In Mrs. Fellowes’s parlour they found an unexpected guest, no other than Mrs. Oakshott.

‘Gadding about’ not being the fashion of the Archfield household, Anne had not seen the lady for several years, and was agreeably surprised by her appearance.  Perhaps the marks of smallpox had faded, perhaps motherhood had given expression, and what had been gaunt ungainliness in the maiden had rounded into a certain importance in the matron, nor had her dress, though quiet, any of the Puritan rigid ugliness that had been complained of, and though certainly not beautiful, she was a person to inspire respect.

It was explained that she was waiting for her husband, who was gone with Mr. Fellowes to speak to the officer in command of the soldiers at the castle.  “For,” said she, “I am quite convinced that there is something that ought to be brought to light, and it may be in that vault.”

Anne’s heart gave such a throb as almost choked her.

Dr. Woodford asked what the lady meant.

“Well, sir, when spirits and things ’tis not well to talk of are starting up and about here, there, and everywhere, ’tis plain there must be cause for it.”

“I do not quite take your meaning, madam.”

“Ah, well! you gentlemen, reverend ones especially, are the last to hear such things.  There’s the poor old Major, he won’t believe a word of it, but you know, Mistress Woodford.  I see it in your face.  Have you seen anything?”

“Not here, not now,” faltered Anne.  “You have, Mrs. Fellowes?”

“I have heard of some foolish fright of the maids,” said Naomi, “partly their own fancy, or perhaps caught from the sentry.  There is no keeping those giddy girls from running after the soldiers.”

Perhaps Naomi hoped by throwing out this hint to conduct her visitors off into the safer topic of domestic delinquencies, but Mrs. Oakshott was far too earnest to be thus diverted, and she exclaimed, “Ah, they saw him, I’ll warrant!”

“Him?” the Doctor asked innocently.

“Him or his likeness,” said Mrs. Oakshott, “my poor brother-in-law, Peregrine Oakshott; you remember him, sir?  He always said, poor lad, that you and Mrs. Woodford were kinder to him than his own flesh and blood, except his uncle, Sir Peregrine.  For my part, I never did give in to all the nonsense folk talked about his being a changeling or at best a limb of Satan.  He had more spirit and sense than the rest of them, and they led him the life of a dog, though they knew no better.  If I had had him at Emsworth, I would have shown them what he was;” and she sighed heavily.  “Well, I did not so much wonder when he disappeared, I made sure that he could bear it no longer and had run away.  I waited as long as there was any reason, till there should be tidings of him, and only took his brother at last because I found they could not do without me at home.”

Remarkable frankness! but it struck both the Doctor and Anne that if Peregrine could have submitted, his life might have been freer and less unhappy than he had expected, though Mrs. Martha spoke the broadest Hampshire.