“Ormonde, were it not that it would increase his misery and agony of mind I would run away from Monksmead, take a room near the Queen’s Greys barracks, and haunt the main gates until I saw him again. He should then tell me how to communicate with him, or I would hang about there till he did. I’d marry him ‘off the strength’ and live (till I am ‘of age’) by needlework if he would have me. But, of course, he’d never understand that I’d be happier, and a better woman, in a Shorncliffe lodging, as a soldier’s wife, than ever I shall be here in this dreary Monksmead—until he is restored and re-habilitated (is that the word? I mean—comes into his own as a brave and noble gentleman who never did a mean or cowardly action in his life).
“And he is so thin and unhappy looking, Ormonde, and his poor hands are in such a state and his beautiful hair is all hacked about and done like a soldier’s, all short except for a long piece brushed down his forehead and round to his cap—oh, dreadful … and he has a scar on his face! No wonder Amelia never recognized him. Oh, do help me, Ormonde. I must find out how to address him. I dare not let them know there is a D. de Warrenne in the regiment—and he’d never get it either—he’s probably Smith or Jones or Robinson now. If some horrid Sergeant called out ‘Trooper D. de Warrenne,’ when distributing letters, Dam would never answer to the name he thinks he has eternally disgraced, and disgrace it further by dragging it in the mire of the ranks. How can people be such snobs? Isn’t a good private a better man than a bad officer? Why should there be any ‘taint’ about serving your country in any capacity?
“How can I find him, Ormonde, unless you help me? I could pay a servant to hang about the barracks until he recognized Dam—but that would be horrible for the poor boy. He’d deny it and say the man was mad, I expect—and it would be most unpleasant and unfair to Dam to set some one to find out from his comrades what he calls himself. If he chooses to hide from what he thinks is the chance of further disgracing his people, and suffers what he does in order to remain hidden, shall I be the one to do anything to show him up and cause him worse suffering—expose him to a servant?
“How can I get him a letter that shall not have his name on it? If I wrote to his Colonel or the Adjutant and enclosed a letter with just ‘Dam’ on it they’d not know for whom it was meant—and I dare not tell them his real name.
“Could you get a letter to him, Ormonde, without letting him know that you know he is a private soldier, and without letting a soul know his real name?
“I do apologize for the length of this interminable letter, but if you only knew the relief it is to me to be doing something that may help him, and to be talking, or rather writing about him, you would forgive me.
“His name must not be mentioned here. Think of it!
“Oh, if it only would not make him more unhappy, I would go to him this minute, and refuse ever to leave him again.
“Does that sound unmaidenly, Ormonde? I don’t care whether it does or not, nor whether it is or not. I love him, and he loves me. I am his friend. Could I stay here in luxury if it would make him happier to marry me? Am I a terribly abandoned female? I told Auntie Yvette just what I had done, and though it simply saved her life to know he had not committed suicide (I believe she worshipped father)—she seemed mortally shocked at me for behaving so. I am not a bit ashamed though. Dam is more important than good form, and I had to show him in the strongest possible way that he was dearer to me than ever. If it was ‘behaving like a servant-girl’—all honour to servant-girls, I think … considering the circumstances. You should have seen his face before he caught sight of me. Yes—and after, too. Though really I think he suffered more from my kissing him—in uniform, in the street—than if I had cut him. It would be only for the minute though … it must comfort him now, and always, to think that I love him so (since he loves me—and always has done). But what I must know before I can sleep peacefully again is the name by which he goes in the ‘2 Q.G’s.,’ so that I can write and comfort him regularly, send him things, and make him buy himself out when he sees he has been foolish and wicked in supposing that he has publicly disgraced himself and his name and us. And I’m going to make Grandfather’s life a misery, and go about skinny and ragged and weeping, and say: ‘This is how you treat the daughter of your dead friend, you wicked, cruel, unjust old man,’ until he relents and sends for Dam and gets him into the Army properly…. But I am afraid Dam will think it his silly duty to flee from me and all my works, and hide himself where the names of de Warrenne and Stukeley are unknown and cannot be disgraced.
“I rely on you, Ormonde,