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

for harvest, the hay-carts, sometimes drawn by an equally lean cow and woman, the haggard women bearing heavy burthens, and the ragged, barefooted children leading a wretched cow or goat to browse by the wayside, the gaunt men toiling at road-mending with their poor starved horses, or at their seigneur’s work, alike unpaid, even when drawn off from their own harvests.  And in the villages the only sound buildings were the church and presbytére by its side, the dwellings being miserable hovels, almost sunk into the earth, an old crone or two, marvels of skinniness, spinning at the door, or younger women making lace, and nearly naked children rushing out to beg.  Sometimes the pepper-box turrets of a château could be seen among distant woods, or the walls of a cloister, with a taper spire in the midst, among greener fields; and the towns were approached through long handsome avenues, and their narrow streets had a greater look of prosperity, while their inns, being on the way to the place of warfare, were almost luxurious, with a choice of dainty meats and good wines.  Everywhere else was misery, and Naomi said it was the vain endeavour to reform the source of these grievances that had forced her father to become an exile from his native country, and that he had much apprehended that the same blight might gradually be brought over his adopted land, on which Charles stood up for the constitution, and for the resolute character of Englishmen, and Anne, as in duty bound, for the good intentions of her godfather.  Thus they argued, and Anne not only felt herself restored to the company of rational beings, but greatly admired Charles’s sentiments and the ability with which he put them forward, and now and then the thought struck her, and with a little twinge of pain of which she was ashamed, would Naomi Darpent be the healer of the wound nearly a year old, and find in him consolation for the hero of her girlhood?  Somehow there would be a sense of disappointment in them both if so it were.

At length the spires and towers of Douai came in sight, fenced in by stern lines of fortification according to the science of Vauban—smooth slopes of glacis, with the terrible muzzles of cannon peeping out on the summits of the ramparts, and the line of salient angle and ravelin with the moat around, beautiful though formidable.  The Marquis de Nidemerle had sent a young officer and sergeant’s party to meet the travellers several miles off, and bring them unquestioned through the outposts of the frontier town, so closely watched in this time of war, and at about half a mile from the gates he himself, with a few attendants, rode out all glittering and clanking in their splendid uniforms and accoutrements.  He doffed his hat with the heavy white plume, and bowed his greeting to the ladies and clergymen, but both the young Frenchmen, after a military salute, hastily dismounted and knelt on one knee, while he sprang from his horse, and then, making the sign of the Cross over his son, raised him, and folding him in his arms pressed him to his breast and kissed him on each cheek, not without tears, then repeated the same greeting with young D’Aubépine.  He then kissed the hand of his belle cousine, whom, of course, he knew already, and bowed almost to the ground on being presented to Mademoiselle Woodford, a little less low to Monsieur Archfield, who was glad the embracing was not to be repeated, politely received Mr. Fellowes, and honoured the domestic abbé with a kindly word and nod.  The gradation was amusing, and he was a magnificent figure, with his noble horse and grand military dress, while his fine straight features, sunburnt though naturally fair, and his tall, powerful frame, well became his surroundings—‘a true white Ribaumont,’ as Naomi said, as she looked at the long fair hair drawn back and tied with ribbon.  “He is just like the portrait of our great-grandfather who was almost killed on the S. Barthélémi!”  However, Naomi had no more time to talk of him, for he rode by her side inquiring for his mother, wife, and children, but carefully doing the honours to the stranger lady and gentleman.

Moat and drawbridge there were at Portsmouth, and a sentry at the entrance, but here there seemed endless guards, moats, bridges, and gates, and there was a continual presenting of arms and acknowledging of salutes as the commandant rode in with the travellers.  It was altogether a very new experience in life.  They were lodged in the governor’s quarters in the fortress, where the accommodation for ladies was of the slenderest, and M. de Nidemerle made many apologies, though he had evidently given up his own sleeping chamber to the two ladies, who would have to squeeze into his narrow camp-bed, with Suzanne on the floor, and the last was to remain there entirely, there being no woman with whom she could have her meals.  The ladies were invited to sup with the staff, and would, as M. de Nidemerle assured them, be welcomed with the greatest delight.  So Naomi declared that they must make their toilette do as much justice as possible to their country; and though full dress was not attainable, they did their best with ribbons and laces, and the arrangement of her fair locks and Anne’s brown ones, when Suzanne proved herself an adept; the ladies meantime finding no small amusement in the varieties of swords, pistols, spurs, and other accoutrements, for which the marquis had apologised, though Naomi told him that they were the fittest ornaments possible.

“And my cousin Gaspard is a really good man,” she said, indicating to her friend the little shrine with holy-water stoup, ivory crucifix, print of the Madonna, two or three devotional books, and the miniatures of mother, wife, and children hung not far off; also of two young cavaliers, one of whom Naomi explained to be the young father whom Gaspard could not recollect, the other, that of the uncle Eustace, last Baron Walwyn and Ribaumont, of whom her own mother talked with such passionate affection, and whose example had always been a guiding star to the young marquis.

He came to their door to conduct them down to supper, giving his arm to Miss Woodford as the greatest stranger, while Miss Darpent was conducted by a resplendent ducal colonel.  The supper-room was in festal guise, hung round with flags, and the table adorned with flowers; a band was playing, and never had either Anne or Naomi been made so much of.  All were eagerly talking, Charles especially so, and Anne thought, with a thrill, “Did he recollect that this was the very anniversary of that terrible 1st of July?”

It was a beautiful summer evening, and the supper taking place at five o’clock there was a considerable time to spare afterwards, so that M. de Nidemerle proposed to show the strangers the place, and the view from the ramparts.

“In my company you can see all well,” he said, “but otherwise there might be doubts and jealousies.”

He took them through the narrow Flemish streets of tall houses with projecting upper stories, and showed them that seminary which was popularly supposed in England to be the hotbed of truculent plots, but where they only saw a quiet academic cloister and an exquisite garden, green turf, roses and white lilies in full perfection, and students flitting about in cassocks and square caps, more like an Oxford scene, as Mr. Fellowes said, than anything he had yet seen.  He was joined by an English priest from his own original neighbourhood.  The Abbé Leblanc found another acquaintance, and these two accompanied their friends to the ramparts.  The marquis had a great deal to hear from his cousin about his home, and thus it happened that Charles Archfield and Anne found themselves more practically alone together than they had yet been.  As they looked at the view over the country, he told her of a conversation that he had had with an officer now in the French army, but who had served in the Imperial army against the Turks, and that he had obtained much useful information.

“Useful?” asked Anne.

“Yes.  I have been watching for the moment to tell you, Anne; I have resolved what to do.  I intend to make a few campaigns there against the enemy of Christendom.”

“O Mr. Archfield!” was all she could say.

“See here, I have perceived plainly that to sink down into my lady’s eldest son is no wholesome life for a man with all his powers about him.  I understand now what a set of oafs we were to despise the poor fellow you wot of, because he was not such a lubber as ourselves.  I have no mind to go through the like.”

“You are so different; it could not be the same.”

“Not quite; but remember there is nothing for me to do.  My father is still an active man, and I am not old enough to take my part in public affairs, even if I loved greatly either the Prince of Orange or King James.  I could not honestly draw my sword for either.  I have no estate to manage, my child’s inheritance is all in money, and it would drive me mad, or worse, to go home to be idle.  No; I will fight against the common enemy till I have made me a name, and won reputation and standing; or if I should not come back, there’s the babe at home to carry on the line.”

“Oh, sir! your father and mother—Lucy—all that love you.  What will they say?”

“It would only put them to needless pain to ask them.  I shall not.  I shall write explaining all my motives—all except one, and that you alone know, Anne.”

She shuddered a little, and felt him press her arm tightly.  They had fallen a good deal behind the marquis and his cousin, and were descending as twilight fell into a narrow, dark, lonely street, with all the houses shut up.  “No one has guessed, have they?” she faltered.

“Not that I know of.  But I cannot—no!  I cannot go home, to have that castle near me, and that household at Oakwood.  I see enough in my dreams without that.”

“See!  Ah, yes!”

“Then, Anne, you have suffered then too—guiltless as you are in keeping my terrible secret!  I have often thought and marvelled whether it were so with you.”

She was about to tell him what she had seen, when he began, “There is one thing in this world that would sweeten and renew my life—and that?”

Her heart was beating violently at what was so suddenly coming on her, when at that instant Charles broke off short with “Good Heavens!  What’s that?”

On the opposite side of the street, where one of the many churches stood some way back, making an opening, there was a figure, essentially the same that Anne had seen at Lambeth, but bare-headed, clad apparently in something long and white, and with a pale bluish light on the ghastly but unmistakable features.

She uttered a faint gasping cry scarcely audible, Charles’s impulse was to exclaim, “Man or spirit, stand!” and drawing his sword to rush across the street; but in that second all had vanished, and he only struck against closed doors, which he shook, but could not open.

“Mr. Archfield!  Oh, come back!  I have seen it before,” entreated Anne; and he strode back, with a gesture of offering her support, and trembling, she clung to his arm.  “It does not hurt,” she said.  “It comes and goes—”

“You have seen it before!”

“Twice.”

No more could be said, for through the gloom the white plume and gold-laced uniform of the marquis were seen.  He had missed them, and come back to look for them, beginning to apologise.

“I am confounded at having left Mademoiselle behind.—Comment!”—as the sound betrayed that Charles was sheathing his sword.  “I trust that Monsieur has met with no unpleasant adventure from my people.”

“Oh, no, Monsieur,” was the answer, as he added—

“One can never be sure as to these fiery spirits towards an Englishman in the present state of feeling, and I blame myself extremely for having permitted myself to lose sight of Monsieur and Mademoiselle.”

“Indeed, sir, we have met with no cause of complaint,” said Charles, adding as if casually, “What is that church?”

“’Tis the Jesuits’ Church,” replied the governor.  “There is the best preaching in the town, they say, and Jansenists as we are, I was struck with the Lenten course.”

Anne went at once to her room on returning to the house.  Naomi, who was there already, exclaimed at her paleness, and insisted on administering a glass of wine from what the English called the rere supper, the French an encas, the substantial materials for which had been left in the chamber.  Then Anne felt how well it had been for her that her fellows at the palace had been so uncongenial,