17. CHAPTER XVII.
Here ends my tale. We have no longer an interest
to follow the fortunes of the personages who have
been brought to view in this motlied narrative of
trivial and tragic events. A brief memorandum will
tell all that remains to gratify the inquiries of my
readers.
After the crossings of fortune which we have read
in the history of Albert and Blanche, we may presume
the time, at last, came for the current of true
love to run smooth as a glassy lake. The next festival
at the Rose Croft found father Pierre in a prominent
official position, and the maiden a blooming
bride upon the arm of the happy Secretary.
The worldly wise will be pleased, perhaps, to learn
that, after some most liberal appropriations to charitable
uses, by way of purification of the more than
doubtful uncleanness of the Cripple's wealth, Albert
fell heir to no small hoard; and this gear, as it was
generously distributed in acts of hospitality and
bounty to the poor, we would fain hope the straitest
casuist will allow, was not unjustly taken by the
Secretary,—his title to it resting upon the will of
William Weatherby, which was produced in due
time by father Pierre.
As to the conspirators, they were losers in every
way. First the Buccaneer and his Brigantine came
not to their rescue; and secondly, the trials proceeded
without interruption. Josias Fendall was
fined in a very heavy sum, and imprisoned at the
pleasure of the Proprietary. His brother and John
Coode, from some apprehension of rousing too keenly
the popular grudge, were more mildly dealt with.
George Godfrey was sentenced to death, but finding
favour upon the petition of his wife, had his punishment
commuted into a rigorous confinement in the
gaol of St. Mary's.
What became of the other confederates of Coode
and Fendall, the records do not inform us; but we
may infer that the dominant party in the province
felt their authority too slender to prosecute them
with much severity—
“They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon.”
Touching our unfortunate friend of “the gentle
craft,” the warlike corporal, history happens to have
embalmed his memory with the unction of a favourite,
and to have consigned him to the notice of posterity
with a distinctness of fame that would, if he
could have contemplated it, have almost made him,
in spite of his miseries, in love with rebellion. I find
in the proceedings of the council, in the month of
March following these events, the “the humble petition”
of Edward Abbott, a “poor, distressed, and
sorrowful penitent,” who most dolorously complains of
his insufferable confinement, meekly confessing his
sins, and affirming, by way of extenuation, that, in
the commission of them, “he was so much in drink
that he did not remember any thing either what was
done or spoken at the time.” And to this petition is
appended the following entry,—
“The petitioner making his submission in open
court, upon his knees begging pardon for his offence,
the Justices are ordered to wave sentence passing
against him, his Lordship having granted his pardon.”
And so, gentle reader, good night! We part, I
would even indulge the hope, but for a short period;
after which we may find motive to look again into
the little city and renew our acquaintance.
THE END.
