VIII.—HOW THE TWO LARGE HOUSES WERE ILLUMINATED.
Until it grew dark, platoon-firing constantly took place from the two large houses captured by the besiegers. When night came on, the firing of course ceased, though even then occasional shots were heard.
At all the barriers the men rested on their arms, the strictest watch being kept to prevent surprise. The churchyard was still filled with troops.
A strange and terrible light was afforded by the still burning houses, and as these fires were not confined to one quarter, but could be seen at different points, it appeared as if the whole town was burning. The red reflection of the fire in the adjacent street on the tower and windows of the church produced a very striking effect.
After awhile, Brigadier Honeywood caused the windows of the two large mansions, just mentioned, to be brilliantly lighted up, and the illumination revealed every person in the street, and exposed them to the musketeers; but he soon found this told against himself, for the marksmen were quickly discovered and driven from their position, while the windows were broken by showers of bullets.
In the evening a council of war was held at the Mitre, but nothing was determined upon, except that a vigilant watch should be kept throughout the night, and a determined defence maintained on the morrow.
General Forster took very little part in the discussion, and complained bitterly that Brigadier Mackintosh had disobeyed his orders.
“I suppose it was through my fault, general, that the two large houses in Church Street were lost?” remarked the brigadier.
“Undoubtedly,” replied Forster.
“Well, then, I'll repair my fault,” said Mackintosh; “for as I'm a living man, I'll demolish them baith, or burn them to the ground to-morrow.”
“In defiance of my orders?” cried Forster.
“In defiance of anybody's orders,” rejoined Mackintosh.
“Let us have no disputes, I pray,” interposed Lord Widdrington. “We have every reason to be satisfied with the result of the day.”
“So confident am I of success,” said Mackintosh, “that I am about to write to the Earl of Mar that I expect to gain a victory over General Wills to-morrow. A battle is imminent between his lordship and the Duke of Argyle, and may possibly take place to-morrow. If so, and success should attend our arms both at Stirling and Preston, the Jacobite cause must be triumphant.”
“Heaven grant it may!” cried several voices.
After a little further discourse, the council broke up, some proceeding to an adjoining room where supper was laid out, and others returning to their posts.
Only three persons were left in the room. These were Lord Derwentwater, General Forster, and Captain Douglas.
The earl had told the others that he wished to confer with them.
“I trust all will go well to-morrow,” he said; “indeed, I do not doubt it. Still I feel the greatest anxiety respecting the countess.”
“I do not wonder at it, my lord,” remarked Forster. “I am just as anxious about my sister. Would we could get them both safely out of the town—but I fear it is impossible to do so now, since all the avenues are guarded.”
“I will insure their escape from the Fishergate barrier, of which I have the command,” said Captain Douglas.
“But the attempt must not be made before midnight. By crossing the ford, they will be able to gain the Liverpool road. Will the ladies be alone?”
“They will be attended by my chaplain, Father Nor-ham, and my butler, Newbiggin,” replied Lord Derwent' water. “I shall not send my grooms with them, unless General Forster desires it.”
“No, no!” cried Forster. “The fewer the better.”
“Of course, the party will be on horseback?” said Douglas. “I will conduct them to the ford—but there I must leave them.”
“That will suffice,” said the earl. “And I shall be eternally obliged to you for the service.”
“And so shall I,” said Forster.
“At midnight, then, I should be fully prepared,” said Douglas.
With this, he and Forster joined the others at supper in the next room, while Lord Derwentwater proceeded to the town-hall.
When they were informed of the arrangements made for their flight, the countess and Dorothy seemed dissatisfied rather than pleased, but the earl was quite resolved upon their departure.
“There is no telling what the morrow may bring forth,” he said. “And if fortune should prove adverse, I should bitterly reproach myself for allowing you to remain. Go you must.”
All arrangements having been made, Dorothy retired, and the earl and countess were left alone together.
For some minutes they both remained silent. The earl then spoke:
“I hope we may meet again at Dilston as in former days,” he said. “But I have great misgivings. Tomorrow will decide. We shall then either be victorious, or utterly defeated, and prisoners, for we are shut up in this town. In the latter event I well know what my fate will be, and I confess that I cannot shake off a dread presentiment that it will happen.”
“Do not thus be despondent, my dear lord,” said the countess. “To me everything seems to look well.”
“Not so,” he replied. “We have one great danger. Should General Carpenter arrive before we have beaten Wills, we are lost. Had a victory been gained to-day—as it might and would have been had we not been thwarted by Forster—all would have been well. But now we must trust to chance. I will not say that Forster has betrayed us, but he has been excessively indiscreet in confiding his secrets to Mrs. Scarisbrick.”
“Then you think Mrs. Scarisbrick has given secret intelligence to the enemy?”
“I am almost sure of it,” replied the earl. “But let us not trouble our parting with gloomy anticipations.”
They then endeavoured to talk cheerfully, but the effort was in vain, and it was almost a relief to both of them when Father Norham entered.
He had just heard from Dorothy of their proposed flight, and came to inquire further about it.
“Has your lordship any instructions to give me?” he said.
“None whatever,” replied the earl. “I know you will ever watch over the countess during my absence—and if aught happens, console her.”
“I will teach her how to bear her affliction,” replied the priest. “Perchance this may be your last interview,” he added, looking steadily at the countess. “Have you aught to communicate to your husband?”
“We have never had any secrets from each other, good father,” said the earl. “Is it not so, sweetheart?”
The countess made no reply.
A slight pause ensued, after which the earl said:
“Am I to understand you have a secret from me?” Another pause ensued, which was broken by the countess.
“Tell him all, father,” she cried. “I cannot.”
“What is this?” exclaimed the earl, astonished, and looking at the priest for an explanation. “What have you to tell me?”
“Speak! daughter!” cried Father Norham, imperiously. “The secret must be told.”
“Keep me not in suspense!” cried the earl, looking at her.
“You will think me very deceitful when I tell you that my heart was not wholly yours when I wedded you,” she replied.
“Not wholly mine!” he exclaimed in a tone of suppressed fury. “Who then was my rival?”
“The prince,” she replied.
“The prince!” he exclaimed, with a sudden burst of rage. “Since he was capable of this perfidy, I renounce him—I throw off my allegiance—I will break the sword I have borne for him——”
“Hear me, my lord,” she cried, clinging to him.
“Away!” he exclaimed, casting her from him. “How fondly I have loved you, you well know, but now you are hateful to me. Never let me behold you more!”
“Hold! my lord,” interposed Father Norham, in a tone of authority which the earl could not resist. “There must be no misunderstanding between you and the countess. By my counsel she has made this confession to you, because the secret has long weighed upon her heart, and because you may never meet again in this world. Listen to me, my lord. The love conceived by the countess for the prince was simply an ardent feeling of loyalty, carried, perchance, to excess; but in no way culpable. If the prince's image was placed above your own in her breast, you need feel no jealousy. Nor can the prince be blamed, for word of love never passed his lips—nor was he aware of the passion he inspired.”
“Is this so?” cried the earl.
“It is so,” she replied. “I ought to have told you all this long ago—but hesitated from a silly fear, till my heart had become so burdened that I dared not speak. But now I felt that the confession must not be delayed, or it might never be made. Can you forgive me?”
“Come to my heart!” he cried, straining her to his breast.