ng in changed the topic, but
it had given Anne something more to think of. Peregrine had spoken
of means arranged for making her his own. Could that smuggling
yacht have anything to do with them? He could hardly have reckoned
on meeting her alone in the morning, but he might have attempted to
find her thus--or failing that, he might have run down the boat. If
so, she had a great deliverance to be thankful for, and Charles's
timely appearance had been a great blessing. But Peregrine! poor
Peregrine! it became doubly terrible that he should have perished on
the eve of such a deed. It was cruel to entertain such thoughts of
the dead, yet it was equally impossible not to feel comfort in being
rid for ever of one who had certainly justified the vague alarm
which he had always excited in her. She could not grieve for him
now that the first shock was over, but she must suppress all tokens
of her extreme anxiety on account of Charles Archfield.

Thus she was landed at Portsmouth, and walked up the street to the
Spotted Dog, where Lady Worsley was taking an early noonchine before
starting for London, having crossed from the little fishing village
of Ryde. Here Anne parted with her uncle, who promised an early
letter, though she could hardly restrain a shudder at the thought of
the tidings that it might contain.

CHAPTER XV: NEWS FROM FAREHAM

"My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery.
Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history."

JEAN INGELOW.

Lady Worsley was a handsome, commanding old dame, who soon made her
charge feel the social gulf between a county magnate and a
clergyman's niece. She decidedly thought that Mistress Anne
Jacobina held her head too high for her position, and was, moreover,
conceited of an unfortunate amount of good looks.

Therefore the good lady did her best to repress these dangerous
tendencies by making the girl sit on the back seat with two maids,
and uttering long lectures on humility, modesty, and discretion
which made the blood of the sea-captain's daughter boil with
indignation.

Yet she always carried with her the dread of being pursued and
called upon to accuse Charles Archfield of Peregrine's death. It
was a perpetual cloud, dispersed, indeed, for a time by the events
of the day, but returning at night, when not only was the combat
acted over again, but when she fell asleep it was only to be pursued
by Peregrine through endless vaulted dens of darkne