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

the opening with, “Sir, the spades have hit upon a skull.”

There was a shuddering pause.  All the gentlemen except Dr. Woodford, who feared the chill, descended again.  Mrs. Oakshott and Anne held each other’s hands and trembled.

By and by Mr. Fellowes came up first.  “We have found,” he said, looking pale and grave, “a skeleton.  Yes, a perfect skeleton, but no more—no remains except a fine dust.”

And Robert Oakshott following, awe-struck and sorrowful, added, “Yes, there he is, poor Perry—all that is left of him—only his bones.  No, madam, we must leave him there for the present; we cannot bring it up without preparation.”

“You need not fear meddling curiosity, madam,” said the captain.  “I will post a sentry here to bar all entrance.”

“Thanks, sir,” said Robert.  “That will be well till I can bury the poor fellow with all due respect by my mother and Oliver.”

“And then I trust his spirit will have rest,” said Martha Oakshott fervently.  “And now home to your father.  How will he bear it, sir?”

“I verily believe he will sleep the quieter for knowing for a certainty what has become of poor Peregrine,” said her husband.

And Anne felt as if half her burthen of secrecy was gone when they all parted, starting early because the Black Gang rendered all the roads unsafe after dark.

CHAPTER XXVIII
The Disclosure

“He looked about as one betrayed,
What hath he done, what promise made?
Oh! weak, weak moment, to what end
Can such a vain oblation tend?”

WORDSWORTH.

For the most part Anne was able to hold her peace and keep out of sight while Dr. Woodford related the strange revelations of the vault with all the circumstantiality that was desired by two old people living a secluded life and concerned about a neighbour of many years, whom they had come to esteem by force of a certain sympathy in honest opposition.  The mystery occupied them entirely, for though the murder was naturally ascribed to some of the lawless coast population, the valuables remaining with the clothes made a strange feature in the case.

It was known that there was to be an inquest held on the remains before their removal, and Dr. Woodford, both from his own interest in the question, and as family intelligencer, rode to the castle.  Sir Philip longed to go, but it was a cold wet day, and he had threatenings of gout, so that he was persuaded to remain by the fireside.  Inquests were then always held where the body lay, and the court of Portchester Castle was no place for him on such a day.

Dr. Woodford came home just before twilight, looking grave and troubled, and, much to Anne’s alarm, desired to speak to Sir Philip privately in the gun-room.  Lady Archfield took alarm, and much distressed her by continually asking what could be the meaning of the interview, and making all sorts of guesses.

When at last they came together into the parlour the poor lady looked so anxious and frightened that her husband went up to her and said, “Do not be alarmed, sweetheart.  We shall clear him; but those foolish fellows have let suspicion fall on poor Sedley.”

Nobody looked at Anne, or her deadly paleness must have been remarked, and the trembling which she could hardly control by clasping her hands tightly together, keeping her feet hard on the floor, and setting her teeth.

Lady Archfield was perhaps less fond of the scapegrace nephew than was her husband, and she felt the matter chiefly as it affected him, so that she heard with more equanimity than he had done; and as they sat round the fire in the half-light, for which Anne was thankful, the Doctor gave his narration in order.

“I found a large company assembled in the castle court, waiting for the coroner from Portsmouth, though the sentry on guard would allow no one to go down, in spite of some, even ladies, I am ashamed to say, who offered him bribes for the permission.  Everything, I heard, had been replaced as we found it.  The poor Major himself was there, looking sadly broken, and much needing the help of his son’s arm.  ‘To think that I was blaming my poor son as a mere reprobate, and praying for his conversion,’ says he, ‘when he was lying here, cut off without a moment for repentance.’  There was your nephew, suspecting nothing, Squire Brocas, Mr. Eyre, of Botley Grange, Mr. Biden, Mr. Larcom, and Mr. Bargus, and a good many more, besides Dr. James Yonge, the naval doctor, and the Mayor of Portsmouth, and more than I can tell you.  When the coroner came, and the jury had been sworn in, they went down and viewed the spot, and all that was there.  The soldiers had put candles round, and a huge place it is, all built up with large stones.  Then, as it was raining hard, they adjourned to the great room in the keep and took the evidence.  Robert Oakshott identified the clothes and the watch clearly enough, and said he had no doubt that the other remains were Peregrine’s; but as to swearing to a brother’s bones, no one could do that; and Dr. Yonge said in my ear that if the deceased were so small a man as folks said, the skeleton could scarce be his, for he thought it had belonged to a large-framed person.  That struck no one else, for naturally it is only a chirurgeon who is used to reckon the proportion that the bones bear to the body, and I also asked him whether in seven years the other parts would be so entirely consumed, to which he answered that so much would depend on the nature of the soil that there was no telling.  However, jury and coroner seemed to feel no doubt, and that old seafaring man, Tom Block, declared that poor Master Peregrine had been hand and glove with a lot of wild chaps, and that the vault had been well known to them before the gentlemen had had it blocked up.  Then it was asked who had seen him last, and Robert Oakshott spoke of having parted with him at the bonfire, and never seen him again.  There, I fancy, it would have ended in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown, but Robert Oakshott must needs say, “I would give a hundred pounds to know who the villain was.”  And then who should get up but George Rackstone, with “Please your Honour, I could tell summat.”  The coroner bade swear him, and he deposed to having seen Master Peregrine going down towards the castle somewhere about four o’clock that morning after the bonfire when he was getting up to go to his mowing.  But that was not all.  You remember, Anne, that his father’s cottage stands on the road towards Portsmouth.  Well, he brought up the story of your running in there, frightened, the day before the bonfire, when I was praying with his sick mother, calling on me to stop a fray between Peregrine and young Sedley, and I had to get up and tell of Sedley’s rudeness to you, child.”

“What was that?” hastily asked Lady Archfield.

“The old story, my lady.  The young officer’s swaggering attempt to kiss the girl he meets on the road.  I doubt even if he knew at the moment that it was my niece.  Peregrine was coming by at the moment, and interfered to protect her, and swords were drawn.  I could not deny it, nor that there was ill blood between the lads; and then young Brocas, who was later on Portsdown than we were, remembered high words, and had thought to himself that there would be a challenge.  And next old Goody Spore recollects seeing Master Sedley and another soldier officer out on the Portsmouth road early that morning.  The hay was making in the court then, and Jenny Light remembered that when the haymakers came she raked up something that looked like a bloody spot, and showed it to one of the others, but they told her that most likely a rabbit or a hare had been killed there, and she had best take no heed.  Probably there was dread of getting into trouble about a smugglers’ fray.  Well, every one was looking askance at Master Sedley by this time, and the coroner asked him if he had anything to say.  He spoke out boldly enough.  He owned to the dispute with Peregrine Oakshott, and to having parted with him that night on terms which would only admit of a challenge.  He wrote a cartel that night, and sent it by his friend Lieutenant Ainslie, but doubting whether Major Oakshott might not prevent its delivery, he charged him to try to find Peregrine outside the house, and arrange with him a meeting on the hill, where you know the duellists of the garrison are wont to transact such encounters.  Sedley himself walked out part of the way with his friend, but neither of them saw Peregrine, nor heard anything of him.  So he avers, but when asked for his witness to corroborate the story, he says that Ainslie, I fear the only person who could have proved an alibi—if so it were—was killed at Landen; but, he added, certainly with too much of his rough way, it was a mere absurdity to charge it upon him.  What should a gentleman have to do with private murders and robberies?  Nor did he believe the bones to be Perry Oakshott’s at all.  It was all a bit of Whiggish spite!  He worked himself into a passion, which only added to the impression against him; and I own I cannot wonder that the verdict has sent him to Winchester to take his trial.  Why, Anne, child, how now?”

“’Tis a terrible story.  Take my essences, child,” said Lady Archfield, tottering across, and Anne, just saving herself from fainting by a long gasp at them, let herself be led from the room.  The maids buzzed about her, and for some time she was sensible of nothing but a longing to get rid of them, and to be left alone to face the grievous state of things which she did not yet understand.  At last, with kind good-nights from Lady Archfield, such as she could hardly return, she was left by herself in the darkness to recover from the stunned helpless feeling of the first moment.

Sedley accused!  Charles to be sacrificed to save his worthless cousin, the would-be murderer of his innocent child, who morally thus deserved to suffer!  Never, never!  She could not do so.  It would be treason to her benefactors, nay, absolute injustice, for Charles had struck in generous defence of herself; but Sedley had tried to allure the boy to his death merely for his own advantage.  Should she not be justified in simply keeping silence?  Yet there was like an arrow in her heart, the sense of guilt in so doing, guilt towards God and truth, guilt towards man and justice.  She should die under the load, and it would be for Charles.  Might it only be before he came home, then he would know that she had perished under his secret to save him.  Nay, but would he be thankful at being saved at the expense of his cousin’s life?  If he came, how should she meet him?

The sense of the certain indignation of a good and noble human spirit often awakes the full perception of what an action would be in the sight of Heaven, and Anne began to realise the sin more than at first, and to feel the compulsion of truth.  If only Charles were not coming home she could write to him and warn him, but the thought that he might be already on the way had turned from joy to agony.  “And to think,” she said to herself, “that I was fretting as to whether he would think me pretty!”

She tossed about in misery, every now and then rising on her knees to pray—at first for Charles’s safety—for she shrank from asking for Divine protection, knowing only too well what that would be.  Gradually, however, a shudder came over her at the thought that if she would not commit her way unto the Lord, she might indeed be the undoing of her lover, and then once more the higher sense of duty rose on her.  She prayed for forgiveness for the thought, and that it might not be visited upon him; she prayed for strength to do what must be her duty, for safety for him, and comfort to his parents, and so, in passing gusts of misery and apprehension, of failing heart and recovered resolution, of anguish and of prayer, the long night at length passed, and with the first dawn she arose, shaken and weak, but resolved to act on her terrible resolution before it again failed her.

Sir Philip was always an early riser, and she