While Adelaide thus soothed her perturbed spirit, Warenne’s rose as he approached the scene of danger. His dark eye sparkled, and his noble brow expanded, when he again looked upon his old comrades, with whom he had passed triumphantly through so many fields; he turned his mind from the busy reminiscences of love, and with that power of abstraction, which practical men possess, fixed it on the probable events of the coming evening. Adelaide’s form, perhaps, sometimes met his mental eye, when it should have fallen upon the serried ranks of armed warriors; but he did not suffer even her form to occupy him to the prejudice of his duty. Its only effect was to stimulate him to a desire of fresh honours, that, whether he stood or fell, he might be deserving of her good opinion. He arrived at Charnstead about three o’clock, and found there the troop he had sent forward, and the Charnstead troop, neither of them having yet started on their route to Fisherton. An express had arrived in the morning from Major Stuart, stating that in consequence of information he had received, he should only send the Fisherton troop as far as Swalesford, a place about five miles from Fisherton, and begging Captain Paulet to join them there, in time for them to enter Fisherton in a body shortly after dusk. Warenne immediately proceeded forward with the two troops, and picked up the Fisherton troop at Swalesford; when about a mile from the town, he galloped forward by himself, in order to communicate with Stuart about the disposition of the troops. He found that officer, and Mr. Seaforth, occupying his old quarters at the inn.
“I thought,” said his friend Stuart, holding out his hand, “that yours would be the first soldier’s face we should see to-night.”
“And you would rather have seen any other,” answered Warenne laughing. “A senior officer is a sad bore on occasions like this. But what shall we have to do?”
Stuart laid before him the intelligence he had been able to collect since the alarm given by Nicholas, and Seaforth the result of his observations and inquiries, which he had unceasingly continued since their last interview. Both reports agreed in confirming the account of the intended attack upon the town, and stated the force of the insurgent peasantry at from seven to eight hundred, which was to be joined, shortly before entering the place, by a body of smugglers, mounted and well-armed, in number from one hundred and fifty, to two hundred. To assist in the defence of the town, Seaforth had sworn in as special constables all the most respectable inhabitants, and such of the working classes as could be trusted. Warenne, in turn, informed them of the troops he brought with him, and of the disposition of them which he contemplated. They soon completed their arrangements. The soldiers were to be concentrated in the yard of the Cross Keys inn, which, as has been said, commanded both the entrances into the town. The by-streets, which were not practicable for cavalry, were consigned to the care of the constables, of whom a party was ordered to remove the women and children from the houses most open to attack. Arrangements were made to receive these poor outcasts in the dwellings of the wealthier townspeople, and in the parish church. Some of the neighbouring gentry who had come in, volunteered to act as scouts, and to give notice of the approach of the enemy. These measures being taken, Warenne placed himself under Seaforth’s orders.
“I will not, you may depend upon it, call upon you unnecessarily,” said Seaforth in return. “Till the work of devastation is commenced, or is so evidently on the point of commencement as not to be prevented by other means, I would not have you stir. I shall ride to meet the fellows, as soon as we hear of their approach, and try to deter them from their enterprise; if I fail, I must have recourse to you.”
“You will fail,” said Warenne, “and you will incur great danger in meeting them.”
“Very likely,” replied his spirited companion, “but it must be done.”
During this time the three troops had arrived, and Warenne placed them for the present in some large farm stables and barns which were at the back of the inn. The horses remained bridled, and the men by them, ready to act on a moment’s notice. He and Stuart then walked all over the town, and carefully examined each street, in order to be certain that no barricades were erected in any part, nor preparations made to embarrass the soldiery.
It was now past seven o’clock—the constables had brought in the inhabitants of the houses which they expected to be fired, and all was ready for the reception of the rioters. Eight o’clock struck—nine—ten, and Warenne and Seaforth were beginning to doubt whether the night for the attack had not been changed, when one of their most advanced scouts returned with the intelligence that all the labouring population, between Fisherton and the coast, seemed to be collecting on the coast road, about three miles from the town.
Soon another and another scout came with similar reports; and lastly Nicholas, who had returned from Calbury to the Plashetts at an early hour, and had ridden in to be of service to his friends, brought an account that a large body of mounted men had come up, and that they were marching together on the town. Warenne immediately drew his men out in front of the inn. Seaforth rode gently forward to meet the insurgents. They had halted to drill their ranks, and their leaders were ordering their variously armed forces to their respective places, having brought forward to the front the mounted smugglers, who were all armed with pistols and a cutlass.
Seaforth, with one or two of his friends, cantered up to them. He pulled up short, when within about two horse-lengths of the leading rank, and with a loud voice demanded the meaning of the present tumultuous assembly, and the cause of their entering Fisherton at such an hour of night.
“I warn you,” said he, “that you are breaking the king’s peace, and acting contrary to the laws. I am a magistrate, and I charge you in the king’s name to disperse immediately.”
“We know you well enough, Mr. Seaforth,” said a rough voice beside him, which he had heard before in his life, and which recalled unpleasant recollections; “I have reason to know you; take yourself off, or perhaps I shall give you reason to know me.”
“Emlett?” exclaimed Seaforth. “Nay then, I fear I shall do little good, if you are at the head of this business; I know of old that you are not easily shaken from your purpose. Nevertheless, some of these poor misguided men may listen to me;” and raising his voice to the highest pitch, again he warned them to retire, repeating the words of the Riot Act.
“Beware,” said Emlett, “we are not to be trifled with,” then adding a tremendous execration, he bade Seaforth “begone, or he would settle old scores with him there as he stood.”
“You will do as you please,” answered the gallant magistrate. “Disperse, I pray you, my men; we are prepared to receive you—we have a strong body of dragoons just arrived.”
“Take this, then, you prattling fool,” growled Emlett, exasperated at his undaunted defiance of his threats, and alarmed lest his address should shake his followers; and he fired his pistol at his head. Happily for all who knew, and what was the same thing, valued Seaforth, he missed his aim, and the voice of his intrepid antagonist was again heard—
“Even now, deluded men—” but it was soon drowned in the savage exclamations of Emlett, who, with the most horrible curses at himself for his awkwardness, called out to his comrades—
“Cut him down, kill him, stop his tongue any way you can,” at the same time spurring his horse at him, and raising his cutlass to strike him. Seaforth just wheeled his horse round upon his haunches in time to save himself, and galloped back at speed into the town. Emlett and his men pursued him a little way, and then returned to the main body. The first person he met was Warenne, who had advanced a short distance in front of his men.
“Colonel Warenne,” said he, “I believe I must call on you,—yet wait one moment.” The rioters were now within the street.
“Firemen,” cried Emlett, “to your work, and do you, my men,” speaking to the peasantry, “get possession of the by-streets; we’ll manage the soldiers.”
It had been his plan, as was afterwards ascertained, to have entered the town before the inhabitants were aware of his approach; and having surrounded with his men the different public-houses at which the soldiers were billeted, to have disarmed them, or at least prevented their assembling; and then taking possession of the streets, to have systematically plundered the town from one end to the other. Finding the townspeople on their guard, and hearing from Seaforth that the troops were prepared to receive his attack, he gave up the former part of his design. But not believing that any increase of force had arrived, and calculating that the troop which in the common course of events would have replaced that previously quartered at Fisherton, would not know the ground, and therefore would be unable to act with decision;—being also himself an outlaw—being recognised by Seaforth—with all to gain, and nothing to lose, he now determined to fall vigorously on the soldiers with his band of smugglers, who he knew would stand by him to the last gasp.
“Comrades!” shouted he, “it is not the first time we’ve had a brush with the red-coats—forward!” and spurring his horse, with the whole body of his associates at his heels, he galloped up the town. At the same moment a glare of light burst from three or four neighbouring houses, and discovered a party of constables retiring in confusion from the post they had been directed to occupy.
“The police! down with them, cut them down!” was heard at once from an hundred voices; and in an instant the wretched special constables were knocked down, and ridden over by their fierce pursuers.
“Now, Colonel Warenne,” said Seaforth—before he could finish his sentence, Warenne was at the head of his men.
“Stuart, keep one troop in reserve, the other two come on with me—steady, my men—forwards, charge.” The two bodies of cavalry clashed together. The soldiers had not had time nor space to get to their full speed; their charge therefore lost the effect it would have had, if the order had been received a minute sooner. It was sufficient to check the advance of the rioters, and no more. They had still to conquer their antagonists, who in this sort of encounter, hand to hand, and man to man, were opponents not to be despised. For some minutes the conflict was savagely and equally maintained on both sides. The smugglers fought desperately, as men with halters around their necks. After a while the better horsemanship and swordsmanship of the dragoons began to prevail, rendered doubly effective by the consciousness of superiority, which habitual use gives a man in the practice of his profession. At first, by the light of the blazing houses, the soldiers, easily distinguished by their bright shakos from the smugglers, who had fur caps on their heads, seemed completely outnumbered. They clung, however, closely together, and amid all the flashing of swords, and firing of pistols, moved steadily on, a compact, well-disciplined body; by degrees they appeared more adequate to the other party in point of numbers, and to be pressing their adversaries back; still the conflict raged—the smugglers rallied—for a moment even turned the tide of war in their favour. It was their last effort. Presently one, and then another of them withdrew himself from the mêlée, and, with frocks stained with gore, galloped out of the town. Soon two or three small parties from the same side fled hastily in a similar direction.
On this the soldiers, perceiving their advantage, redoubled their efforts, and fairly established their superiority, though some of the most desperate of the smugglers, Emlett among the number, with his head uncovered, and streaming with blood, fought on, without receding an inch. At last he, and his more immediate followers falling, the remainder seemed to give up all hope at once; and turning their horses’ heads, endeavoured to save themselves by the rapidity of their flight. The dragoons pursued them without mercy to the end of the street, both parties dashing through the mob of peasantry, who were coming forward to the support of their friends. There, having received orders from Warenne on no account to venture into the open country, the dragoons wheeled round, and returned to clear the town of the foot people. But these last, as soon as they discovered the result of the fight, did not wait to be dispersed. Throwing away their weapons, and plunging into the by-streets, they made the best of their way to the fields, and to darkness.
After the lapse of about an hour from the time that Emlett had fired at Seaforth, the town was restored to comparative quiet, except where the inhabitants were busily engaged in quenching the flames of the burning houses, and where the groans of the dying and wounded fell sadly upon the ear.
Above thirty of the smugglers had been killed, and four or five soldiers. The wounded of the two parties were in an inverse proportion, there being several of the dragoons who had received severe injuries, and not above half-a-dozen of the smugglers, and these so dreadfully hurt, as to forbid all hope of their living beyond a few hours; all those who had sufficient strength to do so, had dragged themselves out of the town.
Emlett was not quite dead when Warenne and Seaforth went over the field of battle. He survived to throw one look of stern defiance on the latter, and to strike out his arm against him with impotent fury; then with a half-uttered imprecation, he turned his face to the ground, and died. In a few hours more the flames were all suppressed; the wounded removed to a place where they might receive proper attendance; and the soldiery, with the exception of one troop retained on duty for the protection of the town, established in comfortable quarters.
The night passed without disturbance. The following morning Warenne went round the town with Seaforth, took minutes of the devastation it had suffered, inspected the wounded men, gathered from the smugglers yet alive what information they were inclined to give, and forwarded an exact and detailed account of the whole transaction to head-quarters. After which, leaving the Charnstead and Fisherton troops under Stuart to guard the town, escort prisoners, &c., and directing the other to return as quickly as possible to its former station, he himself hastened back to Calbury, in order that he might be absent as short a time as possible from his command.
CHAPTER XIII.
It will be remembered that Warenne, before he left Calbury, had written to General Mapleton a detailed account of the reasons which induced him to break through the repeated orders he had received. Seaforth had also sent to him, as general of the district, a formal request for assistance, as soon as he had been apprised of the outrages in contemplation. Through some error of the messenger, this last letter did not reach General Mapleton till the day after the riot had taken place, or it is possible that he might have pursued a different line of conduct. As it was, the receipt of Warenne’s letter, unaccompanied by the explanation which that of Seaforth would have given to it, irritated him beyond all power of endurance.
He was not only thoroughly exasperated at what he deemed Warenne’s presumption, but most unjustly imagined that he could trace throughout his proceedings an intention of putting a personal indignity upon him, and of accusing him indirectly of incapacity in his command.
Under this impression, he wrote to the Horse Guards in the strongest possible terms, desiring that Warenne might be immediately brought to a court-martial; and requesting, in case of refusal, that he might be allowed to retire from his appointment. Colonel Warenne’s conduct, he observed, was the most inexcusable and wanton act of disobedience he had ever witnessed in the service. At the very moment when he had, in consequence of particular information received, commanded that officer to concentrate his forces in Calbury, he had chosen, without any requisition from a magistrate, on the evidence of a frightened country gentleman, and a foolish old woman, to leave his post, and set at hazard the safety of the important town which had been entrusted to his protection. He wrote, he said, before ill success could aggravate or good success justify the steps which Colonel Warenne had taken; looking merely to the necessity of enforcing obedience in inferior officers, if their superiors were to be made responsible for the execution of the duties they superintended. He added, that in anticipation of the orders of the commander-in-chief, he had directed that Colonel Warenne should be placed under arrest the moment he returned to Calbury. In fact, the orderly who had conveyed Warenne’s despatch to head-quarters brought back the order for his arrest; and Frank, in the exercise of the temporary command which had devolved on him, was constrained to execute that order upon his brother.
Warenne arrived late at night. Frank was waiting to receive him. The first few minutes of their interview were occupied with the relation of the transactions at Fisherton; but the time soon arrived, when it was necessary that the latter should fulfil his melancholy task. His brother demanded the general’s answer. Frank held it out to him in mournful silence. Warenne read it.
“Arrest!” said he; “does he put me under arrest? This is a strong measure, indeed; he might have heard me, surely, before he took so decided a step; it is, of course, preparatory to a court-martial. Well, Frank, there’s my sword; I would sooner yield it up to you than to any other living being:” poor Frank burst into tears. “Nay, do not weep, I would not for worlds have done otherwise than I have done; and though disgrace is hard to bear, it is much less so, when not deserved. I suppose they will hardly put me on my trial for desertion of my post, for that charge will affect life. General Mapleton will be satisfied with less than that. Come what come may, they will not make me out a coward; au reste, I must take a soldier’s chance.”
The next morning Warenne’s arrest became generally known; and Henry, anxious that his sister should not be informed of it by an indifferent person, rode over to Epworth with the news. He found her pale and agitated (for since her last interview with Warenne, she had given fuller indulgence to her feelings, legitimatised, as it were, by his avowal of his love for her), eager to learn the success of the troops at Fisherton, and scarcely allowing herself to doubt of its being such as to call forth approbation upon him who had commanded them; yet dreading, she knew not why, some harsh measure from General Mapleton. Hope had predominated over fear, and she was bitterly disappointed by Henry’s intelligence. For a moment she gave way to grief; but recovering herself—
“Henry,” said she, “thank you, thank you for coming to me at this moment. I need not now tell you how truly you have read my heart; but I must not be selfish. Think no more of me, but of him on whom the whole weight of the blow has fallen; it will crush him, I fear, he is so sensitive to even the semblance of dishonour.” Henry strove to comfort his sister. “His friends must support him,” added she; “they must not let that gallant spirit sink.”
Her brother promised to do his best. He assured her that she viewed matters too despondingly; that a man was not disgraced by being put on his trial, but only by the condemnation of the court; that he would see Warenne on his return, and endeavour to speak comfort to him, though he must confess, that as yet his ideas on that head threatened to concentrate themselves in the simple Americanism, “G—d pretty particularly d—n” General Mapleton.
Adelaide smiled amid her tears at Henry’s projected mode of consolation; and he, glad to find that his nonsense had succeeded in calling forth a smile, went off with a lightened heart to fulfil his commission; a commission, as he then thought, easy of execution, but which appeared to him in a very different light, when he became aware of the irritated state of Warenne’s mind, and his almost morbid apprehensiveness of disgrace.
The interval which elapsed between the arrest and the sitting of the court-martial was not long. The commander-in-chief, from a recollection of Warenne’s services and character, had acceded to General Mapleton’s request with much reluctance, which was increased when he received the despatches from Fisherton, most punctiliously forwarded to the Horse Guards by the general, who though a weak was an honourable man. To mitigate the severity of the proceeding, he expedited the necessary arrangements as much as possible. He forthwith sent officers to form a court, and desired General Mapleton to deliver in his charges. It is unnecessary to record the forms, &c. of the court; suffice it to say that General Mapleton made his accusation, limiting it to the act of disobedience, without cause; and that Warenne in his defence, admitting the act of disobedience, rested his claim to an acquittal upon the impossibility, under the circumstances of the case, of his acting otherwise, with a due regard to his majesty’s service. He produced at the same time a letter of thanks from the inhabitants of Fisherton, and the testimony of Seaforth and Nicholas, as to the necessity of the line of conduct which he had adopted. The question lay within a small compass, and the court soon finished its sittings. The result, however, of its inquiries was not declared. Warenne was doomed to undergo a period of agonising uncertainty.
It is not for a civilian to impugn the policy of military arrangements, but one may perhaps be allowed to say, that unless some strong reason can be adduced for the suspense, which an officer awaiting the sentence of a court-martial is forced to suffer, the infliction of it is a needless piece of cruelty. Why should not the sentence of a court-martial be confirmed, or annulled, and in either case declared, as soon as time had been given for its consideration at the Horse Guards? In the present case, weeks intervened before Warenne’s fate was decided, during which his feelings were outraged and lacerated in a manner totally inconsistent with real justice. Not only had he to combat with his own over-excited susceptibility on the score of dishonour, and his dread of appearing disgraced in the eyes of Adelaide, but with the abuse and calumnies of the public press, or rather that part of the public press which is ever ready to support the cause of the rebellious and licentious against the control of the powers that be.
The radical papers failed not to paint the affair at Fisherton in such colours as to make it seem an infringement of the liberty of the subject, and a massacre which called aloud for vengeance. In vain did the juster newspapers point out that night was not a proper time for people to meet in great numbers, nor arms the proper accompaniment of such assemblages. In vain did they tell of the attempt on the life of Seaforth, and of houses in flames before a sword had been drawn. In vain did they argue that the poor inhabitants of Fisherton had rights—a right to dwell in security; a right to enjoy their little property without molestation; a right to protection from the government of their country. These truths would not help the editors of the * * and * * * to sell their papers; they therefore refused to listen to them; and, on the contrary, filled their columns with reports of what they called the profligate waste of human life by the soldiery, and vehemently expressed hopes, that Colonel Warenne might meet with immediate and condign punishment. This was a species of torment to which Warenne had not looked forward. It had been pain to him to hear his actions arraigned in a court of justice; but his defence followed close upon the accusation, and he had been enabled to bear it with fortitude. To be represented to the people of England as a monster thirsting for the blood of his fellow-countrymen, and deserving of universal execration, was almost more than he could endure.
Henry and Frank were unremitting in their endeavours to comfort him; yet no words, or arguments they could use, availed to remove from him a sensation of despair. He acquiesced in all they said, but as one who heard them not,—except indeed when they pressed him to go with them to Epworth; then he spoke readily and positively. “I will not show myself to Miss Marston a dishonoured man.” In vain did they urge that he was not, could not be disgraced, until condemned by the sentence of the court, which had sat in judgment on his conduct. He would answer,—“I will admit that I am not disgraced by the word of authority, but do you think it nothing to have one’s name called in question? to be made the sport of the papers—no, not their sport, but their execration? Venal they may be—wicked they may be; still they are read by many—believed by many.” If they argued, that no one who knew him would credit any report injurious to his character upon the assumptions of a newspaper, he would thank them for their kind opinions, but refused to be persuaded that he could ever resume the place he had formerly held in public estimation, or that his character could ever be restored to its primitive purity.
One only circumstance seemed to alleviate the anguish of his wounded feelings, and this was the conduct of the soldiers of his regiment. On the return of the troop which had been engaged at Fisherton, the men had naturally expatiated on their colonel’s activity and gallantry before their comrades; consequently, when his arrest was made known, and the recompense he received was seen in immediate and strong contrast with the services he had rendered, one feeling of indignation and resentment pervaded the whole regiment; threatening for a moment to manifest itself in some mode inconsistent with military discipline.
Luckily for their reputation and for his, Frank’s bawman, an old campaigner, gave his master some intimation of their intentions, and Frank desired him to tell his friends that they would best show their regard for his brother, and most effectually gratify him, if they proved the high state of discipline to which they had been brought under his command, by performing their several duties, with, if possible, increased zeal and patience, during his temporary suspension from authority. The soldiers listened readily to advice emanating from such a source, and the consequence was, that never, from Warenne’s first joining the regiment, had there existed so little room for censure, or such cheerful and exact compliance with every order, as from the time of his arrest to the promulgation of the sentence of the court-martial. This proof of the affection of his soldiers was to Warenne a real comfort and support.
CHAPTER XIV.
About a month after the termination of the court-martial, Henry, finding that all endeavours were fruitless to restore Warenne to cheerfulness, and that his unceasing anxiety was wearing out at once his body and mind, determined again to communicate with Adelaide. He rode over to Epworth, and told her his firm conviction, that unless some means were discovered of diverting Warenne’s thoughts from the channel in which they were running, his life or his reason would be endangered. He had besought him to come to Epworth, but he would not hear of it.
Adelaide was not wholly unprepared for this intelligence; she so thoroughly understood Warenne’s character, that in some measure she expected it, and she felt that the time was come when she must herself make an effort, or permit the happiness of both parties to be sacrificed. She asked Henry if he thought Warenne would come to Epworth at her request. Her brother said, that with her permission he would make the trial. She authorised him to do so.
Henry departed. Not a word fell from her lips to stay him, for she wished not to unsay that which she had spoken. Yet when he was gone, she remained transfixed to the spot where he had left her, alarmed at her own boldness; confounded at the change one short moment had made in her fortunes. The tramp of Henry’s horse galloping down the avenue recalled her to self-possession, and she soon taught herself to rejoice in the step she had taken. The world, thought the generous girl, might blame me, if it knew of my request; but he will not,—for he loves me. Love will plead my cause, if I have been too forward,—love, which I should ill deserve, did I permit a fear of the world, or my own false pride to close my lips, when, as I believe, and trust, and hope, one word from them can cheer his gallant spirit, and win him back to happiness.
Henry found Warenne brooding over his misfortunes, sad and dispirited as usual; but his dark eye lighted up, and the blood crimsoned his cheek, as he listened to Adelaide’s message.
“Your sister wish me to go to Epworth? Impossible!” said he.
Henry assured him of the fact. A request from her was not to be refused, and though Warenne had determined not to quit his apartment while yet a cloud should remain upon his reputation, he at once made ready to depart.
A few minutes before, and he would instinctively have shrunk from the broad glare of day; but now he passed unheeding beneath the sun’s meridian splendour, for his heart was full of feelings he could not utterly suppress, and his head busied with surmises as to Adelaide’s motives in urging her request. Could it be that she was interested in his fate? he dared not cherish the hope. Yet why should she wish to see him? Alas, Henry had informed her of his wretchedness, and in the kindness of her nature, and because she felt that her kindness would not now be misinterpreted, she sought to amuse him, and divert him from his sorrows. This latter idea predominated when he reached Epworth.
He found Adelaide alone. She was prepared for the task she had imposed upon herself, and though her heart beat quickly as she heard his well known step, she advanced to welcome him with an unfaltering voice and apparent composure.
“Will you pardon me, Colonel Warenne,” said she, “for the liberty I have taken in requesting you to come and see me?”
“Miss Marston need not ask Colonel Warenne’s pardon for her kindness to him,” was his formal and measured reply; for he feared to be thought capable of presuming upon the kindness which he thus acknowledged.
Adelaide hesitated before she spoke again; the melancholy tone of his voice unnerved her; forcing herself however to proceed, after a pause she resumed,—
“My brother tells me that you will not listen to reason, but torment yourself with visions of disgrace impending over you from this court-martial. Will you let me chide you for your folly?”
“Folly!” ejaculated Warenne, keeping his eyes on the ground.
“Yes,” repeated Adelaide, “folly; you cannot think it wisdom to imagine disaster, and suffer under its pressure, when in all probability the evil you anticipate will never reach you, and even if it should arrive, cannot injure you in the manner you apprehend. Whatever may be the sentence of the court, every fair, every humane person must approve of your conduct.”
“Heaven bless you for these words of kindness!” replied Warenne, despondingly; “but you say what you wish me to believe, rather than what you believe yourself.”
“No,” said Adelaide, with much animation, “I speak as I think—as I feel.”
Warenne raised his eyes from the ground, and looking sadly on her, continued, “I once told you, in a moment of forgetfulness, which I trust you have pardoned, that there is no person whose good opinion I so much ambition. I am deeply sensible of your goodness.”
“When you first spoke the words you have just repeated,” said Adelaide, reproachfully, “you did not speak with the cold formality you now do.”
The colour rushed to Warenne’s face, but he restrained his feelings. “I spoke in passion then,” said he, “and I speak coldly now, because I dare not trust myself to use the language my heart would dictate; besides I am not what I was. I had then an unsullied character.”
“Must I repeat,” rejoined Adelaide, “that in my estimation your character stands as high as ever?—but”—she paused for an instant, and then continued, “you must pardon my boldness,—but I cannot help doubting, whether your grief is solely caused by your apprehension of disgrace.”
Warenne would not deny the truth, and he could not acknowledge it, without in some measure trespassing, as he conceived, upon the kindness of one who, to soothe his sorrows, had perhaps overstepped the strict bounds of prudence; he preserved therefore silence, and she proceeded:—
“Your hesitation confirms me in my opinion, and now I recall to mind (as she spoke, her heart beat almost audibly, and the eloquent blood mantled her very brows, at the outrage she forced herself to inflict upon her maiden modesty), that some weeks ago, long before this present business occupied your thoughts, when I asked you if you were ill, you replied, that you were ‘ill in mind, and harassed, because you could not determine to pursue a certain line of conduct you were anxious to adopt, lest in the attempt to acquire your own individual happiness, which you confessed to be at stake, you should injure another person;’—perhaps you are still undecided?”
Again she paused, but not as before, overpowered by the struggle within her breast. The Rubicon was passed, and—she sat before Warenne, calm and pale, with her head proudly thrown back, and her dark eye glancing with the consciousness of single-minded innocence, as though she dared the world to look into her heart, or question its purity.
He turned a wondering and admiring gaze upon the beautiful being who thus questioned him, as it were with authority, and answered slowly, “No, I have no indecision now to torture me; my path is clear before me, and a joyless one it is.”
“I had guessed as much,” resumed Adelaide, “from your compressed lips, and sterner manner, even had you not acknowledged it. Am I equally right in my further surmise that you have decided against yourself, and that, not because you are convinced of its being your duty so to do under the circumstances of the case, but because the circumstances themselves have changed—because, though the benefit to yourself, in the world’s opinion at least, may be greater, you consider that you have less right to ask it of the person?”
Warenne interposed. “Miss Marston, you cannot know—you cannot understand—yet you assuredly speak the truth.”
Adelaide continued. “Have you forgotten your conversation with me the last time we met? Might not that help me to read the riddle of your thoughts? and now (a deep blush again resuming the empire of her cheek, as she in a clear low tone, but with rapid utterance, made the demand)—that person, is it not myself?—that purpose, was it not to ask my hand?”
Warenne flung himself at her feet. “Pardon, pardon my presumption,” said he, “I had, indeed, such aspiring hopes, before fortune raised you far above me, and before your father by his manner implied his disapprobation of my pretensions; but I have endeavoured to check and conceal them, as in honour I felt bound to do, and since this late unhappy affair, more than ever. You now force me to speak. You must, therefore, hear me, though the next moment you drive me from your presence. I have loved you almost from the first hour that we met. I love you now, fervently, fondly, passionately. I honour you as one of the noblest of living beings. I would peril every earthly thing I possess, to know that I hold a place in your affections. As I hope for mercy, the bitterness of my present sorrows arises, I will not say, solely, for honour is ever the soldier’s idol, but, principally, from the consciousness that henceforth I may not dare to think of you; pardon my presumptuous words, you have wrung them from me.”
“I will pardon you, now that you have spoken,” replied Adelaide, with a faltering voice, and relapsing into her wonted timidity of manner, “though, perhaps, had you remained silent (a sweet smile of reproach strove with the tears which trembled in her dark eyelashes), I should not have forgiven you. You do not deserve forgiveness, for you would have sacrificed”—she hesitated—“your happiness to your vanity.”
Warenne seized the hand she tremblingly held out to him.
“Will you then listen to me?” asked he impetuously; “but no, I dream—it cannot be!”
“Must all the assurances come from me?” rejoined Adelaide, fixing her tearful eyes upon the ground.
“Oh, pardon me, the transition from despair to hope is so sudden that I can scarce believe it—but,” said he inquiringly, “you said you would listen to me. Will you—can you?”
“I have not actually said so,” replied Adelaide timidly, “but I can—I will.”
Warenne doubted no longer, but gave himself up to the full certainty of his happiness, while again and again he told Adelaide the tale she knew full well, but was nothing loth to hear.
From that moment fortune seemed to smile on Warenne. He had hardly reached his quarters when a letter arrived from the secretary to the commander-in-chief, informing him, that the king’s decision was forwarded to the commanding officer of the regiment; and that he hoped Colonel Warenne would be gratified with its purport. It was to the effect, that, though the act of disobedience was proved, (as, indeed, it had been admitted by Colonel Warenne himself,) yet, in consideration of the peculiar circumstances of the case, and the great zeal and ability manifested by Colonel Warenne, his majesty deemed it right (carefully guarding against such a construction of his sentence as might tend to the commission of similar breaches of discipline for the future,) to omit the penalty by course of law devolving upon him for the act of disobedience; and further ordered, that his thanks might be publicly expressed to him, by the officer in present command of the regiment, in proof of his approbation of Colonel Warenne’s endeavours to preserve the peace of his subjects.
Warenne’s heart bounded lightly as he read the welcome note:—“Thank Heaven!” he exclaimed, “I can now honourably ask Adelaide to be mine;” and hastily inclosing it to her, with a few lines expressive of his own happy feelings, he despatched it without delay to Epworth.
The night was passed in a state of bewildered excitement, amid the congratulations of friends and delightful anticipations of the future. On the morrow the regiment was formed in square in the market-place. Thousands of people soon collected around the soldiery, and every window and house-roof that overlooked the scene became thronged; for Warenne’s activity in the protection of the people of Fisherton, and mild conduct in command of his regiment at Calbury, had interested all hearts in his favour.
Frank, as the officer in command, came forward with his brother into the centre of the square. Instantly the hum of the voices around was hushed, and a silence pervaded the whole assembly,—so still, and perfect, that every syllable of the despatches, which Frank immediately proceeded to read, in a clear though occasionally faltering voice, was distinctly heard by the surrounding multitudes. At the former part of them, wherein it was recited that Colonel Warenne was proved guilty of an act of disobedience, there appeared a look of anxiety upon the countenances of some of the bystanders, who feared lest they had been misinformed as to the true purport of the sentence; but by degrees all brows cleared. Frank declared his Majesty’s approval of his brother’s conduct, and restored to him his sword. Then (but not till then) was the attention of the assembly interrupted. The blacksmith of the regiment, who was the father of the corps, and its pride for his various exploits, was seen to raise his hand, and in an instant there arose one loud, heart-given cheer from every soldier in the regiment. This was too much for Warenne—he burst into tears; he soon, however, recovered his self-possession, and thanked his brother officers, and brother soldiers, for the kind interest they had taken in his fate; then resuming his command of the regiment, he hastened to dismiss it, that he might fly on the wings of love to Epworth. At his door he found Lord Framlingham’s carriage; in his lodgings Lord Framlingham and Adelaide. Her fond and faithful eye had witnessed his restoration to honour.
It need hardly be said, that Lord Framlingham’s consent was not withheld, when he found that Adelaide’s affections were fixed on Warenne, nor that their marriage took place in the proper course of time. No accident occurred to prevent their happiness, and they are now continuing to enjoy it in as great, or perhaps greater, perfection than when they were first united. Warenne has resigned the lieutenant-colonelcy of his regiment, though he is ready to take the field, should war again break out. Stuart has succeeded to the lieutenant-colonelcy; Frank to the majority vacant by Stuart’s promotion. Henry is in parliament,—a liberal politician, but abstaining from the full expression of his sentiments from regard to his father, who is opposed to every sort of change. Seaforth and Warenne are become intimate friends, and Nicholas not unfrequently drops in at Epworth, when the best preserves are shot, or favourite fox-coverts drawn in the neighbourhood, or when a severe south-wester prevents the usual supply of fish at Fisherton market; while last, but we trust not least in the affection of our reader, Nanny Rudd is—not united to Frank, as might be presumed from the long flirtation which existed between them, but quietly established in the lodge at Epworth, with Betsy to wait on her—her greatest pleasure to talk a little soldiering with Warenne, Frank, or Henry, whenever they can listen to her, and to explain to them the superiority of (Ruddicè) “the fut over the os;” (Anglicè) of the infantry over the cavalry.