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

rode over, or sent his sons, or a servant daily to inquire during the first fortnight, except on the Sundays, and on each of these the patient made a step towards improvement.

At first he lay in a dull, death-like stupor, only groaning if disturbed, but by and by there was a babbling murmur of words, and soon the sound of his brother’s loud voice at the door, demanding from the saddle how it went to-day with Peregrine, caused a shriek of terror and such a fit of trembling that Mrs. Woodford had to go out and make a personal request that Oliver would never again speak under the window.  To her great relief, when the balance between life and death had decidedly turned, the inquiries became less frequent, and could often be forestalled by sending messengers to Oakwood.

The boy usually lay still all day in the darkened room, only showing pain at light or noise, but at night he often talked and rambled a good deal.  Sometimes it was Greek or Latin, sometimes whole chapters of Scripture, either denunciating portions or genealogies from the First Book of Chronicles, the polysyllabic names pouring from his mouth whenever he was particularly oppressed or suffering, so that when Mrs. Woodford had with some difficulty made out what they were, she concluded that they had been set as tasks of penance.

At other times Peregrine talked as if he absolutely believed himself in fairyland, accepting a strawberry or cherry as elfin food, promising a tester in Anne’s shoe when she helped to change his pillow, or conversing in the style of Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, on intended pranks.  Often he fancied himself the lubber fiend resting at the fire his hairy strength, and watching for cock-crow as the signal for flinging out-of-doors.  It was wonderful how in the grim and strict Puritanical household he could have imbibed so much fairy lore, but he must have eagerly assimilated and recollected whatever he heard, holding them as tidings from his true kith and kin; and, indeed, when he was running on thus, Mrs. Woodford sometimes felt a certain awe and chill, as of the preternatural, and could hardly believe that he belonged to ordinary human nature.  Either she or the Doctor always took the night-watch after the talking mood set in, for they could not judge of the effect it might have on any of the servants.  Indeed they sometimes doubted whether this were not the beginning of permanent insanity, as the delusion seemed to strengthen with symptoms of recovery.

“Then,” said Dr. Woodford, “Heaven help the poor lad!”

For sad indeed was the lot in those days of even the most harmless lunatic.

“Yet,” said the lady, “I scarcely think anything can be worse than what he undergoes at home.  When I hear the terror and misery of his voice, I doubt whether we did him any true kindness by hindering his father from killing him outright by the shaking of his old coach.”

“Nay, sister, we strove to do our duty, though it may be we have taken on ourselves a further charge.”

CHAPTER IV
Imp Or No Imp

“But wist I of a woman bold
  Who thrice my brow durst sign,
I might regain my mortal mould,
  As fair a form as thine.”

SCOTT.

At last came a wakening with intelligence in the eyes.  In the summer morning light that streamed through the chinks of the shutters Mrs. Woodford perceived the glance of inquiry, and when she brought some cool drink, a rational though feeble voice asked those first questions, “Who? and where?”

“I am Mrs. Woodford, my dear child.  You remember me at Winchester.  You are at Portchester.  You fell down and hurt yourself, but you are getting better.”

She was grieved to see the look of utter disappointment and weariness that overspread the features, and the boy hardly spoke again all day.  There was much drowsiness, but also depression, and more than once Mrs. Woodford detected tears, but at other times he received her attentions with smiles and looks of wondering gratitude, as though ordinary kindness and solicitude were so new to him that he did not know what to make of them, and perhaps was afraid of breaking a happy dream by saying too much.

The surgeon saw him, and declared him so much better that he might soon be taken home, recommending his sitting up for a little while as a first stage.  Peregrine, however, seemed far from being cheered, and showed himself so unwilling to undergo the fatigue of being dressed, even when good Dr. Woodford had brought up his own large chair—the only approach to an easy one in the house—that the proposal was dropped, and he was left in peace for the rest of the day.

In the evening Mrs. Woodford was sitting by the window, letting her needlework drop as the light faded, and just beginning to doze, when her repose was broken by a voice saying “Madam.”

“Yes, Peregrine.”

“Come near, I pray.  Will you tell no one?”

“No; what is it?”

In so low a tone that she had to bend over him: “Do you know how the Papists cross themselves?”

“Yes, I have seen the Queen’s confessor and some of the ladies make the sign.”

“Dear lady, you have been very good to me!  If you would only cross me thrice, and not be afraid!  They could not hurt you!”

“Who?  What do you mean?” she asked, for fairy lore had not become a popular study, but comprehension came when he said in an awe-stricken voice, “You know what I am.”

“I know there have been old wives’ tales about you, my poor boy, but surely you do not believe them yourself.”

“Ah! if you will not believe them, there is no hope.  I might have known.  You were so good to me;” and he hid his face.

She took his unwilling hand and said, “Be you what you will, my poor child, I am sorry for you, for I see you are very unhappy.  Come, tell me all.”

“Nay, then you would be like the rest,” said Peregrine, “and I could not bear that,” and he wrung her hand.

“Perhaps not,” she said gently, “for I know that a story is afloat that you were changed in your cradle, and that there are folk ignorant enough to believe it.”

“They all know it,” he said impressively.  “My mother and brothers and all the servants.  Every soul knows it except my father and Mr. Horncastle, and they will never hear a word, but will have it that I am possessed with a spirit of evil that is to be flogged out of me.  Goody Madge and Moll Owens, they knew how it was at the first, and would fain have forced them—mine own people—to take me home, and bring the other back, but my father found it out and hindered them.”

“To save your life.”

“Much good does my life do me!  Every one hates or fears me.  No one has a word for me.  Every mischance is laid on me.  When the kitchen wench broke a crock, it was because I looked at it.  If the keeper misses a deer, he swears at Master Perry!  Oliver and Robert will not let me touch a thing of theirs; they bait me for a moon-calf, and grin when I am beaten for their doings.  Even my mother quakes and trembles when I come near, and thinks I give her the creeps.  As to my father and tutor, it is ever the rod with them, though I can learn my tasks far better than those jolter-heads Noll and Robin.  I never heard so many kind words in all my life as you have given me since I have been lying here!”

He stopped in a sort of awe, for tears fell from her eyes, and she kissed his forehead.

“Will you not help me, good madam?” he entreated.  “I went down to Goody Madge, and she said there was a chance for me every seven years.  The first went by, but this is my fourteenth year.  I had a hope when the King spoke of beheading me, but he was only in jest, as I might have known.  Then methought I would try what Midsummer night in the fairy ring would do, but that was in vain; and now you, who could cross me if you would, will not believe.  Oh, will you not make the trial?”

“Alas!  Peregrine, supposing I could do it in good faith, would you become a mere tricksy sprite, a thing of the elements, and yield up your hopes as a Christian soul, a child of God and heir of Heaven?”

“My father says I am an heir of hell.”

“No, no, never,” she cried, shuddering at his quiet way of saying it.  “You are flesh and blood, christened, and with the hope set before you.”

“The christening came too late,” he said.  “O lady, you who are so good and pitiful, let my mother get back her true Peregrine—a straight-limbed, comely dullard, such as would be welcome to her.  She would bless and thank you, and for me, to be a Will-of-the-wisp, or what not, would be far better than the life I lead.  Never did I know what my mother calls peace till I lay here.”

“Ah, Peregrine, poor lad, your value for peace and for my poor kindness proves that you have a human heart and are no elf.”

“Indeed, I meant to flit about and give you good dreams, and keep off all that could hurt or frighten you,” he said earnestly.

“Only the human soul could feel so, dear boy,” she answered tenderly.

“And you really disbelieve—the other,” he said wistfully.

“This is what I verily believe, my child: that there were causes to make you weakly, and that you may have had some palsy stroke or convulsive fit perhaps at the moment you were left alone.  Such would explain much of your oddness of face, which made the ignorant nurses deem you changed; and thus it was only your father who, by God’s mercy, saved you from a miserable death, to become, as I trust, a good and true man, and servant of God.”  Then answering a hopeless groan, she added, “Yes, it is harder for you than for many.  I see that these silly servants have so nurtured you in this belief that you have never even thought it worth while to strive for goodness, but supposed tricksomeness and waywardness a part of your nature.”

“The only pleasure in life is paying folk off,” said Peregrine, with a glitter in his eye.  “It serves them right.”

“And thus,” she said sadly, “you have gone on hating and spiting, deeming yourself a goblin without hope or aim; but now you feel that you have a Christian soul you will strive with evil, you will so love as to win love, you will pray and conquer.”

“My father and Mr. Horncastle pray,” said Peregrine bitterly.  “I hate it!  They go on for ever, past all bearing; I must do something—stand on my head, pluck some one’s stool away, or tickle Robin with a straw, if I am birched the next moment.  That’s the goblin.”

“Yet you love the Minster music.”

“Ay!  Father calls it rank Popery.  I listened many a time he never guessed, hid away in the Holy Hole, or within old Bishop Wykeham’s little house.”

“Ah, Peregrine, could an imp of evil brook to lie hidden in the Holy Hole behind the very altar?” said Mrs. Woodford.  “But I hear Nick bringing in supper, and I must leave you for the present.  God in His mercy bless you, His poor child, and lead you in His ways.”

As she went Peregrine muttered, “Is that a prayer?  It is not like father’s.”

She was anxious to consult her brother-in-law on the strange mood of her patient.  She found that he had heard more than he had told her of what Major Oakshott deemed the hopeless wickedness of his son, the antics at prayers, the hatred of everything good, the spiteful tricks that were the family torment.  No doubt much was due to the boy’s entire belief in his own elfship, and these two good people seriously considered how to save him from himself.

“If we could only keep him here,” said Mrs. Woodford, “I think we might bring him to have some faith and love in God and man.”

“You could, dear sister,” said the Doctor, smiling affectionately; “but Major Oakshott would never leave his son in our house.  He abhors our principles too much, and besides, it is too near home.  All the servants have heard rumours of this cruel fable, and would ascribe the least misadventure to his goblin origin.  I must ride over to Oakwood and endeavour to induce his father to remove him to safe and judicious keeping.”

Some days, however, elapsed before Dr. Woodford could do this, and in the meantime the good lady did her best to infuse into her poor young guest the sense that he had