Recollections of a chaperon

The prospect of a protracted stay at Calbury gave Colonel Warenne no promise of a return to tranquillity of mind. The apprehension of danger past, the routine of military duties usual in country quarters alone demanding his attention, his thoughts naturally recurred to his blighted hopes, and the distressing situation in which fortune had placed him.

Adelaide was at Epworth—only two short miles separated them. Henry and Frank were living more at Epworth than at Calbury. It was necessary, unless he determined to set at defiance the common rules of civility, that he himself should visit those with whom he had so lately lived in intimacy. He must again undergo the torture of meeting her he loved with the degree of coldness consistent with his ideas of duty, and her father’s more than hinted opinion of his supposed pretensions. There was no alternative; in ordinary courtesy he was bound to make the attempt, even at the expense of increased wretchedness.

After a delay of some days, during which Warenne persuaded himself that he was detained in Calbury by business, he rode over to Epworth, with a tolerably calm exterior, though with a beating heart. His visit seemed to have been foreseen by Lord Framlingham; for as the servant ushered Warenne into the drawing-room, he entered it by another door; and as his lordship appeared to have correctly calculated the precise moment of Warenne’s calling, so did he seem to have determined to ascertain the exact duration of his stay beneath his daughter’s roof, for he did not quit the drawing-room until Warenne had departed.

This behaviour on the part of Lord Framlingham, though it rather irritated Warenne at the time, yet served to render his visit less painful than he had expected to find it. There was no temptation in the presence of a third person, directly opposed to his wishes, to lay aside the measured friendliness of manner which he had adopted.

A second, and a third time, that Warenne called at Epworth, Lord Framlingham observed a similar system of precaution; but at last, either bored with playing the part of a Duenna, or becoming satisfied with Warenne’s conduct, he relaxed in his vigilance; and one day that the latter had ridden over to Epworth with Frank and Henry, who wished to arrange some shooting excursion with the gamekeepers, he found himself once again alone with Adelaide. He felt his hour of trial to be at last come. He was now to show his self-command, to keep down the tumultuous and passionate thoughts to which he burnt to give utterance. His love had not diminished through the obstacles which fortune had thrown in his path to happiness; on the contrary, it burnt with a stronger and a steadier flame than when he had, without interruption, enjoyed the pleasure of her society in London.

Adelaide, though possessed of every requisite to grace the most refined circles, appeared yet more lovely in the calmer occupations of the country. In the easy intercourse of her immediate friends her shyness forsook her, and she did justice to the beauty of her character. All he had seen of her, all he had heard of her since she came to Epworth, tended to foster his luckless passion. The poor had already learnt to bless her name. With her wonted enthusiasm she had commenced plans for their improvement; and though her schemes might perhaps be a little visionary, Warenne was not inclined to quarrel with their want of practicability, while they developed the benevolent spirit of their author.

Adelaide also had reasons for feeling distressed at the interview. She had perceived her father’s manner to Warenne, and became satisfied that Warenne could not honourably have pursued any other line than that he had chosen; but her conviction on this point, while it took from her the little anger she had conceived against him, made it difficult for her to preserve the coldness of manner which she had latterly assumed; thus both parties felt awkwardly situated. It is true, that one word might have produced a right understanding between them; but that word, Adelaide could not, and Warenne would not, speak. Still the visit could not be passed in silence;—at least so thought Warenne, and acting upon this supposition, in a shy and constrained manner, he asked,

“Have you ridden much, Miss Marston, since your return to the country? I am informed there are beautiful rides in this neighbourhood.”

“No! not much; my father is not able to ride far, and Henry is always out shooting. He has promised, however, to ride with me in a day or two.”

“You must make him keep his promise quickly, or the leaves will be off the trees, and they will have lost their autumnal beauty.”

“I fear so.”

How gladly would Warenne have offered her his escort, had he dared! how gladly would Adelaide have accepted it! But this might not be; and to check the vivid workings of his imagination, he hastily changed the subject.

“I hear we are to have a gay neighbourhood this winter; Frank, who, I believe, has an instinctive knowledge of a ball, as a vulture of a horse that drops in the desert, tells me that the Merivales and Dashworths each mean to have one in the course of the next month.”

“I have not the pleasure of knowing them,” observed Adelaide, coldly.

“Of course they will call upon you, as an act of civility towards a person newly come into the county.”

“Perhaps so; but they have not visited me yet.”

Adelaide’s manner did not contribute to restore poor Warenne to serenity of mind.

I know, thought he, that I have chosen a very stupid subject for conversation, although perhaps a safe one; but what can I do? If I speak on more interesting topics I shall betray the state of my affections, and exactly do that which in honour I am bound not to do. He blundered on: “My brother tells me, that Miss Merivale is extremely pretty and dances beautifully.”

“Does she?” was the reply; “I shall like to see her, if they ask me to their parties.”

Warenne could proceed no further with the tiresome subject; he turned therefore to another upon which, though more attractive to both parties than the former, he thought he might yet converse without emotion. “You are devising, I believe, schemes for the improvement of the condition of your poor.”

Adelaide’s eye brightened.

“If it is not too great a liberty, I should like much to hear what you intend to do.”

“Oh! I fear,” said Adelaide, smiling, “that my views are not quite so practical as they might be. I have not long had the power of playing the Lady Bountiful, but I will tell them to you, and you shall give me your opinion. You have, I know, turned your attention to such matters more than soldiers generally do.”

Warenne thought there could be no harm in her explaining to him her plans, or in his assisting her with his advice upon them; and in a few moments they were busily discussing the merit of Penny Banks, Savings’ Banks, &c.; but after a while he found his thoughts wandering from the charities to the founder of them, and that he was on dangerous ground.

As Adelaide gave herself up, with the full warmth of her kind heart, to the development of her benevolent intentions, and spoke to him again with the freedom of former intimacy (perhaps glad in her inmost soul to have a legitimate reason for resuming it, and perhaps even not without a hope of leading him in turn to throw off restraint), he became conscious, that should he attempt to speak, his voice would falter, and that his eyes were but too ready to tell the forbidden tale of constant unvarying affection. He dared not trust himself further to temptation; making therefore a violent mental effort, and putting even more than his former coldness into his tone, he hastily concluded the conversation by remarking that her goodness in thus considering the welfare of her poor fellow-creatures was above all praise. Adelaide looked up, almost with astonishment, at this formal approbation of her virtue, but said nothing. He coloured, as he felt her eye glance upon him, yet firm to his purpose, would not recur to the subject of the charities again. He sat silent and confused; turned over the leaves of a book lying upon the table, hoping to extract from thence matter for the continuance of their conversation, but in vain; his eyes could neither follow the lines, nor his brain take in their purport. In despair he returned again to the beauty of the country and the weather, and once more there was a sound of voices. Badly, however, as they had succeeded in conversing before their hearts had in some measure opened to each other, now their attempt was ten times worse, and it was a positive relief to both parties when Lord Framlingham accidentally came in. Had he arrived a quarter of an hour sooner, he might not have been satisfied with the aspect of affairs, which was decidedly inauspicious to his schemes; as it was, they seemed to prosper, and he was pleased. He spoke to Warenne with more kindness than usual. This filled the cup of poor Warenne’s misery. He had looked to Lord Framlingham’s marked repulsiveness of manner towards him, as the one circumstance that could give Adelaide a favourable explanation of his own conduct towards her. Muttering, therefore, something about seeking his brother and Henry, he hurried away from Epworth, with the determination of never revisiting a spot where he had endured such utter wretchedness.

Whether he would or could have executed this resolution it is impossible to say, for the position in which he was placed was doomed to undergo a change.

CHAPTER IX.

It is now necessary to relate the march of events up to this period. General Mapleton, in reply to the letter which Warenne had addressed him on his return from Fisherton, requesting that he might be allowed to send an increased force to that place, returned a most dry and positive negative. His answer was to the effect,—that he was very sorry to receive from Colonel Warenne such a proof of the disaffected spirit which prevailed in the district to the command of which he had been appointed by his majesty, but that being responsible for the employment of the troops under his orders, he must be permitted to station them in such manner, and in such numbers, as in his own judgment he considered best for the interests of the country; and that he must desire Colonel Warenne would on no account detach from himself a larger force than that which he had authorised. It was his wish that Colonel Warenne should send one troop to Fisherton and another to Charnstead, or some place midway between Fisherton and Calbury, and that at the expiration of every month the Fisherton troop should return to head quarters of the regiment, and the Charnstead troop move on to Fisherton. “In conclusion,” wrote the general, “I must particularly request that Colonel Warenne will on no account alter these arrangements, nor absent himself from the quarters of his regiment without leave.”

The soreness and readiness to take umbrage evident throughout this letter gave much disturbance to Warenne, who had written to the general in the fullness of his heart, and with the sincere wish of setting him on his guard against times of peril; but he was too sensible a man, and too zealous an officer, to suffer his uneasiness to be seen even by his most intimate associates. He resolved diligently to conform to the orders he had received, and was really anxious that they might prove effectual. In truth, the general, though the principal motive for his refusal had been a low jealousy of Warenne’s European honours, was not without reasons for the negative which he had sent. Much about this time reports came in almost daily from the surrounding villages that the labourers were using threatening language to the farmers, insisting upon an increase of wages, and upon the demolition of their threshing machines; that they threatened to pull down and burn the machines of those who would not comply with the demands; and that the farmers in consequence were in a state of great alarm. Some had yielded to the demands of the rioters, partly from fear, and partly also from an idea that they might make their sufferings a plea for a diminution of rent and tithes—others again had resisted them; but the cunning or cowardice of the former had added exasperation to the anger of the peasantry against the latter, so as to put an end to all feeling of security with regard to life and property. It was said, also, that there were assemblages every evening round the alehouse-doors, where orators in clouted shoes and smock frocks held forth upon the rights of men; while there were not wanting persons who came from “no one knew where,” to inculcate the same doctrines with more force and greater dexterity—men, who from their education were enabled to make the worse appear the better reason, and heighten the evil passions that were abroad. Thanks, however, to the vigilance of the magistrates, who were not afraid to employ the civil power, now that they were backed by a military force, all these evil signs ended without disturbance. There might be a drunken riot or so; but the mobs uniformly dispersed, as the effect of the intoxicating liquors by which they were excited wore off, or, as Nanny Rudd expressed herself to Frank, “as the beer died in them.”

About this time also occurred an event, which, though not of immediate importance to the story, is interesting as characteristic of the period. The two brothers and Henry were engaged to dine at Epworth. Dinner was served, but Frank and Henry did not make their appearance. At last, but not before the party assembled had become exceedingly anxious for their arrival, they came in, heated and agitated.

“What can make you so late?” asked Adelaide; “you must have finished shooting several hours ago.”

Henry did not answer; but Frank said, “We must, I suppose, confess—we have had a row with some poachers.”

“Good heavens! you are neither of you hurt, I hope,” asked Adelaide again, in alarm.

“Oh no,” replied Frank, laughing, “not in person, at all events, though in honour.”

“What has happened is this,” interrupted Henry. “We had been shooting in that large wood of yours which adjoins the road leading to Charnstead, and having given our guns to the keepers, were on our return home; that is to say, were walking back through the wood to the Dolphin to get our horses. We had left our game in one of the rides through which we had to pass; when we arrived at the spot we found a party of men quietly filling a light cart with it. For a moment we thought they might be some of our beaters, but finding our mistake, we called to them, and ran up to arrest their proceedings; in an instant we were surrounded, thrown to the ground, and kept there until they had finished packing the cart, when, politely thanking us for our good-nature in shooting for them, off they all went into the high road.”

“In short,” said Frank, “never did two officers in his majesty’s service suffer a worse defeat or greater disgrace.”

This incident alarmed not only Adelaide and Lord Framlingham, but also the surrounding neighbours. So gross and deliberate an outrage destroyed all feeling of security, and though every attempt was made to trace its perpetrators, they could not be discovered.

Warenne argued that it had been committed by some of the people who were endeavouring but too successfully to excite disturbances in the country; for that their calmness in the execution of their scheme betrayed consciousness of power. “If they had thrashed you,” said he to Frank, “and left you half dead, I should have considered the whole as the action of common poachers, determined not to be taken nor detected.”

Frank was thankful that “his friends,” as he termed them, were such a superior style of men, considering the disadvantage at which they had Henry and himself,—though doubtless it would have been better for the nation, had it been otherwise. By no party, however, was light ever thrown upon the transaction.

These various signs of the prevailing disaffection among the peasantry occupied much of Warenne’s time and attention, and his anxiety was increased by his receiving from Seaforth a fearful account of the state of the neighbourhood of Fisherton. Seaforth had attempted, in conformity to the proposal previously made by him, to converse with those individuals whom he suspected to be implicated in the conspiracy which evidently existed; but they had refused to listen to him, and had even insulted him, giving him to understand that his every movement was closely watched.

Under these circumstances Warenne again petitioned for an increase of force at Fisherton. Again General Mapleton returned him an answer in the negative—if possible, couched in yet more peremptory language than he had hitherto used. Still no actual riot took place either at the one place or the other, and Warenne began to hope that the winter would pass over without further disturbance. These fallacious expectations lasted but for a day or two. All at once, on every wall throughout Calbury, and the neighbouring villages, appeared chalked up—“Bread or blood,”—“Liberty or death,” and similar short expositions of the popular feelings.

Nanny Rudd also warned Frank that some project was on foot, though she could not yet discover the particulars of it. Warenne patiently waited for further information, which at last he obtained through the means of his brother’s faithful ally.

“Captain, dear,” said Nanny to Frank, as he passed her one morning on his way to the stables, “you may just bid your men stand at ease, if you mean to stay at Calbury; there will be no row here. It’s the coast you must look to! Last night some strangers came into my brother’s with two of the Rusbrook men, who fit agen the ’Stabulary t’other day, and they were talking how they had managed finely, and frightened you all so, that you dare not move a foot from home. Dare not! the blackguards! As if they knew the soul of a jintleman soldier. And then they cast up, that they should have it all their own way where they were going, for that the whole county was ready to join them,—let alone quite a raal army of smugglers. Them’s a bad set, my dear captain,—particular bad,—they wouldn’t drink none, but seemed to think only of killing and plundering; and when my brother came in, they was as hush! They’d talk afore me, a poor old blind body, as they thought couldn’t move off my settle without help, but they wouldn’t open their ’tato traps afore him. Publicans must look to their licence, says they! you’ll see that afore long there will be an outbreak towards the coast. One rascal said roundly, ‘We’ll give ’em some bonfires before the fifth of November this year.’”

These indications of the popular feeling were further accompanied by acts of incendiarism. There were frequent alarms of fire at night, which increased in number as the end of the month approached. With regard to these, however, Warenne remarked, that though some had been caused by the private malice of individuals, yet that, generally speaking, it was an haulm stack, or a parcel of straw, or a rick, which lay far from any farm buildings that was set fire to; from whence he was the rather inclined to give credit to Nanny Rudd’s conjectures, that the demonstrations in the neighbourhood of Calbury were solely with the view of occupying the attention of the military, and diverting it from the real point of danger.

CHAPTER X.

Affairs remained in this unpleasant state until the evening of the 30th of October, when between seven and eight o’clock a man on a jaded horse, and covered with mud, galloped up to the door of Warenne’s lodging. He hastily ascertained from the servant that his master was within; threw the rein to him, and dashed up the stairs. It was Nicholas.

“Warenne,” cried he, as soon as he entered the room, “you must be off, and quickly, if you wish to save Fisherton. It will be attacked to-morrow night by a large body of men, and sacked and burnt, if you are not there to prevent it.”

“When?” asked Warenne; “to-morrow night? for heaven’s sake tell me what you have heard.”

“I will,” replied Nicholas, “all in order; but the upshot is this,—that Fisherton will be plundered to-morrow night, and that there are more smugglers engaged in the business than are sufficient to set your one troop at defiance.”

He then proceeded to state that he had been shooting that very morning on some property of his father’s between the Plashetts and the coast, when a woman in great distress had run up to him, and begged him to come and speak with her husband, who was dying. “He wished,” she said, “to speak to some clergyman, or magistrate, or to Mr. Nicholas.”

Nicholas accordingly accompanied her to her cottage, where he found a poor fellow, to whom his father had behaved with much kindness the previous winter, lying with both his legs broken, and his back severely injured, from a fall of ground in a chalk-pit. Clarke, for that was his name, was in great agony, and evidently could not live many hours. On seeing Nicholas, and receiving his condolences, he said, “My body is bad enough, to be sure, but it is nothing to my mind. I could not die easy till I had seen you, Mr. John. Tell the women to leave the room, sir. I must speak to you; if I die before I make a clean breast, I can never find no mercy. Why don’t the women leave the room?” repeated he fiercely. “Now, then, they are gone, and no one is here but ourselves. Come nearer to me, if you please, sir. You know, sir, about our nightly meetings. I have been one as has regularly attended them. God forgive me, I wish I had never heard of them. Last night, sir, last night,” as he repeated the word he raised himself in his bed, casting his eyes inquiringly about the room, as if he dreaded a witness to his disclosure, and sank his voice to a whisper, “it was agreed that we should make an attack on Fisherton as to-morrow night. The troops are changed to-morrow: the one as is at Fisherton goes to Calbury, and the Charnstead one comes into Fisherton; and we reckoned that the new men would not know the ground, and having just marched in, would be tired, and off their guard. So we settled to collect together at certain places after dusk, and then, in company with the smugglers, who were to join us there, to enter the town, and set fire to it in several parts, and plunder it in the confusion. That ever I should have agreed to such wickedness! I never should, Mr. John—I never should, if I had not been fool enough to listen to those villains, who persuaded us that we were all deprived of our rights by the rich, and that it was appointed that we should all share and share alike. I see it all quite different now. Do you think, sir, I shall ever be forgiven?”

Nicholas, shocked and alarmed, tried to soothe the wretched man—“That is a question I can hardly answer, for I am no divine; but I should think you might be, if you are really sorry for what you were going to do. One thing I am sure of, the best way of making amends for your crime is to confess all you know.”

“I know no more,” replied the poor fellow. “Our leaders never told us any more than I have just said, that we were to attack the place to-morrow between nine and ten o’clock, by which time we thought people would be beginning to go to bed.”

Nicholas having thus ascertained all that could be extracted from the wounded man, considered that between the present hour and the morrow’s night there was but little time for communication with Warenne, on whom the safety of the town depended, and he became anxious to depart; but Clarke, seizing his hand, exclaimed—

“Pray, sir, don’t leave! I am no ways prepared for death.”

Nicholas observed to him, “Clarke, if I do not go, I cannot prevent the attack, and your confession will do no good.”

“Oh no!” replied Clarke, withdrawing his grasp, “nor me no good neither. I had forgot that—go sir, go—but no—stay one moment. Oh, sir, when I am gone, don’t give me up—don’t let people know as I ever split; they would murder my wife and children. And do you, Martha—pray, sir, call my wife—Martha, I say, I charge you never, as you value your life, tell a soul as Mr. John has been here to-day.” The poor frightened woman promised acquiescence. “Now then go, sir,” said he; “God bless you! I will try and pray.”

Nicholas immediately made the best of his way to the Plashetts, sent off an express to Seaforth, and himself started for Calbury on the best horse in his stable.

Warenne listened patiently to Nicholas’s story, for he knew well that the quickest mode of obtaining the truth from any man is to let him speak what he has to say in his own manner. At its close he seemed for a moment to be lost in thought, then, turning to Nicholas, he asked him if he had seen a magistrate, or could say that he was sent by any magistrate to ask the assistance of the soldiery. Nicholas replied in the negative, and Warenne began to pace up and down the room in deep thought, and apparently under much anxiety. At last he stopped, and exclaimed, “Well, then, I must take the responsibility on myself. Communication with head-quarters is impossible. I must disobey orders, and abide the consequences: I cannot, for any hazard to myself, suffer a town to be burnt, and its inhabitants to be massacred.”

He rang the bell; and bade his servant send Captain Harris to him, and also his brother; and he resumed his meditative walk, until it flashed across him that he was treating Nicholas with great inhospitality.

“I beg your pardon, Nicholas,” said he, “I make you but an ill return for your kindness in bringing me this news yourself in person; but the truth is, I am so awkwardly placed, that I am forced to employ all my wits in considering what will be my best line of conduct.”

“Oh never mind me,” answered the good-natured fellow; “I shall go and hunt out your cook, and take care of myself. You have plenty on your hands, without attending to the wants of a hungry man.”

A few minutes brought Captain Harris to his colonel’s apartment. “Captain Harris,” said Warenne, “you will immediately call out your troop, and proceed with it in the direction of Charnstead, so as to reach that place to-morrow morning before eight o’clock. Rest there until Captain Paulet moves his troop to Fisherton, and do you then accompany him. You will meet the Fisherton troop between that place and Charnstead; take them back with you. As soon as you arrive at Fisherton, if I am not with you, notify your arrival to Major Stuart. He will probably have quarters ready for you; but whether you see him or not, do not unbridle, and keep your men standing by their horses.”

Captain Harris, who had received many similar orders the previous winter in Ireland, merely bowed and left the room, and in twenty minutes was with his troop in march on the Charnstead road.

Frank came in as Captain Harris left the room. Warenne briefly explained to him how matters stood. “And now, Frank,” said he, “I shall leave you with the remaining troops to take care of this neighbourhood. No (seeing Frank about to interrupt him), I cannot take you with me. On the contrary, I must leave you here. I must have some one on this ground who will value my honour as his own, and I look to you as the person I can best trust on earth. Should a disturbance take place here, and get to a head while I am absent, I am a ruined man. If you love me, you will stay here.”

Frank did dearly love his brother: he was flattered too by the unlimited confidence reposed in him. He therefore said not a word about going, but simply asked for his orders.

“You are almost as good a soldier as I am,” said Warenne, “and must be guided by circumstances. I hardly think that you will be called on to take any very serious measures. It will be well, however, to keep a watchful eye on all that is going forward, and to make as much parade as you can with your soldiers. Never mind harassing them a little, for a day or two; but multiply their numbers as much as possible, by showing them in different parts of the town. Make your one hundred and fifty men appear five hundred if you can. Should you be required to act, be decisive.”

The two brothers then proceeded to arrange some minor details, when a knock was heard at the door, and a voice saying, in rather a tone of authority, “Colonel, I must come in.”

“By all that is sacred, it is Nanny Rudd!” exclaimed Frank, “what can she want here at this hour?” He ran to the door and opened it. “Come in, Nanny; what are your commands to-night?”

“Captain Warenne,” answered Nanny, “ye’ll give that girl, as come with me, and brought me here, a crown. I promised her the same; and whiles you are taking it out of your purse, I’ll spake a word with your brother. I have business with him.”

Warenne came forward, and laying hold of her hand, inquired what she had to say to him.

“Is the captain,” asked Nanny, with emphasis, “giving the girl the crown?”

Frank knew Nanny’s ways, and guessed that she wished him to get the girl out of the room. “Here, my good girl,” said Frank, stepping into an adjoining room, “here is not a crown, but a guinea for you. You are a kind-hearted lass to lead about a poor blind old woman, who is neither kith nor kin to you.”

The girl was delighted both with the guinea and with Frank, and immediately began telling him how she came to accompany the old lady to Warenne’s lodgings.

In the meanwhile Nanny bade Warenne close the door. “I don’t want,” said she, “that poor lass to hear what I am saying. She has nothing of the soldier about her, and don’t comprehend the necessity of keeping an asy tongue on all occasions, and she might tell tales, and get herself and others into trouble. Colonel,” continued she, when she ascertained that the door was shut, “I could not rest on my settle till I got to you to-night. How should I, when I receives the King’s money as I do? There’s going to be a row somewhere on the coast. I should guess to-morrow night, but I didn’t hear particulars.”

“Indeed, Nanny,” said Warenne, “what have you heard?”

“I’ll tell your honour,” answered Nanny. “There’s a man been staying at my brother’s house these last ten days; a pretty bad one, I reckon. I couldn’t make out why he kept staying on so. Well, to-night, just about six o’clock, he comes into the kitchen,—with Will Sharpe, whom you’ve heard speak of, I dare say, in this town, as a big thief and vagabond,—as I suppose ready-dressed for travelling; for Will says to him,—

“‘Then you’re off now?’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘in less than five minutes; my job is done, and well done. We’ve flammed the beaks (that’s the magistrates, you know) finely. I was to stay here till the latest moment I could this evening, to ascertain that the bloody redcoats—them was his words, a nasty blackguard!—was quiet, and nothing suspected, and then to get down, you know where, in time to make the necessary arrangements for to-morrow.’ ‘You’ll be there,’ says Will, ‘early to-morrow morning?’ ‘I’ll be on the Plashetts Green by twelve to-night,’ answers t’other, ‘or I’ll know the rights on it.’ With that he jumped into his gig or light cart, and went away like a madman. Will Sharpe came back into the kitchen, and had some beer, and I did not dare to move till he was gone; but at last he went, and I stole out into the back-yard, and got my brother’s girl to lead me here.”

“About six did the man set off?” asked Warenne.

“Yes,” answered she, “and I would have been here an hour ago if that prying divil of his companion had gone away at first, as he ought. I hate a man to sit and drink by himself; it is not neighbourly.”

He was off, then, thought Warenne, before the troops had started; so far, so good. Nicholas, too, came the cross-road, so he did not meet him.

“But now, Colonel,” said Nanny, interrupting his calculations, “I must go, or the girl will get into a scrape at home.”

Warenne asked her if she wanted anything for herself.

“If you mean pay, for doing my duty as a soldier’s widow ought,” said Nanny, “I’m above it; but you didn’t mean that, I reckon; for I am told you’re quite the gentleman, thof I do think an officer in his Majesty’s infantry would have had more delicacy; but no, no, I want nothing; we’ll talk of that some other day. Where’s the wench? Betsy! Betsy!”

Betsy returned with a radiant face at having had nonsense talked to her for a quarter of an hour by a very handsome captain of dragoons.

“Betsy, where are you?” muttered the old woman; “I didn’t do right to send that captain out with you. I heard him give you a guinea, too. They are all alike, them captains. I hope he has not turned your head; that would be but a bad return for your coming along with me this night.”

“Lawk, Nanny!” said Betsy, laughing, “do you think I don’t know the value of an officer’s talk, and they quartered here for three months?”

“You are a giddy child, Betsy,” answered Nanny; “but I’ll hope for the best.”

Warenne informed Frank of the confirmation given to Nicholas’s story by Nanny’s intelligence. “We shall be a match for them yet, I trust,” continued he; “but now I must to work. I must send off an express to head-quarters—tell the adjutant to have one ready for me. The general will not thank me for the step I am about to take; so I must e’en write him as conciliatory a letter as I can. Good night.”

Warenne composed his letter with the greatest care; stated his extreme reluctance to disobey the orders which he had received; hoped that, under the circumstances of the case, he should merely anticipate his general’s wishes by the arrangements which he had made to prevent the loss of life and destruction of property, which could not fail to be consequent on the execution of a plot such as he developed; and added the informations of Nicholas and Nanny Rudd.

This done, for the first time since Nicholas’s arrival, he ventured to turn his mind wholly to the difficulties of his situation. To the charge of disobedience, to the risk of disgrace, when so important an object was in view, he had reconciled himself without a struggle; but now that he had leisure to reflect, there was much to appal him in the enterprise which he had undertaken.

He was about to stake his military character on a single cast; to disobey the strict orders of his general, to act upon his own responsibility; wherefore, if he failed, he must expect to be dismissed from the service. He doubted for a moment whether it would not have been wiser to adopt the safe line—obey orders, and avoid danger of every sort—but it was only for a moment; the next, his generous nature spurned the thought. His self-devotion, however, was tasked to the utmost when he contemplated the effect that might be produced on Adelaide’s mind by his being disgraced.

Hope, spite of reason, had hitherto remained an inmate of his breast; and had whispered that a day might come when he could venture to declare to her his passion; but can this, he asked himself, ever take place if I am dishonoured? Can I, with a tarnished reputation, ever ask her to wed me? or can she ever believe my vows, when I now leave this spot, where danger is supposed to threaten, and trust her to the protection of any arm but my own?

These ideas, in every variety of form, for a time pressed upon Warenne’s heated imagination; but wrestling with the rebellious feelings of his heart, he would not suffer his love to unman him. His only hope was in success—a poor hope, perhaps; for even success might not rescue him from censure for presumption and disregard of discipline. Still it was his only hope; he would not, therefore, willingly throw it away, by yielding to thoughts which, at the best, could but enervate him.

He forced his mind from the reflections which he had allowed to bewilder him, and tried to compose himself for the night—how well, let those declare who have endured the torments of uncertainty. Certainty, even of the worst, may be borne; the condemned criminal sleeps, who is to rise to execution; but while hope has power to frame visions for the future, which fear shall the next moment dissipate, sleep is chased from the eyelids of the unfortunate, and forgetfulness is a boon which they are not permitted to enjoy.

CHAPTER XI.

Before day-break on the following morning Warenne arose. In his midnight meditations he had persuaded himself that before he started for Fisherton, he should do well to communicate with Lord Framlingham, who possibly might be able to befriend him, should his character be aspersed; who, at all events, would thus have it in his power to inform Adelaide of the truth, and explain to her the difficulties of his position.

Accordingly he bent his course to Epworth, and on being admitted to Lord Framlingham, he frankly laid before him the circumstances of his case.

The old diplomatist heard Warenne with much attention, praised his zeal, approved his measures, and promised that they should be represented to ministers in their right light; but, the moment afterwards, proceeded to qualify his praise, and explain away his promises, with the true refinement of his profession.

“Colonel Warenne must be aware, that he spoke only as an individual; that he must not be considered as authorising Colonel W—— in his undertaking, for that his official power was limited to its peculiar sphere; neither could he hope to influence in any way the opinion which the commander-in-chief might be pleased to form upon the subject.”

Warenne smiled within himself at the wiliness of the politician, and at his own folly in believing that he could induce him to interest himself about one who, according to the rules of probability, might not hereafter be of use to him. Preserving, however, his external gravity of demeanour, he respectfully bade the noble lord good morning, and resolved for the future to depend solely on his own resources.

He was passing through the hall, in order to leave the house, when he met Adelaide. The temptation of once again speaking to her, while yet he remained a chevalier sans reproche, was not to be resisted. He followed her into the drawing-room.

She looked upon his care-worn countenance with surprise. “Has anything,” she asked hesitatingly, “occurred to harass you? You look fatigued and full of anxiety, as though you had been called out in the night to take measures against some rioters.”

“You are not far wrong in your conjectures,” answered Warenne; “change but the time, and instead of supposing me to have been engaged with them the past night, think me about to meet them to-night, and you will be right?”

“Are the thoughts, then, of a rural campaign,” demanded Adelaide, more gaily, “sufficient to cloud Colonel Warenne’s brow? I thought the spirit of so renowned a warrior would have risen at the approach of danger.”

“You would scarcely jest, Miss Marston,” replied Warenne, gravely, “if you knew the extent of the danger which I apprehend. Houses burnt, lives lost, and a town sacked, are not matter of merriment.”

“Heavens! no,” said Adelaide; “but how could I dream of such horrors as these? I thought but of some bloodless disturbance, of the same nature with those we have lately witnessed. Tell me, if I may know, what makes you anticipate such dreadful events?”

Warenne thought that he violated no duty if he seized this chance of placing his character in its proper light before Adelaide; he therefore simply related to her the occurrences which had taken place, and the measures which he had determined to adopt.

“I leave,” said he, as soon as he had finished his explanation, “three troops still behind me at Calbury, under the command of Frank, so that you will not be destitute of protection.”

“Oh, I am not afraid for myself,” answered Adelaide; “but have you told me all? I beg your pardon, if I have asked an impertinent question; do not answer it if I have; but there is a tone of desperation in your manner which alarms me.”

At this moment it flashed upon Adelaide’s mind that Warenne’s feelings might in some way have reference to herself; she therefore hastily added, “Forgive me. I am too inquisitive.”

“I know not,” replied Warenne, “why I should withhold from you the causes of my uneasiness. You will perceive, that in my present position I am forced to act upon my own responsibility, in opposition to the express and repeated orders of my commanding officer. Whether I succeed in my undertaking, or whether I fail, I make myself liable to be brought to a court-martial for a breach of military discipline; and I confess that I have not that confidence in General Mapleton, which encourages me to hope that he will overlook an opportunity of establishing his authority over an officer whom he considers, though God knows without reason, as inclined to treat him with impertinence. I can hardly look forward to anything but disgrace in this affair, view it which way I will. This is not a pleasing reflection, nor one that reconciles me to the prospect of a bloody affray with some of my misguided fellow-countrymen. I have little enough to boast of; but if of any thing, it is my fair fame as a soldier—that lost, I am poor indeed;—but forgive me, Miss Marston, I have no right to talk thus of myself to you. There is no limit, it would seem, to my presumption,—yet, as I have said thus much, let me beg you not to condemn me hastily;—when the world points its finger of scorn at me, and when I am a dishonoured and ruined man, think of the difficulties in which I have been placed, and do not, I beseech you—do not cast me from your remembrance as utterly unworthy of all esteem. I can bear anything but that—that (as he spoke he pressed his hands violently upon his eyes, as if to shut out some object of horror), I could not bear. You know not what value—but why do I speak thus to you? I am a fool, a madman! Pardon me—forget that I have dared to express the wild and presumptuous feelings of my heart. I have been wrong in giving utterance to them; but I can assure you, that I meant not to have spoken, that I did not seek this interview. I will not again betray my folly before you. Whatever I may feel, I will bury it in silence. God’s mercy protect you!”

Having rapidly and passionately poured forth these broken sentences, Warenne rushed from the room, long before Adelaide, who, from the tone which had prevailed in their recent meetings, had been little prepared for such an avowal, had time to compose herself sufficiently to answer him. Ere she had regained her presence of mind, he had mounted his horse, and was on his road to Charnstead.

At first Adelaide gave herself up to the happy consciousness of being beloved by him to whom she had surrendered the first affections of her heart. In spite of all his proud resolutions, he had avowed it; and though she knew not when her hopes might be realised, she pictured to herself future years of happiness. After a while these bright visions faded from her mind, and she was tempted to despond. Warenne would not have looked so gloomily upon the case, had he not had reason so to do. Even success, she had been told, could hardly justify disobedience in military matters; and she herself saw, that no general could be responsible for the operations of an army, if each subaltern under his command claimed the right to dispose of his own immediate force as he pleased. Then she dreaded the effect of disgrace upon Warenne’s mind—proud and gallant as he was, he was sensitive on the score of honour, to a degree which his military education alone could explain.

By degrees she drew herself again from this train of thought; fixed her mind upon his unhesitating sacrifice of himself in the fulfilment of his duty; recollected his gallant actions in the Peninsula, which had won him his high name; thought of his calm courage in the hour of danger, and the almost instinctive sagacity with which he was wont to meet it; repeated to herself the many stories to his credit, which Henry and Frank had gleaned from the old soldiers of the regiment; and comforted herself in the hope of his happy return amid the blessings of his rescued fellow-countrymen. His military fault would be pardoned for the zeal he would show, and for the ability with which he would counteract the designs of the conspirators. She would see him return, crowned with fresh laurels, more beloved, more admired, more honoured than before.

CHAPTER XII.