The sergeant then proceeded to the library to ascertain whether Captain Legh had made any change in his plans.
“No,” replied Atherton, “I must return to Manchester to-night, in order to explain matters to the prince. If his royal highness can dispense with my services, I shall retire from the Manchester Regiment. If not, I must go on. That is my fixed determination.”
“’Tis the resolve of a man of honour,” replied the sergeant.
“I have to read through this paper, and besides, I have some directions to give,” said Atherton. “But I shall start in an hour.”
“Good,” replied Erick. “I shall be quite ready.”
And fancying Captain Legh desired to be alone, he left the room.
Shortly afterwards Markland appeared with lights, which he placed on the writing-table.
“I am very sorry to find you are resolved to go, sir,” he remarked.
“If the prince can spare me I shall return at once.”
“Our chance of seeing you again is but slight, sir,” rejoined the butler, shaking his head. “The prince is not likely to part with you. Shall Sir Richard’s groom, Holden, attend you? Should you have any message to send to me, he will bring it back.”
“Yes, I will take him with me,” replied Atherton. “Perhaps Miss Rawcliffe may require him.”
“You have eaten nothing, sir.”
“I have no appetite. But let a slight repast be prepared for me in half an hour.”
The butler bowed and left the room.
As yet Atherton had only read certain portions of his unhappy uncle’s confession; but he now unfolded the manuscript with the intention of carefully perusing it.
The narration, written in a firm, bold hand, ran as follows.
* * *
In the name of the Almighty Power whom I have so deeply offended, and before whose throne I shall presently appear to answer for my manifold offences, I hereby solemnly declare that the young man now known as Atherton Legh is no other than my nephew Conway, only son of my brother Sir Oswald Rawcliffe, whom I have wickedly kept out of his inheritance for twenty years, by carrying him off when an infant, as I shall proceed to relate.
All possible reparation for the great wrong done him shall be made to my nephew. I hereby restore him all the estates and property of which he has so long been deprived, and I implore his forgiveness.
Let it not be imagined that the possession of the property and title has brought me happiness! Since I have committed this terrible crime, peace has been a stranger to my breast. My slumbers have been disturbed by fearful dreams, and when sleep has fled from my pillow my brother’s angry shade has appeared before me, menacing me with eternal bale for the wrong done to his son.
Sometimes another phantom has appeared — the shade of the sweet lady who died of grief for the loss of her infant.
Though I was thus wretched, and life had become a burden to me, my heart was hardened, and I still clung tenaciously to the lands and title I had so wickedly acquired. Though they brought me nothing but misery I could not give them up. I recoiled with terror from the scaffold that awaited me if I avowed myself a robber and a murderer, for my hands were red with the blood of Bertha, the wretched nurse.
But my conduct was not altogether ill, and I trust that the little good I have done may tell in my favour. I had consigned my nephew to the care of strangers, but I watched over him. I supplied all his wants — educated him as a gentleman — and made him a liberal allowance.
It was my intention to have greatly increased the allowance, so as in part to restore my ill-gotten gains. But this was not to be. Heaven had other designs, and mine were thwarted.
For reasons that seemed good to me, though interested in the cause, I forbade my nephew to join the rising in favour of the House of Stuart; but he heeded not my counsel.
Suddenly, when I least expected it, discovery of my crime seemed imminent. From some information he had privily received, the prince’s suspicions were awakened, and he commanded me to appear before him, and answer certain questions he meant to put to me in the presence of my nephew and my daughter.
From such a terrible ordeal as this I naturally shrank. Death appeared preferable. But before putting an end to an existence that had long been a burden to me, I resolved to make all the atonement in my power for my evil deeds. With that intent have I come here.
In the ebony cabinet standing in the library, which contains all my private papers and letters, will be found incontestable evidences that my nephew is entitled to the estates, and that he is, in fact, the long-lost Conway Rawcliffe.
’Tis meet I should die at Rawcliffe, and in the very room where the crime was committed.
That I should thus rush unbidden into the presence of my Maker may seem to be adding to the weight of my offences, and to preclude all hope of salvation, but I trust in His mercy and forgiveness. He will judge me rightfully. He knows the torments I endure, and that they drive me to madness and despair. I must end them. Whether there will be rest in the grave for my perturbed spirit remains to be seen. Of the world I have already taken leave.
To the sole being to whom my heart clings with affection — to my daughter — I must now bid an eternal farewell! I cannot write to her, and she will understand why I cannot. I implore her prayers. When I am gone she will have no protector, and I trust that her cousin, Conway, will watch over her. My private property will be hers. Though small in comparison with Rawcliffe, ‘twill be enough.
I have still much to say, for thick-coming thoughts press upon me; but I must not give them way. Were I to delay longer, my resolution might waver. Adieu, Conway! Adieu, Constance! Forgive me! — pray for me!
Richard Rawcliffe.
Enclosed within the packet was the key of the cabinet.
There was likewise another manuscript written by the unhappy baronet and signed by him, giving full particulars of the terrible occurrence alluded to; but since the reader is already acquainted with the details it is not necessary to reproduce them.
Atherton was profoundly moved by the perusal of this letter, and remained for some time buried in reflection.
Rousing himself at length from the reverie into which he had fallen, he looked round for the ebony cabinet, and easily discovered it. Unlocking it, he found that it contained a large bundle of letters and papers labelled in the late baronet’s hand, “Documents relating to Conway Rawcliffe, with proofs of his title to the Rawcliffe estate.”
He searched no further. He did not even untie the bundle, feeling certain it contained all the necessary evidences; but having carefully secured Sir Richard’s last letter and confession, he locked the cabinet, and put the key in his pocket.
He then rang the bell, and when Markland made his appearance, he said to him:
“Before my departure from Manchester, Markland, it is necessary that I should give you some instructions, in case I should not be able to return, for the prince may be unwilling to release me from my engagements. I am sure you have faithfully served your late unfortunate master, and I am equally sure of your attachment to his daughter, and I have therefore every confidence in you. My great anxiety is respecting Miss Rawcliffe,” he continued, in accents that bespoke the deepest feeling. “Intelligence of this dreadful event will be communicated to her to-morrow. How she will bear it I know not.”
“If I may venture to give an opinion, sir, and I have known the dear young lady from childhood, and am therefore well acquainted with her temperament and disposition — when the first shock is over, she will bear the bereavement with resignation and firmness. She was familiar with Sir Richard’s wayward moods, and has often feared that something dreadful would happen to him. No doubt the shock will be a terrible one to her, and I can only hope she will be equal to it.”
“All precautions shall be taken to break the sad tidings to her,” said Atherton. “When she comes here it is my wish that she should be treated precisely as heretofore — you understand, Markland.”
Th
e butler bowed.
“I hope she will bring her cousin — my cousin, Miss Butler, with her. Mrs. Butler, I fear, may not be equal to the journey, but you will prepare for her, and for Father Jerome.”
“Your orders shall be strictly attended to, sir,” said the butler.
“And now with regard to my unfortunate uncle,” paused the young baronet. “In case I am unable to return, I must leave the care of everything to you. Certain formalities of justice, rendered necessary by the case, must be observed, and you will take care that nothing is neglected. On all other points Miss Rawcliffe must be consulted.”
“I will not fail to consult her, sir. But I am sure she would desire that her father’s remains should be laid in the vault beneath the chapel where his ancestors repose, and that the funeral rites should be performed with the utmost privacy.”
This conference ended, Atherton proceeded to the dining-room, and partook of a slight repast, after which he prepared for his departure.
The horses had already been brought round by Holden, the groom, and the night being extremely dark, the court-yard was illumined by torches, their yellow glare revealing the picturesque architecture of the old mansion.
Before mounting his steed, Atherton gave his hand to Markland, who pressed it respectfully, earnestly assuring the young gentleman that all his directions should be followed out.
The old butler then took leave of the sergeant, who had been in readiness for some minutes.
In consequence of the darkness, it was deemed advisable that Holden should lead the way. Accordingly, he was the first to cross the drawbridge, but the others kept close behind him.
CHAPTER XXXII.
ATHERTON’S DECISION IS MADE.
It was with strange sensations that Atherton looked back at the darkling outline of the old mansion, and when it became undistinguishable in the gloom, he felt as if he had been indulging in an idle dream.
But no! the broad domains that spread around him on either side were his own. All he could discern belonged to him.
His meditations were not disturbed by either of his attendants, for the sergeant was a short distance behind him, and the groom about twenty or thirty yards in advance. As they trotted on quickly they were soon out of the park, and were now making their way somewhat more slowly along the road leading to Warrington. Presently they turned off on the right, in order to reach the ford, and were skirting the banks of the Mersey, when Holden came back and said that he perceived some men armed with muskets guarding the ford.
A brief consultation was then held. As the groom declared that the river was only fordable at this point, Atherton resolved to go on at all hazards.
As they drew near the ford they found it guarded — as Holden had stated — by half a dozen armed militia-men, who were evidently determined to dispute their passage.
“Stand! in the king’s name!” cried the leader of the party in an authoritative voice. “We can discern that one of you is a Highlander, and we believe you are all rebels and traitors. Stand! I say!”
“Rebels and traitors yourselves!” thundered the sergeant in reply. “We own no sovereign but King James the Third.”
“Out of our way, fellows!” cried Atherton. “We mean to pass the ford!”
Drawing his sword as he spoke, he struck spurs into his steed, and dashed down the bank, followed closely by the sergeant and Holden — the former having likewise drawn his claymore.
The militia-men drew back, but fired at them as they were crossing the river, though without doing them any harm.
Having escaped this danger, they proceeded at the same rapid pace as before, and in the same order, the groom riding about twenty yards in advance. The few travellers they met with got out of their way.
By the time they reached Chat Moss the moon had risen, and her beams illumined the dreary swamp.
The scene looked far more striking than it did by daylight, but Atherton gazed at it with a different eye. Other thoughts now occupied his breast, and he seemed changed even to himself. When he tracked that road, a few hours ago, he was a mere adventurer — without name — without fortune — now he had a title and large estates. Reflections on this sudden and extraordinary change in his position now completely engrossed him, and he fell into a reverie which lasted till he reached Pendleton, and then waking up, as if from a dream, he was astonished to find he had got so far.
From this elevation the town of Manchester could be descried, and as the houses were again illuminated, and bonfires were lighted in different quarters, it presented a very striking appearance.
Just as Atherton crossed Salford Bridge, the clock of the collegiate church told forth eleven; and so crowded were the streets, owing to the illuminations, that nearly another quarter of an hour was required to reach the prince’s head-quarters.
Atherton was attended only by the groom, the sergeant having gone to report himself on his return to the Chevalier de Johnstone.
Dismounting at the gate, he entered the mansion, and orders having been given to that effect he was at once admitted to the prince, who was alone in his private cabinet.
Charles instantly inquired if he had brought Sir Richard Rawcliffe with him.
“He is unable to obey your royal highness’s summons,” replied the other.
“How?” exclaimed the prince, frowning.
“He is lying dead at Rawcliffe, having perished by his own hand. But he has left a written confession, wherein he acknowledges that he has wrongfully deprived me of my inheritance.”
“This is strange indeed!” exclaimed the prince. “His extraordinary conduct to you is now explained, and the mystery that hung over your birth is solved. You are the lost son of the former baronet. I suspected as much, and meant to force the truth from Sir Richard. However, he has spared me the trouble. Pray let me know all that has occurred?”
Atherton then commenced his relation, to which the prince listened with the greatest interest, and when the story was brought to a conclusion he said:
“I will not affect to pity your unhappy uncle. He has escaped earthly punishment, and perhaps the deep remorse he appears to have felt may obtain him mercy on High. Let us hope so — since he has striven at the last to make some amends for his heavy offences. But to turn to yourself. Your position is now materially changed. You entered my service as an unknown adventurer, and not as a wealthy baronet. Considering this, and feeling, also, that I am under great personal obligation to you, I will not wait for any solicitation on your part, but at once release you from your engagement to me.”
Atherton was much moved.
“Your royal highness overwhelms me by your kindness,” he said. “But though Rawcliffe Hall and its domains may be mine by right, I do not intend to deprive Constance of the property. Furthermore, I shall not assume my real name and title till the close of the campaign. For the present I shall remain Atherton Legh. I trust your highness will approve of the course I intend to pursue?”
“I do approve of it,” replied Charles, earnestly. “The resolution you have taken does you honour. Since you are determined to join me, it shall not be as a mere officer in the Manchester Regiment, but as one of my aides-de-camp. All needful explanation shall be given to Colonel Townley. I shall march at an early hour in the morning. But no matter. You can follow. You must see Constance before you leave, and if you are detained by any unforeseen cause, I will excuse you. Nay, no thanks. Good-night.”
End of the Second Book.
BOOK III. THE MARCH TO DERBY, AND THE RETREAT.
CHAPTER I.
AN OLD JACOBITE DAME.
Next morning the prince quitted Manchester, marching on foot at the head of two regiments of infantry which formed the advanced guard. The main body of the army, with the cavalry and artillery, was to follow at a later hour.
As the two regiments in question, which were composed of remarkably fine men, marched up Market Street Lane, preceded by a dozen pipers, they were accompanied by a vast concourse of people, who came t
o witness the prince’s departure, and shouted lustily as he came forth from his head-quarters, attended by Sir Thomas Sheridan and Colonel Ker.
Designing to make Macclesfield the limit of his first day’s march, Charles took the road to Cheadle, and several hundred persons walked, or rather ran, by the side of the Highlanders for a mile or two, when they dropped off and returned, being unable to keep up with the active mountaineers.
Parties of men had been sent on previously to make a temporary bridge across the Mersey by felling trees; but the bridge not being completed on his arrival, the prince forded the river at the head of his troops.
On the opposite bank of the Mersey, several Cheshire gentlemen of good family were waiting to greet him, and wish him success in his enterprise.
Among them was an aged dame, Mrs. Skyring, who, being very infirm, was led forward by a Roman Catholic priest. Kneeling before the prince, she pressed his hand to her lips.
Much impressed by her venerable looks, Charles immediately raised her, and on learning her name, told her he had often heard of her as a devoted adherent of his house.
“Give ear to me for a few moments, I pray you, most gracious prince,” she said, in faltering accents. “Eighty-five years ago, when an infant, I was lifted up in my mother’s arms to see the happy landing at Dover of your great uncle, King Charles the Second. My father was a staunch Cavalier, served in the Civil Wars, and fought at Worcester. My mother was equally attached to the House of Stuart. I inherited their loyalty and devotion. When your grandsire, King James the Second, was driven from the throne, I prayed daily for his restoration.”
“You did more than pray, madam,” said the prince. “I am quite aware that you remitted half your income to our family; and this you have done for more than fifty years. I thank you in my grandsire’s name — in my father’s name — and in my own.”
Sobs checked the old lady’s utterance for a moment, but at length she went on:
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