LITMIR.BIZ

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calls me back when the elf, or whatever it is, has got the mastery of me.”

      Somewhat startled, Mrs. Woodford would have asked what he meant, but that intelligence was brought that Mr. Oakshott’s man had brought his mail, so that he had to repair to his room.  Mrs. Woodford had kept up some correspondence with him, for which his uncle’s position as envoy afforded unusual facilities, and she knew that on the whole he had been a very different being from what he was at home.  Once, indeed, his uncle had written to the Doctor to express his full satisfaction in the lad, on whom he seemed to look like a son, but from some subsequent letters she had an impression that he had got into trouble of some sort while at the University of Leyden, and she was afraid that she must accept the belief that the wild elfish spirit, as he called it, was by no means extinct in him, any more, she said to herself, than temptation is in any human creature.  The question is, What is there to contend therewith?

      The guests were, however, about to assemble.  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.  However, no one did look at anything but the little creature who could just reach to hang upon that resplendent bridegroom’s arm.  She was in glistening white brocade, too stiff and cumbrous for so tiny a figure, yet together with the diamonds glistening on her head and breast giving her the likeness of a fairy queen.  The whiteness was almost startling, for the neck and arms were like pearl in tint, the hair flowing in full curls on her shoulders was like shining flax or pale silk just unwound from the cocoon, and the only relief of colour was the deep blue of the eyes, the delicate tint of the lips, and the tender rosy flush that was called up by her presentation to her hosts by stout old Sir Philip, in plum-coloured coat and full-bottomed wig, though she did not blush half as much as the husband of nineteen in his new character.  Indeed, had it not been for her childish prettiness, her giggle would have been unpleasing to more than Lady Archfield, who, broad and matronly, gave a courtesy and critical glance at Peregrine before subsiding into a seat beside Mrs. Woodford.

      Lucy stood among a few other young people from the Close, watching for Anne, who came in, trim and bright, though still somewhat reddened in face and arms from her last attentions to the supper—an elaborate meal on such occasions, though lighter than the mid-day repast.  There were standing pies of game, lobster and oyster patties, creams, jellies, and other confections, on which Sir Philip and his lady highly complimented Anne, who had been engaged on them for at least a couple of days, her mother being no longer able to assist except by advice.

      “See, daughter Alice, you will learn one day to build up a jelly as well as to eat it,” said Sir Philip good-humouredly, whereat the small lady pouted a little and said—

      “Bet lets me make shapes of the dough, but I won’t stir the pans and get to look like a turkey-cock.”

      “Ah, ha! and you have always done what you liked, my little madam?”

      “Of course, sir! and so I shall,” she answered, drawing up her pretty little head, while Lady Archfield gave hers a boding shake.

      “Time, and life, and wifehood teach lessons,” murmured Mrs. Woodford in consolation, and the Doctor changed the subject by asking Peregrine whether the ladies abroad were given to housewifery.

      “The German dames make a great ado about their Wirthschaft, as they call it,” was the reply, “but as to the result!  Pah!  I know not how we should have fared had not Hans, my uncle’s black, been an excellent cook; but it was in Paris that we were exquisitely regaled, and our maître d’hôtel would discourse on ragoûts and entremets till one felt as if his were the first of the sciences.”

      “So it is to a Frenchman,” growled Sir Philip.  “French and Frenchifications are all the rage nowadays, but what will your father say to your science, my young spark?”

      The gesture of head and shoulder that replied had certainly been caught at Paris.  Mrs. Woodford rushed into the breach, asking about the Princess of Orange, whom she had often seen as a child.

      “A stately and sightly dame is she, madam,” Peregrine answered, “towering high above her little mynheer, who outwardly excels her in naught save the length of nose, and has the manners of a boor.”

      “The Prince of Orange is the hope of the country,” said Sir Philip severely.

      Peregrine’s face wore a queer satirical look, which provoked Sir Philip into saying, “Speak up, sir! what d’ye mean?  We don’t understand French grins here.”

      “Nor does he, nor French courtesies either,” said Peregrine.

      “So much the better!” exclaimed the baronet.

      Here the little clear voice broke in, “O Mr. Oakshott, if I had but known you were coming, you might have brought me a French doll in the latest fashion.”

      “I should have been most happy, madam,” returned Peregrine; “but unfortunately I am six months from Paris, and besides, his honour might object lest a French doll should contaminate the Dutch puppets.”

      “But oh, sir, is it true that French dolls have real hair that will curl?”

      “Don’t be foolish,” muttered Charles impatiently; and she drew up her head and made an indescribably droll moue of disgust at him.

      Supper ended, the party broke up into old and young, the two elder gentlemen sadly discussing politics over their tall glasses of wine, the matrons talking over the wedding and Lady Archfield’s stay in London at the parlour fire, and the young folk in a window, waiting for the fiddler and a few more of the young people who were to join them in the dance.

      The Archfield ladies had kissed the hand of the Queen, and agreed with Peregrine in admiration of her beauty and grace, though they did not go so far as he did, especially when he declared that her eyes were as soft as Mistress Anne’s, and nearly of the same exquisite brown, which made the damsel blush and experience a revival of the old feeling of her childhood, as if he put her under a spell.

      He went on to say that he had had the good fortune to pick up and restore to Queen Mary Beatrice a gold and coral rosary which she had dropped on her way to St. James’s Palace from Whitehall.  She thanked him graciously, letting him kiss her hand, and asking him if he were of the true Church.  “Imagine my father’s feelings,” he added, “when she said, ‘Ah! but you will be ere long; I give it you as a pledge.’”

      He produced the rosary, handing it first to Anne, who admired the beautiful filigree work, but it was almost snatched from her by Mrs. Archfield, who wound it twice on her tiny wrist, tried to get it over her head, and did everything but ask for it, till her husband, turning round, said roughly, “Give it back, madam.  We want no Popish toys here.”

      Lucy put in a hasty question whether Master Oakshott had seen much sport, and this led to a spirited description of the homely earnest of wild boar hunting under the great Elector of Brandenburg, in contrast with the splendours of la chasse aux sangliers at Fontainebleau with the green and gold uniforms, the fanfares on the curled horns, the ladies in their coaches, forced to attend whether ill or well, the very boars themselves too well bred not to conform to the sport of the great idol of France.  And again, he showed the diamond sleeve buttons, the trophies of a sort of bazaar held at Marly, where the stalls were kept by the Dauphin, Monsieur, the Duke of Maine, Madame de Maintenon, and the rest, where the purchases were winnings at Ombre, made not with coin but with nominal sums, and other games at cards, and all was given away that was not purchased.  And again the levees, when the King’s wig was handed through the curtains on a stick.  Peregrine’s profane mimicry of the stately march of Louis Quatorze, and the cringing obeisances of his courtiers, together with their strutting majesty towards their own inferiors, convulsed all with merriment; and the bride shrieked out, “Do it again!  Oh, I shall die of laughing!”

      It was very girlish, with a silvery ring, but the elder ladies

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