.

The good gentleman came upstairs treading gently in his heavy boots, as one accustomed to an invalid chamber.

“I am sorry to see you thus, madam,” he said, as she held out her wasted hand and thanked him.  “Did you desire spiritual consolations?  There are times when our needs pass far beyond prescribed forms and ordinances.”

“I am thankful for the prayers of good men,” said Mrs. Woodford; “but for truth’s sake I must tell you that this was not foremost in my mind when I begged for this favour.”

He was evidently disappointed, for he was producing from his pocket the little stout black-bound Bible, which, by a dent in one of the lids, bore witness of having been with him in his campaigns; and perhaps half-diplomatically, as well as with a yearning for oneness of spirit, she gratified him by requesting him to read and pray.

With all his rigidity he was too truly pious a man for his ministrations to contain anything in which, Churchwoman as she was, she could not join with all her heart, and feel comforting; but ere he was about to rise from his knees she said, “One prayer for your son, sir.”

A few fervent words were spoken on behalf of the wandering sheep, while tears glistened in the old man’s eyes, and fell fast from those of the lady, and then he said, “Ah, madam! have I not wrestled in prayer for my poor boy?”

“I am sure you have, sir.  I know you have a deep fatherly love for him, and therefore I sent to speak to you as a dying woman.”

“And I will gladly hear you, for you have always been good to him, and, as I confess, have done him more good—if good can be called the apparent improvement in one unregenerate—than any other.”

“Except his uncle,” said Mrs. Woodford.  “I fear it is vain to say that I think the best hope of his becoming a good and valuable man, a comfort and not a sorrow to yourself, would be to let him even now rejoin Sir Peregrine.”

“That cannot be, madam.  My brother has not kept to the understanding on which I entrusted the lad to him, but has carried him into worldly and debauched company, such as has made the sober and godly habits of his home distasteful to him, and has further taken him into Popish lands, where he has become infected with their abominations to a greater extent than I can yet fathom.”

Mrs. Woodford sighed and felt hopeless.  “I see your view of the matter, sir.  Yet may I suggest that it is hard for a young man to find wholesome occupation such as may guard him from temptation on an estate where the master is active and sufficient like yourself?”

“Protection from temptation must come from within, madam,” replied the Major; “but I so far agree with you that in due time, when he has attained his twenty-first year, I trust he will be wedded to his cousin, a virtuous and pious young maiden, and will have the management of her property, which is larger than my own.”

“But if—if—sir, the marriage were distasteful to him, could it be for the happiness and welfare of either?”

“The boy has been complaining to you?  Nay, madam, I blame you not.  You have ever been the boy’s best friend according to knowledge; but he ought to know that his honour and mine are engaged.  It is true that Mistress Martha is not a Court beauty, such as his eyes have unhappily learnt to admire, but I am acting verily for his true good.  ‘Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain.’”

“Most true, sir; but let me say one more word.  I fear, I greatly fear, that all young spirits brook not compulsion.”

“That means, they will not bow their stiff necks to the yoke.”

“Ah, sir! but on the other hand, ‘Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath.’  Forgive me, sir; I spoke but out of true affection to your son, and the fear that what may seem to him severity may not drive him to some extremity that might grieve you.”

“No forgiveness is needed, madam.  I thank you for your interest in him, and for your plain speaking according to your lights.  I can but act according to those vouchsafed unto me.”

“And we both agree in praying for his true good,” said Mrs. Woodford.

And with a mutual blessing they parted, Mrs. Woodford deeply sorry for both father and son, for whom she had done what she could.

It was her last interview with any one outside the house.  Another attack of spasms brought the end, during the east winds of March, so suddenly as to leave no time for farewells or last words.  When she was laid to rest in the little churchyard within the castle walls, no one showed such overwhelming tokens of grief as Peregrine Oakshott, who lingered about the grave after the Doctor had taken his niece home, and was found lying upon it late in the evening, exhausted with weeping.

Yet Sedley Archfield, whose regiment had, after all, been sent to Portsmouth, reported that he had spent the very next afternoon at a cock-fight, ending in a carouse with various naval and military officers at a tavern, not drinking, but contributing to the mirth by foreign songs, tricks, and jests.