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

Of these there were plenty; and as the clerk asked for his description, all eyes turned on the tall and robust form in the prime of manhood, with the noble resolute expression on his fine features and steadfast eyes, except when, as he looked at his father, they were full of infinite pity.  The brown hair hung over the rich gold-laced white coat, faced with black, and with a broad gold-coloured sash fringed with black over his shoulder, and there was a look of distinction about him that made his answer only natural.  “Charles Archfield, of Archfield House, Fareham, Lieutenant-Colonel of his Imperial Majesty’s Light Dragoons, Knight of the Holy Roman Empire.  Must I give up my sword like a prisoner of war?” he asked, with a smile.

Sir Philip rose to his feet with an earnest trembling entreaty that bail might be taken for him, and many voices of gentlemen and men of substance made offers of it.  There was a little consultation, and it was ruled that bail might be accepted under the circumstances, and Charles bowed his thanks to the distant and gave his hand to the nearer, while Mr. Eyre of Botley Grange, and Mr. Brocas of Roche Court, were accepted as sureties.  The gentle old face of Mr. Cromwell of Hursley, was raised to poor old Sir Philip’s with the words, spoken with a remnant of the authority of the Protector: “Your son has spoken like a brave man, sir; God bless you, and bring you well through it.”

Charles was then asked whether he wished for time to collect witnesses.  “No, my lord,” he said.  “I thank you heartily, but I have no one to call, and the sooner this is over the better for all.”

After a little consultation it was found that the Grand Jury had not been dismissed, and could find a true bill against him; and it was decided that the trial should take place after the rest of the criminal cases were disposed of.

This settled, the sorrowful party with the strangely welcomed son were free to return to their quarters at the George.  Mr. Cromwell pressed forward to beg that they would make use of his coach.  It was a kind thought, for Sir Philip hung feebly on his son’s arm, and to pass through the curious throng would have been distressing.  After helping him in, Charles turned and demanded—

“Where is she, the young gentlewoman, Miss Woodford?”

She was just within, her uncle waiting to take her out till the crowd’s attention should be called off.  Charles lifted her in, and Sir Edmund and Dr. Woodford followed him, for there was plenty of room in the capacious vehicle.

Nobody spoke in the very short interval the four horses took in getting themselves out of the space in front of the County Hall and down the hill to the George.  Only Charles had leant forward, taken Anne’s hand, drawn it to his lips, and then kept fast hold of it.

They were all in the room at the inn at last, they hardly knew how; indeed, as Charles was about to shut the door there was a smack on his back, and there stood Sedley holding out his hand.

“So, Charley, old fellow, you were the sad dog after all.  You got me out of it, and I owe you my thanks, but you need not have put your neck into the noose.  I should have come off with flying colours, and made them all make fools of themselves, if you had only waited.”

“Do you think I could sit still and see her put to the torture?” said Charles.

“Torture?  You are thinking of your barbarous countries.  No fear of the boot here, nor even in Scotland nowadays.”

“That’s all the torture you understand,” muttered Sir Edmund Nutley.

“Not but what I am much beholden to you all the same,” went on Sedley.  “And look here, sir,” turning to his uncle, “if you wish to get him let off cheap you had better send up another special retainer to Harcourt, without loss of time, as he may be off.”

Sir Edmund Nutley concurred in the advice, and they hurried off together in search of the family attorney, through whom the great man had to be approached.

The four left together could breathe more freely.  Indeed Dr. Woodford would have taken his niece away, but that Charles already had her in his arms in a most fervent embrace, as he said, “My brave, my true maid!”

She could not speak, but she lifted up her eyes, with infinite relief in all her sorrow, as for a moment she rested against him; but they had to move apart, for a servant came up with some wine, and Charles, putting her into a chair, began to wait on her and on his father.

“I have not quite forgotten my manners,” he said lightly, as if to relieve the tension of feeling, “though in Germany the ladies serve the gentlemen.”

It was very hard not to burst into tears at these words, but Anne knew that would be the way to distress her companions and to have to leave the room and lose these precious moments.  Sir Philip, after swallowing the wine, succeeded in saying, “Have you been at home?”

Charles explained that he had landed at Gravesend, and had ridden thence, sleeping at Basingstoke, and taking the road through Winchester in case his parents should be wintering there, and on arriving a couple of hours previously and inquiring for them, he had heard the tidings that Sir Philip Archfield was indeed there, for his nephew was being tried for his life for the wilful murder of Major Oakshott’s son seven years ago.

“And you had none of my warnings?  I wrote to all the ports,” said his father, “to warn you to wait till all this was over.”

No; he had crossed from Sluys, and had met no letter.  “I suppose,” he said, “that I must not ride home to-morrow.  It might make my sureties uneasy; but I would fain see them all.”

“It would kill your mother to be here,” said Sir Philip.  “She knows nothing of what Anne told me on Sedley’s arrest.  She is grown very feeble;” and he groaned.  “But we might send for your sister, if she can leave her, and the boy.”

“I should like my boy to be fetched,” said Charles.  “I should wish him to remember his father—not as a felon convicted!”  Then putting a knee to the ground before Sir Philip, he said, “Sir, I ask your blessing and forgiveness.  I never before thoroughly understood my errors towards you, especially in hiding this miserable matter, and leaving all this to come on you, while my poor Anne there was left to bear all the load.  It was a cowardly and selfish act, and I ask your pardon.”

The old man sobbed with his hand on his son’s head.  “My dear boy! my poor boy! you were distraught.”

“I was then.  I did it, as I thought, for my poor Alice’s sake at first, and as it proved, it was all in vain; but at the year’s end, when I was older, it was folly and wrong.  I ought to have laid all before you, and allowed you to judge, and I sincerely repent the not having so done.  And Anne, my sweetest Anne, has borne the burthen all this time,” he added, going back to her.  “Let no one say a woman cannot keep secrets, though I ought never to have laid this on her.”

“Ah! it might have gone better for you then,” sighed Sir Philip.  “No one would have visited a young lad’s mischance hardly on a loyal house in those days.  What is to be done, my son?”

“That we will discuss when the lawyer fellow comes.  Is it old Lee?  Meantime let us enjoy our meeting.  So that is Lucy’s husband.  Sober and staid, eh?  And my mother is feeble, you say.  Has she been ill?”

Charles was comporting himself with the cheerfulness that had become habitual to him as a soldier, always in possible danger, but it was very hard to the others to chime in with his tone, and when a message was brought to ask whether his Honour would be served in private, the cheery greeting and shake of the hand broke down the composure of the old servant who brought it, and he cried, “Oh, sir, to see you thus, and such a fine young gentleman!”

Charles, the only person who could speak, gave the orders, but they did not eat alone, for Sir Edmund Nutley and Sedley arrived with the legal advisers, and it was needful, perhaps even better, to have their company.  The chief of the conversation was upon Hungarian and Transylvanian politics and the Turkish war.  Mr. Harcourt seeming greatly to appreciate the information that Colonel Archfield was able to give him, and the anecdotes of the war, and descriptions of scenes therein actually brightened Sir Philip into interest, and into forgetting for a moment his son’s situation in pride in his conduct, and at the distinction he had gained.  “We must save him,” said Mr. Harcourt to Sir Edmund.  “He is far too fine a fellow to be lost for a youthful mischance.”

The meal was a short one, and a consultation was to follow, while Sedley departed.  Anne was about to withdraw, when Mr. Lee the attorney said, “We shall need Mistress Woodford’s evidence, sir, for the defence.”

“I do not see what defence there can be,” returned Charles.  “I can only plead guilty, and throw myself on the King’s mercy, if he chooses to extend it to one of a Tory family.”

“Not so fast, sir,” said Mr. Harcourt; “as far as I have gathered the facts, there is every reason to hope you may obtain a verdict of manslaughter, and a nominal penalty, although that rests with the judge.”

On this the discussion began in earnest.  Charles, who had never heard the circumstances which led to the trial, was greatly astonished to hear what remains had been discovered.  He said that he could only declare himself to have thrown in the body, full dressed, just as it was, and how it could have been stripped and buried he could not imagine.  “What made folks think of looking into the vault?” he asked.

“It was Mrs. Oakshott,” said Lee, “the young man’s wife, she who was to have married the deceased.  She took up some strange notion about stories of phantoms current among the vulgar, and insisted on having the vault searched, though it had been walled up for many years past.”

Charles and Anne looked at each other, and the former said, “Again?”

“Oh yes!” said Anne; “indeed there have been enough to make me remember what you bade me do, in case they recurred, only it was impossible.”

“Phantoms!” said Mr. Harcourt; “what does this mean?”

“Mere vulgar superstitions, sir,” said the attorney.

“But very visible,” said Charles; “I have seen one myself, of which I am quite sure, besides many that may be laid to the account of the fever of my wound.”

“I must beg to hear,” said the barrister.  “Do I understand that these were apparitions of the deceased?”

“Yes,” said Charles.  “Miss Woodford saw the first, I think.”

“May I beg you to describe it?” said Mr. Harcourt, taking a fresh piece of paper to make notes on.

Anne narrated the two appearances in London, and Charles added the story of the figure seen in the street at Douai, seen by both together, asking what more she knew of.

“Once at night last summer, at the very anniversary, I saw his face in the trees in the garden,” said Anne; “it was gone in a moment.  That has been all I have seen; but little Philip came to me full of stories of people having seen Penny Grim, as he calls it, and very strangely, once it rose before him at the great pond, and his fright saved him from sliding to the dangerous part.  What led Mrs. Oakshott to the examination was that it was seen once on the beach, once by the sentry at the vault itself, once by the sexton at Havant Churchyard, and once by my mother’s grave.”

“Seven?” said the counsel, reviewing the notes he jotted down.  “Colonel Archfield, I should recommend you pleading not guilty, and basing your defence, like your cousin, on the strong probability that this same youth is a living man.”

“Indeed!” said Charles, starting, “I could have hoped it from these recent apparitions, but what I myself saw forbids the idea.  If any sight were ever that of a spirit, it was what we saw at Douai; besides, how should he come thither, a born and bred Whig and Puritan?”

“There is no need to mention that; you can call witnesses to his having been seen within these few months.  It would rest with the prosecution to disprove his existence in the body, especially as the bones in the vault cannot be identified.”

“Sir,”