LITMIR.BIZ

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to consult her brother-in-law on the strange mood of her patient.  She found that he had heard more than he had told her of what Major Oakshott deemed the hopeless wickedness of his son, the antics at prayers, the hatred of everything good, the spiteful tricks that were the family torment.  No doubt much was due to the boy’s entire belief in his own elfship, and these two good people seriously considered how to save him from himself.

      “If we could only keep him here,” said Mrs. Woodford, “I think we might bring him to have some faith and love in God and man.”

      “You could, dear sister,” said the Doctor, smiling affectionately; “but Major Oakshott would never leave his son in our house.  He abhors our principles too much, and besides, it is too near home.  All the servants have heard rumours of this cruel fable, and would ascribe the least misadventure to his goblin origin.  I must ride over to Oakwood and endeavour to induce his father to remove him to safe and judicious keeping.”

      Some days, however, elapsed before Dr. Woodford could do this, and in the meantime the good lady did her best to infuse into her poor young guest the sense that he had a human soul, responsible for his actions, and with hope set before him, and that he was not a mere frolicsome and malicious sprite, the creature of unreasoning impulse.

      It was a matter only to be attempted by gentle hints, for though reared in a strictly religious household, Peregrine’s ears seemed to have been absolutely closed, partly by nursery ideas of his own exclusion from the pale of humanity, partly by the harsh treatment that he was continually bringing on himself.  Preachings and prayers to him only meant a time of intolerable restraint, usually ending in disgrace and punishment; Scripture and the Westminster Catechism contained a collection of tasks more tedious and irksome than the Latin and Greek Grammar; Sunday was his worst day of the week, and these repugnances, as he had been taught to believe, were so many proofs that he was a being beyond the power of grace.

      Mrs. Woodford scrupled to leave him to any one else on this first Sunday of his recovered consciousness, and in hopes of keeping him quiet through fatigue, she contrived that it should be the first day of his being dressed, and seated in the arm-chair, resting against cushions beside the open window, whence he could watch the church-goers, Anne in her little white cap, with her book in one hand, and a posy in the other, tripping demurely beside her uncle, stately in gown, cassock, and scarlet hood.

      Peregrine could not refrain from boasting to his hostess how he had once grimaced from outside the church window at Havant, and at the women shrieking that the fiend was there.  She would not smile, and shook her head sadly, so that he said, “I would never do so here.”

      “Nor anywhere, I hope.”

      Whereupon, thinking better to please the churchwoman, he related how, when imprisoned for popping a toad into the soup, he had escaped over the leads, and had beaten a drum outside the barn, during a discourse of the godly tinker, John Bunyan, tramping and rattling so that all thought the troopers were come, and rushed out, tumbling one over the other, while he yelled out his “Ho! ho! ho!” from the haystack where he had hidden.

      “When you feel how kind and loving God is,” said Mrs. Woodford gravely, “you will not like to disturb those who are doing Him honour.”

      “Is He kind?” asked Peregrine.  “I thought He was all wrath and anger.”

      She replied, “The Lord is loving unto every man, and His mercy is over all His works.”

      He made no answer.  If he were sullen, this subsided into sleepiness, and when he awoke he found the lady on her knees going through the service with her Prayer-book.  She encountered his wistful eyes, but no remark was made, though on her return from fetching him some broth, she found him peeping into her book, which he laid down hastily, as though afraid of detection.

      She had to go down to the Sunday dinner, where, according to good old custom, half a dozen of the poor and aged were regaled with the parish priest and his household.  There she heard inquiries and remarks showing how widely spread and deeply rooted was the notion of Peregrine’s elfish extraction.  If Daddy Hoskins did ask after the poor young gentleman as if he were a human being, the three old dames present shook their heads, and while the more bashful only groaned, Granny Perkins demanded, “Well, now, my lady, do he eat and sleep like other folk?”

      “Exactly, granny, now that he’s mending in health.”

      “And don’t he turn and writhe when there’s prayers?”

      Mrs. Woodford deposed to having observed no such demonstrations.

      “Think of that now!  Lauk-a-daisy!  I’ve heard tell by my nevvy Davy, as is turnspit at Oak’ood, as how when there’s prayers and expounding by Master Horncastle, as is a godly man, saving his Reverence’s presence, he have seen him, have Davy—Master Perry, as they calls him, a-twisted round with his heels on the chair, and his head where his heels should be, and a grin on his face enough to give one a turn.”

      “Did Davy never see a mischievous boy fidgeting at prayers?” asked the Doctor, who was nearer than she thought.  “If so, he has been luckier than I have been.”

      There was a laugh, out of deference to the clergyman, but the old woman held to her point.  “Begging your Reverence’s pardon, sir, there be more in this than we knows.  They says up at Oakwood, there’s no peace in the place for the spite of him, and when they thinks he is safe locked into his chamber, there he be a-clogging of the spit, or changing sugar into pepper, or making the stool break down under one.  Oh, he be a strange one, sir, or summat worse.  I have heerd him myself hollaing ‘Ho! ho! ho!’ on the downs enough to make one’s flesh creep.”

      “I will tell you what he is, dame,” said the Doctor gravely.  “He is a poor child who had a fit in his cradle, and whom all around have joined in driving to folly, evil, and despair through your foolish superstitions.  He is my guest, and I will have no more said against him at my table.”

      The village gossips might be silenced by awe of the parson, but their opinion was unshaken; and Silas Hewlett, a weather-beaten sailor with a wooden leg, was bold enough to answer, “Ay, ay, sir, you parsons and gentlefolk don’t believe naught; but you’ve not seen what I have with my own two bodily eyes—” and this of course was the prelude to the history of an encounter with a mermaid, which alternated with the Flying Dutchman and a combat with the Moors, as regular entertainment at the Sunday meal.

      When Mrs. Woodford went upstairs she was met by the servant Nicolas, declaring that she might get whom she would to wait on that there moon-calf, he would not go neist the spiteful thing, and exhibiting a swollen finger, stung by a dead wasp, which Peregrine had cunningly disposed on the edge of his empty plate.

      She soothed the man’s wrath, and healed his wound as best she might, ere returning to her patient, who looked at her with an impish grin on his lips, and yet human deprecation in his eyes.  Feeling unprepared for discussion, she merely asked whether the dinner had been relished, and sat down to her book; but there was a grave, sorrowful expression on her countenance, and, after an interval of lying back uneasily in his chair, he exclaimed, “It is of no use; I could not help it.  It is my nature.”

      “It is the nature of many lads to be mischievous,” she answered; “but grace can cure them.”

      Therewith she began to read aloud.  She had bought the Pilgrim’s Progress (the first part) from a hawker, and she was glad to have at hand something that could hardly be condemned as frivolous or prelatical.  The spell of the marvellous book fell on Peregrine; he listened intently, and craved ever to hear more, not being yet able to read without pain and dizziness.  He was struck by hearing that the dream of Christian’s adventures had visited that same tinker, whose congregation his own wicked practices had broken up.

      “He would take me for one of the hobgoblins that beset Master Christian.”

      “Nay,” said Mrs. Woodford, “he would say you were Christian floundering in the Slough of Despond, and deeming yourself one of its efts or tadpoles.”

      He made no answer, but on the whole behaved so well that the next day Mrs. Woodford ventured to bring her little daughter in after having extracted a promise that

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