Loe raamatut: «A Reputed Changeling», lehekülg 11

CHAPTER XV
News From Fareham

 
“My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery.
Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history.”
 

JEAN INGELOW.

Lady Worsley was a handsome, commanding old dame, who soon made her charge feel the social gulf between a county magnate and a clergyman’s niece.  She decidedly thought that Mistress Anne Jacobina held her head too high for her position, and was, moreover, conceited of an unfortunate amount of good looks.

Therefore the good lady did her best to repress these dangerous tendencies by making the girl sit on the back seat with two maids, and uttering long lectures on humility, modesty, and discretion which made the blood of the sea-captain’s daughter boil with indignation.

Yet she always carried with her the dread of being pursued and called upon to accuse Charles Archfield of Peregrine’s death.  It was a perpetual cloud, dispersed, indeed, for a time by the events of the day, but returning at night, when not only was the combat acted over again, but when she fell asleep it was only to be pursued by Peregrine through endless vaulted dens of darkness, or, what was far worse, to be trying to hide a stream of blood that could never be stanched.

It was no wonder that she looked pale in the morning, and felt so tired and dejected as to make her sensible that she was cast loose from home and friends when no one troubled her with remarks or inquiries such as she could hardly have answered.  However, when, on the evening of the second day’s journey, Anne was set down at Sir Theophilus Oglethorpe’s house at Westminster, she met with a very different reception.

Lady Oglethorpe, a handsome, warm-hearted Irish woman, met her at once in the hall with outstretched hands, and a kiss on each cheek.

“Come in, my dear, my poor orphan, the daughter of one who was very dear to me!  Ah, how you have grown!  I could never have thought this was the little Anne I recollect.  You shall come up to your chamber at once, and rest you, and make ready for supper, by the time Sir Theophilus comes in from attending the King.”

Anne found herself installed in a fresh-smelling wainscotted room, where a glass of wine and some cake was ready for her, and where she made herself ready, feeling exhilarated in spirits as she performed her toilette, putting on her black evening dress, and refreshing the curls of her brown hair.  It was a simple dress of deep mourning, but it became her well, and the two or three gentlemen who had come in to supper with Sir Theophilus evidently admired her greatly, and complimented her on having a situation at Court, which was all that Lady Oglethorpe mentioned.

“Child,” she said afterwards, when they were in private, “if I had known what you looked like I would have sought a different position for you.  But, there, to get one’s foot—were it but the toe of one’s shoe—in at Court is the great point after all, the rest must come after.  I warrant me you are well educated too.  Can you speak French?”

“Oh yes, madam, and Italian, and dance and play on the spinnet.  I was with two French ladies at Winchester every winter who taught such things.”

“Well, well, mayhap we may get you promoted to a sub-governess’s place—though your religion is against you.  You are not a Catholic—eh?”

“No, your ladyship.”

“That’s the only road to favour nowadays, though for the name of the thing they may have a Protestant or two.  You are the King’s godchild too, so he will expect it the more from you.  However, we may find a better path.  You have not left your heart in the country, eh?”

Anne blushed and denied it.

“You will be mewed up close enough in the nursery,” ran on Lady Oglethorpe.  “Lady Powys keeps close discipline there, and I expect she will be disconcerted to see how fine a fish I have brought to her net; but we will see—we will see how matters go.  But, my dear, have you no coloured clothes?  There is no appearing in the Royal household in private mourning.  It might daunt the Prince’s spirits in his cradle!” and she laughed, though Anne felt much annoyed at thus disregarding her mother, as well as at the heavy expense.  However, there was no help for it; the gowns and laces hidden in the bottom of her mails were disinterred, and the former were for the most part condemned, so that she had to submit to a fresh outfit, in which Lady Oglethorpe heartily interested herself, but which drained the purse that the Canon had amply supplied.

These arrangements were not complete when the first letter from home arrived, and was opened with a beating heart, and furtive glances as of one who feared to see the contents, but they were by no means what she expected.

I hope you have arrived safely in London, and that you are not displeased with your first taste of life in a Court.  Neither town nor country is exempt from sorrow and death.  I was summoned only on the second day after your departure to share in the sorrows at Archfield, where the poor young wife died early on Friday morning, leaving a living infant, a son, who, I hope, may prove a blessing to them, if he is spared, which can scarcely be expected.  The poor young man, and indeed all the family, are in the utmost distress, and truly there were circumstances that render the event more than usually deplorable, and for which he blames himself exceedingly, even to despair.  It appears that the poor young gentlewoman wished to add some trifle to the numerous commissions with which she was entrusting you on the night of the bonfire, and that she could not be pacified except by her husband undertaking to ride over to give the patterns and the orders to you before your setting forth.  You said nothing of having seen him—nor do I see how it was possible that you could have done so, seeing that you only left your chamber just before the breakfast that you never tasted, my poor child.  He never returned till long after noon, and what with fretting after him, and disappointment, that happened which Lady Archfield had always apprehended, and the poor fragile young creature worked herself into a state which ended before midnight in the birth of a puny babe, and her own death shortly after.  She wanted two months of completing her sixteenth year, and was of so frail a constitution that Dr. Brown had never much hope of her surviving the birth of her child.  It was a cruel thing to marry her thus early, ungrown in body or mind, but she had no one to care for her before she was brought hither.  The blame, as I tell Sir Philip, and would fain persuade poor Charles, is really with those who bred her up so uncontrolled as to be the victim of her humours; but the unhappy youth will listen to no consolation.  He calls himself a murderer, shuts himself up, and for the most part will see and speak to no one, but if forced by his father’s command to unlock his chamber door, returns at once to sit with his head hidden in his arms crossed upon the table, and if father, mother, or sister strive to rouse him and obtain answer from him, he will only murmur forth, “I should only make it worse if I did.”  It is piteous to see a youth so utterly overcome, and truly I think his condition is a greater distress to our good friends than the loss of the poor young wife.  They asked him what name he would have given to his child, but all the answer they could get was, “As you will, only not mine;” and in the enforced absence of my brother of Fareham I baptized him Philip.  The funeral will take place to-morrow, and Sir Philip proposes immediately after to take his son to Oxford, and there endeavour to find a tutor of mature age and of prudence, with whom he may either study at New College or be sent on the grand tour.  It is the only notion that the poor lad has seemed willing to entertain, as if to get away from his misery, and I cannot but think it well for him.  He is not yet twenty, and may, as it were, begin life again the wiser and the better man for his present extreme sorrow.  Lady Archfield is greatly wrapped up in the care of the babe, who, I fear, is in danger of being killed by overcare, if by nothing else, though truly all is in the hands of God.  I have scarce quitted the afflicted family since I was summoned to them on Friday, since Sir Philip has no one else on whom to depend for comfort or counsel; and if I can obtain the services of Mr. Ellis from Portsmouth for a few Sundays, I shall ride with him to Oxford to assist in the choice of a tutor to go abroad with Mr. Archfield.

One interruption however I had, namely, from Major Oakshott, who came in great perturbation to ask what was the last I had seen of his son Peregrine.  It appears that the unfortunate young man never returned home after the bonfire on Portsdown Hill, where his brother Robert lost sight of him, and after waiting as long as he durst, returned home alone.  It has become known that after parting with us high words passed between him and Lieutenant Sedley Archfield, insomuch that after the unhappy fashion of these times, blood was demanded, and early in the morning Sedley sent the friend who was to act as second to bear the challenge to young Oakshott.  You can conceive the reception that he was likely to receive at Oakwood; but it was then discovered that Peregrine had not been in his bed all night, nor had any one seen or heard of him.  Sedley boasts loudly that the youngster has fled the country for fear of him, and truly things have that appearance, although to my mind Peregrine was far from wanting in spirit or courage.  But, as he had not received the cartel, he might not have deemed his honour engaged to await it, and I incline to the belief that he is on his way to his uncle in Muscovy, driven thereto by his dread of the marriage with the gentlewoman whom he holds in so much aversion.  I have striven to console his father by the assurance that such tidings of him will surely arrive in due time, but the Major is bitterly grieved, and is galled by the accusation of cowardice.  “He could not even be true to his own maxims of worldly honour,” says the poor gentleman.  “So true it is that only by grace we stand fast.”  The which is true enough, but the poor gentleman unwittingly did his best to make grace unacceptable in his son’s eyes.  I trust soon to hear again of you, my dear child.  I rejoice that Lady Oglethorpe is so good to you, and I hope that in the palace you will guard first your faith and then your discretion.  And so praying always for your welfare, alike spiritual and temporal.—Your loving uncle, JNO.  WOODFORD.

Truly it was well that Anne had secluded herself to read this letter.

So the actual cause for which poor Charles Archfield had entreated silence was at an end.  The very evil he had apprehended had come to pass, and she could well understand how, on his return in a horror-stricken, distracted state of mind, the childish petulance of his wife had worried him into loss of temper, so that he hardly knew what he said.  And what must not his agony of remorse be?  She could scarcely imagine how he had avoided confessing all as a mere relief to his mind, but then she reflected that when he called himself a murderer the words were taken in another sense, and no questions asked, nor would he be willing to add such grief and shame to his parents’ present burthen, especially as no suspicion existed.

That Peregrine’s fate had not been discovered greatly relieved her.  She believed the vault to go down to a considerable depth after a first platform of stone near the opening, and it was generally avoided as the haunt of hobgoblins, fairies, or evil beings, so that no one was likely to be in its immediate neighbourhood after the hay was carried, so that there might have been nothing to attract any one to the near neighbourhood and thus lead to the discovery.  If not made by this time, Charles would be far away, and there was nothing to connect him with the deed.  No one save herself had even known of his having been near the castle that morning.  How strange that the only persons aware of that terrible secret should be so far separated from one another that they could exchange no confidences; and each was compelled to absolute silence.  For as long as no one else was suspected, Anne felt her part must be not to betray Charles, though the bare possibility of the accusation of another was agony to her.

She wrote her condolences in due form to Fareham, and in due time was answered by Lucy Archfield.  The letter was full of details about the infant, who seemed to absorb her and her mother, and to be as likely to live as any child of those days ever was—and it was in his favour that his grandmother and her old nurse had better notions of management than most of her contemporaries.  In spite of all that Lucy said of her brother’s overwhelming grief, and the melancholy of thus parting with him, there was a strain of cheerfulness throughout the letter, betraying that the poor young wife of less than a year was no very great loss to the peace and comfort of the family.  The letter ended with—

There is a report that Sir Peregrine Oakshott is dead in Muscovy.  Nothing has been heard of that unfortunate young man at Oakwood.  If he be gone in quest of his uncle, I wonder what will become of him?  However, nurse will have it that this being the third seventh year of his life, the fairies have carried off their changeling—you remember how she told us the story of his being changed as an infant, when we were children at Winchester; she believes it as much as ever, and never let little Philip out of her sight before he was baptized.  I ask her, if the changeling be gone, where is the true Peregrine? but she only wags her head in answer.

A day or two later Anne heard from her uncle from Oxford.  He was extremely grieved at the condition of his beloved alma mater, with a Roman Catholic Master reigning at University College, a doctor from the Sorbonne and Fellows to match, inflicted by military force on Magdalen, whose lawful children had been ejected with a violence beyond anything that the colleges had suffered even in the time of the Rebellion.  If things went on as they were, he pronounced Oxford would be no better than a Popish seminary: and he had the more readily induced his old friend to consent to Charles’s desire not to remain there as a student, but to go abroad with Mr. Fellowes, one of the expelled fellows of Magdalen, a clergyman of mature age, but a man of the world, who had already acted as a travelling tutor.  Considering that the young widower was not yet twenty, and that all his wife’s wealth would be in his hands, also that his cousin Sedley formed a dangerous link with the questionable diversions of the garrison at Portsmouth, both father and friend felt that it was well that he should be out of reach, and have other occupations for the present.

Change of scene had, Dr. Woodford said, brightened the poor youth, and he was showing more interest in passing events, but probably he would never again be the light-hearted boy they used to know.

Anne could well believe it.

CHAPTER XVI
A Royal Nursery

 
“The duty that I owe unto your Majesty
I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.”
 

King Richard III.

It was not till the Queen had moved from St. James’s, where her son had been born, to take up her abode at Whitehall, that Lady Oglethorpe was considered to be disinfected from her children’s whooping-cough, and could conduct Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford to her new situation.

Anne remembered the place from times past, as she followed the lady up the broad stairs to the state rooms, where the child was daily carried for inspection by the nation to whom, it was assumed, he was so welcome, but who, on the contrary, regarded him with the utmost dislike and suspicion.

Whitehall was, in those days, free to all the world, and though sentries in the Life-guards’ uniform with huge grenadier caps were posted here and there, every one walked up and down.  Members of Parliament and fine gentlemen in embroidered coats and flowing wigs came to exchange news; country cousins came to stare and wonder, some to admire, some to whisper their disbelief in the Prince’s identity; clergy in gown, cassock, and bands came to win what they could in a losing cause; and one or two other clergy, who were looked at askance, whose dress had a foreign air, and whose tonsure could be detected as they threaded their way with quick, gliding steps to the King’s closet.

Lady Oglethorpe, as one to the manner born, made her way through the midst of this throng in the magnificent gallery, and Anne followed her closely, conscious of words of admiration and inquiries who she was.  Into the Prince’s presence chamber, in fact his day-nursery, they came, and a sweet and gentle-looking lady met them, and embraced Lady Oglethorpe, who made known Mistress Woodford to Lady Strickland, of Sizergh, the second governess, as the fourth rocker who had been appointed.

“You are welcome, Miss Woodford,” said the lady, looking at Anne’s high, handsome head and well-bred action in courtesying, with a shade of surprise.  “You are young, but I trust you are discreet.  There is much need thereof.”

Following to a kind of alcove, raised by a step or two, Anne found herself before a half-circle of ladies and gentlemen round a chair of state, in front of which stood a nurse, with an infant in her arms, holding him to be caressed and inspected by the lady on the throne.  Her beautiful soft dark eyes and hair, and an ivory complexion, with her dignified and graceful bearing, her long, slender throat and exquisite figure, were not so much concealed as enhanced by the simple mob cap and ‘night-gown,’ as it was then the fashion to call a morning wrapper, which she wore, and Anne’s first impression was that no wonder Peregrine raved about her.  Poor Peregrine! that very thought came like a stab, as, after courtesying low, she stood at the end of the long room—silent, and observing.

A few gentlemen waited by the opposite door, but not coming far into the apartment, and Lady Oglethorpe was announced by one of them.  The space was so great that Anne could not hear the words, and she only saw the gracious smile and greeting as Lady Oglethorpe knelt and kissed the Queen’s hand.  After a long conversation between the mothers, during which Lady Oglethorpe was accommodated with a cushion, Anne was beckoned forward, and was named to the Queen, who honoured her with an inclination of the head and a few low murmured words.

Then there was an announcement of ‘His Majesty,’ and Anne, following the general example of standing back with low obeisances, beheld the tall active figure and dark heavy countenance of her Royal godfather, under his great black, heavily-curled wig.  He returned Lady Oglethorpe’s greeting, and his face lighted up with a pleasant smile that greatly changed the expression as he took his child into his arms for a few moments; but the little one began to cry, whereupon he was carried off, and the King began to consult Lady Oglethorpe upon the water-gruel on which the poor little Prince was being reared, and of which she emphatically disapproved.

Before he left the room, however, Lady Oglethorpe took care to present to him his god-daughter, Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford, and very low was the girl’s obeisance before him, but with far more fright and shyness than before the sweet-faced Queen.

“Oh ay!” he said, “I remember honest Will Woodford.  He did good service at Southwold.  I wish he had left a son like him.  Have you a brother, young mistress?”

“No, please your Majesty, I am an only child.”

“More’s the pity,” he said kindly, and with a smile brightening his heavy features.  “’Tis too good a breed to die out.  You are Catholic?”

“I am bred in the English Church, so please your Majesty.”

His Majesty was evidently less pleased than before, but he only said, “Ha! and my godchild!  We must amend that,” and waved her aside.

The royal interview over, the newcomer was presented to the State Governess, the Countess of Powys, a fair and gracious matron, who was, however, almost as far removed from her as the Queen.  Then she was called on to take a solemn oath before the Master of the Household, of dutiful loyalty to the Prince.

Mrs. Labadie was head nurse as well as being wife to the King’s French valet.  She was a kindly, portly Englishwoman, who seemed wrapped up in her charge, and she greeted her new subordinate in a friendly way, which, however, seemed strange in one who at home would have been of an inferior degree, expressed hopes of her steadiness and discretion, and called to Miss Dunord to show Miss Woodford her chamber.  The abbreviation Miss sounded familiar and unsuitable, but it had just come into use for younger spinsters, though officially they were still termed Mistress.

Mistress or Miss Dunord was sallow and gray-eyed, somewhat older than Anne, and looking thoroughly French, though her English was perfect.  She was entirely dressed in blue and white, and had a rosary and cross at her girdle.  “This way,” she said, tripping up a steep wooden stair.  “We sleep above.  ’Tis a huge, awkward place.  Her Majesty calls it the biggest and most uncomfortable palace she ever was in.”

Opening a heavy door, she showed a room of considerable size, hung with faded frayed tapestry, and containing two huge bedsteads, with four heavy posts, and canopies of wood, as near boxes as could well be.  Privacy was a luxury not ordinarily coveted, and the arrangement did not surprise Anne, though she could have wished that on that summer day curtains and tapestry had been less fusty.  Two young women were busy over a dress spread on one of the beds, and with French ease and grace the guide said, “Here is our new colleague, Miss Jacobina Woodford.  Let me present Miss Hester Bridgeman and Miss Jane Humphreys.”

“Miss Woodford is welcome,” said Miss Bridgeman, a keen, brown, lively, somewhat anxious-looking person, courtesying and holding out her hand, and her example was followed by Jane Humphreys, a stout, rosy, commonplace girl.

“Oh!  I am glad,” this last cried.  “Now I shall have a bedfellow.”

This Anne was the less sorry for, as she saw that the bed of the other two was furnished with a holy water stoup and a little shrine with a waxen Madonna.  There was only one looking-glass among the four, and not much apparatus either for washing or the toilet, but Miss Bridgeman believed that they would soon go to Richmond, where things would be more comfortable.  Then she turned to consult Miss Dunord on her endeavour to improve the trimmings of a dress of Miss Humphreys.

“Yes, I know you are always in Our Lady’s colours, Pauline, but you have a pretty taste, and can convince Jane that rose colour and scarlet cannot go together.”

“My father chose the ribbons,” said Jane, as if that were unanswerable.

“City taste,” said Miss Bridgeman.

“They are pretty, very pretty with anything else,” observed Pauline, with more tact.  “See, now, with your white embroidered petticoat and the gray train they are ravishing—and the scarlet coat will enliven the black.”

There was further a little murmur about what a Mr. Hopkins admired, but it was lost in the arrival of Miss Woodford’s mails.

They clustered round, as eager as a set of schoolgirls, over Anne’s dresses.  Happily even the extreme of fashion had not then become ungraceful.

“Her Majesty will not have the loose drapery that folks used to wear,” said Hester Bridgeman.

“No,” said Pauline; “it was all very well for those who could dispose it with an artless negligence, but for some I could name, it was as though they had tumbled it on with a hay-fork and had their hair tousled by being tickled in the hay.”

“Now we have the tight bodice with plenty of muslin and lace, the gown open below to show the petticoat,” said Hester; “and to my mind it is more decorous.”

“Decorum was not the vogue then,” laughed Pauline, “perhaps it will be now.  Oh, what lovely lace! real Flanders, on my word!  Where did you get it, Miss Woodford?”

“It was my mother’s.”

“And this?  Why, ’tis old French point, you should hang it to your sleeves.”

“My Lady Archfield gave it to me in case I should need it.”

“Ah!  I see you have good friends and are a person of some condition,” put in Hester Bridgeman.  “I shall be happy to consort with you.  Let us—”

Anne courtesied, and at the moment a bell was heard, Pauline at once crossed herself and fell on her knees before the small shrine with a figure of the Blessed Virgin, and Hester, breaking off her words, followed her example; but Jane Humphreys stood twisting the corner of her apron.

In a very short time, almost before Anne had recovered from her bewilderment, the other two were up and chattering again.

“You are not a Catholic?” demanded Miss Bridgeman.

“I was bred in the Church,” said Anne.

“And you the King’s godchild!” exclaimed Pauline.  “But we shall soon amend that and make a convert of you like Miss Bridgeman there.”

Anne shook her head, but was glad to ask, “And what means the bell that is ringing now?”

“That is the supper bell.  It rings just after the Angelus,” said Hester.  “No, it is not ours.  The great folks, Lady Powys, Lady Strickland, and the rest sup first.  We have the dishes after them, with Nurses Labadie and Royer and the rest—no bad ones either.  They are allowed five dishes and two bottles of wine apiece, and they always leave plenty for us, and it is served hot too.”

The preparations for going down to the second table now absorbed the party.

As Hester said, the fare at this second table was not to be despised.  It was a formal meal shared with the two nurses and the two pages of the backstairs.  Not the lads usually associated with the term, but men of mature age, and of gentle, though not noble, birth and breeding; and there were likewise the attendants of the King and Queen of the same grade, such as Mr. Labadie, the King’s valet, some English, but besides these, Dusian, the Queen’s French page, and Signer and Signora Turini, who had come with her from Modena, Père Giverlai, her confessor, and another priest.  Père Giverlai said grace, and the conversation went on briskly between the elders, the younger ones being supposed to hold their peace.

Their dishes went in reversion to the inferior class of servants, laundress, sempstress, chambermaids, and the like, who had much more liberty than their betters, and not such a lack of occupation as Anne soon perceived that she should suffer from.

There was, however, a great muster of all the Prince’s establishment, who stood round, as many as could, with little garments in their hands, while he was solemnly undressed and laid in his richly inlaid and carved cradle—over which Père Giverlai pronounced a Latin benediction.

The nursery establishment was then released, except one of the nurses, who was to sleep or wake on a couch by his side, and one of the rockers.  These damsels had, two at a time, to divide the night between them, one being always at hand to keep the food warm, touch the rocker at need with her foot, or call up the nurse on duty if the child awoke, but not presume herself to handle his little Royal Highness.

It was the night when Mistresses Dunord and Bridgeman were due, and Anne followed Jane Humphreys to her room, asking a little about the duties of the morrow.

“We must be dressed before seven,” said the girl.  “One of us will be left on duty while the others go to Mass.  I am glad you are a Protestant, Miss Woodford, for the Catholics put everything on me that they can.”

“We must do our best to help and strengthen each other,” said Anne.

“It is very hard,” said Jane; “and the priests are always at me!  I would change as Hester Bridgeman has done, but that I know it would break my grand-dame’s heart.  My father might not care so much, if I got advancement, but I believe it would kill my grandmother.”

“Advancement! oh, but faith comes first,” exclaimed Anne, recalling the warning.

“Hester says one religion is as good as another to get to Heaven by,” murmured Jane.

“Not if we deny our own for the world’s sake,” said Anne.  “Is the chapel here a Popish one?”

“No; the Queen has an Oratory, but the Popish chapel is at St. James’s—across the Park.  The Protestant one is here at Whitehall, and there are daily prayers at nine o’clock, and on Sunday music with three fiddlers, and my grandmother says it might almost as well be Popish at once.”

“Did your grandmother bring you up?”

“Yes.  My mother died when I was seven years old, and my grandmother bred us all up.  You should hear her talk of the good old times before the Kings came back and there were no Bishops and no book prayers—but my father says we must swim with the stream, or he would not have got any custom at his coffee-house.”

“Is that his calling?”

“Ay!  No one has a better set of guests than in the Golden Lamb.  The place is full.  The great Dr. Hammond sees his patients there, and it is all one buzz of the wits.  It was because of that that my Lord Sunderland made interest, and got me here.  How did you come?”

Anne briefly explained, and Jane broke out—

“Then you will be my friend, and we will tell each other all our secrets.  You are a Protestant too.  You will be mine, and not Bridgeman’s or Dunord’s—I hate them.”

In point of fact Anne did not feel much attracted by the proffer of friendship, and she certainly did not intend to tell Jane Humphreys all her secrets, nor to vow enmity to the other colleagues, but she gravely answered that she trusted they would be friends and help to maintain one another’s faith.  She was relieved that Miss Bridgeman here came in to take her first turn of rest till she was to be called up at one o’clock.

As Jane Humphreys had predicted, Mrs. Royer and Anne alone were left in charge of the nursling while every one went to morning Mass.  Then followed breakfast and the levee of his Royal Highness, lasting as on the previous day till dinner-time; and the afternoon was as before, except that the day was fine enough for the child to be carried out with all his attendants behind him to take the air in the private gardens.