“Tell me all that is in your heart, my child.”

It all came out with the vehemence of a reserved nature when the flood is loosed.  ‘Young Madam’ had been more than usually peevish and exacting, jealous perhaps at Lucy’s being the heroine of the day, and fretful over a cold which confined her to the house, how she worried and harassed all around her with her whims, megrims and complaints could only too well be imagined, and how the entire pleasure of the day was destroyed.  Lucy was never allowed a minute’s conversation with her friend without being interrupted by a whine and complaints of unkindness and neglect.

Lady Archfield’s ill-usage, as the young wife was pleased to call every kind of restriction, was the favourite theme next to the daughter-in law’s own finery, her ailments, and her notions of the treatment befitting her.

And young Mr. Archfield himself, while handing his old friend out to the carriage that had fetched her, could not help confiding to her that he was nearly beside himself.  His mother meant to be kind, but expected too much from one so brought up, and his wife—­what could be done for her?  She made herself miserable here, and every one else likewise.  Yet even if his father would consent, she was utterly unfit to be mistress of a house of her own; and poor Charles could only utter imprecations on the guardians who could have had no idea how a young woman ought to be brought up.  It was worse than an ill-trained hound.”

Mrs. Woodford heard what she extracted from her daughter with grief and alarm, and not only for her friends.

“Indeed, my dear child,” she said, “you must prevent such confidences.  They are very dangerous things respecting married people.”

“It was all in a few moments, mamma, and I could not stop him.  He is so unhappy;” and Anne’s voice revealed tears.

“The more reason why you should avoid hearing what he will soon be very sorry you have heard.  Were he not a mere lad himself, it would be as inexcusable as it is imprudent thus to speak of the troubles and annoyances that often beset the first year of wedded life.  I am sorry for the poor youth, who means no harm nor disloyalty, and is only treating you as his old companion and playmate; but he has no right thus to talk of his wife, above all to a young maiden too inexperienced to counsel him, and if he should attempt to do so again, promise me, my daughter, that you will silence him—­if by no other means, by telling him so.”

“I promise!” said Anne, choking back her tears and lifting her head.  “I am sure I never want to go to Fareham again while that Lieutenant Sedley Archfield is there.  If those be army manners, they are what I cannot endure.  He is altogether mean and hateful, above all when he scoffs at Master Oakshott.”

“I am afraid a great many do so, child, and that he often gives some occasion,” put in Mrs. Woodford, a little uneasy that this should be the offence.