The fact that at nineteen Giles Vernon was still only a midshipman made me think that he was without fortune or influence; but I was soon enlightened on the subject, though not by him. He was the distant cousin and heir of Sir Thomas Vernon of Vernon Court, near York, and of Grosvenor Square, London. This man was generally spoken of as the wicked Sir Thomas, and a mortal hatred subsisted between him and his heir. Giles had been caught trying to induce the money sharks to take his post-obits; but as Sir Thomas was not yet fifty years of age, and it was quite possible that he should marry, the only result was to fan the flame of animosity between him and his heir, without Giles’ getting a shilling. The next heir to Giles was another cousin, remote from both him and Sir Thomas, one Captain Philip Overton of the Guards, who was as much disliked by Sir Thomas as was Giles. Giles, who had been at sea since his twelfth year, knew little or nothing of Captain Overton, although he swore many times in a month that he meant to marry the first woman who would take him, for the purpose of cutting off Overton’s hopes; but it occurred to me, young as I was, that Giles was not the man to give up his liberty to the first woman who was willing to accept of it.
We were fitting for the Mediterranean, and the ship lay in the inner harbor at Portsmouth, waiting her turn to go in dry dock to be coppered. There was plenty for the seniors to do, but not much for the midshipmen at that particular time; and we had more runs on shore than usual. The rest of us were satisfied with Portsmouth, but Giles was always raving of London and the London playhouses.
Knowing how long I had lived in London, he said to me one day,—
“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.”