A Reputed Changeling; Or, Three Seventh Years Two Centuries Ago by Yonge (best short novels of all time txt) 📖

such a grief as that in my heart, and knowing that you had caused it?  I know you hate him, and he did you the wrong; but he has grieved for it, and banished himself.  But above all, of this I am quite sure, that to persist in this horrible evil of leaving him to die, because of your revenge, and stealing me away, is truly giving Satan such a frightful advantage over you that it is mere folly to think that winning me in such a way could do you any good.  It is just a mere delusion of his, to ruin us both, body and soul.  Peregrine, will you not recollect my mother, and what she would think?  Have pity on me, and help me away, and I would pledge myself never to utter a word of this place nor that could bring you and yours into danger.  We would bless and pray for you always.”

“No use,” he gloomily said.  “I believe you, but the others will never believe a woman.  No doubt we are watched even now by desperate men, who would rather shoot you than let you escape from our hands.”

It seemed almost in connection with these words that at that moment, from some unknown quarter, where probably there was an entrance to the Chine, Sir George Barclay appeared with a leathern case under his arm.  It had been captured on the wreck, and contained papers which he wanted assistance in deciphering, since they were in Dutch, and he believed them to be either despatches or bonds, either of which might be turned to profit.  These were carried indoors, and spread on the table, and as Anne sat by the window, dejected and almost hopeless as she was, she could not help perceiving that, though Peregrine was so much smaller and less robust than his companions, he exercised over them the dominion of intellect, energy, and will, as if they too felt the force of his strange eyes; and it seemed to her as if, supposing he truly desired it, whatever he might say, he must be able to deliver her and Charles; but that a being such as she had always known him should sacrifice both his love and his hate seemed beyond all hope, and “Change his heart!  Turn our captivity, O Lord,” could only be her cry.

Only very late did Burford come back, full of the account of the wreck and of the spoils, and the struggles between the wreckers for the flotsam and jetsam.  There was much of savage brutality mated with a cool indifference truly horrible to Anne, and making her realise into what a den of robbers she had fallen, especially as these narratives were diversified by consultations over the Dutch letters and bills of exchange in the wrecked East Indiaman, and how to turn them to the best advantage.  Barclay and Burford were so full of these subjects that they took comparatively little notice of the young lady, only when she rose to retire, Burford made a sort of apology that this little business had hindered his going after the parson.  He heard that the Salamander was at the castle, and redcoats all about, he said, and if the Annick could be got out to-morrow they must sail any way; and if Pil was still so squeamish, a Popish priest could couple them in a leash as tight as a Fleet parson could.  And then Peregrine demanded whether Burford thought a Fleet parson the English for a naval chaplain, and there was some boisterous laughter, during which Anne shut herself up in her room in something very like despair, with that one ray of hope that He who had brought her back from exile before would again save her from that terrible fate.

She heard card-playing and the jingle of glasses far into the night, as she believed, but it seemed to her as if she had scarcely fallen asleep before, to her extreme terror, she heard a knock and a low call at her door of ‘Guennik.’  Then as the Bretonne went to the door, through which a light was seen, a lantern was handed in, and a scrap of paper on which the words were written: “On second thoughts, my kindred elves at Portchester shall not be scared by a worricow.  Dress quickly, and I will bring you out of this.”

For a moment Anne did not perceive the meaning of the missive, the ghastly idea never having occurred to her that if Charles had suffered, the gibbet would have been at Portchester.  Then, with an electric flash of joy, she saw that it meant relenting on Peregrine’s part, deliverance for them both.  She put on her clothes with hasty, trembling hands, thankful to Guennik for helping her, pressed a coin into the strong toil-worn hand, and with an earnest thrill of thankful prayer opened the door.  The driftwood fire was bright, and she saw Peregrine, looking deadly white, and equipped with slouched hat, short wrapping cloak, pistols and sword at his belt, dark lantern lighted on the table, and Hans also cloaked by his side.  He bent his head in salutation, and put his finger to his lips, giving one hand to Anne, and showing by example instead of words that she must tread as softly as possible, as she perceived that he was in his slippers, Hans carrying his boots as well as the lantern she had used.  Yet to her ears the roar of the advancing tide seemed to stifle all other sounds.  Past the other huts they went in silence, then came a precipitous path up the cliff, steps cut in the hard sandy grit, but very crumbling, and in places supplemented by a rude ladder of sticks and rope.  Peregrine went before Anne, Hans behind.  Each had hung the lantern from his neck, so as to have hands free to draw her, support her, or lift her, as might be needful.  How it was done she never could tell in after years.  She might jestingly say that her lightened heart bore her up, but in her soul and in her deeper moments she thought that truly angels must have had charge over her.  Up, up, up!  At last they had reached standing ground, a tolerably level space, with another high cliff seeming to rise behind it.  Here it was lighter—a pale streak of dawn was spreading over the horizon, both on sky and sea, and the waves still leaping glanced in the light of a golden waning moon, while Venus shone in the brightening sky, a daystar of hope.

Peregrine drew a long breath, and gave an order in a very low voice in Dutch to Hans, who placed his boots before him, and went off towards a shed.  “He will bring you a pony,” said his master.

“Excuse me;” and he was withdrawing his hand, when Anne clasped it with both hers, and said in a voice of intense feeling—

“Oh, how can I thank you and bless you!  This is putting the Evil Angel to flight.”

“’Tis you that have done it!  You see, I cannot do the wicked act where you are,” he answered gloomily, as he turned aside to draw on his boots.

“Ah! but you have won the victory over him!”

“Do not be too sure.  We are not out of reach of those rascals yet.”

He was evidently anxious for silence, and Anne said no more.  Hans presently brought from some unknown quarter, a little stout pony bridled and saddled; of course not with a side saddle, but cloaks were arranged so as to make a fairly comfortable seat for Anne, and Peregrine led the animal on the ascent to St. Catherine’s Down.  It was light enough to dispense with the lanterns, and as they mounted higher the glorious sight of daybreak over the sea showed itself—almost due east, the sharp points of the Needles showing up in a flood of pale golden light above and below, with gulls flashing white as they floated into sunlight, all seeming to Anne’s thankful heart to be a new radiance of joy and hope after the dark roaring terrors of the Chine.

As they came out into the open freedom of the down, with crisp silvery grass under their feet, the breadth of sea on one side, before them fertile fields and hills, and farther away, dimly seen in gray mist, the familiar Portsdown outlines, not a sound to be heard but the exulting ecstasies of larks, far, far above in the depths of blue, Peregrine dared to speak above his breath, with a question whether Anne were at ease in her extemporary side saddle, producing at the same time a slice of bread and meat, and a flask of wine.

“Oh, how kind!  What care you take of me!” she said.  “But where are we going?”

“Wherever you command,” he said.  “I had thought of Carisbrooke.  Cutts is there, and it would be the speediest way.”

“Would it not be the most dangerous for you?”

“I care very little for my life after this.”

“Oh no, no, you must not say so.  After what you are doing for me you will be able to make it better than ever it has been.  This is what I thought.  If you would bring me in some place whence I could reach Sir Edmund Nutley’s house at Parkhurst, his servants would help me to do the rest, even if he be not there himself.  I would never betray you!  You know I would not!  And you would have full time to get away to your place in Normandy with your friends.”

“You care?” asked he.

“Of course I do!” exclaimed she.  “Do I not feel grateful to you, and like and honour you better than ever I could have thought?”

“You do?” in a strange choked tone.

“Of course I do.  You are doing a noble, thankworthy thing.  It is not only that I thank you for his sake, but it is a grand and beautiful deed in itself; and if my dear mother know, she is blessing you for it.”

“I shall remember those words,” he said, “if—” and he passed his hand over his eyes.  “See here,” he presently said; “I have written out a confession of my identity, and explanation that it was I who drew first on Archfield.  It is enough to save him, and in case my handwriting has altered, as I think it has, and there should be further doubt, I shall be found at Pilpignon, if I get away.  You had better keep it in case of accidents, or if you carry out your generous plan.  Say whatever you please about me, but there is no need to mention Barclay or Burford; and it would not be fair to the honest free-traders here to explain where their Chine lies.  I should have brought you up blindfold, if I could have done so with safety, not that I do not trust you, but I should be better able to satisfy those fellows if I ever see them again, by telling them I have sworn you to secrecy.”

Then he laughed.  “The gowks!  I won all those Indian bonds of them last night, but left them in a parcel addressed to them as a legacy.”

Anne took the required pledge, and ventured to ask, “Shall I say anything for you to your father?”

“My poor old father!  Let him know that I neither would nor could disturb Robert in his inheritance, attainted traitor as the laws esteem me.  For the rest, mayhap I shall write to him if the good angel you talk of will help me.”

“Oh do!  I am sure he would rejoice to forgive.  He is much softened.”

“Now, we must hush, and go warily.  I see sheep, and if there is a shepherd, I want him not to see us, or point our way.  It is well these Isle of Wight folk are not early risers.”

CHAPTER XXXIV
Life For Life

“Follow Light, and do the Right—for man can half-control his doom—
Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb.

Forward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle with the Past.
I that loathed, have come to love him.  Love will conquer at the last.”

TENNYSON.

On they had gone in silence for the most part, avoiding villages, but as the morning advanced and they came into more inhabited places, they were not able entirely to avoid meeting labourers going out to work, who stared at Hans’s black face with curiosity.  The sun was already high when they reached a cross-road whence the massive towers of Carisbrooke were seen above the hedges, and another turn led to Parkhurst.  They paused a moment, and Anne was beginning to entreat her escort to leave her to proceed alone, when the sound of horses’ feet galloping was heard behind them.  Peregrine looked back.

“Ah!” he said.  “Ride on as fast as you can towards the castle.  You will be all