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Perhaps, however, he was somewhat comforted by her later observation, "He is as ugly as Old Nick, and looks like always laughing at you; but I wish you could dance like him, Mr. Archfield, only then you wouldn't be my dear old great big husband, or so beautiful to look at. Oh, yes, to be sure, he is nothing but a skipjack such as one makes out of a chicken bone!"
Archfield, forgive me. He seemed divinely sent to me on that All Saints' day! Oh, forgive me!" and tears were in her eyes. "He is Dr. Ken eh? I remember him. I suppose he is as safe as any man, and a woman must have some relief. You have borne enough indeed," said Charles, greatly touched by her tears. "What did he say?"
Archfield that the tiger was dead, and only a skin, and that the elephant was the mildest of beasts, till she coaxed forward that small personage, who had of course never really intended to turn back, supported and guarded as she was by her husband, and likewise by a tall, glittering figure in big boots and a handsome scarlet uniform and white feather who claimed her attention as he strode into the court.
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, 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.
The Doctor, in black velvet cap and stately silken cassock, sash, and gown, sailed down to receive them, and again greeted Peregrine, who emerged in black velvet and satin, delicate muslin cravat and cuffs, dainty silk stockings and rosetted shoes, in a style such as made the far taller and handsomer Charles Archfield, in spite of gay scarlet coat, embroidered flowery vest, rich laced cravat, and thick shining brown curls, look a mere big schoolboy, almost bumpkin-like in contrast.
Woodford came home just before twilight, looking grave and troubled, and, much to Anne's alarm, desired to speak to Sir Philip privately in the gun-room. Lady Archfield took alarm, and much distressed her by continually asking what could be the meaning of the interview, and making all sorts of guesses.
"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 first speaker was Anne Jacobina Woodford, who had recently come with her mother, the widow of a brave naval officer, to live with her uncle, the Prebendary then in residence. The other was Lucy Archfield, daughter to a knight, whose home was a few miles from Portchester, Dr. Woodford's parish on the southern coast of Hampshire.
Anne Woodford sat, on a sultry summer night, by the open window in Archfield House at Fareham, busily engaged over the tail of a kite, while asleep in a cradle in the corner of the room lay a little boy, his apple-blossom cheeks and long flaxen curls lying prone upon his pillow as he had tossed when falling asleep in the heat. The six years since her return had been eventful. Dr.
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