A Reputed Changeling; Or, Three Seventh Years Two Centuries Ago by Yonge (motivational novels .TXT) 📕

herself such tell-tales that Mr. Fellowes could not help saying, “It is not my part to rebuke you, madam, but if you were aware of this evasion, you will have a heavy reckoning to pay to the young man’s parents.”

“Sir,” said Anne, “I knew indeed that he meant to join the Imperial army, but I knew not how nor when.”

“Ah, well!  I ask no questions.  You need not justify yourself to me, young lady; but Sir Philip and Lady Archfield little knew what they did when they asked us to come by way of Paris.  Not that I regret it on all accounts,” he added, with a courteous bow to Naomi which set her blushing in her turn.  He avoided again addressing Miss Woodford, and she thought with consternation of the prejudice he might excite against her.  It had been arranged between the two maidens that Naomi should be a guest at Portchester Rectory till she could communicate with Walwyn, and her father or brother could come and fetch her.

They landed at the little wharf, among the colliers, and made their way up the street to an inn, where, after ordering a meal to satisfy the ravenous sea-appetite, Mr. Fellowes, after a few words with Naomi, left the ladies to their land toilet, while he went to hire horses for the journey.

Then Naomi could not help saying, “O Anne!  I did not think you would have done this.  I am grieved!”

“You do not know all,” said Anne sadly, “or you would not think so hardly.”

“I saw you had an understanding with him.  I see you have a new ring on your finger; but how could I suppose you would encourage an only son thus to leave his parents?”

“Hush, hush, Naomi!” cried Anne, as the uncontrollable tears broke out.  “Don’t you believe that it is quite as hard for me as for them that he should have gone off to fight those dreadful blood-thirsty Turks?  Indeed I would have hindered him, but that—but that—I know it is best for him.  No!  I can’t tell you why, but I know it is; and even to the very last, when he helped me down the companion-ladder, I hoped he might be coming home first.”

“But you are troth-plight to him, and secretly?”

“I am not troth-plight; I know I am not his equal, I told him so, but he thrust this ring on me in the boat, in the dark, and how could I give it back!”

Naomi shook her head, but was more than half-disarmed by her friend’s bitter weeping.  Whether she gave any hint to Mr. Fellowes Anne did not know, but his manner remained drily courteous, and as Anne had to ride on a pillion behind a servant she was left in a state of isolation as to companionship, which made her feel herself in disgrace, and almost spoilt the joy of dear familiar recognition of hill, field, and tree, after her long year’s absence, the longest year in her life, and substituted the sinking of heart lest she should be returning to hear of misfortune and disaster, sickness or death.

Her original plan had been to go on with Naomi to Portchester at once, if by inquiry at Fareham she found that her uncle was at home, but she perceived that Mr. Fellowes decidedly wished that Miss Darpent should go first to the Archfields, and something within her determined first to turn thither in spite of all there was to encounter, so that she might still her misgivings by learning whether her uncle was well.  So she bade the man turn his horse’s head towards the well-known poplars in front of Archfield House.

The sound of the trampling horses brought more than one well-known old ‘blue-coated serving-man’ into the court, and among them a woman with a child in her arms.  There was the exclamation, “Mistress Anne!  Sure Master Charles be not far behind,” and the old groom ran to help her down.

“Oh!  Ralph, thanks.  All well?  My uncle?”

“He is here, with his Honour,” and in scarcely a moment more Lucy, swift of foot, had flown out, and had Anne in her embrace, and crying out—

“Ah, Charles! my brother!  I don’t see him.”

Anne was glad to have no time to answer before she was in her uncle’s arms.  “My child, at last!  God bless thee!  Safe in soul and body!”

Sir Philip was there too, greeting Mr. Fellowes, and looking for his son, and with the cursory assurance that Mr. Archfield was well, and that they would explain, a hasty introduction of Miss Darpent was made, and all moved in to where Lady Archfield, more feeble and slow of movement, had come into the hall, and the nurse stood by with the little heir to be shown to his father, and Sedley Archfield stood in the background.  It was a cruel moment for all, when the words came from Mr. Fellowes, “Sir, I have to tell you, Mr. Archfield is not here.  This letter, he tells me, is to explain.”

There was an outburst of exclamation, during which Sir Philip withdrew into a window with his spectacles to read the letter, while all to which the tutor or Anne ventured to commit themselves was that Mr. Archfield had only quitted them without notice on board the Hampshire Hog.

The first tones of the father had a certain sound of relief, “Gone to the Imperialist army to fight the Turks in Hungary!”

Poor Lady Archfield actually shrieked, and Lucy turned quite pale, while Anne caught a sort of lurid flush of joy on Sedley Archfield’s features, and he was the first to exclaim, “Undutiful young dog!”

“Tut! tut!” returned Sir Philip, “he might as well have come home first, and yet I do not know but that it is the best thing he could do.  There might have been difficulties in the way of getting out again, you see, my lady, as things stand now.  Ay! ay! you are in the right of it, my boy.  It is just as well to let things settle themselves down here before committing himself to one side or the other.  ’Tis easy enough for an old fellow like me who has to let nothing go but his Commission of the Peace, but not the same for a stirring young lad; and he is altogether right as to not coming back to idle here as a rich man.  It would be the ruin of him.  I am glad he has the sense to see it.  I was casting about to obtain an estate for him to give him occupation.”

“But the wars,” moaned the mother; “if he had only come home we could have persuaded him.”

“The wars, my lady!  Why, they will be a feather in his cap; and may be if he had come home, the Dutchman would have claimed him for his, and let King James be as misguided as he may, I cannot stomach fighting against his father’s son for myself or mine.  No, no; it was the best thing there was for the lad to do.  You shall hear his letter, it does him honour, and you, too, Mr. Fellowes.  He could not have written such a letter when he left home barely a year ago.”

Sir Philip proceeded to read the letter aloud.  There was a full explanation of the motives, political and private, only leaving out one, and that the most powerful of all of those which led Charles Archfield to absent himself for the present.  He entreated pardon for having made the decision without obtaining permission from his father on returning home; but he had done so in view of possible obstacles to his leaving England again, and to the belief that a brief sojourn at home would cause more grief and perplexity than his absence.  He further explained, as before, his reasons for secrecy towards his travelling companion, and entreated his father not to suppose for a moment that Mr. Fellowes had been in any way culpable for what he could never have suspected; warmly affectionate messages to mother and sister followed, and an assurance of feeling that ‘the little one’ needed for no care or affection while with them.

Lady Archfield was greatly disappointed, and cried a great deal, making sure that the poor dear lad’s heart was still too sore to brook returning after the loss of his wife, who had now become the sweetest creature in the world; but Sir Philip’s decision that the measure was wise, and the secrecy under the circumstances so expedient as to be pardonable, prevented all public blame; Mr. Fellowes, however, was drawn apart, and asked whether he suspected any other motive than was here declared, and which might make his pupil unwilling to face the parental brow, and he had declared that nothing could have been more exemplary than the whole demeanour of the youth, who had at first gone about as one crushed, and though slowly reviving into cheerfulness, had always been subdued, until quite recently, when the meeting with his old companion had certainly much enlivened his spirits.  Poor Mr. Fellowes had been rejoicing in the excellent character he should have to give, when this evasion had so utterly disconcerted him, and it was an infinite relief to him to find that all was thought comprehensible and pardonable.

Anne might be thankful that none of the authorities thought of asking her the question about hidden motives; and Naomi, looking about with her bright eyes, thought she had perhaps judged too hardly when she saw the father’s approval, and that the mother and sister only mourned at the disappointment at not seeing the beloved one.

The Archfields would not hear of letting any of the party go on to Portchester that evening.  Dr. Woodford, who had ridden over for consultation with Sir Philip, must remain, he would have plenty of time for his niece by and by, and she and Miss Darpent must tell them all about the journey, and about Charles; and Anne must tell them hundreds of things about herself that they scarcely knew, for not one letter from St. Germain had ever reached her uncle.

How natural it all looked! the parlour just as when she saw it last, and the hall, with the long table being laid for supper, and the hot sun streaming in through the heavy casements.  She could have fancied it yesterday that she had left it, save for the plump rosy little yearling with flaxen curls peeping out under his round white cap, who had let her hold him in her arms and fondle him all through that reading of his father’s letter.  Charles’s child!  He was her prince indeed now.

He was taken from her and delivered over to Lady Archfield to be caressed and pitied because his father would not come home ‘to see his grand-dame’s own beauty,’ while Lucy took the guests upstairs to prepare for supper, Naomi and her maid being bestowed in the best guest-chamber, and Lucy taking her friend to her own, the scene of many a confabulation of old.

“Oh, how I love it!” cried Anne, as the door opened on the well-known little wainscotted abode.  “The very same beau-pot.  One would think they were the same clove gillyflowers as when I went away.”

“O Anne, dear, and you are just the same after all your kings and queens, and all you have gone through;” and the two friends were locked in another embrace.

“Kings and queens indeed!  None of them all are worth my Lucy.”

“And now, tell me all; tell me all, Nancy, and first of all about my brother.  How does he look, and is he well?”

“He looks!  O Lucy, he is grown such a noble cavalier; most like the picture of that uncle of yours who was killed, and that Sir Philip always grieves for.”

“My father always hoped Charley would be like him,” said Lucy.  “You must tell him that.  But I fear he may be grave and sad.”

“Graver, but not sad now.”

“And you have seen him and talked to him, Anne?  Did you know he was going on this terrible enterprise?”

“He spoke of it, but never told me when.”

“Ah!  I was sure you knew more about it than the old tutor man.  You always were his little sweetheart before poor little Madam came in the way, and he would tell you anything near his heart.  Could you not have stopped him?”

“I think not, Lucy; he gave his reasons like a man of weight and thought, and you see his Honour thinks them sound ones.”

“Oh yes; but somehow I cannot fancy our Charley doing anything for grand, sound, musty reasons, such as look well marshalled out in a letter.”

“You don’t know how much older he is grown,” said Anne, again, with the tell-tale colour in her cheeks.  “Besides, he cannot bear to come home.”

“Don’t tell me that, Nan.  My mother does not see it; but though he was fond of poor little Madam in a way,