The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth
Page 715
From the first moment when they beheld this personage their suspicions were excited, but as he drew nearer they perceived it was Atherton. Constance would have hurried forward to meet him, but feeling the necessity of caution she restrained herself. Presently, he came up, and thinking he might be noticed by some observer, he adopted a very respectful and distant manner, consistent with the character he had assumed, and took off his hat while addressing them.
“Of course you have heard of my escape,” he said. “I did not attempt to communicate with you, for I had no one whom I could trust to convey a message, and I did not dare to write lest my letter should fall into wrong hands. For two days I was concealed in the old Manor House at Wigan, and most carefully attended to by the housekeeper, who provided for all my wants. I had some difficulty in getting away, for the house was watched, but on the second night I ventured out, and soon got clear of the town. Before I left, Mrs. Scholes procured me this disguise, without which I should infallibly have been captured, for my uniform must have betrayed me. Even thus attired, I have had more than one narrow escape. If I can only get into the house unobserved I shall be perfectly safe.”
“You must wait till night and all shall be ready for you,” rejoined Constance. “As soon as it grows dark Markland shall come out into the park.”
“He will find me near this spot,” replied Atherton.
“But what will you do in the interim?” asked Constance, anxiously.
“Give yourself no concern about me,” he rejoined. “You may be sure I will not expose myself to any needless risk. Adieu!”
With a rustic bow he then moved off, and the two damsels returned to the hall.
Constance’s first business was to summon Markland and tell him what had occurred.
The old butler did not manifest much surprise at the intelligence, for when he had first heard of Atherton’s escape he felt certain the young gentleman would seek refuge at the hall, and he had already made some quiet preparations for his concealment. He therefore expressed the utmost readiness to carry out his young mistress’s instructions, and declared that he could easily manage matters so that none of the servants should be aware that Captain Legh was hidden in the house.
“Even if he should remain here for a month,” he said, “with common caution I will engage he shall not be discovered.”
“I am very glad to hear you speak so confidently, Markland,” she rejoined; “for I feared it would be impossible to conceal him for more than a day or two.”
Having made all needful arrangements, Markland stole out quietly as soon as it became dark, and found Atherton at the spot indicated.
“You are so well disguised, sir,” he said, “that if I hadn’t been prepared I should certainly not have known you. But don’t let us waste time in talking here. I must get you into the house.”
The night being very dark their approach to the hall could not be perceived. On reaching the drawbridge Markland told his companion to slip past while he went into the gate-house to speak to the porter, and by observing these instructions, Atherton gained the court-yard unperceived.
The butler then gave orders that the drawbridge should be raised, and while the porter was thus employed, he opened the postern and admitted Captain Legh into the house. Having first satisfied himself that no one was in the way, Markland then led the young man along a passage to his own room on the ground floor.
All danger was now over. The small room into which Atherton had been ushered looked exceedingly snug and comfortable. Thick curtains drawn over the narrow window facing the moat prevented any inquisitive eye from peering into the chamber. A bright fire burnt on the hearth, and near it stood a table on which a cold pasty was placed, with a bottle of claret.
“I have prepared a little supper for you, sir,” said Markland. “Pray sit down to it. I’ll take care you shan’t be disturbed. You will please to excuse me. I have some other matters to attend to.”
He then went out, taking the precaution to lock the door, and Atherton partook of the first quiet meal he had enjoyed for some time.
Old Markland did not return for nearly three hours, and when he unlocked the door, he found Atherton fast asleep in the chair. Great havoc had been made with the pasty, and the flask of claret was nearly emptied.
“I have got a bed ready for you, sir,” he said. “It isn’t quite so comfortable as I could wish, but you will make allowances.”
“No need of apologies, Markland. I could sleep very well in this chair.”
“That’s just what I mean to do myself, sir,” replied the butler, laughing.
With this, he took Captain Legh up a back staircase to a disused suite of apartments, in one of which a bed had been prepared, while a wood fire blazing on the hearth gave a cheerful air to the otherwise gloomy-looking room.
“I have had this room got ready as if for myself, sir,” observed Markland; “but as I have just told you, I mean to sleep in a chair below stairs. I wish you a good-night, sir. I’ll come to you in the morning.”
So saying, he quitted the room, and Atherton shortly afterwards sought his couch, and slept very soundly.
Next morning, the old butler visited him before he had begun to dress, and opening the drawers of a wardrobe that stood in the room, took out two or three handsome suits of clothes — somewhat old-fashioned, inasmuch as they belonged to the period of George the First, but still attire that could be worn.
“These habiliments belonged to your father, Sir Oswald,” said Markland; “and as you are about his size, I am sure they will fit you.”
“But are they not out of fashion, Markland?” cried Atherton. “People will stare at me if I appear in a costume of five-and-twenty years ago.”
“Well, perhaps they might,” rejoined the butler; “but there can be no objection to this dark riding-dress.”
“No, that will do very well,” said Atherton, in an approving tone, after he had examined it.
“You will find plenty of linen in this drawer — laced shirts, solitaires, cravats, silk stockings,” continued the butler; “and in that cupboard there are three or four pairs of jack-boots, with as many cocked-hats.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Atherton. “You have quite set me up, Markland. But now leave me for a short time, that I may try the effect of this riding-dress.”
The butler then withdrew, but returned in about half an hour with a pot of chocolate and some slices of toast on a tray.
By this time Atherton was fully attired, and everything fitted him — even to the boots, which he had got out of the cupboard.
“Why, I declare, you are the very image of your father!” exclaimed Markland, as he gazed at him in astonishment. “If I had not known who you are, I should have thought Sir Oswald had come to life again. If any of the old servants should see you, you will certainly be taken for a ghost.”
“That’s exactly what I should desire,” replied Atherton; “and should it be necessary, I shall endeavour to keep up the character. However, I don’t mean to qualify myself for the part by eating nothing, so pour me out a cup of chocolate.”
The butler obeyed, and Atherton sat down and made a very good breakfast.
Before he had quite finished his repast, the butler left him, and did not reappear.
CHAPTER IV.
AN ENEMY IN THE HOUSE.
Not having anything better to do, Atherton began to wander about the deserted suite of apartments, with which his own chamber communicated by a side door.
As the windows were closed, the rooms looked very dark, and he could see but little, and what he did see, impressed him with a melancholy feeling; but the furthest room in the suite looked lighter and more cheerful than the others, simply because the shutters had been opened.
It was a parlour, but most of the furniture had been removed, and only a few chairs and a table were left.
Atherton sat down, and was ruminating upon his position, when a door behind was softly opened — so very softly that he heard no sound.
When he met her in the park with Monica, he had not noticed any material alteration in her appearance; but now that he gazed into her face, he was very much struck by the change which a week or two had wrought in her looks.
Dressed in deep mourning, she looked much thinner than heretofore, and the roses had entirely flown from her cheeks; but the extreme paleness of her complexion heightened the lustre of her magnificent black eyes, and contrasted forcibly with her dark locks, while the traces of sadness lent fresh interest to her features.
Not without anxiety did Atherton gaze at her, and at last he said:
“You have been ill, Constance?”
“Not very ill,” she replied, with a faint smile. “I am better — and shall soon be quite well. My illness has been rather mental than bodily. I have never quite recovered from the terrible shock which I had to undergo — and, besides, I have been very uneasy about you. Now that you are safe I shall soon recover my health and spirits. At one time I feared I should never behold you again, and then I began to droop.”
“I thought you possessed great firmness, Constance,” he remarked.
“So I fancied, but I found myself unequal to the trial,” she rejoined. “I had no one to cheer me. Monica’s distress was even greater than my own, and her mother did not offer us much consolation, for she seemed convinced that both you and Jemmy were doomed to die as traitors.”
“Well, your apprehensions are now at an end, so far as I am concerned,” said Atherton; “and I see no cause for uneasiness in regard to Jemmy, for he is certain to escape in one way or other. I hope to meet him a month hence in Paris. But I shall not leave England till I learn he is free, as if he fails to escape, I must try to accomplish his deliverance.”
“Do not run any further risk,” she cried.
“I have promised to help him, and I must keep my word,” he rejoined.
“I ought not to attempt to dissuade you, for I love Jemmy dearly, but I love you still better, and I therefore implore you for my sake — if not for your own — not to expose yourself to further danger. I will now tell you frankly that I could not go through such another week as I have just passed.”
“But you must now feel that your apprehensions were groundless; and if I should be placed in any fresh danger you must take courage from the past.”
“Perhaps you will say that I am grown very timorous, and I can scarcely account for my misgivings — but I will not conceal them. I don’t think you are quite safe in this house.”
“Why not? Old Markland is devoted to me, I am quite sure, and no one else among the household is aware of my arrival.”
“But I am sadly afraid they may discover you.”
“You are indeed timorous. Even if I should be discovered, I don’t think any of them would be base enough to betray me.”
“I have another ground for uneasiness, more serious than this, but I scarcely like to allude to it, because I may be doing an injustice to the person who causes my alarm. I fear you have an enemy in the house.”
Atherton looked at her inquiringly, and then said:
“I can only have one enemy — Father Jerome.”
She made no answer, but he perceived from her looks that he had guessed aright.
“’Tis unlucky he is established in the house. Why did you bring him here?”
“I could not help it. And he has been most useful to me. But I know he does not like you; and I also know that his nature is malicious and vindictive. I hope he may not find out that you are concealed in the house. I have cautioned Markland, and Monica does not require to be cautioned. Ah! what was that?” she added, listening anxiously. “I thought I heard a noise in the adjoining chamber.”
“It may be Markland,” said Atherton. “But I will go and see.”
With this, he stepped quickly into the next room, the door of which stood ajar.
As we have mentioned, the shutters were closed, and the room was dark, but still, if any listener had been there, he must have been detected. The room, however, seemed quite empty.
Not satisfied with this inspection, Atherton went on through the whole suite of apartments, and with a like result.
“You must have been mistaken,” he said on his return to Constance. “I could find no eaves-dropper.”
“I am glad to hear it, for I feared that a certain person might be there. But I must now leave you. I hope you will not find your confinement intolerably wearisome. You will be able to get out at night — but during the daytime you must not quit these rooms.”
“Come frequently to see me, and the time will pass pleasantly enough,” he rejoined.
“I must not come too often or my visits will excite suspicion,” she replied. “But I will send you some books by Markland.”
“There is a private communication between this part of the house and the library. May I not venture to make use of it?”
“Not without great caution,” she rejoined. “Father Jerome is constantly in the library. But I will try to get him away in the evening, and Markland shall bring you word when you can descend with safety.”
“Surely some plan might be devised by which Father Jerome could be got rid of for a time?” said Atherton.
“I have thought the matter over, but no such plan occurs to me,” replied Constance. “He rarely quits the house, and were I to propose to him to take a journey, or pay a visit, he would immediately suspect I had an object in doing so. But even if he were willing to go, my Aunt Butler I am sure would object.”
“Is she not aware that I am in the house?”
“No, Monica and I thought it better not to trust her. She could not keep the secret from Father Jerome.”
“Then since the evil cannot be remedied it must be endured,” said Atherton.
“That is the right way to view it,” rejoined Constance. “Not till the moment of your departure must Father Jerome learn that you have taken refuge here. And now, adieu!”
CHAPTER V.
A POINT OF FAITH.
Left alone, Atherton endeavoured to reconcile himself to his imprisonment, but with very indifferent success.
How he longed to join the party downstairs — to go forth into the garden or the park — to do anything, in short, rather than remain shut up in those gloomy rooms! But stay there he must! — so he amused himself as well as he could by looking into the cupboards with which the rooms abounded.
In the course of his examination he found some books, and with these he contrived to beguile the time till old Markland made his appearance.
The old butler brought with him a well-filled basket, from which he produced the materials of a very good cold dinner, including a flask of wine; and a cloth being spread upon a small table in the room we have described as less gloomy than the other apartments, the young man sat down to the repast.
“I have had some difficulty in bringing you these provisions, sir,” observed Markland. “Father Jerome has been playing the spy upon me all the morning — hovering about my room, so that I couldn’t stir without running against him. Whether he heard anything last night I can’t say, but I’m sure he suspects you are hidden in the house.”
“What if he does suspect, Markland?” observed Atherton. “Do you think he would betray me? If you believe so, you must have a very bad opinion of him.”
“I can tell you one thing, sir; he was far from pleased when he heard of your escape, and wished it had been Captain Dawson instead. I told him I thought you might seek refuge here, and he said he hoped not; adding, ‘If you were foolish enough to do so you would certainly be discovered.’ I repeated these observations to Miss Rawcliffe, and she agreed with me that they argued an ill-feeling towards you.”
“What can I have done to offend him?” exclaimed Atherton.
“I don’t know, sir, except that you are heir to the property. But give yourself no uneasiness. I will take care he shan’t harm
you. Don’t on any account leave these rooms till you see me again.”
“Has Father Jerome access to this part of the house, Markland?”
“No; I keep the door of the gallery constantly locked; and he is not aware of the secret entrance to the library.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Quite sure, sir. I never heard him allude to it.”
“He is frequently in the library, I understand?”
“Yes, he sits there for hours; but he generally keeps in his own room in the evening, and you might then come down with safety. Have you everything you require at present?”
“Everything. You have taken excellent care of me, Markland.”
“I am sorry I can’t do better. I’ll return by-and-by to take away the things.”
With this he departed, and Atherton soon made an end of his meal.
Time seemed to pass very slowly, but at length evening arrived, and the butler reappeared.
“You will find Miss Rawcliffe in the library,” he said, “and need fear no interruption, for Father Jerome is with Mrs. Butler. I shall be on the watch, and will give timely notice should any danger arise.”
Instantly shaking off the gloom that had oppressed him, Atherton set off. The butler accompanied him to the head of the private staircase, but went no further. Though all was buried in darkness, the young man easily found his way to the secret door, and cautiously stepped into the library.
Lights placed upon the table showed him that Constance was in the room, and so noiselessly had he entered, that she was not aware of his presence till he moved towards her. She then rose from the sofa to meet him, and was clasped to his breast. Need we detail their converse? It was like all lovers’ talk — deeply interesting to the parties concerned, but of little interest to any one else. However, we must refer to one part of it. They had been speaking of their prospects of future happiness, when he might be able to procure a pardon from the Government and return to Rawcliffe — or she might join him in France.