A Reputed Changeling; Or, Three Seventh Years Two Centuries Ago by Yonge (best short novels of all time txt) 📖

you to remember that we were sweethearts ere ever I, as a child of twelve, knew that I was contracted to that poor babe, and bidden to think only of her.  Poor child!  I honestly did my best to love her, so far as I knew how, and mayhap we could have rubbed on through life passably well as things go.  But—but—It skills not talking of things gone by, except to show that it is a whole heart—not the reversion of one that is yours for ever, mine only love.”

“Oh, but—but—I am no match for you.”

“I’ve had enough of grand matches.”

“Your father would never endure it.”

“My father would soon rejoice.  Besides, if we are wedded here—say at Ostend—and you make me a home at Buda, or Vienna, or some place at our winter quarters, as my brave wench will, my father will be glad enough to see us both at home again.”

“No; it cannot be.  It would be plain treachery to your parents; Mr. Fellowes would say so.  I am sure he would not marry us.”

“There are English chaplains.  Is that all that holds you back?”

“No, sir.  If the Archbishop of Canterbury were here himself, it could not make it other than a sin, and an act of mean ingratitude, for me, the Prince’s rocker, to take advantage of their goodness in permitting you to come and bring me home—to do what would be pain, grief, and shame to them.”

“Never shame.”

“What is wrong is shame!  Cannot you see how unworthy it would be in me, and how it would grieve my uncle that I should have done such a thing?”

“Love would override scruples.”

“Not true love.”

“True!  Then you own to some love for me, Anne.”

“I do—not—know.  I have guarded—I mean—cast away—I mean—never entertained any such thought ever since I was old enough to know how wicked it would be.”

“Anne!  Anne!” (in an undertone very like rapture), “you have confessed all!  It is no sin now.  Even you cannot say so.”

She hung her head and did not answer, but silence was enough for him.

“It is enough!” he said; “you will wait.  I shall know you are waiting till I return in such sort that nothing can be denied me.  Let me at least have that promise.”

“You need not fear,” murmured Anne.  “How could I need?  The secret would withhold me, were there nothing else.”

“And there is something else?  Eh, sweetheart?  Is that all I am to be satisfied with?”

“Oh sir!—Mr. Archfield, I mean—O Charles!” she stammered.

Mr. Fellowes turned round to consult his pupil as to whether the halt should be made at the village whose peaked roofs were seen over the fruit trees.

But when Anne was lifted down from the steed it was with no grasp of common courtesy, and her hand was not relinquished till it had been fervently kissed.

Charles did not again torment her with entreaties to share his exile.  Mayhap he recognised, though unwillingly, that her judgment had been right, but there was no small devotion in his whole demeanour, as they dined, rode, and rested on that summer’s day amid fields of giant haycocks, and hostels wreathed with vines, with long vistas of sleek cows and plump dappled horses in the sheds behind.  The ravages of war had lessened as they rode farther from the frontier, and the rich smiling landscape lay rejoicing in the summer sunshine; the sturdy peasants looked as if they had never heard of marauders, as they herded their handsome cattle and responded civilly when a draught of milk was asked for the ladies.

There was that strange sense of Eden felicity that sometimes comes with the knowledge that the time is short for mutual enjoyment in full peace.  Charles and Anne would part, their future was undefined; but for the present they reposed in the knowledge of each other’s hearts, and in being together.  It was as in their childhood, when by tacit consent he had been Anne’s champion from the time she came as a little Londoner to be alarmed at rough country ways, and to be easily scared by Sedley.  It had been then that Charles had first awakened to the chivalry of the better part of boyhood’s nature, instead of following his cousin’s lead, and treating girls as creatures meant to be bullied.  Many a happy reminiscence was shared between the two as they rode together, and it was not till the pale breadth of sea filled their horizon, broken by the tall spires and peaked gables and many-windowed steep roofs of Ostend, that the future was permitted to come forward and trouble them.  Then Anne’s heart began to feel that persistence in her absolute refusal was a much harder thing than at the first, when the idea was new and strange to her.  And there were strange yearnings that Charles should renew the proposal, mixed with dread of herself and of her own resolution in case of his doing so.  As her affections embraced him more and more she pictured him sick, wounded, dying, out of reach of all, among Germans, Hungarians, Turks,—no one at hand to comfort him or even to know his fate.

There was even disappointment in his acquiescence, though her better mind told her that it was in accordance with her prayer against temptation.  Moreover, he was of a reserved nature, not apt to discuss what was once fixed, and perhaps it showed that he respected her judgment not to try to shake her decision.  Though for once love had carried him away, he might perhaps be grateful to her for sparing him the perplexities of dragging her about with him and of giving additional offence to his parents.  The affection born of lifelong knowledge is not apt to be of the vehement character that disregards all obstacles or possible miseries to the object thereof.  Yet enough feeling was betrayed to make Naomi whisper at night, “Sweet Nan, are you not some one else’s sweet?”

And Anne, now with another secret on her heart, only replied with embraces, and, “Do not talk of it!  I cannot tell how it is to be.  I cannot tell you all.”

Naomi was discreet enough only to caress.

With strict formalities at outworks, moat, drawbridge, and gates, and the customary inquisitorial search of the luggage, the travellers were allowed to repair to a lofty inn, with the Lion of Flanders for its sign, and a wide courtyard, the successive outside galleries covered with luxuriant vines.  Here, as usual, though the party of females obtained one bedroom together, the gentlemen had to share one vast sleeping chamber with a variety of merchants, Dutch, Flemish, Spanish, and a few English.  Meals were at a great table d’hôte in the public room, opening into the court, and were shared by sundry Spanish, Belgic, and Swiss officers of the garrison, who made this their mess-room.  Two young English gentlemen, like Charles Archfield, making the grand tour, whom he had met in Italy, were delighted to encounter him again, and still more so at the company of English ladies.

“No wonder the forlorn widower has recovered his spirits!” Anne heard one say with a laugh that made her blush and turn away; and there was an outcry that after a monopoly of the fair ones all the way from Paris, the seats next to them must be yielded.

Anne was disappointed, and could not bring herself to be agreeable to the obtrusive cavalier with the rich lace cravat and perfumed hair, both assumed in her honour.

The discussion was respecting the vessels where a passage might be obtained.  The cavaliers were to sail in a couple of days for London, but another ship would go out of harbour with the tide on the following day for Southampton, and this was decided on by acclamation by the Hampshire party, though no good accommodation was promised them.

There was little opportunity for a tête-à-têtes, for the young men insisted on escorting the ladies to the picture galleries, palaces, and gardens, and Charles did not wish to reawaken the observations that, according to the habits of the time, might not be of the choicest description.  Anne watched him under her eyelashes, and wondered with beating heart whether after all he intended to return home, and there plead his cause, for he gave no token of intending to separate from the rest.

The Hampshire Hog was to sail at daybreak, so the passengers went on board over night, after supper, when the summer twilight was sinking down and the far-off west still had a soft golden tint.

Anne felt Charles’s arm round her in the boat and grasping her hand, then pulling off her glove and putting a ring on her finger—all in silence.  She still felt that arm on the deck in the confusion of men, ropes, and bales of goods, and the shouts and hails on all sides that nearly deafened her.  There was imminent danger of being hurled down, if not overboard, among the far from sober sailors, and Mr. Fellowes urged the ladies to go below at once, conducting Miss Darpent himself as soon as he could ascertain where to go.  Anne felt herself almost lifted down.  Then followed a strong embrace, a kiss on brow, lips, and either cheek, and a low hoarse whisper—“So best!  Mine own!  God bless you,”—and as Suzanne came tumbling aft into the narrow cabin, Anne found herself left alone with her two female companions, and knew that these blissful days were over.

CHAPTER XXIII
French Leave

“When ye gang awa, Jamie,
  Far across the sea, laddie,
When ye gang to Germanie
  What will ye send to me, laddie?”

Huntingtower.

Fides was the posy on the ring.  That was all Anne could discover, and indeed only this much with the morning light of the July sun that penetrated the remotest corners.  For the cabin was dark and stifling, and there was no leaving it, for both Miss Darpent and her attendant were so ill as to engross her entirely.

She could hardly leave them when there was a summons to a meal in the captain’s cabin, and there she found herself the only passenger able to appear, and the rest of the company, though intending civility, were so rough that she was glad to retreat again, and wretched as the cabin was, she thought it preferable to the deck.

Mr. Fellowes, she heard, was specially prostrated, and jokes were passing round that it was the less harm, since it might be the worse for him if the crew found out that there was a parson on board.

Thus Anne had to forego the first sight of her native land, and only by the shouts above and the decreased motion of the vessel knew when she was within lee of the Isle of Wight, and on entering the Solent could encourage her companions that their miseries were nearly over, and help them to arrange themselves for going upon deck.

When at length they emerged, as the ship lay-to in sight of the red roofs and white steeples of Southampton, and of the green mazes of the New Forest, Mr. Fellowes was found looking everywhere for the pupil whom he had been too miserable to miss during the voyage.  Neither Charles Archfield nor his servant was visible, but Mr. Fellowes’s own man coming forward, delivered to the bewildered tutor a packet which he said that his comrade had put in his charge for the purpose.  In the boat, on the way to land, Mr. Fellowes read to himself the letter, which of course filled him with extreme distress.  It contained much of what Charles had already explained to Anne of his conviction that in the present state of affairs it was better for so young a man as himself, without sufficient occupation at home, to seek honourable service abroad, and that he thought it would spare much pain and perplexity to depart without revisiting home.  He added full and well-expressed thanks for all that Mr. Fellowes had done for him, and for kindness for which he hoped to be the better all his life.  He enclosed a long letter to his father, which he said would, he hoped, entirely exonerate his kind and much-respected tutor from any remissness or any participation in the scheme which he had thought it better on all accounts to conceal till the last.

“And indeed,” said poor Mr. Fellowes, “if I had had any inkling of it, I should have applied to the English Consul to restrain him as a ward under trust.  But no one would have thought it of him.  He had always been reasonable and docile beyond his years, and I trusted him entirely.  I should as soon have thought of our President giving me the slip in this way.  Surely he came on board with us.”

“He handed me into the boat,” said Miss Darpent.  “Who saw him last?  Did you, Miss Woodford?”

Anne was forced to own that she had seen him on board, and her cheeks were in spite of