“Were you ever at Drury Lane Theater, my lad?”
I said no, I had never been to the playhouse; and I blushed as I said
it, not desiring my messmates to know that I had been brought up by
Betty Green, a corporal’s widow.
“Then, child,” he cried, whacking me on the back, “you have yet to
live. Have you not seen Mistress Trenchard--the divine Sylvia--as
_Roxana_, as _Lady Percy_, as _Violetta_? Oh, what a galaxy of parts!
Oh, the divine creature!”
He threw himself across the mess-table at that, for we were in the
cockpit at the time. I laughed, boylike, at his raptures, and he
groaned loudly.
“Such a face and figure! Such a foot and ankle! Such a melting eye!
Such a luscious voice!”
I own that this outburst did more to make me realize that Giles, after
all, was but nineteen than anything that had gone before; for I knew
that older men did not so rave.
“And,” he cried wildly, “I can not see her before we sail. By Heaven, I
_will_ see her! ’Tis seventy-four miles between me and her angel face.
It can be done in seven hours and twenty minutes. I can get twenty-four
hours’ leave--but not a word of this, you haymaking son of a farmer.”
No sooner had Giles said this than with the determination to be known
as a man of spirit (I was, as I said, but fourteen), I concluded
I would go to London, too. On the day that Giles Vernon got his
twenty-four hours’ leave, I also got the same. Mr. Buxton looked a
little queer when I asked him for it, and said something about not
allowing the midshipmen to leave Portsmouth; but I answered readily
enough that I wished very much to go on a little expedition with Giles
Vernon, which would last overnight. As the other midshipmen had been
allowed similar liberty, I got my request; and next morning, as the
Phœbus coach for London rolled out of the stables into the inner yard,
I appeared. Giles Vernon was also on hand. His surprise was great when
he saw me.
“You take a risk, my lad,” he said.
“No more than you do,” I replied stoutly. “And I, too, love a roguish
eye and a blushing cheek, and mean to go to the playhouse with you to
see Mistress Trenchard.” At which Giles roared out one of his rich
laughs, and cried,--
“Come along then, my infant Don Juan.”
We got inside the coach, because it was far from unlikely that we might
meet some of our own officers on the road, or even Sir Peter Hawkshaw
himself, who traveled much between Portsmouth and the Admiralty. And
had we been caught, there is little doubt that we should have been
forced to right about face, in spite of the leave each one of us had
in his pocket. So we made ourselves extremely small in a corner of the
coach, and only ventured to peep out once, when we caught sight of Sir
Peter Hawkshaw’s traveling chaise going Londonwards, and Sir Peter
himself lying back in it, reading a newspaper. After that, you may be
sure we were very circumspect.
I noticed, however, the same thing in the coach that I had observed
the first hour I set eyes on Giles Vernon--that every woman he met was
his friend. There were some tradesmen’s wives, a French hairdresser,
and the usual assortment of women to be found in a public coach; and
in half an hour Giles Vernon had said a pleasant word to every one of
them, and basked in their smiles.
The day was in April, and was bright throughout; and the relays
of horses were so excellent that we reached London at four in the
afternoon, having left Portsmouth at nine in the morning. We went
straight to a chop-house, for we were ravenously hungry.
“And now, Dicky boy,” said Giles to me, “keep a bright lookout for any
of our men; and if you see one, cut your cable and run for it, and if
we are separated, meet me at the White Horse Cellar at twelve o’clock
to-night to take the midnight coach.”
By the time we had got our dinner, it was time to go to the play. We
marched off, and made our way through the mob of footmen, and got seats
for the pit: and when we went in, and I saw the playhouse lighted
up and the boxes filled with beautiful creatures, I was near beside
myself. Giles laughed at me, but that I did not mind.
I gaped about me until suddenly Giles gripped my arm, and whispered to
me,--
“Don’t look to the left. There is a box with Peter Hawkshaw in it,
and Polly, and two girls--one of them the greatest beauty I ever saw,
though but a slip of a girl. If Peter or Polly sees us, Lord help us!”
I did not look around immediately, but the desire to have a glimpse of
the adorable Lady Arabella made me steal a glance that way. She was
very beautifully dressed, and though but little more than sixteen, such
a vision of loveliness as fairly to rival reigning beauties of several
seasons’ standing. I own that I saw little Daphne sitting by Lady
Arabella, but I noted her scarcely at all.
Nor could Giles keep his eyes off Lady Arabella; and I noticed that
even when the divine Sylvia, as he called her, was on the stage, he was
not strictly attentive to her, but rather sought that fateful box where
so much beauty was enthroned.
The divine Sylvia was a delightful actress, I must admit, and in spite
of being forty if she was a day, and though raddled with paint, she
had something winning in her air and face, and I could understand her
tremendous popularity with the young bloods.
Neither Sir Peter nor Polly, as Giles called her, showed any signs
whatever of having recognized us in the large crowd in the pit, and
we began to congratulate ourselves heartily. There was a seat next
to us held by a gentleman’s servant, and presently he gave way to a
remarkably handsome young man of six or seven and twenty.
A few words passed between master and man, and then we knew that the
handsome gentleman was Captain Philip Overton, of the Second Life
Guards. Giles exchanged significant looks with me.
Captain Overton seated himself quietly, and, after a careless glance
at the house, seemed to retire into his own thoughts, quite unmindful
of the stage and what was going on upon it. I wondered why a man who
seemed so little in harmony with his surroundings should take the
trouble to come to the play.
But if Captain Overton were indifferent to all about him, one person,
the young beauty in Lady Hawkshaw’s box, was far from indifferent to
him. Lady Arabella saw his entrance, and from that moment she was
occupied in trying to obtain his attention. When at last he recognized
her and bowed slightly, she flamed all over with color, and gave him
as good an invitation as any man might want to come to her box. But
Overton made no sign of any intention to go to her, and, when she
finally seemed to realize this, she became as indifferent to all about
her as he was. Other persons came to the box and went during the play,
but they got little heed from Lady Arabella. Little Daphne, although
but a child, not yet in her teens, showed a lively interest in all that
passed and behaved in a most young-ladyish way, much to my diversion.
(I was all of two years older than she.)
As the play progressed, I saw that Giles was becoming more and more
infatuated with the fledgling beauty, and he even whispered to me a
suggestion that we present ourselves boldly at the door of the box.
This I received with horror, fearing both Sir Peter and Lady Hawkshaw.
Indeed, I had not been able to shake off this fear of my great-uncle
and aunt for a moment.
One’s first night at the play is usually a magic dream, but mine was
tempered with the dread of being caught on the spot, of being delayed
in our return to Portsmouth, and the torment of seeing the adored of my
heart quite absorbed in another man.
[Illustration: There was nothing for me to do but to walk along beside
him. _Page 31_]
When the play was over, we sat still until the Hawkshaw party had
passed out, and then, more for the sake of bravado, I think, than
inclination, Giles ran pell-mell to the stage door, where he made one
of a mob of gentlemen to see the divine Sylvia to her chair. And,
to my alarm, as soon as the lady was within and the curtain drawn,
he tipped the wink to one of the chairmen, who silently gave up his
place, and Giles, taking up the pole, trudged off, assisting to carry
his portly mistress. There was nothing for me to do but to walk along
beside him amid the rattle and roar of coaches, the shouting of the
hackney coachmen, the pushing and jostling of chairmen and linkboys,
and all the confusion that attends the emptying of a London playhouse.
Mrs. Trenchard’s door was not far away, and when she was put down, and
Giles sneaked off, I observed the handsome Captain Overton standing at
the turn of the street laughing at him. Giles, who was so timid in his
love, was bold enough in his wrath, and stepping up to Overton said
coolly:
“Sir, I perceive you are smiling. Who is the harlequin that amuses you,
may I ask?”
“You, sir,” promptly answered Overton.
“You are too good,” responded Giles, “and I have before pinked my man
in beauty’s quarrel,”--and then he slapped Overton in the mouth. The
next thing I knew their two swords were flashing in the moonlight. I
stood paralyzed with fear. Not so a couple of burly watchmen, who,
running forward, clutched the offenders and dragged them apart.
But the two late enemies, making common cause against the watchmen,
fought them off; and when the watchmen desisted from the fight to
spring their rattles for assistance, both Giles and the officer ran
down a dark alley, followed by me as fast as my short legs would carry
me, and soon all three of us were huddled together in the porch of a
church, some distance away from the scene of the fracas.
“Neatly done,” remarked Overton with a smile, to Giles. “I should have
been in that brawny fellow’s clutches now, but for the clip over the
head you gave him.”
“You did your share, sir,” politely responded Giles.
“But time presses and our affairs must be settled,” said Overton;
“here is my card. It is too dark to read it, but I am Captain Philip
Overton, of the Second Life Guards.”
“And I,” replied Giles, “am Midshipman Giles Vernon, of the _Ajax_,
ship of the line, now at Portsmouth.”
By the dim light of a lantern in the church porch, I saw the expression
of astonishment upon Overton’s face.
“Then,” he stammered, “we are related.”
“Yes,” replied Giles, smiling, “and if you pierce me through with sword
or pistol, it will be worth one of the finest estates in the kingdom
to you, provided always that old villain, Sir Thomas Vernon, does not
marry and have children to spite us.”
Overton reflected, half laughing and half frowning.
“If only you had not passed a blow! Anything else, there could be an
accommodation for. It was most unfortunate.”
“Yes, as it turns out,” responded Giles; “but the question is, now,
when and where can we meet?”
Just then the great bell of St. Paul’s tolled out the half-hour before
midnight, and I, who had been an almost unobserved listener, spoke,
out of the fullness of my heart.
“Giles,” said I, “the coach leaves at twelve. If we do not get to
Portsmouth in time, we are deserters. Let Captain Overton write to you
and fight afterward.”
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings comes wisdom,” replied
Overton, smiling; and so in two minutes it was settled, Overton
agreeing to come to Portsmouth to fight, if Giles could not get leave
to meet him half-way between Portsmouth and London. We then bade him
good-by, and ran off as fast as our legs could carry us, and barely
made the coach.
We traveled all night, Giles sleeping soundly and snoring very loud, in
one corner. I felt great uneasiness about the coming meeting between
him and Overton, although I believed there was no hostile feeling
between them. But when two men face each other with arms in their
hands, there is always the possibility of awful catastrophe.
The roseate morning broke when we were still some distance from
Portsmouth. The sight of the blooming hedge-rows, the bird-songs, and
all the fair beauty of the morning made me long to be outside, and
at the last stage--my companion still sleeping--I got out, and with
a shilling to the coachman, got the box seat. There were only two or
three persons, besides the guard, on the coach.
Once up there, I could not rest satisfied without handling the ribbons.
I had never even driven a donkey in my life, but, nevertheless, I
aspired to drive four fresh roadsters. The coachman, a good-natured,
foolish fellow, gave me the reins, down a perfectly smooth lane. I
seized the whip, too, and brought it down across the wheelers’ backs,
and, the next thing I knew, the coach was lying on its side on the
road, and I was on the ground.
It was over in a wink, and it seemed scarcely longer before it had been
righted; for the load was extremely light, and no one was hurt except
Giles. He scrambled out of the coach window, his arm hanging down, not
broken, but out of joint. I pointed to it.
“Your sword arm,” I said.
There was nothing for it but to make for Portsmouth as fast as
possible. Giles was in extreme pain; he said nothing, but great drops
came out upon his forehead. When we reached the town, I at once put off
in search of a surgeon, while Giles remained at the inn. I soon fetched
the surgeon, who got the arm into place. When the man had finished,
Giles asked when he could use his arm for pistol shooting.
“In a week, perhaps; possibly not for two weeks.” And the surgeon
departed.
As soon as he was out of the room, Giles sent for pen and paper, and
with the most painful effort, guiding his right hand by his left,
managed to indite the following epistle to Captain Overton:
PHEENIX INN, PORTSMOUTH, _Friday_.
“DEAR SIR:
“This is to inform you that I met with a most unfortnit axerdent while
coming down on the coach. My friend and messmate, the infant admiral
which you saw with me, had read the story of Gehu in the Bible or
Homar, I forget which, and aspired to drive four horses. Which he did,
with the result that my right arm was rentched out of place, and the
rascally doctor who sett it says I cannot use it for some days. This
is most unfortnit, as it delays the pleasure we antissipated in our
meeting. You will here from me as soon as I am recovered. The only
thing witch disturbs me is that if we both go to Davy Jones’s, twil
please that old curmudgin, Sir Thomas Vernon, bad luck to him. Believe
me sir,
“Your very obliged, and
“Most obedient servant,
“GILES VERNON,
“Mid. on H. M. S. _Ajax_.”
Giles gave me this to read, and I pointed out several mistakes he had
made in spelling, although the tone of the letter was gentlemanlike, as
everything was that Giles did. With great vexation and some difficulty,
he added a postscript.
“P. S.--Please excuse speling as my arm is very paneful. G. V.”
At that moment a marine from the _Ajax_ bounced, breathless and in
great excitement, into the room.
“We are to sail with the tide, to-night, sir!” he said. “The admiral
passed the messenger on the road; the jib is loose, and the blue peter
flying,”--and out he ran, to notify the other absentees.
Giles seized the paper, and added laboriously:
“P. S. No 2.--I am just informed that the Blue Peter is flying from
the _Ajax_, and that, my dear sir, signifies that we are about to
sail. Our meeting must be postponed, for god knose when we will eat
fresh butter again. _But you shall hear from me._ G. V.”
And that night we sailed with the tide.