The Loves of the Lady Arabella by Molly Elliot Seawell - HTML preview

XI

At twelve o’clock that night Sir Peter arrived at the tavern, and with the pardon.

The expectation of his coming, and the greater matter upon which we were engaged, prevented my mind from dwelling longer upon the strange scene I had witnessed between Overton and Lady Arabella. Overton did not speak her name to me, and showed much sympathy for us. When Sir Peter’s chaise drove up to the door of the Bear and Churn, another chaise with four horses was waiting, and into it we huddled, bidding Overton a hurried farewell; and in another moment we were off for York, the horses doing their best.

Sir Peter then told me the circumstances of his visit to Windsor. The Prince, who was always most powerful when the king was on the verge of madness, saw his father and found him comparatively rational. The story being broached to him, he appeared interested, and even grew more collected as his attention was chained. He recalled at once Sir Peter Hawkshaw and the capture of the Indomptable and Xantippe, and corrected the Prince when he spoke of Sir Peter as Vice-Admiral of the White. It was a very easy matter to get his signature to the pardon, and the necessary seals and formalities took some little time but no trouble, and when Sir Peter presented himself at the Castle on Sunday, all was prepared for him.

We felt now comparatively safe. There was little doubt that we could reach York at least twenty-four hours in advance of the date set for the execution; our letters would precede us, giving positive assurances of hope; and we looked for no accidents, having a new and strong chaise.

After Sir Peter had told me his story, I told him mine about Lady Arabella and Overton. He was not much imbued with the kind of religion that Overton preached, although he swore roundly by Church and State, and was always a great churchman when he was slightly in liquor, which did not happen often. He therefore condemned Overton’s sermon, which I tried to repeat to him, as a damned, beastly low sort of religion, unfit for a gentleman to practise; but he admitted that Overton lacked neither brains nor courage. For Lady Arabella, though, he had the stern disapproval of an honest heart, and in his excitement swore both long and loud because of the short-sightedness of Providence in permitting such women to exist for the undoing of his Majesty’s officers of both services.

We made good progress that night and the next day, which was Monday, and began to have strong hopes of reaching York Wednesday night. But on Monday, in the afternoon, the weather suddenly changed, a violent snow-storm set in, and our postboys wilfully, I think, drove us ten miles out of the way, near a tavern where they hoped, no doubt, we would agree to stop until the storm should be over. But Sir Peter, putting one of his great horse-pistols to the postboy’s head, forced him to turn back to the high-road. We lost three hours by this; and when we got to our next posting stage, our horses, engaged two days ahead, had been taken. We got others, after a frantic effort, but at the end of that day’s journey we saw our margin of time diminished exactly one-half.

I shall not attempt to describe the fierce and gnawing impatience which consumed us, nor the awful and unspoken dread which began to overshadow us. Sir Peter was a man of stout heart, and had no more notion of giving up at this stage of the affair than he dreamed of surrendering when he saw the Indomptable to windward and the Xantippe to leeward.

The weather, however, grew worse instead of better, and even four horses could scarcely drag us through the mire made by the snow and rain. In spite of all we could do our progress diminished, although at no time did it seem hopeless, until—O God! twenty miles from York, at midnight on the Thursday, Sir Peter himself suddenly gave out; the strain had proved too much for his brave heart and sturdy frame. It came as the horses were wallowing along the road in the darkness, and I, holding my watch in my hand, was glancing at it every ten minutes, by the feeble light of the traveling lamp. I spoke to Sir Peter as he lay back in the chaise wrapped in his boat-cloak, and got no answer. He was unconscious. Without stopping the chaise, I got some brandy, which I tried to pour down his throat, but could not. I grew much alarmed,—it was not like Sir Peter to refuse good brandy, and as we were passing a farmstead, I stopped the chaise, knocked the people up, and had Sir Peter carried into the house. I met with kindness, and I repaid it with coin of the realm. Sir Peter soon revived, and his first words were,—

“Push on, my lad. Don’t wait to repair damages.”

I found that his seizure was really trifling, and he assured me he would be able to resume the journey by daylight, the farmer agreeing to furnish him horses; so, in half an hour I had again taken the road.

And ten miles from York, the chaise broke down!

I had the horses taken out, and, mounting the best beast, made for York at the top of his speed, which was poor,—the creature was already spent with traveling.

It was just daylight, and streaks of golden glory were lighting up the pallid dawn; I urged the poor beast onward. Seven miles he went, then he dropped dead, just as the sun was gilding the spires of York Cathedral. Before me, along the road, jogged an itinerant tinker on a rather good-looking horse, the tools of a tinker’s trade hanging from a moth-eaten saddle. I was young and strong,—he was middle-aged and ill-fed and feeble. I ran up to him, holding five guineas in my hand.

“Lend me this horse to ride to York!” I cried.

The man, astonished at my abrupt address, stopped, but gave me no answer. I made my own answer, though, by dragging him off the beast, dashing the five guineas on the ground, and clattering off, throwing away the tools and kettles as I galloped along.

Already there were great crowds in the streets, and as I made my way madly toward the jail, I was often impeded. I shrieked, I screamed at the people, and waved aloft my precious paper, shouting, “Pardon! Pardon!” The cry was taken up, and swelled in a great roar that came from a thousand friendly throats. As I galloped along on the tinker’s horse, in a frenzy, through the crowded streets, an awful unspeakable Thing loomed up before me. It was the gibbet, and it was empty!

I felt the hot tears run down my cheeks at this, and some recollection of the God that Overton had preached to me caused me to utter an inarticulate thanksgiving! But if my tongue faltered, my heart did not.

At last I pushed my way through shouting crowds, to the jail. The people parted, and I saw a black cart drawn by a white horse, and Giles Vernon, with pinioned hands, sitting in it, by the side of the hangman. I noticed—as I did all the trifles of that dreadful time—that the jailer was ashy pale, and Giles was fresh-colored. I flung myself off my horse, rushed toward the cart, holding the paper above my head. Oh, the roaring and the shouting! I thrust it in Giles’ face; the hangman, in a second, cut the thongs that bound the prisoner’s hands. Giles took the pardon and kissed it, and then threw his arms around me and kissed me, and smiled and waved his hat in the air, while voices thundered, men shouting like demons, and women screaming and weeping. And the next thing I knew Daphne appeared, as if dropped down from Heaven, and, springing into the cart, clasped Giles; and Lady Hawkshaw, a little slower, but yet quick, descended from the coach, in which she and Daphne had come, and embraced all of us; and then, the cheering seemed to rend the skies.

I saw Giles Vernon with pinioned hands.

In a little while, the mood of the crowd changed. They began to clamor for the blood of Sir Thomas Vernon. He was known to be away from home, but, as if by a preconcerted movement, a dash was made for Vernon Court, which was but five miles away. The military were called out, and the crowd stopped; but not without a collision, and several persons were badly injured, which did not tend toward better feeling for Sir Thomas.

For ourselves, I remained with Giles until he was duly released by the officers of the law, while Daphne and Lady Hawkshaw set off to meet Sir Peter on the road. They met him, five miles off, and brought him back to York in their coach. I shall never forget the scene when they drove up to the inn where Giles and I were already, the crowd, however, not allowing him to remain indoors at all. When the coach hove to, the people, in their delight, picked Sir Peter up and carried him bodily up stairs, to an open balcony, and demanded a speech, followed by “Parliament! Parliament! Our next member!” and so on. Sir Peter made a speech,—the most wonderful I ever heard,—standing with one hand on Giles’ shoulder, and the other on mine, with Lady Hawkshaw and Daphne in the background.

He began by roundly damning Sir Thomas Vernon, “and a lady who shall be nameless.” Nevertheless, in spite of some vagaries, the speech was full of sound sense, and he promised the people, if they gave him their suffrages for parliament, he would do all in his power for the abolition of the barbarous law from which Giles Vernon had suffered so cruelly. He averred that it was impossible for a seaman, alone and unaided, to take care of himself on dry land, Jack ashore being a helpless creature at best, and but for Lady Hawkshaw he would probably have been hanged himself, long ago. This allusion to Lady Hawkshaw, who fairly divided the honors with Giles, brought forth yells of delight from the crowd. Her ladyship appeared and bowed magnificently, and it was a regular triumph for us all, from beginning to end.

Next day, with Giles, we all started for London, the happiest coach-load of people in the three kingdoms.

Two days after our arrival, we read the announcement of the marriage, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, of Sir Thomas Vernon to Lady Arabella Stormont.

Sir Peter was delighted at this match, and so was Lady Hawkshaw, and for once they were agreed. The position of the newly-married couple in London was anything but a pleasant one; for Giles became the object of public sympathy, and of popular and royal approval. The Prince of Wales sent for him, and our visit to Windsor, whither we all went to thank the king, was made a triumph for us. Sir Thomas and Lady Vernon were forbidden the court and Carlton House, and were frequently hissed in public. I saw them myself at Drury Lane, when they were hissed. Sir Thomas merely grinned, while Lady Arabella surveyed the scowling faces before her with a slow sweet smile, and calmly played with the diamonds in her stomacher.

We had a whole year of happiness. The dreadful experience Giles had been through began to tell on him, and he was permitted to remain quietly a year on shore. And I, because of Giles, was given a year with my bride before I had to leave her. And what a year of blessedness it was to all! We all lived with Sir Peter and Lady Hawkshaw in Berkeley Square, and those two honest souls took delight in us. Lady Hawkshaw became a heroine, and the worthy woman enjoyed it thoroughly. Overton came sometimes to see us. A persecution had been set on foot against him; and he was several times arrested and sentenced for unlawful assemblage. But persecution was not the way to prevail with Overton.

It was very well understood who instigated these continued prosecutions, and that did not help to increase the popularity of Sir Thomas and his beautiful wife. At last, a year to the month after the trial at York, the last indignity was offered to Overton. He was sentenced to be whipped at the cart’s-tail, and set in the pillory.

There was a general rally of his friends; and on the winter morning when this barbarous sentence was to be carried out, a number, including many persons of note, were assembled at the prison, when Sir Peter and I joined them.

We soon heard that the government would not permit the first part of the sentence to be carried out; but when Overton emerged from the prison, he was unaware of this, and prepared for the worst. The holy calmness of his countenance and air brought even Sir Peter to admit that “the pious dog is a man, after all.” When informed that he would not be whipped, Overton only remarked,—

“My Master was scourged. Why should I rebel?”

Arrived at the place of punishment, we found a great crowd assembled, of all sorts of persons, among them some of the highest quality. Overton saluted them, and with the utmost dignity submitted to the cruel and hateful punishment. He had, however, the undisguised sympathy of the officers of the law, as well as of the crowd, and was treated with the utmost tenderness.

He was to spend three hours pilloried, and it was made the greatest triumph of his life.

It is possible for a good man undergoing unjust punishment to be dignified, even in the pillory; and so it was with Overton. His singular beauty, the mildness of his countenance, the uncomplaining fortitude with which he submitted to an odious and miserable position, the remembrance of his past military services, showed him to be every inch a man. Many of his friends came in their coaches, and, descending and going up to Overton, saluted him respectfully and expressed their sympathy, to which Overton gently returned thanks. At last a very splendid coach appeared. It was magnificently horsed with four thoroughbreds, and had outriders, besides two huge footmen with nosegays. It drew up in front of the pillory, and within it sat Lady Vernon, superbly dressed; and in her arms she held a very young infant in a great robe of lace and satin. Two nurses sat on the front seat; and Sir Thomas’ saturnine countenance glared behind Lady Vernon’s beautiful, triumphant face. The coach stopped; and Lady Vernon, holding the child up in her arms, directly in front of Overton’s eyes, gave him a smile and a meaning look, as much as to say,—

“Poor wretch! your inheritance is gone!” The crowd, which was never in a good humor with the Vernons, began to hiss vigorously. This they appeared not to mind; but when hisses were followed by a shower of stones and sticks, the equipage rolled off at the top of its speed.

At twelve o’clock Overton was released, and at once he was exhorting the people to fear God and live truly to Him. He was not interrupted by the constables who were present, and was listened to with solemn attention. He has preached ever since, and has never again been molested. And when a dear little girl came to my Daphne,—I was then at sea, fighting the French,—Overton was at the christening, and made a prayer over her infant head, which my Daphne believes will keep that dear child good and holy all her life.

Giles Vernon, now Captain Vernon, in command of his Majesty’s ship Acasta, forty-four, is counted the smartest of the young captains in the British service. The women still love him; but Giles has grown a little shy of going too far with them, and swears he will die a bachelor. However, there appears to be an affair forward between my little Daphne, who is now four years and six months old, and Captain Vernon, and I think something will come of it when she is of a marriageable age—and so thinks her mother too.

END