A Reputed Changeling

Anne, or Jacobina, as she tried to be called, towered above her head, and had never lost that tincture of courtly grace that early breeding had given her, and though her skirt was of gray wool, and the upper gown of cherry tabinet, she wore both with an air that made them seem more choice and stylish than those of her companion, while the simple braids and curls of her brown hair set off an unusually handsome face, pale and clear in complexion, with regular features, fine arched eyebrows over clear brown eyes, a short chin, and a mouth of perfect outline, but capable of looking very resolute.

Altogether she looked fit for a Court atmosphere, and perhaps she was not without hopes of it, for Dr. Woodford had become a royal chaplain under Charles II, and was now continued in the same office; and though this was a sinecure as regarded the present King, yet Tory and High Church views were as much in the ascendant as they could be under a Romanist king, and there were hopes of a canonry at Windsor or Westminster, or even higher preferment still, if he were not reckoned too staunch an Anglican.  That Mrs. Woodford’s health had been failing for many months past would, her sanguine daughter thought, be remedied by being nearer the best physicians in London, which had been quitted with regret.  Meantime Lucy’s first experiences of wedding festivities were to be heard.  For the Archfield family had just returned from celebrating the marriage of the heir.  Long ago Anne Jacobina had learnt to reckon Master Charles’s pledges of affection among the sports and follies of childhood, and the strange sense of disappointment and shame with which she recollected them had perhaps added to her natural reserve, and made her feel it due to maidenly dignity to listen with zest to the account of the bride, who was to be brought to supper at Doctor Woodford’s that eve.

“She is a pretty little thing,” said Lucy, “but my mother was much concerned to find her so mere a child, and would not, if she had seen her, have consented to the marriage for two years to come, except for the sake of having her in our own hands.”

“I thought she was sixteen.”

“Barely fifteen, my dear, and far younger than we were at that age.  She cried because her woman said she must leave her old doll behind her; and when my brother declared that she should have anything she liked, she danced about, and kissed him, and made him kiss its wooden face with half the paint rubbed off.”

“He did?”

“Oh, yes!  She is like a pretty fresh plaything to him, and they go about together just like big Towzer and little Frisk at home.  He is very much amused with her, and she thinks him the finest possession that ever came in her way.”

“Well, so he is.”

“That is true; but somehow it is scarcely like husband and wife; and my mother fears that she may be sickly, for she is so small and slight that it seems as if you could blow her away, and so white that you would think she had no blood, except when a little heat brings the purest rose colour to her cheek, and that, my lady says, betokens weakliness.  You know, of course, that she is an orphan; her father died of a wasting consumption, and her mother not long after, when she was a yearling babe.  It was her grandfather who was my father’s friend in the old cavalier days, and wrote to propose the contract to my brother not long before his death, when she was but five years old.  The pity was that she was not sent to us at once, for the old lord, her grand-uncle, never heeded or cared for her, but left her to servants, who petted her, but understood nothing of care of her health or her education, so that the only wonder is that she is alive or so sweet and winning as she is.  She can hardly read without spelling, and I had to make copies for her of Alice Fitzhubert, to show her how to sign the book.  All she knew she learnt from the old steward, and only when she liked.  My father laughs and is amused, but my lady sighs, and hopes her portion is not dearly bought.”

“Is not she to be a great heiress?”

“Not of the bulk of the lands—they go to heirs male; but there is much besides, enough to make Charles a richer man than our father.  I wonder what you will think of her.  My mother is longing to talk her over with Mrs Woodford.”

“And my mother is longing to see my lady.”

“I fear she is still but poorly.”

“We think she will be much better when we get home,” said Anne.  “I am sure she is stronger, for she walked round the Close yesterday, and was scarcely tired.”

“But tell me, Anne, is it true that poor Master Oliver Oakshott is dead of smallpox?”

“Quite true.  Poor young gentleman, he was to have married that cousin of his mother’s, Mistress Martha Browning, living at Emsworth.  She came on a visit, and they think she brought the infection, for she sickened at once, and though she had it favourably, is much disfigured.  Master Oliver caught it and died in three days, and all the house were down with it.  They say poor Mrs. Oakshott forgot her ailments and went to and fro among them all.  My mother would have gone to help in their need if she had been as well as she used to be.”

“How is it with the other son?  He was a personable youth enough.  I saw him at the ship launch in the spring, and thought both lads would fain have staid for the dance on board but for their grim old father.”

“You saw Robert, but he is not the elder.”

“What?  Is that shocking impish urchin whom we used to call Riquet with the tuft, older than he?”

“Certainly he is.  He writes from time to time to my mother, and seems to be doing well with his uncle.”

“I cannot believe he would come to good.  Do you remember his sending my brother and cousin adrift in the boat?”

“I think that was in great part the fault of your cousin for mocking and tormenting him.”

“Sedley Archfield was a bad boy!  There’s no denying that.  I am afraid he had good reason for running away from college.”

“Have you heard of him since?”

“Yes; he has been serving with the Life-guards in Scotland, and mayhap he will come home and see us.  My father wishes to see whether he is worthy to have a troop procured by money or favour for him, and if they are recalled to the camp at November it will be an opportunity.  But see—who is coming through the Slype?”

“My uncle.  And who is with him?”

Dr. Woodford advanced, and with him a small slender figure in black.  As the broad hat with sable plume was doffed with a sweep on approaching the ladies, a dark head and peculiar countenance appeared, while the Doctor said, “Here is an old acquaintance, young ladies, whom I met dismounting at the White Hart, and have brought home with me.”

“Mr. Peregrine Oakshott!” exclaimed Anne, feeling bound to offer in welcome a hand, which he kissed after the custom of the day, while Lucy dropped a low and formal courtesy, and being already close to the gate of the house occupied by her family, took her leave till supper-time.

Even in the few steps before reaching home Anne was able to perceive that a being very unlike the imp of seven years ago had returned, though still short in stature and very slight, with long dark hair hanging straight enough to suggest elf-locks, but his figure was well proportioned, and had a finished air of high breeding and training.  His riding suit was point device, from the ostrich feather in his hat, to the toes of his well made boots, and his sword knew its place, as well as did those of the gentlemen that Anne remembered at the Duke of York’s when she was a little child.  His thin, marked face was the reverse of handsome, but it was keen, shrewd, perhaps satirical, and the remarkable eyes were very bright under dark eyebrows and lashes, and the thin lips, devoid of hair, showed fine white teeth when parted by a smile of gladness—at the meeting—though he was concerned to hear that Mrs. Woodford had been very ill all the last spring, and had by no means regained her former health, and even in the few words that passed it might be gathered that Anne was far more hopeful than her uncle.

She did indeed look greatly changed, though her countenance was sweeter than ever, as she rose from her seat by the fire and held out her arms to receive the newcomer with a motherly embrace, while the expression of joy and affection was such as could never once have seemed likely to sit on Peregrine Oakshott’s features.  They were left together, for Anne had the final touches to put to the supper, and Dr. Woodford was sent for to speak to one of the Cathedral staff.

Peregrine explained that he was on his way home, his father having recalled him on his brother’s death, but he hoped soon to rejoin his uncle, whose secretary he now was.  They had been for the last few months in London, and were thence to be sent on an embassy to the young Czar of Muscovy, an expedition to which he looked forward with eager curiosity.  Mrs. Woodford hoped that all danger of infection at Oakwood was at an end.

“There is none for me, madam,” he said, with a curious writhed smile.  “Did you not know that they thought they were rid of me when I took the disease at seven years old, and lay in the loft over the hen-house with Molly Owens to tend me? and I believe it was thought to be fairy work that I came out of it no more unsightly than before.”

“You are seeking for compliments, Peregrine; you are greatly improved.”

“Crooked sticks can be pruned and trained,” he responded, with a courteous bow.

“You are a travelled man.  Let me see, how many countries have you seen?”

“A year at Berlin and Königsberg—strange places enough, specially the last, two among the scholars and high roofs of Leyden, half a year at Versailles and Paris, another year at Turin, whence back for another half year to wait on old King Louis, then to the Hague, and the last three months at Court.  Not much like buying and selling cows, or growing wheat on the slopes, or lying out on a cold winter’s night to shoot a few wild fowl; and I have you to thank for it, my first and best friend!”

“Nay, your uncle is surely your best.”

“Never would he have picked up the poor crooked stick save for you, madam.  Moreover, you gave me my talisman,” and he laid his hand on his breast; “it is your face that speaks to me and calls me back when the elf, or whatever it is, has got the mastery of me.”

Somewhat startled, Mrs. Woodford would have asked what he meant, but that intelligence was brought that Mr. Oakshott’s man had brought his mail, so that he had to repair to his room.  Mrs. Woodford had kept up some correspondence with him, for which his uncle’s position as envoy afforded unusual facilities, and she knew that on the whole he had been a very different being from what he was at home.  Once, indeed, his uncle had written to the Doctor to express his full satisfaction in the lad, on whom he seemed to look like a son, but from some subsequent letters she had an impression that he had got into trouble of some sort while at the University of Leyden, and she was afraid that she must accept the belief that the wild elfish spirit, as he called it, was by no means extinct in him, any more, she said to herself, than temptation is in any human creature.  The question is, What is there to contend therewith?

The guests were, however, about to assemble.  The Doctor, in black velvet cap and stately silken cassock, sash, and gown, sailed down to receive them, and again greeted Peregrine, who emerged in black velvet and satin, delicate muslin cravat and cuffs, dainty silk stockings and rosetted shoes, in a style such as made the far taller and handsomer Charles Archfield, in spite of gay scarlet coat, embroidered flowery vest, rich laced cravat, and thick shining brown curls, look a mere big schoolboy, almost bumpkin-like in contrast.  However, no one did look at anything but the little creature who could just reach to hang upon that resplendent bridegroom’s arm.  She was in glistening white brocade, too stiff and cumbrous for so tiny a figure, yet together with the diamonds glistening on her head and breast giving her the likeness of a fairy queen.  The whiteness was almost startling, for the neck and arms were like pearl in tint, the hair flowing in full curls on her shoulders was like shining flax or pale silk just unwound from the cocoon, and the only relief of colour was the deep blue of the eyes, the delicate tint of the lips, and the tender rosy flush that was called up by her presentation to her hosts by stout old Sir Philip, in plum-coloured coat and full-bottomed wig, though she did not blush half as much as the husband of nineteen in his new character.  Indeed, had it not been for her childish prettiness, her giggle would have been unpleasing to more than Lady Archfield, who, broad and matronly, gave a courtesy and critical glance at Peregrine before subsiding into a seat beside Mrs. Woodford.

Lucy stood among a few other young people from the Close, watching for Anne, who came in, trim and bright, though still somewhat reddened in face and arms from her last attentions to the supper—an elaborate meal on such occasions, though lighter than the mid-day repast.  There were standing pies of game, lobster and oyster patties, creams, jellies, and other confections, on which Sir Philip and his lady highly complimented Anne, who had been engaged on them for at least a couple of days, her mother being no longer able to assist except by advice.

“See, daughter Alice, you will learn one day to build up a jelly as well as to eat it,” said Sir Philip good-humouredly, whereat the small lady pouted a little and said—

“Bet lets me make shapes of the dough, but I won’t stir the pans and get to look like a turkey-cock.”

“Ah, ha! and you have always done what you liked, my little madam?”

“Of course, sir! and so I shall,” she answered, drawing up her pretty little head, while Lady Archfield gave hers a boding shake.

“Time, and life, and wifehood teach lessons,” murmured Mrs. Woodford in consolation, and the Doctor changed the subject by asking Peregrine whether the ladies abroad were given to housewifery.

“The German dames make a great ado about their Wirthschaft, as they call it,” was the reply, “but as to the result!  Pah!  I know not how we should have fared had not Hans, my uncle’s black, been an excellent cook; but it was in Paris that we were exquisitely regaled, and our maître d’hôtel would discourse on ragoûts and entremets till one felt as if his were the first of the sciences.”

“So it is to a Frenchman,” growled Sir Philip.  “French and Frenchifications are all the rage nowadays, but what will your father say to your science, my young spark?”

The gesture of head and shoulder that replied had certainly been caught at Paris.  Mrs. Woodford rushed into the breach, asking about the Princess of Orange, whom she had often seen as a child.

“A stately and sightly dame is she, madam,” Peregrine answered, “towering high above her little mynheer, who outwardly excels her in naught save the length of nose, and has the manners of a boor.”

“The Prince of Orange is the hope of the country,” said Sir Philip severely.

Peregrine’s face wore a queer satirical look, which provoked Sir Philip into saying, “Speak up, sir! what d’ye mean?  We don’t understand French grins here.”

“Nor does he, nor French courtesies either,” said Peregrine.

“So much the better!” exclaimed the baronet.

Here the little clear voice broke in, “O Mr. Oakshott, if I had but known you were coming, you might have brought me a French doll in the latest fashion.”

“I should have been most happy, madam,” returned Peregrine; “but unfortunately I am six months from Paris, and besides, his honour might object lest a French doll should contaminate the Dutch puppets.”

“But oh, sir, is it true that French dolls have real hair that will curl?”

“Don’t be foolish,” muttered Charles impatiently; and she drew up her head and made an indescribably droll moue of disgust at him.

Supper ended, the party broke up into old and young, the two elder gentlemen sadly discussing politics over their tall glasses of wine, the matrons talking over the wedding and Lady Archfield’s stay in London at the parlour fire, and the young folk in a window, waiting for the fiddler and a few more of the young people who were to join them in the dance.

The Archfield ladies had kissed the hand of the Queen, and agreed with Peregrine in admiration of her beauty and grace, though they did not go so far as he did, especially when he declared that her eyes were as soft as Mistress Anne’s, and nearly of the same exquisite brown, which made the damsel blush and experience a revival of the old feeling of her childhood, as if he put her under a spell.

He went on to say that he had had the good fortune to pick up and restore to Queen Mary Beatrice a gold and coral rosary which she had dropped on her way to St. James’s Palace from Whitehall.  She thanked him graciously, letting him kiss her hand, and asking him if he were of the true Church.  “Imagine my father’s feelings,” he added, “when she said, ‘Ah! but you will be ere long; I give it you as a pledge.’”

He produced the rosary, handing it first to Anne, who admired the beautiful filigree work, but it was almost snatched from her by Mrs. Archfield, who wound it twice on her tiny wrist, tried to get it over her head, and did everything but ask for it, till her husband, turning round, said roughly, “Give it back, madam.  We want no Popish toys here.”

Lucy put in a hasty question whether Master Oakshott had seen much sport, and this led to a spirited description of the homely earnest of wild boar hunting under the great Elector of Brandenburg, in contrast with the splendours of la chasse aux sangliers at Fontainebleau with the green and gold uniforms, the fanfares on the curled horns, the ladies in their coaches, forced to attend whether ill or well, the very boars themselves too well bred not to conform to the sport of the great idol of France.  And again, he showed the diamond sleeve buttons, the trophies of a sort of bazaar held at Marly, where the stalls were kept by the Dauphin, Monsieur, the Duke of Maine, Madame de Maintenon, and the rest, where the purchases were winnings at Ombre, made not with coin but with nominal sums, and other games at cards, and all was given away that was not purchased.  And again the levees, when the King’s wig was handed through the curtains on a stick.  Peregrine’s profane mimicry of the stately march of Louis Quatorze, and the cringing obeisances of his courtiers, together with their strutting majesty towards their own inferiors, convulsed all with merriment; and the bride shrieked out, “Do it again!  Oh, I shall die of laughing!”

It was very girlish, with a silvery ring, but the elder ladies looked round, and the bridegroom muttered ‘Mountebank.’

The fiddler arrived at that moment, and the young people paired off, the young couple naturally together, and Peregrine, to the surprise and perhaps discomfiture of more than one visitor, securing Anne’s hand.  The young lady pupils of Madame knew their steps, and Lucy danced correctly, Anne with an easy, stately grace, Charles Archfield performed his devoir seriously, his little wife frisked with childish glee, evidently quite untaught, but Peregrine’s light narrow feet sprang, pointed themselves, and bounded with trained agility, set off by the tight blackness of his suit.  He was like one of the grotesque figures shaped in black paper, or as Sir Philip, looking in from the dining-parlour, observed, “like a light-heeled French fop.”

As a rule partners retained one another all the evening, but little Mrs. Archfield knew no etiquette, and maybe her husband had pushed and pulled her into place a little more authoritatively than she quite approved, for she shook him off, and turning round to Peregrine exclaimed—

“Now, I will dance with you!  You do leap and hop so high and trippingly!  Never mind her; she is only a parson’s niece!”

“Madam!” exclaimed Charles, in a tone of surprised displeasure; but she only nodded archly at him, and said, “I must dance with him; he can jump so high.”

“Let her have her way,” whispered Lucy, “she is but a child, and it will be better not to make a pother.”

He yielded, though with visible annoyance, asking Anne if she would put up with a poor deserted swain, and as he led her off muttering, “That fellow’s friskiness is like to be taken out of him at Oakwood.”

Meanwhile the small creature had taken possession of her chosen partner, who, so far as size went, was far better suited to her than any of the other men present.  They were dancing something original and unpremeditated, with twirls and springs, sweeps and bends, bounds and footings, just as the little lady’s fancy prompted, perhaps guided in some degree by her partner’s experience of national dances.  White and black, they figured about, she with floating sheeny hair and glistening robes, he trim and tight and jetty, like fairy and imp!  It was so droll and pretty that talkers and dancers alike paused to watch them in a strange fascination, till at last, quite breathless and pink as a moss rosebud, Alice dropped upon a chair near her husband.  He stood grim, stiff, and vexed, all the more because Peregrine had taken her fan and was using it so as to make it wave like butterfly’s wings, while poor Charles looked, as the Doctor whispered to his father, far more inclined to lay it about her ears.

Sir Philip laughed heartily, for both he and the Doctor had been so much entranced and amused as to be far more diverted at the lad’s discomfiture than scandalised at the bride’s escapade, which they viewed as child’s play.

Perhaps, however, he was somewhat comforted by her later observation, “He is as ugly as Old Nick, and looks like always laughing at you; but I wish you could dance like him, Mr. Archfield, only then you wouldn’t be my dear old great big husband, or so beautiful to look at.  Oh, yes, to be sure, he is nothing but a skipjack such as one makes out of a chicken bone!”

And Anne meanwhile was exclaiming to her mother, “Oh, madam! how could they do such a thing?  How could they make poor Charley marry that foolish ill-mannered little creature?”

“Hush, daughter, you must drop that childish name,” said Mrs. Woodford gravely.

Anne blushed.  “I forgot, madam, but I am so sorry for him.”

“There is no reason for uneasiness, my dear.  She is a mere child, and under such hands as Lady Archfield she is sure to improve.  It is far better that she should be so young, as it will be the more easy to mould her.”

“I hope there is any stuff in her to be moulded,” sighed the maiden.

“My dear child,” returned her mother, “I cannot permit you to talk in this manner.  Yes, I know Mr. Archfield has been as a brother to you, but even his sister ought not to allow herself to discuss or dwell on what she deems the shortcomings of his wife.”

The mother in her prudence had silenced the girl; but none the less did each fall asleep with a sad and foreboding heart.  She knew her child to be good and well principled, but those early days of notice and petting from the young Princesses of the House of York had never faded from the childish mind, and although Anne was dutiful, cheerful, and outwardly contented, the mother often suspected that over the spinning-wheel or embroidery frame she indulged in day dreams of heroism, promotion, and grandeur, which might either fade away in a happy life of domestic duty or become temptations.

Before going away next morning Peregrine entreated that Mistress Anne might have the Queen’s rosary, but her mother decidedly refused.  “It ought to be an heirloom in your family,” said she.

He threw up his hands with one of his strange gestures.