"You will be much grieved to hear that poor Robert Deacon is dead," observed Beppy, when she was left alone with Atherton. "Papa had just received the sad intelligence before we left Manchester, and he is now about to communicate it to the doctor. I pity Dr. Deacon from my heart, for I fear the loss of his sons will kill him. But I have other news for you, which papa has not had time to relate. Jemmy Dawson has made an attempt to escape; but has failed. At Dunstable he contrived to elude the guard, and got out upon the downs, but his flight being discovered, he was pursued and captured. He is now lodged in Newgate. Papa has just received a letter from him. It was confided to a Manchester friend who visited him in prison. The same gentleman brought another letter for Monica, which papa undertook to send to her privately—for the post is no longer safe—all suspected letters being opened and examined. Poor Jemmy seems very despondent. Papa is going to London shortly, and no doubt will see him."
"If Dr. Byrom goes to London, would he take charge of Monica and Constance, think you?" cried Atherton.
"I am sure he would," she replied. "But here he comes," she continued, as Dr. Byrom entered the room. "I will put the question to him. Papa," she went on, "I have been talking matters over to Captain Legh, and have mentioned to him that you are likely to go to London before long. Should you do so, he hopes you will take charge of Monica and Miss Rawcliffe."
"They will require an escort," added Atherton; "and there is no one whom they would prefer to you—especially under present circumstances."
Thus appealed to, Dr. Byrom very readily assented, and inquired when the young ladies would be disposed to undertake the journey.
"No arrangement has been made as yet," said Atherton; "but I am sure when Monica receives the letter from Jemmy Dawson, which I understand you are about to forward to her, she will be all anxiety to be near him; and I am equally sure that Constance will desire to accompany her."
"I will ascertain their wishes without delay," said Dr. Byrom. "Before returning to Manchester, I will ride over to Rawcliffe Hall, and deliver poor Jemmy's letter in person. I shall then hear what Miss Butler says. My visit will answer a double purpose, for I shall be able to give them some intelligence of you, and convey any message you may desire to send them."
"I cannot thank you sufficiently for your kindness, sir," said Atherton. "Pray tell Constance that I shall make my way to London in such manner as may best consist with safety, and I hope she will feel no uneasiness on my account. I sincerely trust she will go to London, as in that case I shall see her again before I embark for Flanders."
"I will deliver your message," replied Dr. Byrom, "and I hope we shall all meet in London. Immediately on my arrival there I shall endeavour to procure a pardon for you. Do not raise your expectations too high, for I may not be able to accomplish my purpose. But you may rely upon it I will do my best."
Atherton could scarcely find words to express his thanks.
"Say no more," cried the doctor, grasping his hand warmly. "I shall be amply rewarded if I am successful."
"You have not said anything about it, papa," interposed Beppy. "But I hope you mean to take me with you to London. I must form one of the party."
"You would only be in the way," observed the doctor.
"Nothing of the sort. I should be of the greatest use, as you will find. You are the best and most good-natured papa in the world, and never refuse your daughter anything," she added, in a coaxing tone, which the doctor could not resist.
"I ought not to consent, but I suppose I must," he said.
"Yes, yes—it's quite settled," cried Beppy, with a glance of satisfaction at Atherton.
"Where are we to meet in London?" inquired the young man. "Possibly I may not see you again till I arrive there."
"You will hear of me at the St. James's Hotel, in Jermyn Street," replied the doctor. "And now I think we ought to start," he added to his daughter, "since we have to go to Rawcliffe Hall."
"But you have not taken leave of Dr. Deacon," cried Beppy.
"I shall not interrupt the prayers he is offering up for his son," replied her father. "Bid him adieu for us," he added to Atherton. "And now farewell, my dear young friend! Heaven guard you from all perils! May we meet again safely in London!"
Atherton attended his friends to the garden gate, but went no further. He watched them till they disappeared, and then returned sadly to the cottage.
The unexpected arrival of Dr. Byrom and Beppy at Rawcliffe Hall caused considerable perturbation to Constance and her cousin; but this was relieved as soon as the doctor explained that he brought good news of Atherton.
Before entering into any particulars, however, he delivered Jemmy Dawson's letter to Monica, telling her in what manner he had received it. Murmuring a few grateful words, she withdrew to her own room, and we shall follow her thither, leaving the others to talk over matters with which the reader is already acquainted.
The letter filled several sheets of paper, and had evidently been written at intervals.
Thus it ran.
St. Albans.
For a short time I have been free, and fondly persuaded myself I should soon behold you again. Alas! no such bliss was reserved for me. My fate is ever perverse. I had not long regained my liberty, when I was captured and taken back, and I am now so strictly watched that I shall have no second chance of escape.
Enraged at my attempt at flight, the officer in command of the guard threatened to fetter me, like a common felon, but as yet I have been spared that indignity.
You will easily imagine the state of grief and despair into which I was plunged by my ill success. I had buoyed myself up with false hopes. I felt quite sure that in a few days I should again clasp you to my heart. Deprived by a cruel fate of such unspeakable happiness, can you wonder at my distraction? While thus frenzied, had I possessed a weapon, I should certainly have put an end to my wretched existence. But I am somewhat calmer now, though still deeply depressed.
Oh! dearest Monica—the one being whom I love best!—I cannot longer endure this enforced separation from you. Never till now did I know how necessary you are to my existence. Pity me! pity me! I am sore afflicted.
Your presence would restore the serenity of mind I once enjoyed, and which I have now utterly lost. Come to me, and shed a gleam of happiness over the residue of my life. In a few days I shall be lodged in a prison, but I shall not heed my confinement if you will visit me daily.
Should the worst fate befall me—as I have sad presentiments that it will—I shall be prepared to meet it, if you are with me at the last. Without you to strengthen me, my courage may fail. I need you, dearest Monica—need you more than ever. Come to me, I implore you!
I am ashamed of what I have written, but you will not despise me for my weakness. 'Tis not imprisonment I dread, but the torture of prolonged separation from you. Did I not love you so passionately I should be as careless as my companions in misfortune. They have little sympathy for me, for they cannot understand my grief. They would laugh at me if I told them I was ever thinking of you. Most of them live jovially enough, and appear entirely unconcerned as to the future. Whether they are really as indifferent as they seem, I much doubt. But they drink hard to drown care. The two Deacons, however, keep aloof from the rest. Colonel Townley, also, is greatly changed. He does not look downcast, but he has become exceedingly serious, and passes his time in long discourses with Father Saunderson, his priest and confessor, who is allowed to attend him. He often talks to me of you and Constance, and hopes that Atherton has been able to embark for France. We have heard nothing of the latter, of course; and in his case no news is good news.
The inhabitants of the different towns and villages through which we have passed on our way to the metropolis have displayed great animosity towards us, chiefly owing to the mischievous placards which have been everywhere spread about by the Government. In these placards the most monstrous charges are brought against us. It is gravely asserted that if we had defeated the Duke of Cumberland we meant to spit him alive and roast him. The bishops were to be burnt at the stake like Ridley and Latimer, and all the Protestant clergy massacred. That such absurd statements should have obtained credence seems impossible; but it is certain they have produced the effect designed, and that the minds of the common folk have been violently inflamed, as we have learnt to our cost, and as we may experience to a still greater extent when we reach London.
Newgate.
You will tremble, dearest Monica, when you learn that I am now immured in that dismal dungeon, the very name of which inspires terror; and yet the prison is not so formidable as it has been represented.
I have a small cell on the master's side, as it is termed, and though the walls are of stone, the little window grated, and the door barred, I have no right to complain. I am far from harshly treated—indeed, every comfort I choose to pay for is allowed me. Nor am I locked up in my cell, except at night.
A great stone hall is our place of resort during the day. There my brother officers assemble, and there we are served—not with prison fare, as you may imagine—but with as good provisions and as good wine as we could obtain at a tavern. For breakfast we have tea, coffee, or chocolate, according to choice—roast beef or mutton for dinner—claret or canary to wash it down—and some of my companions regale themselves after supper with a bowl of punch. Smoking, also, is allowed, and indeed several of the prisoners have pipes in their mouths all day long. From the stone hall a passage communicates with a tap-room, where different beverages are sold. Here the common malefactors repair, but happily they are prevented from coming further. From what I have just stated you will infer that we are not in that part of the gaol appropriated to felons—though we are stigmatised as the worst of criminals; but with a certain leniency, for which we ought to feel grateful, we have been placed among the debtors.
Colonel Townley, Captain Moss, and Captain Holker, have each a commodious room. Tom Deacon and his brother Charles have the next cell to mine—but poor Adjutant Syddall is lodged in an infamous hole, owing to lack of money. All the officials, high and low, within the prison, seem anxious to lessen the rigour of our confinement as much as they can—especially, since most of us are able to live like gentlemen, and fee them handsomely.
For a prison, Newgate is comfortable enough, and, as far as my own experience goes, its ill reputation seems undeserved. No doubt the wards devoted to common felons are horrible, and I should die if I were shut up with the dreadful miscreants of whom I have caught a glimpse—but fortunately they are kept completely apart from us. We can hear their voices, and that is enough.
That I am melancholy in my prison does not proceed from any hardship I have to undergo—or from solitude, for I have too much society—but I pine and languish because I am separated from her I love.
Think not, if you come, in response to my entreaties, that you will be prevented from visiting me. You will be admitted without difficulty, and no prying eye will disturb us.
And now, since I have spoken of the good treatment we have experienced in prison, I must describe the indignities to which we were subjected on our way hither.
I have already mentioned that every effort has been made by the Government to inflame the minds of the populace against us. On our arrival at Islington, we learnt to our dismay that tumultuous crowds were collected in the streets through which we should have to pass; and to afford them a gratifying spectacle, it was arranged that we should be led to prison in mock triumph.
Accordingly, the waggons in which we were placed were uncovered, so that we had no protection from the numerous missiles hurled at us as we were borne slowly along through the howling multitude, and I verily believe we should have been torn in pieces if the mob could have got at us. Rebels and traitors were the mildest terms applied to us.
On the foremost waggon the rent and discoloured standard of our regiment was displayed, and a wretched creature, dressed up for the occasion as a bagpiper, sat behind the horses, playing a coronach. But he was soon silenced, for a well-aimed brickbat knocked him from his seat.
But though the crowd hooted us, pelted us, and shook their sticks at us, we met with some compassion from the female spectators. Many ladies were stationed at the windows, and their looks betokened pity and sympathy.
Our progress through the streets was slow, owing to the vast crowd, and frequent hindrances occurred, but at the entrance to Newgate Street we were brought to a complete standstill, and had to endure all the terrible ribaldry of the mob, mingled with yells and groans, and followed up by showers of missiles, such as are hurled at poor wretches in the pillory, till the thoroughfare could be cleared.
At this juncture, a chance of escape was offered to Colonel Townley. Half a dozen sturdy fellows, who looked like professional pugilists, forced their way to the waggon, and one of the stoutest of the party called to him to jump out and trust to them. The colonel thanked them, but refused, and they were immediately afterwards thrust back by the guard.
Had the chance been mine I would have availed myself of it unhesitatingly. But Colonel Townley feels certain of obtaining the cartel, and would therefore run no risk.
Another tremendous scene occurred at the gates of the prison, and we were glad to find refuge in its walls. Here, at least, we were free from the insults of the rabble, and though we were all in a sorry plight, none of us, except poor Tom Syddall, had sustained any personal injury. Nor was he much hurt.
Our deplorable condition seemed to recommend us to the governor, and he showed us much kindness. Through his attention we were soon enabled to put on fresh habiliments, and make a decent appearance.
Thus I have discovered, as you see, that there may be worse places than Newgate. My confinement may be irksome, but I could bear it were I certain as to the future; but I am not so sanguine as my companions, and dare not indulge hopes that may never be realised.
Not a single person has visited me till to-day, when a Manchester gentleman, with whom I am acquainted, has come to see me in prison—and he offers to take charge of a letter, and will cause it to be safely delivered to you. He is a friend of Dr. Byrom. A private hand is better than the post, for they tell me all our letters are opened and read, and in some cases not even forwarded.
I therefore add these few hasty lines to what I have already written. I am less wretched than I have been, but am still greatly dejected, and by no mental effort can I conquer the melancholy that oppresses me.
Come to me, then, dearest Monica! By all the love you bear me, I implore you come!
"I see how wretched thou art without me, dearest Jemmy," exclaimed Monica, as she finished the letter; "and I should be the cruellest of my sex if I did not instantly obey thy summons. Comfort thee, my beloved! comfort thee! I fly to thee at once!"
By this time, Dr. Byrom had not only delivered Atherton's message to Constance, but explained his own intentions, and she had at once decided upon accompanying him to London.
When Monica, therefore, appeared and announced her design, she learnt that her wishes had been anticipated. After some little discussion it was settled—at Monica's urgent entreaty—that they should start on the following day. Constance and Monica were to post in the family coach to Macclesfield, where they would be joined by Dr. Byrom and his daughter; and from this point they were all to travel to town together in the same roomy conveyance. The plan gave general satisfaction, and was particularly agreeable to Beppy.
All being settled, the party repaired to the dining-room, where luncheon had been set out for the visitors. Scarcely had they sat down, when Father Jerome made his appearance, and though the ordinary courtesies were exchanged between him and Dr. Byrom, it was evident there was mutual distrust.
As they rose from table, the doctor took Constance aside, and said to her in a low tone:
"What do you mean to do in regard to Father Jerome? Will you leave him here?"
"I must," she replied. "He is necessary to my Aunt Butler. During my absence I shall commit the entire control of the house to my father's faithful old servant, Markland, on whom I can entirely rely."
"You could not do better," remarked Dr. Byrom, approvingly. And he added, with a certain significance, "I was about to give you a caution, but I find it is not needed."
Shortly afterwards the doctor and Beppy took their departure, and proceeded to Manchester.
Constance and Monica spent the rest of the day in making preparations for the journey. As may be supposed, Constance had many directions to give to old Markland, who seemed much gratified by the trust reposed in him, and promised the utmost attention to his young mistress's injunctions.
Clearly Father Jerome felt himself aggrieved that the old butler was preferred to him, for he intimated that he should have been very happy to undertake the management of the house, if Miss Rawcliffe desired it; but she declared she would not give him the trouble.
"I should not deem it a trouble," he said. "Is Markland to have all the keys?"
"Yes, your reverence," interposed the butler. "Since I am made responsible for everything, it is necessary that I should have the keys. Miss Rawcliffe can depend on me.
"That I can, Markland," she rejoined. "I have had abundant proofs of your trustiness. My return is uncertain. I may be away for two or three months—perhaps for a longer period. During my absence you have full power to act for me; but in any emergency you will of course consult Father Jerome."
"I shall always be ready to advise him, and I trust he will be guided by my counsel," said the priest.
"I will act for the best," observed Markland. "Nothing shall go wrong if I can help it. But you must please excuse me, miss. I have much to do, and not too much time to do it in. I must get the old coach put in order for the journey. As you know, it has not been out for this many a day."
"Daughter," said the priest, as soon as Markland was gone, "you place too much confidence in that man. I hope you may not be deceived in him. He ought not to have access to the strong room. Better leave the key of that room with me."
"I would not hurt his feelings by withholding that key from him," replied Constance. "But I have no fear of Markland. He is honesty itself."
Later on in the day, Constance had some further conversation in private with the old butler, and, notwithstanding Father Jerome's disparaging observations, she showed no diminution in her confidence in him; but gave him particular instructions as to how he was to act under certain circumstances, and concluded by desiring him on no account to allow the priest to enter the strong room.
"He has no business there, Markland," she observed, significantly.
"And I will take good care he doesn't get in," rejoined the old butler. "I think I shall prove a match for Father Jerome, with all his cunning. But oh! my dear young lady," he added, "how it would gladden my heart if you should be able to bring back Sir Conway with you. Oh! if I should see him restored to his own, and made happy with her he loves best, I shall die content!"
"Well, Markland, Dr. Byrom holds out a hope of pardon. Should I have any good news to communicate, you shall be among the first to hear it."
"Thank you! thank you, miss!" he cried, hastening out of the room to hide his emotion.
The parting between Monica and her mother took place in the invalid lady's room. No one was present at the time, for Constance had just bade adieu to her aunt. As Monica knelt on a footstool beside her mother, the latter gazed long and earnestly into her face, as if regarding her for the last time.
"We shall never meet again in this world, my dear child," she said. "I shall be gone before you return. But do not heed me. You cannot disobey the summons you have received. Go!—attend your affianced husband in his prison. Lighten his captivity. Solace him—pray with him—and should his judges condemn him, prepare him to meet his fate!"
"I will—I will," cried Monica. "But do not utterly dishearten me."
"I would not pain you, my dear child," said her mother, in accents of deepest sympathy. "But the words rise unbidden to my lips, and I must give utterance to them. Your case has been my case. Agony, such as I once endured, you will have to endure. But your trial will not be prolonged like mine. I had a terrible dream last night. I cannot recount it to you, but it has left a profound impression on my mind. I fear what I beheld may come to pass."
"What was it?" exclaimed Monica, shuddering. "Let me know the worst. I can bear it."
"No—I have said too much already. And now embrace me, dearest child. We shall not be long separated."
Monica flung her arms round her mother's neck, and kissed her again and again—sobbing a tender farewell.
She then moved slowly towards the door, but on reaching it, she rushed back, and once more embraced her.
Thus they parted. Mrs. Butler's presentiments were justified. They never met again.
The old family coach, with four horses attached to it, was drawn up in the court-yard. The luggage was packed. The servants were assembled in the hall to bid their young mistress good-bye, when Constance and Monica came downstairs fully attired for the journey.
They were followed by Miss Rawcliffe's pretty maid, Lettice, who, with the man-servant, Gregory, had been chosen to accompany them to London. Lettice carried a great bundle of cloaks, and looked full of delight, forming a strong contrast to the young ladies. Monica, indeed, was dissolved in tears, and hurried on to bury herself in the furthest corner of the carriage.
Constance, though wearing a sad expression, was far more composed, and replied kindly to the valedictions of the household. She also bade adieu to Father Jerome, who attended her to the door, and gave her his benediction. To Markland she had a few words to say, and she then stepped into the carriage, followed by Lettice. After putting up the steps, and fastening the door, Gregory mounted to the box.
All being now ready, Markland bowed respectfully, and ordered the postillions to drive on. Next moment the large coach rolled over the drawbridge, and the old butler and the gate-keeper watched it as it took its way through the park. The drive was not very cheerful, but before they reached Macclesfield, Constance had recovered her spirits.
At the Old Angel they found Dr. Byrom and his daughter, who had posted from Manchester, waiting for them. The doctor's trunks were quickly transferred to the carriage, while he and Beppy took their seats inside. No inconvenience whatever was caused by this addition to the party, for the coach was capacious enough to hold half-a-dozen persons comfortably. That night they stopped at Ashbourne, and next day proceeded to Leicester.
It is not our intention to describe the journey to London, unmarked as it was by any incident worthy of note, but we must mention that, owing to the unfailing good humour of Dr. Byrom and his daughter, the three days spent on the road passed away very pleasantly.
No more agreeable companion could be found than the doctor, and if Beppy did not possess the remarkable conversational powers of her father, she was extremely lively and entertaining. She made every effort to cheer Monica, and to a certain extent succeeded.
Dr. Byrom had far less difficulty in dissipating Constance's gloom, and leading her to take a brighter view of the future. So confident did he seem that a pardon could be obtained for Atherton, that her uneasiness on that score, if not removed, was materially lightened.
With the exception of Dr. Byrom, not one of the travellers had previously visited London, and when they first caught sight of the vast city from Highgate Hill, and noted its numerous towers and spires, with the dome of St. Paul's rising in the midst of them, they were struck with admiration.
They were still gazing at the prospect, and Dr. Byrom was pointing out the Tower and other celebrated structures, when the clatter of hoofs reached their ears, and in another minute a well-mounted horseman presented himself at the carriage window. At first the young ladies thought it was a highwayman, and even Dr. Byrom shared the opinion, but a second glance showed them that the formidable equestrian was no other than Atherton Legh.
"My sudden appearance seems to alarm you," he cried smiling, as he bowed to the party. "I have been nearer to you than you imagined, and could at any time have overtaken you had I thought proper. But before you enter yonder mighty city I should like to know where I shall find you.
"We shall put up at the St. James's Hotel in Jermyn Street," replied Dr. Byrom, "but you had better not come there at first. I will give you a place of rendezvous. Be in the Mall in St. James's Park to-morrow afternoon, about four o'clock, and look out for me."
"I will not fail," replied Atherton. Again bowing round and glancing tenderly at Constance, he galloped off.
Gregory, the man-servant on the box, and the postillions, had seen his approach with dismay, being under the same impression as the gentlefolks inside, and fully expected the carriage would be stopped. Gregory, however, speedily recognised the young gentleman, and called to the postillions that it was all right.
Brief as it was, the unexpected rencounter was highly satisfactory to Constance, as it relieved her mind of any anxiety she had felt as to Atherton's safety.
Within half an hour after this little incident, which furnished them with abundant materials for conversation, they reached the outskirts of London, and were soon making their way through a variety of streets towards the west end of the town.
Prepared as they were for something extraordinary, our young country ladies were fairly bewildered by all they beheld. Oxford Street they thought wonderful, but it was quite eclipsed by Hanover Square, Bond Street, and Piccadilly.
At length they reached Jermyn-street, where they found very charming apartments at the St. James's Hotel.
End of the Fifth Book.
BOOK VI.
KENNINGTON COMMON.
On the morning after the arrival of the party in town, Monica being all anxiety to see her lover, Dr. Byrom accompanied her in a hackney-coach to the prison in which poor Jemmy was confined. During the drive she supported herself tolerably well, but on reaching Newgate she well-nigh fainted.
The necessary arrangements for her admittance to the prisoner having been made by the doctor, he assisted her out of the coach.
On entering the lodge she was obliged to remove her hood. A gaoler then conducted them along a passage that skirted the refection-hall, after which they ascended a short stone staircase which brought them to a gallery containing several chambers.
Unlocking the door of one of these cells the gaoler disclosed Jemmy. He was seated at a small table reading, and on raising his head, and beholding Monica, he sprang to his feet, and with a cry of delight clasped her to his breast.
So tender was their meeting that even the hardened gaoler was touched by it.
For a minute or two Jemmy did not notice Dr. Byrom, but on becoming sensible of his presence he wrung his hand, and thanked him in heartfelt tones for bringing his mistress to him. The doctor then told Monica that he would wait for her in the hall below, and quitted the cell.
"And so this is your prison-chamber, dearest Jemmy!" said Monica, glancing round it. "'Tis just the room I pictured from your description."
"I thought it dismal at first," he rejoined; "but I have become quite content with it. I shall feel no longer miserable since you are come. You must never leave me more."
"I never will," she replied.
They then lapsed into silence. Words seemed unnecessary to express their thoughts, and it was quite happiness enough to them to be together.
Leaving them we shall follow Dr. Byrom to the hall ward, where he found several prisoners assembled. Amongst them were Theodore Deacon and Tom Syddall. Taking the former aside he acquainted him with the death of his brother Robert, of which the young man had not heard. Though deeply affected by the intelligence, Captain Deacon bore it firmly.
Shortly afterwards Colonel Townley entered the hall, and on seeing Dr. Byrom immediately came up to him, and shook hands with him very cordially.
"We meet again under rather melancholy circumstances, my dear doctor," he said. "But I am extremely glad to see you. Fortune has played me false, but I hope she has nothing worse in store for me. The Government must deliver me up. They cannot deny that I hold a commission from the King of France, and that I have been fifteen years in the French service. Still I know the hazard I run," he added, shrugging his shoulders. "But come with me to my room. I want to say a word to you in private."
With this, he led the doctor to a cell situated near the hall. It was somewhat larger than the chamber allotted to Captain Dawson, and better furnished.
"Pray take a seat," said the colonel, doing the honours of his room. "I want to learn something about Atherton Legh."
"He is safe and in London," replied Dr. Byrom. "I expect to see him to-day. I hope to procure him a pardon, and I will tell you how. You are aware that his mother was Miss Conway. She was sister to Colonel Conway, who is now aide-de-camp to the Duke of Cumberland, and a great favourite of his royal highness. If Colonel Conway will intercede for his nephew with the duke, no doubt he will be successful."
"I should think so," replied Townley. "But is Colonel Conway aware of his nephew's existence?"
"No," replied Dr. Byrom. "If he has heard of him at all, it must be as Captain Legh. He may have seen him at Carlisle."
"Yes, when the young man was captured during a sally," said Townley; "but he knew nothing of the relationship. However, unless the Colonel should be deeply offended with his nephew for joining the prince, he can obtain his pardon, that is certain. Was there any intercourse between Sir Richard Rawcliffe and the Conway family?"
"Not since the death of Sir Oswald's widow. They did not like him—and no wonder. But all this is favourable to our young friend. They will be glad to recognise him as Sir Conway."
"I don't doubt it," replied Townley. "I hope he may regain Rawcliffe Hall, and marry his fair cousin."
They then began to discuss political matters, and were talking together in a low tone when the gaoler entered the cell, and informed Dr. Byrom that the young lady he had brought to the prison was waiting for him. The doctor then took leave of his friend, promising to visit him again very shortly, and accompanied the gaoler to the lodge, where he found Monica. A coach was then called and took them to Jermyn Street.
They found Constance and Beppy prepared for a walk. Beppy had taken particular pains with her toilette, and being rather gaily attired, formed a contrast to Constance, who was still in deep mourning. They tried to persuade Monica to accompany them, but she declined, so they went out with Dr. Byrom, and walked down St. James's Street to the Park. The day was fine, and they were quite enchanted with the novelty and brilliancy of the scene. Both young ladies looked so well that they attracted considerable attention among the gaily-attired company. After walking about for some time they perceived Atherton, who immediately joined them. He was plainly but handsomely dressed, and looked exceedingly well.
"I have arranged matters for you," said Dr. Byrom. "A room is secured for you at the St. James's Hotel. You must pass as my son Edward. That will remove all suspicion."
"I shall be quite content to do so," replied the young man.
They then continued their walk, and had quitted the crowded part of the Mall, when an officer in full uniform, and followed by an orderly, was seen riding slowly down the avenue in the direction of the Horse Guards. He was a fine handsome man in the prime of life, and of very distinguished appearance. Atherton immediately recognised him as Colonel Conway, and, acting upon a sudden impulse, stepped forward to address him.
Colonel Conway reined in his steed, and returned the young man's salute.
"I forget your name," said the colonel. "But unless my eyes deceive me, I have seen you before."
"You saw me at Carlisle, colonel."
"Why, then, you were in Colonel Townley's Manchester Regiment—you are the rebel officer whom I myself captured. How is it that you act in this foolhardy manner? I shall be compelled to order your immediate arrest!"
"Not so, colonel. I am perfectly safe with you."
"How, sir!" cried Colonel Conway, sharply. "Dare you presume?"
"You will not arrest your sister's son," replied Atherton.
"Did I hear aright?" exclaimed the colonel, scanning him narrowly.
"Yes, I am your nephew, the son of Sir Oswald Rawcliffe," replied the young man.
Colonel Conway uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"I don't doubt what you say," he cried. "You certainly bear a remarkable resemblance to your father. Am I to conclude you are the missing heir?"
"Even so," replied Atherton. "I have sufficient proofs to support my claim whenever I choose to make it. But it is a long story, and cannot be told now. Dr. Byrom of Manchester will vouch for the truth of the statement."
And at a sign from the young man the doctor stepped forward.
"I did not expect to be called up at this moment, colonel," said the doctor. "But you may rest satisfied that this young gentleman is your nephew. He is the lost Sir Conway Rawcliffe."
"But you did not serve under that name at Carlisle?" cried the colonel, eagerly. "If I remember right, you were known as Atherton Legh?"
"Exactly," replied the young man. "I have not yet assumed my rightful name and title."
"I am glad of it," cried the colonel. "By heaven! I am fairly perplexed how to act."
"You will not act precipitately, colonel," said Dr. Byrom. "It was my intention to communicate with you on your nephew's behalf this very day."
"I wish I had not seen him," cried the colonel. "Why did he put himself in my way?"
"I had no such design, sir, I assure you," said Atherton.
"Will you allow us to wait on you, colonel?" asked Dr. Byrom.
"Wait on me! No! unless you want the young man to be arrested. Where are you staying?" he added to Atherton.
"You will find me at the St. James's Hotel at any hour you may please to appoint, colonel."
"I am staying there, colonel," said Dr. Byrom; "and so is Miss Rawcliffe—the late Sir Richard Rawcliffe's daughter."
Colonel Conway reflected for a moment. Then addressing Atherton, he said:
"On consideration, I will see you. Be with me at Cumberland House to-morrow morning at ten o'clock."
"I will be there," was the reply.
"Mind, I make no promises, but I will see what can be done. I should wish you to accompany the young man, Dr. Byrom."
The doctor bowed.
"You say Miss Rawcliffe is staying at the St. James's Hotel?"
"She is staying there with my daughter and myself, colonel. They are both yonder. May I present you to them?"
"Not now," replied the colonel. "Bring them with you to Cumberland House to-morrow. They may be of use." Then turning to Atherton, he added, "I shall expect you."
With a military salute, he then rode off towards the Horse Guards, followed by his orderly, leaving both his nephew and the doctor full of hope, which was shared by Constance and Beppy when they learnt what had occurred.
Next morning, at the hour appointed, Constance and Beppy, accompanied by Dr. Byrom and Atherton, repaired to Cumberland House in Arlington Street. Sentinels were stationed at the gates, and in the court half-a-dozen officers were standing, who glanced at the party as they passed by. In the spacious vestibule stood a stout hall-porter and a couple of tall and consequential-looking footmen in royal liveries. One of the latter seemed to expect them, for, bowing deferentially, he conducted them into a handsome apartment looking towards the Park.
Here they remained for a few minutes, when a side door opened and an usher in plain attire came in, and addressing the two young ladies, begged them to follow him.
After consulting Dr. Byrom by a look they complied, and the usher led them into an adjoining apartment, which appeared to be a cabinet, and where they found a tall, well-proportioned man in military undress, whom they took to be Colonel Conway, though they thought he looked younger than they expected to find him.
This personage received them rather haughtily and distantly, and in a manner far from calculated to set them at their ease. He did not even beg them to be seated, but addressing Constance, said:
"Miss Rawcliffe, I presume?"
Constance answered in the affirmative, and presented Beppy, to whom the supposed colonel bowed.
"I have heard of your father," he said. "A clever man, but a Jacobite." Then turning to Constance, he remarked, "before you say anything to me understand that every word will reach the ears of the Duke of Cumberland. Now what have you to allege in behalf of your cousin? On what grounds does he merit clemency?"
"I am bound to intercede for him, sir," she replied; "since it was by my persuasion that he was induced to join the insurrection."
"You avow yourself a Jacobite, then?" said the colonel, gruffly. "But no wonder. Your father, Sir Richard, belonged to the disaffected party, and you naturally share his opinions."
"I have changed my opinions since then," said Constance; "but I was undoubtedly the cause of this rash young man joining the insurgent army. Pray use the influence you possess over the duke to obtain him a pardon."
"What am I to say to the duke?"
"Say to his royal highness that my cousin deeply regrets the rash step he has taken, and is sensible of the crime he has committed in rising in rebellion against the king. He is at large, as you know, but is ready to give himself up, and submit to his majesty's mercy."
"If grace be extended to him I am certain he will serve the king faithfully," said Beppy.
"I will tell you one thing, Miss Rawcliffe, and you too, Miss Byrom; the Duke of Cumberland feels that a severe example ought to be made of the officers of the Manchester Regiment. They are double-dyed rebels and traitors."
"But we trust his royal highness will make an exception in this case," said Beppy. "We would plead his youth and inexperience, and the influence brought to bear upon him."
"But all this might be urged in behalf of the other officers—notably in the case of Captain James Dawson."
"True," said Beppy. "But as I understand, they are not willing to submit themselves, whereas Sir Conway Rawcliffe has come to throw himself upon the king's mercy."
"But how can we be certain he will not take up arms again?"
"Such a thing would be impossible," cried Constance, earnestly. "I will answer for him with my life."
"And so will I," cried Beppy, with equal fervour.
"Once more I implore you to intercede for him with the duke," cried Constance. "Do not allow him to be sacrificed."
"Sacrificed! His life is justly forfeited. When he took this step he knew perfectly well what the consequences would be if he failed."
"I cannot deny it," replied Constance. "But he now bitterly repents."
"Surely, sir, you will answer for him," cried Beppy.
"I answer for him!" exclaimed the supposed colonel.
"Yes, for your nephew," said Beppy. "Had you been with him he would never have taken this false step."
"Well, I will hear what he has to say. But I must first make a memorandum."
He then sat down at a table on which writing materials were placed, and traced a few lines on a sheet of paper, attaching a seal to what he had written. This done he struck a small silver bell, and, in answer to the summons, the usher immediately appeared. Having received his instructions, which were delivered in a low tone, the usher bowed profoundly, and quitted the cabinet.
Scarcely was he gone when an officer entered—a fine commanding-looking person, but several years older than the other.
On the entrance of this individual a strange suspicion crossed the minds of both the young ladies. But they were left in no doubt when the new-comer said:
"I trust Miss Rawcliffe has prevailed?"
"I must talk with your nephew, Colonel Conway, before I can say more."
"Colonel Conway!" exclaimed Constance. "Have I been all this time in the presence of——"
"You have been conversing with the Duke of Cumberland," supplied Colonel Conway.
"Oh, I implore your royal highness to forgive me!" exclaimed Constance. "Had I known——"
"I shall die with shame!" cried Beppy.
At this moment Dr. Byrom and Atherton were ushered into the cabinet.
On beholding the Duke of Cumberland, whom both the new-comers recognised, they knew not what to think, but each made a profound obeisance.
"This is my nephew, Sir Conway Rawcliffe, your royal highness," said the colonel.
"Hitherto, I have only known him as Captain Legh, the rebel," observed the duke, rather sternly.
"Rebel no longer," said Colonel Conway. "He has come to deliver himself up to your royal highness, and to solicit your gracious forgiveness for his misdeeds."
"Does he acknowledge his errors?" demanded the duke.
"He heartily and sincerely abjures them. If a pardon be extended to him, your august sire will ever find him a loyal subject."
"Is this so?" demanded the duke.
"It is," replied the young man, bending lowly before the duke. "I here vow allegiance to the king, your father."
"Well, Sir Conway," replied the duke, "since you are sensible of your errors, I will promise you a pardon from his majesty. But you will understand that a point has been strained in your favour, and that you owe your life partly to the intercession of your uncle, whose great services I desire to reward, and partly to the solicitations of these your friends. It has been said of me, I know, that I am of a savage and inflexible disposition; but I should be savage, indeed, if I could resist such prayers as have been addressed to me—especially by your fair cousin," he added, glancing at Constance.
"Those who have termed your royal highness savage have done you a great injustice," she said.
"I must bear the remarks of my enemies," pursued the duke, "satisfied that I act for the best. Here is your protection," he continued, giving Sir Conway the document he had just drawn up and signed. "You will receive your pardon hereafter."
"I thank your royal highness from the bottom of my heart," said Sir Conway. "You will have no reason to regret your clemency."
"Serve the king as well as you have served his enemies, and I shall be content," said the duke. "'Tis lucky for you that your estates will not be forfeited. But I hope your fair cousin may still continue mistress of Rawcliffe."
"I would never deprive her of the property," said Sir Conway.
"Nay, you must share it with her. And take heed, my dear young lady, if you are united to Sir Conway, as I hope you may be, that you do not shake his loyalty. You must forswear all your Jacobite principles."
"They are forsworn already," she said.
"May I venture to put in a word?" observed Dr. Byrom. "Such faith had I in your royal highness's clemency, and in your known friendship for Colonel Conway, that I urged his nephew to take this step which has had so happy a result."
"You then are the author of the plot?" cried the duke.
"Perhaps I was at the bottom of it all," cried Beppy. "I don't like to lose my share of the credit. I had the most perfect confidence in your royal highness's good-nature."
"'Tis the first time I have been complimented on my good-nature," observed the duke, smiling—"especially by a Jacobite, as I believe you are, Miss Byrom."
"After what has just occurred I could not possibly remain a Jacobite," she said. "I shall trumpet forth your royal highness's magnanimity to all."
"And so shall I," said her father.
"When next I see Sir Conway Rawcliffe," said the duke, "I trust it will be at St. James's Palace, and I also hope he will bring Lady Rawcliffe to town with him. Meantime, I advise him to retire to his country seat till this storm has blown over. It may possibly fall on some heads."
"I shall not fail to profit by your royal highness's advice," replied Sir Conway, bowing deeply.
Profound obeisances were then made by all the party, and they were about to depart, when the duke said in a low tone to Constance:
"I depend upon you to maintain your cousin in his present disposition. Go back to Rawcliffe Hall."
"Alas!" she rejoined, "I would obey your royal highness, but I cannot leave just now. My cousin, Miss Butler, is betrothed to Captain Dawson, of the Manchester Regiment. I must remain with her."
"Better not," rejoined the duke, in an altered tone. "But as you will. 'Twill be vain to plead to me again. I can do nothing more."
Colonel Conway here interposed, and, taking her hand, led her towards the door.
"Say not a word more," he whispered; "or you will undo all the good that has been done."
The party then quitted Cumberland House, and returned to the St. James's Hotel.
Needless to say, they all felt happy—the happiest of all being Sir Conway.
The Duke of Cumberland's injunctions were strictly obeyed. Next day, the family coach was on its way back, containing the whole party, with the exception of poor Monica, who would not return, but was left behind with Lettice.
Three days afterwards the Duke of Cumberland, attended by Colonel Conway, proceeded to Scotland, where the decisive battle of Culloden was fought.
An interval of some months being allowed to elapse, we come to a very melancholy period of our story.
The unfortunate prisoners, who had languished during the whole time in Newgate, were ordered to prepare for their trial, which was intended to take place in the Court House at St. Margaret's Hill, Southwark, before Lord Chief Justice Lee, Lord Chief Justice Willes, Justice Wright, Justice Dennison, Justice Foster, Baron Reynolds, Baron Clive, and other commissioners specially appointed for the purpose.
Previously to the trial the prisoners were ordered to be removed to the new gaol at Southwark.
'Twas a sad blow both to Monica and her unfortunate lover. So much kindness and consideration had been shown to Jemmy during his long confinement in Newgate by all the officials, that he was quite grieved to leave the prison.
Familiar with every little object in his cell, he was unwilling to exchange it for another prison-chamber. In this narrow room he and Monica had passed several hours of each day. Their converse had been chiefly of another world, for Jemmy had given up all hopes of a pardon, or an exchange, and they had prayed fervently together, or with the ordinary. Monica, as we know, was a Papist, but Jemmy still adhered to the Protestant faith. Before her departure from London, Constance had taken leave of him; but Sir Conway could not consistently visit the prison after the pardon he had received from the Duke of Cumberland. Dr. Byrom and his daughter had likewise visited him before they left town.
About a week after Constance's return to Rawcliffe Hall, Mrs. Butler died, and the sad tidings were communicated with as much care as possible to Monica. Prepared for the event, the poor girl bore it with pious resignation.
"My mother was right," she said. "She foresaw that we should never meet again."
At length the hour for departure came, and Jemmy was forced to quit his cell. As he stepped forth, his heart died within him.
In the lodge he took leave of the gaoler who had attended him, and of the other officials, and they all expressed an earnest hope that he might be exchanged. All had been interested in the tender attachment between him and Monica, which had formed a little romance in the prison.
The removal took place at night. Jemmy was permitted to take a hackney-coach, and, as a special favour, Monica was allowed to accompany him—a guard being placed on the box.
To prevent any attempt at escape he was fettered, and this grieved him sorely, for he had not been placed in irons during his confinement in Newgate.
On London Bridge, a stoppage occurred, during which the coaches were examined.
On their arrival at the prison at Southwark, the lovers were separated. Immured in a fresh cell, Jemmy felt completely wretched, and Monica, more dead than alive, was driven back to Jermyn-street.
Next day, however, she was allowed to see her lover, but only for a few minutes, and under greater restrictions than had been enforced in Newgate. Jemmy, however, had in some degree recovered his spirits, and strove to reassure her.
Three days afterwards the trials commenced. They took place, as appointed, at the Court House, in St. Margaret's Hill.
Colonel Townley was first arraigned, and maintained an undaunted demeanour. When he appeared in the dock a murmur ran through the crowded court, which was immediately checked. The counsel for the king were the Attorney-General, Sir John Strange, the Solicitor-General, Sir Richard Lloyd, and the Honourable Mr. York—those for the prisoner were Mr. Serjeant Wynne and Mr. Clayton. The prisoner was charged with procuring arms, ammunition, and other instruments, and composing a regiment for the service of the Pretender to wage war against his most sacred majesty; with marching through and invading several parts of the kingdom, and unlawfully seizing his majesty's treasure in many places for the service of his villainous cause, and taking away the horses and other goods of his majesty's peaceful subjects. The prisoner was furthermore charged, in open defiance of his majesty's undoubted right and title to the crown of these realms, with frequently causing the Pretender's son to be proclaimed in a public and solemn manner as regent, and himself marching at the head of a pretended regiment, which he called the Manchester Regiment.
To this indictment the prisoner pleaded not guilty.
The chief witness against the prisoner was Ensign Maddox, an officer of the regiment, who had consented to turn evidence for the Crown. Maddox declared that he had marched out with the prisoner as an ensign, but never had any commission, though he carried the colours; that the prisoner gave command as colonel of the Manchester Regiment; and that he ordered the regiment to be drawn up in the churchyard in Manchester, where the Pretender's son reviewed them, and that he marched at the head of the regiment to Derby. That the prisoner marched as colonel of the Manchester Regiment in their retreat from Derby to Carlisle; that he was made by the Pretender's son commandant of Carlisle, and that he took on him the command of the whole rebel forces left there; that he had heard the prisoner have some words with Colonel Hamilton, who was governor of the citadel, for surrendering the place, and not holding out to the last; and that he had particularly seen the prisoner encourage the rebel officers and soldiers to make sallies out on the king's forces.
After Maddox's cross examination evidence was produced that Colonel Townley was many years in the French service under a commission from the French king; and since he was taken at Carlisle had been constantly supplied with money from France. Other witnesses were called to invalidate the evidence of Maddox by showing that he was unworthy of credit.
But the court ruled that no man who is a liege subject of his majesty can justify taking up arms, and acting in the service of a prince who is actually at war with his majesty.
After the prisoner's evidence had been gone through, the Solicitor-General declared, "That he felt certain the jury would consider that the overt acts of high treason charged against the prisoner in compassing and imagining the death of the king, and in levying war against his majesty's person and government, had been sufficiently proved."
While the jury withdrew to consider their verdict, Colonel Townley looked more indifferent than any other person in court. On their return, in about ten minutes, the clerk of arraigns said:
"How say you, gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? Do you find Francis Townley guilty of the high treason whereof he stands indicted, or not guilty?"
"Guilty," replied the foreman.
Sentence of death was then pronounced upon him by Lord Chief Justice Lee, and during that awful moment he did not betray the slightest discomposure.
He was then delivered to the care of Mr. Jones, keeper of the county gaol of Surrey.
Captain Dawson's trial next took place. His youth and good looks excited general sympathy.
The indictment was similar to that of Colonel Townley—the treason being alleged to be committed at the same time. The Attorney-General set forth that the prisoner, contrary to his allegiance, accepted a commission in the Manchester Regiment raised by Colonel Townley for the service of the Pretender, and acted as captain; that he marched to Derby in a hostile manner; that he retreated with the rebel army from Derby to Manchester, and thence to Clifton Moor, where in a skirmish he headed his men against the Duke of Cumberland's troops; and that he had surrendered at the same time as Colonel Townley and the other officers.
Evidence to the above effect was given by Maddox and other witnesses.
No defence was made by the prisoner, and the jury, without going out of court, brought him in guilty.
As their verdict was delivered, a convulsive sob was heard, and attention being directed to the spot whence the sound proceeded, it was found that a young lady had fainted. As she was carried out the prisoner's eyes anxiously followed her, and it was soon known that she was his betrothed.
The rest of the rebel officers were subsequently tried and found guilty, and sentence of death was passed upon them all.
The order for the execution was couched in the following terms:
"Let the several prisoners herein named return to the gaol of the county of Surrey whence they came. Thence they must be drawn to the place of execution, on Kennington Common, and when brought there must be hanged by the neck—but not till they are dead, for they must be cut down alive. Then their hearts must be taken out and burnt before their faces. Their heads must be severed from their bodies, and their bodies divided into quarters, and these must be at the king's disposal."
On the night preceding the day appointed for carrying out the terrible sentence, poor Jemmy and his betrothed were allowed by Mr. Jones, the keeper of the prison, to pass an hour together.
While clasping her lover's fettered hands, Monica looked tenderly into his face, and said:
"I shall not long survive you, Jemmy."
"Banish these thoughts," he rejoined. "You are young, and I hope may have many years of happiness. Be constant to my memory, that is all I ask. If disembodied spirits can watch over the living I will watch over you."
With a sad smile he then added: "For a few minutes let us live in the past. Let me look back to the time when I first beheld you, and when your beauty made an impression on me that has never been effaced. Let me recall those happy hours when smiles only lighted up that lovely countenance, and no tear was ever shed. Oh! those were blissful days!"
"Let me also recall the past, dearest Jemmy," she cried. "How well do I recollect our first meeting! I thought I had seen no one like you, and I think so still. I could not be insensible to the devotion of a youth so gallant, and my heart was quickly yours. Alas! alas! I took advantage of your love to induce you to join this fatal expedition."
"Do not reproach yourself, dearest Monica. 'Twas my destiny. I am a true adherent of the Stuarts. Had I ten thousand lives I would give them all to King James and my country! I shall die with those sentiments on my lips."
As he spoke his pale cheek flushed, and his eye kindled with its former fire. She gazed at him with admiration.
But after a few moments a change came over his countenance, and with a look of ill-concealed anguish, he said:
"We must part to-night, dearest Monica. 'Tis better you should not come to me to-morrow."
"Nay, dearest Jemmy, I will attend you to the last."
"Impossible! it cannot be. My execution will be accompanied by barbarities worthy of savages, and not of civilised beings. You must not—shall not witness such a frightful spectacle."
"If the sight kills me I will be present."
"Since you are resolved, I will say no more. At least, you will see how firmly I can die."
Just then Mr. Jones came in to remind them that it was time to part, and with a tender embrace, Jemmy consigned her to his care.
On learning that she meant to attend the execution, Mr. Jones endeavoured to dissuade her, but she continued unshaken in her purpose.