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

“And all at Fareham, are they well?”

“All just as usual,” said Charles, “at the last hearing, which was at the same time.  I hoped to have met letters at Paris, but no doubt the war prevents the mails from running.”

“Ah!  I have never had a single letter,” said Anne.  “Did my uncle know anything of me?  Has he never had one of mine?”

“Up to the time when he wrote, last March, that is to say, he had received nothing.  He had gone to London to make inquiries—”

“Ah! my dear good uncle!”

“And had ascertained that you had been chosen to accompany the Queen and Prince in their escape from Whitehall.  You have played the heroine, Miss Anne.”

“Oh! if you knew—”

“And,” said Mr. Fellowes, “both he and Sir Philip Archfield requested us, if we could make our way home through Paris, to come and offer our services to Mistress Woodford, in case she should wish to send intelligence to England, or if she should wish to make use of our escort to return home.”

“Oh sir! oh sir! how can I thank you enough!  You cannot guess the happiness you have brought me,” cried Anne with clasped hands, tears welling up again.

“You will come with us then,” cried Charles.  “I am sure you ought.  They have not used you well, Anne; how pale and thin you have grown.”

“That is only pining!  I am quite well, only home-sick,” she said with a smile.  “I am sure the Queen will let me go.  I am nothing but a burthen now.  She has plenty of her own people, and they do not like a Protestant about the Prince.”

“There is Madame de Bellaise,” said Mr. Fellowes, “advancing along the walk with Lady Powys.  Let me present you to her.”

“You have succeeded, I see,” a kind voice said, as Anne found herself making her courtesy to a tall and stately old lady, with a mass of hair of the peculiar silvered tint of flaxen mixed with white.

“I am sincerely glad,” said Lady Powys, “that Miss Woodford has met her friends.”

“Also,” said Madame de Bellaise, “Lady Powys is good enough to say that if mademoiselle will honour me with a visit, she gives permission for her to return with me to Paris.”

This was still greater joy, except for that one recollection, formidable in the midst of her joy, of her dress.  Did Madame de Bellaise divine something? for she said, “These times remind me of my youth, when we poor cavalier families well knew what sore straits were.  If mademoiselle will bring what is most needful, the rest can be sent afterwards.”

Making her excuses for the moment, Anne with light and gladsome foot sped along the stately alley, up the stairs to her chamber, round which she looked much as if it had been a prison cell, fell on her knees in a gush of intense thankfulness, and made her rapid preparations, her hands trembling with joy, and a fear that she might wake to find all again a dream.  She felt as if this deliverance were a token of forgiveness for her past wilfulness, and as if hope were opened to her once more.  Lady Powys met her as she came down, and spoke very kindly, thanking her for her services, and hoping that she would enjoy the visit she was about to make.

“Does your ladyship think Her Majesty will require me any longer?” asked Anne timidly.

“If you wish to return to the country held by the Prince of Orange,” said the Countess coldly, “you must apply for dismissal to Her Majesty herself.”

Anne perceived from the looks of her friends that it was no time for discussing her loyalty, and all taking leave, she was soon seated beside Madame de Bellaise, while the coach and four rolled down the magnificent avenue, and scene after scene disappeared, beautiful and stately indeed, but which she was as glad to leave behind her as if they had been the fetters and bars of a dungeon, and she almost wondered at the words of admiration of her companions.

Madame de Bellaise sat back, and begged the others to speak English, saying that it was her mother tongue, and she loved the sound of it, but really trying to efface herself, while the eager conversation between the two young people went on about their homes.

Charles had not been there more recently than Anne, and his letters were at least two months old, but the intelligence in them was as water to her thirsty soul.  All was well, she heard, including the little heir of Archfield, though the young father coloured a little, and shuffled over the answers to the inquiries with a rather sad smile.  Charles was, however, greatly improved.  He had left behind him the loutish, unformed boy, and had become a handsome, courteous, well-mannered gentleman.  The very sight of him handing Madame de Bellaise in and out of her coach was a wonder in itself when Anne recollected how he had been wont to hide himself in the shrubbery to prevent being called upon for such services, and how uncouthly in the last extremity he would perform them.

Madame de Bellaise was inhabiting her son’s great Hôtel de Nidemerle.  He was absent in garrison, and she was presiding over the family of grandchildren, their mother being in bad health.  So much Anne heard before she was conducted to a pleasant little bedroom, far more home-like and comfortable than in any of the palaces she had inhabited.  It opened into another, whence merry young voices were heard.

“That is the apartment of my sister’s youngest daughter,” said Madame de Bellaise, “Noémi Darpent.  I borrowed her for a little while to teach her French and dancing, but now that we are gone to war, they want to have her back again, and it will be well that she should avail herself of the same escort as yourself.  All will then be selon les convenances, which had been a difficulty to me,” she added with a laugh.

Then opening the door of communication she said; “Here, Noémi, we have found your countrywoman, and I put her under your care.  Ah! you two chattering little pies, I knew the voices were yours.  This is my granddaughter, Marguerite de Nidemerle, and my niece—à la mode de Bretagne—Cécile d’Aubépine, all bestowing their chatter on their cousin.”

Noémi Darpent was a tall, fair, grave-faced maiden, some years over twenty, and so thoroughly English that it warmed Anne’s heart to look at her, and the other two were bright little Frenchwomen—Marguerite a pretty blonde, Cécile pale, dark, and sallow, but full of life.  Both were at the age at which girls were usually in convents, but as Anne learnt, Madame de Bellaise was too English at heart to give up the training of her grandchildren, and she had an English governess for them, daughter to a Romanist cavalier ruined by sequestration.

She was evidently the absolute head of the family.  Her daughter-in-law was a delicate little creature, who scarcely seemed able to bear the noise of the family at the long supper-table, when all talked with shrill French voices, from the two youths and their abbé tutor down to the little four-year-old Lolotte in her high chair.  But to Anne, after the tedious formality of the second table at the palace, stiff without refinement, this free family life was perfectly delightful and refreshing, though as yet she was too much cramped, as it were, by long stiffness, silence, and treatment as an inferior to join, except by the intelligent dancing of her brown eyes, and replies when directly addressed.

After Mrs. Labadie’s homeliness, Pauline’s exclusive narrowness, Jane’s petty frivolity, Hester’s vulgar worldliness, and the general want of cultivation in all who treated her on an equality, it was like returning to rational society; and she could not but observe that Mr. Archfield altogether held his own in conversation with the rest, whether in French or English.  Little more than a year ago he would hardly have opened his mouth, and would have worn the true bumpkin look of contemptuous sheepishness.  Now he laughed and made others laugh as readily and politely as—Ah!  With whom was she comparing him?  Did the thought of poor Peregrine dwell on his mind as it did upon hers?  But perhaps things were not so terrible to a man as to a woman, and he had not seen those apparitions!  Indeed, when not animated, she detected a certain thoughtful melancholy on his brow which certainly had not belonged to former times.

Mr. Fellowes early made known to Anne that her uncle had asked him to be her banker, and the first care of her kind hostess was to assist her in supplying the deficiencies of her wardrobe, so that she was able to go abroad without shrinking at her own shabby appearance.

The next thing was to take her to Poissy to request her dismissal from the Queen, without which it would be hardly decorous to depart, though in point of fact, in the present state of affairs, as Noémi said, there was nothing to prevent it.

“No,” said Mr. Fellowes; “but for that reason Miss Woodford would feel bound to show double courtesy to the discrowned Queen.”

“And she has often been very kind to me—I love her much,” said Anne.

“Noémi is a little Whig,” said Madame de Bellaise.  “I shall not take her with us, because I know her father would not like it, but to me it is only like the days of my youth to visit an exiled queen.  Will these gentlemen think fit to be of the party?”

“Thank you, madam, not I,” said the Magdalen man.  “I am very sorry for the poor lady, but my college has suffered too much at her husband’s hands for me to be very anxious to pay her my respects; and if my young friend will take my advice, neither will he.  It might be bringing his father into trouble.”

To this Charles agreed, so M. L’Abbé undertook to show them the pictures at the Louvre, and Anne and Madame de Bellaise were the only occupants of the carriage that conveyed them to the great old convent of Poissy, the girl enjoying by the way the comfort of the kindness of a motherly woman, though even to her there could be no confiding of the terrible secret that underlay all her thoughts.  Madame de Bellaise, however, said how glad she was to secure this companionship for her niece.  Noémi had been more attached than her family realised to Claude Merrycourt, a neighbour who had had the folly, contrary to her prudent father’s advice, to rush into Monmouth’s rebellion, and it had only been by the poor girl’s agony when he suffered under the summary barbarities of Kirke that her mother had known how much her heart was with him.  The depression of spirits and loss of health that ensued had been so alarming that when Madame de Bellaise, after some months, paid a long visit to her sister in England, Mrs. Darpent had consented to send the girl to make acquaintance with her French relations, and try the effect of change of scene.  She had gone, indifferent, passive, and broken-hearted, but her aunt had watched over her tenderly, and she had gradually revived, not indeed into a joyous girl, but into a calm and fairly cheerful woman.

When she had left home, France and England were only too closely connected, but now they were at daggers drawn, and probably would be so for many years, and the Revolution had come so suddenly that Madame de Bellaise had not been able to make arrangements for her niece’s return home, and Noémi was anxiously waiting for an opportunity of rejoining her parents.

The present plan was this.  Madame de Bellaise’s son, the Marquis de Nidemerle, was Governor of Douai, where his son, the young Baron de Ribaumont, with his cousin, the Chevalier d’Aubépine, were to join him with their tutor, the Abbé Leblanc.  The war on the Flemish frontier was not just then in an active state, and there were often friendly relations between the commandants of neighbouring garrisons, so that it might be possible to pass a party on to the Spanish territory with a flag of truce, and then the way would be easy.  This passing, however, would be impossible for Noémi alone, since etiquette would not permit of her thus travelling with the two young gentlemen, nor could she have proceeded after reaching Douai, so that the arrival of the two Englishmen and the company of Miss Woodford was a great boon.  Madame de Bellaise had already despatched a courier to ask her son whether he could undertake the transit across the frontier, and hoped to apply for passports as soon as his answer was received.  She told Anne her niece’s history to prevent painful allusions on the journey.

“Ah, madame!” said Anne, “we too have a sad day connected with that unfortunate insurrection.  We grieved over Lady Lisle,