“No, indeed, sir. You ought to know better than to utter such proposals. One who can make such schemes can certainly obtain no respect nor regard from the lady he addresses. Let me pass”—for she was penned up in the bay window—“I shall seek the landlady till my uncle returns.”

“Nay, Mistress Anne, do not fear me. Do not drive me to utter despair. Oh, pardon me! Nothing but utter desperation could drive me to have thus spoken; but how can I help using every effort to win her whose very look and presence is bliss! Nothing else soothes and calms me; nothing else so silences the demon and wakens the better part of my nature. Have you no pity upon a miserable wretch, who will be dragged down to his doom without your helping hand?”

He flung himself on his knee before her, and tried to grasp her hand.

“Indeed, I am sorry for you, Master Oakshott,” said Anne, compassionate, but still retreating as far as the window would let her; “but you are mistaken. If this power be in me, which I cannot quite believe—yes, I see what you want to say, but if I did what I know to be wrong, I should lose it at once; God’s grace can save you without me.”

“I will not ask you to do what you call wrong; no, nor to transgress any of the ties you respect, you, whose home is so unlike mine; only tell me that I may have hope, that if I deserve you, I may win you; that you could grant me—wretched me—a share of your affection.”

This was hardest of all; mingled pity and repugnance, truth and compassion strove within the maiden as well as the strange influence of those extraordinary eyes. She was almost as much afraid of herself as of her suitor. At last she managed to say, “I am very sorry for you; I grieve from my heart for your troubles; I should be very glad to hear of your welfare and anything good of you, but—”

“But, but—I see—it is mere frenzy in me to think the blighted elf can aspire to be aught but loathsome to any lady—only, at least, tell me you love no one else.”

“No, certainly not,” she said, as if his eyes drew it forcibly from her.

“Then you cannot hinder me from making you my guiding star—hoping that if yet I can—”

“There’s my uncle!” exclaimed Anne, in a tone of infinite relief. “Stand up, Mr. Oakshott, compose yourself. Of course I cannot hinder your thinking about me, if it will do you any good, but there are better things to think about which would conquer evil and make you happy more effectually.”

He snatched her hand and kissed it, nor did she withhold it, since she really pitied him, and knew that her uncle was near, and all would soon be over.

Peregrine dashed away by another door as Dr. Woodford’s foot was on the stairs. “I have ordered the horses,” he began. “They told me young Oakshott was here.”

“He was, but he is gone;” and she could not quite conceal her agitation.

“Crimson cheeks, my young mistress? Ah, the foolish fellow! You do not care for him, I trust?”

“No, indeed, poor fellow. What, did you know, sir?”

“Know. Yes, truly—and your mother likewise, Anne. It was one cause of her wishing to send you to safer keeping than mine seems to be. My young spark made his proposals to us both, though we would not disturb your mind therewith, not knowing how he would have dealt with his father, nor viewing him, for all he is heir to Oakwood, as a desirable match in himself. I am glad to see you have sense and discretion to be of the same mind, my maid.”

“I cannot but grieve for his sad condition, sir,” replied Anne, “but as for anything more—it would make me shudder to think of it—he is still too like Robin Goodfellow.”

“That’s my good girl,” said her uncle. “And do you know, child, there are the best hopes for the Bishops. There’s a gentleman come down but now from London, who says ’twas like a triumph as the Bishops sat in their barge on the way to the Tower; crowds swarming along the banks, begging for their blessing, and they waving it with tears in their eyes. The King will be a mere madman if he dares to touch a hair of their heads. Well, when I was a lad, Bishops were sent to the Tower by the people; I little thought to live to see them sent thither by the King.”

All the way home Dr. Woodford talked of the trial, beginning perhaps to regret that his niece must go to the very focus of Roman influence in England, where there seemed to be little scruple as to the mode of conversion. Would it be possible to alter her destination? was his thought, when he rose the next day, but loyalty stood in the way, and that very afternoon another event happened which made it evident that the poor girl must leave Portchester as soon as possible.

She had gone out with him to take leave of some old cottagers in the village, and he finding himself detained to minister to a case of unexpected illness, allowed her to go home alone for about a quarter of a mile along the white sunny road at the foot of Portsdown, with the castle full in view at one end, and the cottage where he was at the other. Many a time previously had she trodden it alone, but she had not reckoned on two officers coming swaggering from a cross road down the hill, one of them Sedley Archfield, who immediately called out, “Ha, ha! my pretty maid, no wench goes by without paying toll;” and they spread their arms across the road so as to arrest her.

“Sir,” said Anne, drawing herself up with dignity, “you mistake—”

“Not a whit, my dear; no exemption here;” and there was a horse laugh, and an endeavour to seize her, as she stepped back, feeling that in quietness lay her best chance of repelling them, adding—

“My uncle is close by.”

“The more cause for haste;” and they began to close upon her. But at that moment Peregrine Oakshott, leaping from his horse, was among them, with the cry—

“Dastards! insulting a lady.”

“Lady, forsooth! the parson’s niece.”

In a few seconds—very long seconds to her—her flying feet had brought her back to the cottage, where she burst in with—“Pardon, pardon, sir; come quick; there are swords drawn; there will be bloodshed if you do not come.”

He obeyed the summons without further query, for when all men wore swords the neighbourhood of a garrison were only too liable to such encounters outside. There was no need for her to gasp out more; from the very cottage door he could see the need of haste, for the swords were actually flashing, and the two young men in position to fight. Anne shook her head, unable to do more than sign her thanks to the good woman of the cottage, who offered her a seat. She leant against the door, and watched as her uncle, sending his voice before him, called on them to desist.

There was a start, then each drew back and held down his weapon, but with a menacing gesture on one side, a shrug of the shoulders on the other, which impelled the Doctor to use double speed in the fear that the parting might be with a challenge reserved.

He was in time to stand warning, and arguing that if he pardoned the slighting words and condoned the insult to his niece, no one had a right to exact vengeance; and in truth, whatever were his arguments, he so dealt with the two young men as to force them into shaking hands before they separated, though with a contemptuous look on either side—a scowl from Sedley, a sneer from Peregrine, boding ill for the future, and making him sigh.

“Ah! sister, sister, you judged aright. Would that I could have sent the maid sooner away rather than that all this ill blood should have been bred. Yet I may only be sending her to greater temptation and danger. But she is a good maiden; God bless her and keep her here and there, now and for evermore, as I trust He keepeth our good Dr. Ken in this sore strait. The trial may even now be over. Ah, my child, here you are! Frightened were you by that rude fellow? Nay, I believe you were almost equally terrified by him who came to the rescue. You will soon be out of their reach, my dear.”

“Yes, that is one great comfort in going,” sighed Anne. One comfort—yes—though she would not have stayed had the choice been given her now. And shall the thought be told that flashed over her and coloured her cheeks with a sort of shame yet of pleasure, “I surely must have power over men! I know mother would say it is a terrible danger one way, and a great gift another. I will not misuse it; but what will it bring me? Or am I only a rustic beauty after all, who will be nobody elsewhere?”

Still heartily she wished that her rescuer had been any one else in the wide world. It was almost uncanny that he should have sprung out of the earth at such a moment.

CHAPTER XIII
The Bonfire

“From Eddystone to Berwick bounds,
From Lynn to Milford Bay,
That time of slumber was as
Bright and busy as the day;
For swift to east and swift to west
The fiery herald sped,
High on St. Michael’s Mount it shone:
It shone on Beachy Head.”

MACAULAY.

Doctor Woodford and his niece had not long reached their own door when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard, and Charles Archfield was seen, waving his hat and shouting ‘Hurrah!’ before he came near enough to speak,

“Good news, I see!” said the Doctor.

“Good news indeed! Not guilty! Express rode from Westminster Hall with the news at ten o’clock this morning. All acquitted. Expresses could hardly get away for the hurrahing of the people. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” cried the young man, throwing up his hat, while Doctor Woodford, taking off his own, gave graver, deeper thanks that justice was yet in England, that these noble and honoured confessors were safe, and that the King had been saved from further injustice and violence to the Church.

“We are to have a bonfire on Portsdown hill,” added Charles. “They will be all round the country, in the Island, and everywhere. My father is rid one way to spread the tidings, and give orders. I’m going on into Portsmouth, to see after tar barrels. You’ll be there, sir, and you, Anne?” There was a moment’s hesitation after the day’s encounters, but he added, “My mother is going, and my little Madam, and Lucy. They will call for you in the coach if you will be at Ryder’s cottage at nine o’clock. It will not be dark enough to light up till ten, so there will be time to get a noble pile ready. Come, Anne, ’tis Lucy’s last chance of seeing you—so strange as you have made yourself of late.”

This plea decided Anne, who had been on the point of declaring that she should have an excellent view from the top of the keep. However, not only did she long to see Lucy again, but the enthusiasm was contagious, and there was an attraction in the centre of popular rejoicing that drew both her and her uncle, nor could there be a doubt of her being sufficiently protected when among the Archfield ladies. So the arrangement was accepted, and then there was the cry—

“Hark! the Havant bells! Ay! and the Cosham! Portsmouth is pealing out. That’s Alverstoke. They know it there. A salute! Another.”

“Scarce loyal from the King’s ships,” said the Doctor, smiling.

“Nay, ’tis only loyalty to rejoice that the King can’t make a fool of himself. So my father says,” rejoined Charles.

And that seemed to be the mood of all England. When Anne and her uncle set forth in the summer sunset light the great hill above them was dark with the multitudes thronging around the huge pyre rising in the midst. They rested for some minutes at the cottage indicated before the arrival of Sir Philip, who rode up accompanying the coach in which his three ladies were seated, and which was quite large enough to receive Dr. Woodford and Mistress Anne. Charles was in the throng, in the midst of most of the younger gentlemen of the neighbourhood, and a good many of the naval and military officers, directing the arrangement of the pile.

What a scene it was, as seen even from the windows of the coach where the ladies remained, for the multitude of sailors, soldiers, town and village people, though all unanimous, were far too tumultuous for them to venture beyond their open door, especially as little Mrs. Archfield was very far from well, and nothing but her eagerness for amusement could have brought her hither, and of course she could not be left. Probably she knew as little of the real bearings of the case or the cause of rejoicing as did the boys who pervaded everything with their squibs, and were only restrained from firing them in the faces of the horses by wholesome fear of the big whips of the coachman and outriders who stood at the horses’ heads.

It was hardly yet dark when the match was put to the shavings, and to the sound of the loud ‘Hurrahs!’ and cries of ‘Long live the Bishops!’ ‘Down with the Pope!’ the flame kindled, crackled, and leapt up, while a responsive fire was seen on St. Catherine’s Down in the Isle of Wight, and northward, eastward, westward, on every available point, each new light greeted by fresh acclamations, as it shone out against the summer night sky, while the ships in the harbour showed their lights, reflected in the sea, as the sky grew darker. Then came a procession of sailors and other rough folk, bearing between poles a chair with a stuffed figure with a kind of tiara, followed by others with scarlet hats and capes, and with reiterated shouts of ‘Down with the Pope!’ these were hurled into the fire with deafening hurrahs, their more gorgeous trappings being cleverly twitched off at the last moment, as part of the properties for the 5th of November.

Little Mrs. Archfield clapped her hands and screamed with delight as each fresh blaze shot up, and chattered with all her might, sometimes about some lace and perfumes which she wanted Anne to procure for her in London at the sign of the Flower Pot, sometimes grumbling at her husband having gone off to the midst of the party closest to the fire, “Just like Mr. Archfield, always leaving her to herself,” but generally very well amused, especially when a group of gentlemen, officers, and county neighbours gathered round the open door talking to the ladies within.

Peregrine was there with his hands in his pockets, and a queer ironical smile writhing his features. He was asked if his father and brother were present.

“Not my father,” he replied. “He has a logical mind. Martha is up here with her guardian, and I am keeping out of her way, and my brother is full in the thick of the fray. A bonfire is a bonfire to most folks, were it to roast their grandsire!”

“Oh, fie, Mr. Oakshott, how you do talk!” laughed Mrs. Archfield.

“Nay, but you rejoice in the escape of the good Bishops,” put in Lucy.

“For what?” asked Peregrine. “For refusing to say live and let live?”

“Not against letting live, but against saying so unconstitutionally, my young friend,” said Dr. Woodford, “or tyrannising over our consciences.”

Generally Peregrine was more respectful to Dr. Woodford than to any one else; but there seemed to be a reckless bitterness about him on that night, and he said, “I marvel with what face those same Eight Reverend Seigniors will preach against the French King.”

“Sir,” thrust in Sedley Archfield, “I am not to hear opprobrious epithets applied to the Bishops.”

“What was the opprobrium?” lazily demanded Peregrine, and in spite of his unpopularity, the laugh was with him. Sedley grew more angry.

“You likened them to the French King—”

“The most splendid monarch in Europe,” said Peregrine coolly.

“A Frenchman!” quoth one of the young squires with withering contempt.

“He has that ill fortune, sir,” said Peregrine. “Mayhap he would be sensible of the disadvantage, if he evened himself with some of my reasonable countrymen.”

“Do you mean that for an insult, sir?” exclaimed Sedley Archfield, striding forward.

“As you please,” said Peregrine. “To me it had the sound of compliment.”

“Oh la! they’ll fight,” cried Mrs. Archfield. “Don’t let them! Where’s the Doctor? Where’s Sir Philip?”

“Hush, my dear,” said Lady Archfield; “these gentlemen would not fall out close to us.”

Dr. Woodford was out of sight, having been drawn into controversy with a fellow-clergyman on the limits of toleration. Anne looked anxiously for him, but with provoking coolness Peregrine presently said, “There’s no crowd near, and if you will step out, the fires on the farther hills are to be seen well from the knoll hard by.”

He spoke chiefly to Anne, but even if she had not a kind of shrinking from trusting herself with him in this strange wild scene, she would have been prevented by Mrs. Archfield’s eager cry—

“Oh, I’ll come, let me come! I’m so weary of sitting here. Thank you, Master Oakshott.”

Lady Archfield’s remonstrance was lost as Peregrine helped the little lady out, and there was nothing for it but to follow her, as close as might be, as she hung on her cavalier’s arm chattering, and now and then giving little screams of delight or alarm. Lady Archfield and her daughter each was instantly squired, but Mistress Woodford, a nobody, was left to keep as near them as she could, and gaze at the sparks of light of the beacons in the distance, thinking how changed the morrow would be to her.

Presently a figure approached, and Charles Archfield’s voice said, “Is that you, Anne? Did I hear my wife’s voice?”

“Yes, she is there.”

“And with that imp of evil! I would his own folk had him!” muttered Charles, dashing forward with “How now, madam? you were not to leave the coach!”

She laughed exultingly. “Ha, sir! see what comes of leaving me to better cavaliers, while you run after your fire! I should have seen nothing but for Master Oakshott.”

“Come with me now,” said Charles; “you ought not to be standing here in the dew.”

“Ha, ha! what a jealous master,” she said; but she put her arm into his, saying with a courtesy, “Thank you, Master Oakshott, lords must be obeyed. I should have been still buried in the old coach but for you.”

Peregrine fell back to Anne. “That blaze is at St. Helen’s,” he began. “That—what! will you not wait a moment?”

“No, no! They will want to be going home.”

“And have you forgotten that it is only just over Midsummer? This is the week of my third seventh—the moment for change. O Anne! make it a change for the better. Say the word, and the die will be cast. All is ready! Come!”

He tried to take her hand, but the vehemence of his words, spoken under his breath, terrified her, and with a hasty “No, no! you know not what you talk of,” she hastened after her friends, and was glad to find herself in the safe haven of the interior of the coach.

Ere long they drove down the hill, and at the place of parting were set down, the last words in Anne’s ears being Mrs. Archfield’s injunctions not to forget the orange flower-water at the sign of the Flower Pot, drowning Lucy’s tearful farewells.

As they walked away in the moonlight a figure was seen in the distance.

“Is that Peregrine Oakshott?” asked the Doctor. “That young man is in a desperate mood, ready to put a quarrel on any one. I hope no harm will come of it.”

CHAPTER XIV
Gathering Mouse-Ear

“I heard the groans, I marked the tears,
I saw the wound his bosom bore.”

SCOTT.

After such an evening it was not easy to fall asleep, and Anne tossed about, heated, restless, and uneasy, feeling that to remain at home was impossible, yet less satisfied about her future prospects, and doubtful whether she had not done herself harm by attending last night’s rejoicings, and hoping that nothing would happen to reveal her presence there.

She was glad that the night was not longer, and resolved to take advantage of the early morning to fulfil a commission of Lady Oglethorpe, whose elder children, Lewis and Theophilus, had the whooping-cough. Mouse-ear, namely, the little sulphur-coloured hawk-weed, was, and still is, accounted a specific, and Anne had been requested to bring a supply—a thing easily done, since it grew plentifully in the court of the castle.

She dressed herself in haste, made some of her preparations for the journey, and let herself out of the house, going first for one last look at her mother’s green grave in the dewy churchyard, and gathering from it a daisy, which she put into her bosom, then in the fair morning freshness, and exhilaration of the rising sun, crossing the wide tilt-yard, among haycocks waiting to be tossed, and arriving at the court within, filling her basket between the churchyard and the gateway tower and keep, when standing up for a moment she was extremely startled to see Peregrine Oakshott’s unmistakable figure entering at the postern of the court.

With vague fears of his intentions, and instinctive terror of meeting him alone, heightened by that dread of his power, she flew in at the great bailey tower door, hoping that he had not seen her, but tolerably secure that even if he had, and should pursue her, she was sufficiently superior in knowledge of the stairs and passages to baffle him, and make her way along the battlements to the tower at the corner of the court nearest the parsonage, where there was a turret stair by which she could escape.

Up the broken stairs she went, shutting behind her every available door in the chambers and passages, but not as quickly as she wished, since attention to her feet was needful in the ruinous state of steps and walls. Through those massive walls she could hear nothing distinctly, but she fancied voices and a cry, making her seek more intricate windings, nor did she dare to look out till she had gained a thick screen of bushy ivy at the corner of the turret, where a little door opened on the broad summit of the battlemented wall.

Then, what horror was it that she beheld? Or was it a dream? She even passed her hands over her face and looked again. Peregrine and Charles, yes, it was Charles Archfield, were fighting with swords in the court beneath. She gave a shriek, in a wild hope of parting them, but at that instant she saw Peregrine fall, and with the impulse of rushing to aid she hurried down, impeded however by stumbles, and by the doors, she herself had shut, and when she emerged, she saw only Charles, standing like one dazed and white as death.

“O Mr Archfield! where is he? What have you done?” The young man pointed to the opening of the vault. Then, speaking with an effort, “He was quite dead; my sword went through him. He forced it on me—he was pursuing you. I withstood him—and—”

He gasped heavily as the words came one by one. She trembled exceedingly, and would have looked into the vault, with, “Are you quite sure?” but he grasped her hand and withheld her.

“Only too sure! Yes, I have done it! It could not be helped. I would give myself up at once, but, Anne, there is my wife. They tell me any shock would kill her as she is now. I should be double murderer. Will you keep the secret, Anne, always my friend? And ’twas for you.”

“Indeed, indeed, I will not betray you. I go away in two hours,” said Anne; and he caught her hand. “But oh!” and she pointed to the blood on the grass, then with sudden thought, “Heap the hay over it,” running to fill her arms with the lately-cut grass.

He mechanically did the same, and then they stood for a moment, awe-stricken.

“God forgive me!” said the poor young man. “How to hide it I hardly know, but for her sake, ah—’twas that brought me here. She could not rest last night till I had promised to be here early enough in the morning to give you a piece of sarcenet to be matched in London. Where is it? Ah! I forget. It seems to be ages ago that she was insisting that I should ride over so as to be in time.”

“Lucy must write,” said Anne, “O Charley! wipe that dreadful sword, look like yourself. I am going in a couple of hours. There is no fear of me! but oh! that you should have done such a thing! and through me!”

“Hush! hush! don’t talk. I must be gone ere folks are about. My horse is outside.” He wrung her hand and kissed it, forgetting to give her the pattern, and Anne, still stunned, walked back to the parsonage, her one thought how to control herself so as to guard Charles’s secret.

It must be remembered that in the generation succeeding that which had fought a long civil war, and when duels were common assertions of honour and self-respect among young gentlemen, homicide was not so exceptional and heinous an offence in ordinary eyes as when a higher value has come to be set on life, and acts of violence are far less frequent.

Charles had drawn his sword in fair fight, and in her own defence, and thus it was natural that Anne Woodford should think of his deed, certainly with a shudder, but with more of pity than of horror, and with gratitude that made her feel bound to do her utmost to guard him from the consequences; also there was a sense of relief, and perhaps a feeling as if the victim were scarcely a human creature like others. It never occurred to her till some time after to recollect it would have had an unpleasant sound that she had been the occasion of such an ‘unseemly brawl’ between two young men, one of them a married man. When the thought occurred to her it made the blood rash hotly to her cheeks.

It was well for her that the pain of leaving home and the bustle of preparation concealed that she had suffered a great shock, and accounted for her not being able to taste any breakfast beyond a draught of milk. Her ears were intent all the time to perceive any token whether the haymakers had come into the court and had discovered any trace of the ghastly thing in the vault, and she hardly heard the kind words of her uncle or the coaxings of his old housekeeper. She dreaded especially the sight of Hans, so fondly attached to his master’s nephew, and it was with a sense of infinite relief—instead of the tender grief otherwise natural—that she was seated in the boat for Portsmouth, and her uncle believing her to be crying, left her undisturbed till she had composed herself to wear the front that she knew was needful, however her heart might throb beneath it, and as their boat threaded its way through the ships, even then numerous, she looked wistfully up at the tall tower of the castle, with earnest prayers for the living, and a longing she durst not utter, to ask her uncle whether it were right to pray for the poor strange, struggling soul, always so cruelly misunderstood, and now so summarily dismissed from the world of trial.

Yet presently there was a revulsion of feeling as she was roused from her meditations by the coxswain’s answer to her uncle, who had asked what was a smart, swift little smack, which after receiving something from a boat, began stretching her wings and making all sail for the Isle of Wight.

The men looked significant and hesitated.

“Smugglers, eh? Traders in French brandy?” asked the Doctor.

“Well, your reverence, so they says. They be a rough lot out there by at the back of the Island.”

“There would be small harm in letting a poor man get a drink of spirits cheap to warm his heart,” said one of the other men; “but they say as how ’tis a very nest of ’em out there, and that’s how no one can ever pitch on the highwaymen, such as robbed Farmer Vine t’other day a coming home from market.”

“They do say,” added the other, “that there’s them as ought to know better that is thick with them. There’s that young master up at Oakwood—that crooked slip as they used to say was a changeling—gets out o’ window o’ nights and sails with them.”

“He has nought to do with the robberies, they say,” added the coxswain; “but I could tell of many a young spark who has gone out with the fair traders for the sport’s sake, and because gentle folk don’t know what to do with their time.”

“And they do say the young chap is kept uncommon tight at home.”

Here the sight of a vessel of war coming in changed the topic, but it had given Anne something more to think of. Peregrine had spoken of means arranged for making her his own. Could that smuggling yacht have anything to do with them? He could hardly have reckoned on meeting her alone in the morning, but he might have attempted to find her thus—or failing that, he might have run down the boat. If so, she had a great deliverance to be thankful for, and Charles’s timely appearance had been a great blessing. But Peregrine! poor Peregrine! it became doubly terrible that he should have perished on the eve of such a deed. It was cruel to entertain such thoughts of the dead, yet it was equally impossible not to feel comfort in being rid for ever of one who had certainly justified the vague alarm which he had always excited in her. She could not grieve for him now that the first shock was over, but she must suppress all tokens of her extreme anxiety on account of Charles Archfield.

Thus she was landed at Portsmouth, and walked up the street to the Spotted Dog, where Lady Worsley was taking an early noonchine before starting for London, having crossed from the little fishing village of Ryde. Here Anne parted with her uncle, who promised an early letter, though she could hardly restrain a shudder at the thought of the tidings that it might contain.