She was alone, and the impulse that prompted him to say a few words to her being too strong to be resisted, he opened the gates and went in. She had disappeared, but he found her seated in an arbour.
On beholding him she uttered a cry of surprise, and started up. For a moment the colour deserted her cheek, but the next instant a blush succeeded.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Atherton Legh,” she said. “But how did you learn I was here?”
“Accident has brought me hither,” he replied. “While passing the garden gates I chanced to see you, and ventured in. If I have been too bold, I will retire at once.”
“Oh, no — pray stay! I am delighted to see you. But you are very incautious to venture forth. You ought to keep in some place of concealment. However, let me offer you my meed of admiration. I was wonderstruck by your last gallant exploit.”
“You helped me to accomplish it.”
“I helped you — how? I was merely a spectator.”
“That was quite sufficient. I felt your eyes were upon me. I fancied I had your approval.”
“I most heartily wished you success,” she rejoined, again blushing deeply. “But I think you are excessively rash. Suppose the caissons had been fired, you would have been destroyed by the explosion.”
“In that case I might have had your sympathy.”
“Yes, but my sympathy would have been worth very little. It would not have brought you to life.”
“It would have made death easy.”
“With such exalted sentiments, ’tis a pity you did not live in the days of chivalry.”
“If I had I would have maintained the peerless beauty of the dame I worshipped against all comers.”
“Now you are beginning to talk high-flown nonsense, so I must stop you.”
But she did not look offended.
Presently she added, “Do you desire to win distinction? Do you wish to please me?”
“I desire to please you more than any one on earth, Miss Rawcliffe,” he rejoined, earnestly. “I will do whatever you ask me.”
“Then join the prince. But no! I ought not to extort this pledge from you. Reflect! reflect!”
“No need of reflection. My decision is made. I will join the Manchester Regiment.”
“Then I will place the sash on your shoulder, and gird on your sword,” she said.
A fire seemed kindled in the young man’s breast by these words. Casting an impassioned glance at the fair maiden, he prostrated himself at her feet, and taking her hand, which she did not withhold, pressed it to his lips.
“I devote myself to you,” he said, in a fervent tone.
“And to the good cause?” she cried.
“To the good cause,” he rejoined. “But chiefly to you.”
Before he could rise from his kneeling posture, Monica and Jemmy Dawson, who had come forth from the house, approached the arbour, but seeing how matters stood, they would have retired; but Constance, who did not exhibit the slightest embarrassment, advanced to meet them.
Constance Rawcliffe gains a Recruit.
“I have gained another recruit for the prince,” she said.
“So I see,” replied Monica. “His royal highness could not have a better officer.”
“I am sure not,” said Jemmy Dawson.
And embracing his friend, he cried, “I longed for you as a companion-in-arms, and my desire is gratified. We shall serve together — conquer together — or die together. Whatever it may be, apparently our destiny will be the same.”
“You are certain of a rich reward,” said Atherton. “But I — —”
“Live in hope,” murmured Constance.
“Not till I have discovered the secret of my birth will I presume to ask your hand,” said the young man.
Constance thought of the packet confided to her by her father — of the letter she had read — and felt certain the mystery would be soon unravelled.
Just then Monica interposed.
“Pray come into the house, Mr. Atherton Legh,” she said. “Mamma will be much pleased to see you. We have been extolling you to the skies. She is a great invalid, and rarely leaves her room, but to-day, for a wonder, she is downstairs.”
Atherton did not require a second bidding, but went with them into the house.
CHAPTER XIX.
MRS. BUTLER.
In a large, gloomy-looking, plainly-furnished room might be seen a middle-aged dame, who looked like the superior of a religious house — inasmuch as she wore a conventual robe of dark stuff, with a close hood that fell over her shoulders, and a frontlet beneath it that concealed her locks — blanched by sorrow more than age. From her girdle hung a rosary. Her figure was thin almost to emaciation, but it was hidden by her dress; her cheeks were pallid; her eyes deep sunk in their sockets; but her profile still retained its delicacy and regularity of outline, and showed she must once have possessed rare beauty. Her countenance wore a sweet, sad, resigned expression.
Mrs. Butler — for she it was — suffered from great debility, brought on, not merely by ill-health, but by frequent vigils and fasting. So feeble was she that she seldom moved beyond a small room, adjoining her bed-chamber, which she used as an oratory; but on that day she had been induced by her daughter to come down-stairs.
She was seated in a strong, oaken chair, destitute of a cushion, and propped up by a pillow, which she deemed too great an indulgence, but which was absolutely requisite for her support. Her small feet — of which she had once been vain — rested on a fauteuil. On a little table beside her lay a book of devotion.
On the opposite side of the fireplace sat a thin, dark-complexioned man, in age between fifty and sixty, whose black habiliments and full powdered wig did not indicate that he was a Romish priest. Such, however, was the case. He was Sir Richard Rawcliffe’s confessor, Father Jerome. At the time when we discover them, the priest was addressing words of ghostly counsel to the lady, who was listening attentively to his exhortations.
They were interrupted by the entrance of the party.
As Atherton was conducted towards her, Mrs. Butler essayed to rise, but being unequal to the effort, would have immediately sunk back if her daughter had not supported her.
She seemed very much struck by the young man, and could not remove her gaze from him.
“Who is this, Monica?” she murmured.
“He is the young gentleman, mamma, of whose courage Constance has been speaking to you in such glowing terms — who so gallantly liberated Sir Richard from arrest this morning, and subsequently preserved Salford Bridge from destruction. It is Mr. Atherton Legh. I felt sure you would like to see him.”
“You judged quite right, my dear,” Mrs. Butler replied, in her soft, sweet accents. “I am very glad to see you, sir. Pardon my gazing at you so fixedly. You bear a strong resemblance to one long since dead — a near relation of my own. Do you not remark the likeness, father?” she added to the priest.
“Indeed, madam, I am much struck by it,” replied Father Jerome.
“I am sure you mean my uncle, Sir Oswald,” observed Constance.
“True. But as Mr. Legh has probably never heard of him, I did not mention his name.”
“I think you have a miniature of my uncle?” said Constance.
“I had one,” returned Mrs. Butler. “But I know not what has become of it.”
“Strange! I never saw a portrait of him,” remarked Constance. “There is not one at Rawcliffe. Nor is there a portrait of his beautiful wife, who did not long survive him.”
“There you are mistaken, Miss Rawcliffe,” observed Father Jerome. “Portraits of both are in existence, for I myself have seen them. But they are locked up in a closet.”
“Why should they be locked up?” cried Monica.
“Probably Sir Richard does not care to see them,” said her mother, sighing deeply. “But let us change the subject. We are talking on family matters that can have no interest to Mr. Atherton Legh.”
Atherton would have bee
n pleased if more had been said on the subject, but he made no remark. Constance was lost in reflection. Many strange thoughts crossed her mind.
At this juncture Jemmy Dawson interposed.
“You will be glad to learn, madam,” he said to Mrs. Butler, “that my friend Atherton Legh has decided on joining the Manchester Regiment. Constance has the credit of gaining him as a recruit.”
“That a young man of so much spirit as your friend should support the cause of the Stuarts cannot fail to be highly satisfactory to me, in common with every zealous Jacobite,” said Mrs. Butler. “May success attend you both! But it is for you, father, to bless them — not for me.”
Thus enjoined, the two young men bent reverently before the priest, who, extending his hands over them, ejaculated fervently:
“May the Lord of Hosts be with you on the day of battle, and grant you victory! May you both return in safety and claim your reward!”
To this Mrs. Butler added, with great earnestness and emotion:
“Should Heaven permit them to be vanquished — should they be taken captive — may they be spared the cruel fate that befel so many, who, in by-gone days, fought in the same righteous cause, and suffered death for their loyalty and devotion.”
This supplication, uttered in sorrowful tones, produced a powerful impression upon all the hearers.
“Why have you drawn this sad picture, mamma?” said Monica, half reproachfully.
“I could not repress my feelings, my child. A terrible scene perpetually rises before me, and I feel it will haunt me to the last.”
“Have you witnessed such a scene, mamma?” cried her daughter, trembling. “You have never spoken of it to me?”
“I have often wished to do so, but I felt the description would give you pain. Are you equal to it now, do you think?”
“Yes,” she replied, with attempted firmness, but quivering lip.
“And you, Constance?” said Mrs. Butler.
“I can listen to you, aunt,” rejoined Constance, in tones that did not falter.
Before commencing, Mrs. Butler consulted Father Jerome by a glance, and his counsel to her was conveyed in these words, “Better relieve your mind, madam.”
“I was very young,” she said, “younger than you, Monica, when the greatest sorrow of my life occurred. At the time of the former rising in 1715, my faith was plighted to one who held a command in the insurgent army. I will not breathe his name, but he belonged to a noble family that had made great sacrifices for King James the Second, and was prepared to make equal sacrifices for the Chevalier de St. George. The brave and noble youth to whom I was betrothed was sanguine of success, and I had no misgivings. I was with him at Preston during the battle, and when the capitulation took place, he confided me to a friend whom he loved as a brother, saying to him, ‘Should my life be taken by our bloodthirsty foes, as I have reason to fear it will, be to her what I would have been. Regard her as my widow — wed her.’ His friend gave the promise he required, and he kept his word.”
Here she paused for a short time, while Monica and Constance — neither of whom had ever heard of this singular promise, or of the betrothal that preceded it — looked at each other.
Meanwhile, a change came over Mrs. Butler’s countenance — the expression being that of horror.
Her lips were slightly opened, her large dark eyes dilated, and though they were fixed on vacancy, it was easy to perceive that a fearful vision was rising before her.
“Ay, there it is,” she cried, in tones and with a look that froze the blood of her hearers— “there is the scaffold!” stretching out her hand, as if pointing to some object. “’Tis there, as I beheld it on that fatal morn on Tower Hill. ’Tis draped in black. The block is there, the axe, the coffin, the executioner. A vast concourse is assembled — and what an expression is in their faces! But where is he? I see him not. Ah! now he steps upon the scaffold. How young, how handsome he looks! How undaunted is his bearing! Every eye is fixed upon him, and a murmur of pity bursts from the multitude. He looks calmly round. He has discovered me. He smiles, and encourages me by his looks. Some ceremonies have to be performed, but these are quickly over. He examines the block — the coffin — with unshaken firmness — and feels the edge of the axe. Then he prays with the priest who attends him. All his preparations made, he bows an eternal farewell to me, and turns —— Ha! I can see no more— ’tis gone!”
And she sank back half fainting in the chair, while her daughter and niece sought to revive her.
So vivid had been the effect produced, that those present almost fancied they had witnessed the terrible scene described.
For a brief space not a word was spoken. At the end of that time, Mrs. Butler opened her eyes, and fixing them upon the young men, exclaimed:
“Again, I pray Heaven to avert such a fate from you both!”
Monica burst into tears. Her lover flew towards her, and as she seemed about to swoon, he caught her in his arms.
“Ah! Jemmy,” she exclaimed, looking up at him tenderly, “how could I live if I lost you! You must not join this perilous expedition.”
“Nay, I cannot honourably withdraw,” he replied. “My promise is given to the prince. Were I to retire now I should be termed a coward. And all my love for you would not enable me to bear that dreadful reproach.”
“’Tis I who induced you to join,” she cried. “If you perish, I shall be guilty of your death. You must not — shall not go.”
“How is this?” he cried. “I cannot believe you are the brave Jacobite girl who urged me to take arms for the good cause.”
“My love, I find, is stronger than my loyalty,” she replied. “Do not leave me, Jemmy. A sad presentiment has come over me, and I dread lest you should perish by the hand of the executioner.”
“This idle foreboding of ill is solely caused by your mother’s fancied vision. Shake it off, and be yourself.”
“Ay, be yourself, Monica,” said Constance, stepping towards them. “This weakness is unworthy of you. ’Tis quite impossible for Jemmy to retreat with honour from his plighted word. Those who have embarked in this hazardous enterprise must go through it at whatever risk.”
And she glanced at Atherton, who maintained a firm countenance.
But Monica fixed a supplicating look on her lover, and sought to move him.
Fearing he might yield to her entreaties, Constance seized his hand.
“For your sake I am bound to interpose, Jemmy,” she said. “You will for ever repent it, if you make a false step now. What is life without honour?”
“Heed her not!” exclaimed Monica. “Listen to me! Till now I never knew how dear you are to me. I cannot — will not part with you.”
Both Mrs. Butler and Father Jerome heard what was passing, but did not deem it necessary to interfere — leaving the task to Constance.
“Take him hence!” said Constance, in a low tone to Atherton. “She may shake his determination. Ere long she will recover her energies, and think quite differently.”
After bidding adieu to Mrs. Butler and the priest, Atherton tried to lead Jemmy gently away. But Monica still clung to him.
“Come with me,” said Atherton. “I want to say a few words to you in private.”
“Say what you have to tell him here,” observed Monica.
“This is mere childishness, Monica,” observed Constance. “Let him go with his friend.”
Monica offered no further resistance, and the two young men quitted the room together.
No sooner were they gone than Monica flew towards Mrs. Butler, and throwing herself at her feet, exclaimed:
“Oh, mother! let us pray that Jemmy may not share the tragical fate of him you have mourned so long. Let us pray that he may not die the death of a traitor!”
“A traitor!” exclaimed Mrs. Butler. “He whom I mourn was no traitor.”
“Listen to me, daughter,” said Father Jerome, in a tone of solemn rebuke. “Should he to whom you are betrothed fall a sacrifice to ty
ranny, oppression, and usurpation — should he suffer in the cause of truth and justice — should he lay down his life in asserting the right of his only lawful sovereign, King James the Third — then be assured that he will not die a traitor, but a martyr.”
Monica bore this reproof well. Looking up at her mother and the priest, she said, in penitential tones:
“Forgive me. I see my error. I will no longer try to dissuade him, but will pray that he may have grace to fulfil the task he has undertaken.”
CHAPTER XX.
THE JACOBITE MEETING IN TOM SYDDALL’S BACK ROOM.
Tom Syddall’s shop was situated on Smithy Bank, in the immediate neighbourhood both of the Cross and of Salford Bridge.
The house was a diminutive specimen of the numerous timber and plaster habitations, chequered black and white, that abounded on the spot; but it was quite large enough for Tom. The gables were terminated by grotesquely-carved faces, that seemed perpetually grinning and thrusting out their tongues at the passers-by; and a bay-window projected over the porch, the latter being ornamented with a large barber’s pole and a brass basin, as indications of Tom’s calling, though his shop was sufficiently well-known without them.
The door usually stood invitingly open, even at an early hour in the morning, and the barber himself could be seen in the low-roofed room, covering some broad-visaged customer’s cheeks with lather, or plying the keen razor over his chin, while half-a-dozen others could be descried seated on benches patiently waiting their turn.
At a somewhat later hour the more important business of wig-dressing began, and then Tom retired to a back room, where the highest mysteries of his art were screened from the vulgar gaze — and from which sacred retreat, when a customer emerged, he appeared in all the dignity of a well-powdered peruke, a full-bottomed tie-wig, a bob, a bob-major, or an apothecary’s bust, as the case might be.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 696