A Reputed Changeling

“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 heard his foot on the stairs before seven o’clock.  She came out on the staircase, which met the flight which he was descending, and tried to speak, but her lips seemed too dry to part.

“Child! child! you are ill,” said the old gentleman, as he saw her blanched cheek; “you should be in bed this chilly morning.  Go back to your chamber.”

“No, no, sir, I cannot.  Pray, your Honour, come here, I have something to say;” and she drew him to the open door of his justice-room, called the gun-room.

“Bless me,” he muttered, “the wench does not mean that she has got smitten with that poor rogue my nephew!”

“Oh! no, no,” said Anne, almost ready for a hysterical laugh, yet letting the old man seat himself, and then dropping on her knees before him, for she could hardly stand, “it is worse than that, sir; I know who it was who did that thing.”

“Well, who?” he said hastily; “why have you kept it back so long and let an innocent man get into trouble?”

“O Sir Philip!  I could not help it.  Forgive me;” and with clasped hands, she brought out the words, “It was your son, Mr. Archfield;” and then she almost collapsed again.

“Child! child! you are ill; you do not know what you are saying.  We must have you to bed again.  I will call your uncle.”

“Ah! sir, it is only too true;” but she let him fetch her uncle, who was sure to be at his devotions in a kind of oratory on the farther side of the hall.  She had not gone to him first, from the old desire to keep him clear of the knowledge, but she longed for such support as he might give her, or at least to know whether he were very angry with her.

The two old men quickly came back together, and Dr. Woodford began, “How now, niece, are you telling us dreams?” but he broke off as he saw the sad earnest of her face.

“Sir, it is too true.  He charged me to speak out if any one else were brought into danger.”

“Come,” said Sir Philip, testily; “don’t crouch grovelling on the floor there.  Get up and let us know the meaning of this.  Good heavens! the lad may be here any day.”

Anne had much rather have knelt where she was, but her uncle raised her, and placed her in a chair, saying, “Try to compose yourself, and tell us what you mean, and why it has been kept back so long.”

“Indeed he did not intend it,” pleaded Anne; “it was almost an accident—to protect me—Peregrine was—pursuing me.”

“Upon my word, young mistress,” burst out the father, “you seem to have been setting all the young fellows together by the ears.”

“I doubt if she could help it,” said the Doctor.  “She tried to be discreet, but it was the reason her mother—”

“Well, go on,” interrupted poor Sir Philip, too unhappy to remember manners or listen to the defence; “what was it? when was it?”

Anne was allowed then to proceed.  “It was the morning I went to London.  I went out to gather some mouse-ear.”

“Mouse-ear! mouse-ear!” growled he.  “Some one else’s ear.”

“It was for Lady Oglethorpe.”

“It was,” said her uncle, “a specific, it seems, for whooping-cough.  I saw the letter, and knew—”

“Umph! let us hear,” said Sir Philip, evidently with the idea of a tryst in his mind.  “No wonder mischief comes of maidens running about at such hours.  What next?”

The poor girl struggled on: “I saw Peregrine coming, and hoping he would not see me, I ran into the keep, meaning to get home by the battlements out of his sight, but when I looked down he and Mr. Archfield were fighting.  I screamed, but I don’t think they heard me, and I ran down; but I had fastened all the doors, and I was a long time getting out, and by that time Mr. Archfield had dragged him to the vault and thrown him in.  He was like one distracted, and said it must be hidden, or it would be the death of his wife and his mother, and what could I do?”

“Is that all the truth?” said Sir Philip sternly.  “What brought them there—either of them?”

“Mr. Archfield came to bring me a pattern of sarcenet to match for poor young Madam in London.”

No doubt Sir Philip recollected the petulant anger that this had been forgotten, but he was hardly appeased.  “And the other fellow?  Why, he was brawling with my nephew Sedley about you the day before!”

“I do not think she was to blame there,” said Dr. Woodford.  “The unhappy youth was set against marrying Mistress Browning, and had talked wildly to my sister and me about wedding my niece.”

“But why should she run away as if he had the plague, and set the foolish lads to fight?”

“Sir, I must tell you,” Anne owned, “he had beset me, and talked so desperately that I was afraid of what he might do in that lonely place and at such an hour in the morning.  I hoped he had not seen me.”

“Umph!” said Sir Philip, much as if he thought a silly girl’s imagination had caused all the mischief.

“When did he thus speak to you, Anne?” asked her uncle, not unkindly.

“At the inn at Portsmouth, sir,” said Anne.  “He came while you were with Mr. Stanbury and the rest, and wanted me to marry him and flee to France, or I know not where, or at any rate marry him secretly so as to save him from poor Mistress Browning.  I could not choose but fear and avoid him, but oh!  I would have faced him ten times over rather than have brought this on—us all.  And now what shall I do?  He, Mr. Archfield, when I saw him in France, said as long as no one was suspected, it would only give more pain to say what I knew, but that if suspicion fell on any one—” and her voice died away.

“He could not say otherwise,” returned Sir Philip, with a groan.

“And now what shall I do? what shall I do?” sighed the poor girl.  “I must speak truth.”

“I never bade you perjure yourself,” said Sir Philip sharply, but hiding his face in his hands, and groaning out, “Oh, my son! my son!”

Seeing that his distress so overcame poor Anne that she could scarcely contain herself, Dr. Woodford thought it best to take her from the room, promising to come again to her.  She could do nothing but lie on her bed and weep in a quiet heart-broken way.  Sir Philip’s anger seemed to fill up the measure, by throwing the guilt back upon her and rousing a bitter sense of injustice, and then she wept again at her cruel selfishness in blaming the broken-hearted old man.

She could hardly have come down to breakfast, so heavy were her limbs and so sick and faint did every movement render her, and she further bethought herself that the poor old father might not brook the sight of her under the circumstances.  It was a pang to hear little Philip prancing about the house, and when he had come to her to say his prayers, she sent him down with a message that she was not well enough to come downstairs, and that she wanted nothing, only to be quiet.

The little fellow was very pitiful, and made her cry again by wanting to know whether she had gout like grandpapa or rheumatics like grandmamma, and then stroking her face, calling her his dear Nana, and telling her of the salad in his garden that his papa was to eat the very first day he came home.

By and by Dr. Woodford knocked at her door.  He had had a long conversation with poor old Sir Philip, who was calmer now than under the first blow, and somewhat less inclined to anger with the girl, who might indeed be the cause, but surely the innocent cause, of all.  The Doctor had done his best to show that her going out had no connection with any of the youths, and he thought Sir Philip would believe it on quieter reflection.  He had remembered too, signs of self-reproach mixed with his son’s grief for his wife, and his extreme relief at the plan for going abroad, recollecting likewise that Charles had strongly disliked poor Peregrine, and had much resented the liking which young Madam had shown for one whose attentions might have been partly intended to tease the young husband.

“Of course,” said Dr. Woodford, “the unhappy deed was no more than an unfortunate accident, and if all had been known at first, probably it would so have been treated.  The concealment was an error, but it is impossible to blame either of you for it.”

“Oh never mind that, dear uncle!  Only tell me!  Must he—must Charles suffer to save that man?  You know what he is, real murderer in heart!  Oh I know.  The right must be done!  But it is dreadful!”

“The right must be done and the truth spoken at all costs.  No one knows that better than our good old patron,” said the Doctor; “but, my dear child, you are not called on to denounce this young man as you seem to imagine, unless there should be no other means of saving his cousin, or unless you are so questioned that you cannot help replying for truth’s sake.  Knowing nothing of all this, it struck others besides myself at the inquest that the evidence against Sedley was utterly insufficient for a conviction, and if he should be acquitted, matters will only be as they were before.”

“Then you think I am not bound to speak—The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth,” she murmured in exceeding grief, yet firmly.

“You certainly may, nay, must keep your former silence till the trial, at the Lent Assizes.  I trust you may not be called on as a witness to the fray with Sedley, but that I may be sufficient testimony to that.  I could testify to nothing else.  Remember, if you are called, you have only to answer what you are asked, nor is it likely, unless Sedley have any suspicion of the truth, that you will be asked any question that will implicate Mr. Archfield.  If so, God give you strength my poor child, to be true to Him.  But the point of the trial is to prove Sedley guilty or not guilty; and if the latter, there is no more to be said.  God grant it.”

“But he—Mr. Archfield?”

“His father is already taking measures to send to all the ports to stop him on his way till the trial is over.  Thus there will be no actual danger, though it is a sore disappointment, and these wicked attempts of Charnock and Barclay put us in bad odour, so that it may be less easy to procure a pardon than it once would have been.  So, my dear child, I do not think you need be in terror for his life, even if you are obliged to speak out plainly.”

And then the good old man knelt with Anne to pray for pardon, direction, and firmness, and protection for Charles.  She made an entreaty after they rose that her uncle would take her away—her presence must be so painful to their kind hosts.  He agreed with her, and made the proposition, but Sir Philip would not hear of it.  Perhaps he was afraid of any change bringing suspicion of the facts, and he might have his fears of Anne being questioned into dangerous admissions, besides which, he hoped to keep his poor old wife in ignorance to the last.  So Anne was to remain at Fareham, and after that one day’s seclusion she gathered strength to be with the family as usual.  Poor old Sir Philip treated her with a studied but icy courtesy which cut her to the heart; but Lady Archfield’s hopes of seeing her son were almost worse, together with her regrets at her husband’s dejection at the situation of his nephew and the family disgrace.  As to little Philip, his curious inquiries about Cousin Sedley being in jail for murdering Penny Grim had to be summarily hushed by the assurance that such things were not to be spoken about.  But why did Nana cry when he talked of papa’s coming home?

All the neighbourhood was invited to the funeral in Havant Churchyard, the burial-place of the Oakshotts.  Major Oakshott himself wrote to Dr. Woodford, as having been one of the kindest friends of his poor son, adding that he could not ask Sir Philip Archfield, although he knew him to be no partner in the guilt of his unhappy nephew, who so fully exemplified that Divine justice may be slow, but is sure.

Dr. Woodford decided on accepting the invitation, not only for Peregrine’s sake, but to see how the land lay.  Scarcely anything remarkable, however, occurred, except that it was painful to perceive the lightness of the coffin.  A funeral sermon was previously preached by a young Nonconformist minister in his own chapel, on the text, “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed;” and then the burial took place, watched by a huge crowd of people.  But just as the procession was starting from the chapel for the churchyard, over the wall there came a strange peal of wild laughter.

“Oh, would not the unquiet spirit be at rest till it was avenged?” thought Anne when she was told of it.