A Reputed Changeling; Or, Three Seventh Years Two Centuries Ago by Yonge (phonics reading books TXT) 📗

wed you—I have another sweetheart,” added Anne in haste, lest he should think she scorned him.

“Oh, that lubberly Charles Archfield!  No fear of him.  He is promised long ago to some little babe of quality in London.  You may whistle for him.  So you’d better wait for me.”

“It is not true.  You only say it to plague me.”

“It’s as true as Gospel!  I heard Sir Philip telling one of the big black gowns one day in the Close, when I was sitting up in a tree overhead, how they had fixed a marriage between his son and his old friend’s daughter, who would have ever so many estates.  So I’d give that”—snapping his fingers—“for your chances of being my Lady Archfield in the salt mud at Fareham.”

“I shall ask Lucy.  It is not kind of you, Perry, when you are just going away.”

“Come, come, don’t cry, Anne.”

“But I knew Charley ever so long first, and—”

“Oh, yes.  Maids always like straight, comely, dull fellows, I know that.  But as you can’t have Charles Archfield, I mean to have you, Anne—for I shall look to you as the only one as can ever make a good man of me!  Ay—your mother—I’d wed her if I could, but as I can’t, I mean to have you, Anne Woodford.”

“I don’t mean to have you!  I shall go to Court, and marry some noble earl or gentleman!  Why do you laugh and make that face, Peregrine? you know my father was almost a knight—”

“Nobody is long with you without knowing that!” retorted Peregrine; “but a miss is as good as a mile, and you will find the earls and the lords will think so, and be fain to take the crooked stick at last!”

Mistress Anne tossed her head—and Peregrine returned a grimace.  Nevertheless they parted with a kiss, and for some time the thought of Peregrine haunted the little girl with a strange, fateful feeling, between aversion and attraction, which wore off, as a folly of her childhood, with her growth in years.

CHAPTER VIII
The Return

“I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere.”

Merchant of Venice.

It was autumn, but in the year 1687, when again Lucy Archfield and Anne Jacobina Woodford were pacing the broad gravel walk along the south side of the nave of Winchester Cathedral.  Lucy, in spite of her brocade skirt and handsome gown of blue velvet tucked up over it, was still devoid of any look of distinction, but was a round-faced, blooming, cheerful maiden, of that ladylike thoroughly countrified type happily frequent in English girlhood throughout all time.

Anne, or Jacobina, as she tried to be called, towered above her head, and had never lost that tincture of courtly grace that early breeding had given her, and though her skirt was of gray wool, and the upper gown of cherry tabinet, she wore both with an air that made them seem more choice and stylish than those of her companion, while the simple braids and curls of her brown hair set off an unusually handsome face, pale and clear in complexion, with regular features, fine arched eyebrows over clear brown eyes, a short chin, and a mouth of perfect outline, but capable of looking very resolute.

Altogether she looked fit for a Court atmosphere, and perhaps she was not without hopes of it, for Dr. Woodford had become a royal chaplain under Charles II, and was now continued in the same office; and though this was a sinecure as regarded the present King, yet Tory and High Church views were as much in the ascendant as they could be under a Romanist king, and there were hopes of a canonry at Windsor or Westminster, or even higher preferment still, if he were not reckoned too staunch an Anglican.  That Mrs. Woodford’s health had been failing for many months past would, her sanguine daughter thought, be remedied by being nearer the best physicians in London, which had been quitted with regret.  Meantime Lucy’s first experiences of wedding festivities were to be heard.  For the Archfield family had just returned from celebrating the marriage of the heir.  Long ago Anne Jacobina had learnt to reckon Master Charles’s pledges of affection among the sports and follies of childhood, and the strange sense of disappointment and shame with which she recollected them had perhaps added to her natural reserve, and made her feel it due to maidenly dignity to listen with zest to the account of the bride, who was to be brought to supper at Doctor Woodford’s that eve.

“She is a pretty little thing,” said Lucy, “but my mother was much concerned to find her so mere a child, and would not, if she had seen her, have consented to the marriage for two years to come, except for the sake of having her in our own hands.”

“I thought she was sixteen.”

“Barely fifteen, my dear, and far younger than we were at that age.  She cried because her woman said she must leave her old doll behind her; and when my brother declared that she should have anything she liked, she danced about, and kissed him, and made him kiss its wooden face with half the paint rubbed off.”

“He did?”

“Oh, yes!  She is like a pretty fresh plaything to him, and they go about together just like big Towzer and little Frisk at home.  He is very much amused with her, and she thinks him the finest possession that ever came in her way.”

“Well, so he is.”

“That is true; but somehow it is scarcely like husband and wife; and my mother fears that she may be sickly, for she is so small and slight that it seems as if you could blow her away, and so white that you would think she had no blood, except when a little heat brings the purest rose colour to her cheek, and that, my lady says, betokens weakliness.  You know, of course, that she is an orphan; her father died of a wasting consumption, and her mother not long after, when she was a yearling babe.  It was her grandfather who was my father’s friend in the old cavalier days, and wrote to propose the contract to my brother not long before his death, when she was but five years old.  The pity was that she was not sent to us at once, for the old lord, her grand-uncle, never heeded or cared for her, but left her to servants, who petted her, but understood nothing of care of her health or her education, so that the only wonder is that she is alive or so sweet and winning as she is.  She can hardly read without spelling, and I had to make copies for her of Alice Fitzhubert, to show her how to sign the book.  All she knew she learnt from the old steward, and only when she liked.  My father laughs and is amused, but my lady sighs, and hopes her portion is not dearly bought.”

“Is not she to be a great heiress?”

“Not of the bulk of the lands—they go to heirs male; but there is much besides, enough to make Charles a richer man than our father.  I wonder what you will think of her.  My mother is longing to talk her over with Mrs Woodford.”

“And my mother is longing to see my lady.”

“I fear she is still but poorly.”

“We think she will be much better when we get home,” said Anne.  “I am sure she is stronger, for she walked round the Close yesterday, and was scarcely tired.”

“But tell me, Anne, is it true that poor Master Oliver Oakshott is dead of smallpox?”

“Quite true.  Poor young gentleman, he was to have married that cousin of his mother’s, Mistress Martha Browning, living at Emsworth.  She came on a visit, and they think she brought the infection, for she sickened at once, and though she had it favourably, is much disfigured.  Master Oliver caught it and died in three days, and all the house were down with it.  They say poor Mrs. Oakshott forgot her ailments and went to and fro among them all.  My mother would have gone to help in their need if she had been as well as she used to be.”

“How is it with the other son?  He was a personable youth enough.  I saw him at the ship launch in the spring, and thought both lads would fain have staid for the dance on board but for their grim old father.”

“You saw Robert, but he is not the elder.”

“What?  Is that shocking impish urchin whom we used to call Riquet with the tuft, older than he?”

“Certainly he is.  He writes from time to time to my mother, and seems to be doing well with his uncle.”

“I cannot believe he would come to good.  Do you remember his sending my brother and cousin adrift in the boat?”

“I think that was in great part the fault of your cousin for mocking and tormenting him.”

“Sedley Archfield was a bad boy!  There’s no denying that.  I am afraid he had good reason for running away from college.”

“Have you heard of him since?”

“Yes; he has been serving with the Life-guards in Scotland, and mayhap he will come home and see us.  My father wishes to see whether he is worthy to have a troop procured by money or favour for him, and if they are recalled to the camp at November it will be an opportunity.  But see—who is coming through the Slype?”

“My uncle.  And who is with him?”

Dr. Woodford advanced, and with him a small slender figure in black.  As the broad hat with sable plume was doffed with a sweep on approaching the ladies, a dark head and peculiar countenance appeared, while the Doctor said, “Here is an old acquaintance, young ladies, whom I met dismounting at the White Hart, and have brought home with me.”

“Mr. Peregrine Oakshott!” exclaimed Anne, feeling bound to offer in welcome a hand, which he kissed after the custom of the day, while Lucy dropped a low and formal courtesy, and being already close to the gate of the house occupied by her family, took her leave till supper-time.

Even in the few steps before reaching home Anne was able to perceive that a being very unlike the imp of seven years ago had returned, though still short in stature and very slight, with long dark hair hanging straight enough to suggest elf-locks, but his figure was well proportioned, and had a finished air of high breeding and training.  His riding suit was point device, from the ostrich feather in his hat, to the toes of his well made boots, and his sword knew its place, as well as did those of the gentlemen that Anne remembered at the Duke of York’s when she was a little child.  His thin, marked face was the reverse of handsome, but it was keen, shrewd, perhaps satirical, and the remarkable eyes were very bright under dark eyebrows and lashes, and the thin lips, devoid of hair, showed fine white teeth when parted by a smile of gladness—at the meeting—though he was concerned to hear that Mrs. Woodford had been very ill all the last spring, and had by no means regained her former health, and even in the few words that passed it might be gathered that Anne was far more hopeful than her uncle.

She did indeed look greatly changed, though her countenance was sweeter than ever, as she rose from her seat by the fire and held out her arms to receive the newcomer with a motherly embrace, while the expression of joy and affection was such as could never once have seemed likely to sit on Peregrine Oakshott’s features.  They were left together, for Anne had the final touches to put to the supper, and Dr. Woodford was sent for to speak to one of the Cathedral staff.

Peregrine explained that he was on his way home, his father having recalled him on his brother’s death, but he hoped soon to rejoin his uncle, whose secretary he now was.  They had been for the last few months in London, and were thence to be sent on an embassy to the young Czar of Muscovy, an expedition to which he looked forward with eager curiosity.  Mrs. Woodford hoped that all danger of infection at Oakwood was at an end.

“There is none for me, madam,” he said, with a curious writhed smile.  “Did you not know that they thought they were rid of me when I took the disease at seven years old, and lay in the loft over the hen-house with Molly Owens to tend me? and I believe it was thought to be fairy work that I came out of it no more unsightly than before.”

“You are seeking for compliments, Peregrine; you are greatly improved.”

“Crooked sticks can be pruned and