I SUFFER GREAT ADVERSITY.
OF our cruel parting I shall speak little. During the forenoon the
soldiers buried their commander in the rude military way. Few were
the honours that attended him, and perhaps fewer still the tears. But
mine were with him, and also a remorse that I have never yet outlived.
That he deserved to die, even as he did, I know; for the world has no
room for weakness in a man, and, verily, this poor Captain was the
very slave of his. And yet!--was there not ever the great “And yet!”
attached to this poor man’s character? His mind was powerful, and
better far, his heart was true. He would have been a fitting guardian
for the finest woman of us all; a tender lover, an unswerving friend,
wise, temperate, of the cream of chivalry withal. I had slain a very
pretty man to gain my private ends--I, who in my ignorance had declared
that the world held no men whatever!
At two of the clock that afternoon the soldiers started on their London
journey with the prisoner in their care. The admonition that I gave to
my young lover was of this nature:
“Child, do not despair until you are writhing in the rope. I, Bab
Gossiter, have sworn to save you, and you know my power. I will
accost the King; I will browbeat his Justices; I will intimidate
his Parliament rather than you shall grin through a halter at the
dirty populace. Remember that I love you, and that love unaided can
overthrow the devil. Be of good heart then, and continue in that most
excellent way of yours of taking a quart of old ale and a solid pound
of rump steak to your breakfast. As for your prayers, I would have
you invariably conclude ’em in this manner: ‘And, O God, do you bless
my dearest Bab, for she has sworn to deliver me from this most horrid
prison, that she may make a right proper husband of me to the end that
my state may be exchanged to a sweeter bondage than this present one.’”
At these words his fine eyes danced with a laugh which said how
inflexible his courage was. Afterwards he mounted his horse and rode
towards the moors in the society of his captors. As his form receded
slowly among the trees, and my spirits ceased to be encouraged by his
robust bearing and the jaunty waving of his hat, an impending cloud
blotted the December sun and darkened the whole of earth.
It was then I felt my heart sink. Only for a moment though, for the
high buoyancy of its resolves was sufficient to support it. There was
work to do, and work, I take it, is the true elixir, the secret of
everlasting energy. In order to repress my tears, and to defeat a very
natural tendency to such-like female squeamishness, I began at once to
prosecute the matter.
The Earl, my papa, was the earliest victim of this fanatical
determination. Poor Anthony had not left the place an hour ere I
repaired to the apartment of his lordship. The dear, good old gentleman
was exactly in the posture that I had anticipated seeing him; to wit,
he was propped up in cushions beside the fire, with divers cellarets
of liquor at a little table ready to his hand, of which he was for
the nonce utterly unheedful, having a nicer dissipation to enjoy. A
handkerchief was spread across his face, and right lustily was he
snoring, this being the hour of his post-prandial nap, a performance he
undertook far more religiously than he ever did his prayers.
“Wake up, my dear,” says I, for my eagerness was such that it would
brook delay from none. Therefore I flicked away his lordship’s
handkerchief, and with my little finger did tickle tenderly his ancient
chin.
“Go ’way, you flies!” he grunted, “and damn you!”
However, his nose being presently attacked, the old gentleman’s
annoyance grew so imperative that he shook his face, and was just
about to fall into a great volubility of language, when his eyes came
open, and the sight of me immediately curtailed it. For the politest
man of his time was out of his chair bowing and apologising ere one
might wink, expressing with his hand over his heart his delight at my
appearance, and his sincere appreciation of the honour that a visit
from my fair self conferred upon him.
“And, my dearest lady,” he concluded, rubbing his drowsy eyes, “if
there is one thing you would have me perform, I shall esteem it a
privilege to perform it, for at this moment you behold me quite as much
as formerly the servant--nay, the slave--of beauty, youth, wisdom and
wit. But first, dear madam, I beseech you to accept a chair.”
“Papa,” says I, plunging straight into the business that had brought
me, “I have a few surprises for you. First, I think you are acquainted
with the name of a certain Mr. Dare, a very arrant rebel?”
“I am,” says he, “and to my sorrow.”
“Well, my lord,” says I, “they have now reta’en this person, and he is
bound for Tyburn even now.”
“Very glad indeed to hear it,” says my lord, right heartily. “And
had this been the case a week ago, I should have been spared some
shattering of sleep.”
The old gentleman here regarded me with a singular twinkling keenness
that required great sturdiness to meet.
“Very nice of you, my lord, to cherish such sentiments as these towards
my future husband,” says I, with the most brazen boldness.
“Your future what!” cries out my lord, jumping up as though some imp
had stuck a pin into his chair.
“My future husband,” says I, winningly.
For the best part of a minute a highly comic silence took him. His brow
was puckered into creases, as is the way when one is seeking for a jest
that is concealed.
“Ha! ha!” he crackled presently, “very good jest indeed, my dear, very
good indeed!”
“I am sure I am charmed, my lord, that you appreciate it,” I says, “but
I have my doubts whether this affair is quite such a jest for poor
young Mr. Anthony.”
“Not if you marry him, I daresay,” says his lordship naughtily.
“Well, my lord,” says I, “just to be as brief as possible, I desire you
to see his Majesty at once and procure my future husband’s pardon.”
My lord took forth a red silk handkerchief and slowly wiped his wig.
“This comes of excessive beauty in a daughter,” he commented. “Lord,
’tis a mercy to have ’em plain. My dear child, go and put a powder in
your milk and sleep off this attack. Frankly, I do not like it. Or
stay, shall I send for Paradise? It were well, perhaps, an your tongue
were instantly inspected.”
“Papa,” says I, with awful gravity, “you appear to forget that the
first duty of a parent is to be obedient. I command you, sir, to get
you to town by to-morrow morning’s mail.”
“’Pon my soul and honour!” coughed his lordship, “this is really----”
“My lord,” says I, “must I repeat that I command you? I love young
Anthony, and therefore am I going to marry him.”
“He has a birth, of course?” says this wriggling aristocrat.
“Not he,” says I, “left one night on the doorstep of a priory.
Doubtless a bastard of the gutter scum. Even his name is not his own.
Hath no more than threepence-halfpenny and a pair of ragged breeches to
his fortune. Hath stood in prison several times and adorned the pillory
and the whipping post on various occasions. In short, my lord, he is
the sauciest rogue that ever kissed a maid against her inclination.
And, faith, I believe the very raggedest.”
“And you say you are going to marry him?”
“My lord, I have sworn to marry him.”
“But, my dear lady, this is really too preposterous. I think you had
better talk it over with your aunt.”
The unexpected mention of that dame was perilously like cold water to
my courage. But a little fortitude overcame my qualms.
“No need to appeal to the family, my lord,” I said, with arrogance; “I
don’t care fourpence for ’em, and never did. As for the dowager, my
aunt, I hate her; and I am indulging in great hopes that this miserable
match will make her very ill.”
“But, my dearest girl, I beseech you to condescend to a little reason.”
“Oh, if it comes to reason, sir,” I blithely reassured him, “I have
sufficient reason to advance with which to endow two sciences.”
“We’ll hear it, then, under your permission.”
“It’s simply that I love the man, my lord. He’s the finest lad you ever
saw; a person of tenacity and kindness, of sagacity and courage, of
simplicity and wit. He would die for me to-morrow, yet he would correct
me in an error, and have the magnanimity to forgive me for a crime.
In short, my lord, he is the very husband I’ve been pining for this
five-and-twenty years, and, my lord, let me tell you in confidence that
this is the husband that I am going to marry an I must burn Newgate
to the ground to achieve the consummation. He’s as sparkling as the
sunshine, and keen as the shrewd east wind.”
“But insufficient in his pedigree,” my lord groaned, and it was really
ridiculously piteous to witness his drawn white countenance.
“My dearest Bab,” says he, directly, and with a simple gentleness that
was appealing, “pray allow me to give you a little counsel. I pray you
for heaven’s sake dismiss this folly! I beg you to abstain from so
terrible an error.”
“Papa,” says I, curtly, “I have a chin.” And out I jutted it, and
dipped my forefinger in the dimple in it, which dimple is worth about
two thousand sighs a year, they tell me.
“Yes,” says his lordship, sadly, “you _have_ a chin. It was bequeathed
you by your late mamma. She was the celebrated lady who on one occasion
did box the ears of the Prince of Wales. I believe that on one or two
occasions also she interfered with mine. A very pearl of women, mind,
with the beauty of an angel, but she could be a domestic terror if she
chose.”
“But, my lord, I understand that if she so much as held her little
finger up, you were wonderful docile and obedient.”
“I was never guilty of the discourtesy of thwarting a woman in her
whims.”
“And in your age you will not be so, I am certain, else the world will
say you are arrived at your decrepitude,” I cunningly replied.
“You really think they will?” his lordship gasped.
“I am as certain of it as I am uncertain of my future state,” says
I, with fervour. “And if you order the chaise for twenty after six
to-morrow, you will catch the nine o’clock from York with ease.”
“’Tis horrible cold at that unseasonable hour these winter mornings,”
says the old man, nervously.
“The journey will do you more good than six physicians,” says I,
with the sturdiest conviction. “And when his Majesty receives so old
a friend, tears of joy will fill his eyes; and when he learns the
exceeding mercy of the errand that hath brought you, his compassion for
you will be such, that ’pon my soul I think he’ll weep upon your neck.
And I believe he’ll lend us the Royal Chapel to be married in. And
faith, my lord, what if he gave away the bride!”
The dear old gentleman, who never could find it in his heart to deny
us women anything, was visibly shaken by my ruddy eloquence and the
excited flashing of my eyes.
“But these winter mornings are most harsh towards us men of middle
age,” says he.
“My dear papa,” says I, “your years sit so neatly on you that it is
the height of affectation for you to claim the least infirmity. Now I
will see that you retire at nine o’clock this evening; I will have your
man prepare your baggage, and see that he puts a water-bottle in the
chaise. Leave everything to me, my dear papa, and depend upon it you
shall start for town at twenty after six to-morrow, as blithely as you
did upon your wedding morning. But, sir, there is one thing that you
must promise me: not a word to my most admirable aunt. A long course of
theology and smelling salts hath perverted the original poetry of her
soul.”
His lordship promised gallantly, but quite as much, I think, from a
fear of Lady Caroline as from his natural disposition to oblige me.
Having once wrung a kind of tottering consent from the old, reluctant
gentleman, I was at great pains to keep him to his word. I planned
everything relating to his journey with the greatest perspicacity and
promptitude, nor did I omit to advise his lordship of the fact. But
I had to confess to my private mind that my faith was not too great
in my ambassador, who, from age and his habit of indolence, might
not conduct my cause with a liveliness that would readily sway his
Majesty. Therefore I took a piece of paper and drew up the heads of
what I considered his behaviour ought to be in the presence of the
King, and hoped that as they were so explicitly recorded he would duly
follow them. The paper ran, I think, somewhat to this tenour: Obtain
audience after his Majesty hath dined, for the sake of his temper’s
condition--inquire after his health with concern--if it be strong
let your solicitude be quite visible; if it be weak tell him in a
hearty voice that you never saw him looking better in his life, and
that you never knew a doctor yet who was not a fool providing he was
not a rogue. Casually introduce the beauty and the amiability of his
children; if his Majesty attempt a jest laugh heartily, if he undertake
a story, do not by any chance have heard it previously, and encourage
him with your applause long before it culminates; if he adventure a
pun, flick forth your handkerchief to take away appreciative tears; if
he be glum, avoid theology and politics; if he offer snuff, accept the
most moderate of pinches (he is a Guelph, you know), and be horribly
careful that you do not drop a grain on the carpet or his breeches;
be charmed with the rarity and the beauty of the box, and if it prove
a present from the Queen comment on the chastity of her taste--if you
carry a better in your fob do not exhibit it; tell him casually that
your daughter Bab is devoted to him, and contrive to let him know what
the poets think about _her_ (even kings cannot withstand the devotion
of fair women)--tell him that she has five pictures of him to adorn
her chamber, then pave the way with compliments and caution for the
business of your visit.
I insisted on his lordship’s retiring that evening very early, and
after a pretty moderate potation. Having bribed his man to have his
master wound up and set in motion at an hour that astonished him, I
retired also. The following morning at the stroke of five I was in the
hands of Emblem, and a little later was personally superintending the
departure of my emissary. Long before my aunt appeared at eight o’clock
I had got my lord upon his journey.
You may divine with what impatience I awaited his return. I might be
distrustful of his years, but regarding the considerable figure that
he made at Court, and the power he wielded, I never entertained a
doubt. Besides, he had a tact quite wonderful in a man, and a power
of soft persuasion that was irresistible as a music. And I knew the
dear good soul to be devoted to me, and incapable of thwarting my most
unreasonable whims.
An intolerable fortnight passed before my lord was back again. He had
hardly time to doff his travelling suit ere I was besieging him with my
anxious questions. But it was very sad news he brought me.
“My dear child,” he told me, tenderly, “I wish to spare you all pain
that is unnecessary, but I regret to say that there is really nothing
to be done. His Majesty refused to see me.”
“His Majesty refused to see you!” I cried out. His words had put a
pitiful commotion in my heart.
“Unhappily,” he says, “these Yorkshire irregularities of ours have by
some means become the property of the town, and the whole family is in
terrible disgrace; and, I might add, would have been in some degree of
peril but for the merciful recovery of the rebel.”
“Indeed,” says I, inconsequently, and then observed a miserable silence
for a while.
“You see, my poor dear child,” the old worldling said, “one cannot hope
to plunge one’s finger in the smoking pie of politics without getting
that finger burned. I am very sorry for you, child, but I can no more
save your friend than I can sway the eternal forces.”
“Have you seen the Parliament men, my lord, Walpole, Harley, and the
rest?”
“Yes; and quite against their several inclinations,” he replied. “They
felt it to be highly indiscreet to receive one who was out of favour.
As for lending their assistance, I can assure you, child, that they
know their business better.”
“How monstrous of them!” I broke out; “set of water-blooded wretches,
who will not help their friends!”
“Ah, but we are not their friends now; we are out of favour.” The
ancient courtier said this lightly, but I knew that his heart was
groaning. He had passed his gay years bathed in the sunshine of
applause and popularity; it was bitter that his end should be a dark
night of contumely and neglect. Nothing could be more cruel or more
wounding to this polished and successful man of fashion. Yet it amazed
me to see how finely he took these rebuffs of fortune. His courage sat
on him like a shining suit of mail. It filled my heart with tears to
witness such cheerful bravery in the aged and the infirm.
“Well, papa,” says I, turning to speech as a remedy against the
weakness that strove to so insidiously reduce me, “I have sworn to save
young Anthony, and never yet have I proved unequal to my word.”
“’Tis never too late to create a precedent,” says the Earl, “nor to
enjoy a new experience. I have lived many years, but it is not until
to-day that I have tasted the coldness of the world.”
“I have always averred, you know,” says I, with misfortune spurring me
to my customary petulance; “that these sauer-kraut chewing boors from
Hanover have no more breeding than a certain native beastliness that
enables them to become like pigs, offensive to creatures of a nicer
mind. But, after all, wit is the superior of power; and if I cannot
find a means whereby to thwart ’em, I must be content to lose the only
husband I ever can accept. I will start for town to-morrow morning.”
“No, don’t do that,” says his lordship, hastily; “I am sure it will be
very ill advised. Pray wait until this cloud is over blown. You are
too much of a butterfly, my pretty lady, not to discover the shade
exceeding cruel to endure. You will find London very blighting, I
assure you.”
But I was unheedful, and the more particularly when I was told that
poor Anthony had undergone his trial already, and that at that hour he
lay in Newgate under extreme sentence, which awaited execution on the
24th of May.
It was now the 2nd of that month. It will thus be seen how little time
there was to lose. Three weeks and a day were left in which to procure
his deliverance; not by any means too adequate a period in which to
accomplish so involved a deed, even had I had the ghost of an idea as
to the manner of its consummation.
To remain at Cleeby the slave of despair and bitterness would certainly
be fatal to my lover; therefore, quitting my dubious papa, I hied
immediately to Emblem and bade her pack my baggage. On the morrow I was
speeding to the south, evolving as I went all sorts of mad schemes in
my brain for the achievement of so desperate an end.