A Reputed Changeling

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, for she could hardly help disclosing to Naomi the sight she had seen, and the half-finished words she had heard.  It was chiefly the feeling that she could not bear Naomi to know of the blood on Charles’s hand which withheld her in her tumult of feeling, and made her only entreat, “Do not ask me, I cannot tell you.”  And Naomi, who was some years older, and had had her own sad experience, guessed perhaps at one cause for her agitation, and spared her inquiries, though as Anne, tired out by the long day, and forced by their close quarters to keep herself still, dropped asleep, strange mutterings fell from her lips about “The vault—the blood—come back.  There he is.  The secret has risen to forbid.  O, poor Peregrine!”

Between the July heat, the narrow bed, and the two chamber fellows, Anne had little time to collect her thoughts, except for the general impression that if Charles finished what he had begun to say, the living and the dead alike must force her to refuse, though something within foreboded that this would cost her more than she yet durst perceive, and her heart was ready to spring forth and enclose him as it were in an embrace of infinite tenderness, above all when she thought of his purpose of going to those fearful Hungarian wars.

But after the hot night, it was a great relief to prepare for an early start.  M. de Nidemerle had decided on sending the travellers to Tournay, the nearest Spanish town, on the Scheldt, since he had some acquaintance with the governor, and when no campaign was actually on foot the courtesies of generous enemies passed between them.  He had already sent an intimation of his intention of forwarding an English kinswoman of his own with her companions, and bespoken the good offices of his neighbour, and they were now to set off in very early morning under the escort of a flag of truce, a trumpeter, and a party of troopers, commanded by an experienced old officer with white moustaches and the peaked beard of the last generation, contrasting with a face the colour of walnut wood.

The marquis himself and his son, however, rode with the travellers for their first five miles, through a country where the rich green of the natural growth showed good soil, all enamelled with flowers and corn crops run wild; but the villages looked deserted, the remains of burnt barns and houses were frequent, and all along that frontier, it seemed as if no peaceful inhabitants ventured to settle, and only brigands often rendered such by misery might prowl about.  The English party felt as if they had never understood what war could be.

However, in a melancholy orchard run wild, under the shade of an apple-tree laden with young fruit, backed by a blackened gable half concealed by a luxuriant untrimmed vine, the avant couriers of the commandant had cleared a space in the rank grass, and spread a morning meal, of cold pâté, fowl and light wines, in which the French officers drank to the good journey of their friends, and then when the horses had likewise had their refreshment the parting took place with much affection between the cousins.  The young Ribaumont augured that they should meet again when he had to protect Noémi in a grand descent on Dorsetshire in behalf of James, and she merrily shook her fist at him and defied him, and his father allowed that they were a long way from that.

M. de Nidemerle hinted to Mr. Archfield that nobody could tell him more about the war with the Turks than M. le Capitaine Delaune, who was, it appeared, a veteran Swiss who had served in almost every army in Europe, and thus could give information by no means to be neglected.  So that, to Anne’s surprise and somewhat to her mortification, since she had no knowledge of the cause, she saw Charles riding apart with this wooden old veteran, who sat as upright as a ramrod on his wiry-looking black horse, leaving her to the company of Naomi and Mr. Fellowes.  Did he really wish not to pursue the topic which had brought Peregrine from his grave?  It would of course be all the better, but it cost her some terrible pangs to think so.

There were far more formalities and delays before the travellers could cross the Tournay bridge across the Scheldt.  They were brought to a standstill a furlong off, and had to wait while the trumpeter rode forward with the white flag, and the message was referred to the officer on guard, while a sentry seemed to be watching over them.  Then the officer came to the gateway of the bridge, and Captain Delaune rode forward to him, but there was still a long weary waiting in the sun before he came back, after having shown their credentials to the governor, and then he was accompanied by a Flemish officer, who, with much courtesy, took them under his charge, and conducted them through all the defences, over the bridge, and to the gate where their baggage had to be closely examined.  Naomi had her Bible in her bosom, or it would not have escaped; Anne heartily wished she had used the same precaution on her flight from England, but she had not, like her friend, been warned beforehand.

When within the city there was more freedom, and the Fleming conducted the party to an inn, where, unlike English inns, they could not have a parlour to themselves, but had to take their meals in common with other guests at a sort of table d’hôte, and the ladies had no refuge but their bedroom, where the number of beds did not promise privacy.  An orderly soon arrived with an invitation to Don Carlos Arcafila to sup with the Spanish governor, and of course the invitation could not be neglected.  The ladies walked about a little in the town with Mr. Fellowes, looking without appreciation at the splendid five-towered cathedral, but recollecting with due English pride that the place had been conquered by Henry VIII.  Thence they were to make for Ostend, where they were certain of finding a vessel bound for England.

It was a much smaller party that set forth from Tournay than from Paris, and soon they fell into pairs, Mr. Fellowes and Naomi riding together, sufficiently out of earshot of the others for Charles to begin—

“I have not been able to speak to you, Anne, since that strange interruption—if indeed it were not a dream.”

“Oh, sir, it was no dream!  How could it be?”

“How could it, indeed, when we both saw it, and both of us awake and afoot, and yet I cannot believe my senses.”

“Oh, I can believe it only too truly!  I have seen him twice before.  I thought you said you had.”

“Merely in dreams, and that is bad enough.”

“Are you sure? for I was up and awake.”

“Are you sure?  I might ask again.  I was asleep in bed, and glad enough to shake myself awake.  Where were you?”

“Once on Hallowmas Eve, looking from the window at Whitehall; once when waiting with the Queen under the wall of Lambeth Church, on the night of our flight.”

“Did others see him then?”

“I was alone the first time.  The next time when he flitted across the light, no one else saw him; but they cried out at my start.  Why should he appear except to us?”

“That is true,” muttered Charles.

“And oh, sir, those two times he looked as he did in life—not ghastly as now.  There can be no doubt now that—”

“What, sweet Anne?”

“Sir, I must tell you!  I could bear it no longer, and I did consult the Bishop of Bath and Wells.”

“Any more?” he asked in a somewhat displeased voice.

“No one, not a soul, and he is as safe as any of the priests here; he regards a confession in the same way.  Mr. Archfield, forgive me.  He seemed divinely sent to me on that All Saints’ day!  Oh, forgive me!” and tears were in her eyes.

“He is Dr. Ken—eh?  I remember him.  I suppose he is as safe as any man, and a woman must have some relief.  You have borne enough indeed,” said Charles, greatly touched by her tears.  “What did he say?”

“He asked, was I certain of the—death,” said she, bringing out the word with difficulty; “but then I had only seen it at Whitehall; and these other appearances, in such places too, take away all hope that it is otherwise!”

“Assuredly,” said Charles; “I had not the least doubt at the moment.  I know I ran my sword through his body, and felt a jar that I believe was his backbone,” he said with a shudder, “and he fell prone and breathless; but since I have seen more of fencing, and heard more of wounds, the dread has crossed me that I acted as an inexperienced lad, and that I ought to have tried whether the life was in him, or if he could be recovered.  If so, I slew him twice, by launching him into that pit.  God forgive me!”

“Is it so deep?” asked Anne, shuddering.  “I know there is a sort of step at the top; but I always shunned the place, and never looked in.”

“There are two or three steps at the top, but all is broken away below.  Sedley and I once threw a ball down, and I am sure it dropped to a depth down which no man could fall and live.  I believe there once were underground passages leading to the harbour on one hand, and out to Portsdown Hill on the other, but that the communication was broken away and the openings destroyed when Lord Goring was governor of Portsmouth, to secure the castle.  Be that as it may, he could not have been living after he reached that floor.  I heard the thud, and the jingle of his sword, and it will haunt me to my dying day.”

“And yet you never intended it.  You did it in defence of me.  You did not mean to strike thus hard.  It was an accident.”

“Would that I could so feel it!” he sighed.  “Nay, of course I had no evil design when my poor little wife drove me out to give you her rag of ribbon, or whatever it was; but I hated as well as despised the fellow.  He had angered me with his scorn—well deserved, as now I see—of our lubberly ways.  She had vexed me with her teasing commendations—out of harmless mischief, poor child.  I hated him more every time you looked at him, and when I had occasion to strike him I was glad of it.  There was murder in my heart, and I felt as if I were putting a rat or a weasel out of the way when I threw him down that pit.  God forgive me!  Then, in my madness, I so acted that in a manner I was the death of that poor young thing.”

“No, no, sir.  Your mother had never thought she would live.”

“So they say; but her face comes before me in reproach.  There are times when I feel myself a double murderer.  I have been on the point of telling all to Mr. Fellowes, or going home to accuse myself.  Only the thought of my father and mother, and of leaving such a blight on that poor baby, has withheld me; but I cannot go home to face the sight of the castle.”

“No,” said Anne, choked with tears.

“Nor is there any suspicion of the poor fellow’s fate,” he added.

“Not that I ever heard.”

“His family think him fled, as was like enough, considering the way in which they treated him,” said Charles.  “Nor do I see what good it would do them to know the truth.”

“It would only be a grief and bitterness to all.”

“I hope I have repented, and that God accepts my forgiveness,” said Charles sadly.  “I am banishing myself from all I love, and there is a weight on me for life; but, unless suspicion falls on others, I do not feel bound to make it worse for all by giving myself up.  Yet those appearances—to you, to me, to us both!  At such a moment, too, last night!”

“Can it be because of his unhallowed grave?” said Anne, in a low voice of awe.

“If it were!” said Charles, drawing up his horse for a moment in thought.  “Anne, if there be one more appearance, the place shall be searched, whether it incriminate me or not.  It would be adding to all my wrongs towards the poor fellow, if that were the case.”

“Even if he were found,” said Anne, “suspicion would not light on you.  And at home it will be known if he haunts the place.  I will—”

“Nay, but, Anne, he will not interrupt me now.  I have much more to say.  I want 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.”