Giles Vernon and I agreed that it was necessary we should strike the blow as soon as possible, while we had the weather-gage, so to speak, of Sir Peter; and on the day after his traveling chariot took its way north, a very plain post-chaise followed it, and in it were Giles Vernon and myself.
Giles was in a state of the wildest happiness conceivable. There is something appalling in that fervor of mind when the human creature, forgetting all the vicissitudes of this life, treads on air and breathes and lives in Heaven. Thus I was made sad by his gladness, but I dared not show it, lest it be mistaken for a want of spirit in our enterprise, so I joined with him in his joy and revelry.
We reached Scarborough at four o’clock in the afternoon, and put up at a small inn on the outskirts of the town, and some little way on the road to the north. We sallied forth immediately to find out something about our inamoratas, and Fate—whether it was that kindly goddess who leads our footsteps toward those we love, or whether it was the cruel Destiny which delights in torturing men—at once directed us. We were walking along near the playhouse, which had been lately opened in the town, when we saw Jeames, Lady Hawkshaw’s own footman, go inside the playhouse and buy some tickets of the man at the door. As soon as he was well out of the way I sneaked in, and, thrusting two shillings into the man’s hand, inquired if Sir Peter and Lady Hawkshaw and the young ladies would favor the performance that night. The man grinned and showed me a slip of paper, on which was written in Lady Hawkshaw’s bold hand, “Three stalls for Lady Hawkshaw and party.”
This made me hope that Sir Peter would not be present, for I thought our chances of getting off would materially improve if he were not on the spot.
The play was to be over at half-past ten, and it may be imagined that we had plenty to do until then. We engaged four of the best pairs of nags in the town. We arranged to pay the postboys according to the time they took us over the border, and we felt in ourselves the strength of Titans, to overcome whatever resistance might be offered. Of course we counted on the surprise, and we determined that the best disposition to make of Lady Hawkshaw was for Giles Vernon to appear suddenly, when the people were coming out, place Lady Hawkshaw in her coach, and then make that bold dash for love and beauty which we had determined upon. Our postboys, who were not new to the perils of elopements, grinned at the prospect, and were instructed to remain near Lady Hawkshaw’s coach and impede it as much as possible, so that it might be the last to reach the door of the theater.
Our arrangements were complete by eight o’clock, and from that hour until ten we employed ourselves in disposing of a good supper at the tavern. We were in a gale of rapture then. It seemed to us both as if we were in that happy and exultant mood, when the enemy is within gun-shot and the ship is cleared for action; and we only awaited the signal for victory. We had some punch, but both Giles and myself knew enough to be exceedingly careful in attacking it.
“Dicky, my lad,” cried Giles, banging me in the back, “this day is the anniversary of the day we whipped the Indomptable and the Xantippe!”—and so it was. “So we shall capture the Indomptable, in the Lady Arabella, and we will disable the Xantippe,—ha! ha!—in my Lady Hawkshaw.”
This I thought a very fine joke indeed, and we drank to it.
“Dicky,” began Giles again, wiping his mouth after the punch, “I never thought I could be constant to any woman, as I have been to Arabella. By Heaven, the whole sex is so seductive that it was the last one I saw I loved the best. But since I knew that witch of a girl, St. Anthony himself could not be more impervious to female charms than your humble servant,” which was true enough. “And as for Overton,—that psalm-singing devil,—I defy him. Give me but a week, and he shall see Arabella hanging upon me so fondly! Let him have her thirty thousand pounds; ’tis so much dirt and dross to me. And she may be Lady Vernon yet. Do you know that old rapscallion Sir Thomas Vernon’s estate is in this part of the country? though nearer York than Scarborough. On our return from our honeymoon I have a great mind to take my Arabella to Vernon Court, and show her what may one day be hers.”
So he raved and roared out snatches like,—
“In Bacchus’ joys I’ll freely roll,
Deny no pleasure to my soul,
Let Bacchus’ health round freely move;
For Bacchus is the friend of love—
And he that will this toast deny,
Down among the dead men let him lie.”
And I took up the chorus and bawled it out; for I, too, looked for no more crosses in this life, having Daphne for my wife.
So the time passed until ten o’clock; and at ten o’clock we sallied forth.
It was a starlit night in early December. The cold high blue heavens above us seemed to radiate happiness; the myriad stars twinkled with joy; we scarce felt the ground under our feet.
The two post-chaises awaited us on the highway, the postboys full of confidence; the horses, the best in the town, were eager to be off. We jumped together in one, and were whirled into the town, and were at the door of the playhouse almost before we knew it.
One of our postilions speedily found the coach which had brought Lady Hawkshaw there, and, in pursuance of his instructions, got the coachman off his box to drink in a neighboring tavern, while one of our postboys stood watch over the horses. Giles and I remained in the chaise until it was time for us to make our descent.
At half-past ten the play was over, and then began that hurry and commotion of the dispersion of a crowd in the darkness. We heard loud shouts for Lady Hawkshaw’s coach, but the coachman did not make his appearance. There were many officers and ladies from the garrison, and a number of equipages; but soon they were driving off, while half a dozen men at once were shouting for Lady Hawkshaw’s coach. At last my lady herself came out of the entrance, followed by Arabella and Daphne, and at that moment Giles slipped out of the chaise, and appeared before Lady Hawkshaw as if he had risen from the earth. I, too, was on the ground, but out of sight.
“Pray, my lady,” said he, in his most gallant manner, and hat in hand, “allow me to show you to your coach.”
“Mr. Vernon!” cried Lady Hawkshaw, in surprise. “I thought you were in London. How came you to Scarborough?”
“By chaise, Madam,” he replied politely; “and I hope to see the young ladies before I leave,” (the hypocrite!). “Is Sir Peter with you, Madam?”
“No, he is not,” replied Lady Hawkshaw, her wrath rising at the idea. “Had he been with me, my coach would have been awaiting me.” And then turning to Arabella and Daphne, who were behind her, she said sternly,—
“Arabella and Daphne, this does not happen again. Sir Peter comes with us to the play, after this.”
I caught sight, from a corner behind the chaise, of my dear Daphne, at that moment. She stopped suddenly, and turned pale and then rosy, and glanced wildly about her. She knew I was not far off.
How Arabella received Giles’ sudden appearance I never knew, as I could not see her. But in another moment he had placed Lady Hawkshaw, with the utmost obsequiousness, in the coach; then folding up the steps like magic, he slammed the door, and shouting to the coachman, “Drive on!” the coach rattled off, and the next moment his arm was around Arabella, and mine was around Daphne, and they were swept off their feet; and in less time than it takes to tell it, each of us was with the idol of his heart, whirling off toward Gretna Green, as fast as four horses to a light chaise could take us.
Now, what think you, were Daphne’s first words to me?
“Unhand me, Mr. Glyn, or I will scream for assistance!”
“My dearest one!” I exclaimed, “you are now mine. By to-morrow morning we shall be over the border, and you will be my wife.”
“An elopement! Gracious heaven! I never thought of such a thing!” she replied.
I might have answered that she had not only thought of such a thing, but talked of it. I refrained, however, knowing a woman’s tongue to be capricious in its utterances, and, instead, assured her that my passion was such I could no longer bear the thought of existing without her.
“And do you mean to marry me, sir, without my guardian’s consent?” she asked with much violence.
“I do, indeed, my angel, and I thought it was agreed between us.”
This was an unfortunate speech, and she again threatened to scream for assistance, but presently remarked that as there was none to come to her assistance, she would refrain. And then, having done what propriety required, she began to relent a little, and at last she lay in my arms, asking me, with tears, if I would promise her never to love another, and I told her, with great sincerity, that I never would, provided I got out of that alive.
Deep in our own happiness,—for at least the dear girl admitted that she was happy to be mine,—we yet thought of Giles and Arabella, and I would have got out of the chaise at each of the three stages, where we made a rapid change of horses, except that Daphne would not let me,—afraid, she said, lest I should be recognized and get into trouble. She afterward told me it was because she feared we might be stopped. We did not forget the precaution, in our brief halts, to pay the hostlers well to do some harm to any pursuing vehicles which might be after us; and our plan seemed to be prospering famously.
So all night we rattled furiously along, and at daybreak we crossed the border, notified by the huzzaing of the postboys. It was a dank, dismal morning, the weather having changed during the night, and we saw that we had passed the other chaise in the darkness. It was some distance behind, and the horses seemed much spent. We continued on our way, to the house of a blacksmith at Gretna Green, who, so our postboy told us, usually united runaway couples. We dashed up to his cottage,—a humble place, surrounded by a willow hedge,—and he, warned by approaching wheels, came out, half dressed, in the murky morning.
“Come to be marrit?” he cried. “Step out then.”
I assisted Daphne out of the chaise, and then, as we stood on the damp ground, in those squalid surroundings, looking at each other, the possible wrong I had done this innocent girl suddenly swept over me. And in her eyes, too, I read the first consciousness of having committed an impropriety. This dirty, unkempt blacksmith, the coarse, laughing postboys—this, a way to make the most solemn and spiritual of all engagements! I felt an uncomfortable sense of guilt and shame.
It was only momentary. The more depressed she, the more should I support, and therefore I called out cheerfully, “I take this woman to be my wedded wife,” and such other words as I recalled of the marriage service—and I said it so heartily and promised so devoutly, removing my hat when I made my vows, that it heartened up Daphne—and her response, so full of faith and love, gave a kind of holiness to it all. We were two rash and foolish young people—but we loved each other truly, and we made our vows solemnly, determined to keep them. Perhaps that counts for more, in the eyes of God, than all else; at least, we realized the sacredness of our vows.
Scarcely was the brief ceremony over—for ceremony we made it—when the chaise containing Arabella and Giles drew up. And the sight I saw, I can never forget.
Arabella’s face was quite pale, but her eyes were blazing. There were some drops of blood upon her cheek—they came from her wrists, which Giles held firmly. The door of the chaise being opened, she stepped out willingly, disdaining the assistance Giles offered her. His face, too, was very pale, and he looked and moved like a man in a nightmare. The blacksmith grinned broadly; he thought his gains were to be increased—for I had not forgotten to pay him handsomely.
Giles seized her hand. “Arabella,” he cried desperately, “surely you do not now mean to throw me over?”
For answer, she gave him a glance of ineffable hatred.
“This man,” she said, turning to me, “your friend, your intimate—I blush for you—has dragged me here. Rather would I die than marry him. Look!”
“Rather would I die than marry him.”
She held up her wrists, and they showed marks of violence.
“’Twas to keep her from jumping out of the chaise,” said Giles wildly. “She would have had me leave her at midnight, on the highway—alone and unprotected. Dearest Arabella,” he cried, turning to her, and trying to clasp her, “will you not listen to my prayer? How can you scorn such love as mine?” And he was near going down on his knees to her, in the mud—but I held him up. I confess that the most painful thing, of all this painful business, was Giles Vernon’s complete surrender of his manhood, under the influence of his wild passion. He, an officer in his Majesty’s sea-service, a man who had smelt powder and knew what it was to look Death in the eye and advance upon him, who would have answered with his life for his courage, was ready to grovel in the earth like a madman for the favor of a woman. Nothing was it to him that low-born creatures like the postboys and the blacksmith beheld him with contempt and disgust; nothing to him that a woman like Daphne, and that I, a brother officer, witnessed his degradation. He seemed to have parted with the last semblance of self-respect.
Arabella answered his appeal by a laugh of scorn, which seemed to cut him like a knife; and then, shaking me off, he shouted to her,—
“I know why you will not be mine. It is that pious, hypocritical hound, Overton. But I tell you now, my lady, if you marry him, I’ll have his life. Take note of what I say—I’ll have his life.”
To which Arabella, after a pause in which her face grew deeply red and then pale again, said,—
“Your own life is in jeopardy. The abduction of an heiress is a capital offense, and you shall be tried for your life if it takes every shilling of my fortune to do it. You shall see what you have done!”
I shuddered at these words, for I saw it was no idle threat. If Giles contemplated violence toward Overton, I had not the slightest doubt that Arabella was fully capable of keeping her word in the dreadful business. Daphne thought so too; for she ran forward, and, putting her hands over Arabella’s mouth, cried,—
“No, no! dear Arabella, take that back!”
“But I will not take it back,” replied Arabella; “and I shall lodge information against this wretch, as soon as I can return to Scarborough,—which I shall do in the post-chaise; for, luckily, I have money with me.”
Under the terrible threat of prosecution, Giles recovered himself surprisingly. He lost his frantic air, and, drawing himself up, remarked quite calmly,—
“Just as your ladyship pleases.”
His change of manner seemed to infuriate Arabella, who shrieked at him,—
“You shall be hanged for this!”
“Anything to oblige your ladyship,” responded Giles, as cool as you please.
I felt that this painful scene could no longer continue, and said so.
“Lady Arabella,” said I, “my wife”—how Daphne’s eyes glowed as I spoke—“and I are returning immediately to Scarborough; you had best go with us; and when you have seen and consulted with Sir Peter and Lady Hawkshaw, it will be time enough to determine upon your course.”
“My course is already determined upon,” she replied; and no one who saw her could doubt it.
“And so is mine,” said Giles, now in possession of all his usual manliness. “I return to London, where I shall duly report myself to the Admiralty, and later to Sir Peter Hawkshaw; and if the lady thirsts for my blood, begad, she can have it.”
“Giles Vernon,” said I, “you have been unlucky. I can not say more, because I am in the same boat with you. But you have done nothing unworthy of a gentleman, and nothing to make either Daphne or me love you the less, no matter what befalls. So here is my hand upon it.”
We grasped hands, and, turning to Daphne, he removed his hat and proceeded to kiss her, saying to me, “By your leave.” And Daphne said to him,—
“Good-by, dear Giles.”
The proceedings seemed to fill Lady Arabella with disgust. She haughtily refused my hand to assist her into the chaise, and announced that she would go to the village of Springfield, near by, for rest and breakfast; and willy-nilly, Daphne and I had to follow in the post-chaise.
Never shall I forget that dismal wedding journey back to Scarborough. I began, for the first time, to fear the reproaches of the world in general, and Sir Peter and Lady Hawkshaw in particular, in regard to running away with an heiress. I had one comfort, however; Daphne fully believed in my disinterestedness; and I can sincerely say I wished Daphne’s fortune at the bottom of the sea, if I could but have wooed and won her in the ordinary course of events.
Lady Arabella traveled just ahead of us, but took occasion to show her anger and resentment against us in every way.
About half the distance to Scarborough we met full in the road a traveling chariot, and in it were Sir Peter and Lady Hawkshaw.
We found that the hostlers had earned their money, and that the Hawkshaws’ chaise had broken down at least once in every stage.
When we met and stopped, Arabella alighted, and so did we, and so did the Hawkshaws; and the first word that was spoken was by Daphne.
“Uncle Peter,” she said, “don’t fly at Richard. If you must know it, I ran away with him; for I am sure, although he is as brave as a lion, it never would have dawned upon him to run away with me, if I had not put the idea in his head, and kept it there.”
“Sir,” said I, “and Madam,” turning to Lady Hawkshaw, “I beg you will not listen to this young lady’s plea. I am wholly responsible for the circumstances of our marriage. I can, however, and do, call Heaven to witness, that her fortune had nothing to do with it, and I should have been happy and proud to take her, with the clothes on her back, and nothing more.”
Sir Peter began to sputter, but Lady Hawkshaw cut him short.
“Exactly what you said, Sir Peter, within an hour of our marriage.”
Thus were Sir Peter’s guns dismounted.
“And, Richard and Daphne, you are a couple of fools to run away, when, if you had only had a little patience, I would have had you handsomely married at St. George’s, Hanover Square. But least said, soonest mended. Sir Peter, kiss Daphne, and shake hands with Richard.”
And as I am a sinner, she actually forced Sir Peter to do both, although I saw he mortally hated it.
Arabella’s turn came next. She advanced and said, with a bitterness that struck a chill to my heart,—
“Sir Peter, as you know, I was carried off by that wretch who disgraces his uniform, Lieutenant Giles Vernon; but he did not succeed in forcing me to consent to a marriage. And I call upon you, as my next friend, to aid me in the prosecution which I shall immediately set on foot against him for the capital offense of the abduction of an heiress; and I hope to bring him to the gibbet for it.”
