A Reputed Changeling. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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      All their desire was that he would remain at a distance, for during the long and weary watch they had to keep over the half-conscious lad, the sound of a voice or even a horse’s tread from Oakwood occasioned moans and restlessness.  The Major rode over, or sent his sons, or a servant daily to inquire during the first fortnight, except on the Sundays, and on each of these the patient made a step towards improvement.

      At first he lay in a dull, death-like stupor, only groaning if disturbed, but by and by there was a babbling murmur of words, and soon the sound of his brother’s loud voice at the door, demanding from the saddle how it went to-day with Peregrine, caused a shriek of terror and such a fit of trembling that Mrs. Woodford had to go out and make a personal request that Oliver would never again speak under the window.  To her great relief, when the balance between life and death had decidedly turned, the inquiries became less frequent, and could often be forestalled by sending messengers to Oakwood.

      The boy usually lay still all day in the darkened room, only showing pain at light or noise, but at night he often talked and rambled a good deal.  Sometimes it was Greek or Latin, sometimes whole chapters of Scripture, either denunciating portions or genealogies from the First Book of Chronicles, the polysyllabic names pouring from his mouth whenever he was particularly oppressed or suffering, so that when Mrs. Woodford had with some difficulty made out what they were, she concluded that they had been set as tasks of penance.

      At other times Peregrine talked as if he absolutely believed himself in fairyland, accepting a strawberry or cherry as elfin food, promising a tester in Anne’s shoe when she helped to change his pillow, or conversing in the style of Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, on intended pranks.  Often he fancied himself the lubber fiend resting at the fire his hairy strength, and watching for cock-crow as the signal for flinging out-of-doors.  It was wonderful how in the grim and strict Puritanical household he could have imbibed so much fairy lore, but he must have eagerly assimilated and recollected whatever he heard, holding them as tidings from his true kith and kin; and, indeed, when he was running on thus, Mrs. Woodford sometimes felt a certain awe and chill, as of the preternatural, and could hardly believe that he belonged to ordinary human nature.  Either she or the Doctor always took the night-watch after the talking mood set in, for they could not judge of the effect it might have on any of the servants.  Indeed they sometimes doubted whether this were not the beginning of permanent insanity, as the delusion seemed to strengthen with symptoms of recovery.

      “Then,” said Dr. Woodford, “Heaven help the poor lad!”

      For sad indeed was the lot in those days of even the most harmless lunatic.

      “Yet,” said the lady, “I scarcely think anything can be worse than what he undergoes at home.  When I hear the terror and misery of his voice, I doubt whether we did him any true kindness by hindering his father from killing him outright by the shaking of his old coach.”

      “Nay, sister, we strove to do our duty, though it may be we have taken on ourselves a further charge.”

      CHAPTER IV

      Imp Or No Imp

      At last came a wakening with intelligence in the eyes.  In the summer morning light that streamed through the chinks of the shutters Mrs. Woodford perceived the glance of inquiry, and when she brought some cool drink, a rational though feeble voice asked those first questions, “Who? and where?”

      “I am Mrs. Woodford, my dear child.  You remember me at Winchester.  You are at Portchester.  You fell down and hurt yourself, but you are getting better.”

      She was grieved to see the look of utter disappointment and weariness that overspread the features, and the boy hardly spoke again all day.  There was much drowsiness, but also depression, and more than once Mrs. Woodford detected tears, but at other times he received her attentions with smiles and looks of wondering gratitude, as though ordinary kindness and solicitude were so new to him that he did not know what to make of them, and perhaps was afraid of breaking a happy dream by saying too much.

      The surgeon saw him, and declared him so much better that he might soon be taken home, recommending his sitting up for a little while as a first stage.  Peregrine, however, seemed far from being cheered, and showed himself so unwilling to undergo the fatigue of being dressed, even when good Dr. Woodford had brought up his own large chair—the only approach to an easy one in the house—that the proposal was dropped, and he was left in peace for the rest of the day.

      In the evening Mrs. Woodford was sitting by the window, letting her needlework drop as the light faded, and just beginning to doze, when her repose was broken by a voice saying “Madam.”

      “Yes, Peregrine.”

      “Come near, I pray.  Will you tell no one?”

      “No; what is it?”

      In so low a tone that she had to bend over him: “Do you know how the Papists cross themselves?”

      “Yes, I have seen the Queen’s confessor and some of the ladies make the sign.”

      “Dear lady, you have been very good to me!  If you would only cross me thrice, and not be afraid!  They could not hurt you!”

      “Who?  What do you mean?” she asked, for fairy lore had not become a popular study, but comprehension came when he said in an awe-stricken voice, “You know what I am.”

      “I know there have been old wives’ tales about you, my poor boy, but surely you do not believe them yourself.”

      “Ah! if you will not believe them, there is no hope.  I might have known.  You were so good to me;” and he hid his face.

      She took his unwilling hand and said, “Be you what you will, my poor child, I am sorry for you, for I see you are very unhappy.  Come, tell me all.”

      “Nay, then you would be like the rest,” said Peregrine, “and I could not bear that,” and he wrung her hand.

      “Perhaps not,” she said gently, “for I know that a story is afloat that you were changed in your cradle, and that there are folk ignorant enough to believe it.”

      “They all know it,” he said impressively.  “My mother and brothers and all the servants.  Every soul knows it except my father and Mr. Horncastle, and they will never hear a word, but will have it that I am possessed with a spirit of evil that is to be flogged out of me.  Goody Madge and Moll Owens, they knew how it was at the first, and would fain have forced them—mine own people—to take me home, and bring the other back, but my father found it out and hindered them.”

      “To save your life.”

      “Much good does my life do me!  Every one hates or fears me.  No one has a word for me.  Every mischance is laid on me.  When the kitchen wench broke a crock, it was because I looked at it.  If the keeper misses a deer, he swears at Master Perry!  Oliver and Robert will not let me touch a thing of theirs; they bait me for a moon-calf, and grin when I am beaten for their doings.  Even my mother quakes and trembles when I come near, and thinks I give her the creeps.  As to my father and tutor, it is ever the rod with them, though I can learn my tasks far better than those jolter-heads Noll and Robin.  I never heard so many kind words in all my life as you have given me since СКАЧАТЬ