A Reputed Changeling; Or, Three Seventh Years Two Centuries Ago by Yonge (motivational novels .TXT) 📕

one said my fortune was made, and that my agility deserved at least the cordon bleu.  My own Duke of Chartres, who in many points is like his cousin, our late King Charles, gravely assured me that a new office was to be invented for me, and that I was to be Grand Singier du Roi.  I believe he pushed my cause, and so did the little Duke of Burgundy, and finally I got the pension without the office, and a good deal of occasional employment besides, in the way of translation of documents.  There were moments of success at play.  Oh yes, quite fairly, any one with wits about him can make his profit in the long-run among the Court set.  And thus I had enough to purchase a pretty little estate and château on the coast of Normandy, the confiscated property of a poor Huguenot refugee, so that it went cheap.  It gives the title of Pilpignon, which I assumed in kindness to the tongues of my French friends.  So you see, I have a station and property to which to carry you, my fair one, won by myself, though only by catching an ape.”

He went on to say that the spot had been chosen advisedly, with a view to communication with the opposite coast, where his old connection with the smugglers was likely to be useful in the Jacobite plots.  “As you well know,” he said, “my father had done his utmost to make Whiggery stink in my nostrils, to say nothing of the kindness I have enjoyed from our good Queen; and I was ready to do my utmost in the cause, especially after I had stolen a glimpse of you, and when Charnock, poor fellow, returning from reconnoitring among the loyal, told me that you were still unmarried, and living as a dependent in the Archfields’ house.  Our headquarters were in Romney Marsh, but it was as well to have, as it were, a back door here, and as it has turned out it has been the saving of some of us.”

“Oh, sir! you were not in that wicked plot?”

“Nay; surely you are not turned Whig.”

“But this was assassination.”

“Not at all, if they would have listened to me.  The Dutchman is no bigger than I am.  I could have dropped on him from one of his trees at Hampton Court, or through a window, via presto, and we would have had him off by the river, given him an interview to beg his uncle’s pardon, and despatched him for the benefit of his asthma to the company of the Iron Mask at St. Marguerite; then back again, the King to enjoy his own again, Dr. Woodford, archbishop or bishop of whatever you please, and a lady here present to be Marquise de Pilpignon, or Countess of Havant, whichever she might prefer.  Yes, truly those were the hopes with which I renewed my communications with the contraband trade on this coast, a good deal more numerous since the Dutchman and his wars have raised the duties and driven many good men to holes and corners.

“Ever since last spring, when the Princess Royal died, and thus extinguished the last spark of forbearance in the King’s breast, I have been here, there, and everywhere—Romney Marsh, Drury Lane, Paris, besides this place and Pilpignon, where I have a snug harbour for the yacht, Ma Belle Annik, as the Breton sailors call her.  The crew are chiefly Breton; it saves gossip; but I have a boat’s crew of our own English folk here, stout fellows, ready for anything by land or sea.”

“The Black Gang,” said Anne faintly.

“Don’t suppose I have meddled in their exploits on the road,” he said, “except where a King’s messenger or a Royal mail was concerned, and that is war, you know, for the cause.  Unluckily my personal charms are not easily disguised, so that I have had to lurk in the background, and only make my private investigations in the guise of my own ghost.”

“Then so it was you saved the dear little Philip?” said Anne.

“The Archfield boy?  I could not see a child sent to his destruction by that villain Sedley, whoever were his father, for he meant mischief if ever man did.  ’Twas superhuman scruple not to hold your peace and let him swing.”

“What was it, then, on his cousin’s part?”

Peregrine only answered with a shrug.  It appeared further, that as long as the conspirators had entertained any expectation of success, he had merely kept a watch over Anne, intending to claim her in the hour of the triumph of his party, when he looked to enjoy such a position as would leave his brother free to enjoy his paternal inheritance.  In the failure of all their schemes through Mr. Pendergrast’s denunciation, Sir George Barclay, and one or two inferior plotters, had succeeded in availing themselves of the assistance of the Black Gang, and had been conducted by Peregrine to the hut that he had fitted up for himself.  Still trusting to the security there, although his name of Piers Pilgrim or de Pilpignon had been among those given up to the Privy Council, he had insisted on lingering, being resolved that an attempt should be made to carry away the woman he had loved for so many years.  Captain Burford had so disguised himself as to be able to attend the trial, loiter about the inn, and collect intelligence, while the others waited on the downs.  Peregrine had watched over the capture, but being unwilling to disclose himself, had ridden on faster and crossed direct, traversing the Island on horseback, while the captive was rounding it in the boat.  “As should never have been done,” he said, “could I have foretold to what stress of weather you would be exposed while I was preparing for your reception.  But for this storm—it rages louder than ever—we would have been married by a little parson whom Burford would have fetched from Portsmouth, and we should have been over the Channel, and my people hailing my bride with ecstasy.”

“Never!” exclaimed Anne.  “Can you suppose I could accept one who would leave an innocent man to suffer?”

“People sometimes are obliged to accept,” said Peregrine.  Then at her horrified start, “No, no, fear no violence; but is not something due to one who has loved you through exile all these years, and would lay down his life for you? you, the only being who overcomes his evil angel!”

“This is what you call overcoming it,” she said.

“Nay; indeed, Mistress Anne, I would let the authorities know that they are hanging a man for murdering one who is still alive if I could; but no one would believe without seeing, and I and all who could bear witness to my existence would be rushing to an end even worse than a simple noose.  You were ready enough to denounce him to save that worthless fellow.”

“Not ready.  It tore my heart.  But truth is truth.  I could not do that wickedness.  Oh! how can you?  This is the prompting of the evil spirit indeed, to expect me to join in leaving that innocent, generous spirit to die in cruel injustice.  Let me go.  I will not betray where you are.  You will be safe in France; but there will yet be time for me to bear witness to your life.  Write a letter.  Your father would thankfully swear to your handwriting, and I think they would believe me.  Only let me go.”

“And what then becomes of the hopes of a lifetime?” demanded Peregrine.  “I, who have waited as long as Jacob, to be defrauded now I have you; and for the sake of the fellow who killed me in will if not in deed, and then ran away like a poltroon leaving you to bear the brunt!”

“He did not act like a poltroon when he saved the life of his general, or when he rescued the colours of his regiment, still less when he stood up to save me from the pain of bearing witness against him, and to save a guiltless man,” cried Anne, with flashing eyes.

Before she had finished her indignant words, Hans was coming in from some unknown region to lay the cloth for supper, and Peregrine, with an imprecation under his breath, had gone to the door to admit his two comrades, who came into the narrow entry on a gust of wind as it were, struggling out of their cloaks, stamping and swearing.

In the middle of the day, they had been much more restrained in their behaviour.  There had at that time been a slight clearance in the sky, though the wind was as furious as ever, and they were in haste to despatch the meal and go out again to endeavour to stand on the heights and to watch some vessels that were being tossed by the storm.  Almost all the conversation had then been on the chances of their weathering the tempest, and the probability of its lasting on, and they had hurried away as soon as possible.  Anne had not then known who they were, and only saw that they were fairly civil to her, and kept under a certain constraint by Pilpignon, as they called their host.  Now she fully knew the one who was addressed as Sir George to be Barclay, the prime mover in the wicked scheme of assassination of which all honest Tories had been so much ashamed, and she could see Captain Burford to be one of those bravoes who were only too plentiful in those days, attending on dissolute and violent nobles.

She was the less inclined to admit their attentions, and shielded herself with a grave coldness of stately manners; but their talk was far more free than at noon, suggesting the thought that they had anticipated the meal with some of the Nantz or other liquors that seemed to be in plenty.

They began by low bows of affected reverence, coarser and worse in the ruffian of inferior grade, and the knight complimented Pilpignon on being a lucky dog, and hoped he had made the best use of his time in spite of the airs of his duchess.  It was his own fault if he were not enjoying such fair society, while they, poor devils, were buffeting with the winds, which had come on more violently than ever.  Peregrine broke in with a question about the vessels in sight.

There was an East Indiaman, Dutch it was supposed, laying-to, that was the cause of much excitement.  “If she drives ashore our fellows will neither be to have nor to hold,” said Sir George.

“They will obey me,” said Peregrine quietly.

“More than the sea will just yet,” laughed the captain.  “However, as soon as this villainous weather is a bit abated, I’ll be off across the Island to do your little errand, and only ask a kiss of the bride for my pains; but if the parson be at Portsmouth there will be no getting him to budge till the water is smooth.  Never mind, madam, we’ll have a merry wedding feast, whichever side of the water it is.  I should recommend the voyage first for my part.”

All Anne could do was to sit as upright and still as she could, apparently ignoring the man’s meaning.  She did not know how dignified she looked, and how she was daunting his insolence.  When presently Sir George Barclay proposed as a toast a health to the bride of to-morrow, she took her part by raising the glass to her lips as well as the gentlemen, and adding, “May the brides be happy, wherever they may be.”

“Coy, upon my soul,” laughed Sir George.  “You have not made the best of your opportunities, Pil.”  But with an oath, “It becomes her well.”

“A truce with fooling, Barclay,” muttered Peregrine.

“Come, come, remember faint heart—no lowering your crest, more than enough to bring that devilish sparkle in the eyes, and turn of the neck!”

“Sir,” said Anne rising, “Monsieur de Pilpignon is an old neighbour, and understands how to respect his most unwilling guest.  I wish you a good-night, gentlemen.  Guennik, venez ici, je vous prie.”

Guennik, the Breton boatswain’s wife, understood French thus far, and comprehended the situation enough to follow willingly, leaving the remainder of the attendance to Hans, who was fully equal to it.  The door was secured by a long knife in the post, but Anne could hear plainly the rude laugh at her entrenchment within her fortress and much of the banter of Peregrine for having proceeded no further.  It was impossible to shut out all the voices, and very alarming they were, as well as sometimes so coarse that they made her cheeks glow, while she felt thankful that the Bretonne could not understand.

These three men were all proscribed traitors in haste to be off, but Peregrine, to whom the yacht and her crew belonged, had lingered to obtain possession of the lady, and they