Part 41 (2/2)
”It was,” said her uncle, ”a specific, it seems, for whooping-cough.
I saw the letter, and knew--”
”Umph! let us hear,” said Sir Philip, evidently with the idea of a tryst in his mind. ”No wonder mischief comes of maidens running about at such hours. What next?”
The poor girl struggled on: ”I saw Peregrine coming, and hoping he would not see me, I ran into the keep, meaning to get home by the battlements out of his sight, but when I looked down he and Mr.
Archfield were fighting. I screamed, but I don't think they heard me, and I ran down; but I had fastened all the doors, and I was a long time getting out, and by that time Mr. Archfield had dragged him to the vault and thrown him in. He was like one distracted, and said it must be hidden, or it would be the death of his wife and his mother, and what could I do?”
”Is that all the truth?” said Sir Philip sternly. ”What brought them there--either of them?”
”Mr. Archfield came to bring me a pattern of sarcenet to match for poor young Madam in London.”
No doubt Sir Philip recollected the petulant anger that this had been forgotten, but he was hardly appeased. ”And the other fellow?
Why, he was brawling with my nephew Sedley about you the day before!”
”I do not think she was to blame there,” said Dr. Woodford. ”The unhappy youth was set against marrying Mistress Browning, and had talked wildly to my sister and me about wedding my niece.”
”But why should she run away as if he had the plague, and set the foolish lads to fight?”
”Sir, I must tell you,” Anne owned, ”he had beset me, and talked so desperately that I was afraid of what he might do in that lonely place and at such an hour in the morning. I hoped he had not seen me.”
”Umph!” said Sir Philip, much as if he thought a silly girl's imagination had caused all the mischief.
”When did he thus speak to you, Anne?” asked her uncle, not unkindly.
”At the inn at Portsmouth, sir,” said Anne. ”He came while you were with Mr. Stanbury and the rest, and wanted me to marry him and flee to France, or I know not where, or at any rate marry him secretly so as to save him from poor Mistress Browning. I could not choose but fear and avoid him, but oh! I would have faced him ten times over rather than have brought this on--us all. And now what shall I do?
He, Mr. Archfield, when I saw him in France, said as long as no one was suspected, it would only give more pain to say what I knew, but that if suspicion fell on any one--” and her voice died away.
”He could not say otherwise,” returned Sir Philip, with a groan.
”And now what shall I do? what shall I do?” sighed the poor girl.
”I must speak truth.”
”I never bade you perjure yourself,” said Sir Philip sharply, but hiding his face in his hands, and groaning out, ”Oh, my son! my son!”
Seeing that his distress so overcame poor Anne that she could scarcely contain herself, Dr. Woodford thought it best to take her from the room, promising to come again to her. She could do nothing but lie on her bed and weep in a quiet heart-broken way. Sir Philip's anger seemed to fill up the measure, by throwing the guilt back upon her and rousing a bitter sense of injustice, and then she wept again at her cruel selfishness in blaming the broken-hearted old man.
She could hardly have come down to breakfast, so heavy were her limbs and so sick and faint did every movement render her, and she further bethought herself that the poor old father might not brook the sight of her under the circ.u.mstances. It was a pang to hear little Philip prancing about the house, and when he had come to her to say his prayers, she sent him down with a message that she was not well enough to come downstairs, and that she wanted nothing, only to be quiet.
The little fellow was very pitiful, and made her cry again by wanting to know whether she had gout like grandpapa or rheumatics like grandmamma, and then stroking her face, calling her his dear Nana, and telling her of the salad in his garden that his papa was to eat the very first day he came home.
By and by Dr. Woodford knocked at her door. He had had a long conversation with poor old Sir Philip, who was calmer now than under the first blow, and somewhat less inclined to anger with the girl, who might indeed be the cause, but surely the innocent cause, of all. The Doctor had done his best to show that her going out had no connection with any of the youths, and he thought Sir Philip would believe it on quieter reflection. He had remembered too, signs of self-reproach mixed with his son's grief for his wife, and his extreme relief at the plan for going abroad, recollecting likewise that Charles had strongly disliked poor Peregrine, and had much resented the liking which young Madam had shown for one whose attentions might have been partly intended to tease the young husband.
”Of course,” said Dr. Woodford, ”the unhappy deed was no more than an unfortunate accident, and if all had been known at first, probably it would so have been treated. The concealment was an error, but it is impossible to blame either of you for it.”
”Oh never mind that, dear uncle! Only tell me! Must he--must Charles suffer to save that man? You know what he is, real murderer in heart! Oh I know. The right must be done! But it is dreadful!”
”The right must be done and the truth spoken at all costs. No one knows that better than our good old patron,” said the Doctor; ”but, my dear child, you are not called on to denounce this young man as you seem to imagine, unless there should be no other means of saving his cousin, or unless you are so questioned that you cannot help replying for truth's sake. Knowing nothing of all this, it struck others besides myself at the inquest that the evidence against Sedley was utterly insufficient for a conviction, and if he should be acquitted, matters will only be as they were before.”
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