In that hour of horror, I became weaker and more helpless than the weakest and most helpless woman. Sir Peter and Lady Hawkshaw were too stunned to think. I remember, now, the look of despair on Sir Peter’s countenance, where I had never before seen anything but sturdy courage,—and it was an added terror. And the one who retained her senses, who suggested a forlorn hope, was Daphne,—the youngest, the least experienced of us all.
“To London!” she said. “To the king, for pardon! I myself will go upon my knees to him. He shall—he shall pardon Giles!”
We were all huddled together, then, in our parlor at the inn, having just returned from the assize hall.
“Richard and I will go,” said Sir Peter.
“And Daphne and I will stay and comfort Giles,” spoke Lady Hawkshaw.
A week to London, and a week to return, was easy traveling—but how long would it take us to reach the king? And what ministers would be in town? And what would be the earliest moment we could leave London? All these things were in our minds to torment us. Nevertheless, within half an hour, we were on our way.
While we were demanding the best horses, and having them put to, an insolent groom came in the stable-yard, and asked for horses for Sir Thomas Vernon and Lady Arabella Stormont and Lady Arabella’s companion, Mrs. Whitall, and two servants, for London. The head hostler replied roughly that they had no time to attend him then, as they were starting Sir Peter Hawkshaw and Mr. Glyn off for London, too, to beg Mr. Giles Vernon’s life. The man, at this, grew saucy, and offered a handsome bonus for the horses which were then being put to for us. I caught him by the collar, and threw him out of the stable-yard, where the hostlers drubbed him soundly, thank God!
One hurried kiss to Daphne, a brief farewell between Sir Peter and Lady Hawkshaw, and we were off for London. Our race into Scotland was nothing to it.
The roads were much cut up, and although we traveled day and night, we were more than four days on the way. We reached London early in the day; and, without stopping for food, or to change our linen, we went to the Admiralty. There we got the information that the First Lord was visiting in the country, in Kent. Within the hour, I was on my way to Kent. When I reached the place, the First Lord had left, not more than two hours before, for London. I had passed him on the road, without knowing him. I returned to London. Sir Peter had seen several members of the government, meanwhile, and had been privately informed that the king was suffering mentally; and although hopes were entertained that the spell would pass away, without the necessity of informing the country or Parliament, still, access to him was refused to all by his physicians, except the members of his family and immediate household, and they were charged not to mention business to him; it would be impossible to approach him.
When Sir Peter told me this, I became so weak I was forced to sit down. After a few minutes of agony, a desperate resolve came to me. I rose, and said,—
“I have a scheme—desperate, but not impossible. Go with me to the Prince of Wales. He is at Carlton House, but goes back and forth to Windsor.”
Sir Peter jumped at this poor chance, and we agreed to go immediately.
We had left York on a Friday, and had reached London on the Monday. Two days had been lost in the journey to Kent; and it was now late in the evening of Wednesday. We had, luckily, brought our uniforms along; and, dressing ourselves in them,—Sir Peter with all his orders sewn on his coat,—we called a hackney-coach, and drove to Carlton House.
When we got there, it was about ten o’clock in the evening. The windows were brilliantly lighted up, and it was about the hour that the Prince of Wales was known to be in his best humor—but the hour when he most hated to be disturbed.
We descended, and the sentries passed us through, on account of our uniforms and Sir Peter’s decorations on his breast. We reached the door, and knocked. The porter opened the door gingerly, when Sir Peter, giving it a kick, walked in, followed by me. The man attempted to arrest our progress, but Sir Peter said to him fiercely,—
“Do you think, you damned lackey, that you can be insolent to an admiral in his Majesty’s service?” The man apologized humbly and ushered us into a large reception-room on the first floor, saying he would call the gentleman of the chambers.
We seated ourselves. Even in that time of agony, I noticed the beauty of the room—indeed, my senses seemed preternaturally acute, and every incident of that dreadful time is deeply fixed in my mind. The ceiling was of gilt, while around the walls were paintings of Flora. A gilt chandelier diffused light through the apartment, and at one side was a pair of large folding doors.
After a long wait, a gentleman, Mr. Digby, appeared. He received us politely, but said it was impossible to disturb the Prince then, as he was just sitting down to piquet. Sir Peter remained silent; he was used to giving orders, and the words, “It is impossible to see His Royal Highness,” were peculiarly disagreeable to him.
I then made my plea. I told Mr. Digby that the life of a gallant officer and gentleman was in jeopardy, and that we begged to see his Royal Highness, in the hope that the king might be approached.
“That, too, is impossible,” coldly replied Mr. Digby. “The king is far from well.”
Just then, some one on the other side of the folding doors opened one of them the least bit in the world, and then closed it—but not before we had seen streams of light pouring from it, a long table brilliant with plate and ornaments, and a company of about twenty gentlemen sitting around it, and at one end sat a personage whom we at once recognized as the Prince of Wales.
Without a word, Sir Peter arose, and, darting toward the door,—for he was ever an agile man,—threw it open, and walked into the presence of his Royal Highness.
“Sir,” said he, marching up to the Prince, “I am Admiral Sir Peter Hawkshaw, and I have boarded you, so to speak, sir, in order to save the life of one of the gallantest officers in the service of his Majesty.”
I had always heard that his Royal Highness was a gentleman, and I saw then such an exhibition of readiness and good taste as I never saw before, and never expect to see again. Every one at the table, except the Prince, seemed astounded at the sudden entrance and startling address of a short active little man in an admiral’s uniform. But the Prince offered Sir Peter his hand in the coolest manner in the world, saying,—
“Most happy to meet you, Sir Peter. I recollect well that you carried the Indomptable by boarding very successfully. But how did you get past the watch-dogs at the door, my dear sir?”
“By carrying sail hard, your Royal Highness,” responded Sir Peter, “and seeing this door open, faith, said I, to myself, having risked my skin these forty years for the king and his successors, sure, I can risk it once more by walking in on my Prince, and here I am, sir, ready to state my case. That bloody popinjay, Digby” (Digby was right behind him), “wanted me to let you alone because you were about to go to piquet, but I think no prince of England would sacrifice a man’s life to a game of piquet.”
“Certainly not I, Sir Peter,” answered his Royal Highness, rising, “and now I have an hour entirely at your service.”
“Sir,” said Sir Peter, “I ask the honor of shaking hands with you, not as a royal prince, but as an honest man and good fellow.”
I think the Prince was ever susceptible to honest praise, for he was no fool, and he was undoubtedly pleased when Sir Peter wrung his hand. He then led the way into another room, and the door was closed.
The rest of the party behaved very civilly to me, and I accepted thankfully an invitation to have something to eat and drink. They were merciful to me, seeing my distress of mind, and did not plague me with questions, but resumed their conversation with one another.
Presently the Prince and Sir Peter appeared, and his Royal Highness said, with that charm of manner which seduced some men and many women,—
“Hark’ee, Sir Peter; I do not promise that the affair will be complete before Sunday night; I go to Windsor early in the morning, and two days is a brief time in which to arrange so important a matter. But if you will be at Windsor on Sunday morning, I pledge you my word as a gentleman the paper shall be ready, signed, sealed, and delivered.”
At that Sir Peter fairly broke down, and could only say, “God bless you, sir, God bless you!” and the Prince, turning the old man’s emotion off gently, smiled and said,—
“’Tis for the preservation of the gallantry of our sex, Sir Peter, that this young officer must not hang.”
He warmly invited us to remain and finish up the wine, and then one of the gentlemen at the table, whether of design or not, mentioned the extraordinary reports which had just reached London concerning the trial at York, and I, encouraged thereto by a subtle look and a question of his Royal Highness, told the whole story, assisted by Sir Peter. It was listened to with the deepest interest.
Lady Arabella Stormont was known to every person there, and the Prince remarked that he had danced with her at the last birthnight ball. Her infatuation for Overton was well known and freely commented on, and the strange measures that women will sometimes venture upon in the interest, as they think, of the man they love, was exemplified in her testifying against Giles Vernon. Sir Thomas Vernon’s hatred of his heir was also well known,—and as the web was unfolded to the Prince he listened with an air of the profoundest thought, and his comment was significant,—
“The king can pardon.”
He had pity on us and did not press us to remain to cards, so we left Carlton House about an hour after entering it, and with hearts immeasurably lighter. Our first thought was to hasten back to our lodgings to send off our good news to Lady Hawkshaw and Daphne by the northern mail.
Sir Peter told me then that the Prince had directed him to go to Windsor in the morning and remain, and that he himself would bring him back on the Sunday morning, if the counter signatures to his Majesty’s could not be had before. The Prince was quite familiar with the procedure, and engaged to get the pardon from the king without difficulty.
Early next morning Sir Peter left me. It was agreed that I should proceed on the Sunday morning to the Bear and Churn, a tavern and posting station near London, on the northern road, to arrange in advance for the best cattle, in order that not a moment might be lost in returning to York. So, after two miserable days alone in London, while Sir Peter was at Windsor, I was glad on Sunday morning to be on the northern road, preparing for our rapid return to York. The Bear and Churn was directly on the highway, and was well out of London, being surrounded by green fields and orchards.
It was a beautiful morning, more like April than February. The greenness of the earth, the blueness of the heavens, the quiet of the country, after the rattle and roar and dun skies of London, were balm to my soul.
I reached the inn by ten o’clock; and, having arranged for their best horses, and sent word two stations ahead, I sat down to pass the day as best I might. I wrote a long letter to Daphne, and then, it being about twelve o’clock, I went out for a walk.
There was a pretty pathway, through a little grove, toward a rolling field, next the highway. I took this path, and presently came face to face, at a turn in the path, with Overton. He was singularly dressed for a man of his quality and profession.
He wore black clothes, with plain silver buckles at the knees, and black silk stockings and shoes. His hair, unpowdered, was tied with a black ribbon; but he wore no crape or vestige of mourning. I had ever thought him the handsomest man in England; but in this garb, so different from the brilliant uniform or other exquisite dress in which I had heretofore seen him, he looked like an Apollo. He greeted me gravely, but not impolitely; and we walked along together. He had heard of my marriage, and felicitated me on it.
My heart was so full of Giles Vernon that I burst out with the story. It seemed quite new to him; and he listened to it with breathless attention, occasionally ejaculating his horror at the conduct of Sir Thomas Vernon and of Lady Arabella Stormont. It gave me a savage pleasure to tell him every dreadful particular concerning Arabella; and by the look of consciousness which came into his expressive face, and by the way in which he avoided my eye, I saw that he knew he was a factor in the case against his will. At last, quite transported by my rage against these two, I cried out,—
“And it is for the purpose of securing the estate to you that Arabella Stormont thus swore away the life of Giles Vernon; but God will confound her and Sir Thomas Vernon yet!”
“Truly,” said he, in a thrilling voice, “God will confound all the wicked. He will bring this horrid scheme to naught in every way; for know you, if Lady Arabella Stormont were to throw herself on her knees before me—”
He stopped, and colored violently; he had not meant to admit what the whole world knew,—that Arabella Stormont had adored him for seven years past. He hurriedly changed the subject, saying,—
“Perhaps you do not know that I am no longer in the army.”
I said I did not.
“Although I have recovered the use of my limbs, and look to be in health, I am not fit for service; and I was retired on half-pay only a few days ago. My life is not likely to be long; but released as I am, by God’s hand, from the profession of arms, I shall devote the remnant of my life to the service of the Lord God Almighty. His message came to me years ago, but I was deaf to it. I was in love with the world, and possessed by the flesh and the devil. I committed murders under the name of war. I dishonored my Maker by my dissipations. I spent in gambling and vice the money wrung from the poor that were bond-slaves to labor and poverty. I blasphemed, and yet I was not counted evil by the world.”
I listened and wondered to myself, should this be true, where stood we all?
Overton’s face had flushed, his eyes were full of rapture; he seemed to dwell in the glory of the Lord.
“But now I am free from the body of that death, and subject only to the yoke of the Nazarene,—the Jesus who labored with His hands to show that work was honorable; the Carpenter who called about Him those as poor as Himself, and preached to them the love of God and one’s neighbor; who received the Magdalen as a sister and the leper as a brother.”
I was silent. I had heard many sermons from deans and dignitaries,—all well-fed men, and every man jack of them after promotion from the Whigs,—and these sermons had left my heart as untouched as that of the wild Indian of North America. But this was different. After a while, Overton continued,—
“As this Jesus called all manner of men to follow Him,—the greedy tax-gatherer, as well as Peter the poor fisherman, and John the gentle and studious youth,—so He called me; and, like the tax-gatherer, whose stony heart was melted by the voice of Jesus, I say with tears, ‘My God! I follow Thee!’”
We had now approached the corner of the field, and involuntarily stopped. I said to him blunderingly,—
“Shall you take orders?”
“No,” he replied. “I do not aspire to open my mouth as a teacher—I am not worthy; but a few of the humblest people about here—I have been in this place for some time—come to me on Sundays, in the forenoon, to ask me to speak to them. They are day-laborers, hostlers—the kind of people I once fancied to be without souls. I speak to them, not as a preacher and teacher, but as a brother and a friend. It is now time for them to assemble.”
I saw, sure enough, a number of poorly-dressed rustics coming toward the field. They came by twos and threes, the women mostly with children in arms, or hanging to their skirts. When all had arrived, there were about thirty men and women. They seated themselves on the grass, and I along with them, and, in some mysterious way, I felt, for the first time in my life, that the plowman was my brother, and the kitchen wench my sister.
When they were all seated, Overton took from his pocket a small Bible, and read the Sermon on the Mount. The people listened reverently. He gave them a short discourse, suited to their understanding, and then read to them a simple hymn, which they sang with fervor.
I listened with a strange feeling, half pain, half pleasure, half satisfaction, half dissatisfaction. I wished for Daphne’s sweet spirit to be near me. It came to my mind how like was this meeting of the poor and unlearned to those held by the Carpenter of Nazareth on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. The hymn echoed sweetly over the green fields; it was a part of that great antiphon with which Nature replies to the harmonics of the Most High. The quiet scene, the woods, the fields, the kine in the pasture near by, all seemed one in this act of worship. But presently my soul was distracted by what I saw on the highway close by us. A handsome traveling chariot, followed by a plain post-chaise going Londonward, stopped. Out of the chariot stepped Lady Arabella Stormont, and, through an opening in the hedge, she entered the field. After a considerable interval, Mrs. Whitall followed her; and, after a still longer one, Sir Thomas Vernon.
“Will you speak to me?”
Lady Arabella walked noiselessly over the grass, and, when she reached the edge of the group, stopped. Her eyes were full of laughing contempt at first, but, when Overton turned his glance full upon her, she suddenly assumed a look of seriousness, and folded her hands as if in silent prayer. Behind her, Mrs. Whitall’s foolish face was all fear, while Sir Thomas Vernon grinned unpleasantly over her shoulder. Overton, without taking the slightest notice of them, at the conclusion of the hymn announced that he would make a prayer, and asked his hearers to join with him in a petition that the life might be spared of a certain young man, Giles Vernon, now under sentence of death in York jail. We all stood up, then, the men removing their hats. I held mine before my face to conceal my tears, while Overton made a brief but earnest prayer for Giles, and I could not refrain from crying, “Amen! Amen!” when he concluded.
The people then trooped off, and we, the gentlefolks, were left together.
Overton surveyed Lady Arabella and Sir Thomas with much contempt. Lady Arabella was the first to speak. She held up her head timidly, and said,—
“Will you not speak to me?”
“No,” replied Overton sternly. “Giles Vernon’s life may be spared; but upon you is blood-guiltiness.”
Arabella turned pale, and replied,—
“I was summoned as a witness. I was obliged to testify.”
Overton said nothing. Then Sir Thomas, taking snuff with his usual grace, remarked,—
“I listened with attention to one lawbreaker praying for another lawbreaker. Of course, you know, this meeting of yours is seditious—and many a man has been stood in the pillory for it.”
“And one Man,” replied Overton, “Jesus Christ, was crucified for it.”
He turned, and with me, took the path back to the tavern. I heard, as we went on, an altercation behind me, and involuntarily, after we had gone some distance, I looked back. Lady Arabella was struggling in the grasp of Sir Thomas Vernon, while Mrs. Whitall looked on, and wrung her hands. Sir Thomas, however, was no match for Arabella’s young strength. She broke away from him, and, running after us, caught up, panting and breathless, with us, as we entered the little grove. And then I saw an almost exact representation of the scene when Giles Vernon had insanely and with unmanly groveling and violence pleaded with Arabella for her love,—so she pleaded with Philip Overton. She held him by the arms, when he would have thrown her off.
“Philip! Philip!” she cried. “I did it for you! I determined to make you rich, great, even if you refused my fortune. Sir Thomas can not live long. Surely, you can not reproach me, if all the world does. The stupid, stupid world thinks I did it under the influence of Sir Thomas Vernon; but no, it was not hate for Giles Vernon, it was my love for you, Philip Overton, that made me appear at the York Assizes.”
“Remember yourself,” said Overton to her sternly. “Others, besides myself, see your degradation!”
“It is no degradation to love truly, to love as I do. Speak but one word to me, and I will become a Methodist like yourself. I, too, will go among the poor, and serve and love them; and I will even love God for your sake!”
The awful grotesqueness of this, the blasphemy of it, was altogether unknown to her. She continued wildly,—
“Does not my soul need saving as much as those clods you have been praying with?”
“You blaspheme!” replied Overton, casting her off.
And, to make the resemblance between her own unwomanly conduct and the unmanly conduct of Giles Vernon the more singular, she recovered herself, as he had done, in a single moment of time. She laid her hand on Overton’s arm, and looked keenly into his eyes. Her glance seemed to enchain him, and to set her free. She breathed a long sigh, and, turning, gazed about her, like a person awaking from a nightmare. Then, with perfect self-possession, she dropped a curtsey to us both, and said, in her natural, playful manner,—
“Mr. Overton, I see I have been mistaken. I should have tried to cheat the law by not appearing when I was summoned; or, I should have testified falsely. And for my indiscreet conduct just now, let me tell you, for seven years I have been under a spell. It is now broken for ever. Titania once loved Bottom the weaver; but not always. I bid you good day, Captain Philip Overton, and you, Mr. Richard Glyn. And I trust Giles Vernon’s life may be saved, if only to keep you, Captain Overton, as poor as you deserve to be. For myself, I shall shortly marry,—perhaps, Sir Thomas Vernon,—then, neither of you will get the estates. Good morning!”
And she was gone, flying along the field, with a white mantle streaming after her, and her flight as rapid as the swallows in spring.
