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.
But he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, and, looking up, beheld Constance standing beside him.
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!"
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.
"But why should our union be delayed?" he cried. "Why should we not be united before my departure?"
"'Tis too soon after my unhappy father's death," she replied. "I could not show such disrespect to his memory."
"But the marriage would be strictly private, and consequently there could be no indecorum. You can remain here for awhile, and then rejoin me. I shall be better able to endure the separation when I feel certain you are mine."
"I am yours already—linked to you as indissolubly as if our hands had been joined at the altar. But the ceremony cannot be performed at present. Our faiths are different. Without a dispensation from a bishop of the Church of Rome, which could not be obtained here, no Romish priest would unite us. But were Father Jerome willing to disobey the canons of the Church, I should have scruples."
"You never alluded to such scruples before."
"I knew not of the prohibition. I dare not break the rules of the Church I belong to."
"But you say that a license can be procured," he cried eagerly.
"Not here," she rejoined; "and this would be a sufficient reason for the delay, if none other existed. Let us look upon this as a trial to which we must submit, and patiently wait for happier days, when all difficulties may be removed."
"You do not love me as much as I thought you did, Constance," he said, in a reproachful tone. "'Tis plain you are under the influence of this malicious and designing priest."
"Do not disquiet yourself," she rejoined, calmly. "Father Jerome has no undue influence over me, and could never change my sentiments towards you. I admit that he is not favourably disposed towards our union, and would prevent it if he could, but he is powerless."
"I shall be miserable if I leave him with you, Constance. He ought to be driven from the house."
"I cannot do that," she rejoined. "But depend upon it he shall never prejudice me against you."
Little more passed between them, for Constance did not dare to prolong the interview.
Another day of imprisonment—for such Atherton deemed it. Markland brought him his meals as before, and strove to cheer him, for the young man looked very dull and dispirited.
"I can't remain here much longer, Markland," he said. "Something in the atmosphere of these deserted rooms strangely oppresses me. I seem to be surrounded by beings of another world, who, though invisible to mortal eye, make their presence felt. I know this is mere imagination, and I am ashamed of myself for indulging such idle fancies, but I cannot help it. Tell me, Markland," he added, "are these rooms supposed to be haunted?"
"Since you ask me the question, sir, I must answer it truthfully. They are. It was reported long ago that apparitions had been seen in them; and since nobody liked to occupy the rooms, they were shut up. But you needn't be frightened, sir. The ghosts will do you no harm."
"I am not frightened, Markland. But I confess I prefer the society of the living to that of the dead. Last night—whether I was sleeping or waking at the time I can't exactly tell—but I thought Sir Richard appeared to me; and this is the second time I have seen him, for he warned me before I went to Carlisle. And now he has warned me again of some approaching danger. The spirit—if spirit it was—had a grieved and angry look, and seemed to reproach me with neglect."
The latter was deeply interested in what was told him, and, after a moment's reflection, said:
"This is very strange. Have you disregarded Sir Richard's dying injunctions? Bethink you, sir!"
"I would not abandon the expedition as he counselled me, and I went on to Carlisle—but since my return I cannot charge myself with any neglect. Ah! one thing occurs to me. I ought to see that certain documents which he left me are safe."
"Where did you place them, sir, may I ask?" said the butler.
"In the ebony cabinet in the library. I have the key."
"Then, no doubt, they are perfectly safe, sir. But it may be well to satisfy yourself on the point when you go down to the library."
"I will do so. Shall I find Miss Rawcliffe there this evening?"
"You will, sir, at the same hour as last night. She bade me tell you so."
Shortly afterwards, the butler took his departure, and Atherton was again left to himself for several hours.
When evening came, Markland had not reappeared; but doubtless something had detained him, and concluding all was right, Atherton descended the private staircase, and passed through the secret door into the library.
Constance was there and alone. Lights were placed upon the table beside which she was seated. She was reading a letter at the moment, and seemed deeply interested in its contents; but on hearing his footsteps, she rose to welcome him.
"This letter relates entirely to you," she said.
"And judging from your looks it does not bring good news," he remarked.
"It does not," she rejoined. "It is from Beppy Byrom, and was brought by a special messenger from Manchester. She informs me that a warrant for your arrest has just been received by the authorities of the town, who are enjoined to offer a reward for your capture. Strict search will, consequently, be made for you, she says; and as Rawcliffe Hall may be visited, she sends this notice. She also states that it will be impossible to escape to France from any English port, as an embargo is now laid on all vessels. The letter thus concludes: 'If you have any communication with Captain Legh, pray tell him, if he should be driven to extremity, he will find an asylum in my father's house.'"
"Have you returned any answer to this kind letter?" inquired Atherton.
"No—it would not have been prudent to detain the messenger. During his brief stay, Markland took care he should not have any conversation with the servants. Father Jerome was curious to ascertain the nature of his errand, and learnt that he came from Manchester—but nothing more. I know not what you may resolve upon; but if you decide on flight, you will need funds. In this pocket-book are bank-notes to a considerable amount. Nay, do not hesitate to take it," she added, "you are under no obligation to me. The money is your own."
Thus urged, Atherton took the pocket-book, and said:
"Before I decide upon the steps I ought to take in this dangerous emergency, let me mention a matter to you that has weighed upon my mind. In yonder cabinet are certain papers which I desire to confide to your care. They contain proofs that I am the rightful heir to this property—the most important of the documents being a statement drawn up by your father, and signed by him, immediately before his death. Now listen to me, Constance. Should I fall into the hands of the enemy—should I die the death of a traitor—it is my wish that those documents should never be produced."
Constance could not repress an exclamation.
"All will be over then," he proceeded, calmly. "And why should a dark story, which can only bring dishonour on our family, be revealed? Let the secret be buried in my grave. If I am remembered at all, let it be as Atherton Legh, and not as Oswald Rawcliffe."
"Your wishes shall be fulfilled," she replied, deeply moved. "But I trust the dire necessity may never arise."
"We must prepare for the worst," he said. "Here is the key. See that the papers are safe."
She unlocked the cabinet, and opened all the drawers. They were empty.
"The papers are gone," she cried.
"Impossible!" exclaimed Atherton, springing towards her.
'Twas perfectly true, nevertheless. Further investigation showed that the documents must have been abstracted.
"There is but one person who can have taken them," said Atherton. "To that person the importance of the papers would be known—nor would he hesitate to deprive me of the proofs of my birth."
"I think you wrong him by these suspicions," said Constance—though her looks showed that she herself shared them. "What motive could he have for such an infamous act?"
"I cannot penetrate his motive, unless it is that he seeks to prevent my claim to the title and property. But malignant as he is, I could scarcely have imagined he would proceed to such a length as this."
"Granting you are right in your surmise, how can Father Jerome have discovered the existence of the papers? You placed them in the cabinet yourself I presume, and the key has been in your own possession ever since."
"True. But from him a lock would be no safeguard. If he knew the papers were there, their removal would be easy. But he will not destroy them, because their possession will give him the power he covets, and no doubt he persuades himself he will be able to obtain his own price for them. But I will force him to give them up."
At this juncture the door was opened, and Monica, entering hastily, called out to Atherton:
"Away at once, or you will be discovered. Father Jerome is coming hither. He has just left my mother's room."
But the young man did not move.
"I have something to say to him."
"Do not say it now!" implored Constance.
"No better opportunity could offer," rejoined Atherton. "I will tax him with his villainy."
"What does all this mean?" cried Monica, astonished and alarmed.
But before any explanation could be given, the door again opened, and Father Jerome stood before them.
The priest did not manifest any surprise on beholding Atherton, but saluting him formally, said:
"I did not expect to find you here, sir, or I should not have intruded. But I will retire."
"Stay!" cried Atherton. "I have a few questions to put to you. First let me ask if you knew I was in the house?"
"I fancied so," replied the priest—"though no one has told me yon were here. I suppose it was thought best not to trust me," he added, glancing at Constance.
"It was my wish that you should be kept in ignorance of the matter," observed Atherton.
"I am to understand, then, that you doubt me, sir," observed the priest. "I am sorry for it. You do me a great injustice. I am most anxious to serve you. Had I been consulted I should have deemed it my duty to represent to you the great risk you would run in taking refuge here—but I would have aided in your concealment, as I will do now; and my services may be called in question sooner, perhaps, than you imagine, for the house is likely to be searched."
"How know you that?" demanded Atherton.
"There has been a messenger here from Manchester——"
"I thought you did not see him, father?" interrupted Constance.
"I saw him and conversed with him," rejoined the priest; "and I learnt that a warrant is out for the arrest of Captain Atherton Legh, and a large reward offered for his apprehension. At the same time I learnt that this house would be strictly searched. Whether you will remain here, or fly, is for your own consideration."
"I shall remain here at all hazards," replied Atherton, fixing a keen look upon him.
"I think you have decided rightly, sir," observed the priest. "Should they come, I will do my best to baffle the officers."
"I will take good care you shall not betray me," said Atherton.
"Betray you, sir!" exclaimed the priest, indignantly. "I have no such intention."
"You shall not have the opportunity," was the rejoinder.
At a sign from Atherton, Constance and Monica withdrew to the further end of the room.
"Now, sir, you will guess what is coming," said Atherton, addressing the priest in a stern tone. "I desire you will instantly restore the papers you have taken from yonder cabinet."
"What papers?" asked Father Jerome.
"Nay, never feign surprise. You know well what I mean. I want Sir Richard Rawcliffe's confession, and the other documents accompanying it."
"Has any person but yourself seen Sir Richard's written confession?"
"No one."
"Then if it is lost you cannot prove that such a document ever existed."
"It is not lost," said Atherton, "You know where to find it, and find it you shall."
"Calm yourself, or you will alarm the ladies. I have not got the papers you require, but you ought to have taken better care of them, since without them you will be unable to establish your claim to the Rawcliffe estates and title."
"No more of this trifling," said Atherton. "I am not in the humour for it. I must have the papers without further delay."
"I know nothing about them," said the priest, doggedly. "You tell me there were such documents, and I am willing to believe you, but sceptical persons may doubt whether they ever existed."
"Will you produce them?"
"How can I, since I have them not."
"Their destruction would be an execrable act."
"It would—but it is not likely they will be destroyed. On the contrary, I should think they will be carefully preserved."
Very significantly uttered, these words left Atherton in no doubt as to their import.
While he was meditating a reply, Markland hurriedly entered the room—alarm depicted in his countenance.
Startled by his looks, Constance and Monica immediately came forward.
"You must instantly return to your hiding-place, sir," said the butler to Atherton. "The officers are here, and mean to search the house. Fortunately, the drawbridge is raised, and I would not allow it to be lowered till I had warned you."
"Are you sure they are the officers?" exclaimed Constance.
"Quite sure. I have seen them and spoken with them. They have a warrant."
"Then it will be impossible to refuse them admittance."
"Impossible," cried the butler.
While this conversation took place, Atherton had opened the secret door in the bookcase, but he now came back, and said to the priest:
"You must bear me company, father. I shall feel safer if I have you with me."
"But I may be of use in misleading the officers," said Father Jerome.
"Markland will take care of them. He can be trusted. Come along!"
And seizing the priest's arm, he dragged him through the secret door.
As soon as this was accomplished, Markland rushed out of the room, and hurried to the porter's lodge.
No sooner was the drawbridge lowered than several persons on horseback rode into the court-yard.
By this time, some of the servants had come forth with lights, so that the unwelcome visitors could be distinguished. The party consisted of half a dozen mounted constables, at the head of whom was Mr. Fowden, the Manchester magistrate. Ordering two of the officers to station themselves near the drawbridge, and enjoining the others to keep strict watch over the house, Mr. Fowden dismounted, and addressing Markland, who was standing near, desired to be conducted to Miss Rawcliffe.
"Inform her that I am Mr. Fowden, one of the Manchester magistrates," he said. "I will explain my errand myself."
"Pray step this way, sir," rejoined Markland, bowing respectfully.
Ushering the magistrate into the entrance hall, Markland helped to disencumber him of his heavy cloak, which he laid with the magistrate's cocked-hat and whip upon a side-table, and then led him to the library—announcing him, as he had been desired, to Constance, who with her cousin received him in a very stately manner, and requested him to be seated.
"I am sorry to intrude upon you at this hour, Miss Rawcliffe," said Mr. Fowden; "but I have no option, as you will understand, when I explain my errand. I hold a warrant for the arrest of Captain Atherton Legh, late of the Manchester Regiment, who has been guilty of levying war against our sovereign lord the king; and having received information that he is concealed here, I must require that he may be immediately delivered up to me. In the event of your refusal to comply with my order, I shall be compelled to search the house, while you will render yourself liable to a heavy penalty, and perhaps imprisonment, for harbouring him after this notice."
"You are at liberty to search the house, Mr. Fowden," replied Constance, with as much firmness as she could command; "and if you find Captain Legh I must bear the penalties with which you threaten me."
"'Tis a disagreeable duty that I have to perform, I can assure you, Miss Rawcliffe," said Mr. Fowden. "I knew Captain Legh before he joined the rebellion, and I regret that by his folly—for I will call it by no harsher name—he should have cut short his career. I also knew Captain Dawson very well, and am equally sorry for him—poor misguided youth! he is certain to suffer for his rash and criminal act."
Here a sob burst from Monica, and drew the magistrate's attention to her.
"I was not aware of your presence, Miss Butler," he said, "or I would not have hurt your feelings by the remark. I know you are engaged to poor Jemmy Dawson. I sincerely hope that clemency may be shown him—and all those who have acted from a mistaken sense of loyalty. I will frankly confess that I myself was much captivated by the manner of the young Chevalier when I saw him as he passed through Manchester. But you will think I am a Jacobite, if I talk thus—whereas, I am a staunch Whig. I must again express my regret at the steps I am obliged to take, Miss Rawcliffe," he continued, addressing Constance; "and if I seem to discredit your assurance that Captain Legh is not concealed here, it is because it is at variance with information I have received, and which I have reason to believe must be correct. As a Catholic, you have a priest resident in the house—Father Jerome. Pray send for him!"
Scarcely able to hide her embarrassment, Constance rang the bell, and when Markland answered the summons, she told him Mr. Fowden desired to see Father Jerome.
"His reverence has gone to Newton, and won't return to-night," replied the butler.
The magistrate looked very hard at him, but Markland bore the scrutiny well.
"I think you could find him if you chose," remarked Mr. Fowden.
"I must go to Newton, then, to do it, sir. I'll take you to his room, if you please."
"Nay, I don't doubt what you tell me, but 'tis strange he should have gone out. However, I must make a perquisition of the house."
"Markland will attend you, Mr. Fowden, and show you into the rooms," said Constance, who had become far less uneasy since her conversation with the good-natured magistrate. "Before you commence your investigations, perhaps you will satisfy yourself that no one is concealed in this room. There is a screen—pray look behind it!"
"I will take your word, Miss Rawcliffe, that no one is here," replied the magistrate, bowing.
"I won't bid you good-night, Mr. Fowden," said Constance, "because I hope when you have completed your search you will take supper with us."
The magistrate again bowed and quitted the room.
Attended by Markland, bearing a light, Mr. Fowden then began his survey, but it soon became evident to the butler that he did not mean the search to be very strict. Ascending the great oak staircase, he looked into the different rooms in the corridor, as they passed them. On being told that one of these rooms belonged to Miss Rawcliffe, the magistrate declined to enter it, and so in the case of another, which he learnt was occupied by Monica. In the adjoining chamber they found Mrs. Butler kneeling before a crucifix, and Mr. Fowden immediately retired without disturbing her.
After opening the doors of several other rooms, and casting a hasty glance inside, the magistrate said:
"I understand there is a portion of the house which for some time has been shut up. Take me to it."
Markland obeyed rather reluctantly, and when he came to a door at the end of the corridor, communicating, as he said, with the dismantled apartments, it took him some time to unlock it.
"I ought to tell you, sir," he said, assuming a very mysterious manner, calculated to impress his hearer, "that these rooms are said to be haunted, and none of the servants like to enter them, even in the daytime. I don't share their superstitious fears, but I certainly have heard strange noises——"
"There! what was that?" exclaimed Mr. Fowden. "I thought I saw a dark figure glide past, but I could not detect the sound of footsteps."
"Turn back, if you're at all afraid, sir," suggested Markland.
"I'm not afraid of ghosts," rejoined the magistrate; "and as to human beings I don't fear them, because I have pistols in my pockets. Go on."
Markland said nothing more, but opened the first door on the left, and led his companion into a room which was almost destitute of furniture, and had a most melancholy air; but it did not look so dreary as the next room they entered. Here the atmosphere was so damp that the butler was seized with a fit of coughing which lasted for more than a minute, and Mr. Fowden declared there must be echoes in the rooms, for he had certainly heard sounds at a distance.
"No doubt there are echoes, sir," said the butler.
"But these must be peculiar to the place," observed the magistrate; "for they sounded uncommonly like footsteps. Give me the light."
And taking the candle from the butler, and drawing a pistol from his pocket, he marched quickly into the next room. No one was there, but as he hastened on he caught sight of a retreating figure, and called out:
"Stand! or I fire."
Heedless of the injunction, the person made a rapid exit through the side door, but was prevented from fastening it by the magistrate, who followed him so quickly that he had no time to hide himself, and stood revealed to his pursuer.
"What do I see?" exclaimed Mr. Fowden, in astonishment, "Father Jerome here! Why I was told you were in Newton."
"His reverence ought to be there," said Markland, who had now come up.
"I must have an explanation of your strange conduct, sir," said the magistrate.
"His reverence had better be careful what he says," observed Markland.
"Answer one question, and answer it truly, as you value your own safety," pursued Mr. Fowden. "Are you alone in these rooms?"
The priest looked greatly embarrassed. Markland made a gesture to him behind the magistrate's back.
"Are you alone here, I repeat?" demanded Mr. Fowden.
"I have no one with me now, sir, if that is what you would learn," replied the priest.
"Then you have had a companion. Where is he? He cannot have left the house. The drawbridge is guarded."
"He is not in this part of the house," replied the priest. "I will give you further explanation anon," he added, in a lower tone. "All I need now say is, that I am here on compulsion."
Mr. Fowden forbore to interrogate him further, and after examining the room, which was that wherein Atherton had passed the two previous nights as related, and discovering nothing to reward his scrutiny, he expressed his intention of going down-stairs.
"I don't think I shall make any capture here," he remarked.
"I am sure you won't," replied the priest.
Very much to Markland's relief, the magistrate then quitted the disused rooms, and taking Father Jerome with him, descended to the hall.
After a little private conversation with the priest, he made a fresh investigation of the lower apartments, but with no better success than heretofore, and he was by no means sorry when Miss Rawcliffe sent a message to him begging his company at supper. The servant who brought the message likewise informed him that the constables in the court-yard had been well supplied with ale.
"I hope they haven't drunk too much," said the magistrate. "Don't let them have any more, and tell them I shall come out presently."
Accompanied by the priest, he then proceeded to the dining-room, where he found Constance and Monica. A very nice supper had been prepared, and he did ample justice to the good things set before him. Markland, who had been absent for a short time, appeared with a bottle of old madeira, and a look passed between him and the young ladies, which did not escape the quick eyes of the priest.
The magistrate could not fail to be struck by the splendid wine brought him, and the butler took care to replenish his glass whenever it chanced to be empty.
Altogether the supper passed off more agreeably than could have been expected under such circumstances, for the young ladies had recovered their spirits, and the only person who seemed ill at ease was Father Jerome.
Towards the close of the repast, Mr. Fowden said:
"I fear I shall be obliged to trespass a little further on your hospitality, Miss Rawcliffe. I hope I shall not put you to inconvenience if I take up my quarters here to-night. I care not how you lodge me—put me in a haunted room if you think proper."
"You are quite welcome to remain here as long as you please, Mr. Fowden," said Constance—"the rather that I feel certain you will make no discovery. Markland will find you a chamber, where I hope you may rest comfortably."
"I will order a room to be got ready at once for his honour," said Markland.
"In the locked-up corridor?" observed the magistrate, with a laugh.
"No, not there, sir," said the butler.
"With your permission, Miss Rawcliffe, my men must also be quartered in the house," said Mr. Fowden.
"You hear, Markland," observed Constance.
"I will give directions accordingly," replied the butler.
And he quitted the room.
"I shall be blamed for neglect of duty if I do not make a thorough search," said the magistrate. "But I fancy the bird has flown," he added, with a glance at the priest.
Father Jerome made no reply, but Constance remarked, with apparent indifference:
"No one can have left the house without crossing the drawbridge, and that has been guarded. You will be able to state that you took all necessary precautions to prevent an escape."
"Yes, I shall be able to state that—and something besides," replied the magistrate, again glancing at the priest.
Just then, a noise was heard like the trampling of horses. Mr. Fowden uttered an exclamation of surprise, and a smile passed over the countenances of the two young ladies.
"I should have thought the men were crossing the drawbridge if I had not felt quite sure they would not depart without me," said Mr. Fowden.
"They have crossed the drawbridge—that's quite certain," observed the priest.
At this moment Markland entered the room.
"What have you been about?" cried the magistrate, angrily. "Have you dared to send my men away?"
"No, sir," replied the butler, vainly endeavouring to maintain a grave countenance; "but it seems that a trick has been played upon them."
"A trick!" exclaimed the magistrate.
"Yes, and it has proved highly successful. Some one has taken your honour's hat and cloak from the hall, and thus disguised, has ridden off with the men, who didn't find out their mistake in the darkness."
The two girls could not control their laughter.
"This may appear a good joke to you, sir," cried the magistrate, who was highly incensed, addressing the butler; "but you'll pay dearly for it, I can promise you. You have aided and abetted the escape of a rebel and a traitor, and will be transported, if not hanged."
"I have aided no escape, sir," replied the butler. "All I know is, that some one wrapped in a cloak, whom I took to be you, came out of the house, sprang on a horse, and bidding the men follow him, rode off."
"He has prevented pursuit by taking my horse," cried Mr. Fowden; "and the worst of it is he is so much better mounted than the men that he can ride away from them at any moment. No chance now of his capture. Well, I shall be laughed at as an egregious dupe, but I must own I have been very cleverly outwitted."
"You are too kind-hearted, I am sure, Mr. Fowden," said Constance, "not to be better pleased that things have turned out thus, than if you had carried back a prisoner. And pray don't trouble yourself about the loss of your horse. You shall have the best in the stable. But you won't think of returning to Manchester to-night."
"Well—no," he replied, after a few moments' deliberation. "I am very comfortable here, and don't feel inclined to stir. I shouldn't be surprised if we had some intelligence before morning."
"Very likely," replied Constance; "and I think you have decided wisely to remain. It's a long ride at this time of night."
Mr. Fowden, as we have shown, was very good-tempered, and disposed to take things easily.
He was secretly not sorry that Atherton had eluded him, though he would rather the escape had been managed differently.
However it was quite clear it could not have been accomplished by his connivance. That was something.
Consoled by this reflection, he finished his supper as quietly as if nothing had occurred to interrupt it.
Immediately after supper Constance and her cousin retired, and left him to enjoy a bottle of claret with the priest.
They were still discussing it when a great bustle in the court-yard announced that the constables had come back.
"Here they are!" cried the magistrate, springing to his feet. "I must go and see what has happened."
And he hurried out of the room, followed by Father Jerome.
By the time they reached the court-yard the constables had dismounted, and were talking to Markland and the gate-porter. Two other men-servants were standing by, bearing torches.
No sooner did Mr. Fowden make his appearance than one of the constables came up.
"Here's a pretty business, sir," said the man in an apologetic tone. "We've been nicely taken in. We thought we had you with us, and never suspected anything wrong till we got out of the park, when the gentleman at our head suddenly dashed off at full speed, and disappeared in the darkness. We were so confounded at first that we didn't know what to do, but the truth soon flashed upon us, and we galloped after him as hard as we could. Though we could see nothing of him, the clatter of his horse's hoofs guided us for a time, but by-and-by this ceased, and we fancied he must have quitted the road and taken to the open. We were quite certain he hadn't forded the Mersey, or we must have heard him."
"No—no—he wouldn't do that, Glossop," remarked the magistrate.
"Well, we rode on till we got to a lane," pursued the constable, "and two of our party went down it, while the rest kept to the high road. About a mile further we encountered a waggon, and questioned the driver, but no one had passed him; so we turned back, and were soon afterwards joined by our mates, who had been equally unsuccessful. Feeling now quite nonplussed, we deemed it best to return to the hall—and here we are, ready to attend to your honour's orders."
"'Twould be useless to attempt further pursuit to-night, Glossop," rejoined the magistrate. "Captain Legh has got off by a very clever stratagem, and will take good care you don't come near him. By this time, he's far enough off, you may depend upon it."
"Exactly my opinion, sir," observed Glossop. "We've lost him for the present, that's quite certain."
"Well, we'll consider what is best to be done in the morning," said Mr. Fowden. "Meantime you can take up your quarters here for the night. Stable your horses, and then go to bed."
"Not without supper, your honour," pleaded Glossop. "We're desperately hungry."
"Why you're never satisfied," cried the magistrate. "But perhaps Mr. Markland will find something for you."
Leaving the constables to shift for themselves, which he knew they were very well able to do, Mr. Fowden then returned to the dining-room, and finished the bottle of claret with the priest. Though his plans had been frustrated, and he had lost both his horse and his expected prisoner, he could not help laughing very heartily at the occurrence of the evening.
Later on, he was conducted to a comfortable bed-chamber by the butler.
Having distanced his pursuers as related, Atherton speeded across the country till he reached Bucklow Hill, where a solitary roadside inn was then to be found, and thinking he should be safe there, he resolved to stop at the house for the night.
Accordingly, he roused up the host and soon procured accommodation for himself and his steed.
The chamber in which he was lodged was small, with a low ceiling, encumbered by a large rafter, but it was scrupulously clean and tidy, and the bed-linen was white as snow, and smelt of lavender.
Next morning, he was up betimes, and his first business was to hire a man to take back Mr. Fowden's horse. The ostler readily undertook the job, and set out for Manchester, charged with a letter of explanation, while Atherton, having breakfasted and paid his score, proceeded on foot along the road to Knutsford.
Before leaving the inn he informed the landlord that he was going to Northwich, and thence to Chester; but, in reality, he had no fixed plan, and meant to be guided by circumstances. If the risk had not been so great, he would gladly have availed himself of Dr. Byrom's offer, conveyed by Beppy to Constance, of a temporary asylum in the doctor's house at Manchester—but he did not dare to venture thither.
After revolving several plans, all of which were fraught with difficulties and dangers, he came to the conclusion that it would be best to proceed to London, where he would be safer than elsewhere, and might possibly find an opportunity of embarking for Flanders or Holland. Moreover, he might be able to render some assistance to his unfortunate friends. But, as we have said, he had no decided plans; and it is quite certain that nothing but the apprehension of further treachery on the part of Father Jerome prevented him from secretly returning to Rawcliffe Hall.
He walked on briskly for about a mile, and then struck into a path on the left, which he thought would lead him through the fields to Tatton Park, but it brought him to a height from which he obtained a charming view of Rosthern Mere—the whole expanse of this lovely lake being spread out before him. On the summit of a high bank, at the southern extremity of the mere, stood the ancient church, embosomed in trees, and near it were the few scattered farm-houses and cottages that constituted the village.
The morning being very bright and clear, the prospect was seen to the greatest advantage, and, after contemplating it for a few minutes, he descended the woody slopes, and on reaching the valley shaped his course along the margin of the lake towards the village, which was not very far distant.
As he proceeded fresh beauties were disclosed, and he more than once stopped to gaze at them. Presently he drew near a delightful spot, where a babbling brook, issuing from the mere, crossed the road, and disappeared amid an adjoining grove. Leaning against the rail of a little wooden bridge, and listening to the murmuring brooklet, stood an elderly personage. His features were stamped with melancholy, and his general appearance seemed much changed, but Atherton at once recognised Dr. Deacon.
Surprised at seeing him there, the young man hastened on, and as he advanced the doctor raised his head and looked at him.
After a moment's scrutiny, he exclaimed:
"Do my eyes deceive me, or is it Atherton Legh?" And when the other replied in the affirmative, he said: "What are you doing here? Are you aware that a reward has been offered for your apprehension? You are running into danger."
"I have just had a very narrow escape of arrest," replied Atherton; "and am in search of a place of concealment. If I could be safe anywhere, I should think it must be in this secluded village."
"I will give you temporary shelter," said the doctor. "I have been so persecuted in Manchester since the prince's retreat, and the surrender of Carlisle, that I have been compelled to retire to this quiet place. Come with me to my cottage—but I cannot answer for your safety."
"I would willingly accept the offer if I did not fear I should endanger you," replied Atherton.
"Let not that consideration deter you," said Dr. Deacon. "It matters little what happens to me now that I have lost my sons."
"You need not despair about them, sir," rejoined Atherton. "They will be allowed the cartel."
"No—no—no," cried the doctor. "They will be put to death. I ought to be resigned to their cruel fate, since they have done their duty, but I have not the fortitude I deemed I had."
And he groaned aloud.
"Better and braver young men never lived," said Atherton, in accents of deep commiseration. "And if they must die, they will perish in a noble cause. But I still hope they may be spared."
"They would not ask or accept a pardon from the usurper," said Dr. Deacon. "No, they are doomed—unless they can escape as you have done."
"Have you heard of your second son, Robert, whom we were obliged to leave at Kendal, owing to an attack of fever?" inquired Atherton.
"Yes—he is better. He will do well if he has not a relapse," replied the doctor. "He wrote to me, begging me not to go to him, or I should have set off to Kendal at once. But do not let us stand talking here. My cottage is close by."
So saying, he led Atherton to a pretty little tenement, situated near the lake. A garden ran down to the water's edge, where was a landing-place with wooden steps, beside which a boat was moored.
The cottage, which was more roomy and convenient than it looked, belonged to an old couple named Brereton, who were devoted to Dr. Deacon; and he had strong claims to their gratitude, as he had cured Dame Brereton of a disorder, pronounced fatal by other medical men.
On entering the cottage, the doctor deemed it necessary to caution Mrs. Brereton in regard to Atherton, and then ushered his guest into a small parlour, the windows of which commanded a lovely view of the lake. Had the doctor been free from anxiety he must have been happy in such a tranquil abode. But he was well-nigh heart-broken, and ever dwelling upon the sad position of his sons.
A simple breakfast, consisting of a bowl of milk and a brown loaf, awaited him, and he invited Atherton to partake of the rustic fare, offering him some cold meat and new-laid eggs in addition, but the young man declined, having already breakfasted.
Very little satisfied the doctor, and having quickly finished his meal, he resumed his conversation with Atherton.
"I know not what your opinion may be," he said; "but I think the grand error committed by the prince was in avoiding an engagement. He ought to have attacked the Duke of Cumberland at Lichfield. A battle would have been decisive, and if the prince had been victorious his ultimate success must have been assured. But the retreat without an engagement was fatal to the cause. The Scottish chiefs, I know, refused to march further than Derby, but if they had been forced to fight, their conduct would have been totally different. Even if the prince had been worsted—had he fallen—he would have left a glorious name behind him! Had my own brave sons died sword in hand, I should have been reconciled to their loss, but to think that they have been compelled to retreat ingloriously, without striking a blow, because their leaders lost heart, enrages me, and sharpens my affliction. Then I consider that the Manchester Regiment has been wantonly sacrificed. It ought never to have been left at Carlisle. That the prince thought the place tenable, and meant to reinforce the scanty garrison, I nothing doubt—but he lacked the means. Surrender was therefore unavoidable. I shall always think that the regiment has been sacrificed—but I blame Colonel Townley, and not the prince."
"Disastrous as the result has been, I must take up Colonel Townley's defence," said Atherton. "He felt certain he could hold out till he was relieved by the prince, and all the officers shared his opinion—none being more confident than your gallant son Theodore."
"Alas!" exclaimed the doctor, bitterly. "Of what avail is bravery against such engines of destruction as were brought to bear against the town by the Duke of Cumberland. But could not a desperate sortie have been made? Could you not have cut your way through the enemy? Death would have been preferable to such terms of surrender as were exacted by the duke."
"Such an attempt as you describe was made, sir," replied Atherton, "but it failed; I, myself, was engaged in it, and was captured."
"True, I now remember. Forgive me. Grief has made me oblivious. But I must not allow my own private sorrows to engross me to the neglect of others. Can I assist you in any way?"
Atherton then informed him of his design to proceed to London, and the doctor approved of the plan, though he thought the journey would be attended by considerable risk.
"Still, if you get to London you will be comparatively secure, and may perhaps be able to negotiate a pardon. Dr. Byrom has promised to come over to me to-day, and may perhaps bring his daughter with him. He has considerable influence with several persons of importance in London, and may be able to serve you. We shall hear what he says."
"But why think of me?" cried Atherton. "Why do you not urge him to use his influence in behalf of your sons?"
"He requires no urging," replied Dr. Deacon. "But I have told you that I will not ask a pardon for them—nor would they accept it if clogged with certain conditions."
Atherton said no more, for he felt that the doctor was immovable.
Shortly afterwards Dr. Deacon arose and begged Atherton to excuse him, as he usually devoted an hour in each day to a religious work on which he was engaged. Before leaving the room, he placed a book on the table near Atherton, and on opening it the young man found it was a prayer-book published some years previously by the doctor, entitled, "A Complete Collection of Devotions, both public and private, taken from the Apostolic Constitution, Liturgies, and Common Prayers of the Catholic Church."
Atherton was familiar with the volume, as he had occasionally attended Dr. Deacon's church, but being now in a serious frame of mind, some of the prayers to which he turned and recited aloud produced a deeper effect upon him than heretofore.
When Dr. Deacon returned and found him thus occupied he expressed great satisfaction, and joined him in his devotions.
Before concluding, the doctor dropped on his knees, and offered up an earnest supplication for the restoration to health of his son Robert, and for the deliverance of his two other sons.
Half an hour later Dr. Byrom and his daughter arrived. They came on horseback—one steed sufficing for both—Beppy being seated behind her father on a pillion, as was then the pleasant custom.
Dr. Byrom put up his horse at the little village inn, and then walked with his daughter to the cottage. Dr. Deacon met them at the door, and while greeting them kindly, informed them in a whisper whom they would find within.
Both were rejoiced to see Atherton, and congratulated him on his escape from arrest.
"I saw Mr. Fowden this morning at Manchester," said Dr. Byrom. "He had just returned from Rawcliffe Hall. I laughed very heartily when he told me how cleverly you had tricked him; but I really believe he had no desire to arrest you, and was glad when you got off. The horse you appropriated for the nonce was brought back from Bucklow Hill, and is now in its owner's possession, but I think you carried your scruples to the extreme, as you have given him a clue to the route you have taken, and the constables have been sent on both to Northwich and Macclesfield."
"I don't think they will look for me here," observed Atherton.
"No, Mr. Fowden's notion is that you will make for London, and I should have thought so too, had you not sent back the horse; but now you had better keep quiet for a few days."
"Why not come to us?" cried Beppy. "You will be in the very midst of your enemies, it is true, but no search will be made for you. No one would think you could be there."
"But some one would be sure to discover me. No; I am infinitely obliged, but I could not do it—I should only involve Dr. Byrom in trouble."
"Don't heed my risk," said Dr. Byrom. "I will give you shelter, if you require it."
"I'm quite sure we could conceal you," cried Beppy; "and only think how exciting it would be if the boroughreeve should call, and you had to be shut up in a closet! Or, better still, if you were carefully disguised, you might be presented to him without fear of detection. As to Mr. Fowden, I shouldn't mind him, even if he came on purpose to search for you. I'm sure I could contrive some little plot that would effectually delude him. 'Twould only be like a game at hide-and-seek."
"But if I lost the game, the penalty would be rather serious," replied Atherton. "I have no doubt of your cleverness, Miss Byrom; but I must not expose myself to needless risk."
While this conversation was going on, Dr. Byrom observed to his old friend, "I have something to say to you in private. Can we go into another room?"
Struck by the gravity of his manner, Dr. Deacon took him into an adjoining apartment.
"I am afraid you have some bad news for me," he remarked.
"I have," replied Dr. Byrom, still more gravely. "Your son Robert——"
"What of him?" interrupted Dr. Deacon. "Has he had a relapse of the fever? If so, I must go to him at once."
"'Twill not be necessary, my good friend," replied Dr. Byrom, mournfully. "He does not require your attendance."
Dr. Deacon looked at him fixedly for a moment, and reading the truth in his countenance, murmured, "He is gone!"
"Yes, he has escaped the malice of his enemies," said Dr. Byrom.
"Heaven's will be done!" ejaculated Dr. Deacon, with a look of profound resignation. "Truly I have need of fortitude to bear the weight of affliction laid upon me. Robert!—my dear, brave son!—gone!—gone!"
"Be comforted, my good friend," said Dr. Byrom, in accents of profound sympathy. "His troubles are over."
"True," replied the other. "But the blow has well-nigh stunned me. Give me a chair, I pray you."
As Dr. Byrom complied, he remarked:
"I ought to have broken this sad news to you with greater care—and, indeed, I hesitated to mention it."
"You have acted most kindly—most judiciously—like the friend you have ever shown yourself," rejoined Dr. Deacon. "All is for the best, I doubt not. But when I think of my dear boy Robert, my heart is like to burst. He was so kind, so gallant, so loyal, so true."
"He has been removed from a world of misery," said Dr. Byrom. "Reflection, I am sure, will reconcile you to his fate, sad as it now may seem."
"I have misjudged myself," said Dr. Deacon. "When I sent forth my three sons on this expedition, I thought I was prepared for any eventuality, but I now find I was wrong. One I have already lost—the other two will follow quickly."