‘You little know what is before you,’ I continued; ‘and I only wish I had been aware of this intimacy earlier, to have saved you, perhaps, from some suffering. That young man is a suspected forger, and certainly an accomplice of burglars!—Hear me out, Winny! It will be best. I have been on his track for weeks, and at last all is brought home. I fear it will shock you to learn it, but he is a lost man; and in the morning I am under an engagement to apply at the Mansion House for a warrant for his arrest! There is no hope or chance for him; he will sleep in prison to-morrow night!’
I saw that Winny repressed a shriek by a great effort. For a moment a spasm convulsed her features, which quite frightened me, and then, in a strange gasping voice, which had nothing in it like my Winifred’s gentle tones, she cried, again clasping her hands tightly upon her breast: ‘He a criminal! He to be thrown in prison by you—by you, father! Never! You know not what you are saying. Father, you are talking of my husband!’
A TALE OF NASEBY FIELD.
About four miles from Market-Harborough lies a little village, which we will call Bullenham. It is one of the most peaceful spots in all the peaceful Midlands. The houses are scattered here and there, divided from each other by orchards and farm-closes; one or two quiet shops supply the modest wants of the people; and several large farms provide the rude fathers of the village with labour. The old church, square-towered and gray, stands amidst the cottages. The curfew bell is still rung every night, and many another quaint custom survives the displacement of old-world life made all over England by modern manufactures and railways. The only disturbance to which the village is now liable is the invasion of its wide street and spacious green by foxhounds and scarlet-coated hunters, who, during the season, often meet there. But two centuries ago the village was invaded by the Cavalier army on its way from Harborough to Naseby, there to meet defeat at the hands of Fairfax and Cromwell and their undaunted Roundheads. The military events of that time, and the momentous national changes they effected, are familiar to every one; and as they form no part of our story, we shall not dwell on them; for on the edge of the splendid blazonry of history there are often homely incidents which the historian and philosopher reject, and it is such an event, full of domestic and human interest, that we propose to narrate.
A few days before the battle, a troop of Rupert’s horse was holding the village of Bullenham, and, with wild riot and plunder, terrifying the hearts of the farmers and their wives. The post was of some importance, for it lay just half-way between Harborough, where King Charles was staying, and that wide moorland on which the Parliamentary army was manœuvring. Nearly the whole of the Royalist soldiers passed through Bullenham, so that the villagers saw enough and to spare of the pomp and circumstance of war. The young officer who commanded the cavalry troop quartered in the village was named Henry Melford, and he had established himself in a small farmhouse. The household consisted of the farmer and his wife and one daughter, their only child. Captain Melford was not a rough soldier, but a refined man, accustomed to good society. At the same time, he had a delightfully frank manner, quick sympathies, and a homely naturalness and power of adaptation which went far to reconcile Dame Dimbell to the invasion of her household privacies and the subversion of all her established hours and methods. Her husband’s talk was of oxen, and he took little interest in the questions that were then riving society to its centre. A stolid, characterless man, he rose with the dawn to go through his placid routine of occupations, and smoked his pipe in the chimney in the evening. The outdoor work of his small farm he managed almost entirely himself, while his wife and neat-handed daughter reigned inside the threshold. Barbara was a bright, plump, merry creature, who sang old ballads from morning till night, save when a snatch of some favourite church anthem broke in graver notes from her lips. She had lived in unwonted excitement since the soldiers had entered the village, and what mischief might have come about had she been allowed to yield to her own coquettish impulses it is hard to say. But Captain Melford had none of the licentiousness which characterised many of the Royalist soldiers: he had indeed something of the chivalrous purity of an olden knight, and he had not only warned Barbara against possible danger, but had made it well understood that the maiden was not to be approached by the soldiers. Consequently, the pretty damsel was comparatively safe; and honest John Sprayby, who for a year or two had been hovering about her, was not likely to be discarded for some bolder and lighter wooer.
One evening, after Captain Melford had received the reports of his sergeant, and had given orders for the various watches to be kept during the night, he began to take his ease in the spacious farm kitchen. The table was spread for supper, and he sat down to do hearty justice to the homely old English fare.
‘Come, dame,’ he cried, ‘give me a draught of your home-brewed. ’Tis the best drink I have tasted since Prince Rupert gave me a stirrup-cup a week ago.—And what’s this? By all that’s good, a stuffed chine! Ah! this is better than all your court kickshaws, and will stay my stomach well if there should be any fighting to-morrow;’ and so saying, he laid at once a pound or so upon his plate and applied himself vigorously to its consumption. ‘And where is your pretty daughter, Mistress Dimbell?’ he asked after a time. ‘Is she with her sweetheart? Ah, if you’ll only wait until we’ve beaten these confounded Roundheads, I’ll see that they get married. There’s a certain fair lady breaking her heart over me now, and so I can feel for pretty Barbara in these wild times.’
‘I’m sure your honour’s very good,’ said the farmer’s dame; ‘and I wish you were safe out of all this fighting, for I should be sorry to see you come by any hurt.’
Just then a loud knock shook the door, and going to it, Mrs Dimbell saw a trooper leading his horse. Both man and beast were covered with dust and sweat from hard riding. ‘Is Captain Melford in?’ he asked in a loud tone. Melford could not avoid hearing the question, for the kitchen opened directly on the road, and so he jumped up and hurried to the door.
‘These for you, sir,’ said the trooper respectfully on seeing the captain, and handed him a large packet of papers. ‘There are stirring times at hand, and we’re going to have at Old Noll.’