CHAPTER XXVIII: THE DISCLOSURE
"He looked about as one betrayed,What hath he done, what promise made?Oh! weak, weak moment, to what endCan such a vain oblation tend?"
WORDSWORTH.
For the most part Anne was able to hold her peace and keep out ofsight while Dr. Woodford related the strange revelations of thevault with all the circumstantiality that was desired by two oldpeople living a secluded life and concerned about a neighbour ofmany years, whom they had come to esteem by force of a certainsympathy in honest opposition. The mystery occupied them entirely,for though the murder was naturally ascribed to some of the lawlesscoast population, the valuables remaining with the clothes made astrange feature in the case.
It was known that there was to be an inquest held on the remainsbefore their removal, and Dr. Woodford, both from his own interestin the question, and as family intelligencer, rode to the castle.Sir Philip longed to go, but it was a cold wet day, and he hadthreatenings of gout, so that he was persuaded to remain by thefireside. Inquests were then always held where the body lay, andthe court of Portchester Castle was no place for him on such a day.
Dr. Woodford came home just before twilight, looking grave andtroubled, and, much to Anne's alarm, desired to speak to Sir Philipprivately in the gun-room. Lady Archfield took alarm, and muchdistressed her by continually asking what could be the meaning ofthe interview, and making all sorts of guesses.
When at last they came together into the parlour the poor ladylooked so anxious and frightened that her husband went up to her andsaid, "Do not be alarmed, sweetheart. We shall clear him; but thosefoolish fellows have let suspicion fall on poor Sedley."
Nobody looked at Anne, or her deadly paleness must have beenremarked, and the trembling which she could hardly control byclasping her hands tightly together, keeping her feet hard on thefloor, and setting her teeth.
Lady Archfield was perhaps less fond of the scapegrace nephew thanwas her husband, and she felt the matter chiefly as it affected him,so that she heard with more equanimity than he had done; and as theysat round the fire in the half-light, for which Anne was thankful,the Doctor gave his narration in order.
"I found a large company assembled in the castle court, waiting forthe coroner from Portsmouth, though the sentry on guard would allowno one to go down, in spite of some, even ladies, I am ashamed tosay, who offered him bribes for the permission. Everything, Iheard, had been replaced as we found it. The poor Major himself wasthere, looking sadly broken, and much needing the help of his son'sarm. 'To think that I was blaming my poor son as a mere reprobate,and praying for his conversion,' says he, 'when he was lying here,cut off without a moment for repentance.' There was your nephew,suspecting nothing, Squire Brocas, Mr. Eyre, of Botley Grange, Mr.Biden, Mr. Larcom, and Mr. Bargus, and a good many more, besides Dr.James Yonge, the naval doctor, and the Mayor of Portsmouth, and morethan I can tell you. When the coroner came, and the jury had beensworn in, they went down and viewed the spot, and all that wasthere. The soldiers had put candles round, and a huge place it is,all built up with large stones. Then, as it was raining hard, theyadjourned to the great room in the keep and took the evidence.Robert Oakshott identified the clothes and the watch clearly enough,and said he had no doubt that the other remains were Peregrine's;but as to swearing to a brother's bones, no one could do that; andDr. Yonge said in my ear that if the deceased were so small a man asfolks said, the skeleton could scarce be his, for he thought it hadbelonged to a large-framed person. That struck no one else, fornaturally it is only a chirurgeon who is used to reckon theproportion that the bones bear to the body, and I also asked himwhether in seven years the other parts would be so entirelyconsumed, to which he answered that so much would depend on thenature of the soil that there was no telling. However, jury andcoroner seemed to feel no doubt, and that old seafaring man, TomBlock, declared that poor Master Peregrine had been hand and glovewith a lot of wild chaps, and that the vault had been well known tothem before the gentlemen had had it blocked up. Then it was askedwho had seen him last, and Robert Oakshott spoke of having partedwith him at the bonfire, and never seen him again. There, I fancy,it would have ended in a verdict of wilful murder against someperson or persons unknown, but Robert Oakshott must needs say, "Iwould give a hundred pounds to know who the villain was." And thenwho should get up but George Rackstone, with "Please your Honour, Icould tell summat." The coroner bade swear him, and he deposed tohaving seen Master Peregrine going down towards the castle somewhereabout four o'clock that morning after the bonfire when he wasgetting up to go to his mowing. But that was not all. Youremember, Anne, that his father's cottage stands on the road towardsPortsmouth. Well, he brought up the story of your running in there,frightened, the day before the bonfire, when I was praying with hissick mother, calling on me to stop a fray between Peregrine andyoung Sedley, and I had to get up and tell of Sedley's rudeness toyou, child."
"What was that?" hastily asked Lady Archfield.
"The old story, my lady. The young officer's swaggering attempt tokiss the girl he meets on the road. I doubt even if he knew at themoment that it was my niece. Peregrine was coming by at the moment,and interfered to protect her, and swords were drawn. I could notdeny it, nor that there was ill blood between the lads; and thenyoung Brocas, who was later on Portsdown than we were, rememberedhigh words, and had thought to himself that there would be achallenge. And next old Goody Spore recollects seeing Master Sedleyand another soldier officer out on the Portsmouth road early thatmorning. The hay was making in the court then, and Jenny Lightremembered that when the haymakers came she raked up something thatlooked like a bloody spot, and showed it to one of the others, butthey told her that most likely a rabbit or a hare had been killedthere, and she had best take no heed. Probably there was dread ofgetting into trouble about a smugglers' fray. Well, every one waslooking askance at Master Sedley by this time, and the coroner askedhim if he had anything to say. He spoke out boldly enough. Heowned to the dispute with Peregrine Oakshott, and to having partedwith him that night on terms which would only admit of a challenge.He wrote a cartel that night, and sent it by his friend LieutenantAinslie, but doubting whether Major Oakshott might not prevent itsdelivery, he charged him to try to find Peregrine outside the house,and arrange with him a meeting on the hill, where you know theduellists of the garrison are wont to transact such encounters.Sedley himself walked out part of the way with his friend, butneither of them saw Peregrine, nor heard anything of him. So heavers, but when asked for his witness to corroborate the story, hesays that Ainslie, I fear the only person who could have proved analibi--if so it were--was killed at Landen; but, he added, certainlywith too much of his rough way, it was a mere absurdity to charge itupon him. What should a gentleman have to do with private murdersand robberies? Nor did he believe the bones to be Perry Oakshott'sat all. It was all a bit of Whiggish spite! He worked himself intoa passion, which only added to the impression against him; and I ownI cannot wonder that the verdict has sent him to Winchester to takehis trial. Why, Anne, child, how now?"
"'Tis a terrible story. Take my essences, child," said LadyArchfield, tottering across, and Anne, just saving herself fromfainting by a long gasp at them, let herself be led from the room.The maids buzzed about her, and for some time she was sensible ofnothing but a longing to get rid of them, and to be left alone toface the grievous state of things which she did not yet understand.At last, with kind good-nights from Lady Archfield, such as shecould hardly return, she was left by herself in the darkness torecover from the stunned helpless feeling of the first moment.
Sedley accused! Charles to be sacrificed to save his worthlesscousin, the would-be murderer of his innocent child, who morallythus deserved to suffer! Never, never! She could not do so. Itwould be treason to her benefactors, nay, absolute injustice, forCharles had struck in generous defence of herself; but Sedley hadtried to allure the boy to his death merely for his own advantage.Should she not be justified in simpl
y keeping silence? Yet therewas like an arrow in her heart, the sense of guilt in so doing,guilt towards God and truth, guilt towards man and justice. Sheshould die under the load, and it would be for Charles. Might itonly be before he came home, then he would know that she hadperished under his secret to save him. Nay, but would he bethankful at being saved at the expense of his cousin's life? If hecame, how should she meet him?
The sense of the certain indignation of a good and noble humanspirit often awakes the full perception of what an action would bein the sight of Heaven, and Anne began to realise the sin more thanat first, and to feel the compulsion of truth. If only Charles werenot coming home she could write to him and warn him, but the thoughtthat he might be already on the way had turned from joy to agony."And to think," she said to herself, "that I was fretting as towhether he would think me pretty!"
She tossed about in misery, every now and then rising on her kneesto pray--at first for Charles's safety--for she shrank from askingfor Divine protection, knowing only too well what that would be.Gradually, however, a shudder came over her at the thought that ifshe would not commit her way unto the Lord, she might indeed be theundoing of her lover, and then once more the higher sense of dutyrose on her. She prayed for forgiveness for the thought, and thatit might not be visited upon him; she prayed for strength to do whatmust be her duty, for safety for him, and comfort to his parents,and so, in passing gusts of misery and apprehension, of failingheart and recovered resolution, of anguish and of prayer, the longnight at length passed, and with the first dawn she arose, shakenand weak, but resolved to act on her terrible resolution before itagain failed her.
Sir Philip was always an early riser, and she heard his foot on thestairs before seven o'clock. She came out on the staircase, whichmet the flight which he was descending, and tried to speak, but herlips seemed too dry to part.
"Child! child! you are ill," said the old gentleman, as he saw herblanched cheek; "you should be in bed this chilly morning. Go backto your chamber."
"No, no, sir, I cannot. Pray, your Honour, come here, I havesomething to say;" and she drew him to the open door of his justice-room, called the gun-room.
"Bless me," he muttered, "the wench does not mean that she has gotsmitten with that poor rogue my nephew!"
"Oh! no, no," said Anne, almost ready for a hysterical laugh, yetletting the old man seat himself, and then dropping on her kneesbefore him, for she could hardly stand, "it is worse than that, sir;I know who it was who did that thing."
"Well, who?" he said hastily; "why have you kept it back so long andlet an innocent man get into trouble?"
"O Sir Philip! I could not help it. Forgive me;" and with claspedhands, she brought out the words, "It was your son, Mr. Archfield;"and then she almost collapsed again.
"Child! child! you are ill; you do not know what you are saying. Wemust have you to bed again. I will call your uncle."
"Ah! sir, it is only too true;" but she let him fetch her uncle, whowas sure to be at his devotions in a kind of oratory on the fartherside of the hall. She had not gone to him first, from the olddesire to keep him clear of the knowledge, but she longed for suchsupport as he might give her, or at least to know whether he werevery angry with her.
The two old men quickly came back together, and Dr. Woodford began,"How now, niece, are you telling us dreams?" but he broke off as hesaw the sad earnest of her face.
"Sir, it is too true. He charged me to speak out if any one elsewere brought into danger."
"Come," said Sir Philip, testily; "don't crouch grovelling on thefloor there. Get up and let us know the meaning of this. Goodheavens! the lad may be here any day."
Anne had much rather have knelt where she was, but her uncle raisedher, and placed her in a chair, saying, "Try to compose yourself,and tell us what you mean, and why it has been kept back so long."
"Indeed he did not intend it," pleaded Anne; "it was almost anaccident--to protect me--Peregrine was--pursuing me."
"Upon my word, young mistress," burst out the father, "you seem tohave been setting all the young fellows together by the ears."
"I doubt if she could help it," said the Doctor. "She tried to bediscreet, but it was the reason her mother--"
"Well, go on," interrupted poor Sir Philip, too unhappy to remembermanners or listen to the defence; "what was it? when was it?"
Anne was allowed then to proceed. "It was the morning I went toLondon. I went out to gather some mouse-ear."
"Mouse-ear! mouse-ear!" growled he. "Some one else's ear."
"It was for Lady Oglethorpe."
"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 atryst in his mind. "No wonder mischief comes of maidens runningabout at such hours. What next?"
The poor girl struggled on: "I saw Peregrine coming, and hoping hewould not see me, I ran into the keep, meaning to get home by thebattlements out of his sight, but when I looked down he and Mr.Archfield were fighting. I screamed, but I don't think they heardme, and I ran down; but I had fastened all the doors, and I was along time getting out, and by that time Mr. Archfield had draggedhim to the vault and thrown him in. He was like one distracted, andsaid it must be hidden, or it would be the death of his wife and hismother, and what could I do?"
"Is that all the truth?" said Sir Philip sternly. "What broughtthem there--either of them?"
"Mr. Archfield came to bring me a pattern of sarcenet to match forpoor young Madam in London."
No doubt Sir Philip recollected the petulant anger that this hadbeen forgotten, but he was hardly appeased. "And the other fellow?Why, he was brawling with my nephew Sedley about you the daybefore!"
"I do not think she was to blame there," said Dr. Woodford. "Theunhappy youth was set against marrying Mistress Browning, and hadtalked wildly to my sister and me about wedding my niece."
"But why should she run away as if he had the plague, and set thefoolish lads to fight?"
"Sir, I must tell you," Anne owned, "he had beset me, and talked sodesperately that I was afraid of what he might do in that lonelyplace and at such an hour in the morning. I hoped he had not seenme."
"Umph!" said Sir Philip, much as if he thought a silly girl'simagination had caused all the mischief.
"When did he thus speak to you, Anne?" asked her uncle, notunkindly.
"At the inn at Portsmouth, sir," said Anne. "He came while you werewith Mr. Stanbury and the rest, and wanted me to marry him and fleeto France, or I know not where, or at any rate marry him secretly soas to save him from poor Mistress Browning. I could not choose butfear and avoid him, but oh! I would have faced him ten times overrather 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 onewas suspected, it would only give more pain to say what I knew, butthat 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, buthiding his face in his hands, and groaning out, "Oh, my son! myson!"
Seeing that his distress so overcame poor Anne that she couldscarcely contain herself, Dr. Woodford thought it best to take herfrom the room, promising to come again to her. She could do nothingbut lie on her bed and weep in a quiet heart-broken way. SirPhilip's anger seemed to fill up the measure, by throwing the guiltback upon her and rousing a bitter sense of injustice, and then shewept again at her cruel selfishness in blaming the broken-heartedold man.
She could hardly have come down to breakfast, so heavy were herlimbs and so sick and faint did every movement render her, and shefurther bethought herself that the poor old father might not brookthe sight of her under the circumstances. It was a pang to hearlittle Philip prancing about the house, and when
he had come to herto say his prayers, she sent him down with a message that she wasnot 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 bywanting to know whether she had gout like grandpapa or rheumaticslike grandmamma, and then stroking her face, calling her his dearNana, and telling her of the salad in his garden that his papa wasto eat the very first day he came home.
By and by Dr. Woodford knocked at her door. He had had a longconversation with poor old Sir Philip, who was calmer now than underthe first blow, and somewhat less inclined to anger with the girl,who might indeed be the cause, but surely the innocent cause, ofall. The Doctor had done his best to show that her going out had noconnection with any of the youths, and he thought Sir Philip wouldbelieve it on quieter reflection. He had remembered too, signs ofself-reproach mixed with his son's grief for his wife, and hisextreme relief at the plan for going abroad, recollecting likewisethat Charles had strongly disliked poor Peregrine, and had muchresented the liking which young Madam had shown for one whoseattentions might have been partly intended to tease the younghusband.
"Of course," said Dr. Woodford, "the unhappy deed was no more thanan unfortunate accident, and if all had been known at first,probably it would so have been treated. The concealment was anerror, but it is impossible to blame either of you for it."
"Oh never mind that, dear uncle! Only tell me! Must he--mustCharles suffer to save that man? You know what he is, real murdererin 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 oneknows that better than our good old patron," said the Doctor; "but,my dear child, you are not called on to denounce this young man asyou seem to imagine, unless there should be no other means of savinghis cousin, or unless you are so questioned that you cannot helpreplying for truth's sake. Knowing nothing of all this, it struckothers besides myself at the inquest that the evidence againstSedley was utterly insufficient for a conviction, and if he shouldbe acquitted, matters will only be as they were before."
"Then you think I am not bound to speak--The truth, the whole truth,nothing but the truth," she murmured in exceeding grief, yet firmly.
"You certainly may, nay, _must_ keep your former silence till thetrial, at the Lent Assizes. I trust you may not be called on as awitness to the fray with Sedley, but that I may be sufficienttestimony to that. I could testify to nothing else. Remember, ifyou are called, you have only to answer what you are asked, nor isit likely, unless Sedley have any suspicion of the truth, that youwill be asked any question that will implicate Mr. Archfield. Ifso, God give you strength my poor child, to be true to Him. But thepoint of the trial is to prove Sedley guilty or not guilty; and ifthe latter, there is no more to be said. God grant it."
"But he--Mr. Archfield?"
"His father is already taking measures to send to all the ports tostop him on his way till the trial is over. Thus there will be noactual danger, though it is a sore disappointment, and these wickedattempts of Charnock and Barclay put us in bad odour, so that it maybe less easy to procure a pardon than it once would have been. So,my dear child, I do not think you need be in terror for his life,even if you are obliged to speak out plainly."
And then the good old man knelt with Anne to pray for pardon,direction, and firmness, and protection for Charles. She made anentreaty after they rose that her uncle would take her away--herpresence must be so painful to their kind hosts. He agreed withher, and made the proposition, but Sir Philip would not hear of it.Perhaps he was afraid of any change bringing suspicion of the facts,and he might have his fears of Anne being questioned into dangerousadmissions, besides which, he hoped to keep his poor old wife inignorance to the last. So Anne was to remain at Fareham, and afterthat one day's seclusion she gathered strength to be with the familyas usual. Poor old Sir Philip treated her with a studied but icycourtesy which cut her to the heart; but Lady Archfield's hopes ofseeing her son were almost worse, together with her regrets at herhusband's dejection at the situation of his nephew and the familydisgrace. As to little Philip, his curious inquiries about CousinSedley being in jail for murdering Penny Grim had to be summarilyhushed by the assurance that such things were not to be spokenabout. But why did Nana cry when he talked of papa's coming home?
All the neighbourhood was invited to the funeral in HavantChurchyard, the burial-place of the Oakshotts. Major Oakshotthimself wrote to Dr. Woodford, as having been one of the kindestfriends of his poor son, adding that he could not ask Sir PhilipArchfield, although he knew him to be no partner in the guilt of hisunhappy nephew, who so fully exemplified that Divine justice may beslow, but is sure.
Dr. Woodford decided on accepting the invitation, not only forPeregrine's sake, but to see how the land lay. Scarcely anythingremarkable, however, occurred, except that it was painful toperceive the lightness of the coffin. A funeral sermon waspreviously preached by a young Nonconformist minister in his ownchapel, on the text, "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall hisblood be shed;" and then the burial took place, watched by a hugecrowd of people. But just as the procession was starting from thechapel for the churchyard, over the wall there came a strange pealof wild laughter.
"Oh, would not the unquiet spirit be at rest till it was avenged?"thought Anne when she was told of it.
A Reputed Changeling Page 28