“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!”
[Illustration: “Rather would I die than marry him.” _Page 171_]
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.