A Reputed Changeling

by Charlotte M. Yonge

  CHAPTER XXXIII: BLACK GANG CHINE

  "Come, Lady; while Heaven lends us grace,Let us fly this cursed place,Lest the sorcerer us enticeWith some other new device.Not a word or needless soundTill we come to holier ground.I shall be your faithful guideThrough this gloomy covert wide."

  MILTON.

  Never was maiden in a worse position than that in which AnneWoodford felt herself when she revolved the matter. The back of theIsle of Wight, all along the Undercliff, had always had a wildreputation, and she was in the midst of the most lawless of men.Peregrine alone seemed to have any remains of honour or conscience,and apparently he was in some degree in the hands of his associates.Even if the clergyman came, there was little hope in an appeal tohim. Naval chaplains bore no good reputation, and Portsmouth andCowes were haunted by the scum of the profession. All that seemedpossible was to commit herself and Charles to Divine protection, andin that strength to resist to the uttermost. The tempest hadreturned again, and seemed to be raging as much as ever, and thedelay was in her favour, for in such weather there could be noputting to sea.

  She was unwilling to leave the stronghold of her chamber, but Hanscame to announce breakfast to her, telling her that the Mynheerenwere gone, all but Massa Perry; and that gentleman came forward tomeet her just as before, hoping 'those fellows had not disturbed herlast night.'

  "I could not help hearing much," she said gravely.

  "Brutes!" he said. "I am sick of them, and of this life. Save forthe King's sake, I would never have meddled with it."

  The roar of winds and waves and the beat of spray was still to beheard, and in the manifest impossibility of quitting the place andthe desire of softening him, Anne listened while he talked in adifferent mood from the previous day. The cynical tone was gone, ashe spoke of those better influences. He talked of Mrs. Woodford andhis deep affection for her, of the kindness of the good priests atHavre and Douai, and especially of one Father Seyton, who had triedto reason with him in his bitter disappointment, and savagepenitence on finding that 'behind the Cross lurks the Devil,' asmuch at Douai as at Havant. He told how a sermon of the AbbeFenelon's had moved him, and how he had spent half a Lent in theseverest penance, but only to have all swept away again in the wildand wicked revelry with which Easter came in. Again he describedhow his heart was ready to burst as he stood by Mrs. Woodford'sgrave at night and vowed to disentangle himself and lead a new life.

  "And with you I shall," he said.

  "No," she answered; "what you win by a crime will never do yougood."

  "A crime! 'Tis no crime. You _know_ I mean honourable marriage.You owe no duty to any one."

  "It is a crime to leave the innocent to undeserved death," she said.

  "Do you love the fellow?" he cried, with a voice rising to a shoutof rage.

  "Yes," she said firmly.

  "Why did not you say so before?"

  "Because I hoped to see you act for right and justice sake," wasAnne's answer, fixing her eyes on him. "For God's sake, not mine."

  "Yours indeed! Think, what can be his love to mine? He who letthem marry him to that child, while I struggled and gave upeverything. Then he runs away--_runs away_--leaving you all thedistress; never came near you all these years. Oh yes! he looksdown on you as his child's governess! What's the use of loving him?There's another heiress bespoken for him no doubt."

  "No. His parents consent, and we have known one another's love forsix years."

  "Oh, that's the way he bound you to keep his secret! He would singanother song as soon as he was out of this scrape."

  "You little know!" was all she said.

  "Ay!" continued Peregrine, pacing up and down the room, "you knowthat all that was wanting to fill up the measure of my hatred wasthat he should have stolen your heart."

  "You cannot say that, sir. He was my kind protector and helper fromour very childhood. I have loved him with all my heart ever since Idurst."

  "Ay, the great straight comely lubbers have it all their own waywith the women," said he bitterly. "I remember how he rushedheadlong at me with the horse-whip when I tripped you up at theSlype, and you have never forgiven that."

  "Oh! indeed I forgot that childish nonsense long ago. You neverserved me so again."

  "No indeed, never since you and your mother were the first to treatme like a human being. You will be able to do anything with me,sweetest lady; the very sense that you are under the same roof makesanother man of me. I loathe what I used to enjoy. Why, the verysight of you, sitting at supper like the lady in Comus, in yoursweet grave dignity, made me feel what I am, and what those men are.I heard their jests with your innocent ears. With you by my sidethe Devil's power is quelled. You shall have a peaceful beneficentlife among the poor folk, who will bless you; our good and graciousQueen will welcome you with joy and gratitude; and when the goodtime comes, as it must in a few years, you will have honours anddignities lavished on you. Can you not see what you will do forme?"

  "Do you think a broken-hearted victim would be able to do you anygood?" said she, looking up with tears in her eyes. "I _do_believe, sir, that you mean well by me, in your own way, and Icould, yes, I can, be sorry for you, for my mother did feel for you,and yours has been a sad life; but how could I be of any use orcomfort to you if you dragged me away as these cruel men propose,knowing that he who has all my heart is dying guiltless, andthinking I have failed him!" and here she broke down in an agony ofweeping, as she felt the old power in his eyes that enforcedsubmission.

  He marched up and down in a sort of passion. "Don't let me see youweep for him! It makes me ready to strangle him with my own hands!"

  A shout of 'Pilpignon!' at the door here carried him off, leavingAnne to give free course to the tears that she had hitherto beenable to restrain, feeling the need of self-possession. She had verylittle hope, since her affection for Charles Archfield seemed onlyto give the additional sting of jealousy, 'cruel as the grave,' tothe vindictive temper Peregrine already nourished, and whichcertainly came from his evil spirit. She shed many tears, andsobbed unrestrainingly till the Bretonne came and patted hershoulder, and said, "Pauvre, pauvre!" And even Hans looked in,saying, "Missee Nana no cry, Massa Perry great herr--very goot."

  She tried to compose herself, and think over alternatives to laybefore Peregrine. He might let her go, and carry to Sir EdmundNutley letters to which his father would willingly swear, while hewas out of danger in Normandy. Or if this was far beyond what couldbe hoped for, surely he could despatch a letter to his father, andfor such a price she _must_ sacrifice herself, though it cost heranguish unspeakable to call up the thought of Charles, of littlePhilip, of her uncle, and the old people, who loved her so well, allforsaken, and with what a life in store for her! For she had notthe slightest confidence in the power of her influence, whateverPeregrine might say and sincerely believe at present. If therewere, more palpably than with all other human beings, angels of goodand evil contending for him, swaying him now this way and now that;it was plain from his whole history that nothing had yet availed tokeep him under the better influence for long together; and shebelieved that if he gained herself by these unjust and cruel meansthe worse spirit would thereby gain the most absolute advantage. Ifher heart had been free, and she could have loved him, she mighthave hoped, though it would have been a wild and forlorn hope; butas it was, she had never entirely surmounted a repulsion from him,as something strange and unnatural, a feeling involving fear, thoughhere he was her only hope and protector, and an utter uncertainty asto what he might do. She could only hope that she might pine awayand die quickly, and _perhaps_ Charles Archfield might know at lastthat it had been for his sake. And would it be in her power to makeeven such terms as these?

  How long she wept and prayed and tried to 'commit her way unto theLord' she did not know, but light seemed to be making its way farmore than previously through the shutters closed against the stormwhen Peregrine returned.

  "You will not be greatly troubled w
ith those fellows to-day," hesaid; "there's a vessel come on the rocks at Chale, and every manand mother's son is gone after it." So saying he unfastened theshutters and let in a flood of sunshine. "You would like a littleair," he said; "'tis all quiet now, and the tide is going down."

  After two days' dark captivity, Anne could not but be relieved bycoming out, and she was anxious to understand where she was. Itwas, though only in March, glowing with warmth, as the sun beatagainst the cliffs behind, of a dark red brown, in many placesabsolutely black, in especial where a cascade, swelled by the rainsinto imposing size, came roaring, leaping, and sparkling down asheer precipice. On either side the cove or chine was closely shutin by treeless, iron-coloured masses of rock, behind one of whichthe few inhabited hovels were clustered, and the boat which hadbrought her was drawn up. In front was the sea, still lashed by afierce wind, which was driving the fantastically shaped remains ofthe great storm cloud rapidly across an intensely blue sky. Thewaves, although it was the ebb, were still tremendous, and theirroar re-echoed as they reared to fearful heights and broke with thereverberations that she had heard all along. Peregrine kept quitehigh up, not venturing below the washed line of shingle, saying thatthe back draught of the waves was most perilous, and in a high windcould not be reckoned upon.

  "No escape!" he said, as he perceived Anne's gaze on theinaccessible cliff and the whole scene, the wild beauty of which waslost to her in its terrors.

  "Where's your ship?" she asked.

  "Safe in Whale Chine. No putting to sea yet, though it may be fairto-morrow."

  Then she put before him the first scheme she had thought out, ofletting her escape to Sir Edmund Nutley's house, whence she couldmake her way back, taking with her a letter that would prove hisexistence without involving him or his friends in danger. Andeagerly she argued, "You do not know me really! It is only animagination that you can be the better for my presence." Then,unheeding his fervid exclamation, "It was my dear mother who did yougood. What would she think of the way in which you are trying togain me?"

  "That I cannot do without you."

  "And what would you have in me? I could be only wretched, and feelall my life--such a life as it would be--that you had wrecked myhappiness. Oh yes! I do believe that you would try to make mehappy, but don't you see that it would be quite impossible with sucha grief as that in my heart, and knowing that you had caused it? Iknow you hate him, and he did you the wrong; but he has grieved forit, and banished himself. But above all, of this I am quite sure,that to persist in this horrible evil of leaving him to die, becauseof your revenge, and stealing me away, is truly giving Satan such afrightful advantage over you that it is mere folly to think thatwinning me in such a way could do you any good. It is just a meredelusion of his, to ruin us both, body and soul. Peregrine, willyou not recollect my mother, and what she would think? Have pity onme, and help me away, and I would pledge myself never to utter aword 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 willnever believe a woman. No doubt we are watched even now bydesperate men, who would rather shoot you than let you escape fromour hands."

  It seemed almost in connection with these words that at that moment,from some unknown quarter, where probably there was an entrance tothe Chine, Sir George Barclay appeared with a leathern case underhis arm. It had been captured on the wreck, and contained paperswhich he wanted assistance in deciphering, since they were in Dutch,and he believed them to be either despatches or bonds, either ofwhich might be turned to profit. These were carried indoors, andspread on the table, and as Anne sat by the window, dejected andalmost hopeless as she was, she could not help perceiving that,though Peregrine was so much smaller and less robust than hiscompanions, 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, whateverhe might say, he must be able to deliver her and Charles; but that abeing such as she had always known him should sacrifice both hislove 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 thewreck and of the spoils, and the struggles between the wreckers forthe flotsam and jetsam. There was much of savage brutality matedwith a cool indifference truly horrible to Anne, and making herrealise into what a den of robbers she had fallen, especially asthese narratives were diversified by consultations over the Dutchletters and bills of exchange in the wrecked East Indiaman, and howto turn them to the best advantage. Barclay and Burford were sofull of these subjects that they took comparatively little notice ofthe young lady, only when she rose to retire, Burford made a sort ofapology that this little business had hindered his going after theparson. He heard that the Salamander was at the castle, andredcoats 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, aPopish priest could couple them in a leash as tight as a Fleetparson could. And then Peregrine demanded whether Burford thought aFleet parson the English for a naval chaplain, and there was someboisterous laughter, during which Anne shut herself up in her roomin something very like despair, with that one ray of hope that Hewho had brought her back from exile before would again save her fromthat 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 fallenasleep before, to her extreme terror, she heard a knock and a lowcall at her door of 'Guennik.' Then as the Bretonne went to thedoor, through which a light was seen, a lantern was handed in, and ascrap of paper on which the words were written: "On secondthoughts, my kindred elves at Portchester shall not be scared by aworricow. Dress quickly, and I will bring you out of this."

  For a moment Anne did not perceive the meaning of the missive, theghastly idea never having occurred to her that if Charles hadsuffered, the gibbet would have been at Portchester. Then, with anelectric flash of joy, she saw that it meant relenting onPeregrine's part, deliverance for them both. She put on her clotheswith hasty, trembling hands, thankful to Guennik for helping her,pressed a coin into the strong toil-worn hand, and with an earnestthrill of thankful prayer opened the door. The driftwood fire wasbright, and she saw Peregrine, looking deadly white, and equippedwith slouched hat, short wrapping cloak, pistols and sword at hisbelt, dark lantern lighted on the table, and Hans also cloaked byhis side. He bent his head in salutation, and put his finger to hislips, giving one hand to Anne, and showing by example instead ofwords that she must tread as softly as possible, as she perceivedthat he was in his slippers, Hans carrying his boots as well as thelantern she had used. Yet to her ears the roar of the advancingtide seemed to stifle all other sounds. Past the other huts theywent in silence, then came a precipitous path up the cliff, stepscut in the hard sandy grit, but very crumbling, and in placessupplemented by a rude ladder of sticks and rope. Peregrine wentbefore 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, asmight be needful. How it was done she never could tell in afteryears. She might jestingly say that her lightened heart bore herup, but in her soul and in her deeper moments she thought that trulyangels must have had charge over her. Up, up, up! At last they hadreached standing ground, a tolerably level space, with another highcliff seeming to rise behind it. Here it was lighter--a pale streakof dawn was spreading over the horizon, both on sky and sea, and thewaves 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 voicein Dutch to Hans, who placed his boots before him, and went offtowards a shed. "He will bring you a pony," said his master.

  "Excuse me;" and he was withdrawing his hand, when Anne clasped itwith both hers, and said in a voice of i
ntense feeling--

  "Oh, how can I thank you and bless you! This _is_ putting the EvilAngel to flight."

  "'Tis you that have done it! You see, I cannot do the wicked actwhere you are," he answered gloomily, as he turned aside to draw onhis 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. Hanspresently brought from some unknown quarter, a little stout ponybridled and saddled; of course not with a side saddle, but cloakswere arranged so as to make a fairly comfortable seat for Anne, andPeregrine led the animal on the ascent to St. Catherine's Down. Itwas light enough to dispense with the lanterns, and as they mountedhigher the glorious sight of daybreak over the sea showed itself--almost due east, the sharp points of the Needles showing up in aflood of pale golden light above and below, with gulls flashingwhite as they floated into sunlight, all seeming to Anne's thankfulheart to be a new radiance of joy and hope after the dark roaringterrors of the Chine.

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

  "Oh, how kind! What care you take of me!" she said. "But where arewe 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 meyou will be able to make it better than ever it has been. This iswhat I thought. If you would bring me in some place whence I couldreach Sir Edmund Nutley's house at Parkhurst, his servants wouldhelp me to do the rest, even if he be not there himself. I wouldnever betray you! You know I would not! And you would have fulltime 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 isnot only that I thank you for _his_ sake, but it is a grand andbeautiful deed in itself; and if my dear mother know, she isblessing you for it."

  "I shall remember those words," he said, "if--" and he passed hishand over his eyes. "See here," he presently said; "I have writtenout a confession of my identity, and explanation that it was I whodrew first on Archfield. It is enough to save him, and in case myhandwriting has altered, as I think it has, and there should befurther doubt, I shall be found at Pilpignon, if I get away. Youhad better keep it in case of accidents, or if you carry out yourgenerous plan. Say whatever you please about me, but there is noneed to mention Barclay or Burford; and it would not be fair to thehonest free-traders here to explain where their Chine lies. Ishould have brought you up blindfold, if I could have done so withsafety, not that _I_ do not trust you, but I should be better ableto satisfy those fellows if I ever see them again, by telling them Ihave sworn you to secrecy."

  Then he laughed. "The gowks! I won all those Indian bonds of themlast night, but left them in a parcel addressed to them as alegacy."

  Anne took the required pledge, and ventured to ask, "Shall I sayanything for you to your father?"

  "My poor old father! Let him know that I neither would nor coulddisturb Robert in his inheritance, attainted traitor as the lawsesteem me. For the rest, mayhap I shall write to him if the goodangel you talk of will help me."

  "Oh do! I am sure he would rejoice to forgive. He is muchsoftened."

  "Now, we must hush, and go warily. I see sheep, and if there is ashepherd, I want him not to see us, or point our way. It is wellthese 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 inhabitedplaces, they were not able entirely to avoid meeting labourers goingout to work, who stared at Hans's black face with curiosity. Thesun was already high when they reached a cross-road whence themassive towers of Carisbrooke were seen above the hedges, andanother turn led to Parkhurst. They paused a moment, and Anne wasbeginning to entreat her escort to leave her to proceed alone, whenthe 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. Youwill be all right. I will keep them back. Go, I say."

  And as some figures were seen at the end of the road, he pricked thepony with the point of his sword so effectually that it boltedforward, quite beyond Anne's power of checking it, and in a secondor two its speed was quickened by shouts and shots behind. Annefelt, but scarcely understood at the moment, a sharp pang and thrillin her left arm, as the steed whirled her round the corner of thelane and full into the midst of a party of gentlemen on horsebackcoming down from the castle.

  "Help! help!" she cried. "Down there."

  Attacks by highwaymen were not uncommon experiences, though scarcelyat eight o'clock in the morning, or so near a garrison, but thehorsemen, having already heard the shots, galloped forward. PerhapsAnne could hardly have turned her pony, but it chose to follow thelead of its fellows, and in a few seconds they were in the midst ofa scene of utter confusion. Peregrine was grappling with Burfordtrying to drag him from his horse. Both fell together, and as theauxiliaries came in sight there was another shot and two more menrode off headlong.

  "Follow them!" said a commanding voice. "What have we here?"

  The two struggling figures both lay still for a moment or two, butas some of the riders drew them apart Peregrine sat up, though bloodwas streaming down his breast and arm. "Sir," he said, "I amPeregrine Oakshott, on whose account young Archfield lies undersentence of death. If a magistrate will take my affidavit while Ican make it, he will be safe."

  Then Anne heard a voice exclaiming: "Oakshott! Nay--why, this isMistress Woodford! How came she here?" and she knew Sir EdmundNutley. Still it was Peregrine who answered--

  "I captured her, in the hope of marrying her, but that cannot be--Ihave brought her back in all safety and honour."

  "Sir! Sir, indeed he has been very good to me. Pray let him belooked to."

  "Let him be carried to the castle," said the commander of the party,a tall man sunburnt to a fiery red. "Is the other alive?"

  "Only stunned, my lord, I think and not much hurt," was the answerof an attendant officer; "but here is a poor blackamoor dead."

  "Poor Hans! Best so perhaps," murmured Peregrine, as he was lifted.Then in a voice of alarm, "Look to the lady, she is hurt."

  "It is nothing," cried she. "O Mr. Oakshott! that this should havehappened!"

  "My lord, this is the young gentlewoman I told you of, betrothed topoor young Archfield," said Sir Edmund Nutley.

  Lord Cutts, for it was indeed William's favoured 'Salamander,' tookoff his plumed hat in salutation, and both gentlemen perceiving thatshe too was bleeding, she was solicitously invited to the castle, tobe placed under the charge of the lieutenant-governor's wife. Shefound by this time that she was in a good deal of pain, andthankfully accepted the support Sir Edmund offered her, when hedismounted and walked
beside her pony, while explanations passedbetween them. The weather had prevented any communication with themainland, so that he was totally ignorant of her capture, and didnot know what had become of Mr. Fellowes. He himself had been juststarting with Lord Cutts, who was going to join the King for hisnext campaign, and they were to represent the case to the King.Anne told him in return what she dared to say, but she was becomingso faint and dazed that she was in great fear of not saying what sheought; and indeed she could hardly speak, when after passing underthe great gateway, she was lifted off her horse, at the door of thedwelling-house, and helped upstairs to a bedroom, where the wife ofthe lieutenant-governor, Mrs. Dudley, was very tender over her withessences and strong waters, and a surgeon of the suite almostimmediately came to her.

  "Oh," she exclaimed, "you should be with Mr. Oakshott."

  The surgeon explained that Mr. Oakshott would have nothing done forhim till he had fully made and signed his deposition, in case thepower should afterwards be wanting.

  So Anne submitted to the dressing of her hurt, which was only aflesh wound, the bone being happily untouched. Both the surgeon andMrs. Dudley urged her going to bed immediately, but she wasunwilling to put herself out of reach; and indeed the dressing wasscarcely finished before Sir Edmund Nutley knocked at the door toask whether she could admit him.

  "Lord Cutts is very desirous of speaking with you, if you are able,"he said. "Here has this other fellow come round, declaring thatOakshott is the Pilpignon who was in the Barclay Plot, and besides,the prime leader of the Black Gang, of whom we have heard so much."

  "The traitor!" cried Anne. "Poor Mr. Oakshott was resolved not tobetray him! How is he--Mr. Oakshott, I mean?"

  "The surgeon has him in his hands. We will send another fromPortsmouth, but it looks like a bad case. He made his confessionbravely, though evidently in terrible suffering, seeming to keep upby force of will till he had totally exonerated Archfield and signedthe deposition, and then he fainted, so that I thought him dead, butI fear he has more to go through. Can you come to the hall, orshall I bring Lord Cutts to you? We must hasten in starting that wemay bring the news to Winchester to-night."

  Anne much preferred going to the hall, though she felt weak enoughto be very glad to lean on Sir Edmund's arm.

  Lord Cutts, William's high-spirited and daring officer, received herwith the utmost courtesy and kindness, inquired after her hurt, andlamented having to trouble her, but said that though he would notdetain her long, her testimony was important, and he begged to hearwhat had happened to her.

  She gave the account of her capture and journey as shortly as shecould.

  "Whither was she taken?"

  She paused. "I promised Mr. Oakshott for the sake of others--" shesaid.

  "You need have no scruples on that score," said Lord Cutts."Burford hopes to get off for the murder by turning King's evidence,and has told all."

  "Yes," added Sir Edmund; "and poor Oakshott managed to say, 'Tellher she need keep nothing back. It is all up.'"

  So Anne answered all the questions put to her, and they were thefewer both out of consideration for her condition, and because thegovernor wanted to take advantage of the tide to embark on theMedina.

  In a very few hours the Archfields would have no more fears. Annelonged to go with Sir Edmund, but she was in no state for a ride,and could not be a drag. Sir Edmund said that either his wife wouldcome to her at once and take her to Parkhurst, or else her unclewould be sure to come for her. She would be the guest of Major andMrs. Dudley, who lived in the castle, the actual Lord Warden onlyvisiting it from time to time; and though Major Dudley was a sternman, both were very kind to her.

  As a Whig, Major Dudley knew the Oakshott family, and was willing toextend his hospitality even to the long-lost Peregrine. The LordWarden, who was evidently very favourably impressed, saying thatthere was no need at present to treat him as a prisoner, but thatevery attention should be paid to him, as indeed he was evidently adying man. Burford and another of his associates were to be carriedoff, handcuffed, with the escort to Winchester jail, but before thedeparture, the soldiers who had been sent to the Chine returnedbaffled; the place was entirely deserted, and Barclay had escaped.

  Anne allowed herself to be put to bed, being indeed completelyexhausted, and scarcely able to think of anything but the oneblessed certainty that Charles was safe, and freed from all stigma.When, after the pain in her arm lulled enough to allow her to sleep,she had had a few hours' rest, she inquired for Peregrine, she heardthat for many hours the surgeon had been trying to extract theballs, and that they considered that the second shot had made hiscase hopeless, as it was in the body. He was so much exhausted asto be almost unconscious; but the next morning, when Anne, againstthe persuasions of her hostess, had risen and been dressed, thoughstill feeling weak and shaken, she received a message, begging herto do him the great kindness of visiting him.

  Deadly pale, almost gray, as he looked, lying so propped withpillows as to relieve his shattered shoulder, his face had a strangelook of peace, almost of relief, and he smiled at her as sheentered. He held out the hand he could use, and his first word wasof inquiry after her hurt.

  "That is nothing--it will soon be well; I wish it were the same withyou."

  "Nay, I had rather cheat the hangman. I told those doctorsyesterday that they were giving themselves and me a great deal ofuseless trouble. The villains, as I told you, could not believe weshould not betray them, and meant to make an end of us all. It'sbest as it is. My poor faithful Hans would never have had anotherhappy moment."

  "But you must be better, Peregrine," for his voice, though low, wassteady.

  "There's no living with what I have here," he said, laying his handon his side; "and--I dreamt of your mother last night." With thewords there was a look of gladness exceeding.

  "Ah! the Evil Angel is gone!"

  "I want your prayers that he may not come back at the last." Then,as she clasped her hands, and her lips moved, he added, "There weresome things I could only say to you. If they don't treat my body asthat of an attainted traitor, let me lie at your mother's feet.Don't disturb the big Scot for me, but let me rest at last near her.Then tell Robin 'tis not out of want of regard for him that I havenot bequeathed Pilpignon to him, but he could do no good with aFrench estate full of Papists; and there's a poor loyal fellow,living ruined at Paris--a Catholic too--with a wife and childrenhalf starved, to whom it will do more good."

  "I meant to ask--Shall a priest be sent for? Surely Major Dudleywould consent."

  "I don't know. I have not loved such priests lately. I had ratherdie as near your mother as may be."

  "Miss Woodford," said a voice at the door, and going to it, Annefound herself clasped in her uncle's arms. With very few words sheled him to the bedside, and the first thing he said was "God blessyou, Peregrine, for what you have done."

  Again Peregrine's face lighted up, but fell again when he was toldof the Portsmouth surgeon's arrival at the same time, saying withone of his strange looks that it was odd sort of mercy to try tocure a man for Jack Ketch, but that he should baffle them yet.

  "Do not set your mind on that," said Dr. Woodford, "for Lord Cuttswas so much pleased with you that he would do his utmost on yourbehalf."

  "Much good that would do me," said poor Peregrine, setting his teethas his tormentor came in.

  Meantime, in Mrs. Dudley's parlour, while that good lady wasassisting the surgeon at the dressing, Anne and her uncle exchangedinformation. Mr. Fellowes had arrived on foot at about noon, withhis servant, having only been released after two hours by atraveller, and having been deprived both of money and horses, sothat he could not proceed on his journey; besides that he had giventhe alarm about the abduction, and raised the hue and cry at thevillages on his way. There had been great distress, riding andsearching, and the knowledge had been kept from poor CharlesArchfield in his prison. Mr. Fellowes had gone on to London as soonas possible, and Dr. Woodford had just returne
d from a fruitlessattempt to trace his niece, when Sir Edmund Nutley and Lord Cuttsappeared, with the joyful tidings, which, however, could be hardlyunderstood.

  Nothing, Dr. Woodford said, could be more thorough than thevindication of Charles Archfield. Peregrine had fully stated thatthe young man had merely interposed to prevent the pursuit of AnneWoodford, that it was he himself who had made the first attack, andthat his opponent had been forced to fight in self-defence. LordCutts had not only shown his affidavit to Sir Philip, but had paid avisit to the Colonel himself in his prison, had complimented himhighly on his services in the Imperial army, only regretting thatthey had not been on behalf of his own country, and had assured himof equal, if not superior rank, in the British army if he would joinit on the liberation that he might reckon upon in the course of avery few days.

  "How did you work on the unhappy young man to bring about thisblessed change?" asked the Doctor.

  "Oh, sir, I do not think it was myself. It was first the mercy ofthe Almighty, and then my blessed mother's holy memory working onhim, revived by the sight of myself. I cannot describe to you howgentle, and courteous, and respectful he was to me all along, thoughI am sure those dreadful men mocked at him for it. Do you knowwhether his father has heard?"

  "Robert Oakshott is gone in search of him. He had set off to beatup the country, good old man, to obtain signatures to the petitionin favour of our prisoner, and Robert expected to find him with Mr.Chute at the Vine. It is much to that young man's credit, niece, hewas so eager to see his brother that he longed to come with mehimself; but he thought that the shock to his father would be sogreat that he ought to bear the tidings himself. And what do youthink his good wife is about? Perhaps you did not know that SedleyArchfield brought away jail fever with him, and Mrs. Oakshott,feeling that she was the cause by her hasty action, has takenlodgings for him in Winchester, and is nursing him like a sister.No. You need not fear for your colonel, my dear maid. Sedleycaught the infection because he neither was, nor wished to be,secluded from the rest of the prisoners, some of whom were, I fear,only too congenial society to him. But now tell me the story ofyour own deliverance, which seems to me nothing short ofmiraculous."

  The visit of the Portsmouth surgeon only confirmed Peregrine's ownimpression that it was impossible that he should live, and he wasonly surviving by the strong vitality in his little, spare, wiryframe. Dr. Woodford, after hearing Anne's story, thought it well toask him whether he would prefer the ministrations of a RomanCatholic priest; but whether justly or unjustly, Peregrine seemed toimpute to that Church the failure to exorcise the malignant spiritwhich had led him to far worse aberrations than he had confessed toAnne. Though by no means deficient in knowledge or controversiantheology, as Dr. Woodford soon found in conversation with him, hisreal convictions were all as to what personally affected him, andhis strong Protestant ingrain education, however he might havedisavowed it, no doubt had affected his point of view. He hadadmired and been strongly influenced by the sight of real devotionand holiness, though as his temptations and hatred of monotonyrecurred, he had more than once swung back again. Then, however, hehad been revolted by the perception of the concessions to popularsuperstition and the morality of a wicked state of society. Hisreal sense of any religion had been infused by Mrs. Woodford, and toher belongings, and the faith they involved, he was clinging inthese last days.

  Dr. Woodford could not but be glad that thus it was, not only on thepenitent's own account, but on that of the father, who might havelost the comfort of finding him truly repentant in the shock offinding a Popish priest at his bedside. And indeed the contritionseemed to have gathered force in many a past fit of remorse, and nowwas deep but not unhopeful.

  In the evening the father and brother arrived. The Major was now anold man, hale indeed, and with the beauty that a pure, self-restrained life often sheds on an aged man. He was much shaken, andwhen he came in, with his own white hair on his shoulders, andactually tears in his eyes, the look that passed between them waslike nothing but the spirit of the parable so often, but never toooften, repeated.

  Peregrine, who never perhaps had spent a happy or fearless hour withhim, and had dreaded his coming, felt probably for the first timethe mysterious sense of home and peace given by the presence ofthose between whom there is the tie of blood. Not many wordspassed; he was hardly in a state for them, but from that time, hewas never so happy as when his father and brother were beside him;and they seldom left him, the Major sitting day and night by hispillow attending to his wants, or saying words of prayer.

  The old man had become much softened, by nothing more perhaps thanwatching the way in which his daughter-in-law dealt with themanifestations of the Oakshott imp nature in her eldest child.

  "If I had understood," he said to Dr. Woodford. "If I had sotreated that poor boy, never would he have been as he is now."

  "You acted according to your conscience."

  "Ah, sir! a man does not grow old without learning that theconscience may be blinded, above all by the spirit of opposition andparty."

  "I will not say there were no mistakes," said the Doctor; "and yet,sir, the high standard, sound principle, and strong faith he learntfrom you and your example have prevailed to bear him through."

  The Major answered with a groan, but added, "And yet, even now,stained as he tells me he is, and cut off in the flower of his age,I thank my God and his Saviour, and after Him, you and yours, that Iam happier about him than I have been these eight and twenty years."

  With no scruple, Major Oakshott threw his heart into theministrations of Dr. Woodford, which Peregrine declared kept at baythe Evil Angel who more than once seemed to his consciousness to bestriving to make him despair, while friend and father brought himback to the one hope.

  From time to time Anne visited him for a short interval, always tohis joy and gratitude. There was one visit at last which all knewwould be the final one, when she shared in his first and lastEnglish Communion. As she was about to leave him, he held her hand,and signed to her to bend down to hear him better. "If you can, letgood Father Seyton at Douai know that peace is come--the Evil Onebeaten, thanks to Him who giveth us the victory--and I thank themall there--and ask their prayers."

  "I will, I will."

  Some one at the door said, "May I come in?"

  There was a sunburnt face, a head with long brown hair, a whitecoat.

  "Archfield?" asked Peregrine. "Come, send me away with pardon."

  "'Tis yours I need;" and as Charles knelt by the bed the two faces,one all health, the other gray and deathly, were close together."You have given your life for mine, and given _her_. How shall Ithank you?"

  "Make her happy. She deserves it."

  Charles clasped her hand with a look that was enough. Then with astrange smile, half sweetness, half the contortion of a mortal pang,the dying man said, "May she kiss me once?"

  And when her lips had touched the cold damp brow--

  "There--My fourth seven. At last! The change is come. Old--impish--evil--self left behind. At last! Thanks to Him who treadsdown Satan under our feet. Thanks! Take her away now."

  Charles took her away, scarce knowing where they went,--out into thespring sunshine, on the slopes above the turf bowling-green, wherethe captive King had beguiled his weary hours. Only then would aweand emotion let them speak, though his arm was round her, her handin his, and his first words were, as he looked at the scarf thatstill bore up her arm, "And this is what you have borne for me?"

  "It is all but healed. Don't think of it."

  "I shall all my life! Poor fellow, he might well bid me deserveyou. I never can. 'Tis to you I owe all. I believe, indeed, theambassador might have claimed me, but he is so tardy that probably Ishould have been hanged long before the proper form was ready; andit would have been to exile, and with a tainted name. You have wonfor me the clearing of name and honour--home, parents and child andall, besides your sweet self."

  "And it was not me,
but he whom we so despised and dreaded. Had Inot been seized, I could only have implored for you."

  "I know this, that if you had not been what you are, my boy wouldhave borne a dishonoured name, and we should never have beentogether as now."

  It was in truth their first meeting in freedom and security aslovers; but it could only be in a grave, quiet fashion, under theknowledge that he, to whom their re-union was chiefly owing, wasbreathing out the life he had sacrificed for them. Thus they onlygently and in a low voice went over their past doings and feelingsas they walked up and down together, till Dr. Woodford came in thesunset to tell them that the change so longed for had come in peace,and with a smile that told of release from the Evil Angel.

  * * * * *

  Peregrine's wish was fulfilled, and he was buried in PortchesterChurchyard at Mrs. Woodford's feet. This time it was Mr.Horncastle, old as he was, who preached the funeral sermon, the InMemoriam of our forefathers; and by special desire of Major Oakshotttook for his text, 'At evening time there shall be light.' Hespoke, sometimes in a voice broken, as much by feeling as by age, ofthe childhood blighted by a cruel superstition, and perverted, as hefreely made confession, by discipline without comprehension, becauseno confidence had been sought. Then ensued a tribute of earnest,generous justice to her who had done her best to undo the warp inthe boy's nature, and whose blessed influence the young man hadowned to the last, through all the temptations, errors, and frenziesof his life. Nor did the good man fail to make this a means oftestifying to the entire neighbourhood, who had flocked to hear him,all that might be desirable to be known respecting the conflict atPortchester, actually reading Peregrine's affidavit, as indeed wasdue to Colonel Archfield, so as to prove that this was no merepardon, though technically it had so to stand, but actual acquittal.Nor was the struggle with evil at the end forgotten, nor thesurrender alike of love and of hatred, as well as of his own life,which had been the final conquest, the decisive passing fromdarkness to light.

  It was a strange sermon according to present ideas, but not to thosewho had grown up to the semi-political preaching of the century thenin its last decade; and it filled many eyes with tears, many heartswith a deeper spirit of that charity which hopeth all things.

  * * * * *

  A month later Charles Archfield and Anne Jacobina Woodford weremarried at the little parish church of Fareham. Sir Philip insistedon making it a gay and brilliant wedding, in order to demonstrate tothe neighbourhood that though the maiden had been his grandson'sgoverness, she was a welcomed and honoured acquisition to thefamily. Perhaps too he perceived the error of his middle age, whenhe contrasted that former wedding, the work of worldlyconventionality, with the present. In the first, an unformed,undeveloped lad, unable to understand his own true feelings andaffections had been passively linked to a shallow, frivolous, ill-trained creature, utterly incapable of growing into a helpmeet forhim; whereas the love and trust of the stately-looking pair, in thefresh bloom of manhood and womanhood, had been proved in the furnaceof trial, so that the troth they plighted had deep foundation forthe past, and bright hope for the future.

  Nor was anybody more joyous than little Philip, winning his Nana fora better mother to him than his own could ever have been

  It was in a blue velvet coat that Colonel Archfield was married. Hehad resigned his Austrian commission; and though the 'Salamander,'was empowered to offer him an excellent staff appointment in theEnglish army, he decided to refuse. Sir Philip showed signs ofhaving been aged and shaken by the troubles of the winter, andrequired his son's assistance in the care of his property, andlittle Philip was growing up to need a father's hand, so thatCharles came to the conclusion that there was no need to cross theold Cavalier's dislike to the new regime, nor to make his mother andwife again suffer the anxieties of knowing him on active service,while his duties lay at home.

  Sedley Archfield, after a long illness, owed recovery both in bodyand mind to Mrs. Oakshott, and by her arrangement finally obtained afresh commission in a regiment raised for the defence of thepossessions of the East India Company. And that the poor changelingwas still tenderly remembered might be proved by the fact that whenthe bells rung for Queen Anne's coronation there was one babyPeregrine at Fareham and another at Oakwood.