“When I learnt that you were marching on England at the head of an army, determined to drive out the Hanoverian usurper, and regain your crown, I was filled with despair that I could not assist you; but I sold my plate, my jewels, and every trinket I possessed. They did not produce much — not half so much as I hoped — but all they produced is in this purse. I pray your royal highness to accept it as an earnest of my devotion.”
While uttering these words, which greatly touched Charles, she again bent before him, and placed the purse in his hands.
“Pain me not by a refusal, I implore you, most gracious prince,” she said. “And think not you are depriving me of aught. I cannot live long, and I have no children. ’Tis the last assistance I shall be able to render your royal house — for which I have lived, and for which I would die.”
“I accept the gift, madam,” replied Charles, with unaffected emotion, “with as much gratitude as if you had placed a large sum at my disposal. You are, indeed, a noble dame; and our family may well be proud of a servant so loyal! If I succeed in my enterprise, I will recompense you a hundred fold.”
“I am fully recompensed by these gracious words, prince,” she rejoined.
“Nay, madam,” he cried, pressing her hand to his lips; “mere thanks are not enough. You have not confined yourself to words.”
“My eyes are very dim, prince,” said the old dame; “and what you say to me will not make me see more clearly. Yet let me look upon your face, and I will tell you what I think of you. I am too old to flatter.”
“You will not offend me by plain speaking,” said Charles, smiling.
“You are a true Stuart,” she continued, trying to peruse his features. “But there are some lines in your comely countenance that bode — —”
“Not misfortune, I trust?” said Charles, finding she hesitated.
She regarded him anxiously, and made an effort to reply, but could not.
“What ails you, madam?” cried the prince, greatly alarmed by the deathly hue that overspread her features.
Her strength was gone, and she would have fallen, if he had not caught her in his arms.
Her friends, who were standing near, rushed forward to her assistance.
“Alas, all is over!” exclaimed Charles, mournfully, as he consigned her inanimate frame to them.
“She is scarcely to be pitied, prince,” said the Romish priest. “’Tis thus she desired to die. May the angels receive her soul, and present it before the Lord!”
“The sum she has bestowed upon me shall buy masses for the repose of her soul,” said Charles.
“Nay, prince,” rejoined the priest. “Her soul is already at rest. Employ the money, I beseech you, as she requested.”
Much affected by this incident, Charles continued his march through a fine champaign country, well-timbered and richly cultivated, containing numerous homesteads, and here and there an old hall of the true Cheshire type, and comprehending views of Bowden Downs and Dunham Park on the left, with Norbury and Lyme Park on the right.
At Headforth Hall he halted with his body-guard, and claimed the hospitality of its owner; while his troops marched on to Wilmslow, and forced the inhabitants of that pretty little village to supply their wants.
From Wilmslow the prince’s march was continued to Macclesfield, where he fixed his quarters at an old mansion near the Chester Gate.
CHAPTER II.
ATHERTON’S GIFT TO CONSTANCE.
The prince’s departure from Manchester took place on Sunday, December the 1st; but as the main body of the army did not leave till the middle of the day, and great confusion prevailed in the town, no service took place in the churches.
The cavalry was drawn up in St. Ann’s Square; the different regiments of infantry collected at various points in the town; and the Manchester Regiment assembled in the collegiate churchyard.
While the troops were thus getting into order, preparatory to setting out for Macclesfield, a great number of the inhabitants of the town came forth to look at them — very much increasing the tumult and confusion.
The Manchester Regiment got into marching order about noon, and was one of the first to quit the town. Officers and men were in high spirits, and looked very well.
As the regiment passed up Market Street Lane, with Colonel Townley riding at its head, the colours borne by Ensign Syddall, and the band playing, it was loudly cheered.
The regularity of the march was considerably interfered with by the number of persons who accompanied their friends as far as Didsbury, and supplied them rather too liberally with usquebaugh, ratifia, and other spirituous drinks.
The courage of the men being raised to a high pitch by these stimulants, they expressed a strong anxiety for an early engagement with the Duke of Cumberland’s forces, feeling sure they should beat them.
After a short halt at Didsbury, their friends left them, and their courage was somewhat cooled by fording the river below Stockport. They were likewise obliged to wade through the little river Bollin, before reaching Wilmslow, where they halted for the night.
Atherton had not yet left Manchester. He had some business to transact which obliged him to employ a lawyer, and he was engaged with this gentleman for two or three hours in the morning. He had previously written to Constance to say that it was necessary he should see her before his departure, and as soon as his affairs were arranged he rode to Mrs. Butler’s house in Salford.
Leaving his horse with Holden, by whom he was attended, he entered the garden, and was crossing the lawn, when he encountered Jemmy Dawson, who, having just parted with Monica, looked greatly depressed.
In reply to his anxious inquiries, Jemmy informed him that Constance had borne the shock better than might have been expected, and had passed the night in prayer. “I have not seen her,” he said, “but Monica tells me she is now perfectly composed, and however much she may suffer, she represses all outward manifestation of grief. In this respect she is very different from Monica herself, who, poor girl! has not her emotions under control, and I left her in a state almost of distraction.”
Without a word more he hurried away, while Atherton entered the house, and was shown into a parlour on the ground floor. No one was in the room at the time, and his first step was to lay a packet on the table.
Presently Constance made her appearance. Her features were excessively pale, and bore evident traces of grief, but she was perfectly composed, and Atherton thought he had never seen her look so beautiful.
She saluted him gravely, but more distantly than before.
“I cannot condole with you on the terrible event that has occurred,” he said; “but I can offer you my profound sympathy. And let me say at once that I freely and fully forgive your unfortunate father for all the wrong he has done me.”
“I thank you for the assurance,” she rejoined. “’Tis an infinite relief to me, and proves the goodness of your heart.”
“Do not dwell upon this, Constance,” he said. “Hereafter we will talk over the matter — not now. Should you feel equal to the journey, I hope you will immediately return to Rawcliffe.”
“I will return thither, with your kind permission, to see my poor father laid in the family vault. That sad duty performed, I shall quit the house for ever.”
“No, Constance — that must not be,” he rejoined. “My object in coming hither this morning is to tell you that I do not design to dispossess you of the house and property. On the contrary, you will be as much the mistress of Rawcliffe Hall as ever — more so, perhaps. Nay, do not interrupt me — I have not finished. Many things may happen. I may meet a soldier’s fate. The hazardous enterprise I am bent upon may fail — I may be captured — may die as a rebel on the scaffold. If I should not return, the house and all within it — all the domains attached to it — are yours. By that deed I have made them over to you.”
And he pointed to the packet which he had laid upon the table.
Constance was greatly moved. Tears rushed to her eyes, a
nd for a few minutes she was so overpowered that she could not speak.
Atherton took her hand, which she did not attempt to withdraw.
“I am profoundly touched by your generosity,” she said. “But I cannot accept your gift.”
“Nay you must accept it, dearest Constance,” he said. “You well know you have my heart’s love, and I think you will not refuse to be mine.”
“’Twould be too great happiness to be yours,” she rejoined. “But no — no — I ought not to consent.”
By way of reply, he pressed her to his heart, and kissed her passionately.
“Now will you refuse?” he cried.
“How can I, since you have wrested my consent from me?” she rejoined. “But how am I to address you?”
“You must still call me Atherton Legh,” he replied.
“Well, then, dearest Atherton, my heart misgives me. In urging you to join this expedition I fear I have done wrong. Should any misfortune happen to you I shall deem myself the cause of it. I tremble to think of the consequences of my folly. Must you go?” she added, looking imploringly at him.
“Yes,” he replied. “Not even you, dearest Constance, can turn me from my purpose. The prince has relieved me from my engagement, but I cannot honourably retire. Come what may, I shall go on.”
“I will not attempt to dissuade you from your purpose,” she rejoined. “But I find it doubly hard to part now. And your danger seems greater.”
“Mere fancy,” he said. “You love me better than you did — that is the cause of your increased apprehension.”
For some moments they remained gazing at each other in silence.
At last Atherton spoke.
“’Tis with difficulty that I can tear myself away from you, dearest Constance. But I hope soon to behold you again. Meantime, you will remain at Rawcliffe Hall as I have suggested.”
“I will do whatever you desire,” she rejoined.
“I hope you will induce Mrs. Butler and Monica to stay with you, and that I shall find them at Rawcliffe on my return. I would not anticipate disaster — but ’tis desirable to be prepared for the worst. Should ill success attend our enterprise, and I should be compelled to seek safety in flight, I might find a hiding-place in Rawcliffe Hall.”
“No doubt,” she rejoined. “You could easily be concealed there — even should strict search be made. All necessary preparations shall be taken. Whenever you arrive at Rawcliffe you will find all ready for you. I will go there to-morrow, and I trust Mrs. Butler and Monica will be able to follow immediately. Will you not see them?”
“Not now,” he replied. “Bid them farewell for me. If I stay longer, my resolution might give way. Remember what I have said to you. In any event you are mistress of Rawcliffe. Adieu!”
Pressing her again to his breast, he rushed out of the room.
CHAPTER III.
A RETREAT RESOLVED UPON.
Mounting his horse, which he had left at the gate of Mrs. Butler’s residence, and followed by Holden, Atherton rode towards the bridge — being obliged to pass through the town in order to gain the Stockport road.
The place was still in a state of great confusion — none of the cavalry having as yet departed; but he contrived to make his way through the crowded thoroughfares, and was soon in the open country.
At Didsbury he overtook the Manchester Regiment and had a long conversation with Colonel Townley, who explained to him that he meant to pass the night at Wilmslow.
Atherton then pursued his journey, crossed the Mersey at Cheadle, and came up with the prince and the advanced guard about four miles from Macclesfield. He was then sent on to make preparations for his royal highness, and executed his task very satisfactorily.
On the following day, while the prince, with the infantry, continued his march to Leek, Lord George Gordon, with his regiment of horse, proceeded to Congleton, and Captain Legh received orders from his royal highness to accompany him.
At Congleton information being obtained that the Duke of Cumberland was posted at Newcastle-under-Lyne, with ten thousand men, Lord George went thither to reconnoitre, and found that the duke, on hearing of the onward march of the insurgent forces, had retired with his army on Lichfield.
With marvellous despatch Atherton rode across the country and brought the intelligence to Charles, who had arrived at Leek.
No change, however, was made in the prince’s plans. He did not desire an engagement with the duke, but rather to elude him.
Accordingly, he pressed on, and on the fourth day after leaving Manchester, arrived with his entire forces at Derby.
Charles was still full of confidence, and as he was now a day’s march nearer London than the enemy, he persuaded himself that he should be able to reach the capital without hazarding a battle. Though he had been coldly received at all places since he left Manchester, and had not obtained any more recruits, he was not discouraged.
He fixed his head-quarters at a large mansion in Full Street, which has since been demolished.
On the morning after his arrival at Derby, he rode round the town, attended only by Colonel Ker and Captain Legh, and was very coldly received by the inhabitants — no cheers attending his progress through the streets, and many of the houses being shut up.
Much dispirited by this unfavourable reception, he returned to his head-quarters, where a council of war was held, which was attended by all the leaders of his army.
The general aspect of the assemblage was gloomy, and far from calculated to raise his spirits. Sir Thomas Sheridan alone seemed to retain his former confidence.
Graciously saluting them all, Charles said:
“I have summoned you, my lords and gentlemen, simply to inform you that after halting for another day in Derby to refresh my troops, I shall proceed with all possible despatch, and without another halt, if I can avoid it — to London — there to give battle to the usurper. From the feeling evinced towards me, I doubt not I shall obtain many recruits during the hurried march, and perhaps some important reinforcements — but be this as it may, I shall persevere in my design.”
He then looked round, but as he encountered only gloomy looks, and all continued silent, he exclaimed sharply:
“How is this? Do you hesitate to follow me further?”
“Since your royal highness puts the question to us,” replied Lord George Gordon, gravely, “I am bound to answer it distinctly. We think we have already done enough to prove our devotion. Feeling certain we have no chance whatever of success, we decline to throw away our lives. We have now reached the very heart of England, and our march has been unopposed, but we have obtained none of the large reinforcements promised us, and only a single regiment at Manchester. Scarcely any person of distinction has joined us — and very few have sent us funds. Since we left Manchester we have been everywhere coldly received — and here, at Derby, we are regarded with unmistakable aversion. The populace are only held in check by our numbers. Further south, the disposition would probably be still more unfavourable, and retreat would be out of the question. If your royal highness can show us letters from any persons of distinction promising aid, or can assure us that a descent upon the English shores will be made from France, we are willing to go on. If not, we must consult our own safety.”
“What do I hear?” cried the prince, who had listened in the utmost consternation. “Would you abandon me — now that we have advanced so far — now that victory is assured?”
“Our position is critical,” replied Lord George. “If we advance further, our retreat will be cut off by Marshal Wade, who is close in our rear, and by the Duke of Cumberland, who has an army doubling our own in number, only a few leagues from us. If we hazard a battle, and obtain a victory, the losses we should necessarily sustain would so weaken our forces, that without reinforcements, we could not hope to vanquish the large army which we know is encamped at Finchley to secure the capital. Retreat is, therefore, unavoidable.”
“Is this the unanimous opinion?” demande
d Charles, looking anxiously round at the assemblage.
With the exception of Mr. Murray, the secretary, Sir Thomas Sheridan, and the Marquis d’Eguilles, every voice answered:
“It is.”
“Then leave me,” cried the prince, fiercely and scornfully. “Leave me to my fate. I will go on alone.”
“If your royal highness will view the matter calmly, you will perceive that we are not wanting in fidelity and attachment to your person in making this proposition,” said Lord Kilmarnock. “The cause here is hopeless. Let us return to Scotland, where we shall find reinforcements and obtain aid and supplies from France.”
“No; I will not return to Scotland ingloriously,” cried Charles.
“Listen to me, prince,” said the Duke of Perth. “There is every inducement to return to Scotland, where a large force awaits you. I have just received intelligence that my brother, Lord John Drummond, has landed at Montrose with his regiment newly raised in France. With the Highlanders whom we left behind, this will make a large force — probably three thousand men.”
“And no doubt there will be large additions,” said Sir Thomas Sheridan. “By this time the Irish Brigade must have embarked from France, with the promised French regiments.”
“There is nothing for it but a retreat to Scotland,” said Lord Pitsligo. “It would be madness to face an army of thirty thousand men.”
“You are a traitor like the rest, Pitsligo,” cried the prince, fiercely.
The old Scottish noble flushed deeply, and with difficulty mastered his indignation.
“I never thought to hear that opprobrious term applied to me by one of your royal house, prince,” he said. “But since you have stigmatised all these loyal gentlemen in the same manner, I must bear the reproach as best I can.”
“Forgive me, my dear old friend,” cried Charles, seizing his hand, and pressing it warmly. “I meant not what I said. No one could possess stauncher friends than I do — no one could appreciate their devotion more profoundly than myself. But my heart is crushed by this bitter and unexpected disappointment. It has come upon me like a clap of thunder — at the very moment when I anticipated success. Since it must be so, we will retreat, though it will half kill me to give the word. Leave me now, I pray of you. I will strive to reconcile myself to the alternative.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 709