Recollections of a chaperon

Warenne at first read over this letter from his brother with pleasure, and natural delight at the increased prosperity of his friends, but a second perusal of it filled him with anxiety and doubt. Was there not now an insuperable barrier raised against his pretensions to Adelaide? If indeed he had made known his passion, it were not impossible that a woman with her nobleness of spirit might only regard the addition to her fortune as a means of increasing their mutual happiness. But could he with honour ask her hand for the first time under these changed circumstances? Must he not appear to her, and to the world, a contemptible fortune hunter, who could live in her society for weeks, and find her only worthy of attention when she became an heiress?

“O, Frank!” cried he aloud, as he paced his room despondingly, “your gay letter is a bitter one to me. I must learn to tread in the dust the bright visions fancy had formed; to crush my aspiring hopes, and with blighted prospects, and a broken heart, to banish myself from that sweet presence in which I would fain have passed my days—but better that, than dishonour. There is no spot as yet on my name, and I will not now sully it. Yes, the die is cast, I will rejoin my regiment.”

Though Warenne thus briefly settled the part which it became him to act in this emergency, it cost him many an hour of bitter anguish before he could carry his resolution into effect. He had never really loved before, and he now loved with his whole soul; it seemed to him as if his love was an essential portion of his existence, and that to tear it from his breast was almost to destroy within him the principle of vitality. He wrote however to Frank, to say that he should join him in a few days; went to the Horse Guards to inquire if they projected any alteration in the quarters of his regiment (for Calbury was not a town in which troops were usually stationed), or had any orders for him with respect to their particular employment; and called on Lord Framlingham to inform him of his determination.

The old Lord received him with much civility, but, as it appeared to Warenne, with less than his usual cordiality. There was also a degree of earnestness in the manner in which he encouraged him to quit town immediately, and assured him that government had received accounts of a very unpleasant spirit pervading the neighbourhood of Calbury.

Warenne could not help perceiving that his absence was desired. In truth, Lord Framlingham, immediately upon Adelaide’s increase of fortune, had begun to renew the views of aggrandisement which he had reluctantly laid aside; and, conceiving that Warenne might very possibly prove an impediment to the success of his schemes, he sincerely wished him out of the way. It was not, perhaps, strictly consonant with the gratitude he professed towards Warenne for his kindness to Henry to repel attentions which he had hitherto tacitly encouraged; but, in his anxiety to accomplish his purposes with respect to Adelaide, he did not much regard her lover’s feelings, and certainly assumed not a delicacy which he did not possess.

Warenne was intensely hurt by Lord Framlingham’s manner. Was he already deemed an intruder? It was indeed time for him to depart; he would only see Adelaide once again, and bid her farewell for ever.

The travellers returned; and Henry, having heard from his father of Warenne’s determination to rejoin the regiment, proceeded immediately to his lodgings to propose their quitting London together, his own leave of absence being on the point of expiring.

After their first greetings were over, and Henry had had time for closer observation, he was much struck with an appearance of ill-health, and with a degree of severity of manner in Warenne; he loved him, however, too sincerely, and respected him too highly, to venture a remark on the change that had occurred. He at once entered upon the object of his visit, and soon concluded an arrangement for their travelling together to Calbury; then, thinking it probable Warenne in his present state of mind would rather be alone, he begged him to call in Charles Street the following morning, to see him and Adelaide, who was not, he said, so afflicted by the loss of her godmother, with whom she had never lived, as to shut the door upon old friends; and with an affectionate pressure of the hand wished him good-b’ye.

Warenne shook the offered hand, accepted the invitation, stood for a moment after his departure with a bewildered air, then hurried forth to occupy his attention with professional avocations,—for he durst not give way to the feelings that invitation had awakened, or to reflect in solitude on the impending wretchedness of the morrow.

The morrow came, and about the hour Henry had mentioned as that at which his sister would probably receive him Warenne found himself in Charles Street. Henry was alone in the drawing-room when he entered; but in a few minutes Adelaide joined them. She had scarcely recovered from the anxiety occasioned by the melancholy scenes she had so lately witnessed, and was pale and languid, but the snowy whiteness of her brow accorded well with the serious expression of her countenance, and poor Warenne thought he had never seen her look so lovely. She received him kindly; for, satisfied that he loved her, she saw no reason for controlling the natural impulse of her heart; and for some little time the whole party conversed on the events which had taken place without hesitation, if not with cheerfulness. After a while, Henry, who shrewdly suspected the state of his sister’s and of his friend’s affections, found some excuse for quitting the room, and requesting Warenne to await his return left him with Adelaide. The conversation flagged—presently ceased altogether—Warenne, firm to his purpose (but, much as that purpose had already cost him, knowing not until this instant the utter misery he was about to entail upon himself) could not bring himself to speak. Adelaide’s spirits had not regained their usually cheerful flow, and their depression was increased by his manifest uneasiness. The awkwardness of their situation each moment became greater; at length Warenne, making an effort, in a hurried manner uttered some common-place remark on an indifferent subject. Adelaide gave the necessary assent, and again there was silence. He made a second and a third attempt, but with no better success. He now grew confused, and spoke at random upon every topic which presented itself to his over-excited mind, until Adelaide, who could not but recollect the very different manner in which their last interview had concluded, knew not what to think. As she looked, however, on his flushed cheek and unsteady eye that would not meet her’s, a suspicion of the truth flashed across her mind. Could it be that he had formed so unworthy an opinion of her as to conceive that her affections could be influenced by her accession of fortune?—a moment’s reflection assured her that his generous nature would spurn the thought; yet how, since she knew not that her father had almost turned him from his door, was she to interpret his behaviour? She was hurt, and angry with him, and even, as by degrees she obtained a clearer insight into his feelings, could not altogether divest herself of indignation, though she pitied his sufferings. He might, she thought, if he really loved her, sacrifice for her sake his fantastic notions of honour—for so they then seemed to her,—and let her decide for herself whether or not she thought his hand worth acceptance. She became colder and more formal, until at length Warenne, unable to endure any longer her altered looks and his own excessive wretchedness, hastily left the room in the full conviction that he had injured himself in her esteem, and caused her to think ill of him by the very course which, at the price of his own happiness, he had deemed it his duty to pursue.

A few days afterwards, Henry and Warenne quitted London for Calbury.

CHAPTER V.

The state of the agricultural population around Calbury, at the time of the return of the two friends to their regiment, was by no means such, in outward appearance at least, as to justify the apprehensions which, according to Lord Framlingham, were entertained by the government. The greater demand for labour, and the consequent increase of wages, which the summer had occasioned, seemed to have extinguished the stormy passions kindled by cold, hunger, and compulsory idleness.

The country itself looked bright and gay, and the fields with their rich crops of corn gave promise of plenty, comfort, and tranquillity. Warenne was tempted to hope that the fear of disturbance was ill-founded, and that the symptoms of insubordination, on which it was grounded, had arisen from a temporary pressure, which was past and would not recur. The first hours after their arrival were dedicated to the inspection of the troops, the order and discipline of which were highly commended, to Frank’s infinite delight.

This necessary duty concluded, the two brothers and Henry retired to Warenne’s apartments, and Warenne called on Frank to give some account of his proceedings during the time he had held the command of the regiment.

“Why, I have had but a dullish séjour in this place, I must say,” replied Frank; “my chief occupation has been to preserve my dignity; and, if it were not that once or twice I have been seduced into a smile by the earnest admiration of sundry blue and black eyes which encounter me in my perambulations, I should say I had succeeded admirably. People assert that the labourers in the neighbourhood are discontented; but I cannot say that I perceive it. I see them on a Sunday as happy as beer and love can make them. They are not refined, perhaps, in their mode of carrying on the war; and the fastidious might think it unsentimental at least, if not indecorous, in the women, to wait round the doors of the public-houses, and take possession of the men as they come forth red with beer, and reeking with tobacco; but I am above such prejudices, and have no doubt that the rogues enjoy life extremely.”

“Have you observed no signs of an evil spirit abroad in other quarters?” interrupted Warenne.

“Faith, none,” rejoined Frank, “unless you deem such the curious specimens of division of labour which have been displayed here lately by the beggars and trampers. In former times, it was thought that one man might sell, if not make, many bundles of matches. Now, it is no uncommon thing for two men to be occupied in the sale of one bundle; in the same way, generally speaking, there are two to hawk one boot lace, and always two to buy a hare skin or a rabbit skin. Then, again, there are always two sailors, who have been ship-wrecked together, and saved together, and who have preserved from the wreck precisely the same things, viz. a very clean white shirt and white pair of trowsers, and for whom therefore one story serves when they ask your charity. I never in my life saw such a number of these vagabonds as now, and they beg in a tone which, in a bye-place, can hardly fail to alarm women, if not men. Seriously speaking, Gerald, though it may to you sound foolish to say so, I do not know what to make of these fellows; I cannot understand how they all exist, unless they have some secret mode of obtaining a livelihood, different from the ostensible one. I don’t half like them, and I do not think my better genius, Nanny Rudd, is more pleased with them than I am.”

“Who the devil is Nanny Rudd, Frank?” said Henry.

“Not to know Nanny,” continued Frank, “argues yourself unknown. She is the most important personage in the town, in the eyes at least of all the little boys and girls who play about its public walks. She is the queen of heart-cakes, and bulls-eyes, et l’objet de mes plus tendres amours. Do not be frightened, Gerald—she is a dear blind old Irish beggar-woman, the widow of a man of the name of Rudd, whose brother keeps that little ale-house, the Rose and Crown, as you enter the town by the London road.

“Rudd was a private in the Guards, and went with them to Egypt under Abercromby, where he was wounded and died. She accompanied him thither, and nursed him till his death. She afterwards herself unfortunately caught the ophthalmia, and lost both her eyes. The officers and men, with whom she was a great favourite, brought her carefully to England, and by her own wish settled her in this place among her husband’s relations. She lives now on a small pension with her brother-in-law, who is very kind to her, and she ekes out her little modicum by the sale of her cakes.”

“But what can a blind old woman know of the state of the country, or how does it happen that she is a friend of yours?” interrupted Henry.

“You are so impatient, Henry,” replied Frank, “you would know every thing, and the reasons thereof at once; but I shall not spoil the story of my best adventure during your absence, to satisfy your impetuous curiosity. Il faut toujours commencer au commencement. You must hear the narrative of our first introduction, or you close my lips for ever on the subject of Nanny Rudd; for if there is an action in the course of my military career of which I am proud, it is the deed of ‘derring do,’ as Ivanhoe would have called it, which first won me her esteem.”

“Come, be quick then,” said Henry, laughing; “when, how, and where did you meet with this wondrous lady?”

“More questions! Henry? you are positively incorrigible! Our first acquaintance was on this wise: a parcel of young urchins were playing on the walk where she usually sits with her basket, and one of them attempted to obtain some of her tartlets without going through the necessary form of paying for them. Nanny, who hears like a mole, made a dash at the young rogue, just as he had his hand in the basket, and seizing him with a hand of iron began to thrash him well with her stick, reproving him at the same time for his misconduct with a considerable flow of military eloquence. The other boys came to the rescue. Nanny kept her hold, and brandished her stick. Their charge, however, was not to be resisted; they released their companion, gained possession of the basket, from which Nanny had wandered in the struggle, and were retiring triumphant, when I reached the field.

“In an instant I flew to the succour of the discomfited fair, routed her insulting foes, and recovered for her her (empty) basket. Cæsar would have said, Veni, vidi, vici! I then led her to her old seat, and having given her half-a-crown was taking my departure, in order to enjoy in solitude the satisfaction of having exhibited both valour and generosity, when she said to me in her own sweet accents,—

“‘I’ll sit a bit, your honour, and catch my wind; them little blackguards blowed me;—and then I’ll go home. I’ll never draw a halfpenny the whole day, unless I bait my basket with a cake.’ I asked her if I could assist her on the road. ‘No, no; thank you all the same,’ continued she; ‘but if you’d just tell me who your own self is, that comed in the nick of time to presarve me from them childer, I’d be obliged to you. You are a soldier by your step—I can tell that as well as if I saw you; and an officer by the softness of your voice and the delicacy, not to say iligance, of your expressions.’ Mark you that, Henry. I told her my name, rank, &c. and we parted. The next day I came to inquire after her health, and we had a long gossip together about her own dear country, since which I have paid her a visit almost every day, and I flatter myself have entirely won her heart. ‘Captain Warenne,’ said she to me the other day, ‘I like you; you are always very kind to me, and can always find time to spake a word or two to me, which is more than many will do to the like of me. You are a soldier, too. I loves a soldier. I wish you had been fut, for fut’s more natural to me; but all can’t be fut, and I’ll never forget you if I can do you a good turn.’”

“Your Nanny is charming,” interrupted Henry; “and having heard her opinion of you, I am really anxious to know what she thinks of the beggars who have moved your spleen.”

“She entertains little doubt,” answered Frank, “that they are the emissaries of some evil-disposed parties in the country, and the medium of communication between different districts and the metropolis; and her conclusions are drawn from the remarks which she has heard fall from the labourers and mechanics in this town, with whom her brother’s alehouse is a favourite place of resort.”

“Indeed,” said Warenne; “and does she think that they are likely to produce a disturbance?”

“She certainly does,” replied Frank; “for about three or four days ago, when I paid her a visit, she bade me be cautious not to be seen talking to her. ‘I sits,’ said she, ‘in my brother’s chimney-corner of an evening, with my bit duddeen; and because I’m blind, folks believe I can’t hear. There’ll be a row after harvest, or Nanny’s a liar; but your honour shall know in time. A’n’t I a soldier’s widow, and bound to keep the peace? I’ll just reconnoitre the ground for you cleverly; but you must not be seen spaking to me daily, or I’ll be suspected. You can drop past me as you go to see your men at the Boot of a morning; and, if the coast is clear, say ‘Good morrow, Nanny;’ you would go to your men natural like, and then I can asy tell you if I have larnt any news, without putting it into men’s heads that I’m thick at head-quarters.’”

Warenne recommended Frank to keep up his acquaintance with Nanny Rudd, observing that it was only by employing every, even the humblest means in their power of obtaining an insight into the actual condition of the country that they could hope to preserve tranquillity. His long acquaintance with a disturbed district had taught him that very frequently a little circumstance would better indicate the real spirit of a population than their actions, as a feather or a straw thrown into the air will more readily point out the direction of a current of wind than any more ponderous body.

Warenne now turned his attention to the magistracy in the town and neighbourhood, and sought every opportunity of mixing in their society; in which endeavour Henry and Frank were both of much use to him; the former from the position in which he stood as brother to the heiress of Epworth and the latter from his having, during the summer, by his gay off-hand manner, and happy disposition, made himself a welcome guest at many houses in the vicinity. To the different persons of influence he suggested the advantage of arranging a constabulary force, upon the system of a noble lord in a neighbouring county, and the propriety of their previously fixing on some definite plan of action, in case the apprehensions of the government for the repose of the country should be realized.

It is a very difficult thing to give advice; and all people hate it, unless they have decided on their line of conduct; in which case they have, generally speaking, no objection to prove the superiority of their own views on the subject to those of their advisers. Warenne, however, was so mild, so gentle in manner, so entirely free from all appearance of dictation, so ready to listen, so well informed on all points, and so practical in his measures, that he succeeded in effecting the preparations he desired. By the time harvest was over his precautions were completed.

At this period, Adelaide and her father were daily expected at Epworth, and Warenne’s heart sunk within him at the thought of being again thrown into her society, now that their relative position was so changed; but he was not permitted to dwell long upon this topic without interruption.

CHAPTER VI.

The head-quarters of the —— Dragoons were, as we have seen, at Calbury; two or three troops being stationed in the surrounding villages. An order now arrived from the Horse Guards, directing that one troop should be sent to Fisherton, a town about forty miles distant, near the sea-coast, and that a second should be placed in some situation, as nearly as possible midway between Fisherton and Calbury, in order to preserve a ready communication between these two extreme points.

To delegate to another a duty incumbent on himself was not consistent with Warenne’s character. He immediately sent forward his servant with horses, and on the following morning himself started at an early hour, to ascertain the best mode of carrying into effect the instructions which he had received. His intentions were to examine the locale of Fisherton, and, as far as he could, to discover the disposition and pursuits of the surrounding population, so that if any disturbance should arise there, he might be competent to act with decision.

He found Fisherton a large straggling town, with some appearance of wealth, arising from its communication with the seaport of D——, by means of the river Swale, irregularly built, though nearly divided into four equal quarters by the London and coast roads, which crossed each other about its centre. As he entered by the former of these roads, the place presented on either side an imposing row of goodly houses; he could perceive, however, that this fair show was limited to the principal streets. On looking down the smaller streets, or rather passages (for they were passable only by pedestrians) which branched off from the highway, he could distinguish nothing beyond the ordinary cottages of labourers and mechanics. On the banks of the river might be seen warehouses and cranes, and other signs of trade, but nowhere else: the rest of the town bore an ambiguous character, and it was difficult to determine whether its prosperity depended on commerce or agriculture.

Warenne rode into the yard of the principal inn, which occupied one of the angles caused by the junction of the roads, and had large gates opening into each of them, intending to establish himself there for the night. Having put up his horses, he quickly sought an opportunity of conversing with the landlord, in the hope of extracting from him some information relative to the state of society in the immediate environs of Fisherton.

The communications of the worthy Boniface were any thing but satisfactory. He assured Warenne that the labourers in the neighbourhood, for ten miles round, were a bad set at the best of times; many of them professional smugglers—all of them occasionally engaged in running goods; and that, at the moment in which he was speaking, they were in a state of great discontent and irritation from the distress incidental to the existing depression of wages.

“I’m sure, I hope,” said mine host, sufficiently animated by the theme to draw one hand out of his breeches-pocket, and extend it in an emphatic manner, “that they won’t break out, for if they do, it will be an awful business. The exciseman what lodges at my house, tells me that they are afraid of nothing, and care for nothing; and then they have such means of letting one another know when any thing is a-foot. Lord bless you, sir, if there’s a smuggling vessel makes a signal off the coast at dusk, by twelve at night there are a thousand people collected near the shore to run the goods, and they laugh at the Preventive Service.”

Warenne was inclined to suspect, that the account given by his landlord of the numbers and desperation of the people engaged in these lawless pursuits might be exaggerated. There was, however, evidently enough of truth in the report to make him wish to send another troop to Fisherton. But his orders were positive; and the officer appointed to the chief command of the district was one from whom he could not expect to obtain an alteration of them. He was a man well known in the army for his wrong-headed obstinacy, and pertinacious regard to the minutiæ of military discipline. It was also said of him, that having been in India during the time of the Peninsular war, and therefore without opportunity of distinguishing himself in any European campaign, he had a mean jealousy of those who had served in Portugal and Spain, and was disposed to treat them with captiousness, when they had the misfortune to be employed under him. Warenne determined, nevertheless, to write to General Mapleton a respectful request to be permitted to increase the force at Fisherton.

He had been walking round the town, and was entering the inn-yard by the London gateway, when almost at the same moment a gentleman, on a remarkably neat well-bred cob, rode in from the coast road. As they encountered each other, the new visiter, who was a fresh-coloured fair man, of about his own age, dressed in sporting costume, looked at him earnestly. The countenance was familiar to him, but he could not recollect where he had seen it. He was in the act of having recourse to the landlord, for the purpose of ascertaining its owner, when the gentleman himself, having more quickly obtained his master’s address from Warenne’s servant, came up to him, and claimed his acquaintance.

“Warenne; how are you? You forget me, I dare say, for it is a long time since we last met; but I remembered you the moment I saw you, though I could not give you a name without the assistance of John there. Do you not recollect Jack Nicholas, at Dame Twyford’s, just over Barn’s Pool Bridge, at Eton?”

Warenne immediately recalled to mind a heavy, good-natured boy of that name, who resisted every attempt made by his tutor to instil into his brain any classical lore, but who was an expert fisherman, and not a bad foot-ball player.

Nicholas continued, “What are you doing in this place? You had much better come over and dine with us. My father lives little more than five miles from the town, and will give you a hearty welcome. Do come, we can give you a bed. Well, certainly, I never thought of meeting you to-day. How lucky it was I rode over to take a look at the fish-market! I have got the nicest brill, too.”

Warenne replied that he really should have been happy to accept his invitation, but that his horses were tired with their day’s work, and that he was obliged to leave Fisherton at a very early hour on the following morning.

“Oh! I can arrange all these matters,” said Nicholas. “You shall have the landlord’s own nag, and a very clever one it is, I can tell you—few better. And if you must be off so early to-morrow, you can return here to-night; though if you would stay all night with us we should like it better, and I would ride over with you in the morning. I shall most probably come here, for to-morrow is the day when our magistrates hold their weekly sessions; and if I have nothing else to do, I usually attend to hear the news. That’s a good fellow; you will come, I see. I’ll call for you in ten minutes, as soon as I have seen that our cart takes the brill.”

Warenne, having obtained a loan of the landlord’s horse, was ready to join Nicholas on his return from the fish-market. They quitted the town by the coast road, which for rather more than a mile proceeded in a south-easterly direction. It then bent more to the southward, when they quitted it, and proceeded along a narrow lane, with high hedges on each side, keeping the same course as the portion of the road over which they had already travelled. There was not here much opportunity for observation; and Warenne, willingly diverting his thoughts from the disagreeable lucubrations to which his landlord’s discourse had given rise, entered unreservedly into conversation with his old schoolfellow. He answered Nicholas’s questions concerning his different campaigns, and in return sought to extract from him the history of his past and present life.

“You went,” said he, “to Oxford, if I recollect rightly, after you left Eton?”

“Yes, I did,” answered Nicholas, “and I liked it much; it just suited me. I hardly ever attended a lecture; and I kept three very clever hunters in full work—but it was too happy a state to last. The old Dean of Christchurch, when I had been there little more than a year, gave me a hint which I might not misinterpret, that I had better see the world; and my father made me travel through Scotland and Ireland, which was all the world Buonaparte would let a man see in those days, unless he turned soldier and went to Spain. This was dull work, though every now and then I got some good fishing, and once or twice some capital grouse-shooting; so I returned home as quickly as I could, and have been living with my father here at the Plashetts (for that’s the name of our place) ever since. I have four as nice hunters as you ever saw, and get plenty of shooting and trout-fishing, without going a yard off his manors; so I make it out pretty well. If it happens any day that I neither hunt, fish, nor shoot, I trot over to Fisherton to see what fish there is in the market.”

Warenne smiled at the complacency with which Nicholas reviewed his useless life. “Are you not a magistrate?” inquired he.

“No,” replied his friend, “they wished to make me one, but I have refused myself to every application on the subject. There is no fun in being interrupted at all hours of the day by a pack of greasy fellows, making complaints against each other for assaults in their drunken squabbles overnight; nor in being condemned to sit from eleven o’clock to six one day in every week, to hear the idle blackguards of the neighbouring parishes abuse their overseers. No, thank you, said I, I am not going to be one of your ‘glorious unpaid,’ with the press firing into me for every little mistake I might make, and never giving me credit for the sacrifice of my time and comfort; I know better.”

By this time the character of the road had undergone some change. The hedges had disappeared, and instead of the narrow trough, if I may so term it, in which they had been travelling, wherein their view was limited to the hot sun and clear sky above them, they had now, on either side, a broad strip of waste land, beyond which to the north lay a large extent of wild low brushwood; while to the south there were some newly inclosed fields. Presently all signs of arable cultivation ceased, and they came out on a wide common. Just at this point the road bent rather more to the southward, and the line of brushwood going off from it nearly at right angles and then sweeping round to the east, till it joined some large trees, formed a sort of boundary to the waste.

“Mark this corner of the brushwood,” said Nicholas, “that you may not miss your way as you return to-night; for we now leave the road, and cross the common to those trees where the brushwood closes in again. The Plashetts lie very nearly due east of Fisherton, and the carriage road is a mile round. From those trees there is an avenue leading directly to the house.”

Warenne took due note of the bearings of the ground, and they proceeded. When they had passed over a considerable portion of the common, the turf, which hitherto had been soft and swampy, became firm; and Warenne, whose powers of observation had been called into play by Nicholas’s late caution, remarked that it bore signs of having been much trodden.

“Have you had a fair here, or races?” asked he of Nicholas.

“No,” was the reply; “the sheep, I believe, keep unmolested possession of the common from year’s end to year’s end. But why do you inquire?”

Warenne simply answered that the grass appeared trampled, and turned the conversation. They soon reached the Plashetts; and Nicholas, the elder, greeted his son’s friend with a hearty welcome. He was a cheerful, light-hearted old gentleman, and the evening passed pleasantly, if not gaily.

About ten o’clock Warenne remounted his horse, and at a gentle pace began to retrace his road to Fisherton. The moon was just rising, but it was a cloudy night, and a sharp south-wester blew directly in his face. As he entered the avenue he could not help recalling to mind the state of the grass on the firmer part of the common; his reflections upon it caused him some anxiety. He had never, he thought, seen ground so trodden, but on places where soldiers were drilled and exercised. Could it be that there was truth in the report which he had heard, that the labourers held nightly meetings for the purpose of training themselves to the use of arms? As the idea presented itself, he hugged the trees to the southward more closely, so as to envelope himself completely in their shade. Presently he fancied that he heard in the wind the sounds of steps and voices. He stopped, and listened with attention, and soon became certain of the fact; they seemed however to proceed from persons at some distance. He advanced slowly, trusting to the wind to drown the noise of his horse’s hoofs. Again he stopped,—the sounds reached him more plainly. Using now still greater caution, he pushed forward towards the edge of the common, and he there beheld the realisation of his worst fears.

By the light of the moon, which fell fully and clearly on the open space, he saw a considerable body of men, marching backwards and forwards, dividing and subdividing themselves, then reuniting again; in a word, going through a regular system of drill, though not perhaps with military exactness. He watched them for some time, endeavouring to ascertain their number, &c. &c. till he conceived it likely that they would soon disperse.

It then became a question with him, how he himself should proceed. He was unwilling to return to the Plashetts, and alarm its inmates by acquainting them with the true reason of his return. He could not cross the common, for in that case he should have to pass through the very centre of the persons collected; he dared not to await the breaking up of their assemblage, lest some of the men should come upon him in their way to their cottages, which of course lay scattered about in every direction. He did not hesitate long; he remembered that a few hundred yards back he had passed three or four large single trees, which stood out on the broad glade between the two lines of elms which formed the avenue, making, as it were, a gate to the pass. To that point he quickly retraced his steps, and seizing a moment when the moon was obscured, crossed to the opposite side of the avenue; then forcing his horse into the brushwood, he made his way through it in the direction of the lane he had travelled in the morning, and continued his course, carefully avoiding too near an approach to the exterior of the wood which was lighted up by the moon, until he reached the hedge which separated it from the road. There, thinking himself safe, or at all events at too great a distance from the men at exercise to be discovered, he dragged his horse through the fence, and, remounting him, galloped as quickly as he could to Fisherton.

CHAPTER VII.

The insight which this adventure gave Colonel Warenne into the real state of the country induced him to alter his plans. Instead of setting off for Calbury at an early hour the following morning, he determined that it would be more advisable for him to remain at Fisherton for the greater part of the day, in order to see Nicholas, and put him on his guard, and also to obtain through him some acquaintance with the magistrates, who were about to meet there on that day, and who were those to whom he must look for co-operation, in the event of any commotion.

About eleven o’clock the next day, Nicholas rode into Fisherton, and was surprised to find Warenne still at the inn.

“What, not off yet?” said he, “you might as well have slept at the Plashetts; our beds are as well aired as those of mine host here.”

Warenne requested him to come to his room, and recounted to him what he had seen on the preceding night. Nicholas was startled, if not alarmed, at hearing of such preparations for tumult in his own immediate vicinity.

“What is to be done?” said he, “it is extremely disagreeable! My poor sisters will be frightened out of their wits. Cannot some means be found to put a stop to such proceedings?”

Warenne doubted whether an attempt to prevent the meetings would not have the effect of setting the people on their guard, without deterring them from their purpose, and was rather inclined to watch them, so as in some measure to discover their intentions, when it might be easy to baffle them.

“If, indeed,” said he, “we knew what grievances pressed most heavily upon the labourers, we might, by relieving them, be able to repress the disposition to riot, and escape the necessity of having recourse to coercion.”

“One need not go far to find their grievances,” interrupted Nicholas; “the poor fellows are not half paid; the farmers only give them wages enough to keep body and soul together, and whatsoever else they require for the maintenance of their families, is made up to them by the parish, in proportion to the number of their children. Thus they are, every one of them, made paupers; and the consequence is they work as paupers. The farmers quarrel with them for their idleness, and the overseers devise schemes for making them earn, as they term it, the pittance they allow them. About a fortnight ago, as I passed through Oathampstead, I saw a man marching fifteen or twenty others up and down the village; and on my inquiring the reason of this proceeding, I was told that the men were out of regular employ, and that the overseer, resolving that they should do something for their money, had given one of them, who was a militia man, a pot of beer to act as corporal over the rest, and drill them. They will have enough of the drilling system now, I reckon.”

“Could you put an end to such fatal mistakes as these,” Warenne resumed, “you would do more to quell the turbulent spirit, of which I fear we shall soon see some melancholy indications, than if you were to quarter a regiment of soldiers in each village. But now you must give me some information on another point. What magistrate had I better apply to in case of a disturbance in this neighbourhood? Who will be most disposed to act in concert with me, and assist me in repressing it?”

“Oh, I know who is the best man for you,” answered Nicholas—“at least in my opinion; Charley Seaforth: but you shall judge for yourself, if you will wait a quarter of an hour. The magistrates meet in the old ball-room of the inn here at twelve; we will get our friend the landlord to admit us first into the gallery, where the musicians sit when there is a ball, and make our observations; after which we can descend, and I will introduce you to any or all of the bench, as you please.”

Warenne gladly acceded to his friend’s proposal, and they were soon seated in the orchestra Nicholas had described, which, though at the opposite end of the room to that at which the magistrates sat, was yet sufficiently near to them to enable its inmates to hear all that was going on. The magistrates recognised Nicholas as one of the intruders upon their deliberations, and did not attempt to drive him from the position he had taken up. The business of the day speedily commenced, to which Warenne gave his most earnest attention. As occasions arose he whispered the result of his observations to Nicholas.

“I like your chairman,” said he; “he is a clear-headed, sensible man; but I fear he is too old to take an active part in putting down a riot.”

“There is not a better magistrate or man in England,” whispered Nicholas in return; “but, as you say, he is past fast work, to say nothing of the gout to which he is a martyr. Make him but fifty again, and he would be with you, I warrant, go where you will, or do what you will; he is out of the question now. You must choose between three I will point out to you: that fellow, the tall, athletic, handsome man with grey hair, a hook nose, and a sharpish eye, with his chin thrust out so as to give him what he considers to be a look of decision.”

“I mark him,” interrupted Warenne, “but I do not much fancy him; for he always differs from the chairman in a pompous sort of way, and when asked, cannot assign any reasons for his differing, but shakes his head importantly, puts on an air of wisdom, and then coincides with him at last, though so as to make it appear that he is certain he himself is right, and that he yields only for the sake of peace.”

“You have not judged your man amiss, Colonel,” replied Nicholas; “Mr. Fownall, for that is his name, is a mighty man in his own conceit. You should see him at a county meeting: he will begin his speech with such graces; he will raise himself up, and put on a solemn look of wisdom that would deceive any man who is not aware that he is no conjurer; and then, in very strong language, accuse the government of profligacy, extravagance, and corruption, taking care to select, when he comes to his proofs, the only parts of their conduct which are defensible. Oh! he is a bother-headed one.”

Warenne thought his companion also a better judge of men and their capacities than he had imagined him to be; he had not done Nicholas justice, who, though uneducated, was by no means without natural shrewdness, especially on points on which he was excited, as on country politics, in which he was forced to mix, from the position held by his father in the country.

“Mr. Fownall will not do for me,” said Warenne, “if I can get another magistrate. Now for your next man,—which is Mr. Seaforth?”

“I shall show our Charley last,” replied Nicholas. “My second subject for your choice is that round fat little man to the right.”

“He is a sharp fellow, is he not?” inquired Warenne; “I have seen the chairman refer to him several times.”

“Sharp enough,” continued Nicholas; “he is a retired lawyer. He has the law at his fingers’ ends; but he will not suit you, I think.”

“Why, is he not firm and resolute?”

“Too firm, too resolute by half; the truth is, he has lived in town the greater part of his life, and he does not know how to manage the poor at all. Though an excellent, well-meaning man, he is hard in his words and in his ways, and the poor do not like him. He would not conciliate enough for you, though in other respects he would do admirably.”

“Bar equitation!” said Warenne, smiling. “He can never ride with those round fat legs; and if any tumult does occur, we shall require a magistrate capable of quick locomotion.”

“No, no, Mr. Raymond is no rider,” rejoined Nicholas; “but now for my friend Charley. Do you see that very quiet looking, middle-aged, rather pale man, with a remarkably intelligent eye, sitting behind the chairman?”

“He is rather a silent one, is he not?” observed Warenne.

“Silent or not silent,” said Nicholas, roused to eagerness in behalf of his favourite, “he is the best magistrate on the bench next to the chairman, and knows as much sessions law as Raymond. If he has not spoken lately, it is because he agrees in opinion with the chairman. He would speak fast enough if he differed from him.” Just at that moment the chairman leant back to ask Mr. Seaforth a question. “You see, he is ready enough with his answer, when it is wanted. Then he is beloved by all the poor; he is so kind-hearted, and so kindly spoken to them. The very men he sends to prison say they would rather be convicted and condemned by him, than only tried before another person. He always treats the labourers as fellow men in a different station of life, and that is what they like. If you seem by your manner to consider them as an inferior race, they are annoyed and sore at it; but talk to them as man and man, and they will willingly pay you the deference due to your superior rank in life, and listen to you into the bargain. Again, if you want a fellow who can ride, I will match Seaforth against any man you can bring from Melton for the season through, for a hundred.”

Warenne smiled at Nicholas’s animated description of his friend; but he saw so much natural shrewdness in him, that he was inclined to place confidence in his opinion.

“Then as for firmness and nerves,” continued Nicholas, “you should see him make a young horse, though, that, perhaps, has not much to do with the matter in question—it is beautiful to see him put a young, raw, five-years-old, at a fence; seriously speaking, he is the boldest and coolest fellow you ever saw, though you are a soldier. I may say this of him, for he has been tried. Last year there was a dreadful fight between the preventive service men and the smugglers, in which the former were driven off, and one or two of them killed. Seaforth, who was the nearest magistrate, took it up, and never rested till he had apprehended the murderers, though he had to go into places where half the men in England would not venture to set foot, and to fight his way through some desperate scuffles. He got Jem Emlett, who has been ringleader in every row, robbery, or smuggling transaction for the last twenty years, and his whole gang; and though Jem broke out of prison the night before the assizes, that was not his fault. Besides, Charley is bred to be a good one. There have been wild ones of his blood, perhaps, but never any that wanted game.”

“Mr. Seaforth is the man for me,” said Warenne; “get your friend out of court, and introduce me to him.”

Nicholas had not overrated Seaforth. Warenne found him a person of great intelligence, and peculiar animation of character, far more so, indeed, than he had anticipated. The unassuming demeanour of Seaforth amongst his brother magistrates had led Warenne to consider him a sensible, and Nicholas’s panegyric to believe him a brave, man; but neither the one nor the other had prepared him for meeting an eager, impetuous spirit, ready to devote his whole powers to what he conceived to be his duty, and in whom mind so far predominated over body as to cause alarm, lest by its restless activity it should undermine and exhaust the physical strength. But a few minutes had elapsed from the time of their introduction, before Warenne was perfectly satisfied with the choice he had made of a coadjutor.

He recounted to Seaforth what he had seen; and they were soon in deep consultation. It seemed evident to them that the nightly meetings originated in an organised combination to resist the law,—a combination extending far beyond the immediate neighbourhood of Fisherton.

The agricultural labourers were not persons likely, without some strong external excitement, to sacrifice a night’s rest to an employment they hated so sincerely as learning the manœuvres of soldiers; neither were the smugglers, though they were doubtless to a man engaged in the business; and the conclusion to which Warenne and Seaforth came was, that agents from London and Manchester must have lighted up this strong flame of disaffection.

What, then, was to be done? Could they in any way suppress the meetings? Seaforth proposed to be present at one of them, and to try the effect of expostulation; but this course, though one in which he, if anybody, would have succeeded, from the affection borne him by his poorer neighbours, was too dangerous and imprudent to be listened to for an instant, at a time when the smugglers were peculiarly irritated against him for the apprehension, and consequent execution, of some of their comrades only a few months before.

It appeared useless, on the other hand, to attempt to control the meetings by military or constabulary force; for there could be little doubt that the proceedings of both magistrates and soldiers would be watched, and information so conveyed to the parties assembling, that by the time either of them could reach the ground there would not be a soul to be seen. All that it seemed possible to do was to adopt an intermediate mode of action, viz. to collect a greater number of troops in the neighbourhood, to hold them in readiness, and to take advantage of any opportunity of acting which might be afforded by the indiscretion of the conspirators; while in order, if possible, to deter the misguided men from plunging hastily into violence, and to prevent unnecessary shedding of blood, Seaforth undertook to watch the conduct of some particular men whom he suspected, and with whom he imagined himself to have some influence. They would thus, it is true, set the rioters more on their guard, but then, even if they failed in their endeavours to put an end to the chance of disturbance by gentle means, they would escape the responsibility of having tacitly encouraged disaffection up to a certain point that they might more severely and effectually quell it afterwards.

It was arranged, therefore, that Warenne should endeavour to obtain permission from General Mapleton to send another troop to Fisherton, and that Seaforth should try the effect of private conciliation, either party keeping up a constant communication with the other, and both with Nicholas, who readily promised to give them every assistance in his power. This settled, they separated, and Warenne retook the road to Calbury.

CHAPTER VIII.