The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Before we start, I should like to have a little conversation with you in private, Captain Legh.”

  “I am quite at your service now, Sir Richard,” replied the young man.

  He then glanced significantly at Dickson, who went out with the butler, leaving him alone with the baronet.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  A STARTLING DISCLOSURE.

  When the door was closed, Sir Richard’s manner somewhat changed towards the young man, and with less haughtiness than he had hitherto manifested, he said to him:

  “Pray be seated. I have much to say to you.”

  Atherton complied, but for some minutes Sir Richard continued to pace rapidly to and fro within the room, as if unwilling to commence the conversation he had proposed.

  At last, he seated himself opposite the young man, who had watched him with surprise.

  “Are you acquainted with the history of my family?” he inquired, looking steadfastly at his auditor.

  “I have some slight acquaintance with it,” replied Atherton.

  “You are aware, I presume, that the Rawcliffes have occupied this old mansion for upwards of two centuries?”

  Atherton bowed, but made no remark. Sir Richard went on:

  “My ancestors have all been high and honourable men, and have handed a proud name from one generation to another. Would it not be grievous if a stain were affixed on a name, hitherto unsullied, like ours? Yet if this inquiry which the prince has instituted be pursued, such must infallibly be the case. A dark secret connected with our family may be brought to light. Now listen to me, and you shall judge:

  “Some twenty years ago, Sir Oswald Rawcliffe, my elder brother, died, leaving a widow and an infant son. Lady Rawcliffe came to reside here with her child — do you note what I say?”

  “I think I have heard that the child was stolen under mysterious circumstances,” said Atherton, “and that the lady subsequently died of grief.”

  “You have heard the truth,” said Sir Richard, with a strange look. “As the child could not be found, I succeeded to the title and the estates.”

  A pause ensued, during which such fearful suspicions crossed Atherton that he averted his gaze from the baronet.

  Suddenly, Sir Richard rose in his chair, leaned forward, and gazing fixedly at Atherton, exclaimed:

  “What will you say if I tell you that the child who was carried off, and supposed to be dead, is still living? What will you say if I tell you that you are Conway Rawcliffe, the son of Sir Oswald, and rightful heir to the property?”

  “Amazement!” cried the listener.

  “For many years I have deprived you of your inheritance and your title — have appropriated your estates, and have dwelt in your house. But I have been haunted by remorse, and have known no happiness. Sleep has been scared from my eyelids by the pale lady who died of grief in this very house, and I have known no rest. But I shall sleep soundly soon,” he added, with terrible significance. “I will make reparation for the wrongs I have done. I will restore all I have taken from you — house, lands, name, title.”

  Again there was a pause. The young man was struck dumb by astonishment, and it was Sir Richard who broke silence.

  “What think you I was engaged on when you entered this room? I will tell you. I was writing out a full confession of the crime I have committed, in the hope of atoning for my guilt. Already I have narrated part of the dark story. I have told how you were carried off and whither you were conveyed; but I have yet to relate how you were brought up in Manchester in complete ignorance of the secret of your birth, and how I acted as your guardian. Full details shall be given so that your identity can easily be established. When my confession is finished, I will deliver it to you, and you can show it to the prince.”

  “However you may have acted previously, you are acting well now,” remarked Atherton. “But I will no longer interrupt you in your task.”

  “Stay!” cried the baronet. “I will show you a room which I myself have not seen for years. I have not dared to enter it, but I can enter it now. Follow me!”

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBER.

  Opening a movable shelf in the bookcase, he disclosed a narrow passage, along which they proceeded till they came to a small back staircase, evidently communicating by a small outlet with the moat.

  Mounting this staircase, Sir Richard unfastened a door, which admitted them to a dark corridor. From its appearance it was evident that this part of the mansion was shut up.

  A stifling sensation, caused by the close, oppressive atmosphere, affected Atherton, and vague terrors assailed him. Two doors faced them. Sir Richard opened one of the doors, and led his companion into an antechamber, the furniture of which was mouldering and covered with dust.

  A door communicating with an inner room stood ajar. After a moment’s hesitation Sir Richard passed through it, and was followed by Atherton.

  The chamber was buried in gloom, but on a window-shutter being opened a strange scene was disclosed. At the further end of the apartment stood an old bedstead, which seemed fully prepared for some occupant, though it could not have been slept in for many years. Quilt and pillow were mildewed and mouldering, and the sheets yellow with age. The hangings were covered with dust. Altogether, the room had a ghostly look.

  For some moments Atherton could not remove his gaze from that old bed, which seemed to exercise a sort of fascination, but when he looked at Sir Richard, he was appalled by the terrible change that had come over him.

  He looked the picture of horror and despair. His pallid countenance was writhen with anguish, and his limbs shook. A deep groan burst from his labouring breast.

  “The hour is near at hand,” he muttered, in tones scarcely human. “But I am not yet ready. Spare me till my task is finished!”

  With a ghastly look he then added to Atherton: “The whole scene rises before me as it occurred on that dreadful night. The room is hushed and quiet, and within that bed a child is peacefully slumbering on his mother’s breast. A masked intruder comes in — admitted by the nurse, who has betrayed her mistress. Unmoved by a picture of innocence that might have touched any heart less savage than his own, he snatches up the child, and is bearing it off when the mother awakes. Her piercing shriek still rings through my ears. I cannot describe what follows — but ’tis soon over — and when the worse than robber departs with his prize, he leaves the wretched mother lying senseless on the floor, and the nurse dead — slain by his ruthless hand!”

  “Horror!” exclaimed Atherton, unable to control his feelings.

  “Let us hence, or I shall become mad,” cried Sir Richard, hurrying him away.

  So bewildered was Atherton, that he could scarcely tell how he regained the library, but when he got there, he sank into a chair, and covered his eyes with his hands, as if to exclude the terrible vision by which he had been beset.

  On rousing himself from the stupor into which he had fallen, he perceived Sir Richard seated at the table, writing his confession, and feeling that his presence might disturb him, he rose to depart.

  Sir Richard rose likewise, and while conducting him to the door, said:

  “I will send for you when I have done. I shall be best alone for a short time. But let me give you a word of counsel, and do not distrust it because it comes from me. ’Tis my wish, as you know, to repair the wrong I have done. I would not have you forfeit the lofty position you have just obtained.”

  “I hope I shall not forfeit it,” said Atherton, proudly.

  “You will not long hold it,” rejoined Sir Richard, in a solemn tone, “unless you withdraw from this ill-fated expedition. It will end in your destruction. Attend to my warning!”

  “I cannot honourably retreat,” said Atherton.

  “You must,” cried Sir Richard, sternly. “Why throw away your life from a fancied sense of honour, when such fair prospects are opening upon you? ‘Twill be madness to persist.”

  Atherton made no reply, and Sir Richa
rd said no more.

  But as he opened the door he gave the young man a look so full of strange significance that he almost guessed its import.

  Sir Richard paused for a moment as he went back to the table.

  “What is the use of this?” he exclaimed aloud. “No remonstrance will deter him. He will go on to destruction. The estates will pass away from us. Perchance a few words, written at the last moment, may change him! Heaven grant it. I will try. But now to complete my task. All will soon be over!”

  With this he sat down at the table, and with a strange composure resumed his writing.

  CHAPTER XXX.

  A TERRIBLE CATASTROPHE.

  On returning to the entrance-hall Atherton found Markland, the butler. The old man looked at him very wistfully, and said:

  “Excuse me, sir, if I venture to say a few words to you. Has an important communication been made to you by Sir Richard?”

  “A very important communication, indeed,” replied Atherton. “And when I tell you what it is, I think I shall surprise you?”

  “No, you won’t surprise me in the least, sir,” replied Markland. “The moment I set eyes upon you I felt certain that you were the rightful heir of this property. You are the very image of my former master, Sir Oswald. I hope Sir Richard intends to do you justice and acknowledge you?”

  “Be satisfied, my good friend, he does,” replied Atherton.

  “I am truly glad to hear it,” said Markland. “This will take off a weight that has lain on his breast for years, and make him a happy man once more. Strange! I always felt sure the infant heir would turn up. I never believed he was dead. But I didn’t expect to behold so fine a young gentleman. I hope you are not going to leave us again now you have come back.”

  “I must leave you for a time, Markland, however inclined I may be to stay. I have joined the prince’s army, and am a captain in the Manchester Regiment.”

  “So I heard from the gallant Highlander who came with you. But things have changed now. Since you have become Sir Conway Rawcliffe — —”

  “What mean you, Markland?”

  “Conway was the name of the infant heir who was stolen — he was so called after his mother, the beautiful Henrietta Conway.”

  “For the present I must remain Captain Legh,” interrupted the young man. “Nor would I have a word breathed on the subject to your fellow-servants till I have spoken with Sir Richard. You understand?”

  “Perfectly,” replied the old butler. “You may rely on my discretion.”

  But though Markland was forbidden to give the young baronet his proper title, he could not be prevented from showing him the profoundest respect, and it was with great reverence that he conducted him to the dining-room, where they found Sergeant Dickson seated at a table with a cold sirloin of beef before him, flanked by a tankard of strong ale.

  Atherton — as we shall still continue to call our hero — desired the sergeant not to disturb himself, but declined to follow his example, though urged by Markland to try a little cold beef.

  The butler, however, would not be denied, but disappearing for a minute or two returned with a cobwebbed flask, which he uncorked, and then filling a big glass to the brim, handed it to the young gentleman with these words:

  “This madeira was bottled some five-and-twenty years ago in the time of the former owner of this mansion, Sir Oswald Rawcliffe. I pray you taste it, Sir —— I beg pardon,” he added, hastily correcting himself— “I mean Captain Legh.”

  As Atherton placed the goblet to his lips, but did not half empty it, the butler whispered in his ear, while handing him a biscuit, “’Tis your father’s wine.”

  Atherton gave him a look and emptied the glass.

  Another bumper was then filled for Sergeant Dickson, who smacked his lips, but declared that for his part he preferred usquebaugh.

  “Usquebaugh!” exclaimed Markland, contemptuously. “Good wine is thrown away upon you, I perceive, sergeant. Nothing better was ever drunk than this madeira. Let me prevail upon you to try it again, Sir — Captain, I mean.”

  But as Atherton declined, he set down the bottle beside him, and left the room.

  Full half an hour elapsed before he reappeared, and then his looks so alarmed those who beheld him, that they both started to their feet.

  “What is the matter?” cried Atherton, struck by a foreboding of ill. “Nothing, I trust, has happened to Sir Richard?”

  “I don’t know — I hope not,” cried the terrified butler. “I went into the library just now to see if his honour wanted anything. To my surprise he was not there, though I had been in the entrance-hall, and hadn’t seem him go out. On the writing-table was a packet, that somehow attracted my attention, and I stepped forward to look at it. It was sealed with black wax, and addressed to Sir Conway Rawcliffe, Baronet.”

  Atherton uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and his forebodings of ill grew stronger.

  “The sight of this mysterious packet filled me with uneasiness,” pursued the butler. “I laid it down, and was considering what had become of Sir Richard, when I remarked that a secret door in one of the bookcases, of which I was previously ignorant, was standing open. Impelled by a feeling stronger than curiosity, I passed through it, and had reached the foot of a small staircase, when I heard the report of a pistol, almost immediately succeeded by a heavy fall. I guessed what had happened; but not liking to go up-stairs alone, I hurried back as fast as I could, and came to you.”

  “However disinclined you may feel, you must go with me, Markland,” said Atherton. “I know where we shall find Sir Richard. You must also come with us, sergeant. Not a moment must be lost.”

  Full of the direst apprehensions they set off. As they entered the library Atherton perceived the packet, which he knew contained the unhappy man’s confession, lying on the writing-table, but he did not stop to take it up.

  Dashing through the secret door he threaded the passage, and ascended the narrow staircase, three steps at a time, followed by the others.

  The door of the antechamber was shut, and he feared it might be locked, but it yielded instantly to his touch.

  The room was empty; but it was evident that the dreadful catastrophe he anticipated had taken place in the inner room, since a dark stream of blood could be seen trickling beneath the door, which was standing ajar.

  Atherton endeavoured to push it open, but encountering some resistance, was obliged to use a slight degree of force to accomplish his object, and he then went in, closely followed by the others.

  A dreadful spectacle met their gaze. Stretched upon the floor amid a pool of blood, with a pistol grasped in his hand, showing how the deed had been done, lay Sir Richard.

  Death of Sir Richard Rawcliffe.

  Page 201.

  He had shot himself through the heart, so that his death must have been almost instantaneous.

  The sight would have been ghastly enough under any circumstances; but beheld in that chamber, so full of fearful associations, it acquired additional horror. The group gathered round the body — the young baronet in his military attire — the Highlander in his accoutrements — and the old butler — formed a striking picture. That the guilty man should die there seemed like the work of retribution.

  As the nephew he had so deeply injured, and deprived of his inheritance, looked down upon his dark and stern visage, now stilled in death, he could not but pity him.

  “May Heaven forgive him, as I forgive him!” he ejaculated.

  “If he has sinned deeply his penitence has been sincere,” said Markland, sorrowfully. “Half his time has been spent in fasting and prayer. Heaven have mercy on his sinful soul!”

  “It seems to me as if he had something clutched in his left hand,” remarked the sergeant.

  “I think so, too,” said Atherton. “See what it is.”

  Thereupon, Erick knelt down beside the body, and opening the fingers, which were not yet stiffened, took from them a small slip of paper, and gave it to Atherton.


  It had been crushed in the death gripe, but on being unfolded, these warning words appeared:

  “’Tis given to those on the point of death to see into the future, and I read danger and destruction in the expedition you have joined. Be warned by your unhappy uncle, and abandon it.”

  “Whatever may be the consequence, I cannot abandon the expedition,” thought Atherton.

  While forming this resolution, he gazed at his lifeless monitor, and it seemed to him as if a frown passed over the dead man’s countenance.

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  SIR RICHARD RAWCLIFFE’S CONFESSION.

  After considering what ought to be done under circumstances so painful and extraordinary, Atherton left Sergeant Dickson with the body, and then descending with Markland to the hall, ordered him to assemble the whole house without delay, and acquaint them with the dreadful catastrophe that had occurred.

  Thereupon, Markland rang the alarm bell, and the summons was immediately answered by all the male part of the household, and several women, who hurried to the entrance-hall to see what was the matter.

  In reply to their anxious inquiries, the butler told them what had happened, and the appalling intelligence was received with expressions of horror by the men, and by shrieks from the women — some of the latter seeming ready to faint.

  Bidding all follow him who chose, Markland then led three or four stout-hearted men to the room where the dire event had occurred.

  They found Sergeant Dickson watching beside the body, and, after regarding it for a few moments with fearful curiosity, they raised it from the floor, and placed it upon the bed.

  This done, they all quitted the chamber of death, and the door was locked.

  Markland, however, deemed it necessary to leave a man in the ante-room, and, having taken this precaution, he descended with the others to the lower part of the house.