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Title: The Manchester Rebels of the Fatal '45

Author: William Harrison Ainsworth

Illustrator: Frederick Gilbert

Release date: July 24, 2014 [eBook #46398]
                Most recently updated: December 29, 2014

Language: English

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Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
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THE MANCHESTER REBELS

OF

THE FATAL '45.


  [Illustration: Faithful unto Death
                 Page 246.]




THE MANCHESTER REBELS

OF

THE FATAL '45


BY

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH


  With faltering voice, she weeping said,
    "O, Dawson, monarch of my heart!
  Think not thy death shall end our loves,
    For thou and I will never part!"

                                 SHENSTONE.


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY FREDERICK GILBERT


LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
NEW YORK: 416 BROOME STREET

1880




BY W. HARRISON AINSWORTH.

_Uniform with this Volume, each with Six Illustrations._


    THE TOWER OF LONDON.
    WINDSOR CASTLE.
    ROOKWOOD.
    THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES.
    GUY FAWKES.
    SAINT JAMES'S; OR, THE COURT OF QUEEN ANNE.
    OLD SAINT PAUL'S; A TALE OF THE PLAGUE AND THE FIRE.
    CRICHTON.
    THE FLITCH OF BACON; OR, THE CUSTOM OF DUNMOW.
    MERVYN CLITHEROE.
    THE MISER'S DAUGHTER.
    JACK SHEPPARD.
    BOSCOBEL; OR, THE ROYAL OAK.
    OVINGDEAN GRANGE; A TALE OF THE SOUTH DOWNS.
    THE SPENDTHRIFT; A TALE.
    THE STAR-CHAMBER.
    PRESTON FIGHT; OR, THE INSURRECTION OF 1715.




INSCRIBED

TO THE

RT. HON. THE EARL OF BEACONSFIELD,

K. G.,

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT

OF

RESPECT AND ADMIRATION.




PREFACE.


All my early life being spent in Manchester, where I was born, bred,
and schooled, I am naturally familiar with the scenes I have attempted
to depict in this Tale.

Little of the old town, however, is now left. The lover of antiquity--if
any such should visit Manchester--will search in vain for those
picturesque black and white timber habitations, with pointed gables
and latticed windows, that were common enough sixty years ago. Entire
streets, embellished by such houses, have been swept away in the
course of modern improvement. But I recollect them well. No great
effort of imagination was therefore needed to reconstruct the old town
as it existed in the middle of the last century; but I was saved from
the possibility of error by an excellent plan, almost of the precise
date, designed by John A. Berry, to which I made constant reference
during my task. Views are given in this plan of the principal houses
then recently erected, and as all these houses were occupied by Prince
Charles and the Highland Chiefs during their stay in Manchester, I
could conduct the Rebel leaders to their quarters without difficulty.
One of the houses, situated in Deansgate, belonged to my mother's
uncle, Mr. Touchet. This is gone, as is Mr. Dickenson's fine house in
Market Street Lane, where the Prince was lodged. Indeed, there is
scarcely a house left in the town that has the slightest historical
association belonging to it.

When I was a boy, some elderly personages with whom I was acquainted
were kind enough to describe to me events connected with Prince
Charles's visit to Manchester, and the stories I then heard made a
lasting impression upon me. The Jacobite feeling must have been still
strong among my old friends, since they expressed much sympathy with
the principal personages mentioned in this Tale--for the gallant
Colonel Townley, Doctor Deacon and his unfortunate sons, Jemmy Dawson,
whose hapless fate has been so tenderly sung by Shenstone, and, above
all, for poor Tom Syddall. The latter, I know not why, unless it be
that his head was affixed on the old Exchange, has always been a sort
of hero in Manchester.

The historical materials of the story are derived from the CHEVALIER
DE JOHNSTONE's _Memoirs of the Rebellion_, and DR. HIBBERT WARE's
excellent account of Prince Charles's sojourn in the town, appended to
the _History of the Manchester Foundations_. But to neither of these
authorities do I owe half so much as to Beppy Byrom's delightful
Journal, so fortunately discovered among her father's papers at Kersal
Cell, and given by DR. PARKINSON in the _Remains of John Byrom_,
published some twenty years ago, by the Chetham Society. Apart from
the vivid picture it affords of the state of Manchester at the period,
of the consternation into which the inhabitants were thrown by the
presence of the Rebel Army, and the striking description given in it
of the young Chevalier and his staff, the Journal is exceedingly
interesting, and it is impossible to read it without feeling as if one
were listening to the pleasant chat of the fair writer. Pretty Beppy
is before us, as sprightly and as loveable as she was in life. In no
diary that I have read is the character of the writer more completely
revealed than in this.

Of Beppy, the bewitching, and her admirable father, I have endeavoured
to give some faint idea in these pages.

While speaking of the Chetham Society, which has brought out so many
important publications, edited with singular ability by the learned
President MR. JAMES CROSSLEY, DR. HIBBERT WARE, MR. WILLIAM BEAMONT,
CANON RAINES, and others, I desire to express the great satisfaction I
feel at learning that a very large collection of the letters of
HUMPHREY CHETHAM, and some of his friends and contemporaries, have
been placed, for publication, in the hands--and in no better hands
could they have been placed--of CANON RAINES.

Unquestionably, this will be the crowning work of the Chetham Society,
and at last, from the able editor of _The Journal of Nicholas
Assbeton, of Downham_, we shall no doubt receive an adequate biography
of the great Lancashire worthy.

To return to my tale. I must not omit to mention that the tragic
incident I have connected with Rawcliffe Hall really occurred--though
at a much more remote date than is here assigned to it--at Bewsey
House, an old moated mansion, near Warrington, still, I believe, in
existence.

At one circumstance I must needs rejoice. Since the publication of
this Tale, and incited, I am told, by its perusal, MR. SAMUEL
BRIERLEY, of Rochdale, has put together a very interesting collection
of anecdotes relating to the visit of Lochiel, with a small portion of
the Highland Army, to Rochdale, in 1745.[1]

          [1] "Rochdale in 1745 and 1746." By an Old Inhabitant.
          Rochdale, John Turner, Drake Street, 1874.

These stories, I understand, were narrated to MR. BRIERLEY by his
great grandmother, who died in 1806, aged ninety-three. That they were
well worth preserving will be apparent from some extracts which I
propose to make from the little work.

Here is a well-told incident which might be entitled "Lochiel and the
Lancashire Lad."

"On the 25th November, 1745, the rebel army, supposed to be 5,000 or
6,000 strong, and composed of cavalry, infantry, and artillery,
arrived at Lancaster, under the personal command of Prince Charles,
who gave instructions that the greater portion of this force should,
on its arrival at Preston, proceed to Manchester by way of Wigan, and
the smaller part through Blackburn and Rochdale, and thus concentrate
the main body at Manchester. The latter portion was seen marching over
Ashworth Moor, under the command of Lochiel of Glengarry, where they
halted to have refreshment, which consisted of oatmeal steeped in
water. Most of the country people fled on their approach, but there
was one who stood looking on, and that was James Lomax, of
Woolstenholme; he was asked to join the army but feigned not to
understand the question, but said he would jump agen the measter
(pointing to Glengarry) o'er that big stone fence, for a gallon of
ale. The bet was accepted, and Lomax had the first jump. Being a lithe
and supple fellow, he cleared it at a bound, ran down the back of the
fence wall, and was no more seen. The officers and men laughed at this
incident; and Lochiel, on turning round, perceived a streak of smoke
rising from the top of Knowle Hill. This and Lomax disappearing so
suddenly, caused great perplexity to those in command; and suspecting
that there might be a surprise before they got to the town, the troops
were ordered to fall in and make ready, and the advanced scouts to
keep a watchful eye both right and left of the road."

Another very amusing story relates to a Highlander who was billeted at
the Union Hotel.

"One of the privates, a kilted man, went into the kitchen and spoke to
Betty the cook, told her she was a bonnie lassie, and said, 'Wull ye
let me put a piece of bread in the drippin?' pointing to the beef on
the spit; she replied, 'Naw, haw winnut,' but at the same time he
threw a piece of black bannock into the dripping pan, and cook said in
a loud voice, 'Hom noan gooin to hav ony o thaw impidunce,' at the
same time throwing out the bread with her basting spoon, into the
ashes. This so exasperated the Scot that he placed his hand on his
sword, but Betty, as quick as thought, got the basting spoon full of
hot dripping, and threw it at him, covering his face, hands, and bare
knees with it, thereby causing him to scream with the burning pain; at
the same moment Mally Garlick, who had been paring potatoes, said, 'Do
go away, for this dog is breakin out of his cage,'--she had privately
opened the door, and the dog rushed at the Scot, and chased him out of
the house, tore a large piece out of the back part of his kilt, which
he had to get repaired before he could decently attend another parade.
But the scalds or burns inflicted upon him proved more serious than
was anticipated, and he was placed under the medical skill of Doctor
Moult. The doctor recommended a short rest from his laborious duties;
this rest, with the unremitting attentions bestowed upon him by the
relenting cook, led to mutual affection, and when he recovered he
never rejoined the invading force, but married her who had caused his
injuries, settled in the town, became a thriving tradesman, and has
descendants here who are highly respectable and wealthy."

Our last extract describes the interview of Valentine Holt, a young
volunteer in the Stuart cause, with Prince Charles.

"After a little conversation, Lochiel wrote him a note and told him to
go to Manchester forthwith, and present it at the house of Mr.
Dickenson, at the top of Market Street Lane, which is now called the
Palace Inn, and wait for an answer--the interview lasted only a few
minutes. Clegg and Holt then went into the churchyard, and the latter
looked upon his native town and the hills surrounding, and said with a
sigh, 'I feel a presentiment that I shall never see my native town
again. Ah, my dear mother, do forgive the many faults of an erring
son. I confess I have caused thee many pangs of sorrow, and I leave
the town with an idea that if I get weaned from my wild companions, I
may become a wiser and a better man.' These and other sorrowful
thoughts came crowding upon his mind, and Clegg observing that he was
in deep thought, proposed to have a parting glass in the neighbouring
tavern; after which he departed for Manchester, along what are now
called the back lanes of Castleton, as at this time there was no road
by Pinfold. He arrived at Manchester late in the evening, and was
stirring early on the morrow; being at the house aforementioned at 10
a.m., he presented the letter given to him by Lochiel (which was
directed in such a way that Holt was unable to imagine who it was for)
to the orderly standing at the door; the latter appeared astonished,
looking at Holt with a scrutinising eye, and told him he must wait at
the door until he delivered the letter. He returned in a few minutes
and ushered Holt into a room in which was seated a young man, tall,
well-built, with a handsome face, auburn hair, and good eyes; the
latter speaking to Holt, said, 'You are the young man from Rochdale
(this was no less a person than the Prince himself) who has offered to
join our cause?' Holt replied 'I am.' 'I hear you use the rifle with
unerring aim.' The Prince taking up a loaded rifle that was in the
corner, said, 'You see that jackdaw on the ridge of the house
opposite, try to bring it down!' Holt fired, and it rolled down the
roof. 'Ah! very good,' exclaimed the Prince, and calling in the
orderly, said, 'Tell Dickson that he must enrol this man as Sergeant
in the Manchester contingent.'"




CONTENTS.


CHAP.                                                            PAGE

Book I.--Atherton Legh.

     I. HOW THE INFANT HEIR WAS STOLEN                              1

    II. MANCHESTER IN 1745                                          6

   III. INTRODUCES DR. DEACON, DR. BYROM, AND COLONEL TOWNLEY       9

    IV. SIR RICHARD RAWCLIFFE                                      19

     V. INTRODUCES OUR HERO                                        23

    VI. ADVICE                                                     26

   VII. RENCOUNTER NEAR THE OLD TOWN CROSS                         28

  VIII. BEPPY BYROM                                                32

    IX. THE TWO CURATES OF ST. ANN'S                               37

     X. CONSTANCE RAWCLIFFE                                        40

    XI. THE BOROUGHREEVE OF MANCHESTER                             44

   XII. THE RESCUE                                                 47

  XIII. CONSTANCE MAKES A DISCOVERY                                52

   XIV. ST. ANN'S-SQUARE                                           57

    XV. HOW SALFORD BRIDGE WAS SAVED FROM DESTRUCTION              63

   XVI. TOM SYDDALL                                                67

  XVII. HOW TOM SYDDALL WAS CARRIED HOME IN TRIUMPH                71

 XVIII. THE MEETING IN THE GARDEN                                  76

   XIX. MRS. BUTLER                                                79

    XX. THE JACOBITE MEETING IN TOM SYDDALL'S BACK ROOM            86

   XXI. BEN BIRCH, THE BELLMAN OF MANCHESTER                       90


Book II.--Prince Charles Edward in Manchester.

     I. HOW MANCHESTER WAS TAKEN BY A SERJEANT, A DRUMMER,
AND A SCOTTISH LASSIE                                              94

    II. THE PROCLAMATION AT THE CROSS                              99

   III. FATHER JEROME                                             103

    IV. GENERAL SIR JOHN MACDONALD                                106

     V. HELEN CARNEGIE'S STORY                                    112

    VI. CAPTAIN LINDSAY                                           115

   VII. A RESIDENCE IS CHOSEN FOR THE PRINCE                      117

  VIII. INTERVIEW BETWEEN SECRETARY MURRAY AND THE MAGISTRATES    120

    IX. ARRIVAL OF THE FIRST DIVISION OF THE HIGHLAND ARMY.
LORD GEORGE MURRAY                                                122

     X. THE DUKE OF PERTH                                         125

    XI. ARRIVAL OF THE SECOND DIVISION                            127

   XII. THE YOUNG CHEVALIER                                       129

  XIII. THE PRINCE'S INTERVIEW WITH MRS. BUTLER AND
THE TWO DAMSELS                                                   134

   XIV. THE PRINCE'S MARCH TO HEAD-QUARTERS                       137

    XV. THE PRINCE'S LEVEE                                        140

   XVI. THE ILLUMINATIONS                                         148

  XVII. A QUARREL AT SUPPER                                       151

 XVIII. CAPTAIN WEIR                                              154

   XIX. CAPTAIN WEIR IS INTERROGATED BY THE PRINCE                162

    XX. THE DUEL                                                  165

   XXI. CASTLE FIELD                                              169

  XXII. FATHER JEROME COUNSELS SIR RICHARD                        176

 XXIII. THE PRINCE ATTENDS SERVICE AT THE COLLEGIATE CHURCH       180

  XXIV. THE PRINCE INSPECTS THE MANCHESTER REGIMENT               182

   XXV. AN UNSATISFACTORY EXPLANATION                             184

  XXVI. THE RIDE TO RAWCLIFFE HALL                                187

 XXVII. RAWCLIFFE HALL                                            189

XXVIII. A STARTLING DISCLOSURE                                    192

  XXIX. THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBER                                    194

   XXX. A TERRIBLE CATASTROPHE                                    197

  XXXI. SIR RICHARD RAWCLIFFE'S CONFESSION                        202

 XXXII. ATHERTON'S DECISION IS MADE                               208


Book III.--The March to Derby, and the Retreat.

     I. AN OLD JACOBITE DAME                                      212

    II. ATHERTON'S GIFT TO CONSTANCE                              215

   III. A RETREAT RESOLVED UPON                                   220

    IV. HOW THE MANCHESTER REGIMENT WAS WELCOMED ON ITS RETURN    224

     V. A FRESH SUBSIDY DEMANDED                                  227

    VI. A FALSE MESSAGE BROUGHT TO HELEN                          230

   VII. A COURT-MARTIAL                                           235

  VIII. HELEN PLEADS IN VAIN                                      239

    IX. TOGETHER TO THE LAST                                      242

     X. MR. JAMES BAYLEY                                          246

    XI. THE VISION                                                249

   XII. THE RETREAT FROM MANCHESTER TO CARLISLE                   253


Book IV.--Carlisle.

     I. COLONEL TOWNLEY APPOINTED COMMANDANT OF THE
CARLISLE GARRISON                                                 256

    II. ATHERTON TAKEN PRISONER                                   258

   III. THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND                                    262

    IV. SURRENDER OF CARLISLE TO THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND           264


Book V.--Jemmy Dawson.

     I. THE ESCAPE AT WIGAN                                       270

    II. THE MEETING AT WARRINGTON                                 274

   III. ATHERTON TAKES REFUGE AT RAWCLIFFE HALL                   276

    IV. AN ENEMY IN THE HOUSE                                     281

     V. A POINT OF FAITH                                          285

    VI. A LETTER FROM BEPPY BYROM                                 288

   VII. ATHERTON QUESTIONS THE PRIEST                             292

  VIII. THE SEARCH                                                295

    IX. WHO WAS FOUND IN THE DISMANTLED ROOMS                     298

     X. A SUCCESSFUL STRATAGEM                                    301

    XI. ATHERTON MEETS WITH DR. DEACON AT ROSTHERN                305

   XII. A SAD COMMUNICATION IS MADE TO DR. DEACON                 311

  XIII. A JOURNEY TO LONDON PROPOSED                              314

   XIV. JEMMY DAWSON'S LETTER                                     316

    XV. THE PARTING BETWEEN MONICA AND HER MOTHER                 322

   XVI. THE JOURNEY                                               326


Book VI.--Kennington Common.

     I. MONICA VISITS JEMMY IN NEWGATE                            330

    II. COLONEL CONWAY                                            333

   III. CUMBERLAND HOUSE                                          336

    IV. THE TRIAL OF THE MANCHESTER REBELS                        342

     V. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE EXECUTIONS                           346

    VI. THE FATAL DAY                                             348

   VII. FIVE YEARS LATER                                          353




THE MANCHESTER REBELS of THE FATAL '45.




BOOK I.

ATHERTON LEGH.




CHAPTER I.

HOW THE INFANT HEIR WAS STOLEN.


About midnight, in the autumn of 1724, two persons cautiously
approached an old moated mansion, situated in Cheshire, though close
to the borders of Lancashire. The night being almost pitch-dark, very
little of the ancient fabric could be distinguished; but the irregular
outline of its numerous gables showed that it was of considerable
size. It was, in fact, a large picturesque hall, built in the early
days of Elizabeth, and was completely surrounded by an unusually
broad, deep moat. The moat was crossed by a drawbridge, but this being
now raised, access to the mansion could only be obtained by rousing
the porter, who slept over the gateway. All the inmates of the house
seemed buried in repose. Not a sound was heard. No mastiff barked to
give the alarm.

A melancholy air had the old hall, even when viewed by daylight. Of
late years it had been much neglected, and portions were allowed to go
to decay. Several rooms were shut up. Its owner, who died rather more
than a year before the date of our story, preferred a town residence,
and rarely inhabited the hall. Extravagant, and fond of play, he had
cut down the fine timber that ornamented his park to pay his debts.
Death, however, put an end to his career before he had quite run
through his fortune. He left behind him a wife and an infant son--the
latter being heir to the property. As there would be a long minority,
the estates, by prudent management, might be completely retrieved. On
the demise of her husband, the widow quitted her town house, and took
up her abode with her child at the old hall. With a greatly reduced
establishment, she lived in perfect seclusion. As she was young, very
beautiful, and much admired, people wondered that she could thus tear
herself from the world. But her resolution remained unchanged. Her
affections seemed centred in her infant son. She had few visitors,
declined all invitations, and rarely strayed beyond the limits of the
park.

She had got it into her head that her child would be taken from her,
and would not, therefore, let him out of her sight. The infant was as
carefully watched as if he had been heir to a dukedom; and at night,
for fear of a surprise, the drawbridge was always raised. In the event
of the young heir dying under age, the estates passed to the brother
of her late husband, and of him she entertained dark suspicions that
did not seem altogether unwarranted.

Having offered this brief explanation, we shall return to the
mysterious pair whom we left making their way to the hall. As their
design was to enter the house secretly, they did not go near the
drawbridge, being provided with other means of crossing the moat. One
of them carried a coracle--a light boat formed of a wicker framework
covered with leather.

Though they had now reached the margin of the moat, which was fringed
with reeds and bulrushes, they did not put their plan into immediate
execution, but marched on in silence, till a light was observed
glimmering from one of the windows. A taper had been thus placed to
guide them, proving that they had a confederate in the house.

On perceiving this light, which streamed from the partly-opened
casement on the dusky water beneath it, the foremost of the twain
immediately halted. He was a tall man wrapped in a long black cloak,
with a broad-leaved hat pulled over his brows, and was well-armed.

As soon as the coracle was launched, he stepped into it, and was
followed by his attendant, who pushed the frail bark noiselessly
across the moat.

On reaching the opposite side, the chief personage sprang ashore,
leaving his follower in the boat, and made his way to a postern, which
he found open, as he expected. Before entering the house, he put on a
mask.

The postern communicated with a back staircase, up which the midnight
visitor quickly mounted, making as little noise as possible. The
staircase conducted him to a gallery, and he had not advanced far when
a door was softly opened, and a young woman, who had hastily slipped
on a dressing-gown, came forth, bearing a light. It was the nurse. She
almost recoiled with terror on beholding the masked figure standing
before her.

"What's the matter with you, Bertha? Don't you know me?" asked the
mysterious personage in a low voice.

"Yes, I know you now, sir," she rejoined in the same tone. "But you
look like--I won't say what."

"A truce to this folly. Where is the child?"

"In his mother's bed. I offered to take him, but she would not part
with him to-night."

"She will be obliged to part with him. I must have him."

"Oh, sir! I beseech you to abandon this wicked design. I am certain it
will bring destruction upon all concerned in it. Do not rob her of her
child."

"These misgivings are idle, Bertha. Bring me the child without more
ado, or I will snatch it from its mother's arms."

"I cannot do it. The poor soul will go distracted when she finds she
has lost her darling."

"What means this sudden change, Bertha?" he said, surprised and angry.
"You had no such commiseration for her when we last talked over the
matter. You were willing enough to aid me then."

"You tempted me by your offer; but I now repent. I understand the
enormity of the offence, and will not burden my soul with so much
guilt."

"You have gone too far to retreat. Having made a bargain you must
fulfil it."

"Swear to me that you will not injure the child, or I will not bring
it to you."

"I have already told you I do not mean to harm it."

"But swear by all you hold sacred that you have no design upon the
child's life. Do this, or I will give the alarm."

"Attempt to utter a cry and I will kill you," he said, sternly. "I
have not come here to be thwarted in my purpose. Go in at once."

Terrified by the menacing tone in which the order was given, Bertha
obeyed, and returned to the room from which she had issued. Perhaps
she might have fastened the door if time had been allowed, but the man
in the mask followed her too quickly.

It was an antechamber which she occupied as nurse. A door
communicating with the inner apartment stood partly open, and in
obedience to an imperious gesture from the terrible intruder, she
passed through it.

She was now in a large antique bed-chamber, imperfectly lighted up by
a lamp placed on a small table near the bed, in which lay one of the
fairest creatures imaginable. The contour of the sleeper's countenance
was exquisite, and her raven tresses, which had not been confined,
flowed over her neck, contrasting strongly with its dazzling
whiteness.

Close beside her, with its little head resting upon a rounded arm that
might have served a sculptor as a model, slept her babe. A smile
seemed to play upon the slumbering mother's lips, as if her dreams
were pleasant.

The sight of this picture smote Bertha to the heart. Only a fiend, it
seemed to her at that moment, could mar such happiness. Could she turn
that smile to tears and misery? Could she requite the constant
kindness shown her, and the trust placed in her, by the basest
ingratitude and treachery? She could not do it. She would rather die.
She would return to the terrible man who was waiting for her, and
brave his fury.

But she found herself quite unequal to the effort, and while she
remained in this state of irresolution he entered the room with his
drawn sword in his hand.

He signed to her to go to the bed and take the child, but she did not
obey. Half paralysed with terror, she could neither move nor utter a
cry.

At once comprehending the state of the case, he determined to act
alone, and stepping softly forward he extinguished the lamp that was
burning on a small table beside the bed, and seizing the child
enveloped it in his cloak.

The daring deed was so rapidly executed that the poor lady did not
wake till she was robbed of her treasure. But becoming instantly aware
that her child was gone, and hearing footsteps in the room, she raised
herself, and called out in accents of alarm, "Is it you, Bertha?"

"Make no answer, but follow me quickly," whispered the terrible
intruder to the nurse.

But she had now burst the spell that had hitherto bound her, and
seizing him before he could reach the door held him fast.

Finding his departure effectually prevented, the remorseless villain
unhesitatingly liberated himself by plunging his sword into Bertha's
breast.

The wound was mortal. The unfortunate woman fell speechless, dying,
just as her mistress, who had sprung from the couch, came up; while
the assassin escaped with his prize.

The poor lady understood what had happened, but fright almost deprived
her of her senses. She uttered scream after scream, but before any of
the household came to her assistance all was silent.

When they ventured into the room a shocking spectacle greeted them.
Their young mistress was lying in a state of insensibility by the side
of the slaughtered nurse. The child could not be found.

How the perpetrator of this dark and daring deed entered the house
remained a mystery. No one supposed that poor murdered Bertha, who had
paid the penalty of her crime with life, had been his accomplice. On
the contrary, it was believed that she had flown to her mistress's
assistance, and had perished in the attempt to save the child.

How the murderer had crossed the moat was likewise a mystery, for the
coracle was carried away when its purpose had been fulfilled. On
examination, the postern-door was found to be locked and the key taken
out. Nothing had been seen of the terrible visitor, the gloom of night
shrouding his arrival and departure. Thus he remained wholly
undiscovered.

When the poor lady recovered from the fainting fit into which she had
fallen, her senses were gone. Nor did she long survive the dreadful
shock she had sustained.




CHAPTER II.

MANCHESTER IN 1745.


When Dr. Stukeley visited Manchester in 1724, he described the town,
from personal observation, as "the largest, most rich, populous, and
busy village in England." In twenty years from that date, it could no
longer be called a village. Its population had doubled, and the number
of houses had greatly increased. Many new streets had been completed,
an Exchange built, and a fine new square laid out.

But though the town had thus grown in size and wealth, it had not yet
lost its provincial air. The streets had a cheerful, bustling look,
denoting that plenty of business was going on, but they were not
crowded either with carts or people. The country was close at hand,
and pleasant fields could be reached in a few minutes' walk from the
market-place.

Seen from the ancient stone bridge spanning the Irwell, the town still
presented a picturesque appearance. The view comprehended the old
collegiate church (which wore a much more venerable air than it does
now, inasmuch as it had not been renovated), the old houses on Hunt's
Bank, Chetham Hospital crowning the red sandstone banks of the Irk,
just beyond its junction with the larger river, the old water-mill,
and the collection of black and white plaster habitations in the
neighbourhood of the church.

This was the oldest part of the town, and its original features had
not been destroyed. In all the narrow streets surrounding the
collegiate church the houses bore the impress of antiquity, having
served as dwelling-places for several generations. In Mill-gate, in
Toad-lane, in Hanging Ditch, and Cateaton-street, scarcely a modern
habitation could be descried. All the houses, with their carved
gables, projecting upper stories, and bay-windows, dated back a couple
of centuries. In Deansgate similar picturesque old structures
predominated. Two new churches formed part of the picture--Trinity
Church in Salford, and St. Ann's in the square we have already
mentioned--and of course many other modern buildings were discernible,
but from the point of view selected the general air of the place was
ancient.

From this glance at Manchester in 1745, it will be seen that it formed
an agreeable mixture of an old and new town. The rivers that washed
its walls were clear, and abounded in fish. Above all, the atmosphere
was pure and wholesome, unpolluted by the smoke of a thousand factory
chimneys. In some respects, therefore, the old town was preferable to
the mighty modern city.

The inhabitants are described by a writer of the period "as very
industrious, always contriving or inventing something new to improve
and set off their goods, and not much following the extravagance that
prevails in other places, by which means many of them have acquired
very handsome fortunes, and live thereupon in a plain, useful, and
regular manner, after the custom of their forefathers."

Their manners, in fact, were somewhat primitive. The manufacturers
kept early hours, and by ten o'clock at night the whole town might be
said to be at rest. There were two political clubs, Whig and Tory, or
Jacobite, the latter being by far the most numerous and important. The
members met at their favourite taverns to drink punch, and toast King
or Pretender, according to their predilections. Only four carriages
were kept in the town, and these belonged to ladies. There were no
lamps in the streets, lanterns being carried by all decent folks on
dark nights.

In regard to the amusements of the place it may be mentioned that the
annual horse-races, established at Kersal Moor in 1730, had latterly
been discontinued, but they were soon afterwards revived. Under the
patronage of Lady Bland--a person of great spirit--public assemblies
were given at a ball-room in King-street--then, as now, the most
fashionable street. A famous pack of hounds, of the old British breed,
was kept near the town, and regularly hunted in the season. The
leading merchants lived in a very unostentatious manner, but were
exceedingly hospitable. Many of them were far more refined and much
more highly educated than might have been expected; but this is easily
accounted for when we state that they belonged to good county
families. It had been the custom for a long period with the Lancashire
and Cheshire gentry, who could not otherwise provide for their younger
sons, to bring them up to mercantile pursuits, and with that object
they apprenticed them to the Manchester merchants. Thenceforward a
marked improvement took place in the manners and habits of the class.




CHAPTER III.

INTRODUCES DR. DEACON, DR. BYROM, AND COLONEL TOWNLEY.


Descended from Cavaliers, it was certain that the Manchester merchants
would embrace the political opinions of their fathers, and support the
hereditary claims of the House of Stuart. They did so enthusiastically.
All were staunch Jacobites, and more or less concerned in a plot which
had long been forming for the restoration of James the Third to the
throne. Constant meetings were held at a small inn at Didsbury, near
the ferry, where the conspirators drank "The King over the Water."
A secret correspondence was kept up with the exiled court, and
assurances were given to the Chevalier de St. George that the whole
population of the town would rise in his favour whenever the expected
invasion took place.

The great spread of Jacobite opinions throughout the town could be
traced to two or three influential individuals. Chief among these was
Dr. Deacon--a very remarkable man, whose zeal and earnestness were
calculated to extend his opinions, and make converts of those opposed
to him. Dr. Deacon had been concerned in the former rebellion, and in
his quality of a Nonjuring priest had assisted at the dying moments of
the Reverend William Paul and Justice Hall, who were executed in 1716.
The declaration delivered by them to the sheriff was written by Dr.
Deacon, and produced an immense effect from its force and eloquence.
Having incurred the suspicion of the Government, Dr. Deacon deemed it
expedient to change his profession. Repairing to Manchester, he began
to practise as a physician, and with considerable success. But this
did not prevent him from carrying on his spiritual labours. He founded
a Nonjuring church, of which he was regarded as the bishop. His
fervour and enthusiasm gained him many disciples, and he
unquestionably produced an effect upon the clergy of the collegiate
church, all of whom, except the warden, Dr. Peploe, adopted his
opinions, and inculcated Jacobitism from the pulpit. Though a
visionary and mystic, Dr. Deacon was a man of great erudition, and a
profound theologian. He had three sons, all of whom shared his
political and religious opinions.

Another person quite as zealous as Dr. Deacon in promoting the cause
of the Pretender, though he observed much greater caution in his
proceedings, was Dr. John Byrom, whose name is still held in the
greatest respect in Manchester. A native of the town, and well
connected, Dr. Byrom occupied an excellent social position. He was a
man of great versatility of talent--a wit, a scholar, a linguist, and
a charming poet. But his witty sayings were playful, and, though
smart, entirely divested of ill-nature. Clever at most things, he
invented a new system of short-hand, which he taught, so long as it
was necessary for him to improve his income; but on the death of his
elder brother he succeeded to the family property, Kersal Cell,
situated in the neighbourhood of the town. His diary and
correspondence, published by the Chetham Society, give a complete
insight into his truly amiable character, and not only display him in
the most pleasing colours, but place him in the first rank as a
letter-writer. Dr. Byrom contributed two papers to the _Spectator_,
and wrote many delightful songs and humorous poems, but he will be
best remembered by his admirable letters. He was fortunate in his
wife, and equally fortunate in his children--a son and daughter--and
it is to these members of his family, to whom he was tenderly
attached, that most of his letters are addressed.

At the time of our story, Dr. Byrom was between fifty and sixty--a
striking-looking person, tall, thin, erect. Without being handsome,
his features were pleasing and benevolent in expression. His manner
was singularly courteous, and his temper so even that it could
scarcely be ruffled.

A third person, who made his appearance in Manchester immediately
after the outbreak of the rebellion in Scotland, was Colonel Francis
Townley. He belonged to an old Lancashire Roman Catholic family, the
head of which, Richard Townley, of Townley Hall, took part in the
rebellion of 1715, and was tried before Judge Powis, but acquitted.

Born at his father's house near Wigan, Frank Townley, at the period of
our story, was just thirty-eight. Some seventeen years previously he
went over to France, and being remarkably handsome, made a figure at
the court of Versailles. Befriended by the Duke of Berwick, he
received a commission from Louis the Fifteenth, served at the siege of
Philipsburg, and was close beside the duke when the latter was killed
by a cannon-shot. Subsequently he served under Marshal de Broglie in
the campaign against Austria, and was present at several sieges and
actions, in all of which he displayed great spirit and intrepidity,
and acquired a very brilliant military reputation.

Frank Townley continued in the French service for fifteen years, and
then returned to England, living for some little time in retirement.
When the young Chevalier landed in Scotland, and an invasion was
meditated by France, Louis sent him a colonel's commission to enable
him to raise forces for the prince. With this design he came to
Manchester, thinking he should have no difficulty in raising a
regiment, but he was not so successful as he anticipated.

A simultaneous rising of the Jacobites in the northern counties and in
some of the larger towns had been confidently looked for by the
partisans of the House of Stuart, but as this did not take place, the
excitement in the prince's behalf, which had been roused in
Manchester, began quickly to subside. The intelligence that the victor
of Preston Pans was marching southward at the head of an army of five
thousand Highlanders, though it raised the hopes of some of the bolder
spirits, carried consternation among the bulk of the towns-people--not
only among those who were loyal, but among the disaffected. The
Jacobites wished well to the Pretender, but declined to fight for him.
Numbers left the town, and the shopkeepers began to remove their goods
and valuables. The Presbyterians were especially alarmed, and sent
away their wives and families.

News that the prince had reached Carlisle increased the excitement.
The militia was quartered in the town for its defence; but the men
were disbanded before the insurgent army appeared. The bridge at
Warrington was destroyed to impede the march of the rebels; other
bridges were blown up; and Salford Bridge was threatened, but escaped
destruction.

In the midst of the general alarm and confusion now prevailing in the
place, Colonel Townley found it impossible to enrol a sufficient
number of men to form a regiment. All those who had been lavish in
promises made excuses, or got out of the way.

By this time Carlisle had surrendered, and the prince, whose army
moved in two divisions, was marching southward. Greatly disappointed
by his ill success, Colonel Townley resolved to set out and meet him
at Lancaster, in order to prepare him for his probable reception at
Manchester.

On the night before his departure on this errand, the colonel had a
conference with Dr. Deacon and Dr. Byrom at the Bull's Head in the
market-place--a tavern frequented mainly by the High Church Tories and
Jacobites; just as the Angel Inn in Market Street Lane was resorted to
by Whigs and Presbyterians.

The party met in a private room at the back of the house. A cheerful
fire blazed on the hearth--it must be borne in mind that it was then
in November--and a flask of claret stood on the table; but the serious
looks of the three gentlemen betokened that they had not met merely
for convivial purposes.

With the tall, thin figure, benevolent countenance, and courteous
manner of Dr. Byrom, we have endeavoured to familiarise the reader.
The doctor was attired in a murrey-coloured coat with long skirts, and
wore a full-bottomed tie-wig, and a laced cravat, but had laid aside
his three-cornered hat.

Dr. Deacon was somewhat advanced in years, but seemed full of vigour,
both of mind and body. He had a highly intellectual physiognomy, and a
look about the eyes that bespoke him an enthusiast and a visionary. He
was dressed in black, but his costume was that of a physician, not a
divine. Still, the Nonjuring priest could not be wholly disguised.

Colonel Townley had a very fine presence. His figure was tall,
well-proportioned, and commanding. He might easily have been taken for
a French officer; nor was this to be wondered at, considering his
fifteen years' service in France. A grey cloth riding-dress faced with
purple displayed his lofty figure to advantage. An aile-de-pigeon wig,
surmounted by a small cocked hat edged with silver lace and
jack-boots, completed his costume.

"Now, gentlemen," said the colonel, drawing his chair closer to them,
"before I join the prince at Lancaster, I desire to have your candid
opinion as to the chance of a rising in his favour in this town.
Latterly I have met with nothing but disappointment. The conduct of
your leading merchants fills me with rage and disgust, and how they
can reconcile it with the pledges they have given his royal highness
of support, I cannot conceive. Still, I hope they will act up to their
professions, and maintain the honourable character they have hitherto
borne. How say you, gentlemen? Can the prince calculate on a general
declaration in his favour? You shake your heads. At least he may count
on a thousand recruits? Five hundred? Surely five hundred Manchester
men will join his standard?"

"A few weeks ago I firmly believed half the town would rise," replied
Dr. Deacon. "But now I know not what to say. I will not delude the
prince with any more false promises."

"'Twill be an eternal disgrace to Manchester if its inhabitants desert
him at this critical juncture," cried the colonel, warmly. "Is this to
be the miserable conclusion of all your plots and secret meetings? You
have invited him, and now that he has complied with the invitation,
and is coming hither with an army, you get out of the way, and leave
him to his own resources. 'Tis infamous!"

"I still hope my fellow-townsmen may redeem their character for
loyalty," said Dr. Deacon. "Perchance, when his royal highness
appears, he may recall them to their duty."

"I doubt it," observed the colonel.

"I will not attempt to defend the conduct of the Manchester
Jacobites," observed Dr. Byrom; "but they are not quite so culpable as
they appear. They ought not to have invited the prince, unless they
were resolved to support him at all hazards. But they have become
alarmed, and shrink from the consequences of their own rashness. They
wish him every success in his daring enterprise, but will not risk
their lives and fortunes for him, as their fathers did in the
ill-starred insurrection of 1715."

"In a word, they consider the prince's cause hopeless," said the
colonel.

"That is so," replied Dr. Byrom. "You will do well to dissuade his
royal highness from advancing beyond Preston, unless he is certain of
receiving large reinforcements from France."

"Dissuade him from advancing! I will never give him such dastardly
counsel. Were I indiscreet enough to do so, he would reject it. His
royal highness is marching on London."

"So I conclude. But I fear the Duke of Cumberland will never allow him
to get there."

"Bah! He will beat the Duke as he beat Johnnie Cope at Preston Pans.
But he need not hazard a battle. He can easily elude the duke if he
thinks proper."

"Not so easily, I think; but, should he do so, he will find the
Elector of Hanover prepared for him. The guards and some other
regiments are encamped at Finchley, as we learn by the last express,
for the defence of the capital."

"You are just as timorous as the rest of your fellow-townsmen, sir.
But no representations of danger will deter the heroic prince from his
projected march on London. Ere long, I trust he will drive out the
usurper, and cause his royal father to be proclaimed at Westminster."

"Heaven grant it may be so!" exclaimed Dr. Deacon, fervently. "'Twill
be a wondrous achievement if it succeeds."

"I do not think it can succeed," said Dr. Byrom. "You think me a
prophet of ill, colonel, but I am solely anxious for the prince's
safety. I would not have him fall into the hands of his enemies. Even
retreat is fraught with peril, for Field-Marshal Wade, with a strong
force, is in his rear."

"Better go on, then, by your own showing, sir. But retreat is out of
the question. I am at a loss to understand how you can reconcile your
conduct with the principles you profess. The prince has need of
zealous adherents, who will sacrifice their lives for him if required.
Yet you and your friends, who are pledged to him, keep aloof."

"I am too old to draw the sword for the prince," said Dr. Deacon; "but
I shall identify myself with his cause, and I have enjoined my three
sons to enrol themselves in the Manchester Regiment."

"You have done well, sir, but only what might have been expected from
you," said Colonel Townley. "Your conduct contrasts favourably with
that of many of his self-styled adherents."

"I can bear the taunt, colonel," said Dr. Byrom, calmly. "Whatever
opinion you may entertain to the contrary, my friends and myself are
loyal to the House of Stuart, but we are also discreet. We have had
our lesson, and mean to profit by it. To be plain with you, Colonel
Townley, we don't like the Highlanders."

"Why not, sir? They are brave fellows, and have done no mischief. They
will do none here--on that you may depend."

"Maybe not, but the people are desperately afraid of them, and think
they will plunder the town.

"Mere idle fears," exclaimed Colonel Townley.

"Have you a list of recruits, colonel?" inquired Dr. Deacon.

Colonel Townley replied in the affirmative, and produced a
memorandum-book.

"The list is so brief, and the names it comprises are so unimportant,
that I shall feel ashamed to present it to the prince," he said. "The
first person I have set down is James Dawson."

"Jemmy Dawson is a young man of very respectable family--in fact, a
connexion of my own," observed Dr. Byrom. "He belongs to St. John's
College, Cambridge."

"Next on the list is Mr. Peter Moss, a gentleman of this county,"
pursued the colonel. "Then come Mr. Thomas Morgan, a Welshman, and Mr.
John Saunderson, a Northumberland gentleman. All those I have
enumerated will be officers, and with them I shall couple the names of
your sons, Dr. Deacon--Thomas Theodorus, Charles, and Robert."

"All three are prepared to lay down their lives in asserting the
rights of their only lawful sovereign, King James the Third," said the
doctor. "They have constantly prayed that Heaven may strengthen him so
that he may vanquish and overcome all his enemies, that he may be
brought to his kingdom, and the crown be set upon his head."

"In that prayer we all join," said the colonel. "I shall not fail to
mention your sons to the prince. Then we have a young parson named
Coppock, who desires to be chaplain of the regiment. From his
discourse he seems to be a good specimen of the church militant."

"He will give up a good benefice if he joins you," remarked Dr. Byrom.

"He will be rewarded with a bishopric if we succeed. With a few
exceptions, the rest are not persons of much rank--Andrew Blood,
George Fletcher, John Berwick, Thomas Chadwick, and Thomas Syddall.
The last is a member of the Nonjuring church, I believe, Dr. Deacon?"

"I am proud of him, though he is only a barber," replied the doctor.
"He has never sworn allegiance to the usurper, and never will. He is
the son of that Thomas Syddall who was put to an ignominious death in
1716, and his head fixed on the market-cross of this town. Thomas
Syddall, the younger, inherits his father's loyalty and courage."

"He shall be an ensign," said the colonel. "Next, there is a young
man, whom I have put down, though I don't feel quite sure of him. He
is the handsomest young fellow I have seen in Manchester, and
evidently full of spirit."

"I think I can guess whom you mean," said Dr. Byrom. "'Tis Atherton
Legh."

"Right! that is the youngster's name. He was introduced to me by
Theodore Deacon. Who is he? He looks as if he belonged to a good
family."

"Atherton Legh is Atherton Legh--that is all I know of his family
history, and I believe it is all he knows himself," replied Dr.
Deacon.

"I can tell you something more about him," said Dr. Byrom. "He was
brought up by a small tradesman, named Heywood, dwelling in Deansgate,
educated at our grammar-school under Mr. Brooke, and afterwards
apprenticed to Mr. Hibbert, a highly respectable merchant; but as to
his parentage, there is a mystery. Beyond doubt, he has some wealthy
relative, but he has prudently abstained from making inquiries, since
it has been intimated to him that, if he does so, the present liberal
allowance, which is regularly paid by some person who styles himself
his guardian, will cease."

"A very good reason for remaining quiet," observed the colonel. "But I
suppose Heywood is acquainted with the guardian?"

"He has not even heard his name. Atherton's allowance is paid through
a banker, who is bound to secrecy. But you shall hear all I know about
the matter. Some eighteen years ago, an elderly dame, who described
herself as Madame Legh, having the appearance of a decayed
gentlewoman, and attired in mourning, arrived in Manchester, and put
up at this very inn. She had travelled by post, it appeared, from
London, and brought with her a very pretty little boy, about three
years old, whom she called her grandson, stating that his name was
Atherton Legh. From this, it would seem, there was no disguise about
the old dame, but there is every reason to believe that the names
given by her were fictitious. Having made some preliminary inquiries
respecting the Heywoods, and ascertained that they had no family,
Madame Legh paid them a visit, taking her little grandson with her,
and after some talk with Mrs. Heywood, who was a very kind-hearted
woman, easily prevailed upon her to take charge of the child. All the
arrangements were very satisfactorily made. Mrs. Heywood received a
purse of fifty guineas, which she was told came from the boy's
guardian--not his father. She was also assured that a liberal
allowance would be made by the guardian for the child's maintenance
and education, and the promise was most honourably fulfilled. All
being settled, Madame Legh kissed her little grandson and departed,
and was never seen again. The child quickly attached himself to the
worthy pair, who became as fond of him as if he had been their own
son. In due time, Atherton grew into a fine spirited lad, and, as I
have just intimated, was sent to the grammar-school. When his
education was completed, in compliance with the injunctions of his
mysterious guardian, conveyed through the banker who paid the
allowance, the youth was apprenticed to Mr. Hibbert--the fee being
five hundred pounds, which, of course, was paid. Thenceforth, Atherton
resided with Mr. Hibbert.

"Such is the young man's history, so far as it is known, and it is
certainly curious. No wonder you have been struck by his appearance,
colonel. He has decidedly a fine physiognomy, and his look and manner
proclaim him the son of a gentleman. Whether he will venture to enrol
himself in your regiment without his guardian's consent, which it is
next to impossible for him to obtain, is more than I can say.

"It does not seem to me that he is bound to consult his guardian on
the point," remarked Dr. Deacon. "I have told him so; but he has some
scruples of conscience, which I hope to remove."

"If his guardian is a Hanoverian, he ought to have no authority over
him," said the colonel. "You must win him over to the good cause,
doctor. But let us have a glass of claret," he added, helping himself,
and pushing the bottle towards Dr. Byrom, who was nearest him.




CHAPTER IV.

SIR RICHARD RAWCLIFFE.


"By-the-bye," continued Colonel Townley, looking at his watch. "I
forgot to mention that I expect Sir Richard Rawcliffe, of Rawcliffe
Hall, to-night. He will be here anon. 'Tis about the hour he named.
You know him, I think?"

"I knew him slightly some years ago," replied Dr. Byrom. "But I dare
say he has quite forgotten me. He rarely, if ever, comes to
Manchester. Indeed, he leads a very secluded life at Rawcliffe, and,
as I understand, keeps no company. He has the character of being
morose and gloomy, but I daresay it is undeserved, for men are
generally misrepresented."

"Sir Richard Rawcliffe is certainly misrepresented, if he is so
described," said Colonel Townley. "He is haughty and reserved, but not
moody. When I left for France he had only just succeeded to the title
and the property, and I knew little of him then, though he was an
intimate friend of my uncle, Richard Townley of Townley."

"He was not, I think, engaged in the insurrection of 1715?" remarked
Dr. Deacon.

"Not directly," replied the colonel. "His father, Sir Randolph, who
was friendly to the Hanoverian succession, was alive then, and he did
not dare to offend him."

"I thought the Rawcliffes were a Roman Catholic family?" remarked Dr.
Deacon.

"Sir Randolph abjured the faith of his fathers," said Colonel Townley;
"and his elder son, Oswald, was likewise a renegade. Sir Richard, of
whom we are now speaking, succeeded his brother Sir Oswald on the
failure of the heir."

"It has never been positively proved that the heir is dead," observed
Dr. Byrom. "Sir Oswald Rawcliffe married the beautiful Henrietta
Conway, and had a son by her, who was carried off while an infant in a
most mysterious manner, and has never been heard of since. This
happened in '24, but I cannot help thinking the true heir to Rawcliffe
Hall may yet be found."

"Meantime, Sir Richard is in possession of the title and property,"
said Colonel Townley.

As he spoke, the door was opened by the landlord, who ushered in a
tall personage, whom he announced as Sir Richard Rawcliffe.

Bowing to the company, all of whom rose on his entrance, Sir Richard
sprang forward to meet Colonel Townley, and a hearty greeting passed
between them.

It would have been difficult to determine the new-comer's age, but he
was not fifty, though he looked much older. His features were
handsome, but strongly marked, and had a sombre expression, which,
however, disappeared when he was animated by converse. His eyes were
dark and penetrating, and overhung by thick black brows. His pallid
complexion and care-worn looks seemed to denote that he was out of
health. Altogether, it was a face that could not be regarded without
interest. He wore a dark riding-dress, with boots drawn above the
knee. A black peruke descended over his shoulders, and a sword hung by
his side.

Habitually, Sir Richard Rawcliffe's manner was haughty, but he was
extremely affable towards the present company, expressing himself
delighted to meet Dr. Byrom again. Towards Dr. Deacon he was almost
deferential.

While they were exchanging civilities, Diggles, the landlord,
re-appeared with a fresh bottle of claret and clean glasses; and
bumpers being filled, Colonel Townley called out, "Here's to our
master's health!"

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Diggles, preparatory to
his departure, inquired whether the gentlemen desired to be private.

"No," replied Colonel Townley. "I will see my _friends_. I don't think
you will introduce a Hanoverian, Diggles."

"You may trust me, colonel," said the landlord. "No Whig shall enter
here."

After another glass of wine, Colonel Townley said to the baronet--

"Now, Sir Richard, let us to business. I hope you bring us some
recruits. We are terribly in want of them."

"I am surprised to hear that," replied Sir Richard; "and I regret that
I cannot supply your need. All my tenants refuse to go out. 'Tis to
explain this difficulty that I have come to Manchester. Money I can
promise his royal highness, but not men."

"Well, money will be extremely useful to him. How much may I venture
to tell him you will furnish?"

"A thousand pounds," replied Sir Richard. "I have brought it with me.
Here 'tis," he added, giving him a pocket-book.

"By my faith, this is very handsome, Sir Richard, and I am sure the
prince will be much beholden to you. I am about to join him at
Lancaster, and I will place the money in the hands of his treasurer,
Mr. Murray. If every Jacobite gentleman in Cheshire would contribute a
like sum his royal highness would not lack funds."

Both Dr. Byrom and Dr. Deacon expressed their sense of the baronet's
liberality.

"I am amazed by what you just stated about your want of recruits,"
said Sir Richard. "I understood that some thousands had been enrolled
in Manchester."

Significant looks passed between the others, and Colonel Townley
shrugged his shoulders.

"I am sorry to be obliged to undeceive you, Sir Richard," he said.
"The enrolment has proceeded very badly."

"But you have the leading merchants with you. They are all pledged to
the House of Stuart."

"They are indifferent to their pledges."

"Zounds!" exclaimed Sir Richard. "I was wholly unprepared for this. At
all the Jacobite meetings I have attended, the boldest talkers were
your Manchester merchants. How many campaigns have they fought over
the bottle! But are there no young men in the town who will rally
round the prince's standard?"

"Plenty, I am sure, Sir Richard," replied Dr. Deacon. "When the drum
is beaten, numbers will answer to the call."

"Better they should enrol themselves beforehand, so that we might know
on whom we can count. You have so much influence, Dr. Deacon, that you
ought to be able to raise a regiment yourself. Your sons might lend
you aid. They must have many friends."

"Theodore Deacon has already found me a fine young fellow, whom I
should like to make an officer," observed Colonel Townley.

"Ah! who may that be?"

"You will be little the wiser when I mention his name, Sir Richard.
'Tis Atherton Legh."

"Atherton Legh. Is he of a Lancashire family?"

"I am unable to answer that question, Sir Richard. In fact, there is a
mystery about him. But he is a gentleman born, I'm certain. You would
say so yourself were you to see him. Ah! the opportunity offers--here
he is."

As he spoke the door was opened, and the young man in question was
ushered in by the landlord.




CHAPTER V.

INTRODUCES OUR HERO.


Atherton Legh had a fine, open, intelligent countenance, clear grey
eyes, classically moulded features, a fresh complexion, and a tall
graceful figure. His manner was frank and prepossessing. His
habiliments were plain, but became him well, and in lieu of a peruke,
he wore his own long, flowing, brown locks. His age might be about
one-and-twenty.

Such was the tall, handsome young man who stood before the company,
and it may be added that he displayed no embarrassment, though he felt
that a scrutinising look was fixed upon him by the baronet.

"Was I not right, Sir Richard?" whispered Colonel Townley. "Has he not
the air of a gentleman?"

The baronet assented; adding in an undertone, "Tell me, in a word, who
and what he is?"

"I have already stated that a mystery attaches to his birth, and so
carefully is the secret kept, that, although he has a guardian who
supplies him with funds, he is not even acquainted with his guardian's
name."

"Strange!" exclaimed the baronet.

"Shall I present him to you, Sir Richard?"

"By all means," was the reply.

Colonel Townley then went up to the young man, shook hands with him,
and after a little talk, brought him to Sir Richard, who rose on his
approach, and received him very graciously.

But though the baronet's manner was exceedingly courteous, Atherton
felt unaccountably repelled. Sir Richard's features seemed familiar to
him, but he could not call to mind where he had seen him.

"I hope you have come to signify to Colonel Townley your adhesion to
the cause of King James the Third?" remarked Sir Richard.

"Yes, yes, he means to join us," cried Colonel Townley, hastily. "I am
enchanted to see him. Say that you will belong to the Manchester
Regiment, Mr. Atherton Legh--say the word before these gentlemen--and
I engage that you shall have a commission."

"You are too good, sir," said the young man.

"Not at all," cried the colonel. "I could not do his royal highness a
greater service than to bring him such a fine young fellow."

"I shall seem but ill to repay your kindness, colonel," said Atherton,
"when I decline the honourable post you offer me. I would serve in the
ranks were I a free agent. You are aware that I have a guardian, whom
I feel bound to obey as a father. Since you spoke to me this morning I
have received a letter from him, peremptorily forbidding me to join
the prince. After this interdiction, which I dare not disobey, I am
compelled to withdraw the half promise I gave you."

"Were I in Colonel Townley's place I should claim fulfilment of the
promise," observed Sir Richard. "As a man of honour you cannot
retract."

"Nay, I must say Mr. Atherton Legh did not absolutely pledge himself,"
said Colonel Townley; "and he is perfectly at liberty, therefore, to
withdraw if he deems proper. But I hope he will reconsider his
decision. I shall be truly sorry to lose him. What is your opinion of
the matter, sir?" he added, appealing to Dr. Deacon. "Is Mr. Atherton
Legh bound to obey his guardian's injunctions?"

"Assuredly not," replied the doctor, emphatically. "Duty to a
sovereign is paramount to every other consideration. A guardian has no
right to impose such restraint upon a ward. His authority does not
extend so far."

"But he may have the power to stop his ward's allowance, if his
authority be set at defiance," remarked Dr. Byrom. "Therefore, I think
Mr. Atherton Legh is acting very prudently."

"My opinion is not asked, but I will venture to offer it," observed
Sir Richard. "Were I in Mr. Atherton Legh's place, I would run the
risk of offending my guardian, and join the prince."

"I am inclined to follow your counsel, Sir Richard," cried the young
man.

"No, no--you shall not, my dear fellow," interposed Colonel Townley.
"Much as I desire to have you with me, you shall not be incited to
take a step you may hereafter repent. Weigh the matter over. When I
return to Manchester you can decide. Something may happen in the
interim."

Atherton bowed, and was about to retire, when Sir Richard stopped him.

"I should like to have a little talk to you, Mr. Atherton Legh," he
said, "and shall be glad if you will call upon me to-morrow at noon. I
am staying at this inn."

"I will do myself the honour of waiting upon you, Sir Richard,"
replied the young man.

"I ought to mention that my daughter is with me, and she is an ardent
Jacobite," remarked Sir Richard.

"If I have Miss Rawcliffe's assistance, I foresee what will happen,"
remarked Colonel Townley, with a laugh. "Her arguments are sure to
prove irresistible. I consider you already enrolled. Au revoir!"




CHAPTER VI.

ADVICE.


Atherton Legh had quitted the inn, and was lingering in the
market-place, not altogether satisfied with himself, when Dr. Byrom
came forth and joined him.

"Our road lies in the same direction," said the doctor. "Shall we walk
together?"

"By all means, sir," replied the young man.

It was a beautiful night, calm and clear, and the moon shone brightly
on the tower of the collegiate church, in the vicinity of which Dr.
Byrom resided.

"How peaceful the town looks to-night," observed Byrom. "But in a few
days all will be tumult and confusion."

"I do not think any resistance will be offered to the insurgents,
sir," replied Atherton; "and luckily the militia is disbanded, though
I believe a few shots would have dispersed them had they attempted to
show fight."

"No, there will be no serious fighting," said Byrom. "Manchester will
surrender at discretion. I don't think the prince will remain here
long. He will raise as many recruits as he can, and then march on. I
have no right to give you advice, young sir, but I speak to you as I
would to my own son. You have promised to call upon Sir Richard
Rawcliffe to-morrow, and I suppose you will be as good as your word."

"Of course."

"Then take care you are not persuaded to disobey your guardian. There
is a danger you do not apprehend, and I must guard you against it.
Miss Rawcliffe is exceedingly beautiful, and very captivating--at
least, so I have been informed, for I have never seen her. Her father
has told you she is an ardent Jacobite. As such she will deem it her
duty to win you over to the good cause, and she will infallibly
succeed. Very few of us are proof against the fascinations of a young
and lovely woman. Though Sir Richard might not prevail, his daughter
will."

"I must go prepared to resist her," replied Atherton, laughing.

"You miscalculate your strength, young man," said Byrom, gravely.
"Better not expose yourself to temptation."

"Nay, I must go," said Atherton. "But I should like to know something
about Sir Richard Rawcliffe. Has he a son?"

"Only one child--a daughter. Besides being very beautiful, as I have
just described her, Constance Rawcliffe will be a great heiress."

"And after saying all this, you expect me to throw away the chance of
meeting so charming a person. But don't imagine I am presumptuous
enough to aspire to a wealthy heiress. I shall come away heart-whole,
and bound by no pledges stronger than those I have already given."

"We shall see," replied Dr. Byrom, in a tone that implied considerable
doubt.

They had now arrived at the door of the doctor's residence--a
tolerably large, comfortable-looking house, built of red brick, in the
plain, formal style of the period.

Before parting with his young companion, Dr. Byrom thought it
necessary to give him a few more words of counsel.

"It may appear impertinent in me to meddle in your affairs," he said;
"but believe that I am influenced by the best feelings. You are
peculiarly circumstanced. You have no father--no near relative to
guide you. An error now may be irretrievable. Pray consult me before
you make any pledge to Sir Richard Rawcliffe, or to Dr. Deacon."

There was so much paternal kindness in his manner that Atherton could
not fail to be touched by it.

"I will consult you, sir," he said, in a grateful tone; "and I thank
you deeply for the interest you take in me."

"Enough," replied Dr. Byrom. "I shall hope to see you soon again. Give
me your impressions of Constance Rawcliffe."

He then bade the young man good-night, rang the door bell, and entered
the house.




CHAPTER VII.

RENCOUNTER NEAR THE OLD TOWN CROSS.


A path led across the south side of the large churchyard surrounding
the collegiate church, and on quitting Dr. Byrom, Atherton took his
way along it, marching past the old gravestones, and ever and anon
glancing at the venerable pile, which, being completely lighted up by
the moonbeams, presented a very striking appearance. So bright was the
moonlight that the crocketed pinnacles and grotesque gargoyles could
have been counted. The young man was filled with admiration of the
picture. On reaching the western boundary of the churchyard, he paused
to gaze at the massive tower, and having contemplated its beauties for
a few minutes, he proceeded towards Salford Bridge.

It has already been stated that this was the oldest and most
picturesque part of the town. All the habitations were of timber and
plaster, painted black and white, and those immediately adjoining the
collegiate church on the west were built on a precipitous rock
overlooking the Irwell.

Wherever a view could be obtained of the river, through any opening
among these ancient houses--many of which were detached--a very
charming scene was presented to the beholder. The river here made a
wide bend, and as it swept past the high rocky bank, and flowed on
towards the narrow pointed arches of the old bridge, its course was
followed with delight, glittering as it then did in the moonbeams.

The old bridge itself was a singular structure, and some of the old
houses on the opposite side of the river vied in picturesque beauty
with those near the church.

Atherton was enraptured with the scene. He had made his way to the
very edge of the steep rocky bank, so that nothing interfered with the
prospect.

Though the hour was by no means late--the old church clock had only
just struck ten--the inhabitants of that quarter of the town seemed to
have retired to rest. All was so tranquil that the rushing of the
water through the arches of the bridge could be distinctly heard.

Soothed by the calmness which acted as a balm upon his somewhat
over-excited feelings, the young man fell into a reverie, during which
a very charming vision flitted before him.

The description given him of the lovely Constance Rawcliffe had
powerfully affected his imagination. She seemed to be the ideal of
feminine beauty which he had sought, but never found. He painted her
even in brighter colours than she had been described by Dr. Byrom, and
with all the romantic folly of a young man was prepared to fall madly
in love with her--provided only she deigned to cast the slightest
smile upon him.

Having conjured up this exquisite phantom, and invested it with charms
that very likely had no existence, he was soon compelled to dismiss
it, and return to actual life. It was time to go home, and good Widow
Heywood, with whom he lodged, would wonder why he stopped out so late.

Heaving a sigh, with which such idle dreams as he had indulged
generally end, he left the post of vantage he had occupied, and, with
the design of proceeding to Deansgate, tracked a narrow alley that
quickly brought him to Smithy Bank. The latter thoroughfare led to the
bridge. Lower down, but not far from the point of junction with
Deansgate, stood the old Town Cross.

Hitherto the young man had not seen a single individual in the streets
since he left the Bull's Head, and it therefore rather surprised him
to perceive a small group of persons standing near the Cross, to which
allusion has just been made.

Two damsels, evidently from their attire of the higher rank, attended
by a young gentleman and a man-servant--the latter being stationed at
a respectful distance from the others--were talking to a well-mounted
horseman, in whom Atherton had no difficulty in recognising Colonel
Townley. No doubt the colonel had started on his journey to Lancaster.
With him was a groom, who, like his master, was well mounted and well
armed.

Even at that distance, Atherton remarked that Colonel Townley's manner
was extremely deferential to the young ladies--especially towards the
one with whom he was conversing. He bent low in the saddle, and
appeared to be listening with deep interest and attention to what she
said. Both this damsel and her fair companion were so muffled up that
Atherton could not discern their features, but he persuaded himself
they must be good-looking. A fine shape cannot easily be disguised,
and both had symmetrical figures, while the sound of their voices was
musical and pleasant.

Atherton was slowly passing on his way, which brought him somewhat
nearer the group, when Colonel Townley caught sight of him, and
immediately hailed him.

By no means sorry to have a nearer view of the mysterious fair ones,
the young man readily responded to the summons, but if he expected an
introduction to the damsels he was disappointed.

Before he came up, it was evident that the colonel had been told that
this was not to be, and he carefully obeyed orders.

The young lady who had especially attracted Atherton's attention
proved to be very handsome, for, though he could not obtain a full
view of her face, he saw enough to satisfy him she had delicately
formed features, magnificent black eyes, and black tresses.

These splendid black eyes were steadily fixed upon him for a few
moments, as if she was reading his character; and after the rapid
inspection, she turned to Colonel Townley, and made some remark to him
in a whisper.

Without tarrying any longer, she then signed to her companions, and
they all three moved off, followed by the manservant, leaving Atherton
quite bewildered. The party walked so rapidly that they were almost
instantly out of sight.

"If it is not impertinent on my part, may I ask who those young ladies
are?" inquired Atherton.

"I am not allowed to tell you, my dear fellow," replied the colonel,
slightly laughing. "But I dare say you will meet them again."

"I must not even ask if they live in Manchester, I suppose?"

"I cannot satisfy your curiosity in any particular. I meant to present
you to them, but I was forbidden. I may, however, tell you that the
young lady nearest me made a flattering observation respecting you."

"That is something, from so charming a girl."

"Then you discovered that she is beautiful!"

"I never beheld such fine eyes."

Colonel Townley laughed heartily.

"Take care of yourself, my dear boy--take care of yourself," he said.
"Those eyes have already done wonderful execution."

"One question more, colonel, and I have done. Are they sisters?"

"Well, I may answer that. They are not. I thought you must have known
the young man who was with them."

"I fancied he was Jemmy Dawson. But I own I did not pay much attention
to him."

"You were engrossed by one object. It was Jemmy Dawson. He is to be
one of my officers, and I feel very proud of him, as I shall be of
another gallant youth whom I count upon. But I must loiter no longer
here. I shall ride to Preston to-night, and proceed to-morrow to
Lancaster. Fail not to keep your appointment with Sir Richard
Rawcliffe. You will see his daughter, who will put this fair unknown
out of your head."

"I scarcely think so," replied Atherton.

"Well, I shall learn all about it on my return. Adieu!"

With this, the colonel struck spurs into his horse and rode quickly
across the bridge, followed by his groom, while Atherton, whose
thoughts had been entirely changed within the last ten minutes,
proceeded towards his lodgings in Deansgate.




CHAPTER VIII.

BEPPY BYROM.


Next morning, in the drawing-room of a comfortable house, situated
near the collegiate church, and commanding from its windows a view of
that venerable fabric, a family party, consisting of four persons--two
ladies and two gentlemen--had assembled after breakfast.

Elegantly furnished in the taste of the time, the room was fitted up
with japanned cabinets and numerous small brackets, on which china
ware and other ornaments were placed. A crystal chandelier hung from
the ceiling, and a large folding Indian screen was partly drawn round
the work-table, beside which the two ladies sat. The gentlemen were
standing near the fireplace.

The mistress of the house, though no longer young, as will be guessed
when we mention that her daughter was turned twenty-one, while her son
was some two or three years older, still retained considerable
personal attractions, and had a most agreeable expression of
countenance.

We may as well state at once, that this lady, who had made the best
helpmate possible to the best of husbands, was the wife of our worthy
friend Dr. Byrom, who had every reason to congratulate himself, as he
constantly did, on the possession of such a treasure.

Very pretty, and very lively, was the younger lady--Elizabeth
Byrom--Beppy as she was familiarly called. We despair of giving an
idea of her features, but her eyes were bright and blue, her
complexion like a damask rose, her nose slightly retroussé, and her
teeth like pearls. When she laughed, her cheek displayed the prettiest
dimple imaginable. Her light-brown locks were taken from the brow, and
raised to a considerable height, but there were no artificial tresses
among them.

Her costume suited her extremely well--her gown being of grey silk,
looped round the body; and she wore a hoop petticoat--as every other
girl did at the time who had any pretension to fashion.

Beppy was not a coquette--far from it--but she tried to please; nor
was she vain of her figure, yet she liked to dress becomingly.
Accomplished she was, undoubtedly; sang well, and played on the
spinet; but she was useful as well as ornamental, and did a great many
things in the house, which no girl of our own period would condescend
to undertake.

With much gaiety of manner, a keen sense of the ridiculous, and a turn
for satire, Beppy never said an ill-natured thing. In short, she was a
very charming girl, and the wonder was, with so many agreeable
qualities, that she should have remained single.

Our description would be incomplete if we omitted to state that she
was an ardent Jacobite.

Her brother, Edward, resembled his father, and was gentleman-like in
appearance and manner. He wore a suit of light blue, with silver
buttons, and a flaxen-coloured peruke, which gave him a gay look, but
in reality he was very sedate. There was nothing of the coxcomb about
Edward Byrom. Nor was he of an enthusiastic temperament. Like all the
members of his family, he was well inclined towards the House of
Stuart, but he was not disposed to make any sacrifice, or incur any
personal risk for its restoration to the throne. Edward Byrom was
tall, well-made, and passably good-looking.

Mrs. Byrom was dressed in green flowered silk, which suited her: wore
powder in her hair, which also suited her, and a hoop petticoat, but
we will not say whether the latter suited her or not. Her husband
thought it did, and he was the best judge.

"Well, papa," cried Beppy, looking up at him from her work, "what do
you mean to do to-day?"

"I have a good deal to do," replied Dr. Byrom. "In the first place I
shall pay a visit to Tom Syddall, the barber."

"I like Tom Syddall because he is a Jacobite, and because his father
suffered for the good cause," said Beppy. "Though a barber is the
least heroic of mortals, Tom Syddall always appears to me a sort of
hero, with a pair of scissors and a powder-puff for weapons."

"He has thrown dust in your eyes, Beppy," said the doctor.

"He has vowed to avenge his father. Is not that creditable to him,
papa?"

"Yes, he is a brave fellow, no doubt. I only hope he mayn't share his
father's fate. I shall endeavour to persuade him to keep quiet."

"Is it quite certain the prince will come to Manchester?" asked Mrs.
Byrom, anxiously.

"He will be here in two or three days at the latest with his army. But
don't alarm yourself, my love."

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "I think we had better leave the town."

"You are needlessly afraid, mamma," cried Beppy. "I am not frightened
in the least. It may be prudent in some people to get out of the way;
but depend upon it _we_ shan't be molested. Papa's opinions are too
well known. I wouldn't for the world miss seeing the prince. I dare
say we shall all be presented to him."

"You talk of the prince as if he had already arrived, Beppy," observed
Edward Byrom, gravely. "After all, he may never reach Manchester."

"You hope he won't come," cried his sister. "You are a Hanoverian,
Teddy, and don't belong to us."

"'Tis because I wish the prince well that I hope he mayn't come," said
Teddy. "The wisest thing he could do would be to retreat."

"I disown you, sir," cried the young lady. "The prince will never
retreat, unless compelled, and success has hitherto attended him."

"Are you aware that the townspeople of Liverpool have raised a
regiment seven hundred strong?"

"For the prince?"

"For King George. Chester, also, has been put into a state of defence
against the insurgents, though there are many Roman Catholic families
in the city."

"I won't be discouraged," said Beppy. "I am certain the right will
triumph. What do you think, papa?"

Dr. Byrom made no response to this appeal.

"Your papa has great misgivings, my dear," observed Mrs. Byrom; "and
so have I. I should most heartily rejoice if the danger that threatens
us could be averted. Rebellion is a dreadful thing. We must take no
part in this contest. How miserable I should have been if your brother
had joined the insurgents!"

"Happily, Teddy has more discretion," said Dr. Byrom, casting an
approving look at his son. "Some of our friends, I fear, will rue the
consequences of their folly. Jemmy Dawson has joined the Manchester
Regiment, and of course Dr. Deacon's three sons are to be enrolled in
it."

"Were I a man I would join likewise," cried Beppy.

"My dear!" exclaimed her mother, half reproachfully.

"Forgive me if I have hurt your feelings, dearest mamma," said Beppy,
getting up and kissing her. "You know I would do nothing to displease
you."

"Jemmy Dawson will incur his father's anger by the step he has taken,"
remarked Edward Byrom. "But powerful influence has been brought to
bear upon him. A young lady, quite as enthusiastic a Jacobite as you
are, Beppy, to whom he is attached, has done the mischief."

"Indeed! I should like to know who she is?" said his sister.

"Nay, you must not question me. You will learn the secret in due time,
I make no doubt."

"I have guessed it already," said Beppy. "'Tis Monica Butler. I have
seen Jemmy with her. She is just the girl who could induce him to join
the insurrection, for she is heart and soul in the cause."

"You are right. Monica Butler is Jemmy's fair enslaver. His assent was
to be the price of her hand. I believe they are affianced."

"I hope the engagement will end well, but it does not commence
auspiciously," said Dr. Byrom. "Their creeds are different. Monica is
a Roman Catholic--at least, I conclude so, since her mother belongs to
that religion."

"Mrs. Butler is a widow, I believe?" remarked Mrs. Byrom.

"She is widow of Captain Butler, and sister of Sir Richard Rawcliffe.
Consequently, Monica is cousin to the beautiful Constance Rawcliffe.
Though so well connected, Mrs. Butler is far from rich, and lives in
great privacy, as you know, in Salford. She is very proud of her
ancient descent, and I almost wonder she consented to Monica's
engagement to young Dawson. By-the-bye, Sir Richard Rawcliffe and his
daughter are now in Manchester, and are staying at the Bull's Head. I
met Sir Richard last night. He is very anxious to obtain recruits for
the prince, and tried hard to enlist Atherton Legh. The young man
resisted, but he will have to go through a different ordeal to-day,
for he will be exposed to the fascinations of the fair Constance. I
shall be curious to learn the result."

"So shall I," said Beppy, with some vivacity.

"Do you take any interest in the young man?" asked her father.

"I think him very handsome," she replied, blushing. "And I think he
would be a very great acquisition to the prince. But it would
certainly be a pity----"

"That so handsome a young fellow should be executed as a rebel,"
supplied the father. "I quite agree with you, Beppy, and I therefore
hope he will remain firm."




CHAPTER IX.

THE TWO CURATES OF ST. ANN'S.


Just then a female servant ushered in two young divines, both of them
assistant curates of St. Ann's--the Rev. Thomas Lewthwaite and the
Rev. Benjamin Nichols. Mr. Hoole, the rector of St. Ann's, was
inclined to Nonjuring principles, which he had imbibed from Dr.
Deacon, and was very popular with the High Church party, but his
curates were Whigs, and belonged to the Low Church, and had both
preached against rebellion. Mr. Lewthwaite was a suitor to Beppy, but
she did not give him much encouragement, and, indeed, rather laughed
at him.

Both the reverend gentlemen looked rather grave, and gave a
description of the state of the town that brought back all Mrs.
Byrom's alarms.

"An express has just come in," said Mr. Lewthwaite, "bringing word
that the rebels have reached Lancaster, and that Marshal Wade has
turned back to Newcastle. The rebel force is estimated at seven
thousand men, but other accounts affirm that it now amounts to thirty
thousand and upwards."

"I hope the latter accounts are correct," observed Beppy.

"We shall certainly have the Pretender here in a couple of days,"
pursued the curate.

"Pray don't call him the Pretender, sir," cried Beppy. "Speak of him
with proper respect as Prince Charles Edward."

"I can't do that," said Mr. Lewthwaite, "being a loyal subject of King
George."

"Whom some people regard as a usurper," muttered Beppy.

"The news has thrown the whole town into consternation," said Mr.
Nichols. "Everybody is preparing for flight. Almost all the warehouses
are closed. Half the shops are shut, and as Mr. Lewthwaite and myself
passed through the square just now, we didn't see half a dozen
persons. Before night the place will be empty.

"Well, we shan't go," said Beppy.

"The Earl of Warrington has sent away all his plate," pursued Mr.
Nichols.

"I have very little plate to send away," observed Dr. Byrom. "Besides,
I am not afraid of being plundered."

"You may not feel quite so secure, sir, when I tell you that the
magistrates have thrown open the doors of the House of Correction,"
said Mr. Nichols.

"Very considerate of them, indeed," said Dr. Byrom. "The townspeople
will appreciate their attention. Have you any more agreeable
intelligence?"

"Yes; the postmaster has started for London this morning to stop any
further remittances from the bankers, lest the money should fall into
the hands of the rebels."

"That looks as if the authorities were becoming really alarmed,"
observed Edward Byrom.

"They are rather late in bestirring themselves," said Mr. Nichols.
"The boroughreeve and constables have learnt that a good deal of
unlawful recruiting for the Pretender has been going on under their
very noses, and are determined to put an end to it. Colonel Townley
would have been arrested last night if he had not saved himself by a
hasty departure. But I understand that an important arrest will be
made this morning."

"An arrest!--of whom?" inquired Dr. Byrom, uneasily.

"I can't tell you precisely, sir," replied Mr. Nichols. "But the
person is a Jacobite gentleman of some consequence, who has only just
arrived in Manchester."

"It must be Sir Richard Rawcliffe," mentally ejaculated Dr. Byrom. "I
must warn him of his danger without delay. Excuse me, gentlemen," he
said, "I have just recollected an appointment. I fear I shall be
rather late."

And he was hurrying out of the room, but before he could reach the
door, it was opened by the servant, and Atherton Legh came in.

Under the circumstances the interruption was vexatious, but quickly
recovering from the confusion into which he was thrown, the doctor
exclaimed, "You are the person I wanted to see."

Seizing the young man's arm, he led him to a small adjoining room that
served as a study.

"You will think my conduct strange," he said, "but there is no time
for explanation. Will you take a message from me to Sir Richard
Rawcliffe?"

"Willingly," replied Atherton, "I was going to him after I had said a
few words to you."

"Our conference must be postponed," said the doctor.

He then sat down and tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper,
directed and sealed the note, and gave it to Atherton.

"Take this to Sir Richard, without loss of time," he said. "You will
render him an important service."

"I shall be very glad to serve him," replied the young man. "But may I
not know the nature of my mission?"

"Be satisfied that it is important," said the doctor. "I shall see you
again later on. Perhaps Sir Richard may have a message to send to me."

Dr. Byrom then conducted the young man to the hall-door, and let him
out himself; after which he returned to the study, not caring to go
back to the drawing-room.

Great was Beppy's disappointment that Atherton was carried off so
suddenly by her father; but she had some suspicion of the truth. As to
the two curates, they thought the doctor's conduct rather singular,
but forebore to make any remarks.




CHAPTER X.

CONSTANCE RAWCLIFFE.


On quitting Dr. Byrom's house, Atherton proceeded quickly along Old
Mill Gate towards the market-place.

This street, one of the oldest and busiest in the town, presented a
very unwonted appearance--several of the shops being shut, while carts
half-filled with goods were standing at the doors, showing that the
owners were removing their property.

Very little business seemed to be going on, and there were some
symptoms of a disturbance, for a band of rough-looking fellows, armed
with bludgeons, was marching along the street, and pushing decent
people from the narrow footway.

In the market-place several groups were collected, eagerly discussing
the news; and at the doors of the Exchange, then newly erected, a few
merchants were assembled, but they all had an anxious look, and did
not seem to be engaged on business.

Except the Exchange, to which we have just adverted, there was not a
modern building near the market-place. All the habitations were old,
and constructed of timber and plaster. In the midst of these, on the
left, stood the Bull's Head. The old inn ran back to a considerable
distance, and possessed a court-yard large enough to hold three or
four post-chaises and an occasional stage-coach.

Entering the court-yard, Atherton sought out Diggles, the landlord,
and inquired for Sir Richard Rawcliffe, but, to his great
disappointment, learnt that the baronet had just gone out.

"That is unlucky," cried the young man. "I have an important
communication for him."

"He will be back presently," said the landlord. "But perhaps Miss
Rawcliffe will see you. She is within. Her cousin, Miss Butler, is
with her."

Atherton assented to this proposition, and was conducted by the host
to a room on the first floor, and evidently situated in the front part
of the house.

Tapping at the door Diggles went in, and almost immediately returned
to say that Miss Rawcliffe would be happy to receive Mr. Atherton
Legh.

Atherton was then ushered into the presence of two young ladies--one
of whom rose on his appearance and received him very courteously.

Could he believe his eyes? Yes! it must be the fair creature he had
seen on the previous night, who had made such a powerful impression
upon him. But if he had thought her beautiful then, how much more
exquisite did she appear now that her charming features could be fully
distinguished.

While bowing to the other young lady, whose name he had learnt from
the landlord, he felt equally sure that she had been Miss Rawcliffe's
companion on the previous night.

Monica Butler offered a strong contrast to her cousin--the one being a
brunette and the other a blonde. But each was charming in her
way--each set off the other. Constance's eyes were dark as night, and
her tresses of corresponding hue; while Monica's eyes were tender and
blue as a summer sky, and her locks fleecy as a summer cloud.

"I see you recognise us, Mr. Atherton Legh," said Miss Rawcliffe,
smiling. "It would be useless, therefore, to attempt any disguise. My
cousin, Monica Butler, and myself were talking to Colonel Townley when
you came up last night. He would fain have presented you to us, but I
would not allow him, for I did not think it quite proper that an
introduction should take place under such peculiar circumstances. As
you may naturally wonder why two young damsels should be abroad so
late, I will explain. Wishing to have Monica's company during my stay
at this inn, I went to fetch her, escorted by your friend Jemmy
Dawson. As we were coming back, we accidentally encountered Colonel
Townley near the Cross. All the rest you know."

"I am very agreeably surprised," said Atherton. "I have been dying to
know who you both were, for Colonel Townley refused to gratify my
curiosity."

"I am glad to find he obeyed my orders," observed Miss Rawcliffe,
smiling. "At that time I did not imagine I should ever see you again.
But this morning papa told me he had made an appointment with you at
noon. I ought to apologise for his absence--but you are rather before
your time."

"'Tis I who ought to apologise," said Atherton. "But I am the bearer
of a note to Sir Richard," he added, handing it to her. "'Tis from Dr.
Byrom, and I believe it contains matter of urgent importance. At all
events, Dr. Byrom requested me to deliver it without delay."

"I hope it contains good news," said Constance. "Pray take a seat. You
must please to await papa's return. He much wishes to see you; and I
may tell you he hopes to induce you to join the prince's army. We are
all ardent Jacobites, as you know, and anxious to obtain recruits. If
I had any influence with you I would urge you to enrol yourself in
Colonel Townley's regiment. Jemmy Dawson has just joined. Why not
follow his example?"

"I have already explained to Colonel Townley why it is impossible for
me to comply with his request."

"Your reasons have been mentioned to me, but I confess I do not see
their force. Jemmy Dawson has not been swayed by such feelings, but
has risked his father's displeasure to serve the prince. He did not
hesitate when told that a young lady's hand would be the reward of his
compliance with her request."

"Till this moment I did not know why Jemmy had joined, having heard
him express indifference to the cause. May I venture to ask the name
of the fair temptress?"

"Excuse me. You will learn the secret in due time."

"He shall learn it now," interposed Monica. "I do not blush to own
that I am the temptress. I am proud of my Jemmy's devotion--proud,
also, of having gained the prince so important a recruit."

"You may well be proud of Jemmy, Monica," said Constance. "He has many
noble qualities and cannot fail to distinguish himself."

"He is as brave as he is gentle," said Monica--"a veritable preux et
hardi chevalier, and will live or die like a hero."

"You are an enthusiastic girl," said Constance.

"In my place you would be just as enthusiastic, Constance," rejoined
the other.

Atherton listened with a beating heart to this discourse, which was
well calculated to stir his feelings.

Just then, however, an interruption was offered by the entrance of Sir
Richard Rawcliffe.

"Very glad to see you, sir," cried the baronet, shaking hands with
Atherton. "I perceive you have already made the acquaintance of my
daughter and her cousin, Miss Butler, so I needn't introduce you. Are
you aware that my niece is engaged to your friend, Jemmy Dawson?"

"Yes, Mr. Atherton Legh knows all about it, papa," said Constance. "He
has brought you a letter from Dr. Byrom," she added, giving it to him.

"Excuse me," said Sir Richard, opening the note.

As he hastily scanned its contents, his countenance fell.

"Has something gone wrong, papa?" cried Constance, uneasily.

"I am threatened with arrest for treasonable practices," replied Sir
Richard. "Dr. Byrom counsels immediate flight, or concealment. But
where am I to fly?--where conceal myself?" he added, looking quite
bewildered.

"You had better leave the inn at once, papa," said Constance, who,
though greatly alarmed, had not lost her presence of mind.

At this moment, a noise was heard outside that increased the
uneasiness of the party.




CHAPTER XI.

THE BOROUGHREEVE OF MANCHESTER.


Situated in the front of the house, the room commanded the
market-place. Atherton rushed to the window to ascertain what was
taking place, and was followed by the baronet.

"Do not show yourself, Sir Richard," cried the young man, motioning
him to keep back. "The chief magistrates are outside--Mr. Fielden, the
boroughreeve, and Mr. Walley and Mr. Fowden, the constables. They have
a posse of peace-officers with them."

"They are come to arrest me!" exclaimed Sir Richard.

"Save yourself, papa!--save yourself!" cried Constance. "Not a moment
is to be lost."

Her exhortations were seconded by Monica and Atherton, but Sir Richard
did not move, and looked quite stupefied.

"'Tis too late!" cried Atherton. "I hear them on the stairs."

As he spoke the door burst open, and Diggles rushed in--his looks
betokening great alarm.

"The magistrates are here, Sir Richard, and their purpose is to arrest
you. Flight is impossible. Every exit from the house is guarded. I
could not warn you before."

"If you have any letters or papers that might compromise you, papa,
give them to me," said Constance.

Sir Richard hesitated for a moment, and then produced a packet,
saying, as he gave it to her, "I confide this to you. Take every care
of it."

She had just concealed the packet when the magistrates entered the
room. The officers who followed them stationed themselves outside the
door.

Mr. John Fielden, the boroughreeve, who preceded the two constables,
was a man of very gentleman-like appearance and deportment. After
saluting the baronet, who advanced a few steps to meet him, he said,
in accents that were not devoid of sympathy--

"I have a very unpleasant duty to discharge, Sir Richard, but I must
fulfil it. In the king's name I arrest you for treasonable practices."

"Of what treasonable practices am I accused, sir?" demanded the
baronet, who had now gained his composure.

"You are charged with wickedly and traitorously conspiring to change
and subvert the rule and government of this kingdom; with seeking to
depose our sovereign lord the king of his title, honour, and royal
state; and with seeking to raise and exalt the person pretending to
be, and taking upon himself the style and title of King of England, by
the name of James the Third, to the imperial rule and government of
this kingdom."

"What more, sir?" said Sir Richard.

"You are charged with falsely and traitorously inciting certain of his
Majesty's faithful subjects to rebellion; and with striving to raise
recruits for the son of the Popish Pretender to the throne, who is now
waging war against his Majesty King George the Second."

"I deny the charges," rejoined the baronet, sternly.

"I trust you can disprove them, Sir Richard," said the boroughreeve.
"To-morrow your examination will take place, and, in the meantime, you
will be lodged in the Old Bailey."

"Lodged in a prison!" exclaimed Constance, indignantly.

"It must be," said the boroughreeve. "I have no option. But I promise
you Sir Richard shall undergo no hardship. His imprisonment, I hope,
may be brief."

"I thank you for your consideration, sir," said the baronet. "May I be
allowed a few minutes to prepare?"

"I am sorry I cannot grant the request, Sir Richard."

"Then farewell, my dear child!--farewell, Monica!" cried the baronet,
tenderly embracing them. "My captivity will not be long," he added, in
a low voice to his daughter. "I shall be set at liberty on the
prince's arrival--if not before."

Constance maintained a show of firmness which she did not feel, but
Monica was much moved, and could not repress her tears.

After bidding adieu to Atherton, Sir Richard signified to the
boroughreeve that he was ready to attend him, and passed out.

As he did so, the officers took charge of him, and the door was shut.

Constance's courage then entirely forsook her, and uttering a cry, she
sank into a chair. Monica strove to comfort her--but in vain.

"I shall go distracted," she cried. "I cannot bear the thought that
papa should be imprisoned."

"Make yourself easy on that score, Miss Rawcliffe," said Atherton.
"Imprisoned he shall not be. I will undertake to rescue him."

"You!" she exclaimed, gazing at him through her streaming eyes. "If
you could save him this indignity, I should be for ever beholden to
you. But no!--you must not attempt it. The risk is too great."

"I care not for the risk," cried Atherton. "I will do it. You shall
soon learn that your father is free."

And he rushed out of the room.

"A brave young man," cried Monica. "He has all my Jemmy's spirit. I
feel sure he will accomplish what he has undertaken."

"I hope no harm will befall him," said Constance.

Shortly afterwards a great disturbance was heard in the market-place,
and flying to the windows, they witnessed a very exciting scene.




CHAPTER XII.

THE RESCUE.


The visit of the boroughreeve and constables to the Bull's Head
attracted a considerable crowd to the market-place--it being rumoured
that the magistrates were about to arrest an important Jacobite
gentleman.

A political arrest at this juncture, when the town was in such an
inflamed state, seemed to most persons, whatever their opinions might
be, an exceedingly ill-advised step, and the magistrates were much
blamed for taking it.

Murmurs were heard, and some manifestations of sympathy with the
luckless Jacobite would undoubtedly have been made by the assemblage
had they not been kept in awe by the strong body of constables drawn
up in front of the inn.

As might be expected, the lower orders predominated in the concourse,
but there were some persons of a superior class present, who had been
brought thither by curiosity. The crowd momently increased, until the
market-place, which was not very spacious, was more than half full,
while the disposition to tumult became more apparent as the numbers
grew.

At length a large old-fashioned coach was seen to issue from the
entrance of the court-yard, and it was at once conjectured that the
prisoner was inside the vehicle, from the fact that a constable was
seated on the box beside the coachman, while half a dozen officers
marched in front, to clear a passage through the throng.

But this could not be accomplished without the liberal use of staves,
and the progress of the coach was necessarily slow. Groans, hootings,
and angry exclamations arose from the crowd, but these were directed
against the constables and not at the prisoner, who could be seen
through the windows of the coach. Sir Richard was recognised by some
of the nearest spectators, and his name being called out to those
further off, it speedily became known to the whole assemblage, and the
noise increased.

At this moment Atherton Legh rushed from the door of the inn and
shouted in a loud voice, "A rescue!--a rescue!"

The cry thus raised was echoed by a hundred voices, and in another
minute all was confusion.

"A rescue!--a rescue!" resounded on all sides. The coachman tried to
extricate himself from the throng, but the heads of the horses being
seized, he could not move on.

The constables endeavoured to get near the coach, as well to guard the
prisoner as to protect the magistrates, who were inside the roomy
vehicle with him.

But Atherton, who was remarkably athletic, snatched a truncheon from
one of them, and laying about him vigorously with this weapon, and
being supported by the crowd, soon forced his way to the door, and was
about to pull it open, when the boroughreeve thrust his head through
the window, and called out to him to forbear.

"Beware how you violate the law, young man," cried Mr. Fielden, in a
firm and authoritative voice, that showed he was not daunted. "You
must be aware that in constituting yourself the leader of a riotous
mob, and attempting to rescue a prisoner, you are committing a very
grave offence. Desist, while there is yet time. You are known to me
and my brother magistrates."

"We do not intend you any personal injury, Mr. Fielden--nor do we mean
to injure your brother magistrates," rejoined Atherton, resolutely.
"But we are determined to liberate Sir Richard Rawcliffe. Set him
free, and there will be an end to the disturbance. You must plainly
perceive, sir, that resistance would be useless."

While this was going on, the band of desperadoes, already alluded to,
had hurried back to the market-place, and now came up flourishing
their bludgeons, and shouting, "Down with the Presbyterians!" "Down
with the Hanoverians!" And some of them even went so far as to add
"Down with King George!"

These shouts were echoed by the greater part of the concourse, which
had now become very turbulent and excited.

Mr. Fielden called to the constables to keep back the mob, and move
on, but the officers were utterly powerless to obey him. If a riot
commenced, there was no saying where it would end; so, addressing a
final remonstrance to Atherton, which proved as ineffectual as all he
had said before, the boroughreeve withdrew from the window.

Atherton then opened the coach door, and told Sir Richard, who had
been anxiously watching the course of events, that he was free.

On this the baronet arose, and bade a polite adieu to the magistrates,
who made no attempt to prevent his departure.

As Sir Richard came forth and stood for a short space on the step of
the carriage, so that he could be seen by all the assemblage, a
deafening and triumphant shout arose.

"I thank you, my good friends, for delivering me," vociferated the
baronet. "I have been illegally arrested. I am guilty of no crime. God
bless the king!"

"Which king?" cried several voices, amid loud laughter and applause.

"Choose for yourselves!" responded Sir Richard. "You have rendered me
a great service; but if you would serve me still more, and also serve
the good cause which I represent, you will retire quietly. Bide your
time. 'Twill soon come."

This short harangue was greeted by a loud cheer, amid which the
baronet descended, and shook hands heartily with Atherton, who was
standing near him.

"I owe my deliverance to you," he said; "and be sure I shall ever feel
grateful."

Just then a rush was made towards them by the constables, who were,
however, kept back by the crowd.

"Meddle not with us, and we won't meddle with you," cried Atherton.

Prudently acting upon the advice, the constables kept quiet.

Every facility for escape was afforded Sir Richard by the concourse. A
narrow lane was opened for him, through which he passed, accompanied
by Atherton.

Without pausing to consider whither they were going, they hurried on,
till they reached Smithy Doer--a narrow street, so designated, and
leading from the bottom of the market-place, in the direction of
Salford Bridge.

Feeling secure, they then stopped to hold a brief consultation.

"It won't do for me to return to the inn," observed Sir Richard. "Nor
is it necessary I should return thither. My daughter and her cousin
are in no danger, and I shall easily find some means of communicating
with them. They will know I am safe."

"Were I able to do so, I would gladly take a message from you to Miss
Rawcliffe, Sir Richard," said Atherton. "But I am now in as much
danger as yourself. I am known to the magistrates, and they will
certainly send the officers in search of me."

"You shall run no more risk on my account," said Sir Richard. "My
daughter is so courageous that she will feel no alarm when she learns
I have escaped. You must find a hiding-place till the prince arrives
in Manchester, and then all will be right. If I could procure a horse,
I would ride on to Preston. I have a couple of hunters in the stables
at the Bull's Head, but they are useless to me now."

As he spoke, a young man was seen approaching them, mounted on a
strong roadster. Both recognised the horseman, who was no other than
Jemmy Dawson, of whom mention has already been made.

A very handsome young fellow was Jemmy Dawson--tall, rather slightly
built, but extremely well made, and looking to advantage in the
saddle.

On this occasion Jemmy wore a green cloth riding-dress, made in the
fashion of the time, with immense cuffs and ample skirts; the coat
being laced with silver, and having silver buttons. His cocked hat
surmounted a light bob peruke. He had a sword by his side, and carried
a riding-whip in his hand.

On descrying Sir Richard, he instantly accelerated his pace, and no
sooner learnt how the baronet was circumstanced than he jumped down,
and offered him his horse.

Sir Richard unhesitatingly sprang into the saddle which the other had
just quitted.

"Here is the whip," said Jemmy, handing it to him. "But the horse
needs neither whip nor spur, as you will find, Sir Richard. He will
soon take you to Preston."

"I hope to bring him back safe and sound, Jemmy," said the baronet.
"But if aught happens, you shall have my favourite hunter in exchange.
As soon as the crowd in the market-place has dispersed, go to the
Bull's Head, and let the girls know how well you have mounted me, and
whither I am gone."

Addressing a few parting words to Atherton, he then dashed off,
clattering over the stones as he shaped his course towards Salford
Bridge.

"I envy you your good fortune, Atherton," said Jemmy, as they were
left together. "The part you have played belonged of right to me, but
I should not have performed it half so well. I wish you could go back
with me to receive Constance Rawcliffe's thanks for the service you
have rendered her father; but that must not be. Where shall I find
you?"

"I know not, for I cannot return to my lodgings. You will hear of me
at Tom Syddall's. He will help me to a hiding-place."

"Ay, that he will. Our Jacobite barber is the trustiest fellow in
Manchester. You will be perfectly safe with him. But take care how you
enter his shop. 'Tis not unlikely you may be watched. We must not have
another arrest."

They then separated--Atherton proceeding quickly towards the bridge,
not far from which the barber's shop was situated, while Jemmy Dawson
mingled with the crowd in the market-place. The magistrates were gone,
but the constables blocked up the approaches to the Bull's Head.
However, they readily allowed him to enter the inn.




CHAPTER XIII.

CONSTANCE MAKES A DISCOVERY.


From the deep bay-windows of the old inn Constance and Monica
witnessed all that had occurred, and were both filled with admiration
at the gallantry and spirit displayed by Atherton.

Miss Rawcliffe especially was struck by the young man's courageous
deportment as he confronted the boroughreeve, and without reflecting
that he was violating the law, saw in him only her father's deliverer.

"Look, Monica!" she cried. "Has he not a noble expression of
countenance? He is taller than any of those around him, and seems able
to cope with half a dozen such varlets as have beset him."

"He has certainly shown himself more than a match for the constables,
if you mean to describe them as 'varlets,'" rejoined Monica.

"They did not dare to lay hands upon him," cried Constance. "But see,
papa is coming out of the coach, and is about to address the
assemblage. Let us open the window to hear what he says."

This was done, and they both waved their handkerchiefs to Sir Richard
when he concluded his harangue.

Atherton looked up at the moment, and received a similar greeting.
Constance's eloquent glances and approving smiles more than repaid him
for what he had done.

From their position the two damsels could discern all that
subsequently took place. They beheld Sir Richard and the gallant youth
who had rescued him pass safely through the crowd, and disappear at
the lower end of the market-place.

Then feeling satisfied that the fugitives were safe, they retired from
the window, nor did they look out again, though the shouting and
tumult still continued, till Jemmy Dawson made his appearance. Both
were delighted to see him.

"Oh, I am so glad you are come, Jemmy!" cried Monica. "What is going
on? I hope there won't be a riot?"

"Have you seen papa and Mr. Atherton Legh?" asked Constance.

"Yes, I have seen them both; and I am happy to be able to relieve your
anxiety respecting Sir Richard. He is out of all danger. By this time
I trust he is a mile or two on the road to Preston. I have provided
him with a horse."

"Heaven be thanked!" she exclaimed. "But what of young Atherton Legh?
I hope there is no chance of his falling into the hands of the enemy.
I should never forgive myself if anything were to happen to him, for I
feel that I incited him to this hazardous attempt."

"No doubt you did, Constance," observed Monica.

"You need not make yourself uneasy about him," said Jemmy. "He will
easily find a secure retreat till the prince appears."

There was a moment's pause, during which the lovers exchanged tender
glances, and Constance appeared preoccupied.

"Who is Atherton Legh?" she inquired, at length. "I begin to feel
interested about him."

"I would rather you didn't ask me the question," replied Jemmy. "I
can't answer it very readily. However, I will tell you all I know
about him."

And he proceeded to relate such particulars of the young man's history
as the reader is already acquainted with.

Constance listened with great interest.

"It appears, then, from what you say, that he is dependent upon a
guardian whom he has never seen, and of whose very name he is
ignorant."

"That is so," replied Jemmy. "But I am convinced he is a gentleman
born."

"The mystery attaching to his birth does not lessen my interest in
him," said Constance.

"I should be surprised if it did," observed Monica. "You can give him
any rank you please. I am sorry to disturb your romantic ideas
respecting him, but you must recollect he has been an apprentice to a
Manchester merchant, and has only just served his time."

"His career now may be wholly changed, and he may never embark in
trade," said Constance. "But if he were to do so I cannot see that he
would be degraded, any more than he is degraded by having been an
apprentice."

"Cadets of our best Lancashire and Cheshire families are constantly
apprenticed, so there is nothing in that," remarked Jemmy. "I repeat
my conviction that Atherton is a gentleman born. Dr. Byrom is of the
same opinion."

"Dr. Byrom may be influenced by partiality. I fancy he would like the
young man as a son-in-law," said Monica. "Beppy Byrom certainly would
not object to the arrangement," she added, with a significant smile
that conveyed a good deal.

"Is Beppy Byrom pretty?" asked Constance.

"Decidedly so--one of the prettiest girls in Manchester," rejoined
Monica.

"And is Mr. Atherton Legh insensible to her attractions?" inquired
Constance, as carelessly as she could.

"That I can't pretend to say," returned her cousin. "But I should
scarcely think he can be so."

"At all events, he pays her very little attention," remarked Jemmy.

Constance cast down her magnificent eyes, and her countenance assumed
a thoughtful expression that seemed to heighten its beauty.

While she remained thus preoccupied, Monica and her lover moved
towards the window and looked out, or appeared to be looking out, for
it is highly probable they only saw each other.

Presently Constance arose, and saying she desired to be alone for a
few minutes, left them together.

Proceeding to her own chamber, she sat down and began to review as
calmly as she could the strange and hurried events of the morning, in
which Atherton Legh had played a conspicuous part, and though the rest
of the picture presented to her mental gaze appeared somewhat
confused, his image rose distinctly before her.

The young man's singular story, as related by Jemmy Dawson, had
greatly stimulated her curiosity, and she indulged in many idle
fancies respecting him--such as will flash through a young girl's
brain--sometimes endeavouring to account for the mystery of his birth
in one way, sometimes in another, but always feeling sure he was
well-born.

"If any one ever proclaimed himself a gentleman by look and manner, it
is Atherton Legh," she thought. "And as to his courage it is
indisputable. But I have been thinking only of this young man all the
time," she reflected, with a feeling of self-reproach, "when I ought
to have been thinking of papa. I ought to have locked up the packet of
important papers that he confided to me before his arrest. I will
repair my neglect at once."

With this resolve she arose, and taking out the packet was about to
place it in her writing-case, when a letter fell to the ground.

The letter was partly open, and a name caught her eye that made her
start.

The impulse to glance at the contents of the letter was irresistible,
and she found, to her infinite surprise, that the communication
related to Atherton Legh, and was addressed by a Manchester banker to
Sir Richard Rawcliffe, leaving no doubt whatever on her mind that her
father was the young man's mysterious guardian.

In fact, Mr. Marriott, the banker in question, stated that, in
compliance with Sir Richard's order, he had paid a certain sum to Mr.
Atherton Legh, and had also delivered the letter enclosed by the
baronet to the young man.

Astonishment at the discovery almost took away her breath, and she
remained gazing at the letter as if doubting whether she had read it
aright, till it dropped from her hands.

"My father Atherton's guardian!" she exclaimed. "How comes it he has
never made the slightest allusion to his ward? Why have I been kept so
completely in the dark? Till I came to Manchester last night I had
never heard there was such a person as Atherton Legh. Chance seems to
have revealed the secret to me. Yet it must have been something more
than chance. Otherwise, the letter could never have fallen into my
hands at this particular juncture. But what have I discovered? Only
that my father is Atherton's mysterious guardian--nothing respecting
the young man's parentage. That is the real secret which I fear will
never be cleared up by my father--even if I venture to question him.
Let me reflect. The reason why this young man has been brought up thus
must be that he belongs to some old Jacobite family, the chief members
of which have been banished. That would account for all. My father
corresponds with several important persons who were engaged in the
last rebellion, and are now abroad. I need not seek further for an
explanation--yet I am not altogether satisfied. I must not breathe a
word to Monica of the singular discovery I have made, for the secret,
I feel, would not be safe with her. But methinks my father might have
trusted me. Till I see him again, my lips shall be sealed--even to
Atherton, should I happen to meet him. Doubtless these letters," she
continued, taking up the packet, and examining it, "would afford me
full information respecting the young man, but, though strongly
tempted, I will read nothing more, without my father's sanction."

She then replaced the letter she had dropped with the others, and had
just locked up the packet in a small valise, when her cousin came in
quest of her.




CHAPTER XIV.

ST. ANN'S SQUARE.


"The crowd in the market-place has dispersed, and all seems quiet,"
said Monica. "Shall we take an airing in St. Ann's Square? Jemmy will
escort us. 'Tis a fine day--as fine a day, at least, as one can expect
in November."

Constance assented, and they forthwith prepared for a walk--each
arraying herself in a black hood and scarf, and each taking a large
fan with her, though the necessity for such an article at that late
season of the year did not seem very obvious. But at the period of
which we treat, a woman, with any pretension to mode, had always a fan
dangling from her wrist.

Attended by Jemmy Dawson, who was looked upon as one of the beaux of
the town, they sallied forth, and passing the Exchange, where a couple
of porters standing in the doorway were the only persons to be seen,
they took their way through a narrow alley, called Acres Court, filled
with small shops, and leading from the back of the Exchange to the
square.

Usually, Acres Court was crowded, but no one was to be seen there now,
and the shops were shut.

Not many years previous to the date of our history, St. Ann's Square
was an open field--Acres Field being its designation.

The area was tolerably spacious--the houses surrounding it being some
three or four stories high, plain and formal in appearance, with small
windows, large doorways, and heavy wooden balustrades, meant to be
ornamental, at the top. Most of them were private residences.

On either side of the square was a row of young plane trees. At the
further end stood the church, of the architectural beauty of which we
cannot say much; but it had its admirers in those days, and perhaps
may have admirers in our own, for it still stands where it did. In
fact, the square retains a good deal of its original appearance.

Here the beau monde of the town was wont to congregate in the middle
of the last century--the ladies in their hoop petticoats, balloon-like
sacques, and high-heeled shoes, with powder in their locks, and
patches on their cheeks; and the gentlemen in laced coats of divers
colours, cocked hats, and periwigs, ruffles at the wrist, and
solitaires round the throat, sword by the side, and clouded cane in
hand. Here they met to criticise each other and talk scandal, in
imitation of the fine folks to be seen on the Mall at St. James's.

But none of these triflers appeared in St. Ann's Square when Miss
Rawcliffe and her companions entered it. Only one young lady, attended
by a couple of clergymen, could be descried pacing to and fro on the
broad pavement.

In this damsel Monica at once recognised Beppy Byrom, but she made no
remark on the subject to Constance, and stopped Jemmy, who was about
to blab.

Presently, Beppy turned and advanced towards them, and then Constance
could not fail to be struck by her good looks, and inquired who she
was?

"Can't you guess?" cried Monica.

"Is it Beppy Byrom?" said Constance, colouring.

Monica nodded. "What do you think of her?"

Before a reply could be made, Beppy came up, and an introduction took
place. Beppy and Constance scrutinised each other with a rapid glance.
But no fault could be detected on either side.

"Allow me to congratulate you on Sir Richard's escape, Miss
Rawcliffe," said Beppy. "Papa sent a warning letter to him, as no
doubt you know, but Sir Richard did not receive it in time to avoid
the arrest. How courageously Mr. Atherton Legh seems to have behaved
on the occasion."

"Yes, papa owes his deliverance entirely to Mr. Legh," rejoined
Constance. "We have good reason to feel grateful to him."

"'Tis perhaps a superfluous offer," said Beppy. "But since Sir Richard
has been compelled to fly, can we be of any service to you? Our house
is roomy, and we can accommodate you without the slightest
inconvenience."

"You are extremely kind," said Constance. "I shall probably remain at
the inn; but if I do move, it will be to my Aunt Butler's."

"Yes, mamma would be hurt if my Cousin Constance did not come to her,"
interposed Monica. "We are going to her presently. She is out of the
way of these disturbances, and has probably never heard of them."

"Your mamma, I believe, is a great invalid, Miss Butler?" remarked
Beppy. "I have heard Dr. Deacon speak of her."

"Yes, she rarely leaves the house. But she has a most capital
nurse--so that I can leave her without the slightest apprehension."

"That is fortunate," said Beppy. "I hope you will soon have good
tidings of Sir Richard, Miss Rawcliffe?"

"I don't expect to hear anything of him till he re-appears with the
prince," replied Constance, in a low tone. "I am under no alarm about
him."

"Well, perhaps, the person in greatest jeopardy is Atherton Legh,"
said Beppy. "I should like to feel quite sure he is safe."

"Then take the assurance from me, Miss Byrom," observed Jemmy.

"Do tell me where he is?" she asked.

"He has taken refuge with Tom Syddall," was the reply, in an
undertone.

"She takes a deep interest in him," thought Constance.

The two clergymen, who were no other than Mr. Nichols and Mr.
Lewthwaite, and who had stood aside during this discourse, now came
forward, and were presented to Miss Rawcliffe.

The conversation then became general, and was proceeding pleasantly
enough, when a very alarming sound put a sudden stop to it.

It was a fire-bell. And the clangour evidently came from the tower of
the collegiate church.

The conversation instantly ceased, as we have said, and those who had
been engaged in it glanced at each other uneasily.

"Heaven preserve us!" ejaculated Mr. Lewthwaite. "With how many
plagues is this unfortunate town to be visited? Are we to have a
conflagration in addition to the other calamities by which we are
menaced?"

Meantime, the clangour increased in violence, and shouts of "Fire!
fire!" resounded in all directions.

But the alarm of the party was considerably heightened when another
fire-bell began to ring--this time close to them.

From the tower of St. Ann's Church the warning sounds now
came--stunning and terrifying those who listened to them; and bringing
forth many of the occupants of the houses in the square.

"It must be a great fire!--perhaps the work of an incendiary!" cried
Mr. Nichols. "I will not attribute the mischief to Jacobite plotters,
but I fear it will turn out that they are the instigators of it."

"It looks suspicious, I must own," remarked Mr. Lewthwaite.

"You have no warrant for these observations, gentlemen," said Jemmy,
indignantly.

Still the fire-bells rang on with undiminished fury, and numbers of
people were seen running across the square--shouting loudly as they
hurried along.

"Where is the fire?" cried Beppy.

"It must be in the neighbourhood of the collegiate church," replied
Mr. Lewthwaite. "All the houses are old in that quarter, and built of
timber. Half the town will be consumed. That will be lamentable, but
it will not be surprising, since the inhabitants have assuredly called
down a judgment upon their heads from their propensity to rebellion."

Jemmy Dawson, who had great difficulty in controlling his anger, was
about to make a sharp rejoinder to this speech, when a look from
Monica checked him.

Just then several men ran past, and he hailed one of them, who
stopped.

"Can you tell me where the fire is?" he asked.

"There be no fire, sir," replied the man, with a grin.

"No fire!" exclaimed Jemmy, astounded. "Why, then, are the fire-bells
being rung thus loudly?"

"To collect a mob, if yo mun know," rejoined the man.

"For what purpose?" demanded Jemmy.

"Rebellion! rebellion! Can you doubt it?" said Mr. Lewthwaite.

"Ay, yo may ca' it rebellion an yo like, but this be the plain truth,"
said the man. "T' magistrates ha' just gi'en orders that Salford
Bridge shan be blowed up to hinder t' Pretender, as yo ca' him, or t'
prince, as we ca' him, fro' comin' into t' town, wi' his army. Now we
Jacobites won't let the bridge be meddled with, so we han had the
fire-bells rung to rouse the townsfolk."

"And you mean to resist the authorities?" cried Mr. Lewthwaite.

"Ay, that we do," rejoined the man, defiantly. "They shan't move a
stone of the bridge."

"Beware what you do! You are rebelling against your lawful sovereign
as represented by the magistrates. Forget not that rebellion provokes
the Lord's anger, and will bring down his vengeance upon you."

"I canna bide to listen to a sarmon just now," rejoined the man,
hurrying off.

"Can't we obtain a sight of what is going on at the bridge from the
banks of the river?" said Constance.

"Yes, I will take you to a spot that commands a complete view of the
bridge," rejoined Jemmy; "where you can see all that is to be seen,
and yet not run the slightest risk."

"Shall we go, Monica?" said Constance.

"By all means," cried the other.

"I should like to make one of the party," said Beppy, who had just
recollected that Tom Syddall's shop, where she knew Atherton had taken
refuge, adjoined the bridge, and she thought it almost certain the
young man would take part in this new disturbance.

"I advise you not to go, Miss Byrom," said Mr. Lewthwaite. "Neither
Mr. Nichols nor myself can sanction such a lawless proceeding by our
presence."

"As you please," said Beppy.

"Pray come with us, Miss Byrom," cried Jemmy. "I will engage that no
harm shall befall you."

So they set off, leaving the two curates behind, both looking very
much disconcerted.




CHAPTER XV.

HOW SALFORD HOUSE WAS SAVED FROM DESTRUCTION.


By this time the fire-bells had ceased to ring, but the effect had
been produced, and a great crowd, much more excited than that which
had previously assembled in the market-place, was collected in the
immediate neighbourhood of the bridge.

Salford Bridge, which must have been a couple of centuries old at the
least, was strongly built of stone, and had several narrow-pointed
arches, strengthened by enormous piers. These arches almost choked up
the course of the river. Only a single carriage could cross the bridge
at a time, but there were deep angular recesses in which
foot-passengers could take refuge. It will be seen at once that such a
structure could be stoutly defended against a force approaching from
Salford, though it was commanded by the precipitous banks on the
Manchester side. Moreover, the Irwell was here of considerable depth.

Before commencing operations, the magistrates, who were not without
apprehension of a tumult, stopped all traffic across the bridge, and
placed a strong guard at either extremity, to protect the workmen and
engineers from any hindrance on the part of the populace.

A couple of large caissons, containing, it was supposed, a sufficient
quantity of powder to overthrow the solid pier, had been sunk under
the central arch of the bridge. Above the spot, in a boat, sat two
engineers ready to fire the powder-chests when the signal should be
given.

But the preparations had been watched by two daring individuals, who
were determined to prevent them. One of these persons, who was no
other than Tom Syddall, the Jacobite barber--a very active, resolute
little fellow--ran up to the collegiate church, which was at no great
distance from his shop, and soon found the man of whom he was in
search--Isaac Clegg, the beadle.

Now Isaac being a Jacobite, like himself, was easily persuaded to ring
the fire-bell; and the alarm being thus given, a mob was quickly
raised. But no effectual opposition could be offered--the approach to
the bridge from Smithy Bank being strongly barricaded. Behind the
barricades stood the constables, who laughed at the mob, and set them
at defiance.

"The boroughreeve will blow up the bridge in spite of you," they
cried.

"If he does, he'll repent it," answered several angry voices from the
crowd, which rapidly increased in number, and presented a very
formidable appearance.

Already it had been joined by the desperadoes armed with bludgeons,
who had figured in the previous disturbance in the market-place, and
were quite ready for more mischief.

The usual Jacobite cries were heard, but these were now varied by
"Down with the boroughreeve!" "Down with the constables!"

Mr. Fielden himself was on the bridge, with his brother magistrates,
superintending the operations, and irritated by the insolent shouts of
the mob, he came forward to address them.

For a few minutes they would not listen to him, but at last he
obtained a hearing.

"Go home quietly," he cried, in a loud voice. "Go home like loyal and
peaceful subjects of the king. We mean to destroy the bridge to
prevent the entrance of the rebels."

On this there was a terrific shout, accompanied by groans, yells, and
hootings.

"Down with Fielden!--down with Fielden!" cried a hundred voices. "He
shan't do it!"

"Mark my words," vociferated the boroughreeve, who remained perfectly
unmoved amid the storm, "in five minutes from this time the central
arch will be blown up."

"We will prevent it," roared the mob, shaking their hands at him.

"You can't prevent it," rejoined the boroughreeve, contemptuously.
"Two large boxes filled with gunpowder are sunk beneath the arch, and
on a signal from me will be fired."

Surprise kept the mob quiet for a moment, and before another outburst
could take place, the boroughreeve had turned on his heel, and marched
off.

Meantime, the three young damsels, under the careful guidance of Jemmy
Dawson, had made their way, without experiencing any annoyance, to the
precipitous rock on which Atherton Legh had stood, while contemplating
the same scene on the previous night.

From this lofty position, as the reader is aware, the bridge was
completely commanded. Another person was on the rock when they reached
it. This was Isaac Clegg, the beadle, who was well known to Beppy. He
instantly made way for her and her friends, and proved useful in
giving them some necessary information.

He told them exactly what was going on on the bridge--explained how
the angry mob was kept back by the barricade--pointed out the
boroughreeve--and finally drew their attention to the engineers in the
boat beneath the arch ready to fire the caissons.

As will readily be supposed, it was this part of the singular scene
that excited the greatest interest among the spectators assembled on
the rock. But, shortly afterwards, their interest was intensified to
the highest degree.

A boat was suddenly seen on the river, about a bow-shot above the
bridge. It must have been concealed somewhere, for its appearance took
all the beholders by surprise. The boat was rowed by two men, who
seemed to have disguised themselves, for they were strangely muffled
up. Plying their oars vigorously, they came down the stream with great
swiftness.

From the course taken it would almost seem as if they were making for
the central arch, beneath which the engineers were posted. Evidently
the engineers thought so, for they stood up in their boat and shouted
lustily to the others to keep off. But the two oarsmen held on their
course, and even increased their speed.

Though the two men had disguised themselves, they did not altogether
escape detection, for as they dashed past the rock on which Constance
and the others were stationed, the foremost oarsman momentarily turned
his head in that direction, and disclosed the features of Atherton
Legh; while Isaac Clegg declared his conviction that the second
oarsman was no other than Tom Syddall.

"'Tis Tom, I be sartin," said Isaac. "He has put on a different sort
of wig from that he usually wears, and has tied a handkerchief over
his keven-huller, but I'd swear to his nose. What can have induced him
to make this mad attempt?"

It was a moment of breathless suspense, for the purpose of the daring
oarsmen could no longer be doubted. Not only were they anxiously
watched by the spectators on the rock, but the gaze of hundreds was
fixed upon them.

Mingled and contradictory shouts were raised--"Keep off!" "Go on!" But
the latter predominated.

The engineers prepared to receive the shock they could not avert. In
another instant, the boat propelled by all the force the rowers could
exert, dashed into them, and staved in the side of their bark.

No longer any question of blowing up the arch. The engineers were both
precipitated into the river by the collision, and had to swim ashore.

Leaving them, however, to shift for themselves, the two daring oarsmen
continued their rapid course down the stream, amid the deafening
shouts of the crowd on Smithy Bank.

Such excitement was caused by this bold exploit that the mob could no
longer be kept back.

Breaking through the barricade, and driving off the guard, after a
short struggle, they took possession of the bridge--declaring their
fixed determination not to allow it to be damaged. Compelled to beat a
hasty retreat into Salford, the magistrates were glad to escape
without injury.




CHAPTER XVI.

TOM SYDDALL.


For some time the two oarsmen rowed on as swiftly as they could,
fancying they should be pursued, but finding this was not the case,
they began to relax their efforts, and liberated themselves from their
disguises.

When divested of the handkerchief tied round his head, and of some
other coverings concealing the lower part of his visage, Tom Syddall
was fully revealed.

'Twas a physiognomy not easily to be mistaken, owing to the size of
the nose, which, besides being enormous, was singularly formed.
Moreover, Tom's face was hatchet-shaped.

He had a great soul in a small body. Though a little fellow, he was
extremely active, and full of spirit--capable, in his own opinion, of
great things. A slight boaster, perhaps, but good-tempered, rarely
taking offence if laughed at. Tom despised his vocation, and declared
he was cut out for a soldier, but he also declared he would never
serve King George--so a barber he remained.

Though there was something ludicrous in his assumption, no one who
knew him doubted that he would fight--and fight manfully, too--for the
Stuarts, should the opportunity ever be offered him.

Ordinarily, Tom Syddall's manner was comic, but he put on a sombre and
tragic expression, when alluding to his father, who was executed for
taking part in the rebellion of 1715--his head being fixed upon a
spike in the market-place. Tom had vowed to avenge his father, and
frequently referred to the oath. Such was Tom Syddall, whose personal
appearance and peculiarities rendered him a noticeable character in
Manchester at the time.

His companion, it is scarcely necessary to say, was Atherton Legh.

As they rested for a moment upon their oars they both laughed
heartily.

"We may be proud of the exploit we have performed," cried Tom. "We
have served the prince, and saved the bridge. Three minutes later and
the arch would have been blown up. The scheme was well-designed, and
well-executed."

"You deserve entire credit both for plan and execution, Tom," rejoined
Atherton.

"Nay, sir," said Syddall with affected modesty. "'Twas a bold and
well-conceived scheme I admit, but I could not have carried it out
without your aid. I trust we may always be successful in our joint
undertakings. With you for a leader I would not shrink from any
enterprise, however hazardous it might appear. I was struck with your
coolness. 'Tis a good sign in a young man."

"Well, I think we are both taking it easily enough, Tom," said
Atherton. "We are loitering here as calmly as if nothing had happened.
However, I don't think any pursuit need be apprehended. The
boroughreeve will have enough to do to look after the mob."

"Ay, that he will," said Syddall. "He has but a very short tenure of
office left. The prince will soon be here, and then all will be
changed. Did you notice those ladies on the rock near the bridge? They
seemed greatly excited, and cheered us."

"Yes, I saw them, and I am glad they saw us, Tom. One of them was Sir
Richard Rawcliffe's daughter. I felt my arm strengthened when I found
she was watching us. I think I could have done twice as much as I
did."

"You did quite enough, sir," observed Syddall, smiling. "But shall we
land, or drop quietly down the river for a mile or two, and then
return by some roundabout road?"

"Let us go on," said Atherton. "I don't think it will be safe to
return just yet."

By this time, though they had not left the bridge much more than
half-a-mile behind, they were completely in the country. On the right
the banks were still high and rocky, narrowing the stream, and
shutting out the view.

But though the modern part of the town extended in this direction, two
or three fields intervened between the houses and the river. On the
left, the banks being low, the eye could range over pleasant meadows
around which the Irwell meandered, forming a charming prospect from
the heights overlooking the wide valley through which it pursued its
winding course.

So nearly complete was the circle described by the river, that the
upper part of the stream was here not very far distant from the lower.

But our object in depicting this locality is to show how wonderfully
it is changed. The meadows just alluded to, intersected by hedgerows,
and with only two or three farm-houses to be seen amidst them, are now
covered with buildings of all kinds--warehouses, mills, and other vast
structures. Bridges now span the river; innumerable houses are reared
upon its banks; and scarce a foot of ground remains unoccupied.

In a word, an immense and populous town has sprung up, covering the
whole area encircled by the Irwell, and the pleasing country scene we
have endeavoured to describe has for ever vanished. Few persons would
imagine that the polluted river was once bright and clear, and its
banks picturesque, and fringed with trees. Yet such was the case
little more than a century ago.

Salford at that time was comprised within very narrow limits, and only
possessed a single street, which communicated with the old bridge. In
Manchester, between the upper part of Deansgate and the river, there
were fields entirely unbuilt upon, and a lane bordered by hedges ran
down through these fields to the quay.

The quay itself was very small, and consisted of a wharf with a house
and warehouse attached to it.

It seems astonishing that a town so important as was Manchester in
1745, should not have had a larger storehouse for goods, but
apparently the merchants were content with it. Barges were then towed
up the river as far as the quay, but not beyond.

As Atherton and his companion rowed slowly down the river, they did
not encounter a single boat till they came in sight of the wharf,
where a barge and a few small craft were moored. They now debated with
themselves whether to land here or go lower down: and at length
decided upon halting, thinking there could be no danger. But they were
mistaken. As they drew near the wharf, three men armed with muskets
suddenly appeared on the deck of the barge, and commanded them to
stop.

"You are prisoners," cried one of these persons. "We have just
received information by a mounted messenger of the occurrence at
Salford Bridge, and we know you to be the men who ran down the
engineers. You are prisoners, I repeat. Attempt to move off and we
will fire upon you."

As the muskets were levelled at their heads from so short a distance,
Atherton and his companion felt that resistance would be useless, so
they surrendered at discretion, and prepared to disembark. Some other
men, who were standing by, took charge of them as they stepped ashore.




CHAPTER XVII.

HOW TOM SYDDALL WAS CARRIED HOME IN TRIUMPH.


In another minute the person who had addressed them from the barge
came up, and Tom Syddall, who now recognised him as Matthew Sharrocks,
the wharf-master, inquired what he meant to do with them.

"Detain you till I learn the magistrates' intentions respecting you,"
replied Sharrocks. "The boroughreeve will be forthwith acquainted with
the capture. The messenger is waiting. Do you deny the offence?"

"No, I glory in the deed," rejoined Syddall."'Tis an action of which
we may be justly proud. We have saved the bridge from destruction at
the risk of our own lives."

"You will be clapped into prison and punished for what you have done,"
said Sharrocks.

"If we should be imprisoned, Sharrocks, which I doubt," rejoined
Syddall, confidently, "the people will deliver us. Know you who I am?"

"Well enough; you are Tom Syddall, the barber," said the other.

"I am the son of that Tom Syddall who approved his devotion to the
royal House of Stuart with his blood."

"Ay, I recollect seeing your father's head stuck up in the
market-place," said Sharrocks. "Take care your own is not set up in
the same spot."

He then marched off to despatch the messenger to the boroughreeve, and
on his return caused the prisoners to be taken to the great
storehouse, from an upper window of which was suspended a flag,
emblazoned with the royal arms.

"I tell you what, Sharrocks," said Syddall, "before two days that flag
will be hauled down."

"I rather think not," rejoined the wharf-master dryly.

Atherton Legh took no part in this discourse, but maintained a
dignified silence.

The prisoners were then shut up in a small room near the entrance of
the storehouse, and a porter armed with a loaded musket was placed as
a sentinel at the door.

However, except for the restraint, they had no reason to complain of
their treatment. A pint of wine was brought them, with which they
regaled themselves, and after drinking a couple of glasses, Tom, who
had become rather downcast, felt his spirits considerably revive.

Knocking at the door, he called out to the porter, "I say, friend, if
not against rules, I should very much like a pipe."

The porter being a good-natured fellow said he would see about it, and
presently returned with a pipe and a paper of tobacco. His wants being
thus supplied, Tom sat down and smoked away very comfortably.

Atherton paid very little attention to him. Truth to say, he was
thinking of Constance Rawcliffe.

Rather more than an hour had elapsed, and Mr. Sharrocks was expecting
an answer from the boroughreeve, when he heard a tumultuous sound in
the lane, already described as leading from the top of Deansgate to
the quay.

Alarmed by this noise, he hurried to the great gate, which he had
previously ordered to be closed, and looking out, perceived a mob,
consisting of some three or four hundred persons, hurrying towards the
spot.

If he had any doubt as to their intentions it would have been
dispelled by hearing that their cry was "Tom Syddall!" Evidently they
were coming to liberate the brave barber.

Hastily shutting and barring the gate, and ordering the porters to
guard it, he flew to the room in which Tom and his companion were
confined, and found the one tranquilly smoking his pipe, as we have
related, and the other seated in a chair opposite him, and plunged in
a reverie.

"Well, Sharrocks," said Tom, blowing a whiff from his mouth, and
looking up quietly at him, "have you come to say that the boroughreeve
has ordered us to be clapped in prison? ha!"

"I have come to set you free, gentlemen," said the wharf-master,
blandly. "You are quite at liberty to depart."

"Ho! ho!" cried Tom. "You have altered your tone, methinks,
Sharrocks."

"I am in no hurry," said Atherton. "I am quite comfortable here."

"But you _must_, and _shall_ go," cried Sharrocks.

"Must! and shall!" echoed Atherton. "Suppose we refuse to stir!--what
then?"

"Yes, what then, Sharrocks?" said Tom, replacing the pipe in his
mouth.

The wharf-master was about to make an angry rejoinder, when a loud
noise outside convinced him that the porters had yielded to the mob,
and thrown open the gates.

"Zounds! they have got into the yard!" he exclaimed.

"Who have got in?" cried Atherton, springing to his feet.

"Your friends, the mob," replied Sharrocks.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Syddall, jumping up likewise, and waving his pipe
over his head. "I knew the people would come to release us. Hurrah!
hurrah!"

Almost frantic with delight, he ran out into the yard, followed by
Atherton--Sharrocks bringing up the rear.

Already the yard was half-full of people, most of whom were gathered
thickly in front of the storehouse, and the moment they perceived Tom
Syddall and Atherton, they set up a tremendous shout.

But Tom was their especial favourite. Those nearest placed him on the
top of an empty cask, so that he could be seen by the whole
assemblage, and in reply to their prolonged cheers, he thanked them
heartily for coming to deliver him and his companion, telling them
they would soon see the prince in Manchester, and bidding them, in
conclusion, shout for King James the Third and Charles, Prince
Regent--setting them the example himself.

While the yard was ringing with treasonable shouts and outcries, Tom
quitted his post, but he soon reappeared. He had made his way to the
upper room of the building, from the window of which the obnoxious
flag was displayed. Hauling it down, he tore off the silken banner in
sight of the crowd, and replacing it with a white handkerchief,
brought down the rebel flag he had thus improvised, and gave it to one
of the spectators, who carried it about in triumph.

Hitherto the mob had behaved peaceably enough, but they now grew
rather disorderly, and some of them declared they would not go away
empty-handed.

Fearing they might plunder the store-house, which was full of goods of
various kinds, Sharrocks came up to Tom Syddall and besought him to
use his influence with them to depart peaceably.

"I'll try what I can do, Sharrocks," replied Tom. "Though you made
some uncalled-for observations upon me just now, I don't bear any
malice."

"I'm very sorry for what I said, Mr. Syddall," rejoined the
wharf-master, apologetically--"very sorry, indeed."

"Enough. I can afford to be magnanimous, Sharrocks. I forgive the
remarks. But you will find you were wrong, sir--you will find that I
_shall_ avenge my father."

"I have no doubt of it, Mr. Syddall," rejoined Sharrocks. "But in the
meantime, save the storehouse from plunder, and you shall have my good
word with the boroughreeve."

"I don't want your good word, Sharrocks," said Tom, disdainfully.

With Atherton's assistance he then once more mounted the cask, and the
crowd seeing he was about to address them became silent.

"I have a few words to say to you, my friends," he cried, in a voice
that all could hear. "Don't spoil the good work you have done by
committing any excesses. Don't let the Hanoverians and Presbyterians
have the power of casting reproach upon us. Don't disgrace the good
cause. Our royal prince shoots every Highlander who pillages. He won't
shoot any of you, but he'll think better of you if you abstain from
plunder."

The commencement of this address was received with some murmurs, but
these ceased as the speaker went on, and at the close he was loudly
cheered, and it was evident from their altered demeanour that the
crowd intended to follow his advice.

"I am glad to find you mean to behave like good Jacobites and honest
men. Now let us go home quietly, and unless we're assaulted we won't
break the peace."

"We'll carry you home safely," shouted several of the bystanders. "A
chair! a chair! Give us a chair!"

These demands were promptly complied with by Sharrocks, who brought
out a large arm-chair, in which Tom being installed, was immediately
hoisted aloft by four sturdy individuals.

Thus placed, he bowed right and left, in acknowledgement of the cheers
of the assemblage.

Not wishing to take a prominent part in these proceedings, Atherton
had kept aloof, but he now came up to Syddall, and shaking hands with
him, told him in a whisper that he might expect to see him at night.

The brave little Jacobite barber was then borne off in triumph,
surrounded by his friends--a tall man marching before him carrying the
white flag.

The procession took its way up the lane to Deansgate, along which
thoroughfare it slowly moved, its numbers continually increasing as it
went on, while the windows of the houses were thronged with
spectators.

Thus triumphantly was Tom conveyed to his dwelling. Throughout the
whole route no molestation was offered him--the magistrates prudently
abstaining from further interference.

Before quitting him, the crowd promised to come to his succour should
any attempt be made to arrest him.

Atherton did not join the procession, but took a totally different
route.

Leaving the boat with the wharf-master, who volunteered to take care
of it, he caused himself to be ferried across the river, and soon
afterwards entered a path leading across the fields in the direction
of Salford.

He walked along very slowly, being anxious to hold a little
self-communion; and stopped now and then to give free scope to his
reflections.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MEETING IN THE GARDEN.


From these fields, the town, which was scarcely a mile distant, could
be seen in its full extent. In saying "town," we include Salford, for
no break in the continuity of the houses was distinguishable. The
buildings on either side of the Irwell seemed massed together; and the
bridge was entirely hidden.

It was not a very bright day--we must recollect it was November--but
the lights chanced to be favourable, and brought out certain objects
in a striking manner. For instance, the collegiate church, which
formed almost the central part of the picture, stood out in bold
relief, with its massive tower against a clear sky. A gleam of
sunshine fell upon St. Ann's Church and upon the modern buildings near
it, and Trinity Church in Salford was equally favoured. Other charming
effects were produced, which excited the young man's admiration, and
he remained gazing for some time at the prospect. He then accelerated
his pace, and soon reached the outskirts of Salford.

At the entrance of the main street stood Trinity Church, to which we
have just alluded--a modern pile of no great beauty, but possessing a
lofty tower ornamented with pinnacles, and surmounted by a short
spire. The row of houses on the right side of the street formed
pleasant residences, for they had extensive gardens running down to
the banks of the river.

Opposite the church, but withdrawn from the street, stood an
old-fashioned mansion with a garden in front, surrounded by high
walls. The place had a neglected air. Large gates of wrought iron,
fashioned in various devices, opened upon the garden. Recollecting to
have heard that this old mansion was occupied by Mrs. Butler--Monica's
mother and Constance's aunt--Atherton stopped to look at it, and while
peering through the iron gates, he beheld Miss Rawcliffe herself in
the garden.

She was alone, and the impulse that prompted him to say a few words to
her being too strong to be resisted, he opened the gates and went in.
She had disappeared, but he found her seated in an arbour.

On beholding him she uttered a cry of surprise, and started up. For a
moment the colour deserted her cheek, but the next instant a blush
succeeded.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Atherton Legh," she said. "But how did you
learn I was here?"

"Accident has brought me hither," he replied. "While passing the
garden gates I chanced to see you, and ventured in. If I have been too
bold, I will retire at once."

"Oh, no--pray stay! I am delighted to see you. But you are very
incautious to venture forth. You ought to keep in some place of
concealment. However, let me offer you my meed of admiration. I was
wonderstruck by your last gallant exploit."

"You helped me to accomplish it."

"_I_ helped you--how? I was merely a spectator."

"That was quite sufficient. I felt your eyes were upon me. I fancied I
had your approval."

"I most heartily wished you success," she rejoined, again blushing
deeply. "But I think you are excessively rash. Suppose the caissons
had been fired, you would have been destroyed by the explosion."

"In that case I might have had your sympathy."

"Yes, but my sympathy would have been worth very little. It would not
have brought you to life."

"It would have made death easy."

"With such exalted sentiments, 'tis a pity you did not live in the
days of chivalry."

"If I had I would have maintained the peerless beauty of the dame I
worshipped against all comers."

"Now you are beginning to talk high-flown nonsense, so I must stop
you."

But she did not look offended.

Presently she added, "Do you desire to win distinction? Do you wish to
please me?"

"I desire to please you more than any one on earth, Miss Rawcliffe,"
he rejoined, earnestly. "I will do whatever you ask me."

"Then join the prince. But no! I ought not to extort this pledge from
you. Reflect! reflect!"

"No need of reflection. My decision is made. I will join the
Manchester Regiment."

"Then I will place the sash on your shoulder, and gird on your sword,"
she said.

A fire seemed kindled in the young man's breast by these words.
Casting an impassioned glance at the fair maiden, he prostrated
himself at her feet, and taking her hand, which she did not withhold,
pressed it to his lips.

"I devote myself to you," he said, in a fervent tone.

"And to the good cause?" she cried.

"To the good cause," he rejoined. "But chiefly to you."

Before he could rise from his kneeling posture, Monica and Jemmy
Dawson, who had come forth from the house, approached the arbour, but
seeing how matters stood, they would have retired; but Constance, who
did not exhibit the slightest embarrassment, advanced to meet them.

  [Illustration: CONSTANCE RAWCLIFFE GAINS A RECRUIT
                 Page 78.]

"I have gained another recruit for the prince," she said.

"So I see," replied Monica. "His royal highness could not have a
better officer."

"I am sure not," said Jemmy Dawson.

And embracing his friend, he cried, "I longed for you as a
companion-in-arms, and my desire is gratified. We shall serve
together--conquer together--or die together. Whatever it may be,
apparently our destiny will be the same."

"You are certain of a rich reward," said Atherton. "But I----"

"Live in hope," murmured Constance.

"Not till I have discovered the secret of my birth will I presume to
ask your hand," said the young man.

Constance thought of the packet confided to her by her father--of the
letter she had read--and felt certain the mystery would be soon
unravelled.

Just then Monica interposed.

"Pray come into the house, Mr. Atherton Legh," she said. "Mamma will
be much pleased to see you. We have been extolling you to the skies.
She is a great invalid, and rarely leaves her room, but to-day, for a
wonder, she is downstairs."

Atherton did not require a second bidding, but went with them into the
house.




CHAPTER XIX.

MRS. BUTLER.


In a large, gloomy-looking, plainly-furnished room might be seen a
middle-aged dame, who looked like the superior of a religious
house--inasmuch as she wore a conventual robe of dark stuff, with a
close hood that fell over her shoulders, and a frontlet beneath it
that concealed her locks--blanched by sorrow more than age. From her
girdle hung a rosary. Her figure was thin almost to emaciation, but it
was hidden by her dress; her cheeks were pallid; her eyes deep sunk in
their sockets; but her profile still retained its delicacy and
regularity of outline, and showed she must once have possessed rare
beauty. Her countenance wore a sweet, sad, resigned expression.

Mrs. Butler--for she it was--suffered from great debility, brought on,
not merely by ill-health, but by frequent vigils and fasting. So
feeble was she that she seldom moved beyond a small room, adjoining
her bed-chamber, which she used as an oratory; but on that day she had
been induced by her daughter to come down-stairs.

She was seated in a strong, oaken chair, destitute of a cushion, and
propped up by a pillow, which she deemed too great an indulgence, but
which was absolutely requisite for her support. Her small feet--of
which she had once been vain--rested on a fauteuil. On a little table
beside her lay a book of devotion.

On the opposite side of the fireplace sat a thin, dark-complexioned
man, in age between fifty and sixty, whose black habiliments and full
powdered wig did not indicate that he was a Romish priest. Such,
however, was the case. He was Sir Richard Rawcliffe's confessor,
Father Jerome. At the time when we discover them, the priest was
addressing words of ghostly counsel to the lady, who was listening
attentively to his exhortations.

They were interrupted by the entrance of the party.

As Atherton was conducted towards her, Mrs. Butler essayed to rise,
but being unequal to the effort, would have immediately sunk back if
her daughter had not supported her.

She seemed very much struck by the young man, and could not remove her
gaze from him.

"Who is this, Monica?" she murmured.

"He is the young gentleman, mamma, of whose courage Constance has been
speaking to you in such glowing terms--who so gallantly liberated Sir
Richard from arrest this morning, and subsequently preserved Salford
Bridge from destruction. It is Mr. Atherton Legh. I felt sure you
would like to see him."

"You judged quite right, my dear," Mrs. Butler replied, in her soft,
sweet accents. "I am very glad to see you, sir. Pardon my gazing at
you so fixedly. You bear a strong resemblance to one long since
dead--a near relation of my own. Do you not remark the likeness,
father?" she added to the priest.

"Indeed, madam, I am much struck by it," replied Father Jerome.

"I am sure you mean my uncle, Sir Oswald," observed Constance.

"True. But as Mr. Legh has probably never heard of him, I did not
mention his name."

"I think you have a miniature of my uncle?" said Constance.

"I had one," returned Mrs. Butler. "But I know not what has become of
it."

"Strange! I never saw a portrait of him," remarked Constance. "There
is not one at Rawcliffe. Nor is there a portrait of his beautiful
wife, who did not long survive him."

"There you are mistaken, Miss Rawcliffe," observed Father Jerome.
"Portraits of both are in existence, for I myself have seen them. But
they are locked up in a closet."

"Why should they be locked up?" cried Monica.

"Probably Sir Richard does not care to see them," said her mother,
sighing deeply. "But let us change the subject. We are talking on
family matters that can have no interest to Mr. Atherton Legh."

Atherton would have been pleased if more had been said on the subject,
but he made no remark. Constance was lost in reflection. Many strange
thoughts crossed her mind.

At this juncture Jemmy Dawson interposed.

"You will be glad to learn, madam," he said to Mrs. Butler, "that my
friend Atherton Legh has decided on joining the Manchester Regiment.
Constance has the credit of gaining him as a recruit."

"That a young man of so much spirit as your friend should support the
cause of the Stuarts cannot fail to be highly satisfactory to me, in
common with every zealous Jacobite," said Mrs. Butler. "May success
attend you both! But it is for you, father, to bless them--not for
me."

Thus enjoined, the two young men bent reverently before the priest,
who, extending his hands over them, ejaculated fervently:

"May the Lord of Hosts be with you on the day of battle, and grant you
victory! May you both return in safety and claim your reward!"

To this Mrs. Butler added, with great earnestness and emotion:

"Should Heaven permit them to be vanquished--should they be taken
captive--may they be spared the cruel fate that befel so many, who, in
by-gone days, fought in the same righteous cause, and suffered death
for their loyalty and devotion."

This supplication, uttered in sorrowful tones, produced a powerful
impression upon all the hearers.

"Why have you drawn this sad picture, mamma?" said Monica, half
reproachfully.

"I could not repress my feelings, my child. A terrible scene
perpetually rises before me, and I feel it will haunt me to the last."

"Have you witnessed such a scene, mamma?" cried her daughter,
trembling. "You have never spoken of it to me?"

"I have often wished to do so, but I felt the description would give
you pain. Are you equal to it now, do you think?"

"Yes," she replied, with attempted firmness, but quivering lip.

"And you, Constance?" said Mrs. Butler.

"I can listen to you, aunt," rejoined Constance, in tones that did not
falter.

Before commencing, Mrs. Butler consulted Father Jerome by a glance,
and his counsel to her was conveyed in these words, "Better relieve
your mind, madam."

"I was very young," she said, "younger than you, Monica, when the
greatest sorrow of my life occurred. At the time of the former rising
in 1715, my faith was plighted to one who held a command in the
insurgent army. I will not breathe his name, but he belonged to a
noble family that had made great sacrifices for King James the Second,
and was prepared to make equal sacrifices for the Chevalier de St.
George. The brave and noble youth to whom I was betrothed was sanguine
of success, and I had no misgivings. I was with him at Preston during
the battle, and when the capitulation took place, he confided me to a
friend whom he loved as a brother, saying to him, 'Should my life be
taken by our bloodthirsty foes, as I have reason to fear it will, be
to her what I would have been. Regard her as my widow--wed her.' His
friend gave the promise he required, and he kept his word."

Here she paused for a short time, while Monica and Constance--neither
of whom had ever heard of this singular promise, or of the betrothal
that preceded it--looked at each other.

Meanwhile, a change came over Mrs. Butler's countenance--the
expression being that of horror.

Her lips were slightly opened, her large dark eyes dilated, and though
they were fixed on vacancy, it was easy to perceive that a fearful
vision was rising before her.

"Ay, there it is," she cried, in tones and with a look that froze the
blood of her hearers--"there is the scaffold!" stretching out her
hand, as if pointing to some object. "'Tis there, as I beheld it on
that fatal morn on Tower Hill. 'Tis draped in black. The block is
there, the axe, the coffin, the executioner. A vast concourse is
assembled--and what an expression is in their faces! But where is he?
I see him not. Ah! now he steps upon the scaffold. How young, how
handsome he looks! How undaunted is his bearing! Every eye is fixed
upon him, and a murmur of pity bursts from the multitude. He looks
calmly round. He has discovered me. He smiles, and encourages me by
his looks. Some ceremonies have to be performed, but these are quickly
over. He examines the block--the coffin--with unshaken firmness--and
feels the edge of the axe. Then he prays with the priest who attends
him. All his preparations made, he bows an eternal farewell to me, and
turns---- Ha! I can see no more--'tis gone!"

And she sank back half fainting in the chair, while her daughter and
niece sought to revive her.

So vivid had been the effect produced, that those present almost
fancied they had witnessed the terrible scene described.

For a brief space not a word was spoken. At the end of that time, Mrs.
Butler opened her eyes, and fixing them upon the young men, exclaimed:

"Again, I pray Heaven to avert such a fate from you both!"

Monica burst into tears. Her lover flew towards her, and as she seemed
about to swoon, he caught her in his arms.

"Ah! Jemmy," she exclaimed, looking up at him tenderly, "how could I
live if I lost you! You must not join this perilous expedition."

"Nay, I cannot honourably withdraw," he replied. "My promise is given
to the prince. Were I to retire now I should be termed a coward. And
all my love for you would not enable me to bear that dreadful
reproach."

"'Tis I who induced you to join," she cried. "If you perish, I shall
be guilty of your death. You must not--shall not go."

"How is this?" he cried. "I cannot believe you are the brave Jacobite
girl who urged me to take arms for the good cause."

"My love, I find, is stronger than my loyalty," she replied. "Do not
leave me, Jemmy. A sad presentiment has come over me, and I dread lest
you should perish by the hand of the executioner."

"This idle foreboding of ill is solely caused by your mother's fancied
vision. Shake it off, and be yourself."

"Ay, be yourself, Monica," said Constance, stepping towards them.
"This weakness is unworthy of you. 'Tis quite impossible for Jemmy to
retreat with honour from his plighted word. Those who have embarked in
this hazardous enterprise must go through it at whatever risk."

And she glanced at Atherton, who maintained a firm countenance.

But Monica fixed a supplicating look on her lover, and sought to move
him.

Fearing he might yield to her entreaties, Constance seized his hand.

"For your sake I am bound to interpose, Jemmy," she said. "You will
for ever repent it, if you make a false step now. What is life without
honour?"

"Heed her not!" exclaimed Monica. "Listen to me! Till now I never knew
how dear you are to me. I cannot--will not part with you."

Both Mrs. Butler and Father Jerome heard what was passing, but did not
deem it necessary to interfere--leaving the task to Constance.

"Take him hence!" said Constance, in a low tone to Atherton. "She may
shake his determination. Ere long she will recover her energies, and
think quite differently."

After bidding adieu to Mrs. Butler and the priest, Atherton tried to
lead Jemmy gently away. But Monica still clung to him.

"Come with me," said Atherton. "I want to say a few words to you in
private."

"Say what you have to tell him here," observed Monica.

"This is mere childishness, Monica," observed Constance. "Let him go
with his friend."

Monica offered no further resistance, and the two young men quitted
the room together.

No sooner were they gone than Monica flew towards Mrs. Butler, and
throwing herself at her feet, exclaimed:

"Oh, mother! let us pray that Jemmy may not share the tragical fate of
him you have mourned so long. Let us pray that he may not die the
death of a traitor!"

"A traitor!" exclaimed Mrs. Butler. "He whom I mourn was no traitor."

"Listen to me, daughter," said Father Jerome, in a tone of solemn
rebuke. "Should he to whom you are betrothed fall a sacrifice to
tyranny, oppression, and usurpation--should he suffer in the cause of
truth and justice--should he lay down his life in asserting the right
of his only lawful sovereign, King James the Third--then be assured
that he will not die a traitor, but a martyr."

Monica bore this reproof well. Looking up at her mother and the
priest, she said, in penitential tones:

"Forgive me. I see my error. I will no longer try to dissuade him, but
will pray that he may have grace to fulfil the task he has
undertaken."




CHAPTER XX.

THE JACOBITE MEETING IN TOM SYDDALL'S BACK ROOM.


Tom Syddall's shop was situated on Smithy Bank, in the immediate
neighbourhood both of the Cross and of Salford Bridge.

The house was a diminutive specimen of the numerous timber and plaster
habitations, chequered black and white, that abounded on the spot; but
it was quite large enough for Tom. The gables were terminated by
grotesquely-carved faces, that seemed perpetually grinning and
thrusting out their tongues at the passers-by; and a bay-window
projected over the porch, the latter being ornamented with a large
barber's pole and a brass basin, as indications of Tom's calling,
though his shop was sufficiently well-known without them.

The door usually stood invitingly open, even at an early hour in the
morning, and the barber himself could be seen in the low-roofed room,
covering some broad-visaged customer's cheeks with lather, or plying
the keen razor over his chin, while half-a-dozen others could be
descried seated on benches patiently waiting their turn.

At a somewhat later hour the more important business of wig-dressing
began, and then Tom retired to a back room, where the highest
mysteries of his art were screened from the vulgar gaze--and from
which sacred retreat, when a customer emerged, he appeared in all the
dignity of a well-powdered peruke, a full-bottomed tie-wig, a bob, a
bob-major, or an apothecary's bust, as the case might be.

Tom did a great deal of business, and dressed some of the best "heads"
in Manchester--not only ladies' heads, but gentlemen's--but, of
course, he attended the ladies at their own houses.

But Tom Syddall, as we have seen, was not only a perruquier, but an
ardent politician. Frequent Jacobite meetings were held in his back
room, and plots were frequently hatched when it was thought that
perukes alone were being dressed.

Perfectly loyal and trustworthy was Tom. Many secrets were confided to
him, but none were ever betrayed. Every opportunity was afforded him
for playing the spy, had he been so minded, but he would have scorned
the office.

However, he had his special objects of dislike, and would neither
dress the wig of a Whig, nor shave a Presbyterian if he knew it.
Equally decided was Tom on his religious opinions, being a zealous
member of Dr. Deacon's True British Catholic Church.

After his great exploit at the bridge, and his subsequent deliverance
by the mob, several Jacobites came in the evening--when his shop was
closed--to offer him their congratulations, and were introduced--as
they arrived singly, or two or three at a time--to the back room, of
which we have just made mention.

By-and-by a tolerably large party assembled, all of whom being very
decided Jacobites, a good deal of treason was naturally talked.

As there were not chairs for all, several of the company sat where
they could, and a droll effect was produced in consequence of their
being mixed up with the wig-blocks, one of which, from its elevated
position, seemed to preside over the assemblage, and caused much
laughter.

Among the persons present were Dr. Byrom and Dr. Deacon, the latter of
them having with him his three sons, all of whom were fine-looking
young men.

Besides these there was the Rev. Thomas Coppock, who, it may be
remembered, had been promised the appointment of chaplain to the
Manchester Regiment by Colonel Townley. Though the young Jacobite
divine wore his cassock and bands, he looked as if martial
accoutrements would have suited him better. His big looks and
blustering manner did not harmonise with his clerical habit. Vain and
ambitious, Parson Coppock fully believed--if the expedition proved
successful--he should be created Bishop of Chester, or, at least, be
made warden of the collegiate church.

With those we have particularised were four other young men who had
been promised commissions--Thomas Chadwick, John Berwick, George
Fletcher, and Samuel Maddocks.

When we have added the names of Jemmy Dawson and Atherton Legh, the
list of the party will be complete.

An important communication had been made to the meeting by Dr. Deacon,
who had just received an express informing him that the prince had
arrived at Preston with the first division of his army, so that Lord
Pitsligo's regiment of horse might be expected to reach Manchester on
the morrow.

"Of this information, gentlemen," pursued Dr. Deacon, "you alone are
in possession, for precautions have been taken to prevent any other
express from being sent from Preston to the authorities of Manchester.
The magistrates, therefore, will be in complete ignorance of the
prince's approach till he is close at hand. It will now be apparent to
you how great has been the service rendered by Mr. Atherton Legh and
our brave Tom Syddall. Had Salford Bridge been destroyed--according to
the boroughreeve's plan--the prince could not have entered Manchester,
without making a lengthened and troublesome détour, that might have
exposed him to some unforeseen attack, whereas he will now march into
the town at the head of his army without encountering any obstacle."

Expressions of approval were heard on all sides, and Syddall appeared
quite elated by the commendations bestowed upon him.

"Since the prince will be here so soon it behoves us to prepare for
him," he said. "Care must be taken that he does not want food for his
men and forage for his horses. As you are all no doubt aware, a great
quantity of provisions has been sent out of the town. This must be
stopped."

"You are right, Tom," cried Dr. Byrom. "But how stop it?"

"Very easily," replied Syddall. "We must engage Ben Birch, the
bellman, to go round to-night, and warn the townsfolk not to remove
any more provisions."

"A good plan," cried Dr. Byrom. "But will Ben Birch obey the order?"

"If he won't I'll seize his bell and go round myself," rejoined
Syddall. "But never fear, doctor; Ben will do it if he's well paid."

"But where is he to be found?" cried Dr. Byrom. "'Tis getting late."

"I know where to find him," replied Tom. "Before going home to bed he
always takes his pot of ale and smokes his pipe at the Half Moon in
Hanging Ditch. He's there now I'll warrant you."

Everybody agreed that the plan was excellent, and ought to be carried
out without delay, and Syddall, who undertook the entire management of
the affair, was just preparing to set off to Hanging Ditch, which was
at no great distance from his dwelling, when a knock was heard at the
outer door.

The company looked at each other. So many strange things occurred at
this juncture that they could not help feeling some little uneasiness.

"Don't be alarmed, gentlemen," said Tom. "I'll go and reconnoitre."

So saying, he hurried up a staircase that quickly brought him to an
upper room overlooking the street.




CHAPTER XXI.

BEN BIRCH, THE BELLMAN OF MANCHESTER.


It was a fine moonlight night, almost as bright as day, and when Tom
looked out he saw that the person who had just knocked was no other
than Ben Birch.

Now the bellman was a very important functionary at the time, and it
seemed as if the town could not get on without him. Whenever anything
was to be done the bellman was sent round. The magistrates constantly
employed him, and he paced about the streets ringing his bell, and
giving public notices of one kind or other, all day long.

Tall and stout, with a very red face, Ben Birch looked like a beadle,
for he wore a laced cocked hat and a laced great-coat. Fully aware of
the importance of his office, he was consequential in manner, and his
voice, when he chose to exert it, was perfectly stentorian. Ben Birch,
we ought to add, was suspected of being a Jacobite.

"Why, Ben, is that you?" cried Tom, looking at him from the window.

"Ay, Mester Syddall, it's me, sure enough," replied the bellman. "I've
got summat to tell you. Some mischievous chaps has been making free
with your pow, and what dun yo think they've stuck on it?"

"I can't tell, Ben."

"Why, your feyther's skull. Yo can see it if yo look down. I noticed
it as I were passing, and thought I'd stop and tell you."

"I should like to hang the rascal, whoever he may be, that has dared
to profane that precious relic," cried Tom, furiously. "It must have
been stolen, for I kept it carefully in a box."

"Well, it's a woundy bad joke, to say the least of it," rejoined Ben,
with difficulty repressing a laugh. "Luckily, there's no harm done."

So saying, he took the pole and handed up the skull to the barber, who
received it very reverently.

"Much obliged to you, Ben," he said, in a voice husky with emotion.
"If I can only find out the rascal who has played me this trick he
shall bitterly repent it."

"A Presbyterian, no doubt," cried the bellman.

"Ay, those prick-eared curs are all my enemies," said Syddall. "But we
shall soon have a change. Wait a moment, Ben, I've got a job for you."

He then restored the relic to the box from which it had been
abstracted, and went down-stairs.

On returning to the room where the company was assembled, he explained
to them that the bellman was without, but said nothing about the
indignity he himself had undergone.

"Shall I settle matters with him, or bring him in?" he asked.

"Bring him in," cried the assemblage.

In another moment Ben was introduced. Greatly surprised to find the
room thus crowded, he stared at the party.

"What is your pleasure, gentlemen?" he said, removing his cocked hat
and bowing.

"We have heard with great concern, Ben," said Mr. Coppock, gravely,
"that provisions are beginning to run short in the town. We,
therefore, desire that you will go round this very night, and give
notice to the inhabitants that no victuals or stores of any kind must
be removed on any pretext whatsoever."

"I am very willing to obey you, gentlemen, particularly as such a
notice can do no harm," said Ben; "but I ought to have an order from
the magistrates."

"This will do as well, I fancy," said Coppock, giving him a guinea.

"I'll do the job," rejoined the bellman, pocketing the fee. "I shan't
fail to end my proclamation with 'God save the king!' but I shall
leave those who hear me to guess which king I mean."

Wishing the company good-night he then went out, and shortly
afterwards the loud ringing of his bell was heard in the street.

His first proclamation was made at the corner of Deansgate, and by
this time--though the street had previously appeared quite empty--he
had got a small crowd round him, while several persons appeared at the
doors and windows.

"No more provisions to be taken away!" cried one of the bystanders;
"that means the town is about to be besieged."

"That's not it," cried another. "It means that the young Pretender and
his army will soon be here."

"Whatever it means you must obey the order," said the bellman. "And
so, God save the king!"

"God save King James the Third!" "Down with the Elector of Hanover!"
shouted several persons.

And as these were violently opposed by the supporters of the reigning
monarch, and a fight seemed likely to ensue, the bellman marched off
to repeat his proclamation elsewhere.

Meanwhile, the party assembled in Tom Syddall's back room had
separated, but not before they had agreed upon another meeting at an
early hour on the morrow.


End of the First Book.




BOOK II.

PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD IN MANCHESTER.




CHAPTER I.

HOW MANCHESTER WAS TAKEN BY A SERGEANT, A DRUMMER, AND A SCOTTISH
LASSIE.


Manchester arose next day in a state of great ferment. No one exactly
knew what was about to occur, but everybody felt something was at
hand.

The proclamation made overnight by the bellman, and the studiously
guarded answers given by that discreet functionary to the questions
put to him, had caused considerable anxiety. No news had been received
from Preston--except the secret express sent to the heads of the
Jacobite party--but a notion prevailed that the prince would make his
appearance in the course of the day.

Any real defence of the town was out of the question, since the
militia was disbanded, but some staunch Whigs and zealous
Presbyterians declared they would certainly make a stand. This,
however, was looked upon as mere idle bravado. Most of those who had
delayed their departure to the last moment now took flight. At an
early hour on that very morning all the justices and lawyers had
quitted the town. The boroughreeve had gone, but the constables
remained at their post. As on the previous day, no business whatever
was transacted, and the majority of the shops continued closed.

As the day went on the total want of news increased the public
anxiety, for the few who were in possession of authentic information
took care to keep it to themselves. The excitement, therefore, was
increased by a variety of contradictory rumours, none of which had any
foundation in truth, the Hanoverians doggedly maintaining that the
young Pretender had turned back at Preston, and was now in full
retreat to Scotland; while the Jacobites declared with equal warmth
that the prince was within half a day's march of Manchester, and would
soon present himself before the town.

Whatever might be the feelings of others, it is quite certain that all
the prettiest damsels were impatiently expecting the handsome prince,
and would have been sadly disappointed if he had turned back.

As the weather chanced to be fine, and no business was going on, a
great many persons were in the streets, and the town had quite a
holiday air.

Towards the afternoon, the crowds that had been rambling about during
the morning had returned to their mid-day meal, when a cry arose from
Salford that the advanced guard of the rebel army was in sight.

The report proved incorrect; yet it was not entirely without
foundation. Three persons in Highland dresses, and no doubt belonging
to the insurgent army, had actually entered the town by the Preston
road, and were riding slowly along, looking about them in a very easy
and unconcerned manner. All the beholders stared in astonishment, but
nobody meddled with them, for it was naturally concluded that the
regiment they belonged to must be close behind.

From its singularity, the little party was sufficient in itself to
attract general attention. It consisted of a sergeant, a drummer, and
an exceedingly pretty Scottish lassie. All three were well mounted,
though the state of their horses showed they had ridden many miles.
Both the men were in full Highland dress, wore plumed caps, and were
armed with claymore, dirk, and target. Moreover, the sergeant had a
blunderbuss at his saddle-bow, but his comrade was content with the
drum.

Sergeant Erick Dickson, a young Highlander, and bold as a lion, was
handsome, well-proportioned, and possessed of great strength and
activity. Sandy Rollo, the drummer, was likewise a very daring young
fellow.

Helen Carnegie, the Scottish damsel, deserves a few more words. Her
beauty and virtue were constant themes of praise among officers and
men in the Highland army. Having given her heart to Erick Dickson,
Helen Carnegie had accompanied him in the march from Edinburgh, after
the victory at Preston Pans--or Gladsmuir, as the Highlanders called
it--but her character was without reproach. Any man who had breathed a
word against her fair fame would have had a quick reckoning with
Erick.

Helen Carnegie was not yet nineteen, and perhaps her charms were not
fully developed, but she was very beautiful notwithstanding. Her
golden locks had first set the sergeant's heart on fire, and her
bright blue eyes had kept up the flame ever since. Yet, after all, her
exquisite figure was her greatest beauty. No nymph was ever more
gracefully proportioned than Helen, and no costume could have suited
her better than the one she adopted--the kilt being as long as a
petticoat, while a plaid shawl was thrown over her knee when she was
on horseback. The blue bonnet that crowned her golden locks was
adorned with a white cockade.

Such was the little party that had entered Salford, and they all
seemed much amused by the curiosity they excited.

Leaving them on their way to the bridge, it may now be proper to
inquire what had brought them thither.

At Preston, on the previous evening, Sergeant Dickson came up to the
Chevalier de Johnstone, his commanding officer, and aide-de-camp to
Lord George Murray, lieutenant-general of the Highland army, and
saluting him, said:

"May I have a word with you, colonel? I have been beating about
Preston for recruits all day without getting one, and I am the more
vexed, because the other sergeants have been very lucky."

"You ought to have taken Helen Carnegie with you, Erick," said Colonel
Johnstone, laughing.

"That's exactly what I propose to do, colonel," said Dickson. "I've
come to ask your honour's permission to set out an hour before dawn
to-morrow for Manchester, and so get a day's march ahead of the army.
I shall then be able to secure some recruits."

"I cannot grant your request," rejoined Colonel Johnstone. "What would
you do alone in a strange town? You will be instantly taken
prisoner--if you are not killed."

"Your honour needn't alarm yourself about me," replied Erick, in a
wheedling voice, which, however, did not produce the desired effect.
"I know how to take care of myself. If I get leave to go I'll take
Helen Carnegie with me, and Rollo, the drummer."

Again the colonel shook his head.

"No, no, you mustn't think of it, Erick," he cried. "Go to your
quarters, and don't stir out again to-night."

Sergeant Dickson retired, resolved to disobey orders, feeling certain
the offence would be overlooked if he proved successful.

He therefore set out from Preston in good time next morning,
accompanied by Helen and Rollo.

We left them riding towards Salford Bridge, and when they were within
fifty yards of it, they came to a halt, and Rollo began to beat the
drum vigorously. The din soon brought a great number of persons round
them, who began to shout lustily, when the sergeant, judging the
fitting moment had arrived to commence operations, silenced the drum,
and doffing his plumed cap--his example being followed by his
companions--called out in a loud voice, "God save King James the
Third!"

Some cheers followed, but they were overpowered by angry outcries, and
several voices exclaimed, "Down with the rebels!"

Judging from these menacing expressions that he was likely to be
assailed, Erick, whose masculine visage had begun to assume a very
formidable expression, placed himself in front of Helen so as to
shield her from attack, and then hastily putting on his target, and
getting his blunderbuss ready for immediate use, he glared fiercely
round at the assemblage, roaring out:

"Keep off!--if ye wadna ha' the contents of this among ye."

Alarmed by his looks and gestures, the concourse held back; but only
for a few moments. Some of them tried to lay hands on Helen, but they
were baffled by the rapidity with which the sergeant wheeled round,
dashing them back, and upsetting half-a-dozen of them.

But he had instantly to defend himself from another attack, and this
he did with equal vigour and address, receiving all blows aimed at him
on his target, and pointing the blunderbuss at those who attempted to
seize him. However, he was careful not to fire, and shortly afterwards
gave the blunderbuss to Helen and drew his claymore.

Meantime, Rollo, who was a very courageous fellow, though he had not
the sergeant's activity, rendered what aid he could; but he was now
beginning to be sorely pressed on all sides.

The conflict had lasted two or three minutes without any disadvantage
to the sergeant, when several persons called upon him to yield. To
this summons he answered disdainfully that he had never yet yielded,
and never would, while his hand could grasp a sword.

"I have come to raise recruits for the yellow-haired laddie," he
cried. "Will none of you join me? Will none of you serve the prince?"

Some voices answered in the affirmative, but those who called out were
at a distance.

"Here, friends, here!" shouted Dickson, waving his claymore to them.
"I want recruits for the yellow-haired laddie. Ye ken weel whom I
mean."

"Ay, ay. We'll join!--we'll join!" cried twenty voices.

And the speakers tried to force their way toward Erick, but were
prevented by the Presbyterians in the crowd.

The tumult that ensued operated in the sergeant's favour, and enabled
him to keep his assailants at bay till assistance really arrived in
the shape of a band of some fifty or sixty Jacobites, mustered on the
instant, and headed by Tom Syddall.

  [Illustration: ERICK, WITH HELEN AND ROLLO, PROCLAIM KING JAMES AT
                 MANCHESTER
                 Page 99.]

It was now a scene of triumph and rejoicing. Since his opponents had
taken to flight, and he was so numerously supported, Sergeant Dickson
declared he would take possession of the town in the name of his
sovereign, King James the Third, and the proposition was received with
loud shouts. These shouts, with the continuous beating of the drum by
Rollo, soon brought large additions to the numbers friendly to the
Jacobite cause; and Dickson, with Helen by his side, and attended by
Syddall on foot, crossed the bridge at the head of a victorious host,
who made the air ring with their acclamations.




CHAPTER II.

THE PROCLAMATION AT THE CROSS.


On reaching the Cross, the sergeant placed himself in front of it, and
waiting for a few minutes till the concourse had gathered round him,
in a loud voice he proclaimed King James the Third. A tremendous shout
followed, accompanied by the waving of hats.

Among the spectators of this singular scene were Dr. Byrom and Beppy.
Being stationed at an open window, they were free from any annoyance
from the crowd.

Both were much struck by the sergeant's fine athletic figure and manly
features, but they were chiefly interested by Helen, whom Beppy
thought the prettiest creature she had ever beheld.

"Do look at her lovely golden locks, papa!" she said. "Don't you think
they would be completely spoiled by powder? And then her eyes!--how
bright they are! And her teeth!--how brilliantly white! I declare I
never saw an English beauty to compare with her."

"She certainly is exceedingly pretty," replied Dr. Byrom. "And there
is an air of freshness and innocence about her scarcely to be expected
in a girl circumstanced as she is, that heightens her beauty."

"She is as good as she is pretty, I am quite sure," said Beppy.

"I hope so," returned Dr. Byrom, rather gravely. "I will make some
inquiries about her."

"Never will I place faith in a physiognomy again, if hers proves
deceptive," cried Beppy.

Beppy, however, was not the only person bewitched by Helen.

When beheld at the Cross, the fair Scottish lassie electrified the
crowd, and many a youth lost his heart to her.

As soon as the proclamation had been made, Sergeant Dickson addressed
himself to the business on which he had come. Causing the drum to be
beaten, he made a brief speech, in which he urged all brave young men
who heard him to take up arms for their lawful sovereign, and help to
restore him to the throne.

"All who have a mind to serve his royal highness, Prince Charles, are
invited to come forward," he cried. "Five guineas in advance."

Many young men promptly responded to the call, and pressed towards the
sergeant, who still remained on horseback near the Cross, with Helen
beside him. Rollo, likewise, was close at hand, and kept constantly
drubbing away at the drum.

Helen gained as many recruits as the sergeant himself--perhaps more.
Her smile proved irresistible. When an applicant hesitated, a few
words from her decided him. Each name was entered in a book by the
sergeant, but the payment of the five guineas was necessarily deferred
until the arrival of Mr. Murray, the prince's secretary.

Altogether, a great deal of enthusiasm prevailed, and the sergeant had
good reason to be satisfied with the result of his advance-march from
Preston. He remained nearly half an hour at the Cross, and then
proceeded to the market-place, accompanied by all the new recruits,
and followed by an immense crowd.

As they passed the house at the windows of which Beppy Byrom and her
father were stationed, a momentary halt took place, during which Beppy
came forward, and waved her handkerchief to the Scottish damsel. Helen
bowed in acknowledgment with a grace peculiarly her own, and taking
off her bonnet, pointed significantly to the white cockade that decked
it.

"Will ye wear this, my bonnie young leddy, an I gie it ye?" she cried.

"Ay, that I will," replied Beppy.

Helen immediately rode up to the window, which she saw was quite
within reach, and detaching the ribbon from her bonnet gave it to her
admirer, who received it with every expression of delight, and
instantly proceeded to fix it upon her own breast.

"Ye are now bound to find a recruit for Prince Charlie, my bonnie
young leddy," said Helen, as she moved away amid the laughter and
cheers of the beholders.

Previously to this little occurrence, Dr. Byrom and his daughter had
been made acquainted with Helen's history by Tom Syddall, and had
learnt that her character was irreproachable.

"I hope I shall see her again," said Beppy. "I should like so much to
converse with her."

"Well, I make no doubt your wish can be gratified," said her father.
"I'll speak to Syddall, and he will bid her call upon you. But why do
you take so much interest in her?"

"I can't exactly tell," replied Beppy. "She seems to me to possess a
great many good qualities, and, at all events, I admire her romantic
attachment to her lover. Still, I don't think I should have been so
very much charmed with her if she hadn't been so exceedingly pretty.
And now you have the truth, papa."

"Good looks evidently go a long way with you, Beppy," said her father,
laughing.

"Indeed they do, papa. But now that the street has become clear, let
us go and speak to Tom Syddall."

The room from which they had viewed the proceedings at the Cross
formed the upper part of a draper's shop. Thanking the owner, they now
took their departure, and sought out Tom Syddall, whom they found at
his door. He readily undertook to send Helen Carnegie to Miss Byrom as
soon as the recruiting was over.

But the sergeant had a great deal to do, and did not care to part with
either of his companions.

He continued to parade the town for some hours, enlisting all who
offered themselves; and the number of the recruits soon exceeded a
hundred.

The authorities did not interfere with him--probably deeming it
useless to do so. Had they really surrendered the town they could not
have proved more submissive.




CHAPTER III.

FATHER JEROME.


Nothing had been heard of Sir Richard Rawcliffe since his sudden
flight, but Constance had no fears for his safety, for all danger was
over as soon as he got fairly out of Manchester.

But she looked forward to his return with an uneasiness such as she
had never before experienced. Her father loved her dearly--better than
any one else--for she was his only child. But he was of a violent
temper--easily offended, and by no means easily appeased, as she
herself had found, for she had more than once incurred his
displeasure, though for matters of very trifling import. From her
knowledge of his character, she could not doubt he would be
exceedingly angry that she had read the letter relating to Atherton
Legh, and though it would be easy to say nothing about it, she could
not reconcile herself to such a disingenuous course.

After some reflection, she determined to consult Father Jerome, and be
guided by his advice. Accordingly she sought a private conference with
him, and told him all that had occurred.

The priest listened to her recital with great attention, and then
said:

"I am glad you have spoken to me, daughter. If the matter is mentioned
to Sir Richard it must be by me--not by you. It would trouble him
exceedingly to think you are acquainted with this secret. He would
blame himself for committing the papers to your care, and he would
blame you for reading them."

"I have only read a single letter, father, as I have explained to
you."

"That I quite understand; but I fear Sir Richard will suspect you have
indulged your curiosity to a greater extent."

"My father will believe what I tell him," said Constance, proudly.

"'Tis better not to give him so much annoyance if it can be helped,"
rejoined the priest; "and though frankness is generally desirable,
there are occasions when reticence is necessary. This is one of them.
Have you the packet with you?"

"Yes, 'tis here," she replied, producing it.

"Give it me," he cried, taking it from her. "I will restore it to Sir
Richard. He will then say nothing more to you. But mark me!" he added,
gravely, "the secret you have thus accidentally obtained must be
strictly kept. Breathe it to no one. And now I must not neglect to
caution you on another point. Yesterday I saw this young man--this
Atherton Legh--of whom we have just been speaking. He is very
handsome, and well calculated to inspire regard in the female breast.
I trust you have no such feeling for him."

"Father," she replied, blushing deeply, "I will hide nothing from you.
I love him."

"I grieve to hear the avowal," he said. "But you must conquer the
passion--'twill be easy to do so in the commencement. Sir Richard
would never consent to your union with an obscure adventurer. I
therefore forbid you in your father's name to think further of the
young man. Any hopes you may have indulged must be crushed at once."

"But I cannot--will not treat him in this way, father."

"I charge you to dismiss him. Recollect you are the daughter and
heiress of Sir Richard Rawcliffe. You have committed a great
imprudence: but the error must be at once repaired. Disobedience to my
injunctions would be as culpable as disobedience to your father, whom
I represent. Again I say the young man must be dismissed."

Before she could make any answer, the door opened, and the very person
in question entered, accompanied by Monica.

"He has come to receive his sentence," said the priest, in a low,
unpitying tone.

"Not now," she cried, with a supplicating look.

"Yes, now," he rejoined, coldly.

On this he went up to Monica, and telling her he had something to say,
led her out of the room, leaving Atherton and Constance alone
together.

"I fear I have come at a most inopportune moment," said the young man,
who could not fail to be struck by her embarrassment.

"You have come at the close of a very severe lecture which I have just
received from Father Jerome," she replied. "He blames me for the
encouragement I have given you, and forbids me, in my father's name,
to see you again."

"But you do not mean to obey him?" cried Atherton. "Surely you will
not allow him to exercise this control over you? He is acting without
authority."

"Not entirely without authority, for my father is guided by his advice
in many things. This must be our last interview."

"Oh! say not so. You drive me to despair. Give me some hope--however
slight. May I speak to Sir Richard?"

"'Twould be useless," she replied, sadly. "Father Jerome has convinced
me that he never would consent to our union. No, we must part--part
for ever!"

"You have pronounced my doom, and I must submit. Oh! Constance--for I
will venture to call you so for one moment--I did not think you could
have so quickly changed!"

"My feelings towards you are unaltered," she rejoined. "But I am
obliged to put a constraint upon them. We must forget what has
passed."

"The attempt would be vain on my part," cried Atherton, bitterly. "Oh!
Constance, if you knew the anguish I now endure you would pity me. But
I will not seek to move your compassion--neither will I reproach
you--though you have raised up my hopes only to crush them. Farewell!"

"Stay--one moment!" she cried. "I may never have an explanation with
you----"

"I do not want an explanation," he rejoined. "I can easily understand
why Father Jerome has given you this counsel. So long as a mystery
attaches to my birth, he holds that I have no right to pretend to your
hand. That is his opinion. That would be Sir Richard's opinion."

"No, it could not be my father's opinion," she cried.

"Why do you think so?" he exclaimed, eagerly.

She was hesitating as to the answer she should give him, when the
priest reappeared. He was alone.

"You are impatient for my departure, sir," said Atherton. "But you
need not be uneasy. Miss Rawcliffe has followed your advice. All is at
an end between us."

With a farewell look at Constance, he then passed out.




CHAPTER IV.

GENERAL SIR JOHN MACDONALD.


Towards evening, on the same day, Lord Pitsligo's regiment of horse,
commanded by General Sir John MacDonald--Lord Pitsligo, owing to his
age and infirmities, being compelled to occupy the prince's
carriage--entered the town.

The two divisions of the Highland army were left respectively at Wigan
and Leigh. Lord Pitsligo's regiment, though its numbers were small,
scarcely exceeding a hundred and fifty, made a very good show, being
composed chiefly of gentlemen--all wearing their national costume, and
all being tolerably well mounted.

General MacDonald had ordered the official authorities to meet him at
the Cross, and he found the two constables waiting for him there; but
an excuse was made for the boroughreeve. The general demanded quarters
for ten thousand men to be ready on the morrow, when the prince would
arrive with the army, and immediate accommodation for himself, his
officers, and men; intimating that his followers must not be treated
like common troopers.

Declaring that they acted on compulsion, the constables, who were very
much awed by Sir John's manner, promised compliance with his
injunctions. They recommended him to take up his quarters for the
night at the Bull's Head, and undertook that the Highland gentlemen
composing the troop should be well lodged.

Satisfied with this promise, General MacDonald rode on to the
market-place, attended by his officers, while the troopers were
billeted without delay under the direction of the constables and their
deputies.

It may be thought that the arrival of this regiment--one of the best
in the Highland army--would have created a much greater sensation than
the trivial affair of the morning. But such was not the case. Sergeant
Dickson, being first in the field, gained all the glory. The popular
excitement was over. No shouting crowds followed General MacDonald to
the Black Bull, and the streets were almost empty, as the troopers
were billeted.

Later on, the all-important bellman was sent round to give notice that
quarters for ten thousand men would be required next day. At the same
time a fresh prohibition was issued against the removal of provisions.

Among the few whose curiosity took them to the neighbourhood of the
Cross to witness the new arrival, were Beppy and her father. They were
joined by Atherton Legh, who had been wandering about in a very
disconsolate state ever since his parting with Constance.

Remarking that he looked very much dejected, Beppy inquired the cause,
and easily ascertained the truth; and as she regarded Constance in the
light of a rival, she was not sorry that a misunderstanding had
occurred between them. Naturally, she did her best to cheer the young
man, and though she could not entirely cure his wounded feelings, she
partially succeeded.

From the Cross the little party proceeded to the marketplace, and as
they drew near the Bull's Head they were surprised to see Sir Richard
Rawcliffe, who had evidently just alighted, and was conversing with
General MacDonald at the entrance to the inn. No sooner did the
baronet descry Dr. Byrom than he called to him, and presented him to
the general, who shook hands with him very cordially.

But Sir Richard's conduct towards Atherton was marked by great
rudeness, and he returned the young man's salutation in a very distant
and haughty fashion, and as if he scarcely recognised him.

"Apparently Sir Richard has quite forgotten the important service you
rendered him," remarked Beppy, who could not help noticing the slight.

Deeply mortified, Atherton would have turned away, but she induced him
to remain, and shortly afterwards he was brought forward unexpectedly.

General MacDonald being much struck by his appearance, inquired his
name, and on hearing it exclaimed:

"Why this is the young man who delivered you from arrest, Sir Richard.
Have you nothing to say to him?"

"I have already thanked him," replied the baronet, coldly. "And he
shall not find me ungrateful."

"Zounds! you have a strange way of showing your gratitude."

Atherton could not help hearing these observations, and he immediately
stepped up and said with great haughtiness:

"I have asked no favour from you, Sir Richard, and will accept none."

The baronet was so confounded that he could make no reply. Bowing to
General MacDonald, Atherton was about to retire, but the other stopped
him.

"There is one thing you will accept from Sir Richard, I am sure," he
said, "and that is an apology, and I hope he will make you a handsome
one for the rudeness with which he has treated you."

"I cannot discuss private matters in public, Sir John," said
Rawcliffe. "But from what I have heard since my return--and I have
called at my sister's house and seen Father Jerome--I think I have
good reason to complain of Mr. Atherton Legh's conduct."

"I must bear what you have said in silence, Sir Richard, and with such
patience as I can," rejoined Atherton. "But you have no reason to
complain of my conduct."

"I am certainly of that opinion, and I happen to know something of the
matter," observed Dr. Byrom. "I think Mr. Atherton Legh has behaved
remarkably well."

"Cannot the matter be adjusted?" asked General MacDonald.

"Impossible," replied Sir Richard. "And I am sure you will agree with
me, Sir John, when I give you an explanation in private."

"But you are bound to state, Sir Richard," said Dr. Byrom, "that Mr.
Atherton Legh's conduct has been in no respect unbecoming a
gentleman."

"That I am quite willing to admit," rejoined the baronet.

"And with that admission I am satisfied," observed Atherton.

"'Tis a thousand pities the difference, whatever it may be, cannot be
amicably arranged," said the general; "but since that appears
impracticable, 'twill be best to let the matter drop."

Then turning to Dr. Byrom, he added, "Am I wrong, doctor, in supposing
that the young lady standing near us is your daughter. If so, pray
present me to her."

Dr. Byrom readily complied, and Sir John seemed delighted by the zeal
which the fair damsel displayed in the Jacobite cause.

"I see you already wear the white rose," he said, glancing at the
favour which she had pinned on her breast.

"It was given me by Helen Carnegie," replied Beppy.

"And you needn't scruple to wear it, for she is as honest and
true-hearted a lassie as ever breathed," said Sir John. "I know all
about her. Though she has been exposed to many temptations, her
character is quite irreproachable."

"You hear what General MacDonald says, papa?" cried Beppy. "It
confirms the good opinion I had formed of her. She seems to me to
possess a great many good qualities, and at all events I admire her
romantic attachment to her lover. Still, I don't think I should have
been so very much charmed with her if she hadn't been so exceedingly
pretty."

"Ay, there's her danger," cried Sir John. "But I trust she will come
to no harm. I hear Sergeant Dickson has brought her with him in his
advance-march. 'Tis a bold step."

"But it has proved successful," said Beppy. "They have gained more
than a hundred recruits."

At this moment the beating of a drum was heard, followed by a shout
that seemed to proceed from the direction of Market Street Lane, a
thoroughfare which turned out of the market-place on the left near the
Exchange.

Immediately afterwards Sergeant Dickson and his companions made their
appearance, followed by a great number of young men, all of whom
turned out to be volunteers.

As soon as Dickson became aware of the arrival of Sir John MacDonald,
he led his large company of recruits towards the inn, and drawing them
up in front of the house, dismounted and presented himself to the
general.

Helen alighted at the same time, but did not come forward.

While this movement took place, all the officers had issued from the
court-yard, and collected near their leader.

"Well, Dickson," cried MacDonald, glancing at the band of young men
drawn up before him. "Are these your recruits?"

"They are, general," replied the sergeant, proudly. "And I trust
Colonel Johnstone will be satisfied with me."

"You have done well, that's certain," said Sir John. "But, to speak
truth, how many of these fine young fellows do you owe to Helen?"

"I can't tell, general. 'Tis enough for me that they've agreed to
serve King James."

"Nay, then, I must question her."

At a sign from the sergeant, Helen left her horse with Rollo, and
stepping forward, made Sir John a military salute.

She had now thrown off the plaid shawl which she had worn while on
horseback, so that the exquisite symmetry of her lower limbs, set off
by the tartan hose, was revealed. Her tiny feet were almost hidden by
the buckles in her shoes.

Beppy gazed at her with admiration, and thought she looked even better
than she had done on horseback. But she had other and more ardent
admirers than Miss Byrom. Among the officers was a Captain Lindsay, a
very handsome young man, who had long been desperately enamoured of
her, but had managed to constrain his passion. He now kept his eyes
constantly fixed upon her, and strove--though vainly--to attract her
attention. Whenever Helen met his ardent glances, she turned aside her
gaze.

"Aweel, Helen," cried MacDonald; "I have been congratulating the
sergeant on his success. But I think he mainly owes it to you, lassie.
A blink o' your bonnie blue een has done more than all his fair
speeches."

"You are mista'en, general," replied Helen. "I may have gained a
dizen, but not mair."

"You do yourself an injustice, lassie. Half those brave lads belong to
you."

"I could tell you how many she enlisted at the Cross, for I was
present at the time," remarked Beppy.

"Then you must needs tell the general that I enlisted yerself, fair
leddy, and that ye promised to find me a recruit," said Helen.

"And so I will," said Beppy. "Can I do aught more for you?"

"Give me a few yards of blue and white ribbon to make cockades, and I
will thank you heartily," rejoined Helen.

"Come home with me, and you shall have as much ribbon as you require,
and I will help you to make the cockades," said Beppy.

"You cannot refuse that offer, Helen," remarked General MacDonald.

"I am na like to refuse it," was the rejoinder. "The young leddy is
ower gude."

Helen then consulted the sergeant, who signified his assent, upon
which she told Beppy she was ready to go with her. Excusing herself to
the general, Beppy then took her father's arm, and they set off for
the doctor's residence, accompanied by the Scottish damsel.




CHAPTER V.

HELEN CARNEGIE'S STORY.


After Helen Carnegie had partaken of some refreshment, and drunk a
glass of mead, with which she was mightily pleased, she went with
Beppy to the young lady's boudoir, where a basket full of blue and
white ribbons was found upon the work-table, and they sat down
together to make cockades--chatting merrily as they proceeded with
their task.

By this time the frank Scottish lassie had become quite confidential
with her new friend, and had told her simple story--explaining that
she was merely a husbandman's daughter, and had passed eighteen
summers and winters among the hills near Ruthven. She had first seen
Sergeant Erick Dickson at Perth, when the Highland army came there. He
had wooed her and won her heart, but she refused to wed him till the
fighting was over. She afterwards saw him at Edinburgh, after the
battle of Gladsmuir, and he pressed her so strongly to accompany him
on the march to England that she consented. She had suffered far less
than might have been expected from the fatigues of the long march, and
thought she was now quite as strong and as able to endure hardship as
Erick himself.

"You may blame me for the bold step I have taken, dear young leddy,"
she said, "and I ken fu' weel it was imprudent, but as yet I have had
no cause to repent it. I loo'd Erick dearly, an' didna like to pairt
wi' him. Sae I ha' ridden by his side a' the way frae Edinburgh to
this toon, and shall gae on wi' him to Lunnon, if the prince should
gang sae far, as Heaven grant he may! To a young leddy like yersel,
siccan a life as I hae led wadna be possible, but to a mountain lassie
there's nae hardship in it, but great enjoyment. Everywhere on the
march, sin we crossed the Border, the Southrons hae shown me kindness.
'Twas only to ask and have. Never have I wanted a night's lodging. As
to Erick, you will readily guess how carefully he has tented me. But
he has never neglected his duty, and I have helped him to discharge it
as far as I could. Our love has been tried, and has stood the test,
and is now stronger than ever. Loosome as ye are, young leddy, ye must
needs hae a lover, and I trust he may prove as fond and faithful as
Erick. Then you'll never regret your choice."

"I thank you for the good wish, Helen," said Beppy, smiling. "But I
have no lover."

"I canna believe it. I'm much mista'en if I didna see a weel-faur'd
callant cast lovin' een upon ye in the marketplace just now. He wasna
far off when the general spoke to me.

"Mr. Atherton Legh, I suppose you mean?" observed Beppy, blushing.

"Ay, that's his name. I heard the general ca' him sae."

"And so you have no fault to find with your lover?" said Beppy,
anxious to change the subject.

"Fawt!--nane!" exclaimed Helen. "Erick hasna a fawt."

"Is he never jealous?"

"Aweel, I canna deny that he is a wee bit jealous, if ye ca' that a
fawt; but his jealousy only proves his love. I should be jealous mysel
if he talked to the lasses."

"But do you talk to the lads, Helen?"

"My certie, na! but ther win talk to me, and that makes Erick angry
sometimes. But I soon laugh it off."

"Well, if it's nothing more serious than that it doesn't signify,"
said Beppy. "You can't prevent the young men from paying you
compliments, you know."

"And I maun be ceevil to them in return. But there's one person that
troubles me, and troubles Erick too--Captain Lindsay. He's an officer
in Lord Pitsligo's regiment. Maybe you noticed him?--a fine-looking
young man, taller than the rest; but weel-faur'd as he is, he's not to
compare with Erick."

"You always keep Captain Lindsay at a distance, I hope, Helen?"

"I do my best. I never listen to his saft nonsense. I never accept any
of the trinkets he offers me--but he winna be said."

"Continue to treat him coldly, and his assiduities will soon cease,"
observed Beppy.

"I'm not so sure of that. If he persists I fear there'll be mischief,
for he drives Erick furious."

"I hope it mayn't come to that, Helen," said Beppy, rather gravely.
"But much will depend on your discretion."

They then went on with their task in silence.

By this time they had made two or three dozen cockades, and when
nearly as many more were finished, Helen expressed surprise that Erick
had not come to fetch her.

"He promised to come for me in an hour," she said, "and it's now
gettin' late."

"Don't make yourself uneasy," replied Beppy. "He'll be here soon.
Where do you lodge to-night?"

"At the Angel in Market Street Lane. Why, there's a clock has just
struck nine. I must go. You'll please to excuse me, miss. I'll come
betimes to-morrow and help you to finish the cockades."

"Well, if you won't stay any longer, I'll send some one with you to
the Angel."

Helen declined the offer, saying she was not afraid to walk there by
herself.

"But are you sure you can find the way?"

"Quite sure," replied Helen.

And thanking the young lady for her kindness, she bade her good-night,
and took her departure.




CHAPTER VI.

CAPTAIN LINDSAY.


The moon shone brightly as Helen was crossing the churchyard, but she
had not gone far when she heard quick footsteps behind her, and
thinking it must be Erick she stopped.

It was not her lover, but a tall Highland officer, whom she instantly
recognised.

Surprised and alarmed at the sight, she would have fled, but Captain
Lindsay, for it was he, sprang forward, and seized her arm.

"Let me go, I insist, sir," she cried indignantly.

"Not till I have had a few words with you, Helen," replied the
captain. "I have been waiting an hour for you here. I found out that
Miss Byrom had taken you home with her, so I kept watch near the door
of the house for your coming forth. Erick, I knew, couldn't interrupt
us, for I had contrived to get him out of the way."

"He shall hear of your base design, sir," she cried, looking round for
help. But she could see no one in the churchyard.

"Listen to me, Helen," said Captain Lindsay. "I am so passionately in
love that I would make any sacrifice for you. You must and shall be
mine!"

"Never!" she cried, struggling vainly to get free. "I am plighted to
Erick, as ye ken fu' weel, and think you I wad break my vow to him?
and for you, whom I hate!"

"Hate me or not, you shall be mine!" he cried. "Listen to reason, you
foolish girl. Erick cannot love you as I love you."

"He loves me far better--but I dinna mind that."

"If you wed him, you will only be a poor soldier's wife. With me you
will have wealth and luxury."

"Ye are merely wastin' yer breath, sir," she cried. "A' your arguments
have no effect on me. Were you to fill my lap with gowd, I wad fling
it from me wi' scorn. I care na for wealth and luxury--I care only for
Erick."

"To the devil with him!" cried Captain Lindsay, fiercely. "You are
enough to drive one mad. If you won't yield to persuasion, you shall
yield to force. Mine you shall be, whether you will or not."

"And he would have clasped her in his arms, but she seized the dirk
which hung from his girdle and held it to his breast.

"Release me instantly, or I will plunge this to your heart," she
cried.

The energy with which she spoke left no doubt that she would execute
her threat, and the baffled captain set her free.

At this moment assistance came. Erick could be seen hurrying towards
them from the further side of the churchyard.

As soon as Helen perceived him she flung the dirk at Captain Lindsay's
feet, and flew to meet her lover.

"What's the matter, lass?" cried the sergeant. "Has the villain
insulted you? If he has, he shall pay for it wi' his life."

"Na! na!" cried Helen, stopping him. "Ye shall na gae near him.
There'll be mischief. You should ha' come sooner, Erick, and then this
wadna ha' happened."

"I could na come afore, lassie," replied the sergeant. "I now see the
trick that has been played me by this cunning villain; but he shall
rue it."

"Ye shall na stay anither minute in this unchancy kirkyard," cried
Helen, forcing him away with her.

Just as they went out at the gate, Helen cast a look back at Captain
Lindsay, and saw him still standing, as if stupefied, on the spot
where she had left him. He had not even picked up the dirk, for she
could distinguish it glittering in the moonlight at his feet.




CHAPTER VII.

A RESIDENCE IS CHOSEN FOR THE PRINCE.


At an early hour on the following morning, a carriage drawn by four
strong horses, and attended by a mounted guard, entered the town.

It contained four persons, all of a certain importance. Chief among
them was Lord Pitsligo, than whom no one in the Highland army was more
beloved and respected. The venerable Scottish nobleman was in full
military costume, and would have ridden at the head of his regiment,
had not his infirm state of health prevented him.

The next person whom we shall mention was Mr. John Murray of
Broughton, a gentleman of great ability, who acted as the prince's
secretary and treasurer, and managed all his royal highness's affairs
extremely well. Mr. Murray had a sharp intelligent countenance, and
wore a suit of brown velvet with a tie-wig.

Opposite to him sat the prince's tutor and adviser, Sir Thomas
Sheridan, one of the numerous Irish gentlemen who had attached
themselves to the cause of the Stuarts. Sir Thomas, who was a strict
Roman Catholic, exercised almost as much influence over the prince as
Father Petre once did over the prince's grandsire, James the Second.

Next to Sir Thomas sat a very brilliant personage, wearing a rich suit
of sky-blue cloth trimmed with silver, laced ruffles, a laced cravat,
and a three-cornered hat, likewise laced with silver. This was the
Marquis d'Eguilles, an envoy from Louis the Fifteenth, who had brought
over a large sum of money and nearly three thousand stand of arms from
his royal master. The marquis had the refined and graceful manner of a
French courtier of the period, and carried a diamond snuff-box, which
was always at the service of his companions.

As the persons we have described crossed the bridge, they looked with
some interest at the town they were just entering, and bowed in return
for the shouts of the crowd, who had rushed out to greet them.

Seeing such a large and handsome equipage attended by an escort, the
townspeople naturally supposed it must be the prince himself, and when
they found out their mistake, they did not shout quite so loudly.

The carriage drove to the market-place, where Lord Pitsligo and the
others descended at the Bull's Head. A substantial repast had been
prepared for them by order of Sir John MacDonald, to which they at
once sat down.

Before breakfast was over, Colonel Townley arrived, and at once joined
the party. Several Jacobites likewise repaired to the inn and
volunteered their services to Mr. Secretary Murray, who received them
very affably, and introduced them to Lord Pitsligo.

Amongst the new-comers were Dr. Deacon and Dr. Byrom. Mr. Murray's
first business was to find a suitable residence for the prince during
his stay in the town, and after consulting the two gentlemen we have
named, he went out attended by Colonel Townley, the Marquis
d'Eguilles, Sir Thomas Sheridan, and Dr. Byrom, to inspect the
principal mansions in the place. Half a dozen soldiers went with them
to keep back the crowd.

They first proceeded to Deansgate, where they examined a large house
belonging to Mr. Touchet, one of the chief merchants of the place; but
this was deemed unsuitable, being partly used as a warehouse, and was
therefore assigned to Lord Elcho.

Mr. Floyd's house, near St. Ann's Square, was next visited; a handsome
mansion, ornamented with pilasters, having a Belvidere on the summit,
and approached by a noble flight of steps, but it did not entirely
satisfy Mr. Murray, so he allotted it to Lord Pitsligo and Lord George
Murray.

The next mansion inspected was Mr. Croxton's, in King Street, a large
building converted at a later period into the town-hall. Here quarters
were found for Lord Balmerino, Lord Kilmarnock, and Lord Strathallan.

Mr. Marriott's house, in Brown-street, was assigned to the Earl of
Kelly and Lord Ogilvy; Mr. Gartside's mansion was appropriated to the
Duke of Perth; and a fine house in Market Street Lane, occupied by Mr.
Marsden, was allotted to the Marquis of Tullibardine and Lord Nairne.

Good quarters having thus been provided for all the principal
personages in the Highland army, there remained only the prince; and
at length Mr. Dickenson's house, in Market Street Lane, was fixed upon
as affording fitting head-quarters for his royal highness.

The mansion, one of the best in the town, was built of red brick, in
the formal taste of the period. Still, it was large and commodious,
and contained some handsome apartments. Standing back from the street,
it had a paved court in front surrounded by iron railings, and a lofty
flight of steps led to the doorway.

A glance at the internal arrangements decided Mr. Murray in his
choice, and he gave orders that the house should be immediately
prepared for the prince.

Some of the houses selected for the Jacobite leaders, we believe, are
still in existence, but Mr. Dickenson's mansion has been pulled down.
After its occupation by the prince at the memorable period in
question, it was always known as "The Palace."

Perfectly satisfied with the arrangements he had made, Mr. Murray left
his companions behind, and took his way down Market Street Lane, then
a narrow, but extremely picturesque thoroughfare, and abounding in
ancient habitations.




CHAPTER VIII.

INTERVIEW BETWEEN SECRETARY MURRAY AND THE MAGISTRATES.


In front of the Angel Inn, over the doorway of which hung a flag, a
number of young men were assembled, each being distinguished by a
white cockade. On horseback in the midst of these recruits were
Sergeant Dickson, Helen Carnegie, and Rollo.

Halting for a moment to give some instructions to the sergeant and
congratulate him on his success, Mr. Murray passed on to the
market-place, where a large concourse was collected. Cheers greeted
the party, and attended them to the Bull's Head, at the door of which
two sentries were now stationed.

On entering the inn, Mr. Murray was informed by Diggles that the
magistrates were waiting to see him; and he was then conducted to a
room on the ground floor, in which he found Mr. Walley and Mr. Fowden.

Courteously saluting them, he begged them to be seated at a table
placed in the centre of the room, furnished them with a list of the
houses he had selected, and, after they had examined it, he proceeded
to give them some further directions as to the arrangements necessary
to be made for the prince.

"His royal highness will not dine till a late hour," he said. "Only
the Duke of Perth, Lord George Murray, the Marquis of Tullibardine,
Lord Pitsligo, the Marquis d'Eguilles, Sir Thomas Sheridan, and myself
will have the honour of dining with him. The repast must be served in
private."

The magistrates bowed.

"Another sumptuous repast, with the choicest wines you can procure,
must be prepared at seven o'clock for forty of the principal
officers."

Again the magistrates bowed.

"We will do our best to content the prince," said Mr. Fowden. "As
regards the houses mentioned in this list, those for whom they have
been chosen will find them ready for their reception. For how many
men, may we ask, will quarters be required?"

"For five thousand; and rations for the like number. But the
commanding officer, on his arrival, will give you precise orders, in
obedience to which you will furnish the quarter-masters and adjutants
with the necessary warrants. Another important matter must be attended
to. As the prince's treasurer, I require that all persons connected
with the excise, and all innkeepers, shall forthwith bring me the full
amount of their imposts, and all moneys in their hands belonging to
the Government--on pain of military execution."

"Public notice to that effect shall immediately be given," said Mr.
Fowden; "but should the innkeepers or any others prove remiss we must
not be blamed for their negligence."

"All defaulters will be shot to-morrow. Make that known," said Mr.
Murray. "I trust, gentlemen," he added, rising, "that due honour will
be done to the prince on his arrival."

"It would be inconsistent with the office we hold, and might expose us
to serious consequences, were we to give orders for public
rejoicings," said Mr. Fowden; "but we will take care the town shall be
illuminated and bonfires lighted."

"That is all I could require from you, gentlemen. On the arrival of
the prince, if you will attend at head-quarters, I shall have the
honour of presenting you to his royal highness."

"We are fully sensible of the great honour intended us," said the
magistrates, hesitating; "but----"

"I see, gentlemen. You are afraid of compromising yourselves,"
remarked Mr. Murray, smiling. "Make yourselves quite easy. I have a
device that will obviate all difficulty. A silk curtain shall be hung
across the audience-chamber. Of course you won't know who may be
behind the curtain--though you may guess."

"An excellent plan," cried the magistrates.

Bowing ceremoniously to the secretary, they then withdrew.




CHAPTER IX.

ARRIVAL OF THE FIRST DIVISION OF THE HIGHLAND ARMY. LORD GEORGE
MURRAY.


Shortly after the departure of the magistrates, the bells of all the
churches in the town began to ring joyously, and were soon answered by
loud and merry peals from the only church on the other side of the
Irwell.

Summoned by this exhilarating clamour, multitudes flocked into the
streets, decked in holiday attire, and most of them crossed the bridge
into Salford in expectation of witnessing the entrance of the Highland
army.

The weather was most propitious. Never was finer day seen in November,
and the bright sunshine diffused general gaiety and good-humour among
the concourse.

Good-looking damsels predominated in the crowd--Manchester has always
been noted for female beauty--and they were all exceedingly curious to
behold the handsome young prince and the Scottish chiefs.

There was a great deal of talk about the Insurrection of '15, but this
was chiefly among the older people, for as the first rising took place
before the young folks were born, they could not be expected to feel
much interest in it.

It may seem strange that the approach of the much-dreaded Highlanders
should not have caused alarm, but by this time the inhabitants
generally had got over their fears, and were disposed to welcome the
insurgents as friends, and not treat them as enemies.

Among the fair sex, as we have said, the youth, courage, romantic
character, and good looks of the prince excited the greatest interest
and sympathy. Whatever the men might be, the women were all Jacobites.

Meanwhile, the bells continued to peal joyfully, and multitudes
crossed into Salford, and stationed themselves on either side of the
main street, through which it was expected the prince and the army
would pass.

Everything looked bright and gay, and everybody--except a few moody
Presbyterians--appeared happy.

On the summit of the lofty tower of the collegiate church floated a
large standard fashioned of white, red, and blue silk. This broad
banner, which attracted great attention from the concourse, had been
placed in its present conspicuous position by the management of Tom
Syddall.

The patience of the large crowd assembled in Salford was somewhat
sorely tried. Those who had secured good places for the spectacle did
not like to leave them, and they had nothing to do but talk and jest
with each other; but at length the shrill notes of the bagpipes
proclaimed that the Highlanders were at hand, and the trampling of
horse was heard.

First to appear was a troop of horse commanded by Lord Strathallan.
This was quickly followed by a regiment of Highlanders, with their
pipers marching in front.

The sight of these fine, stalwart men, in their picturesque garb, each
armed with firelock, claymore, and dirk, and bearing a target on his
shoulder, caused the greatest excitement among the beholders, who
cheered them lustily as they marched on.

The regiment was commanded by Lord George Murray, one of the most
distinguished and important persons in the prince's service, who had
been created a lieutenant-general of the Highland army. He was a
younger brother of the Marquis of Tullibardine. Lord George was not
young, as will be understood, when it is mentioned that he was
concerned in the outbreak of 1715; but he was still in the prime of
life, undoubtedly the boldest and ablest leader in the rebel forces,
and the one best able to direct the movements of the present campaign;
but though he was a prominent member of the council, his advice was
rarely taken, owing to the bluntness of his manner, which was highly
displeasing to the prince, as well as to several of his royal
highness's advisers.

In this respect Lord George offered a marked contrast to his rival the
courtly Duke of Perth, of whom we shall have occasion to speak anon.

Lord George Murray was tall, powerfully built, and possessed great
personal strength. A thorough soldier, of undaunted courage, and
capable of undergoing any amount of fatigue, he was unpopular from his
rough and somewhat contemptuous manner. His character could be easily
read in his haughty demeanour and strongly marked countenance. Lord
George was attended by his aide-de-camp, the Chevalier de Johnstone.
As he rode along and eyed the crowd on either side, his stern glance
struck terror into many a breast.




CHAPTER X.

THE DUKE OF PERTH.


Nairne's Athole men came next, and were followed by other fine
Highland regiments, respectively commanded by General Gordon of
Glenbucket, Lord Ogilvy of Strathmore, and Roy Stuart. Each regiment
had two captains, two lieutenants, and two ensigns.

Next came a troop of light cavalry, under the command of Lord
Balmerino; and then followed Lord Kilmarnock's hussars with the
baggage and artillery.

The train of artillery consisted of sixteen field-pieces, two waggons
laden with powder, and a great number of sumpter-horses.

This division of the Highland army was commanded by the Duke of Perth,
whose presence excited general admiration.

Both the Duke and his aide-de-camp, who rode beside him, were
remarkably well mounted, and both perfect horsemen.

Among the many Scottish nobles who had determined to share the
fortunes of Prince Charles Edward, none could compare in personal
appearance and deportment with James Lord Drummond, third titular Duke
of Perth. The duke's courtesy, refined manners, and unfailing good
temper, rendered him popular with all. Though not so thorough a
soldier as Lord George Murray, he was equally brave, and in brilliant
qualities far surpassed him.

Between these two distinguished personages a great rivalry existed. No
member of the council possessed so much influence with the prince as
the Duke of Perth, and the favour shown his rival often caused great
umbrage to Lord George Murray, who did not care to conceal his
resentment.

The duke had warm friends in Secretary Murray and Sir Thomas Sheridan,
so that his position as first favourite was unassailable, certainly by
Lord George.

The duke, who was in the very prime of manhood, being only just turned
thirty, was grandson of the Earl of Perth, created duke by James the
Second on his retirement to France.

Nothing could be more striking than the effect produced by these clan
regiments as they marched through Salford on that morning, the
different hues of the plaids worn by each corps giving variety and
colour to the picture, while the sinewy frames, fierce countenances,
and active movements of the men inspired a certain feeling akin to
fear among the beholders, which the war-like notes of the bagpipe did
not tend to diminish.

The front ranks of each regiment were composed of gentlemen, whose
arms and equipments were superior to those of the others, causing them
to look like officers; but they had no rank. All the men were in good
spirits, and seemed as if victory lay before them.

Regiment after regiment marched over the bridge, with the sun shining
brightly on their picturesque dresses, and glittering on their
firelocks and arms--with their colours and pipes playing--bells
pealing, and spectators shouting loudly, producing a most
extraordinarily animating effect.

Scarcely less striking was it as the Highlanders marched through the
town and drew up in St. Ann's Square.

Completely filled by these clan regiments, the large area presented a
picture such as it has never since exhibited.

But a scene of a very different kind was being enacted at the same
time. While these armed men were gathering in front of the church, a
sad ceremonial took place in the churchyard.

A grave had been opened to receive the remains of a respected
inhabitant of the town, and the last rites were then being performed
by Mr. Lewthwaite, who proceeded as calmly as circumstances would
permit.

But other mourners than those expected gathered round the grave as the
coffin was lowered into it--Highland officers bare-headed, and
noticeable for their respectful demeanour.

The Highland regiments did not remain long in St. Ann's Square. Having
received their billets, the men were taken to their lodgings by the
quarter-masters. The artillery and baggage-waggons proceeded to Castle
Field, where a park was formed, and strongly guarded.




CHAPTER XI.

ARRIVAL OF THE SECOND DIVISION.


Multitudes of people still remained in Salford, patiently awaiting the
arrival of the prince with the second division of the Highland army.

All the inmates of Mrs. Butler's dwelling, which, it will be
remembered, was situated at the upper end of the main street, had
witnessed the march past of the first division. Even the invalid lady
herself, who had not quitted the house for a lengthened period, and
could not do so now without considerable risk, came forth to see the
young prince.

Not being able to walk so far, she was carried out into the garden,
and placed near the gate, which was thrown open. From this position
she commanded the road, and could see all that was to be seen.

Near her stood Monica and Constance, both of whom were attired in
white dresses, with blue scarves, while in close attendance upon her
were her brother, Sir Richard Rawcliffe, Father Jerome, and Jemmy
Dawson.

Notwithstanding the excitement of the occasion, Constance looked
pensive and absent--her thoughts being occupied with Atherton Legh.
Very little conversation had taken place between her and her father,
since Sir Richard's return from Preston, and then only in the presence
of Father Jerome. All allusion to the young man had been studiously
avoided.

By this time Monica had quite shaken off her fears, and when the
stirring spectacle commenced, and the clan regiments marched past the
gate, her breast glowed with enthusiasm, and all her former ardour
returned. She thought no more of her lover's danger, but of the glory
he would win; and if he had held back, she would now have urged him
on.

But Jemmy required no spurring; he was eager to be an actor in such a
scene, and was anxiously expecting his promised commission.

As to Mrs. Butler, she looked on with mingled feelings. What memories
were awakened by the sight of those Highland regiments! The men looked
the same, wore the same garb, and bore the same arms as those she had
seen in former days. Yet the chiefs who had fought in the civil war of
1715, and their faithful clansmen, were all swept away. Were those who
had now taken their places destined to victory or defeat? She trembled
as she asked herself the question.

Many a glance was thrown at the fair damsels in the garden as the
young officers marched past, and frequent salutes were offered to Sir
Richard by those in command of the regiment, but no one halted except
the Duke of Perth, who paused to say a few words to him, and was
presented to the ladies--delighting them with his courteous manner.

Before the duke rode off, he told them that more than an hour would
elapse before the second division came up, and so it turned out.

During this interval, Mrs. Butler remained in the garden, and of
course the others did not leave her. Some slight refreshments, with
wine, were brought her by a man-servant from the house, and of these
she partook in order to support her strength, which she feared might
fail her. She listened anxiously for any sounds that might announce
the prince's approach, but it was long before he came.

At length the loud notes of the bagpipes were heard in the distance,
and soon afterwards a regiment of cavalry came up, commanded by Lord
Elcho, who carried his sword in his hand, as did the men. These were
the life-guards. Blue coats with red facings formed the uniform of the
troop. And the men wore gold-laced hats with white cockades in them.
Indeed, we may remark that all the officers and soldiers of the
Highland army wore white cockades in hat or bonnet.

The life-guards were soon gone, and then a personage appeared, upon
whom all eyes were fixed.




CHAPTER XII.

THE YOUNG CHEVALIER.


Attended by a dozen or more nobles and officers of high rank, all
dressed in blue coats faced with red, and wearing gold-laced hats,
marched with a light elastic step, that showed he was not in the
slightest degree fatigued, a tall, well-proportioned, fair-complexioned,
 handsome young man, of some five-and-twenty, dressed in a Highland
 garb, armed with a broadsword, and carrying a target on his shoulder.
 He wore no star upon his breast--no ornament of any kind--merely a
 white rose in his bonnet, and a blue silk scarf, yet his dignified
 and graceful deportment proclaimed at once that it was Prince Charles
 Edward.

The prince's frame was slight, but full of vigour. His features were
regular and delicately moulded, his complexion fair, and his eyes
bright and blue. His natural blonde locks would no doubt have become
him better than the flaxen-coloured peruke which he wore, though that
suited him. His expression was extremely amiable and engaging, and his
youth, grace, and good looks produced a most favourable impression
upon the beholders.

Charles Edward was preceded by a hundred Highland pipers, and as all
were playing vigorously, the din caused by them was astounding.

This handsome young prince, who, at the period of his introduction to
the reader, was full of romantic ardour and courage, and confident of
recovering the throne of his ancestors, was the eldest son of James
Stuart, known as the Chevalier de Saint George, and the Princess Maria
Sobieski. Perfect in all manly exercises, Prince Charles Edward
possessed powers of endurance that admirably fitted him for the
enterprize he had undertaken. His early years had been passed in
obscurity in Rome, but he had always cherished the thought of invading
England, and at last the opportunity presented itself.

Great efforts had been made by the Jacobite party in Paris to induce
the French monarch to aid in the restoration of the Stuart dynasty,
but without effect. However, when the celebrated Cardinal de Tencin
became first minister of state, he judged that a civil war in England
would be highly beneficial to France, and therefore invited Charles
Edward to repair to Paris.

Preparations, meanwhile, had been made to land an army of fifteen
thousand men in England under Field-Marshal Saxe, and it was arranged
that the prince should accompany the expedition as commander-in-chief.

The fleet set sail, but being dispersed by a violent tempest, suffered
so much loss that the project was abandoned.

But the hopes of the young prince were encouraged by the cardinal
minister, who said to him, "The king is averse to another expedition
after the disastrous result of the first. But why should you not go
alone, or with a few attendants, and land on the North of Scotland?
Your presence alone would revive your party, and create an army."

This advice was too much in accordance with the aspirations of the
brave and adventurous young prince not to be eagerly adopted.

Provided with money and arms by the cardinal, he set sail from
Dunquerque in July, 1745, in the Dentelle sloop of war, and after some
hazardous escapes, landed on the north-west coast of Scotland, where
he was met by Mr. Murray, who became his secretary and treasurer. His
standard having been reared, he was speedily joined by the MacDonalds,
the Camerons, and other Highland chiefs, the Duke of Perth, the
Marquis of Tullibardine, Lord Elcho, and Lord George Murray.

Having mustered an army of four thousand men, he marched on Perth, and
arrived there on the 3rd of September.

After a short stay at Perth, he proceeded at the head of his army to
Edinburgh, and the Scottish capital opened its gates to the grandson
of James the Second. Here he took possession of the palace of his
ancestors; caused his father to be proclaimed at the Cross by the
title of King James the Eighth of Scotland, and himself as Regent; and
after the ceremonial gave a splendid ball at Holyrood. At Edinburgh he
was joined by Lord Nairne with a thousand men.

On the 21st of September occurred the battle of Preston Pans, in which
Sir John Cope was completely routed. The news of the young Chevalier's
unlooked-for and decisive victory animated the Jacobites in every
quarter, greatly alarmed the English Government, and brought back
George the Second from Hanover.

Having received considerable reinforcements, the prince gave a troop
of horse to Lord Balmerino, and another to Lord Kilmarnock. Money and
arms also arrived most opportunely from France, and in one of the
vessels that brought these supplies came the Marquis d'Eguilles. The
court continued to be held at Holyrood, and the receptions were now
most brilliantly attended, especially by the fair sex.

Meanwhile, Marshal Wade having assembled an army at Newcastle, the
prince determined to cross the Border and give him battle.

Several of his council, among whom was Lord George Murray, sought to
dissuade him from his design, urging him to await the arrival of the
expected reinforcements from France; but no representations either of
difficulty or danger could induce the chivalrous prince to give up his
scheme, or even defer it.

He told his councillors that he saw they were determined to stay in
Scotland, and defend their own country; but he added, in a tone that
showed his resolution was taken, "I am not less determined to try my
fate in England, even though I should go alone."

On the last day of October he marched out of Edinburgh at the head of
an army of five thousand five hundred men. His first object was to
attack Carlisle, and as Marshal Wade had not advanced from Newcastle,
he did not anticipate an engagement with him.

Carlisle surrendered to the Duke of Perth, and on the 17th November,
Charles Edward made a triumphal entry into the city. At a council held
there, the prince, flushed by success, proposed to continue his march
to the metropolis, expressing a firm conviction that he should be
joined by a large party in Lancashire and Cheshire, while the Marquis
d'Eguilles felt equally confident that reinforcements would arrive
from France.

Some opposition to the plan was offered by Lord George Murray, who
affirmed that the Duke of Cumberland had assembled an army nearly
doubling in number that of his royal highness, which must be
encountered, and that Marshal Wade had made a demonstration for the
relief of Carlisle, but the advice was overruled.

Resuming his march, the prince passed through Lancaster, and arrived
with his whole army at Preston on the 26th. From Preston the Highland
army marched to Manchester, in two divisions, as related.

Rash as the young Chevalier's enterprise may appear, it is more than
probable that it would have been accomplished if he had received the
support he expected.

Before quitting Scotland he had received invitations and promises of
aid from many important Jacobite families in the northern counties;
and he had been led to believe that a general rising in his favour
would be made in Lancashire, Cheshire, and North Wales.

But he soon found these promises fallacious. Very few persons of
importance joined his standard, and no risings took place. He had
expected powerful reinforcements from France, but none arrived. Yet he
had advanced boldly and successfully, and though unaided, it appeared
not unlikely that he would achieve the daring project he had
conceived.

Hopes were still entertained by some of his counsellors that a large
number of volunteers would join at Manchester, and the warm reception
given him by the inhabitants as he approached the town, seemed to
warrant these expectations.

As the prince marched a few paces in front of his attendants, he was
at once distinguishable; but even if he had been mixed up with them,
his dignified deportment would have rendered him conspicuous.

Amongst the nobles and Highland chiefs who attended him were the
Marquis of Tullibardine, Glengarry, Ardshiel, Colonel Ker of Gradon,
and Colonel O'Sullivan.

Behind them came a body-guard of Highlanders.

The second division of the army consisted of regiments belonging to
the chiefs previously mentioned, but these regiments were now left to
the command of the officers, their leaders preferring to march on foot
with the prince. A troop of hussars under the command of Lord
Balmerino brought up the rear.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE PRINCE'S INTERVIEW WITH MRS. BUTLER AND THE TWO DAMSELS.


As the young Chevalier approached Mrs. Butler's residence, he chanced
to cast his eye into the garden--the gate of which, as we have said,
was standing wide open--and the charming group formed by the two
beautiful girls and the invalid lady attracted his attention.

Standing close beside them, he perceived Sir Richard Rawcliffe, whom
he had seen at Preston the day before.

On beholding the young Chevalier, Mrs. Butler rose from her chair, and
stepping forward, made him a profound obeisance.

Something in the earnest look fixed upon him by the invalid lady
interested the prince, and he could not resist the impulse that
prompted him to speak to her.

Accordingly he signified his intention to the Marquis of Tullibardine;
a halt was immediately called, the pipers ceased playing, while the
prince stepped out of the line, followed by that nobleman, and entered
the garden.

Nothing could exceed the surprise and delight caused by this gracious
act, not only to the object of it, but to the two fair damsels who
stood beside her. It may be thought that these lovely girls would have
attracted the prince to the garden rather than an elderly dame, but he
seemed scarcely aware of their presence till he was close beside them.

Instantly divining the prince's intention, Sir Richard Rawcliffe
presented his sister. Charles could not prevent her from kneeling, but
he immediately raised her, and remarking that she looked very faint,
conducted her, with much solicitude, to a seat.

He then turned to the two fair damsels, who were likewise presented to
him by Sir Richard, and received them with much grace and dignity.

Not till this moment did he become aware of Constance's surpassing
beauty, and he then remarked to her father:

"I was told that you had a lovely daughter, Sir Richard, but I did not
imagine she was so beautiful as I find her."

"Such praise coming from your royal highness will make her vain," said
the baronet.

"Nay, I meant not to call blushes to her cheek, though they do not
spoil it," said Charles. "But Miss Rawcliffe has another great merit
in my eyes besides her personal attractions. If I am not misinformed,
she is devoted to the royal cause."

"Heart and soul!" cried Constance, enthusiastically. "Your royal
highness has not a more zealous adherent than myself."

"I cannot doubt it. But I hoped you have proved your zeal by bringing
me a hundred swords."

"I have brought you one," she replied--"but it is worth a hundred."

"Ah! to whom does it belong?" inquired the prince, smiling.

"To a brave young man, whose name must be utterly unknown to your
royal highness--Mr. Atherton Legh."

"There you are mistaken. His name has been mentioned to me by Colonel
Townley, who described him--I have no doubt quite correctly--as the
finest young man in Manchester. Mr. Atherton Legh shall have a
commission on your recommendation, Miss Rawcliffe. You will present
him to me, Sir Richard."

"It will be better, perhaps, that Colonel Townley should present him
to your royal highness," said Sir Richard.

The reluctance displayed by the baronet did not escape the prince,
whose perceptions were very acute, but a glance at Constance served
partly to explain matters to him, and he remarked with apparent
indifference:

"Be it so;" adding significantly, "I shall not forget that I am
indebted to you, Miss Rawcliffe, for this brave young recruit."

It was now Jemmy Dawson's turn to be presented, and he had no cause to
complain of his reception. The few words said to him by the prince
were calculated to rouse his zeal, while they highly gratified Monica.

"I can claim as much credit as my cousin Constance," she said. "Each
of us has brought a recruit; and we both feel equally sure your royal
highness will be well served."

By this time Mrs. Butler had recovered from her faintness, and
perceiving that her gaze was anxiously fixed upon him, the prince went
to speak to her.

"You have something to say to me, madam, methinks?" he observed.

"I only desire to tell you, prince, that I have prayed daily for the
restoration of your royal house. You will therefore understand what my
feelings must be when I behold you at the head of an army determined
to wrest the crown of this kingdom from the usurper who now wears it.
May Heaven strengthen your arm, and fight for you, so that you may
regain your own, and the rights and liberties of your faithful
subjects may be preserved, and the old religion be restored!"

"I have come to win a kingdom for my royal father, or to perish in the
attempt," said Charles Edward, energetically.

"Victory awaits you, prince," she cried. "I feel assured of it. The
tidings of your triumph will efface my sad recollections of the former
ill-starred attempt, and I shall die content."

"My sister lost one who was very dear to her, in the fatal affair of
'15," remarked Sir Richard.

"I cannot wonder then that she should have sad memories connected with
that unfortunate struggle," said the prince, in a tone of profound
sympathy. "Farewell, madam. I hope you will have no more to mourn--but
many to greet as victors."

He then addressed the two fair damsels, expressing a hope that he
might see them again during his brief stay in Manchester; after which,
with a graceful inclination of his person towards the party, he
stepped back, and resumed his place in the line of march.

Before, however, the troops could be put in motion, another slight
interruption occurred. It was caused by the Rev. Mr. Clayton, the
chaplain of the collegiate church.

Mr. Clayton, as will be conjectured from what we are about to narrate,
was a Jacobite and a Nonjuror.

Taking advantage of the halt, he threw himself at the prince's feet,
and in most fervent tones implored the Divine blessing on his
head--praying that the enterprise on which he was engaged might prove
successful.

As the chaplain was in full canonicals the incident caused a great
sensation, and was particularly gratifying to the prince.

When the benediction was concluded, and Mr. Clayton had retired, the
word was given, the pipers began to play as loudly as before, and the
march was resumed.

Shortly afterwards, Prince Charles Edward crossed the bridge, and,
amid loud acclamations, entered Manchester.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE PRINCE'S MARCH TO HEAD-QUARTERS.


No sooner did the vast assemblage collected near the approaches to the
bridge distinguish the tall graceful figure of the young Chevalier
amid the throng of Scottish nobles and chiefs, than all heads were
instantly uncovered, and a loud cry arose of "Long live King James the
Third, and Prince Charles Edward!"

At the same time a band of musicians, stationed at Tom Syddall's door,
and directed by the Jacobite barber in person, struck up the old air
of "The king shall have his own again." But this could scarcely be
heard amid the din caused by the pipers.

Most of the open windows on either side of the street were adorned by
damsels dressed in white, and these fair adherents to the royal House
of Stuart now leaned forward and waved their handkerchiefs to the
prince.

Such a demonstration could not be otherwise than highly gratifying to
the young Chevalier, and he bowed and smiled in acknowledgment of the
salutations offered him, the grace of his manner eliciting fresh
cheers.

So greatly was the crowd excited, that it was with difficulty the
foremost ranks could be prevented from pressing on the prince, who,
however, would not allow his body-guard of Highlanders to interfere.

No untoward circumstance marred the general satisfaction. Bells were
pealing blithely, drums beating, pipes playing, colours flying, men
shouting, kerchiefs waving all the way from the bridge to the
market-place, where a brief halt was made.

Having been joined by his secretary, Mr. Murray, who explained where
his head-quarters were situated, the prince resumed his march, still
preceded by the pipers, and attended by his body-guard of Highlanders.
On reaching the house designed for him, he entered it with his suite,
and disappeared from the view of the shouting crowd who had followed
him. The pipers and the Highland guard drew up in the court-yard.

A sumptuous repast had been prepared in the dining-room, and to this
Charles and his attendants at once sat down.

Little repose, however, was allowed the indefatigable prince. The
chief magistrates, Mr. Fowden and Mr. Walley, were waiting to confer
with him in the audience-chamber, across which, in accordance with Mr.
Murray's suggestion, a green silk curtain had been drawn--the stuff,
however, being slight in texture, the persons on either side the
hanging could be easily distinguished.

The magistrates, therefore, seeing the prince enter the room, attended
by Mr. Murray and Sir Thomas Sheridan, bowed profoundly, and their
obeisances were graciously returned.

Charles Edward then seated himself, and the conference was opened by
his secretary.

"His royal highness thanks you, gentlemen," said Mr. Murray, "for the
excellent arrangements made for him, and desires to express his
gratification at the enthusiastic reception given him on his entrance
into your loyal town. He will now have to put the zeal and devotion of
your fellow-townsmen to the test."

"In what way, sir?" demanded Mr. Walley, uneasily. "We have given
orders that the whole of the prince's forces shall be billeted, and
have directed the excise-money to be sent to you as treasurer. What
further proof can we give of our desire to serve his royal highness?"

"I will explain, gentlemen, in a word," replied the secretary. "The
prince requires a subsidy from the town of five thousand pounds. War
cannot be carried on without money, and our coffers are well-nigh
emptied."

"I fear it will be impossible to raise that amount," said Mr. Fowden.

"We should grieve to have to levy the money by force, but we must have
it. Consult together, gentlemen, and give us your answer."

After a moment's deliberation with his brother magistrate, Mr. Fowden
asked if half the amount would not suffice; whereupon Charles
remarked, in a loud peremptory tone, "Bid them furnish three thousand
pounds--not less."

"You hear, gentlemen. Three thousand pounds must be furnished to the
treasury without delay. You know the penalty of neglect."

"We will do our best," said Mr. Fowden. "But pray give us till
to-morrow."

"Be it so," replied the secretary.

The magistrates then asked if the prince had any further commands.

"His Majesty King James the Third will be proclaimed at the Cross,"
said Mr. Murray; "and it is necessary that both of you should be
present at the ceremony. It is also necessary that one of you should
repeat the proclamation."

The magistrates tried to excuse themselves, but the secretary cut them
short, saying, "You have nothing to fear, gentlemen. We will make it
appear you are acting on compulsion. But take care that the prince's
manifesto and declaration, copies of which will be delivered to you,
are distributed to the crowd. And now, gentlemen, we will not detain
you longer. His royal highness expects to see you to-morrow--with the
money."

The audience then terminated, and the magistrates, who were full of
perplexity, quitted the chamber. The prince and his companions laughed
very heartily when they were gone.

Several other persons were admitted to a private interview, after
which the prince adjourned to a much larger room which had been
prepared for his receptions.




CHAPTER XV.

THE PRINCE'S LEVEE.


The room had a very brilliant appearance, being crowded with officers
of high rank. In the antechamber all who desired the honour of a
presentation were assembled.

On the entrance of the prince, who proceeded towards the upper end of
the room, and took up a station there, all the nobles and heads of
clans formed a semicircle around him--those nearest his royal
highness, on the right and left, being the Duke of Perth, the Marquis
of Tullibardine, the Marquis d'Eguilles, Lords George Murray,
Pitsligo, Nairne, Kilmarnock, and Balmerino.

The first persons to approach the prince were Colonel Townley and the
Chevalier de Johnstone, the latter of whom, as already stated, being
aide-de-camp to Lord George Gordon.

Colonel Townley, who was in full uniform, wore a plaid waistcoat, and
a plaid sash lined with white silk. He came to inform the prince that
the Manchester Regiment was now embodied, and would be paraded on the
morrow.

"The deficiency in men, of which I complained to your royal highness,
has been made good by Colonel Johnstone, who has delivered over to me
all the recruits raised for him in this town by Sergeant Dickson."

"You have done well, colonel," remarked the prince, approvingly, to
Johnstone. "How many men has Sergeant Dickson enlisted?"

"Nearly two hundred," was the reply. "They are all fine fellows, and
will make excellent soldiers."

"I esteem myself singularly fortunate in obtaining them," observed
Colonel Townley. "I was almost in despair, not being able to find
fifty volunteers myself."

"Sergeant Dickson deserves promotion," said the prince. "I am told
that he entered the town, attended only by Helen Carnegie and a
drummer."

"It is perfectly true," replied Johnstone. "I would not detract from
the brave fellow's merit; but without Helen he would have done
nothing."

"Between them they have raised the Manchester Regiment," remarked
Colonel Townley, "and saved me a vast deal of trouble."

"Have all the officers joined?" asked the prince.

"All," replied Townley. "Two of them are in the ante-chamber. Captains
James Dawson and Atherton Legh. May I have the honour of presenting
them to your royal highness?"

Charles Edward having graciously signified his assent, Colonel Townley
bowed and retired, reappearing in another moment with the two young
officers in question.

They now wore the uniform of the regiment--red faced with white--and
looked so well that Colonel Townley felt very proud of them as he led
them towards the prince, by whom they were received with the utmost
condescension.

Atherton Legh's appearance seemed particularly to please him, and at
the close of the brief interview, he desired him to remain in the
house, as he had some orders to give him.

Much gratified by the command, Atherton bowed and retired with his
friend.

Several other presentations then took place, which need not be
recorded, the two persons chiefly distinguished by the prince's notice
being Dr. Deacon and Dr. Byrom.

To the latter he said many flattering things well calculated to
gratify him; towards the other he adopted a more serious tone, and
thanked him earnestly for the zealous attachment he had always shown
to the royal cause.

"You have proved your devotion in many ways, doctor," he said, "but
never more than in causing your three sons to enrol themselves in the
Manchester Regiment. I thank you in the king my father's name, and in
my own."

"Heaven grant that my sons may serve your royal father well, most
gracious prince!" said Dr. Deacon. "I can only aid you with my
prayers."

Overcome by his emotion, he then bowed deeply and retired.

At this juncture the doors of the ante-chamber were thrown open, and a
bevy of ladies, all attired in white, and wearing plaid sashes, came
forth, imparting a much more lively character to the scene.

Most of these fair Jacobites were young, and many of them being
exceedingly pretty, it is not wonderful that their appearance should
produce an effect upon the excitable Highlanders, who did not care to
conceal their admiration of the Southron beauties. Their assiduities,
however, did not seem disagreeable to the Manchester damsels.

Meantime the ladies were conducted in succession to the prince, and
each had the honour of kissing his hand. Some of them received a
pretty compliment into the bargain. So well turned were these
compliments, and so captivating the smiles that accompanied them, that
the younger damsels were quite bewitched, and declared that so
charming a prince had never been seen.

By far the prettiest of those presented was Beppy Byrom, who was quite
as much influenced as any of the others by the witchery of the
prince's manner.

As she drew near, she scarcely dared to raise her eyes towards him,
but a few pleasant words soon set her at her ease, and the smile that
lighted up her fair features so improved their expression that Charles
was as much charmed with her as she was with him.

After their presentation the ladies were taken to an adjoining
parlour. It fell to Atherton's lot to conduct Beppy to this room,
which was crowded with fair damsels and Highland officers, laughing,
chattering, and quaffing champagne. Large glasses of the same wine
were offered them on their entrance, and having drunk the appointed
toast with enthusiasm, they seated themselves on a sofa.

Whether the excitement of the occasion gave unwonted lustre to Beppy's
eyes, we know not, but it is certain that Atherton felt their force
more than he had ever done before.

"I wonder whether you will return to Manchester when the campaign is
over, Captain Legh?" she inquired, looking rather languishingly at him
as she spoke.

"Does Miss Byrom care to see me again?" he asked. "If so, I shall make
a point of coming back, supposing I am able to do so."

"You pay me a great compliment," she remarked. "But surely, I am not
the only person you desire to see again? You must have many dear
friends?"

"I have none," he replied, rather gloomily. "You know I am quite alone
in the world. If I fall in this expedition, not a tear will be shed
for me."

"There you are mistaken," she rejoined, in a sympathetic tone. "But
you speak rather bitterly. I fear you have been badly treated."

"No, I have no right to complain. I am only paying the penalty of my
folly. I have been deluded by false hopes; but I shall try to act more
sensibly in future."

"An excellent resolution, and I trust you will keep to it. Never fall
in love again--if you can help it. That's my advice."

"But you don't expect me to follow it?"

"I have no influence over you, and cannot therefore expect you to be
guided by my counsels. But I repeat--don't fall in love again."

"The warning comes too late," he said. "I must make a desperate
effort, or I shall be caught in fresh toils."

"Well, the effort can be easily made, since you are going away."

"But I shall carry the remembrance with me. I shall not forget our
present conversation, and if I return I will remind you of it."

"I have very little faith in the promise. By that time you will
probably have changed your mind."

"You must entertain a very poor opinion of me, Miss Byrom, if you
really think so."

"I don't imagine you differ from the rest of your sex. Men are
proverbially inconstant. 'Out of sight, out of mind,' you know."

"On my return you will find me unchanged," he said.

So engrossed was Atherton by the young lady near him, that he had not
noticed the entrance of Constance, with Jemmy Dawson and Monica. But
chancing to look up at the moment, he perceived her standing at a
little distance, with her large eyes fixed upon him. The expression of
her countenance showed that she had overheard what had passed between
him and Miss Byrom. With a disdainful glance, she moved away with her
father.

Atherton was quite confounded, and for a moment could not speak, but
at length he stammered:

"Do you see who is in the room?"

"Miss Rawcliffe you mean," replied Beppy. "Yes, I saw her come in. I
did not tell you, because I fancied you had no longer any interest in
her. But I begin to think you have not so completely shaken off your
fetters as you imagined. If all is at an end, why should her presence
trouble you?"

"I am not quite master of my feelings," he rejoined.

"So I perceive," said Beppy. She then added, in a good-natured tone:
"Well, we have stayed here long enough. Let us go."

Much relieved by the proposal, the young man instantly arose, and
offering her his arm, prepared to quit the room.

But, in making their way through the crowd, they were soon brought to
a stand-still, and found themselves face to face with Constance.

By this time Atherton had recovered his self-possession, and bowed
coldly, and his salutation was as distantly returned. Beppy, however,
who had some little malice in her composition, rather enjoyed the
situation, and not feeling inclined to put an end to it, immediately
engaged Miss Rawcliffe in conversation, and left Atherton to Monica
and Jemmy Dawson.

Fain would he have escaped, but he could not leave Beppy, who, indeed,
did not relinquish her hold of his arm. Luckily, champagne was brought
by the attendants, and everybody took a glass, as in duty bound.

Again the prince's health was drunk, and with as much enthusiasm as
before, though Beppy only placed the glass to her lips.

"You have not done justice to the toast, Miss Byrom," cried a voice
near her.

And turning, she perceived Colonel Townley, who had just entered the
room with her father.

"I have already drunk it," she replied. "But I have wine enough left
to drink 'Success to the Manchester Regiment,' and I do so."

And she again raised the glass to her lips.

Colonel Townley bowed, and expressed his thanks.

"More champagne," he cried to the attendants. "Gentlemen," he added,
to his officers, "let us drink to Miss Rawcliffe and the ladies who
have helped to raise the regiment."

Due honour was done to the toast. As Atherton bowed to Constance, she
regarded him coldly, and scarcely acknowledged the attention.

"Something is wrong," thought Colonel Townley. "I must endeavour to
set it right. You will be pleased to hear, Miss Rawcliffe," he said,
"that his royal highness fully appreciates the service you have
rendered him. I took care to tell him the Manchester Regiment owed
Captain Legh to you."

"The circumstance was scarcely worth mentioning," she rejoined, with
affected indifference.

"The prince thought otherwise," remarked Colonel Townley. "I will not
repeat the flattering things he said----"

"Oh, pray do not!" she interrupted. "I would rather not hear them."

"But they relate chiefly to Captain Legh."

"Then keep them for his private ear," she rejoined.

The colonel shrugged his shoulders and said no more.

Just then the pipers stationed in the court began to play, and as the
hall-door stood open, the lively strains resounded through the house,
and made the Highland officers eager for a dance.

They began to talk about Scotch reels and other national dances, of
which the young ladies had never heard, but they did not venture to
propose any such agreeable exercise, as it would have been contrary to
etiquette.

The pipers, in fact, had been ordered to play as an intimation to the
assemblage that the prince's levée was over, and as soon as this was
understood the company began to depart.

Colonel Townley offered his arm to Constance, and conducted her to the
entrance-hall, where they found Sir Richard Rawcliffe, Dr. Byrom, and
several other gentlemen who were waiting for their wives and
daughters.

As soon as the young ladies had been consigned to their natural
protectors, Colonel Townley turned to Atherton, and said:

"You will return at eight o'clock to-night, Captain Legh. You are
bidden to the supper by the prince. I was specially commanded to bring
you. His royal highness seems to have taken a fancy to you. But tell
me!--what is the cause of the misunderstanding between you and Miss
Rawcliffe?"

"I know not," replied Atherton. "But she looks coldly upon me--and her
father has treated me with great rudeness."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Colonel Townley. "I will have an explanation from
him. Remember that the regiment will be paraded in St. Ann's Square at
ten o'clock to-morrow."

They then separated, and Atherton quitted the house.

The court was filled by the Highland body-guard and the pipers. The
latter, drawn up in two lines, through which the company passed, were
making a prodigious din, greatly to the delight of the crowd collected
in the street.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE ILLUMINATIONS.


The town now presented a most extraordinary appearance, and looked as
if occupied by a hostile army--the streets being filled with Highland
soldiers, who were wandering about, staring at the houses and shops,
and besieging the taverns.

The townspeople seemed on very good terms with their visitors, and the
occupants of the houses at which the soldiers were billeted received
them as well as could be expected.

By this time all the principal personages connected with the Highland
army had taken possession of the quarters assigned them, and sentries
were placed at the doorways or at the gates.

Large bonfires were lighted in various parts of the town--in the
market-place, in Spring Fields, on Shude Hill, on Hunt's Bank, and at
the foot of the bridge, and preparations were made for a general
illumination at night.

Nothing was neglected by the magistrates. In obedience to the
injunctions they had received from Mr. Murray, they attended at the
Town Cross to assist at the proclamation of his Majesty King James the
Third. A large concourse assembled to witness the ceremony, and
shouted lustily at its conclusion.

As yet, no disturbance whatever had occurred--for the Whigs and
Presbyterians consulted their own safety by remaining quiet, well
knowing if they made a demonstration they would be quickly
overpowered. Consequently, the town continued tranquil.

As soon as it became dusk, the illuminations commenced. They were
general, for no one dared to disobey the order, and the obnoxious
Whigs and Presbyterians burnt more candles than their Jacobite
neighbours. But the display did not save their windows. A large mob
armed with bludgeons went about the town shouting, "Long live King
James the Third, and Charles, Prince Regent!" and when they came to a
house the owner of which was offensive to them, a great smashing of
glass took place.

No efforts were made to check these lawless proceedings. Every license
was allowed the mob, so long as they confined their playful attentions
to the opposite party. For the sufferers there was no redress, since
the streets swarmed with Highland soldiers who enjoyed the sport.

Additional excitement was given by the pipers, who marched about
playing loudly upon their shrill instruments. What with the bonfires,
the illuminations, the uproarious crowd, the Highlanders, and the
pipers, the ordinary aspect of the town seemed entirely changed.

The spectacle was so novel and curious, that many of the gentler sex
came forth to witness it, and it must be said, to the credit of the
crowd, that the ladies experienced no sort of annoyance.

Luckily the night was fine, though sufficiently dark to give full
effect to the illuminations.

Beppy and her father, accompanied by Atherton, walked about for nearly
two hours, and Miss Byrom declared it was the prettiest sight she ever
beheld. She had seen an illumination before, but never on so grand a
scale, while the strange accompaniments greatly amused her.

Oddly enough, the illuminations in the old parts of the town were more
effective than in the modern streets. With their lattice windows
lighted up, the ancient habitations looked exceedingly picturesque.

But by far the most striking object in the town was the collegiate
church. Partly buried in gloom--partly revealed by the bonfires
kindled in its vicinity, the flames of which were reflected upon its
massive tower, battlements, and buttresses--the venerable pile was
seen to the greatest advantage. Very few, however, except the persons
we have mentioned, cared to gaze at it. Those who crossed the
churchyard made the best of their way to the streets, to see the
illuminations and mingle with the crowd.

After bidding good-night to his friends, Atherton repaired to the only
house in Manchester which was not illuminated.

But though the prince's residence was not lighted up, abundant
evidence was furnished that a grand entertainment was about to take
place inside it. The Highland guard was drawn up in two lines,
extending from the gate to the doorway, and through this avenue all
the nobles, chiefs of clans, and officers who were invited to sup with
the prince, made their way into the house.

Some of them arrived in sedan-chairs, but the majority came on foot,
since no coaches could be procured. But however they came, their
appearance was greeted with cheers by the concourse collected in front
of the mansion, and many an eye followed them as the door was flung
open to give them admittance.

Naturally, Atherton felt elated on finding himself among so important
an assemblage; but a great distinction was reserved for him.

It chanced that the prince was in the hall as he entered, and on
seeing him, his royal highness addressed him with the most gracious
familiarity, and taking him apart, said:

"Captain Legh, I am going round the town after supper, and I mean to
take you with me."

Atherton bowed.

"I am told the illuminations are very good, and I want to see them.
But I do not desire to be recognised, and I shall therefore take no
other attendant except yourself."

Again Atherton bowed deeply--his looks expressing his gratification.

"Do not mention my purpose," continued the prince, "as I would not
have it known. Some of my immediate attendants would insist on
accompanying me, and I would rather be without them. In a word, I wish
to be incognito, like the Caliph Haroun Al Raschid."

"Your royal highness may rely on my discretion," said Atherton.

"After supper," pursued the prince, "when the company has begun to
disperse, come to this hall, and wait till I appear."

Atherton bowed profoundly, and the prince passed on.




CHAPTER XVII.

A QUARREL AT SUPPER.


Shortly afterwards, supper was served in the dining-room. The repast
was profuse, but no great ceremony was observed, for the prince supped
in private with the Duke of Perth, the Marquis of Tullibardine, Lord
George Murray, and some other nobles.

Atherton sat next to Colonel Townley, who took the opportunity of
giving him some instructions as to the duties he would have to
discharge.

"The men will be drilled previous to the muster to-morrow," said the
colonel, "and I hope we shall get through it tolerably well. Every
allowance will be made for raw recruits. In a few days they will have
learnt their duties, and all will be right."

On the opposite side of the table sat Sir Richard Rawcliffe, and
Atherton remarked that the baronet's eye was often fixed suspiciously
upon him. Colonel Townley also made the same remark.

"Sir Richard is far from pleased to see you here," he observed. "From
some cause or other he seems to have taken a strong aversion to you."

"You are acquainted with my history, I know, colonel," said Atherton.
"I cannot help thinking that Sir Richard, if he chose, could clear up
the mystery that hangs over my birth."

This observation, which was not made in a very low tone, reached the
quick ears of the baronet, who darted an angry look at the speaker.

"Colonel Townley," he said, "pray tell your neighbour that I am
totally ignorant of his parentage."

"That does not satisfy me," cried Atherton, addressing the baronet. "I
am determined to have an explanation."

Sir Richard laughed contemptuously, but made no reply.

"This discussion cannot be prolonged," said Colonel Townley, who
perceived that the attention of those near them was attracted to what
was passing. "But some explanation must be given."

No more was said at the time, but when supper was over, and the
company had risen from the table, Colonel Townley followed the
baronet, and taking him apart, said to him, in a grave tone:

"You have publicly insulted Captain Legh, Sir Richard. He demands an
apology."

"I have none to make," rejoined the baronet, haughtily.

"In that case, Captain Legh will require satisfaction, and an early
meeting must be appointed."

"I decline to meet Captain Legh," said the baronet.

"On what ground?" demanded Colonel Townley.

"I do not consider myself bound to give any reason for my refusal.
Enough that I will not meet him."

"Your pardon, Sir Richard. 'Tis not enough for me. Since you decline
to apologise to Captain Legh, or to give him satisfaction, you will
have to fight me."

"If you think proper to espouse his quarrel, I will not balk you. The
Chevalier de Johnstone, I am sure, will act for me, and your second
can make all necessary arrangements with him."

"The affair must not be delayed. Will an early hour to-morrow morning
suit you?"

"Perfectly," replied Sir Richard. "As early as you please."

"Swords, of course?" said the colonel.

"Swords, by all means."

Bowing stiffly towards each other, they then separated, and Colonel
Townley repaired to the entrance-hall, where he expected to find
Atherton.

As he was looking round, he noticed the Chevalier de Johnstone, and
going up to him, inquired if he had seen Captain Legh.

"Yes," replied Johnstone; "he was here not a minute or two ago. But he
has gone upon a nocturnal ramble with the prince. You look
incredulous--but 'tis even so. His royal highness has just gone forth
to see the illuminations, or in quest of some adventure, and has taken
Captain Legh with him. As he passed quickly through this hall the
prince did not stop to speak to any one, but signed to Captain Legh,
who instantly followed him. This is all I have to relate; but it
proves that the young man is in high favour. His royal highness was
muffled in a plaid shawl, different from the one he usually wears, and
otherwise disguised; but I knew him."

"'Tis strange he did not take his aide-de-camp, Colonel Ker, with him,
in preference to Captain Legh," remarked Colonel Townley. "But I have
something to say to you in reference to an affair in which this
highly-favoured young man is concerned. Sir Richard Rawcliffe refuses
to offer satisfaction to Legh for the rudeness he offered him at
supper. I have taken up the quarrel, for I will not allow an officer
in my regiment to be insulted. You won't refuse, I presume, to act as
Rawcliffe's second?"

"Certainly not," replied Johnstone. "But I wish the duel could be
prevented. It seems a very trifling matter to fight about."

"I think Sir Richard has behaved very badly to the young man, and I
will have an apology from him."

"Well, since it must be so, there is no help. Send your second to me."

"Colonel Ker will be my second. I will send him to you as soon as he
makes his appearance."

"Meantime, I will consult Sir Richard--though I don't fancy he will
apologise."

He then went in quest of the baronet, whom he soon found, while
Colonel Townley seated himself in the hall with the intention of
awaiting Atherton's return.




CHAPTER XVIII.

CAPTAIN WEIR.


Muffled in a plaid shawl, and otherwise disguised, as we have said,
the prince passed unrecognised through the guard, and taking his way
down Market Street Lane, proceeded to a short distance, and then
halted to allow Atherton to overtake him.

In uncovering the lower part of his face to speak to the young man,
Charles betrayed himself to an individual who had seen him come forth
from the mansion, and suspecting his condition, had followed him
cautiously.

This person, whose name was Weir, and who acted as a spy to the Duke
of Cumberland, had conceived the daring idea of capturing the prince,
and sending him prisoner to the duke, whose head-quarters were at
Lichfield. He had been stimulated by the hope of a large reward to
undertake this desperate project. A price of thirty thousand pounds
had been set upon Charles Edward's head, and though Weir shrank from
assassination, he had no scruples as to capturing the prince, neither
was he deterred by the extraordinary danger of the attempt. All he
wanted was an opportunity to execute his design.

Captain Weir, as he was styled, though he had no real military rank,
usually acted alone, but on this occasion he had three subordinate
officers with him, on whose courage and fidelity he could perfectly
rely. They were now close at hand, watching his movements, and waiting
for orders. Like himself, they were all well armed.

Signing to these personages to follow him, Captain Weir continued to
track the prince's course down Market Street Lane.

Meanwhile, the young Chevalier was marching along quietly, with
Atherton by his side, never for a moment imagining he was in danger,
or even that his disguise had been detected.

Scores of Highland soldiers were in the street, but none of them knew
their commander-in-chief. Had they done so, they would have formed a
guard round his person. But this was precisely what Charles objected
to. Wherever there was a crowd he strove to avoid it; but the
obstructions were frequent. He was rejoiced, however, to perceive that
the white cockade everywhere prevailed, while such observations as
reached him indicated that the populace was decidedly favourable to
his cause.

It was such honest expressions of opinion as these that he desired to
hear, and where a group of persons were talking loudly, he stopped to
listen to their discourse.

As may well be supposed, he cared little for the illuminations except
as evidencing the goodwill of the townsfolk, but he was struck by the
picturesque appearance of the old houses when thus lighted up. After
several halts from one cause or other, he and Atherton at last reached
the market-place.

Here, in the centre of the area, was a large bonfire, with a great
crowd collected round it. Moreover, a barrel of ale, provided by the
magistrates, had just been broached, enabling the crowd to drink the
prince's health, coupled with that of his august sire, James the
Third, in flowing cups.

Much amused by the scene, Charles stopped to look at it, as well as to
examine the curious picture presented by the illuminated market-place.

While he was thus occupied, a sudden movement in the throng separated
him from his attendant, and he was endeavouring to free himself from
the press when a strong grasp was laid upon his arm.

The person who had thus seized him was no other than Sergeant Dickson.

"Unmuffle, and show your face, if you be not ashamed of it," cried the
sergeant. "I suspect you are a Hanoverian spy. I have heard there are
some in the town, and you don't look like a Highland officer."

"Hands off, fellow," said the prince, authoritatively. "Help me out of
the crowd."

"Help you to escape! not I!" cried Dickson. "Unmuffle, I say, and let
us see your face."

Several of the bystanders now called out, "A spy! a spy!" and Charles
would have been unpleasantly circumstanced, if Helen Carnegie, who was
near the sergeant, had not interposed.

"You are wrong, Erick," she cried. "This is no spy. Release him."

But the sergeant was not inclined to part with his prisoner, and was
only prevented from plucking the covering from his face by Atherton,
who by this time had forced his way up.

A word breathed in the ear of the sergeant instantly changed the
complexion of affairs, and he was now just as anxious to get the
prince off as he had before been to detain him.

"All right," he shouted. "His royal highness has not a better friend
than this noble gentleman. I'll answer for him. Stand back! stand
back! my masters, and let the gentleman pass."

Vigorously seconding these injunctions with his strong arm, he cleared
a way for the prince, who was soon out of the crowd; and this being
accomplished, the sergeant humbly besought pardon for his maladroit
proceeding.

"You ought to have known me under any disguise, sergeant," was the
prince's good-natured reply. "You are not half so sharp-witted as
Helen. She knew me at once."

"I canna take upon mysel to declare that, your highness," replied the
Scottish lassie, who had followed in their wake; "but I ken'd fu' weel
ye were na a fawse spy, but a leal gentleman."

"Well, sergeant, I am willing to overlook your fault for Helen's
sake," said Charles.

"I shall na sae readily forgive mysel," replied the sergeant. "But in
truth my thoughts were runnin' on spies. May I be permitted to attend
your highness?"

"No, I forbid you to follow me," said Charles.

So saying, he marched off with Atherton, leaving the sergeant greatly
chagrined by the interdiction.

"This'll be a gude lesson t' ye, Erick," observed Helen. "In future,
ye'll ken the prince when you see him, whether he be muffled in a
shawl or na."

"Come wi' me, lassie. I'm resolved to follow his highness at a
respectful distance. The night's not ower yet, and something tells me
I may be useful to him."

"Ye ought na to disobey orders, Erick; but sin ye win gang yer ain
gate, I'll e'en gae wi' ye."

With this they followed in the direction taken by Charles and his
companion, but before reaching the bottom of Old Mill Grate, they lost
sight of them. The sergeant questioned a person whom he saw standing
at the corner of the street, and was told that two officers had gone
towards the bridge. The information was not altogether correct, but
the person who gave it was Captain Weir.

Scarcely was the sergeant gone, when a man on a powerful steed came
up, and dismounting, delivered the horse to Weir, who was evidently
waiting for him.

Accompanied by this man, who marched by his side, Weir rode along
Hanging Ditch, and soon overtook his two myrmidons, who were following
the prince. They pointed out their intended captive about fifty yards
in advance.

"I need not repeat my instructions," said Weir, bending down as he
addressed them, and speaking in a low voice. "But I again enjoin you
to use the utmost despatch. Success mainly depends upon the celerity
with which the work is done. If I can secure him, I will answer for
the rest. Now go on, and draw a little nearer to him."

With this, he dropped slightly behind, got ready a belt, which he
meant to use, and examined the holsters to see that the pistols within
them were all right.

Had Charles Edward been playing into their hands he could not have
taken a course more favourable to the designs of these desperate men.
His intention had been to return by the collegiate church; but he was
deterred by the uproarious crowds collected round the two large
bonfires burning at the back of the venerable fabric, and proceeded up
Withy Grove, by the advice of Atherton, who being well acquainted with
the locality, explained to him that he could easily and expeditiously
regain his head-quarters by crossing an open field on the right at the
top of this thoroughfare.

When Weir and his accomplices found that the prince had elected this
course they felt sure he was delivered into their hands.

At the rear of the small and scattered tenements, then constituting
Withy Grove, were extensive gardens, and beyond these, as already
stated, there were two or three fields, as yet entirely unbuilt upon.

Into these fields the prince and his attendant now turned, but the
place looked so gloomy, from its contrast with the lights blazing in
the distance, that Atherton thought it would be prudent to turn back.
Charles, however, having no fear, determined to go on.

Shortly afterwards, a real alarm occurred. A horseman, accompanied by
three men on foot, suddenly entered the field. At first, neither the
prince nor Atherton imagined that their design was hostile, but they
were quickly undeceived. Before he could offer any effectual
resistance, Charles was seized by two strong men, who bound his arms
behind his back, and twisting the shawl over his mouth, prevented him
from uttering an outcry.

At the same time, the horseman dealt a blow at Atherton with a hanger,
which the young man avoided, but he had next to defend himself against
the attack of the third ruffian on foot, so that he could render no
immediate assistance to the prince.

While he was thus engaged, the two desperadoes who had seized Charles
lifted him from the ground, and despite his struggles, set him on the
horse behind their leader, with his face towards the crupper, while
Weir passed a broad leather belt round his waist, so as to secure him,
and was in the act of buckling it in front, when the bridle was seized
by Atherton, who, by a lucky thrust, had delivered himself from his
assailant.

Just in time. In another minute rescue would have been impossible.
Hitherto, not a shot had been fired; but Weir now drew a pistol, and
levelling it at Atherton, bade him instantly retire on peril of his
life.

The gallant young man, however, still held on, but was unable to use
his sword, owing to the rearing of the steed.

Weir then fired, but missed his mark, the shot taking effect in his
horse's head. With a cry of pain the mortally-wounded animal broke
away, but almost instantly sank to the ground and rolled over.

Unbuckling the belt, Weir disengaged himself as quickly as he could
from the prostrate steed, and full of rage that his attempt should be
thus foiled, the miscreant might have raised his hand against the
defenceless prince, if loud shouts had not warned him that assistance
was at hand. He then sought safety in flight, and was speeding towards
the back of the field, followed by his men, two of whom had been
severely wounded by Atherton.

The shout that had alarmed Weir proceeded from Sergeant Dickson and
Tom Syddall.

When he was on his way to the bridge, the sergeant encountered the
barber, and the latter satisfied him that the prince had not gone in
that direction.

His suspicions being excited, Dickson turned back instantly, and
Syddall accompanied him--Helen, of course, continuing with her lover.

Some information picked up caused them to turn into Withy Grove, and
they had just tracked that thoroughfare, and were debating whether
they should go on to Shude Hill, when the noise of a conflict was
heard in the field on the right.

"My forebodings have come true," cried the sergeant, "some villains
are attacking the prince."

As the words were uttered, the report of a pistol increased their
alarm.

Shouting lustily, Erick drew his claymore, and dashed into the field,
followed by Helen and Syddall.

Though too late to render assistance, the sergeant was in time to help
Atherton to liberate the prince. By their united efforts Charles was
soon on his feet, and freed from his bonds.

"I trust in Heaven that your highness has sustained no harm?" cried
Atherton, anxiously.

"No, I am entirely uninjured," said Charles, in a cheerful voice. "I
have to thank you most heartily, Captain Legh, for freeing me from
villains whose design was evidently to carry me off as a prisoner to
the Duke of Cumberland."

"I think I have sufficiently punished two of the villains," said
Atherton, "but it enrages me that their leader, and doubtless the
contriver of this atrocious scheme, has escaped."

"He may yet be captured," cried the sergeant. "Tom Syddall was with me
when I entered the field, and has gone in pursuit. He will give the
alarm."

"Then I must hasten to head-quarters, and show myself," said the
prince, moving on.

But after walking quickly for some forty or fifty yards, he was
compelled to halt.

"I am more shaken than I thought," he said. "Give me your arm, Helen,
I must have some support."

Proceeding in this manner, he had nearly reached the limits of the
field, and was approaching an unfinished street that communicated with
Market Street Lane, when a sudden light revealed a picket of Highland
soldiers. At the head of the party, several of whom carried torches,
was Colonel Ker, accompanied by Colonel Townley and the Chevalier de
Johnstone.

In another moment, a wild and joyful shout announced that the
Highlanders had discovered their beloved prince. They rushed forward
in a body, and the foremost flung themselves at his feet, while those
behind gave vent to their delight in another ringing shout.

Colonel Ker did not choose to interrupt this demonstration; but, as
soon as it was over, he advanced with the two distinguished officers
just mentioned, and all three offered their congratulations to his
royal highness on his escape.

After warmly thanking them, Charles called Atherton forward, and told
them that he owed his deliverance entirely to the young man's gallant
conduct, explaining what had been done, and concluding emphatically
with these words, "But for Captain Legh, I should at this moment be a
prisoner."

Naturally, the young man was much gratified by these observations, as
well as by the praises bestowed on him by Colonel Ker and the others,
but he received their commendations with great modesty.

The prince then asked Colonel Townley how he had heard of the attack
made upon him, and learnt that the alarming news had been brought by
Tom Syddall.

"Syddall came to me," said Colonel Townley, "and I immediately took
him to Colonel Ker, as his statement might not have been credited."

"Where is he?" demanded Charles. "I must thank him for what he has
done."

"After explaining where your highness would be found, Syddall begged
to be allowed to go in quest of the villains who had assailed you,"
said Colonel Ker, "being fully persuaded that he could accomplish the
capture of their daring leader, and as Colonel Townley knew the spot
where your royal highness would be found, I did not refuse the
request."

"If the villain should be captured to-night," said Charles, "which I
think scarce likely, let him be brought before me at once. I will
interrogate him myself."

"Your commands shall be obeyed," rejoined Ker. "Shall we now return to
head-quarters?"

"By all means," replied Charles. "But march slowly."

Colonel Ker was about to give orders, when another party of soldiers,
having a prisoner in their midst, was seen advancing along the
unfinished street. The party was guided by Tom Syddall, who carried a
torch.




CHAPTER XIX.

CAPTAIN WEIR IS INTERROGATED BY THE PRINCE.


As soon as the prince was descried, the advancing party halted, and
Syddall giving the torch to one of the men, pressed forward towards
Charles, and making a profound obeisance, said:

"The villain who attacked your royal highness has been captured. He
had taken refuge in a stable at the back of the Angel Inn. He is here,
if you desire to question him."

In obedience to the prince's command the prisoner then stepped forward
between two soldiers. He did not appear intimidated by the position in
which he was placed, but bore himself very boldly.

Charles looked at him for a few moments, and calling to Atherton,
asked him if he recognised the man.

"I recognise him as the leader of the attack," was the reply.

"Such is my own opinion," observed the prince. "How say you?" he added
to the prisoner. "Do you deny the charge?"

"No," replied the prisoner. "I am the man."

"You avow your guilt," said Charles, surprised by his boldness. "How
are you named?"

"I am known as Captain Weir," replied the other.

"Have you aught to allege why you should not be delivered to the
provost-marshal for immediate execution?" observed Charles, sternly.

"My life is justly forfeited," replied the prisoner, "yet your royal
highness will do well to spare me."

"Wherefore?" demanded the prince, whose curiosity was excited.

"My reasons are only for your private ear," replied the prisoner.

After a moment's reflection, during which he kept his eye fixed on
Weir, Charles ordered the guard to retire.

"Leave the prisoner with me," he said. "But if he attempts to
fly--shoot him."

As soon as the command was obeyed, he said:

"You can speak freely now. Why should I spare your life?"

"Firstly, because it will prove to the world that you are a
magnanimous prince, and in that respect superior to your enemies, who
are notorious for their severity," replied Weir. "Next, because I can
tell much that it behoves your royal highness to know, as will be
evident when I declare that I am employed by the Duke of Cumberland as
a spy, and am, therefore, necessarily in his royal highness's
confidence. If my life be spared, and I am allowed to go back to
Lichfield, where the duke is quartered, I can mislead him by erroneous
information, while I shall be able to acquaint you with his
plans--exact knowledge of which I need not say will be eminently
serviceable."

"There is much in what you say, I must own," replied the prince. "But
what guarantee have I that you will not prove a double traitor?"

"My gratitude," replied Weir. "I could never prove faithless to a
prince so generous."

"I can make no promise," replied Charles; but in a tone that held out
some encouragement to the prisoner.

At a sign from the prince the guard then advanced, and again took
charge of Weir. Shortly afterwards, the prisoner was removed, it being
understood that his execution was deferred--much to the disappointment
of the Highland guard, who would willingly have shot him.

Charles then addressed a few kindly observations to Syddall, who had
been mainly instrumental in the capture of the spy, telling him that
the service should not pass unrequited. Nor did the prince neglect to
offer his renewed thanks to Sergeant Dickson and Helen for the zeal
and devotion they had both displayed. For Atherton a signal
manifestation of favour was reserved.

During the march back to head-quarters, which were not far distant,
the prince kept the young man near him, and occasionally took his arm.
When the party arrived at the mansion in Market Street Lane they found
it completely invested by an anxious crowd, who shouted joyfully on
beholding the prince.

But this was nothing to the scene that took place when his royal
highness entered the house. Almost all the nobles and Highland chiefs
were assembled in the hall, and as Charles entered they pressed around
him to offer their warmest congratulations on his escape.

After thanking them in accents that bespoke the deepest emotion, the
prince presented Atherton to them, saying, "It is to Captain Legh that
I owe my preservation."

The young man was quite overwhelmed by the plaudits that followed this
gracious speech.

Thus ended the most important day that had hitherto occurred in
Atherton's career. It found him an unknown, and undistinguished; but
it left him apparently on the road to honour and preferment.




CHAPTER XX.

THE DUEL.


Next morning, at an early hour, Colonel Townley and Colonel Ker issued
from the prince's head-quarters, and, rather to the surprise of the
guard drawn up in the court-yard, proceeded at a quick pace along the
road leading to Stockport.

In a very few minutes they had left the town behind, for beyond Market
Street Lane it was then open country. Not many persons were on the
road, and these were chiefly country folk bringing poultry, butter,
and milk to market.

Some hundred yards in advance, however, were an officer of rank in the
Highland army, and a tall middle-aged gentleman wrapped in a cloak.
These persons were evidently bent on the same errand as themselves,
and marched on quickly for about a quarter of a mile, when they
stopped at the gate of a large meadow. The ground appeared suitable to
their purpose, inasmuch as it sank at the further end, and formed a
hollow which was screened from view.

Sir Richard Rawcliffe and the Chevalier de Johnstone, for they were
the individuals who had thus halted, punctiliously saluted the others
when they came up, and Johnstone asked Colonel Ker if he thought the
ground would suit.

After consulting his principal, Ker replied in the affirmative, upon
which they all passed through the gate, and made their way to the
hollow.

Before the preliminaries of the duel were entered upon an ineffectual
effort was made by the seconds to adjust the difference. Nothing less
than an apology would satisfy Colonel Townley, but this Sir Richard
haughtily refused.

Finding their efforts fruitless, the seconds then retired--swords were
drawn--hats taken off--and instantly after the salute, the combatants
engaged--the attack being made by a thrust in carte delivered by Sir
Richard, which was well warded by his adversary.

Several passes were then exchanged, and it was evident to the
lookers-on that Colonel Townley meant to disarm his antagonist, and he
soon succeeded in the design by skilfully parrying another thrust,
seizing the shell of Sir Richard's sword, and compelling him to
surrender the weapon.

The seconds then interfered to prevent a renewal of the conflict, but
the baronet, who had received his sword from his adversary, insisted
on going on, when the clatter of horses' hoofs was heard rapidly
approaching the spot, and the next moment the prince appeared, mounted
on a splendid bay charger, and attended by an orderly.

Without waiting a moment, Charles rode down into the hollow, and
pushing between the combatants, ordered them to sheathe their swords.
Of course the command was instantly obeyed.

"A word with you, gentlemen," said the prince, sternly. "You must have
been aware that a hostile meeting between persons of your rank would
be highly displeasing to me, as well as prejudicial to our cause, and
I ought to mark my disapproval of your conduct by something more than
a reprimand, but I am willing to overlook it, provided a
reconciliation takes place between you."

Both bowed, and Colonel Townley signified his assent, but the baronet
maintained a sullen silence.

"I am aware of the grounds of your quarrel," pursued the prince, "and
I hold that you, Sir Richard Rawcliffe, are in the wrong. I trust you
will offer a sufficient apology--not merely to Colonel Townley, but to
Captain Legh, whom you have insulted."

"Your royal highness's injunctions must needs be obeyed," rejoined the
baronet, haughtily. "To Colonel Townley I am quite willing to
apologise; but to Captain Legh----"

"I will accept no apology from you, Sir Richard, in which my friend is
not included," interrupted Colonel Townley. "I have now a right to
demand the cause of the insolent treatment Captain Legh has received,
and an explanation of your reason for refusing him the satisfaction to
which he was entitled."

"Come with me for a moment, Sir Richard," said Charles, taking him
aside. Then bending down towards him, and lowering his voice, he
added, "Certain circumstances have just come to my knowledge, showing
that you must have some knowledge of Atherton Legh's history, and
accounting in some measure for your otherwise incomprehensible conduct
towards him."

Sir Richard endeavoured to hide the confusion into which he was
thrown, but could not conceal it from the searching glance fixed upon
him by the prince.

"Answer me one question?" pursued Charles. "Answer it explicitly? Are
you not Atherton Legh's mysterious guardian?"

The baronet's confusion perceptibly increased. Charles seemed to read
his thoughts.

"I am wholly at a loss to conceive whence your royal highness has
obtained this information respecting me," he said, at length.

"No matter how it has been obtained," remarked Charles, sternly. "Is
it true?"

"It is correct in the main," replied the baronet. "Although I would
gladly be excused from giving any further explanation, I shall be
willing to do so at some more convenient opportunity."

"The explanation cannot be deferred," said the prince,
authoritatively. "After the levée this morning you shall have a
private audience."

"I will not fail to attend upon your royal highness," replied Sir
Richard, evidently much relieved.

But his brow again clouded, when the prince said:

"You will be pleased to bring your daughter with you."

"My daughter!" exclaimed the baronet. "She has nothing whatever to do
with the explanation I have to offer."

"You have heard my injunction, Sir Richard. Both Miss Rawcliffe and
Captain Legh must be present at the audience."

"I make no objection," replied the baronet; "but it pains me to find
that I am viewed with suspicion by your royal highness, to whom I have
given unquestionable proofs of my zeal and devotion."

"Justice must be done, Sir Richard," rejoined the prince, sternly. "If
there has been a wrong it must be righted. The mystery attaching to
this young man's birth must be cleared up, and since you are able to
give the information required, you are bound to furnish it. I shall
expect you and Miss Rawcliffe after the levée."

Then turning to Colonel Townley, he added: "All obstacles to a perfect
reconciliation between you and Sir Richard are now removed. I hope,
therefore, to have the pleasure of seeing you shake hands, and trust
you will become as good friends as ever."

The injunction having been complied with, the prince prepared to take
his departure, saying:

"After a morning duel in France, all those engaged in it--if the
principals are fortunately unhurt, or but slightly wounded--make a
point of breakfasting together, and I don't see why the custom should
not be adopted in this country."

"Nor I," cried Colonel Townley. "I have gained an excellent appetite."

"Then I shall expect you all at breakfast an hour hence," said the
prince. "I have much to do to-day. Among other important matters I
have to attend the muster of your Manchester Regiment," he added to
Colonel Townley.

"I was afraid your royal highness might be prevented," said the
colonel. "And that would have been a great disappointment to us. I
trust you do not feel any ill effects from the rough shake you got
last night."

"A little stiffness--that is all," replied Charles.

"Have you come to any determination in regard to Weir?" inquired
Colonel Ker. "Is he to be shot?"

"No," replied the prince. "I shall send him to the Duke of Cumberland.
Now for a ride round the town. I shall be back in time for breakfast.
Au revoir!"

With this he bounded up the side of the hollow and rode off in the
direction of the town, followed by the orderly.




CHAPTER XXI.

CASTLE FIELD.


It was a fine November morning, and as the surrounding hills were
clearly distinguishable, the prince enjoyed the prospect as he
cantered along.

The atmosphere being free from smoke as well as fog, the town had a
bright, clean, and cheerful look, which it seldom wears now-a-days.
What would Charles have thought if he could have conjured up in
imagination the smoky factories and huge warehouses now covering the
pleasant orchards and gardens near which he rode?

Manchester in '45, as we have already stated, resembled a country
town, and on no side was the resemblance more complete than on this,
since not more than half a dozen scattered habitations could be
descried, the upper end of Market Street being then really a lane.

But though the outskirts of the town were quiet enough, it was evident
from the tumultuous sounds that reached the ear, not only that the
inhabitants generally were astir, but that the numerous companies
billeted upon them were likewise moving about.

The call of the bugle resounded from various quarters, and the beating
of the drum was heard in almost every street. Charles listened
delightedly to sounds that proclaimed the presence of his army. He
thought of the advance he had already made--how another week's march
would bring him to London; his breast beat high with hope and ardour;
and he fully believed at that moment that his romantic expedition
would be crowned with success.

Just then the bells of all the churches began to ring, and their
joyful peals heightened his enthusiasm.

Not wishing to enter the town, he commanded the orderly to guide him
to Castle Field; upon which the man rode on in front, and describing a
wide circuit then entirely unbuilt upon, but now converted into
densely-populated districts and large streets, brought him at last to
a large open piece of ground, almost encircled by the river Medlock,
and partly surrounded by the crumbling walls of an old Roman-British
castle, in the centre of which the artillery was parked.

Not far from the field-pieces were the powder carriages; while a large
portion of the area was occupied by baggage-waggons; the remainder of
the space being filled by artillerymen and their horses.

No better place in the town or neighbourhood could have been found for
the purpose. Castle Field would have accommodated double the number of
cannon, and thrice the men, it now held.

It was a very pleasant spot, and a favourite resort of the townsfolk.
Sports of various kinds took place within the ring, and an annual fair
was held there. But it had never looked more picturesque than it did
now, filled as it was with cannon, ammunition, baggage-waggons,
sumpter-horses, and men.

Early as was the hour, there were numerous spectators on the
spot--women as well as men, for the artillery was a great
attraction--and some dozens had climbed the old walls, and planted
themselves on the top, to obtain a better view of the novel scene.

As soon as the crowd collected on Castle Field became aware of the
prince's arrival, they gathered around him, cheering and expressing
heartfelt satisfaction that he had escaped the treacherous attack made
upon him overnight.

There could be no doubt from the enthusiasm displayed that the
prince's escape had greatly increased his popularity, all those who
got near him declaring they were ready to defend him to the death.

Warmly thanking them for their zeal, Charles extricated himself from
the press, and was joined by the Duke of Perth, and some officers of
artillery, with whom he rode over the field, examining different
matters as he went along.

While making this inspection he encountered many ladies, from all of
whom he received congratulations, and to whom he had something
agreeable to say.

Amongst others, whose curiosity had induced them to pay an early visit
to Castle Field, was Beppy. She had come thither, attended by Helen
Carnegie.

Charles stopped to speak to the young lady, and noticing that she was
decked in white, and wore a St. Andrew's cross, he said, "You have not
forgotten, I perceive, Miss Byrom, that this is the fête-day of our
Scottish patron saint."

"I was reminded of it by Helen Carnegie, your highness," replied
Beppy. "She came to tell me of your most fortunate escape, for which I
cannot be sufficiently grateful, and offered to make me a cross."

"No one has done me a like good turn," laughed Charles.

"Here is a braw St. Andrew's cross, if your royal highness will deign
to wear it," cried Helen, offering him one.

Charles smiled his thanks, and fastened the cross to his jacket.

"Are you staying with Miss Byrom, Helen?" he inquired.

"'Deed I am, your royal highness," she replied.

"She will have a lodging at my father's house so long as the army
remains in the town," added Beppy.

"I am glad to hear it," replied the prince. "I am certain she will be
well cared for."

He then bowed graciously to the young lady, and bestowing a parting
smile on Helen, rode on.

But he soon came to another halt.

A little further off he discovered Constance Rawcliffe and Monica.
They were attended by Father Jerome. Graciously saluting the two
damsels, and bowing to the priest, he said to Miss Rawcliffe:

"You are the very person I desired to see. I have some news for
you--but it is for your private ear."

On this intimation Monica and the priest drew back.

Charles then continued in a low voice: "You will be surprised to learn
that your father has just fought a duel." Seeing her change colour, he
hastened to add: "You need have no sort of uneasiness. He is unhurt. I
left the ground only a short time ago, and can therefore speak
positively."

"With whom was the duel fought?" inquired Constance, unable to repress
her emotion. "Not with----"

"Not with Atherton Legh," supplied the prince; "though the quarrel was
on his account. Sir Richard's adversary was Colonel Townley. Luckily,
your father was disarmed, and so the affair was brought to an end. The
duel appears to have been unavoidable, since Sir Richard refused to
apologise to Captain Legh for rudeness offered him, and would not even
give him satisfaction. Colonel Townley, therefore, took up the
quarrel, and you know the result."

"Is the affair ended?" she asked, eagerly.

"Not quite. A full explanation seems to me to be due from Sir Richard
Rawcliffe to Captain Legh; and to insure it, I have laid my commands
upon Sir Richard to meet Captain Legh in my presence after the levée,
in order that he may answer certain questions which I shall then put
to him. I fear this will not be agreeable to your father; but he might
have avoided it. A few words would set all right, but these he refuses
to utter. I had, therefore, no alternative but to compel him to speak
out."

"It is right that Captain Legh should know the truth," remarked
Constance.

"I felt sure you would think so, and I therefore enjoined Sir Richard
to bring you with him; but if you see any objections, I will excuse
your attendance."

"Perhaps my presence may be necessary," she rejoined. "I will come."

"That is well," said the prince. "I owe Captain Legh a large debt of
gratitude, and am anxious to pay it. I shall begin by setting him
right. That done, I shall use all my influence to effect a
reconciliation between---- You understand my meaning, I am quite
sure."

"No more on that subject, I implore your highness," she rejoined,
blushing deeply.

"I hope I have said enough to prove how much interested I am in the
young man, and how anxious I am to promote his happiness," he said.
"Why, here he is!" he exclaimed, as Atherton was seen riding towards
the spot. "If I had summoned him, he could not have appeared more à
propos. I hope Miss Rawcliffe will not continue to look coldly upon
him."

"I am bound to obey," she rejoined, demurely.

"I wonder what message he brings me?" remarked the prince.

"I dare say your royal highness could give a shrewd guess," she
rejoined, with an almost imperceptible smile.

At this moment Atherton came up, and, removing his hat, delivered a
letter to the prince.

"From Lord George Murray," he said, still remaining uncovered.

"'Tis not very important," observed Charles, opening it, and glancing
at its contents. "But I am glad you have brought it, since it gives me
the opportunity of placing you in attendance upon Miss Rawcliffe, who
may want an escort when she quits the ground."

"I shall be charmed with the office," rejoined Atherton; "but I am not
sure that Miss Rawcliffe will be equally well pleased."

"Have no misgiving," replied Charles, with a significant look, which
implied that all was arranged. "I have some further orders to give
you, but it will be time enough when you return to head-quarters.
Meanwhile, I charge you to take especial care of these young ladies."

With this he rode off, and almost immediately afterwards quitted the
ground, accompanied by the Duke of Perth.

How much surprised Monica and Father Jerome had been by the earnest
discourse that took place between the prince and Constance, we need
scarcely state; but they were still more surprised when Atherton came
up, and was placed in attendance upon the young lady.

It was quite clear to the lookers-on that the prince had generously
taken Atherton's cause in hand, and meant to carry it through to a
successful issue. Monica, who had been much pained at the
misunderstanding between the lovers, was rejoiced; but the priest felt
differently.

Meantime, Atherton, by no means certain that he was welcome,
endeavoured to excuse himself to Constance.

"I trust Miss Rawcliffe will not blame me for this intrusion," he
said. "She can dismiss me as soon as she thinks proper."

"That would be impossible, since you have been left with me by the
prince," she rejoined. "But I have no desire to dismiss you. On the
contrary, I am glad to have an opportunity of congratulating you on
your good fortune. You have gained the prince's favour, and are
therefore on the high road to distinction."

"If I am restored to your good opinion I shall be satisfied," he
rejoined.

"My good opinion is worth little," she said.

"'Tis everything to me," he cried.

She made no direct reply, but after a moment's pause remarked:

"To-day may prove as eventful to you as yesterday. Has not the prince
acquainted you with his intentions?"

"He has told me nothing. I am ordered to attend him after the
levée--that is all."

"'Tis to meet my father, who, by his highness's command, will disclose
certain matters to you. But pray ask me no more questions. I ought not
to have told you so much. You will learn all in good time. And now I
must relieve you from this irksome attendance."

"You know very well it is not irksome," he replied, with a look of
reproach.

"At all events, you must have other duties to attend to. You have to
prepare for the muster of your regiment. Jemmy Dawson is fully
occupied, or he would be here with Monica. I really must set you at
liberty."

"Pray let me see you safely from the ground?" entreated Atherton.

"Well, I cannot object to that."

Then turning to Monica, she said:

"Are you ready to depart?"

"Quite," replied the other.

Atherton cleared the way, and having brought them to the long
unfinished street that led from Castle Field to the centre of the
town, he bowed, and rode off, fondly persuading himself he should soon
meet Constance again.




CHAPTER XXII.

FATHER JEROME COUNSELS SIR RICHARD.


"You must see your father without delay, Miss Rawcliffe," said the
priest in an authoritative tone to Constance, as soon as Atherton was
gone. "We are almost certain to find Sir Richard at the Bull's Head,
and if he should not be within, he will have left a message for you,
or a letter."

Constance quite agreed that it would be proper to call at the Bull's
Head, though she felt quite sure her father would make all needful
arrangements for the meeting appointed by the prince, and they
accordingly proceeded to the inn.

So crowded was the market-place with troops, that they had
considerable difficulty in crossing, and when at length they reached
their destination, Sir Richard was absent.

"He had gone out at a very early hour," said Diggles, "and had not yet
returned."

"He cannot be long," observed Father Jerome. "We must wait for him."

"I vote that we order breakfast," said Monica. "I am frightfully
hungry."

As Constance and the priest both sympathised with her, breakfast was
ordered, and it was lucky the precaution was taken, for nearly an hour
elapsed before Sir Richard made his appearance.

Long ere this, they had finished their meal, and when the baronet
entered the room, were watching the troops from the windows that
commanded the market-place, and listening to the shrill notes of the
pipes.

Sir Richard did not seem surprised, and perhaps expected to find them
there. Constance sprang forward to meet him, and bidding him good
morrow, said eagerly:

"I know all about the arrangements, papa. I have seen the prince at
Castle Field."

"I am aware of it," he said, sternly. "I have just left his royal
highness."

"Of course you will attend the meeting he has appointed?" she said,
alarmed by his manner.

He made no reply, and scarcely noticing Monica, signed to the priest,
who understood the gesture, and followed him into the adjoining room.

"What does this mean?" said Monica, uneasily.

"I cannot tell," replied Constance. "But I hope papa will not disobey
the prince."

"Surely he will not," cried the other.

"All will depend upon the counsel given him," said Constance.
"Unluckily, Father Jerome is no friend to Atherton Legh."

"But your influence will prevail."

"You are quite mistaken, Monica. Papa won't listen to me. You saw how
sternly he regarded me just now. He is displeased with me, as if I
were to blame, because things have gone contrary to his wishes."

"I cannot conceive why he dislikes Atherton so much," said Monica,
"but I am sure his aversion is most unreasonable."

"I hoped it might be overcome," sighed Constance, "but I now begin to
despair. Even the prince, I fear, will not be successful."

"Do you think Sir Richard has an ill-adviser?" remarked Monica,
significantly.

"I hope not," rejoined Constance.

Let us now see what passed between Sir Richard and the priest when
they were closeted together.

For a few moments the baronet seemed indisposed to commence the
conversation; but as Father Jerome remained silent, he forced himself
to speak.

"I am placed in a very awkward dilemma, as you are doubtless aware,"
he said, "and scarcely know how to act. Having consented to meet
Atherton Legh in the prince's presence I am unable to retreat with
honour, and yet I cannot answer certain questions that will inevitably
be put to me."

"Can you not brave it out?" rejoined Father Jerome. "The prince cannot
be acquainted with any secret matters connected with this young man."

"He knows more than is desirable," rejoined the baronet. "Some one has
evidently informed him that I have acted as the young man's guardian."

"Mr. Marriott cannot have betrayed your confidence?" remarked Father
Jerome.

"I do not think so," rejoined the other.

"Who else can have given the information?" observed the priest. "Have
you no suspicion?"

"Ha! a light flashes upon me. Should it be so!--though I would fain
hope not--the meeting would be doubly dangerous--for she is to be
present."

"I can set your mind at rest. She knows nothing more than this one
fact."

"But that may lead to a discovery of all the rest," cried Sir Richard.

"Not since you are prepared. 'Tis a pity the packet was left with
her?"

"'Twas a great error, I admit. But I will not commit another imprudent
act. I will not be interrogated by the prince."

"Again I say you had better brave it out than fly--and fly you must if
you neglect to obey the prince's commands. Your disappearance will
give rise to unpleasant suspicions."

"But some excuse may be framed. You can help me. You have a ready
wit."

"Well, the invention must be plausible, or it won't pass. Suppose you
go to Rawcliffe Hall to fetch some documents, which are necessary to a
full explanation of this matter. You intend to come back
to-morrow--but are unavoidably detained--and do not return till the
prince has left Manchester."

"That will do admirably!" cried Sir Richard eagerly. "You have saved
me. You must take my excuse to the prince. He will then believe it."

"But to give a colour to the excuse you must really go to Rawcliffe
Hall."

"I require no urging," rejoined Sir Richard. "I am most anxious to get
away, and heartily regret that I ever joined the insurrection. I wish
I could make terms with the Government."

"Perhaps you may be able to do so--but of that hereafter," rejoined
the priest. "First effect a secure retreat. I will do all I can to
cover it."

"I will set off at once," said Sir Richard. "But I must take leave of
my daughter."

"Better not," said the priest. "I will bid her adieu for you."

Sir Richard suffered himself to be persuaded, and presently left the
room. Ordering his horse, on the pretext of attending the muster of
the Manchester Regiment, he rode out of the town.

Not till some quarter of an hour after the baronet's departure did
Father Jerome present himself to the two damsels, who were alarmed at
seeing him appear alone.

"Where is papa?" exclaimed Constance eagerly.

"He has started for Rawcliffe," replied the priest.

"Gone!--without a word to me! Impossible!" she cried.

"'Tis nevertheless true," replied Father Jerome, gravely. "He wished
to avoid any discussion. He has gone to fetch certain documents,
without which he declines to appear before the prince."

"His highness will regard it as an act of disobedience, and will be
justly offended," cried Constance.

"I do not think so, when I have explained matters to him," rejoined
the priest.

"I am not to be duped," said Constance, bitterly. "Atherton will learn
nothing more."




CHAPTER XXIII.

THE PRINCE ATTENDS SERVICE AT THE COLLEGIATE CHURCH.


This being the festival of St. Andrew, as already intimated, the
Scottish nobles and chiefs desired that a special morning service
should be performed for them at the collegiate church, and
arrangements were accordingly made for compliance with their request.

Prayers were to be read by the Rev. William Shrigley, one of the
chaplains, and an avowed Nonjuror, and the sermon was to be preached
by the Rev. Mr. Coppock, chaplain to the Manchester Regiment, who was
chosen for the occasion by the prince.

A certain number of men from each regiment being permitted to attend
the service, the whole of the nave, except the mid aisle, which was
reserved for the officers, was entirely filled by Highland soldiers,
and as the men were in their full accoutrements, and armed with
targets, claymores, and firelocks, the effect was exceedingly
striking.

Yet more imposing was the scene when the long central aisle was
crowded with officers--when the side aisles were thronged with the
townspeople, and the transepts were full of ladies. Those present on
that memorable occasion, and whose gaze ranged over the picturesque
crowd of armed mountaineers, could not fail to be struck by the tall,
graceful pillars on either side the nave, with their beautiful pointed
arches, above which rose the clerestory windows--with the exquisitely
moulded roof enriched with sculptures and other appropriate
ornaments--with the chantries--and with the splendidly carved screen
separating the choir from the nave.

The choir itself, with its fine panelled roof and its thirty
elaborately carved stalls--fifteen on each side--was reserved for the
prince, and the nobles and chiefs with him.

These stalls, with their florid tabernacle work, gloriously carved
canopies, and pendent pinnacles of extraordinary richness and beauty,
were admirably adapted to the occasion. In front of the sedilia were
book-desks, encircled with armorial bearings, cognisances, and
monograms.

Around the chancel were several exquisite chantries, most of them
possessing screens of rare workmanship; and in these chapels many
important personages connected with the town, or belonging to the
Jacobite party, were now assembled.

In the Lady chapel were some of the fellows of the church, who did not
care to make themselves too conspicuous.

In the Jesus chantry were Dr. Byrom and his family, with Mr. Walley
and Mr. Fowden; and in St. John's chapel were Dr. Deacon, Mr. Cattell,
Mr. Clayton, and several others.

But not merely was the interior of the sacred fabric thronged,
hundreds of persons who had failed to obtain admittance were collected
outside.

Precisely at eleven o'clock, Prince Charles Edward, mounted on a
richly caparisoned charger, preceded by a guard of honour, and
attended by all the nobles and chieftains belonging to his army, rode
up to the gates of the churchyard, where he alighted. A lane was
formed for him by the spectators, through which he passed, and on
entering the church by the south porch, he was ceremoniously conducted
to the choir, where he took his seat in the warden's stall.

Next to him sat the Duke of Perth, and on the same side were ranged
the Duke of Athole, Lord George Murray, Lord Kilmarnock, Lord Elcho,
Lord Ogilvy, Lord Balmerino, and the Marquis d'Eguilles. In the
opposite stalls were Lord Pitsligo, Lord Nairne, Lord Strathallan,
General Gordon of Glenbucket, Colonel Ker, Secretary Murray, and Sir
Thomas Sheridan.

From the stall occupied by the prince, which was the first on the
right of the choir, and commanded the whole interior of the edifice,
the coup-d'oeil of the nave, with its compact mass of Highlanders,
was splendid, and as Charles gazed at it, he was filled with stirring
thoughts, that were softened down, however, by the solemn sounds of
the organ pealing along the roof.

Of course the Protestant form of worship was adopted; but strict
Romanist as he was, Charles allowed no symptom of disapproval to
escape him, but listened devoutly to Mr. Shrigley, who performed the
service admirably, being excited by the presence of the prince.

The reverend gentleman prayed for the king, but without naming the
sovereign. All his hearers, however, knew that James the Third was
meant.

Mr. Coppock was not so guarded. He prayed for James the Third, for
Charles Prince of Wales, Regent of England, and for the Duke of York.

Taking for his text the words "_Render unto Cæsar the things that are
Cæsar's_," he preached a most fiery sermon, in which he announced the
speedy restoration of the Stuart dynasty, and the downfall of the
House of Hanover.

Whatever might have been thought of this treasonable discourse by a
certain portion of the congregation, no voice was raised against it.
That it pleased the prince and his attendants was sufficient for the
ambitious young divine.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE PRINCE INSPECTS THE MANCHESTER REGIMENT.


On coming forth from the church, Charles and his attendants found the
newly-formed Manchester Regiment drawn up in the churchyard.

The corps numbered about three hundred men; most of them being fine
stalwart young fellows, averaging six feet in height. Till that
morning none of them had donned their uniforms, or even shouldered a
musket, but by the exertions of Colonel Townley, the Chevalier de
Johnstone, and Sergeant Dickson, they had been got into something like
order, and now presented a very creditable appearance.

The officers looked exceedingly well in their handsome uniforms--red
faced with blue. On this occasion each wore a plaid waistcoat with
laced loops, a plaid sash lined with white silk, and had a white
cockade in his hat. In addition to the broadsword by his side, each
officer had a brace of pistols attached to his girdle.

Though all, from the colonel downwards, were fine, handsome men,
unquestionably the handsomest young man in the corps was Captain Legh.

The flag of the regiment was borne by Ensign Syddall. On one side was
the motto--LIBERTY AND PROPERTY; on the other CHURCH AND COUNTRY.

The standard-bearer looked proud of his office. Nothing now of the
barber about Ensign Syddall. So changed was his aspect, so upright his
thin figure, that he could scarcely be recognised. To look at him, no
one would believe that he could ever smile. He seemed to have grown
two or three inches taller. His deportment might be somewhat too
stiff, but he had a true military air; and his acquaintances, of whom
there were many in the crowd, regarded him with wonder and admiration.

The ensign, however, took no notice of any familiar observations
addressed to him, having become suddenly haughty and distant.

With the regiment were four field-pieces.

Their chargers having been brought round, Charles and his suite rode
slowly past the front of the line--the prince halting occasionally to
make a commendatory remark to the men, who responded to these
gratifying observations by enthusiastic shouts.

"I am glad the flag of the regiment has been entrusted to you,
Syddall," said Charles to the new ensign. "No one, I am sure, could
take better care of it."

"I will defend it with my life," replied Syddall, earnestly.

This hasty inspection finished, Charles quitted the churchyard with
his suite, and rode back to his head-quarters.

The Manchester Regiment soon followed. Elated by the commendations of
the prince, which they flattered themselves were merited, the men
marched through the market-place, and past the Exchange to St. Ann's
square, in tolerably good order, and in high good humour, which was
not diminished by the cheers of the spectators. Colonel Townley then
gave them some necessary orders, after which they dispersed, and
repaired to their various quarters.




CHAPTER XXV.

AN UNSATISFACTORY EXPLANATION.


Having partaken of a slight repast, the prince again mounted his
charger and rode out of the town in a different direction from any he
had previously taken, being desirous to see the country.

He was only attended by Colonel Ker and the Chevalier de Johnstone,
having dismissed his guard of honour.

At that time the environs of Manchester were exceedingly pretty, and
the prospects spread out before him had a wild character of which
little can now be discerned. Smedley Hall formed the limit of his
ride, and having gazed at this picturesque old structure, which was
situated in a valley, with a clear stream flowing past it, and a range
of bleak-looking hills in the distance, he turned off on the left, and
made his way through a heathy and uncultivated district to Kersal
Moor.

From these uplands he obtained a charming view of the valley of the
Irwell, bounded by the collegiate church, and the old buildings around
it, and after contemplating the prospect for a short time, he
descended from the heights and returned to the town.

Not being expected at the time, he passed very quietly through the
streets, and reached his head-quarters without hindrance, having
greatly enjoyed his ride.

Immediately after his return a levée was held, which being more
numerously attended than that on the preceding day, occupied nearly
two hours.

After this he had a conference with the magistrates in the audience
chamber, and he then repaired to his private cabinet, where he
expected to find Sir Richard Rawcliffe and the others, whose
attendance he had commanded.

Constance was there and Atherton, but in place of the baronet appeared
Father Jerome. Repressing his displeasure, Charles graciously saluted
the party, and then addressing Constance said:

"Why is not Sir Richard here, Miss Rawcliffe?"

"Father Jerome will explain the cause of his absence," she replied. "I
had no conversation with him before his departure."

"Then he is gone!" cried Charles, frowning. "I trust your explanation
of his strange conduct may prove satisfactory," he added to the
priest.

"The step I own appears strange," replied Father Jerome, in a
deprecatory tone; "but I trust it may be excused. Sir Richard has gone
to Rawcliffe Hall to procure certain documents which he desires to lay
before your royal highness."

"But why did he not ask my permission before setting out?" observed
Charles, sternly.

"Unquestionably, that would have been the proper course," rejoined the
priest. "But I presume he hoped to be back in time."

"He could not have thought so," cried Charles, sharply. "The distance
is too great. He shrinks from the interrogations which he knows would
be addressed to him. But I will not be trifled with. I will learn the
truth. If he does not come I will send a guard for him. I will not
detain you longer now, Miss Rawcliffe," he added to Constance.
"Possibly, I may require your attendance again, and yours, also,
father."

On this intimation Constance made a profound obeisance, and retired
with the priest.

As soon as they were gone, the prince's countenance assumed a very
singular expression, and he said to Atherton, "What think you of all
this?"

"My opinion is that Sir Richard Rawcliffe does not mean to return, and
has sent Father Jerome to make these excuses for him," replied
Atherton.

"I have come to the same conclusion," replied Charles. "He has set my
authority at defiance, but he shall find that I can reach him. You
must set out at once for Rawcliffe Hall, and bring him hither."

"I am ready to obey your highness's orders," replied Atherton. "I have
never seen Sir Richard's residence; but I know it is situated near
Warrington, about eighteen miles from Manchester. I can get there in a
couple of hours--perhaps in less."

"Provided you bring back the unruly baronet before night I shall be
satisfied," said Charles.

He then sat down at the table, on which writing materials were placed,
wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper, and, after attaching the sign
manual to the order, gave it to Atherton.

"Sir Richard will not dare to resist that mandate," he said. "I do not
think a guard will be necessary. But you shall take Sergeant Dickson
with you. You will find him with the Chevalier de Johnstone at Lord
George Murray's quarters. Show this order to Colonel Johnstone, and he
will provide you with a good horse, and give all necessary directions
to the sergeant. He will also explain the cause of your absence to
Colonel Townley. Understand that you are to bring back Sir Richard
with you at all hazards."

"I will not fail," replied Atherton.

Bowing deeply, he then quitted the prince's presence, and proceeded at
once to Lord George Murray's quarters in Deansgate, where he found the
Chevalier de Johnstone and Sergeant Dickson.

The Chevalier de Johnstone understood the matter at once, and
immediately ordered the sergeant to provide two strong horses for
Captain Legh and himself, bidding him go well armed.

Although the sergeant was told by his colonel to lose no time, he
easily prevailed upon Atherton to let him bid adieu to Helen, who, as
the reader is aware, had found a lodging with Beppy Byrom.

Very little delay, however, occurred, for as the sergeant rode up to
the doctor's dwelling, Helen, who seemed to be on the watch, rushed
out to greet him, and learnt his errand, receiving a kiss at the same
time.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE RIDE TO RAWCLIFFE HALL.


Crossing the bridge, and passing through Salford, Atherton and
his attendant proceeded at a rapid pace towards the pretty little
village of Pendleton. Skirting the wide green, in the midst of
which stood the renowned May-pole, they hastened on through a
pleasant country to Eccles--proceeding thence, without drawing
bridle, to Barton-on-Irwell.

The road they were now pursuing formed a sort of causeway, bounded on
the left by the deeply-flowing river, and on the right by the dark and
dreary waste which could be seen stretching out for miles, almost as
far as the town towards which they were speeding. This dangerous
morass was then wholly impassable, except by those familiar with it;
and, as Atherton's eye wandered over its treacherous surface, he
pointed out to his attendant a distant spot on the extreme verge of
the marsh, observing, with a singular smile:

"Yonder is Warrington."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Dickson. "Then we might shorten our distance
materially by crossing the morass."

"No doubt, if we _could_ cross it," rejoined Atherton. "But we should
be swallowed up, horse and man, before we had proceeded far. Many an
incautious traveller has met his death in Chat Moss."

"It looks an unchancy place, I must say," observed the sergeant,
shuddering, as he gazed at it.

Beyond Boysnape the causeway narrowed, bringing them in dangerous
proximity both with the river and the morass; but they rode on past
Irlam, until they reached the point of junction between the Irwell and
the Mersey--the last-named river dividing Cheshire from Lancashire.
They had now ridden full ten miles; but, as their steeds showed no
signs of fatigue, they went without slackening their pace to
Glazebrook and Rixton. Chat Moss had been left behind, and for the
last two miles they had been passing through a well-wooded district,
and had now reached another dangerous morass, called Risley Moss,
which compelled them to keep close to the Mersey. Little, however,
could be seen of the river, its banks being thickly fringed with
willows and other trees. Passing Martinscroft and Woolston, they held
on till they came within half-a-mile of Warrington, even then a
considerable town. Though the bridge at Warrington had been destroyed,
a ford was pointed out to them, and they were soon on the other side
of the Mersey, and in Cheshire.

From inquiries which they now made at a small roadside inn, where they
halted for a few minutes to refresh themselves and their horses, they
ascertained they were within a mile of Rawcliffe Park, and after a
short colloquy with the host, who was very curious to learn what was
doing at Manchester, and who told them he had seen Sir Richard
Rawcliffe ride past some three or four hours ago, they resumed their
journey, and soon arrived at the gates of the park.




CHAPTER XXVII.

RAWCLIFFE HALL.


The domain was extensive, but had a neglected appearance, and did not
possess any old timber, all the well-grown trees having been cut down
in the time of the former proprietor, Sir Oswald Rawcliffe. Neither
was the park picturesque, being flat, and in some places marshy. On
one side it was bounded by the Mersey, and its melancholy look
impressed Atherton as he gazed around.

Still he felt a singular interest in the place for which he could not
account, unless it were that Constance was connected with it.

At length, they came in sight of the old mansion, near which grew some
of the finest trees they had yet seen. The house had a gloomy look
that harmonised with the melancholy appearance of the park.

Atherton had never beheld the place before, yet he seemed somehow
familiar with it. The wide moat by which it was surrounded, the
drawbridge, the gate-tower, the numerous gables, the bay-windows, all
seemed like an imperfectly recollected picture.

So struck was he with the notion that he drew in the rein for a few
minutes, and gazed steadfastly at the antique mansion, endeavouring to
recall the circumstances under which he could have beheld it, but it
vanished like a dream.

Before riding up to the house, he held a brief consultation with the
sergeant, as to how it would be best to proceed.

Hitherto they had seen no one in the park, which, as already stated,
had a thoroughly neglected air; nor, as far as they could judge, had
their approach been remarked by any of the inmates of the house.

Gloom seemed to brood over the place. So silent was it that it might
have been uninhabited.

"If I had not been assured that Sir Richard is at home, I should not
have thought so," remarked Atherton. "The house has not a very
cheerful or hospitable air."

"Luckily, the drawbridge is down, or we might have been kept on the
wrong side of the moat," remarked the sergeant. "My advice is that we
enter the fort before we are discovered, or we may never get in at
all."

Acting upon the counsel, Atherton put spurs to his horse and rode up
to the house, which did not look a whit more cheerful as he approached
it, and without halting to ring the bell, dashed across the
drawbridge, passed through the open gateway and entered the
court-yard, which to the young man's great surprise did not look so
neglected as the exterior of the mansion had led him to anticipate.

The noise they made on entering the court-yard seemed to have roused
the inmates from the sleep into which they had apparently been
plunged. An old butler, followed by a couple of footmen, came out of
the house, and with evident alarm depicted in his countenance,
requested to know their business.

"Our business is with Sir Richard Rawcliffe," replied Atherton. "We
must see him immediately."

"I do not think Sir Richard will see you, gentlemen," replied the
butler. "He is much fatigued. I will deliver any message to him with
which you may charge me."

"We must see him," cried the sergeant, authoritatively. "We come from
the prince."

The butler no longer hesitated, but assuming a deferential air, said
he would at once conduct the gentlemen to his master.

As they had already dismounted, he bade one of the servants take their
horses to the stable, and ushered the unwelcome visitors into a large
entrance-hall, in which a wood fire was burning.

Remarking that the butler stared at him very hard, Atherton said:

"You look at me as if you had seen me before. Is it so? I have no
recollection of you."

"I don't think I have seen you before, sir," replied the man, gravely.
"But I have seen some one very like you." Whom shall I announce to Sir
Richard?"

"I am Captain Legh," said Atherton. "But there is no necessity to
announce me. Conduct me to your master at once."

The butler, though evidently uneasy, did not venture to disobey, but
led him to a room that opened out of the hall. The sergeant followed
close behind Atherton.

They had been ushered into the library. Sir Richard was writing at a
table, but raising his eyes on their entrance, he started up, and
exclaimed in an angry voice:

"Why have you brought these persons here, Markland. I told you I would
not be disturbed."

"Your servant is not to blame, Sir Richard," interposed Atherton. "I
insisted upon seeing you. I am sent to bring you to the prince."

"It is my intention to return to Manchester to-night," replied the
baronet, haughtily. "But I have some affairs to arrange."

"I shall be sorry to inconvenience you, Sir Richard," observed
Atherton. "But my orders are precise. You must present yourself at the
prince's head-quarters before midnight."

"I engage to do so," replied the baronet.

"But you must be content to accompany me, Sir Richard. Such are my
orders from his royal highness."

"And mine," added Sergeant Dickson.

Controlling his anger by a powerful effort, Sir Richard said with
forced calmness:

"Since such are the prince's orders I shall not dispute them. I will
return with you to Manchester. We will set out in two hours' time. In
the interim I shall be able to arrange some papers which I came for,
and which I desire to take with me. By that time you will have rested,
and your horses will be ready for the journey."

Then turning to Markland, he added:

"Conduct Captain Legh and Sergeant Dickson to the dining-room, and set
some refreshment before them without delay."

"Take me to the servants' hall, Mr. Markland," said Dickson. "I cannot
sit down with my officer."

Just as Atherton was about to leave the room, Sir Richard stepped up
to him and said in a low tone:

"Before we start, I should like to have a little conversation with you
in private, Captain Legh."

"I am quite at your service now, Sir Richard," replied the young man.

He then glanced significantly at Dickson, who went out with the
butler, leaving him alone with the baronet.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

A STARTLING DISCLOSURE.


When the door was closed, Sir Richard's manner somewhat changed
towards the young man, and with less haughtiness than he had hitherto
manifested, he said to him:

"Pray be seated. I have much to say to you."

Atherton complied, but for some minutes Sir Richard continued to pace
rapidly to and fro within the room, as if unwilling to commence the
conversation he had proposed.

At last, he seated himself opposite the young man, who had watched him
with surprise.

"Are you acquainted with the history of my family?" he inquired,
looking steadfastly at his auditor.

"I have some slight acquaintance with it," replied Atherton.

"You are aware, I presume, that the Rawcliffes have occupied this old
mansion for upwards of two centuries?"

Atherton bowed, but made no remark. Sir Richard went on:

"My ancestors have all been high and honourable men, and have handed a
proud name from one generation to another. Would it not be grievous if
a stain were affixed on a name, hitherto unsullied, like ours? Yet if
this inquiry which the prince has instituted be pursued, such must
infallibly be the case. A dark secret connected with our family may be
brought to light. Now listen to me, and you shall judge:

"Some twenty years ago, Sir Oswald Rawcliffe, my elder brother, died,
leaving a widow and an infant son. Lady Rawcliffe came to reside here
with her child--do you note what I say?"

"I think I have heard that the child was stolen under mysterious
circumstances," said Atherton, "and that the lady subsequently died of
grief."

"You have heard the truth," said Sir Richard, with a strange look. "As
the child could not be found, I succeeded to the title and the
estates."

A pause ensued, during which such fearful suspicions crossed Atherton
that he averted his gaze from the baronet.

Suddenly, Sir Richard rose in his chair, leaned forward, and gazing
fixedly at Atherton, exclaimed:

"What will you say if I tell you that the child who was carried off,
and supposed to be dead, is still living? What will you say if I tell
you that you are Conway Rawcliffe, the son of Sir Oswald, and rightful
heir to the property?"

"Amazement!" cried the listener.

"For many years I have deprived you of your inheritance and your
title--have appropriated your estates, and have dwelt in your house.
But I have been haunted by remorse, and have known no happiness. Sleep
has been scared from my eyelids by the pale lady who died of grief in
this very house, and I have known no rest. But I shall sleep soundly
soon," he added, with terrible significance. "I will make reparation
for the wrongs I have done. I will restore all I have taken from
you--house, lands, name, title."

Again there was a pause. The young man was struck dumb by
astonishment, and it was Sir Richard who broke silence.

"What think you I was engaged on when you entered this room? I will
tell you. I was writing out a full confession of the crime I have
committed, in the hope of atoning for my guilt. Already I have
narrated part of the dark story. I have told how you were carried off
and whither you were conveyed; but I have yet to relate how you were
brought up in Manchester in complete ignorance of the secret of your
birth, and how I acted as your guardian. Full details shall be given
so that your identity can easily be established. When my confession is
finished, I will deliver it to you, and you can show it to the
prince."

"However you may have acted previously, you are acting well now,"
remarked Atherton. "But I will no longer interrupt you in your task."

"Stay!" cried the baronet. "I will show you a room which I myself have
not seen for years. I have not dared to enter it, but I can enter it
now. Follow me!"




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBER.


Opening a movable shelf in the bookcase, he disclosed a narrow
passage, along which they proceeded till they came to a small back
staircase, evidently communicating by a small outlet with the moat.

Mounting this staircase, Sir Richard unfastened a door, which admitted
them to a dark corridor. From its appearance it was evident that this
part of the mansion was shut up.

A stifling sensation, caused by the close, oppressive atmosphere,
affected Atherton, and vague terrors assailed him. Two doors faced
them. Sir Richard opened one of the doors, and led his companion into
an antechamber, the furniture of which was mouldering and covered with
dust.

A door communicating with an inner room stood ajar. After a moment's
hesitation Sir Richard passed through it, and was followed by
Atherton.

The chamber was buried in gloom, but on a window-shutter being opened
a strange scene was disclosed. At the further end of the apartment
stood an old bedstead, which seemed fully prepared for some occupant,
though it could not have been slept in for many years. Quilt and
pillow were mildewed and mouldering, and the sheets yellow with age.
The hangings were covered with dust. Altogether, the room had a
ghostly look.

For some moments Atherton could not remove his gaze from that old bed,
which seemed to exercise a sort of fascination, but when he looked at
Sir Richard, he was appalled by the terrible change that had come over
him.

He looked the picture of horror and despair. His pallid countenance
was writhen with anguish, and his limbs shook. A deep groan burst from
his labouring breast.

"The hour is near at hand," he muttered, in tones scarcely human. "But
I am not yet ready. Spare me till my task is finished!"

With a ghastly look he then added to Atherton: "The whole scene rises
before me as it occurred on that dreadful night. The room is hushed
and quiet, and within that bed a child is peacefully slumbering on his
mother's breast. A masked intruder comes in--admitted by the nurse,
who has betrayed her mistress. Unmoved by a picture of innocence that
might have touched any heart less savage than his own, he snatches up
the child, and is bearing it off when the mother awakes. Her piercing
shriek still rings through my ears. I cannot describe what
follows--but 'tis soon over--and when the worse than robber departs
with his prize, he leaves the wretched mother lying senseless on the
floor, and the nurse dead--slain by his ruthless hand!"

"Horror!" exclaimed Atherton, unable to control his feelings.

"Let us hence, or I shall become mad," cried Sir Richard, hurrying him
away.

So bewildered was Atherton, that he could scarcely tell how he
regained the library, but when he got there, he sank into a chair, and
covered his eyes with his hands, as if to exclude the terrible vision
by which he had been beset.

On rousing himself from the stupor into which he had fallen, he
perceived Sir Richard seated at the table, writing his confession, and
feeling that his presence might disturb him, he rose to depart.

Sir Richard rose likewise, and while conducting him to the door, said:

"I will send for you when I have done. I shall be best alone for a
short time. But let me give you a word of counsel, and do not distrust
it because it comes from me. 'Tis my wish, as you know, to repair the
wrong I have done. I would not have you forfeit the lofty position you
have just obtained."

"I hope I shall not forfeit it," said Atherton, proudly.

"You will not long hold it," rejoined Sir Richard, in a solemn tone,
"unless you withdraw from this ill-fated expedition. It will end in
your destruction. Attend to my warning!"

"I cannot honourably retreat," said Atherton.

"You must," cried Sir Richard, sternly. "Why throw away your life from
a fancied sense of honour, when such fair prospects are opening upon
you? 'Twill be madness to persist."

Atherton made no reply, and Sir Richard said no more.

But as he opened the door he gave the young man a look so full of
strange significance that he almost guessed its import.

Sir Richard paused for a moment as he went back to the table.

"What is the use of this?" he exclaimed aloud. "No remonstrance will
deter him. He will go on to destruction. The estates will pass away
from us. Perchance a few words, written at the last moment, may change
him! Heaven grant it. I will try. But now to complete my task. All
will soon be over!"

With this he sat down at the table, and with a strange composure
resumed his writing.




CHAPTER XXX.

A TERRIBLE CATASTROPHE.


On returning to the entrance-hall Atherton found Markland, the butler.
The old man looked at him very wistfully, and said:

"Excuse me, sir, if I venture to say a few words to you. Has an
important communication been made to you by Sir Richard?"

"A very important communication, indeed," replied Atherton. "And when
I tell you what it is, I think I shall surprise you?"

"No, you won't surprise me in the least, sir," replied Markland. "The
moment I set eyes upon you I felt certain that you were the rightful
heir of this property. You are the very image of my former master, Sir
Oswald. I hope Sir Richard intends to do you justice and acknowledge
you?"

"Be satisfied, my good friend, he does," replied Atherton.

"I am truly glad to hear it," said Markland. "This will take off a
weight that has lain on his breast for years, and make him a happy man
once more. Strange! I always felt sure the infant heir would turn up.
I never believed he was dead. But I didn't expect to behold so fine a
young gentleman. I hope you are not going to leave us again now you
have come back."

"I must leave you for a time, Markland, however inclined I may be to
stay. I have joined the prince's army, and am a captain in the
Manchester Regiment."

"So I heard from the gallant Highlander who came with you. But things
have changed now. Since you have become Sir Conway Rawcliffe----"

"What mean you, Markland?"

"Conway was the name of the infant heir who was stolen--he was so
called after his mother, the beautiful Henrietta Conway."

"For the present I must remain Captain Legh," interrupted the young
man. "Nor would I have a word breathed on the subject to your
fellow-servants till I have spoken with Sir Richard. You understand?"

"Perfectly," replied the old butler. "You may rely on my discretion."

But though Markland was forbidden to give the young baronet his proper
title, he could not be prevented from showing him the profoundest
respect, and it was with great reverence that he conducted him to the
dining-room, where they found Sergeant Dickson seated at a table with
a cold sirloin of beef before him, flanked by a tankard of strong ale.

Atherton--as we shall still continue to call our hero--desired the
sergeant not to disturb himself, but declined to follow his example,
though urged by Markland to try a little cold beef.

The butler, however, would not be denied, but disappearing for a
minute or two returned with a cobwebbed flask, which he uncorked, and
then filling a big glass to the brim, handed it to the young gentleman
with these words:

"This madeira was bottled some five-and-twenty years ago in the time
of the former owner of this mansion, Sir Oswald Rawcliffe. I pray you
taste it, Sir---- I beg pardon," he added, hastily correcting
himself--"I mean Captain Legh."

As Atherton placed the goblet to his lips, but did not half empty it,
the butler whispered in his ear, while handing him a biscuit, "'Tis
your father's wine."

Atherton gave him a look and emptied the glass.

Another bumper was then filled for Sergeant Dickson, who smacked his
lips, but declared that for his part he preferred usquebaugh.

"Usquebaugh!" exclaimed Markland, contemptuously. "Good wine is thrown
away upon you, I perceive, sergeant. Nothing better was ever drunk
than this madeira. Let me prevail upon you to try it again,
Sir--Captain, I mean."

But as Atherton declined, he set down the bottle beside him, and left
the room.

Full half an hour elapsed before he reappeared, and then his looks so
alarmed those who beheld him, that they both started to their feet.

"What is the matter?" cried Atherton, struck by a foreboding of ill.
"Nothing, I trust, has happened to Sir Richard?"

"I don't know--I hope not," cried the terrified butler. "I went into
the library just now to see if his honour wanted anything. To my
surprise he was not there, though I had been in the entrance-hall, and
hadn't seem him go out. On the writing-table was a packet, that
somehow attracted my attention, and I stepped forward to look at it.
It was sealed with black wax, and addressed to Sir Conway Rawcliffe,
Baronet."

Atherton uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and his forebodings
of ill grew stronger.

"The sight of this mysterious packet filled me with uneasiness,"
pursued the butler. "I laid it down, and was considering what had
become of Sir Richard, when I remarked that a secret door in one of
the bookcases, of which I was previously ignorant, was standing open.
Impelled by a feeling stronger than curiosity, I passed through it,
and had reached the foot of a small staircase, when I heard the report
of a pistol, almost immediately succeeded by a heavy fall. I guessed
what had happened; but not liking to go up-stairs alone, I hurried
back as fast as I could, and came to you."

"However disinclined you may feel, you must go with me, Markland,"
said Atherton. "I know where we shall find Sir Richard. You must also
come with us, sergeant. Not a moment must be lost."

Full of the direst apprehensions they set off. As they entered the
library Atherton perceived the packet, which he knew contained the
unhappy man's confession, lying on the writing-table, but he did not
stop to take it up.

Dashing through the secret door he threaded the passage, and ascended
the narrow staircase, three steps at a time, followed by the others.

The door of the antechamber was shut, and he feared it might be
locked, but it yielded instantly to his touch.

The room was empty; but it was evident that the dreadful catastrophe
he anticipated had taken place in the inner room, since a dark stream
of blood could be seen trickling beneath the door, which was standing
ajar.

Atherton endeavoured to push it open, but encountering some
resistance, was obliged to use a slight degree of force to accomplish
his object, and he then went in, closely followed by the others.

A dreadful spectacle met their gaze. Stretched upon the floor amid a
pool of blood, with a pistol grasped in his hand, showing how the deed
had been done, lay Sir Richard.

  [Illustration: DEATH OF SIR RICHARD RAWCLIFFE
                 Page 201.]

He had shot himself through the heart, so that his death must have
been almost instantaneous.

The sight would have been ghastly enough under any circumstances;
but beheld in that chamber, so full of fearful associations,
it acquired additional horror. The group gathered round the
body--the young baronet in his military attire--the Highlander
in his accoutrements--and the old butler--formed a striking
picture. That the guilty man should die there seemed like the
work of retribution.

As the nephew he had so deeply injured, and deprived of his
inheritance, looked down upon his dark and stern visage, now
stilled in death, he could not but pity him.

"May Heaven forgive him, as I forgive him!" he ejaculated.

"If he has sinned deeply his penitence has been sincere," said
Markland, sorrowfully. "Half his time has been spent in fasting
and prayer. Heaven have mercy on his sinful soul!"

"It seems to me as if he had something clutched in his left hand,"
remarked the sergeant.

"I think so, too," said Atherton. "See what it is."

Thereupon, Erick knelt down beside the body, and opening the fingers,
which were not yet stiffened, took from them a small slip of paper,
and gave it to Atherton.

It had been crushed in the death gripe, but on being unfolded, these
warning words appeared:

"'Tis given to those on the point of death to see into the future,
and I read danger and destruction in the expedition you have joined.
Be warned by your unhappy uncle, and abandon it."

"Whatever may be the consequence, I cannot abandon the expedition,"
thought Atherton.

While forming this resolution, he gazed at his lifeless monitor, and
it seemed to him as if a frown passed over the dead man's countenance.




CHAPTER XXXI.

SIR RICHARD RAWCLIFFE'S CONFESSION.


After considering what ought to be done under circumstances so painful
and extraordinary, Atherton left Sergeant Dickson with the body, and
then descending with Markland to the hall, ordered him to assemble the
whole house without delay, and acquaint them with the dreadful
catastrophe that had occurred.

Thereupon, Markland rang the alarm bell, and the summons was immediately
answered by all the male part of the household, and several women, who
hurried to the entrance-hall to see what was the matter.

In reply to their anxious inquiries, the butler told them what had
happened, and the appalling intelligence was received with expressions
of horror by the men, and by shrieks from the women--some of the latter
seeming ready to faint.

Bidding all follow him who chose, Markland then led three or four
stout-hearted men to the room where the dire event had occurred.

They found Sergeant Dickson watching beside the body, and, after
regarding it for a few moments with fearful curiosity, they raised it
from the floor, and placed it upon the bed.

This done, they all quitted the chamber of death, and the door was
locked.

Markland, however, deemed it necessary to leave a man in the ante-room,
and, having taken this precaution, he descended with the others to the
lower part of the house.

The sergeant then proceeded to the library to ascertain whether Captain
Legh had made any change in his plans.

"No," replied Atherton, "I must return to Manchester to-night, in order
to explain matters to the prince. If his royal highness can dispense
with my services, I shall retire from the Manchester Regiment. If not,
I must go on. That is my fixed determination."

"'Tis the resolve of a man of honour," replied the sergeant.

"I have to read through this paper, and besides, I have some directions
to give," said Atherton. "But I shall start in an hour."

"Good," replied Erick. "I shall be quite ready."

And fancying Captain Legh desired to be alone, he left the room.

Shortly afterwards Markland appeared with lights, which he placed on
the writing-table.

"I am very sorry to find you are resolved to go, sir," he remarked.

"If the prince can spare me I shall return at once."

"Our chance of seeing you again is but slight, sir," rejoined the
butler, shaking his head. "The prince is not likely to part with you.
Shall Sir Richard's groom, Holden, attend you? Should you have any
message to send to me, he will bring it back."

"Yes, I will take him with me," replied Atherton. "Perhaps Miss
Rawcliffe may require him."

"You have eaten nothing, sir."

"I have no appetite. But let a slight repast be prepared for me in half
an hour."

The butler bowed and left the room.

As yet Atherton had only read certain portions of his unhappy uncle's
confession; but he now unfolded the manuscript with the intention of
carefully perusing it.

The narration, written in a firm, bold hand, ran as follows.

                     *      *      *      *      *

    In the name of the Almighty Power whom I have so deeply offended,
    and before whose throne I shall presently appear to answer for my
    manifold offences, I hereby solemnly declare that the young man
    now known as Atherton Legh is no other than my nephew Conway, only
    son of my brother Sir Oswald Rawcliffe, whom I have wickedly kept
    out of his inheritance for twenty years, by carrying him off when
    an infant, as I shall proceed to relate.

    All possible reparation for the great wrong done him shall be made
    to my nephew. I hereby restore him all the estates and property of
    which he has so long been deprived, and I implore his forgiveness.

    Let it not be imagined that the possession of the property and
    title has brought me happiness! Since I have committed this
    terrible crime, peace has been a stranger to my breast. My
    slumbers have been disturbed by fearful dreams, and when sleep has
    fled from my pillow my brother's angry shade has appeared before
    me, menacing me with eternal bale for the wrong done to his son.

    Sometimes another phantom has appeared--the shade of the sweet
    lady who died of grief for the loss of her infant.

    Though I was thus wretched, and life had become a burden to me, my
    heart was hardened, and I still clung tenaciously to the lands and
    title I had so wickedly acquired. Though they brought me nothing
    but misery I could not give them up. I recoiled with terror from
    the scaffold that awaited me if I avowed myself a robber and a
    murderer, for my hands were red with the blood of Bertha, the
    wretched nurse.

    But my conduct was not altogether ill, and I trust that the little
    good I have done may tell in my favour. I had consigned my nephew
    to the care of strangers, but I watched over him. I supplied all
    his wants--educated him as a gentleman--and made him a liberal
    allowance.

    It was my intention to have greatly increased the allowance, so as
    in part to restore my ill-gotten gains. But this was not to be.
    Heaven had other designs, and mine were thwarted.

    For reasons that seemed good to me, though interested in the
    cause, I forbade my nephew to join the rising in favour of the
    House of Stuart; but he heeded not my counsel.

    Suddenly, when I least expected it, discovery of my crime seemed
    imminent. From some information he had privily received, the
    prince's suspicions were awakened, and he commanded me to appear
    before him, and answer certain questions he meant to put to me in
    the presence of my nephew and my daughter.

    From such a terrible ordeal as this I naturally shrank. Death
    appeared preferable. But before putting an end to an existence
    that had long been a burden to me, I resolved to make all the
    atonement in my power for my evil deeds. With that intent have I
    come here.

    In the ebony cabinet standing in the library, which contains all
    my private papers and letters, will be found incontestable
    evidences that my nephew is entitled to the estates, and that he
    is, in fact, the long-lost Conway Rawcliffe.

    'Tis meet I should die at Rawcliffe, and in the very room where
    the crime was committed.

    That I should thus rush unbidden into the presence of my Maker may
    seem to be adding to the weight of my offences, and to preclude
    all hope of salvation, but I trust in His mercy and forgiveness.
    He will judge me rightfully. He knows the torments I endure, and
    that they drive me to madness and despair. I must end them.
    Whether there will be rest in the grave for my perturbed spirit
    remains to be seen. Of the world I have already taken leave.

    To the sole being to whom my heart clings with affection--to my
    daughter--I must now bid an eternal farewell! I cannot write to
    her, and she will understand why I cannot. I implore her prayers.
    When I am gone she will have no protector, and I trust that her
    cousin, Conway, will watch over her. My private property will be
    hers. Though small in comparison with Rawcliffe, 'twill be enough.

    I have still much to say, for thick-coming thoughts press upon me;
    but I must not give them way. Were I to delay longer, my
    resolution might waver. Adieu, Conway! Adieu, Constance! Forgive
    me!--pray for me!

    RICHARD RAWCLIFFE.

Enclosed within the packet was the key of the cabinet.

There was likewise another manuscript written by the unhappy baronet
and signed by him, giving full particulars of the terrible occurrence
alluded to; but since the reader is already acquainted with the
details it is not necessary to reproduce them.

Atherton was profoundly moved by the perusal of this letter, and
remained for some time buried in reflection.

Rousing himself at length from the reverie into which he had fallen,
he looked round for the ebony cabinet, and easily discovered it.
Unlocking it, he found that it contained a large bundle of letters and
papers labelled in the late baronet's hand, "Documents relating to
Conway Rawcliffe, with proofs of his title to the Rawcliffe estate."

He searched no further. He did not even untie the bundle, feeling
certain it contained all the necessary evidences; but having carefully
secured Sir Richard's last letter and confession, he locked the
cabinet, and put the key in his pocket.

He then rang the bell, and when Markland made his appearance, he said
to him:

"Before my departure from Manchester, Markland, it is necessary that I
should give you some instructions, in case I should not be able to
return, for the prince may be unwilling to release me from my
engagements. I am sure you have faithfully served your late
unfortunate master, and I am equally sure of your attachment to his
daughter, and I have therefore every confidence in you. My great
anxiety is respecting Miss Rawcliffe," he continued, in accents that
bespoke the deepest feeling. "Intelligence of this dreadful event will
be communicated to her to-morrow. How she will bear it I know not."

"If I may venture to give an opinion, sir, and I have known the dear
young lady from childhood, and am therefore well acquainted with her
temperament and disposition--when the first shock is over, she will
bear the bereavement with resignation and firmness. She was familiar
with Sir Richard's wayward moods, and has often feared that something
dreadful would happen to him. No doubt the shock will be a terrible
one to her, and I can only hope she will be equal to it."

"All precautions shall be taken to break the sad tidings to her," said
Atherton. "When she comes here it is my wish that she should be
treated precisely as heretofore--you understand, Markland."

The butler bowed.

"I hope she will bring her cousin--_my_ cousin, Miss Butler, with her.
Mrs. Butler, I fear, may not be equal to the journey, but you will
prepare for her, and for Father Jerome."

"Your orders shall be strictly attended to, sir," said the butler.

"And now with regard to my unfortunate uncle," paused the young
baronet. "In case I am unable to return, I must leave the care of
everything to you. Certain formalities of justice, rendered necessary
by the case, must be observed, and you will take care that nothing is
neglected. On all other points Miss Rawcliffe must be consulted."

"I will not fail to consult her, sir. But I am sure she would desire
that her father's remains should be laid in the vault beneath the
chapel where his ancestors repose, and that the funeral rites should
be performed with the utmost privacy."

This conference ended, Atherton proceeded to the dining-room, and
partook of a slight repast, after which he prepared for his departure.

The horses had already been brought round by Holden, the groom, and
the night being extremely dark, the court-yard was illumined by
torches, their yellow glare revealing the picturesque architecture of
the old mansion.

Before mounting his steed, Atherton gave his hand to Markland, who
pressed it respectfully, earnestly assuring the young gentleman that
all his directions should be followed out.

The old butler then took leave of the sergeant, who had been in
readiness for some minutes.

In consequence of the darkness, it was deemed advisable that Holden
should lead the way. Accordingly, he was the first to cross the
drawbridge, but the others kept close behind him.




CHAPTER XXXII.

ATHERTON'S DECISION IS MADE.


It was with strange sensations that Atherton looked back at the
darkling outline of the old mansion, and when it became
undistinguishable in the gloom, he felt as if he had been indulging in
an idle dream.

But no! the broad domains that spread around him on either side were
his own. All he could discern belonged to him.

His meditations were not disturbed by either of his attendants, for
the sergeant was a short distance behind him, and the groom about
twenty or thirty yards in advance. As they trotted on quickly they
were soon out of the park, and were now making their way somewhat more
slowly along the road leading to Warrington. Presently they turned off
on the right, in order to reach the ford, and were skirting the banks
of the Mersey, when Holden came back and said that he perceived some
men armed with muskets guarding the ford.

A brief consultation was then held. As the groom declared that the
river was only fordable at this point, Atherton resolved to go on at
all hazards.

As they drew near the ford they found it guarded--as Holden had
stated--by half a dozen armed militia-men, who were evidently
determined to dispute their passage.

"Stand! in the king's name!" cried the leader of the party in an
authoritative voice. "We can discern that one of you is a Highlander,
and we believe you are all rebels and traitors. Stand! I say!"

"Rebels and traitors yourselves!" thundered the sergeant in reply. "We
own no sovereign but King James the Third."

"Out of our way, fellows!" cried Atherton. "We mean to pass the ford!"

Drawing his sword as he spoke, he struck spurs into his steed, and
dashed down the bank, followed closely by the sergeant and Holden--the
former having likewise drawn his claymore.

The militia-men drew back, but fired at them as they were crossing the
river, though without doing them any harm.

Having escaped this danger, they proceeded at the same rapid pace as
before, and in the same order, the groom riding about twenty yards in
advance. The few travellers they met with got out of their way.

By the time they reached Chat Moss the moon had risen, and her beams
illumined the dreary swamp.

The scene looked far more striking than it did by daylight, but
Atherton gazed at it with a different eye. Other thoughts now occupied
his breast, and he seemed changed even to himself. When he tracked
that road, a few hours ago, he was a mere adventurer--without
name--without fortune--now he had a title and large estates.
Reflections on this sudden and extraordinary change in his position
now completely engrossed him, and he fell into a reverie which lasted
till he reached Pendleton, and then waking up, as if from a dream, he
was astonished to find he had got so far.

From this elevation the town of Manchester could be descried, and as
the houses were again illuminated, and bonfires were lighted in
different quarters, it presented a very striking appearance.

Just as Atherton crossed Salford Bridge, the clock of the collegiate
church told forth eleven; and so crowded were the streets, owing to
the illuminations, that nearly another quarter of an hour was required
to reach the prince's head-quarters.

Atherton was attended only by the groom, the sergeant having gone to
report himself on his return to the Chevalier de Johnstone.

Dismounting at the gate, he entered the mansion, and orders having
been given to that effect he was at once admitted to the prince, who
was alone in his private cabinet.

Charles instantly inquired if he had brought Sir Richard Rawcliffe
with him.

"He is unable to obey your royal highness's summons," replied the
other.

"How?" exclaimed the prince, frowning.

"He is lying dead at Rawcliffe, having perished by his own hand. But
he has left a written confession, wherein he acknowledges that he has
wrongfully deprived me of my inheritance."

"This is strange indeed!" exclaimed the prince. "His extraordinary
conduct to you is now explained, and the mystery that hung over your
birth is solved. You are the lost son of the former baronet. I
suspected as much, and meant to force the truth from Sir Richard.
However, he has spared me the trouble. Pray let me know all that has
occurred?"

Atherton then commenced his relation, to which the prince listened
with the greatest interest, and when the story was brought to a
conclusion he said:

"I will not affect to pity your unhappy uncle. He has escaped earthly
punishment, and perhaps the deep remorse he appears to have felt may
obtain him mercy on High. Let us hope so--since he has striven at the
last to make some amends for his heavy offences. But to turn to
yourself. Your position is now materially changed. You entered my
service as an unknown adventurer, and not as a wealthy baronet.
Considering this, and feeling, also, that I am under great personal
obligation to you, I will not wait for any solicitation on your part,
but at once release you from your engagement to me."

Atherton was much moved.

"Your royal highness overwhelms me by your kindness," he said. "But
though Rawcliffe Hall and its domains may be mine by right, I do not
intend to deprive Constance of the property. Furthermore, I shall not
assume my real name and title till the close of the campaign. For the
present I shall remain Atherton Legh. I trust your highness will
approve of the course I intend to pursue?"

"I do approve of it," replied Charles, earnestly. "The resolution you
have taken does you honour. Since you are determined to join me, it
shall not be as a mere officer in the Manchester Regiment, but as one
of my aides-de-camp. All needful explanation shall be given to Colonel
Townley. I shall march at an early hour in the morning. But no matter.
You can follow. You must see Constance before you leave, and if you
are detained by any unforeseen cause, I will excuse you. Nay, no
thanks. Good-night."


End of the Second Book.






BOOK III.

THE MARCH TO DERBY, AND THE RETREAT.




CHAPTER I.

AN OLD JACOBITE DAME.


Next morning the prince quitted Manchester, marching on foot at the
head of two regiments of infantry which formed the advanced guard. The
main body of the army, with the cavalry and artillery, was to follow
at a later hour.

As the two regiments in question, which were composed of remarkably
fine men, marched up Market Street Lane, preceded by a dozen pipers,
they were accompanied by a vast concourse of people, who came to
witness the prince's departure, and shouted lustily as he came forth
from his head-quarters, attended by Sir Thomas Sheridan and Colonel
Ker.

Designing to make Macclesfield the limit of his first day's march,
Charles took the road to Cheadle, and several hundred persons walked,
or rather ran, by the side of the Highlanders for a mile or two, when
they dropped off and returned, being unable to keep up with the active
mountaineers.

Parties of men had been sent on previously to make a temporary bridge
across the Mersey by felling trees; but the bridge not being completed
on his arrival, the prince forded the river at the head of his troops.

On the opposite bank of the Mersey, several Cheshire gentlemen of good
family were waiting to greet him, and wish him success in his
enterprise.

Among them was an aged dame, Mrs. Skyring, who, being very infirm, was
led forward by a Roman Catholic priest. Kneeling before the prince,
she pressed his hand to her lips.

Much impressed by her venerable looks, Charles immediately raised her,
and on learning her name, told her he had often heard of her as a
devoted adherent of his house.

"Give ear to me for a few moments, I pray you, most gracious prince,"
she said, in faltering accents. "Eighty-five years ago, when an
infant, I was lifted up in my mother's arms to see the happy landing
at Dover of your great uncle, King Charles the Second. My father was a
staunch Cavalier, served in the Civil Wars, and fought at Worcester.
My mother was equally attached to the House of Stuart. I inherited
their loyalty and devotion. When your grandsire, King James the
Second, was driven from the throne, I prayed daily for his
restoration."

"You did more than pray, madam," said the prince. "I am quite aware
that you remitted half your income to our family; and this you have
done for more than fifty years. I thank you in my grandsire's name--in
my father's name--and in my own."

Sobs checked the old lady's utterance for a moment, but at length she
went on:

"When I learnt that you were marching on England at the head of an
army, determined to drive out the Hanoverian usurper, and regain your
crown, I was filled with despair that I could not assist you; but I
sold my plate, my jewels, and every trinket I possessed. They did not
produce much--not half so much as I hoped--but all they produced is in
this purse. I pray your royal highness to accept it as an earnest of
my devotion."

While uttering these words, which greatly touched Charles, she again
bent before him, and placed the purse in his hands.

"Pain me not by a refusal, I implore you, most gracious prince," she
said. "And think not you are depriving me of aught. I cannot live
long, and I have no children. 'Tis the last assistance I shall be able
to render your royal house--for which I have lived, and for which I
would die."

"I accept the gift, madam," replied Charles, with unaffected emotion,
"with as much gratitude as if you had placed a large sum at my
disposal. You are, indeed, a noble dame; and our family may well be
proud of a servant so loyal! If I succeed in my enterprise, I will
recompense you a hundred fold."

"I am fully recompensed by these gracious words, prince," she
rejoined.

"Nay, madam," he cried, pressing her hand to his lips; "mere thanks
are not enough. You have not confined yourself to words."

"My eyes are very dim, prince," said the old dame; "and what you say
to me will not make me see more clearly. Yet let me look upon your
face, and I will tell you what I think of you. I am too old to
flatter."

"You will not offend me by plain speaking," said Charles, smiling.

"You are a true Stuart," she continued, trying to peruse his features.
"But there are some lines in your comely countenance that bode----"

"Not misfortune, I trust?" said Charles, finding she hesitated.

She regarded him anxiously, and made an effort to reply, but could
not.

"What ails you, madam?" cried the prince, greatly alarmed by the
deathly hue that overspread her features.

Her strength was gone, and she would have fallen, if he had not caught
her in his arms.

Her friends, who were standing near, rushed forward to her assistance.

"Alas, all is over!" exclaimed Charles, mournfully, as he consigned
her inanimate frame to them.

"She is scarcely to be pitied, prince," said the Romish priest. "'Tis
thus she desired to die. May the angels receive her soul, and present
it before the Lord!"

"The sum she has bestowed upon me shall buy masses for the repose of
her soul," said Charles.

"Nay, prince," rejoined the priest. "Her soul is already at rest.
Employ the money, I beseech you, as she requested."

Much affected by this incident, Charles continued his march through a
fine champaign country, well-timbered and richly cultivated,
containing numerous homesteads, and here and there an old hall of the
true Cheshire type, and comprehending views of Bowden Downs and Dunham
Park on the left, with Norbury and Lyme Park on the right.

At Headforth Hall he halted with his body-guard, and claimed the
hospitality of its owner; while his troops marched on to Wilmslow, and
forced the inhabitants of that pretty little village to supply their
wants.

From Wilmslow the prince's march was continued to Macclesfield, where
he fixed his quarters at an old mansion near the Chester Gate.




CHAPTER II.

ATHERTON'S GIFT TO CONSTANCE.


The prince's departure from Manchester took place on Sunday, December
the 1st; but as the main body of the army did not leave till the
middle of the day, and great confusion prevailed in the town, no
service took place in the churches.

The cavalry was drawn up in St. Ann's Square; the different regiments
of infantry collected at various points in the town; and the
Manchester Regiment assembled in the collegiate churchyard.

While the troops were thus getting into order, preparatory to setting
out for Macclesfield, a great number of the inhabitants of the town
came forth to look at them--very much increasing the tumult and
confusion.

The Manchester Regiment got into marching order about noon, and was
one of the first to quit the town. Officers and men were in high
spirits, and looked very well.

As the regiment passed up Market Street Lane, with Colonel Townley
riding at its head, the colours borne by Ensign Syddall, and the band
playing, it was loudly cheered.

The regularity of the march was considerably interfered with by the
number of persons who accompanied their friends as far as Didsbury,
and supplied them rather too liberally with usquebaugh, ratifia, and
other spirituous drinks.

The courage of the men being raised to a high pitch by these
stimulants, they expressed a strong anxiety for an early engagement
with the Duke of Cumberland's forces, feeling sure they should beat
them.

After a short halt at Didsbury, their friends left them, and their
courage was somewhat cooled by fording the river below Stockport. They
were likewise obliged to wade through the little river Bollin, before
reaching Wilmslow, where they halted for the night.

Atherton had not yet left Manchester. He had some business to transact
which obliged him to employ a lawyer, and he was engaged with this
gentleman for two or three hours in the morning. He had previously
written to Constance to say that it was necessary he should see her
before his departure, and as soon as his affairs were arranged he rode
to Mrs. Butler's house in Salford.

Leaving his horse with Holden, by whom he was attended, he entered the
garden, and was crossing the lawn, when he encountered Jemmy Dawson,
who, having just parted with Monica, looked greatly depressed.

In reply to his anxious inquiries, Jemmy informed him that Constance
had borne the shock better than might have been expected, and had
passed the night in prayer. "I have not seen her," he said, "but
Monica tells me she is now perfectly composed, and however much she
may suffer, she represses all outward manifestation of grief. In this
respect she is very different from Monica herself, who, poor girl! has
not her emotions under control, and I left her in a state almost of
distraction."

Without a word more he hurried away, while Atherton entered the house,
and was shown into a parlour on the ground floor. No one was in the
room at the time, and his first step was to lay a packet on the table.

Presently Constance made her appearance. Her features were excessively
pale, and bore evident traces of grief, but she was perfectly
composed, and Atherton thought he had never seen her look so
beautiful.

She saluted him gravely, but more distantly than before.

"I cannot condole with you on the terrible event that has occurred,"
he said; "but I can offer you my profound sympathy. And let me say at
once that I freely and fully forgive your unfortunate father for all
the wrong he has done me."

"I thank you for the assurance," she rejoined. "'Tis an infinite
relief to me, and proves the goodness of your heart."

"Do not dwell upon this, Constance," he said. "Hereafter we will talk
over the matter--not now. Should you feel equal to the journey, I hope
you will immediately return to Rawcliffe."

"I will return thither, with your kind permission, to see my poor
father laid in the family vault. That sad duty performed, I shall quit
the house for ever."

"No, Constance--that must not be," he rejoined. "My object in coming
hither this morning is to tell you that I do not design to dispossess
you of the house and property. On the contrary, you will be as much
the mistress of Rawcliffe Hall as ever--more so, perhaps. Nay, do not
interrupt me--I have not finished. Many things may happen. I may meet
a soldier's fate. The hazardous enterprise I am bent upon may fail--I
may be captured--may die as a rebel on the scaffold. If I should not
return, the house and all within it--all the domains attached to
it--are yours. By that deed I have made them over to you."

And he pointed to the packet which he had laid upon the table.

Constance was greatly moved. Tears rushed to her eyes, and for a few
minutes she was so overpowered that she could not speak.

Atherton took her hand, which she did not attempt to withdraw.

"I am profoundly touched by your generosity," she said. "But I cannot
accept your gift."

"Nay you must accept it, dearest Constance," he said. "You well know
you have my heart's love, and I think you will not refuse to be mine."

"'Twould be too great happiness to be yours," she rejoined. "But
no--no--I ought not to consent."

By way of reply, he pressed her to his heart, and kissed her
passionately.

"Now will you refuse?" he cried.

"How can I, since you have wrested my consent from me?" she rejoined.
"But how am I to address you?"

"You must still call me Atherton Legh," he replied.

"Well, then, dearest Atherton, my heart misgives me. In urging you to
join this expedition I fear I have done wrong. Should any misfortune
happen to you I shall deem myself the cause of it. I tremble to think
of the consequences of my folly. Must you go?" she added, looking
imploringly at him.

"Yes," he replied. "Not even you, dearest Constance, can turn me from
my purpose. The prince has relieved me from my engagement, but I
cannot honourably retire. Come what may, I shall go on."

"I will not attempt to dissuade you from your purpose," she rejoined.
"But I find it doubly hard to part now. And your danger seems
greater."

"Mere fancy," he said. "You love me better than you did--that is the
cause of your increased apprehension."

For some moments they remained gazing at each other in silence.

At last Atherton spoke.

"'Tis with difficulty that I can tear myself away from you, dearest
Constance. But I hope soon to behold you again. Meantime, you will
remain at Rawcliffe Hall as I have suggested."

"I will do whatever you desire," she rejoined.

"I hope you will induce Mrs. Butler and Monica to stay with you, and
that I shall find them at Rawcliffe on my return. I would not
anticipate disaster--but 'tis desirable to be prepared for the worst.
Should ill success attend our enterprise, and I should be compelled to
seek safety in flight, I might find a hiding-place in Rawcliffe Hall."

"No doubt," she rejoined. "You could easily be concealed there--even
should strict search be made. All necessary preparations shall be
taken. Whenever you arrive at Rawcliffe you will find all ready for
you. I will go there to-morrow, and I trust Mrs. Butler and Monica
will be able to follow immediately. Will you not see them?"

"Not now," he replied. "Bid them farewell for me. If I stay longer, my
resolution might give way. Remember what I have said to you. In any
event you are mistress of Rawcliffe. Adieu!"

Pressing her again to his breast, he rushed out of the room.




CHAPTER III.

A RETREAT RESOLVED UPON.


Mounting his horse, which he had left at the gate of Mrs. Butler's
residence, and followed by Holden, Atherton rode towards the
bridge--being obliged to pass through the town in order to gain the
Stockport road.

The place was still in a state of great confusion--none of the cavalry
having as yet departed; but he contrived to make his way through the
crowded thoroughfares, and was soon in the open country.

At Didsbury he overtook the Manchester Regiment and had a long
conversation with Colonel Townley, who explained to him that he meant
to pass the night at Wilmslow.

Atherton then pursued his journey, crossed the Mersey at Cheadle, and
came up with the prince and the advanced guard about four miles from
Macclesfield. He was then sent on to make preparations for his royal
highness, and executed his task very satisfactorily.

On the following day, while the prince, with the infantry, continued
his march to Leek, Lord George Gordon, with his regiment of horse,
proceeded to Congleton, and Captain Legh received orders from his
royal highness to accompany him.

At Congleton information being obtained that the Duke of Cumberland
was posted at Newcastle-under-Lyne, with ten thousand men, Lord George
went thither to reconnoitre, and found that the duke, on hearing of
the onward march of the insurgent forces, had retired with his army on
Lichfield.

With marvellous despatch Atherton rode across the country and brought
the intelligence to Charles, who had arrived at Leek.

No change, however, was made in the prince's plans. He did not desire
an engagement with the duke, but rather to elude him.

Accordingly, he pressed on, and on the fourth day after leaving
Manchester, arrived with his entire forces at Derby.

Charles was still full of confidence, and as he was now a day's march
nearer London than the enemy, he persuaded himself that he should be
able to reach the capital without hazarding a battle. Though he had
been coldly received at all places since he left Manchester, and had
not obtained any more recruits, he was not discouraged.

He fixed his head-quarters at a large mansion in Full Street, which
has since been demolished.

On the morning after his arrival at Derby, he rode round the town,
attended only by Colonel Ker and Captain Legh, and was very coldly
received by the inhabitants--no cheers attending his progress through
the streets, and many of the houses being shut up.

Much dispirited by this unfavourable reception, he returned to his
head-quarters, where a council of war was held, which was attended by
all the leaders of his army.

The general aspect of the assemblage was gloomy, and far from
calculated to raise his spirits. Sir Thomas Sheridan alone seemed to
retain his former confidence.

Graciously saluting them all, Charles said:

"I have summoned you, my lords and gentlemen, simply to inform you
that after halting for another day in Derby to refresh my troops, I
shall proceed with all possible despatch, and without another halt, if
I can avoid it--to London--there to give battle to the usurper. From
the feeling evinced towards me, I doubt not I shall obtain many
recruits during the hurried march, and perhaps some important
reinforcements--but be this as it may, I shall persevere in my
design."

He then looked round, but as he encountered only gloomy looks, and all
continued silent, he exclaimed sharply:

"How is this? Do you hesitate to follow me further?"

"Since your royal highness puts the question to us," replied Lord
George Gordon, gravely, "I am bound to answer it distinctly. We think
we have already done enough to prove our devotion. Feeling certain we
have no chance whatever of success, we decline to throw away our
lives. We have now reached the very heart of England, and our march
has been unopposed, but we have obtained none of the large
reinforcements promised us, and only a single regiment at Manchester.
Scarcely any person of distinction has joined us--and very few have
sent us funds. Since we left Manchester we have been everywhere coldly
received--and here, at Derby, we are regarded with unmistakable
aversion. The populace are only held in check by our numbers. Further
south, the disposition would probably be still more unfavourable, and
retreat would be out of the question. If your royal highness can show
us letters from any persons of distinction promising aid, or can
assure us that a descent upon the English shores will be made from
France, we are willing to go on. If not, we must consult our own
safety."

"What do I hear?" cried the prince, who had listened in the utmost
consternation. "Would you abandon me--now that we have advanced so
far--now that victory is assured?"

"Our position is critical," replied Lord George. "If we advance
further, our retreat will be cut off by Marshal Wade, who is close in
our rear, and by the Duke of Cumberland, who has an army doubling our
own in number, only a few leagues from us. If we hazard a battle, and
obtain a victory, the losses we should necessarily sustain would so
weaken our forces, that without reinforcements, we could not hope to
vanquish the large army which we know is encamped at Finchley to
secure the capital. Retreat is, therefore, unavoidable."

"Is this the unanimous opinion?" demanded Charles, looking anxiously
round at the assemblage.

With the exception of Mr. Murray, the secretary, Sir Thomas Sheridan,
and the Marquis d'Eguilles, every voice answered:

"It is."

"Then leave me," cried the prince, fiercely and scornfully. "Leave me
to my fate. I will go on alone."

"If your royal highness will view the matter calmly, you will perceive
that we are not wanting in fidelity and attachment to your person in
making this proposition," said Lord Kilmarnock. "The cause here is
hopeless. Let us return to Scotland, where we shall find
reinforcements and obtain aid and supplies from France."

"No; I will not return to Scotland ingloriously," cried Charles.

"Listen to me, prince," said the Duke of Perth. "There is every
inducement to return to Scotland, where a large force awaits you. I
have just received intelligence that my brother, Lord John Drummond,
has landed at Montrose with his regiment newly raised in France. With
the Highlanders whom we left behind, this will make a large
force--probably three thousand men."

"And no doubt there will be large additions," said Sir Thomas
Sheridan. "By this time the Irish Brigade must have embarked from
France, with the promised French regiments."

"There is nothing for it but a retreat to Scotland," said Lord
Pitsligo. "It would be madness to face an army of thirty thousand
men."

"You are a traitor like the rest, Pitsligo," cried the prince,
fiercely.

The old Scottish noble flushed deeply, and with difficulty mastered
his indignation.

"I never thought to hear that opprobrious term applied to me by one of
your royal house, prince," he said. "But since you have stigmatised
all these loyal gentlemen in the same manner, I must bear the reproach
as best I can."

"Forgive me, my dear old friend," cried Charles, seizing his hand, and
pressing it warmly. "I meant not what I said. No one could possess
stauncher friends than I do--no one could appreciate their devotion
more profoundly than myself. But my heart is crushed by this bitter
and unexpected disappointment. It has come upon me like a clap of
thunder--at the very moment when I anticipated success. Since it must
be so, we will retreat, though it will half kill me to give the word.
Leave me now, I pray of you. I will strive to reconcile myself to the
alternative."

Thus enjoined, they all quitted the chamber, and Charles was left
alone.

Flinging himself into a chair he remained for some time with his face
buried in his hands.

When he raised his eyes, he saw Atherton standing beside him.

"I knew not you were here," said the prince.

"I came to learn your royal highness's commands," replied the other.
"Something, I fear, has greatly disturbed you."

"Disturbed me! ay!" cried Charles. "I am forced to retreat."

"By the enemy?" exclaimed Atherton.

"By my generals," replied Charles. "We shall advance no further. You
may prepare to return to Manchester."




CHAPTER IV.

HOW THE MANCHESTER REGIMENT WAS WELCOMED ON ITS RETURN.


Charles could not shake off the bitter disappointment he experienced
at this sudden and unlooked-for extinction of his hopes. He had made
up his mind to march on London, and he thought his Highland army would
follow him. But he now discovered his mistake.

He did not go forth again during the day, but shut himself up in his
room, and left Lord George Gordon and the Duke of Perth to make all
arrangements necessary for the retreat.

They decided to pass through Manchester on the way to Carlisle. The
men were kept in profound ignorance of the change of plan, but when
they discovered that they were retreating their rage and
disappointment found vent in the wildest lamentations. "Had they been
beaten," says the Chevalier de Johnstone, "their grief could not have
been greater." It was almost feared they would mutiny.

On the Manchester Regiment the retreat had a most dispiriting effect.
Officers and men had joined on the understanding that they were to
march to London, and they were deeply mortified when they found they
were to retreat to Scotland.

The men looked sullen and downcast, and so many desertions took place
that the ranks were perceptibly thinned. It was certain that two or
three of the officers only waited a favourable opportunity to escape.

On the third day the Manchester Regiment, which formed part of the
advanced guard, arrived at Macclesfield. Next morning, at an early
hour, they proceeded to Manchester. Alarming reports had been spread
that the Duke of Cumberland was in hot pursuit with his whole army;
but the rumour turned out to be false.

If the officers and men composing the insurgent army expected a
reception like that they had previously experienced in Manchester,
they were greatly mistaken. No sooner was the town cleared of the
invading army, than the Whigs and Presbyterians resumed their
influence, and the fickle mob changed with them.

Tumultuous crowds now went about the town shouting "Down with the
Pretender! Down with the Jacobites!" Nor did the authorities
interfere, but let them have their own way.

In consequence of this license great mischief was done. The mob
threatened to pull down Dr. Deacon's house in Fennel-street, broke his
windows, and might have proceeded to frightful extremities if they had
laid hands upon him.

Two days afterwards a rumour was designedly spread by the
Presbyterians that Marshal Wade had arrived at Rochdale with his army,
and would shortly enter Manchester; and this had the effect intended
of exciting the mob to further violence. The rumour, however, had no
foundation, and the tumult began to subside.

Meantime, the magistrates and many of the important personages who had
quitted the town, began to return, thinking the danger was past, and
something like order was restored.

The position, however, of the Jacobites was by no means secure, since
disturbances might at any time occur, and they were afforded very
little protection.

After the lapse of a week, during which reliable intelligence had been
received that the Highland army had arrived at Derby without
encountering any opposition, and even staunch Whigs had began to think
that the intrepid young prince would actually succeed in reaching
London, news came that the rebels were retreating without a battle,
and were then at Leek on their way back.

At first this news, which appeared improbable, was received with
incredulity, but it was speedily confirmed by other messengers.

A consultation was then held by the boroughreeve, constables, and
other magistrates, as to the possibility of offering any resistance;
but as the militia had been disbanded, and it was doubtful whether
Marshal Wade would come to their assistance, the idea was given up.

But after some discussion Dr. Mainwaring and Justice Bradshaw sent the
bellman round to give notice that, as the rebels might be speedily
expected, all the loyal inhabitants were enjoined to rise and arm
themselves with guns, swords, halberts, pickaxes, shovels, or any
other weapons, to resist the rebels, and prevent them from entering
the town until the arrival of the king's forces.

In consequence of this notice several thousand persons, armed in the
manner suggested, assembled in the open fields beyond Market Street
Lane, where they were harangued by Dr. Mainwaring, who urged them to
spoil the roads by breaking them up, and throwing trees across them,
and promised to send the country folk to their aid.

Having uttered this he left the defence of the town to the
inhabitants, and rode off; but he fulfilled his promise, and sent a
number of country folk armed with scythes and sickles, but these rough
fellows caused such a tumult that another notice had to be given by
the bellman commanding the mob to lay down their arms and disperse,
and the country folk to return to their domiciles.

These contradictory orders produced considerable dissatisfaction, and
were not obeyed.

One party more valiant than the rest marched to Cheadle ford, under
the leadership of Mr. Hilton, with the intention of destroying the
temporary bridge contrived by the insurgents, but before they could
accomplish their task, they were disturbed and ignominiously put to
flight by Colonel Townley and the Manchester Regiment.

On arriving at Manchester, Colonel Townley and his men were welcomed
by a shower of stones and other missiles from the mob assembled at the
top of Market Street Lane. Upon this the colonel called out that if
another stone was thrown, and the mob did not quietly disperse, he
would fire upon them.

Alarmed by the menacing looks of the soldiers, who were greatly
incensed by this treatment on the part of their fellow-townsmen, the
mob took to their heels.

During a subsequent disturbance Ensign Syddall was taken prisoner, but
was rescued by his comrades.




CHAPTER V.

A FRESH SUBSIDY DEMANDED.


On the arrival of the prince with the main body of the army,
comparative tranquillity was restored. But it was evident that the
feeling of the inhabitants was totally changed. There were no joyful
demonstrations--no bonfires--no illuminations.

Charles returned to his former residence at the top of Market Street
Lane; the Duke of Perth, Lord Tullibardine, Lord George Murray, Lord
Pitsligo, and the other Scottish nobles and chiefs repaired to the
houses they had previously occupied; and the men billeted themselves
in their old quarters. But so unfriendly were the inhabitants to the
Manchester Regiment that it was with difficulty that the officers and
men could find quarters.

As night drew on, and a tendency to riot was again manifested, the
bellman was sent round to warn the inhabitants that not more than two
persons would be allowed to walk together in the streets after dark,
unless guarded by the prince's troops, and that any attempt at tumult
or disturbance would be severely punished.

In addition to this, pickets of men patrolled the streets throughout
the night, so that the town was kept tolerably quiet.

On the same evening about eight o'clock a meeting of the principal
inhabitants took place at the Bull's Head--a warrant having been sent
to the magistrates by the prince's secretary, Mr. Murray, commanding
them, on pain of military execution, to raise a subsidy of five
thousand pounds from the town by four o'clock on the following day.

"What is to be done?" demanded Mr. Walley. "I fear it will be
impossible to raise the large sum required by the appointed time--and
if we fail we are to be held responsible with our lives. You must help
us, gentlemen."

And he looked round at the assemblage, but no offer was made.

"Surely you won't allow us to be shot?" cried Mr. Fowden.

"This is a mere threat," said old Mr. James Bayley, an eminent
merchant of the town. "The prince cannot be in earnest."

"You are mistaken, Mr. Bayley," rejoined Mr. Fowden. "It is no idle
threat. The prince is so highly offended by the reception given him
that he has laid this heavy tax upon the town--and he will have it
paid."

"The contributions must be levied by force," observed Mr. Walley. "We
shall never get the money in any other way."

"Such a course will render you extremely unpopular," observed Mr.
Bayley.

"Better be unpopular than be shot, Mr. Bayley," rejoined Mr. Fowden.
"Try to place yourselves in our position, gentlemen. Will you help us
to pay the money in case we should be driven to extremity?"

But no answer was made to the appeal, and the magistrates were in
despair.

At this moment the door opened, and Colonel Townley, attended by
Captain Dawson, Captain Deacon, and Ensign Syddall, entered the room.

The magistrates rose in consternation, wondering what was the meaning
of the visit.

"Pardon my intrusion, gentlemen," said the colonel, saluting them.
"But I think I can help you out of a difficulty. I am aware that five
thousand pounds must be raised from the town by to-morrow afternoon.
Feeling certain you will never be able to accomplish this task
unassisted, I beg to offer you my aid. You shall have a party of men,
under the command of these officers, to go round with you, and help
you to make the collection."

"We gladly accept your offer, colonel," cried both magistrates
eagerly.

"The plan will relieve you from all personal responsibility," said
Colonel Townley, "and will secure the contributions."

The magistrates were profuse in their thanks, and it was then arranged
that the party should commence their rounds at an early hour next
morning.




CHAPTER VI.

A FALSE MESSAGE BROUGHT TO HELEN.


Helen Carnegie had not accompanied her lover in the march to Derby,
but had been persuaded by Beppy Byrom to remain with her at
Manchester. Thinking that an immediate engagement with the Duke of
Cumberland was inevitable, the sergeant consented to the arrangement;
but he missed his faithful companion sadly. He had become so
accustomed to having her by his side that it seemed as if he had lost
his right hand. He tried to occupy his thoughts by strict attention to
his duty--but it would not do. So miserable did he feel at the
separation, that he was half reconciled to the retreat from Derby by
the thought that he should soon see her again.

Helen suffered quite as much--perhaps more. Independently of being
constantly near her lover, it had been her pride and pleasure to be
with the Highland army, and when the troops moved off without her,
she felt as if her heart would break; and she would certainly have
followed, if she had not been restrained by Beppy. Familiar as she was
with all the various incidents of a march, she pictured them to
herself with the greatest distinctness, and spoke of all that the
sergeant was doing.

"Oh! he win miss me sairly," she cried. "He win want me to cheer him
up, when his spirits are low. I ought not to have left him. And what
if he shouldna come back!"

"Don't make yourself uneasy, Helen," said Beppy. "He is certain to
return. Papa says the prince's army will be forced to retreat."

"Na! na! that win never be!" cried Helen. "The prince win never turn
back! The Highlanders may be all kilt, but turn back!--never!"

The rumour, however, at length reached Manchester that the prince was
actually retreating, and Helen's delight at the thought of seeing her
lover again quite overcame her vexation at what she looked upon as a
disgrace.

But the regiment to which the sergeant belonged, and which was
commanded by the Chevalier de Johnstone, did not reach Manchester till
late in the day, and Erick having a great deal to do on his arrival,
could not present himself to Helen.

She had been in quest of him, but had encountered Captain Lindsay, who
addressed her more boldly than ever, and to escape his persecutions
she was compelled to return.

As evening came her anxiety increased, and she was in all the agony of
expectation, when a message came from her lover.

It was brought by Rollo, who informed her that the sergeant had just
arrived with his regiment, and wished to see her immediately.

"Where is he?" asked Helen. "Why does he not come to me, himself?"

"He would come, if he could," replied Rollo; "but he is busy with the
men in St. Ann's Square. Come with me and I will take you to him."

Wholly unsuspicious of ill, Helen instantly prepared to accompany the
messenger, and they quitted the house together.

The night was dark but clear, and, as they crossed the churchyard, she
perceived a tall Highland officer advancing towards her, and guessing
who it was, she stopped, and said to Rollo, "What is Captain Lindsay
doing here?"

"How should I know?" rejoined the other. "He won't meddle with us.
Come on. I'll take care of you."

"I don't feel sure of that," she cried. "I shall go back."

"No, you won't," said Rollo, seizing her arm, and detaining her.

"Ah! you have basely betrayed me," she cried. "But Sergeant Dickson
will punish you."

Rollo replied by a coarse laugh, and the next moment Captain Lindsay
came up.

"Free me from this man," she cried.

"He is acting by my orders, Helen," said Lindsay. "This time I have
taken such precautions that you cannot escape me."

"You cannot mean to carry me off against my will, Captain Lindsay,"
she cried. "I winna believe it of ye."

"I hope you will come quietly, Helen," he said, "and not compel me to
resort to force. But come you shall."

"Never!" she rejoined. "Ye ken fu' weel that I am Erick Dickson's
affianced wife. 'Twad be an infamy if ye were to tae me frae him."

"I care not," replied Lindsay. "I am determined to make you mine.
Fleet horses and trusty men are waiting outside the churchyard to bear
you off. In half-an-hour you will be far from Manchester, and out of
Erick's reach."

"If ye hae the heart o' a man, Rollo, ye will not aid in this wicked
deed," cried Helen.

But Rollo shook his head, and she made another appeal to Captain
Lindsay.

"Let me gae for pity's sake," she cried. "I wad kneel to you, if I
could."

"No, no, Helen," he rejoined. "I don't mean to part with you. But we
waste time. Bring her along."

Finding all entreaties unavailing, and that she could not extricate
herself from Rollo, who was a very powerful man, the unfortunate girl
uttered a loud shriek; but her cries were instantly stifled by Captain
Lindsay, who took off his scarf, and threw it over her head.

But her cry had reached other ears than they expected. As they were
hurrying her towards the spot where the horses were waiting for them,
a well-known voice was heard, exclaiming:

"Haud there, ye waur than rievers. When I saw the horses outside the
kirkyard, and noticed that one on 'em had a pillion, I suspected
something wrang; but when I heard the cry, I felt sure. Set her down,
ye villains!" cried Sergeant Dickson, rushing towards them.

"Heed him not, Rollo," said Captain Lindsay. "Place her on the pillion
and ride off with her. Leave me to deal with the noisy fool."

And, as he spoke, he drew his sword, planted himself in Dickson's way,
while Rollo moved off with his burden.

"Ye had better not hinder me, captain," cried the half-maddened
sergeant, drawing a pistol. "Bid that dastardly ruffian set her down
at once, or I'll send a bullet through your head."

"You dare not," said Lindsay, contemptuously.

"I will not see her stolen from me," cried the sergeant, furiously.
"Set her down, I say."

But finding his cries disregarded, he fired, and Captain Lindsay fell
dead at his feet.

On hearing the report of the pistol, Rollo looked round, and seeing
what had happened, instantly set down Helen and fled. Extricating
herself from the scarf, Helen rushed towards the spot where the
unfortunate officer was lying. Her lover was kneeling beside the body.

"Wae's me, Helen!" he exclaimed. "Wae's me, I hae kilt the captain."

"Ye canna be blamed for his death, Erick," she rejoined. "He brought
his punishment on himsel."

"I shall die for it, nevertheless, lassie," he rejoined.

"Die! you die, Erick, for savin' me frae dishonour!" she cried.

"Ay, ay, lass. He was my superior officer, and by the rules of war I
shall die. No escape for me."

"Oh! if you think sae, Erick, let us flee before ye can be taken," she
cried. "Come wi' me."

"Na! na!" he rejoined, gently resisting her. "I maun answer for what I
hae done. Leave me, lassie; gae back to the young leddy. Tell her what
has happened, and she will take care of you."

"Na, Erick, I winna leave you," she rejoined. "If ye are to dee, I'se
e'en dee wi' ye. Och!" she exclaimed, "here they come to tak ye! Get
up, lad, and flee!"

As a file of soldiers could be seen approaching, the sergeant rose to
his feet, but did not attempt to fly.

Immediately afterwards the soldiers came up. With them were two or
three men bearing torches, and as these were held down, the
unfortunate officer could be seen lying on his back, with his skull
shattered by the bullet.

The sergeant averted his gaze from the ghastly spectacle.

The soldiers belonged to the Manchester Regiment, and at their head
was Captain Dawson.

"How did this sad event occur, sergeant?" demanded Jemmy, after he had
examined the body.

"Captain Lindsay fell by my hand," replied Dickson. "I surrender
myself your prisoner, and am ready to answer for the deed."

"You must have done it in self-defence," said Jemmy. "I know you too
well to suppose you could have committed such a crime without some
strong motive."

"The deed was done in my rescue," cried Helen. "Captain Lindsay was
carrying me off when he was shot."

"I trust that will save him from the consequences of the act," replied
Jemmy, sadly. "My duty is to deliver him to the provost-marshal."

"That is all that I could desire," said the sergeant. "I ask no
greater favour from you."

"Oh! let me gae wi' him--let me gae wi' him," cried Helen,
distractedly. "I am the sad cause of it a'."

"Ye canna gang wi' me, lassie, unless you compose yersel," said the
sergeant, somewhat sternly.

"Dinna fear me--dinna fear me--I winna greet mair," she cried,
controlling her emotion by a powerful effort.

"May she walk by my side to the guard-room, Captain Dawson?" asked the
sergeant.

"She may," replied the other, adding to the men, "conduct the prisoner
to the guard-room near the prince's quarters."

The sergeant was then deprived of his arms, and the pistol with which
he had fired the fatal shot was picked up, and preserved as evidence
against him.

As Erick and Helen were marched off in the midst of the guard, another
file of men entered the churchyard, took up the body of the
unfortunate Captain Lindsay, and conveyed it to the quarters of the
commanding officer.




CHAPTER VII.

A COURT-MARTIAL.


Delivered over to the custody of the provost, the unfortunate Sergeant
Dickson was placed in the guard-room near the prince's head-quarters,
and a sentinel was stationed at the door. Helen was allowed to remain
with him. The greatest sympathy was felt for the sergeant, for he was
a universal favourite.

Full of anxiety, Captain Dawson sought an interview with the prince,
who, though engaged on business, immediately received him.

Charles looked very grave.

"I am greatly distressed by what has happened," he said. "There is not
a man in my whole army for whom I have a greater regard than Erick
Dickson, but I fear his sentence will be death. However, I will do
what I can for him. A court-martial shall be held immediately, and I
have sent for Lord George Murray to preside over it, and we must wait
the result of the investigation. As yet I cannot interfere."

As the prince had ordered that the examination should take place
without delay, a court-martial was held in a room on the ground floor
of the mansion occupied by his royal highness. Lord George Murray
presided, and with him were Lord Elcho, Lord Pitsligo, Colonel
Townley, and the Chevalier de Johnstone; Captain Legh, Captain Deacon,
Captain Dawson, and several other officers were likewise present.

The president occupied a raised chair at the head of the table, round
which the others were seated. The room was only imperfectly lighted.

After a short deliberation, the prisoner was brought in by two
soldiers, who stood on either side of him.

Bowing respectfully to the court, he drew himself up to his full
height, and maintained a firm deportment throughout his examination.

"Sergeant Dickson," said Lord George Murray, in a stern and solemn
voice, "you are charged with the dreadful crime of murder--aggravated
in your instance, because your hand has been raised against your
superior officer. If you have aught to state in mitigation of your
offence, the court will listen to you."

"My lord," replied Dickson, firmly, "I confess myself guilty of the
crime with which I am charged. I did shoot Captain Lindsay, but
perhaps the provocation I received, which roused me beyond all
endurance, may be held as some extenuation of the offence. Nothing, I
am well aware, can justify the act. My lord, I could not see the girl
I love carried off before my eyes, and not demand her release. Captain
Lindsay refused--mocked me--and I shot him. That is all I have to
say."

Brief as was this address, it produced a most powerful effect. After a
short deliberation by the court, Lord George thus addressed the
prisoner:

"Sergeant Dickson, since you acknowledge your guilt, it is not
necessary to pursue the examination, but before pronouncing sentence,
the court desires to interrogate Helen Carnegie."

"She is without, my lord," replied the sergeant.

On the order of Lord George, Helen was then introduced, and as she was
well known to the president, and to every member of the council, the
greatest sympathy was manifested for her.

She was very pale, and did not venture to look at the sergeant, lest
her composure should be shaken, but made a simple reverence to the
president and the council.

"Sergeant Dickson has confessed his guilt, Helen," observed Lord
George. "But we desire to have some information from your lips. How
came you to meet Captain Lindsay in the churchyard?"

"I did na meet him, my lord," she replied, with indignation. "It was a
base and dishonourable trick on his part. Little did I ken that he was
lyin' in wait for me. Rollo Forbes brought me word that Erick wished
me to come to him, and when I went forth into the kirkyard, Captain
Lindsay seized me, and wad have carried me aff. He has long persecuted
me wi' his addresses, but I ha' gi'en him nae encouragement, and wad
ha' shunned him if I could. A scarf was thrown over my head by the
captain to stifle my cries, and had not Erick came to my rescue I
should ha' been carried off. Captain Lindsay deserved his fate, and so
all men will feel who prize their sweethearts. Erick was bound to
defend me."

"His first duty was to observe the rules of war," remarked Lord George
sternly. "We are willing to believe your story, Helen, but we have no
proof that you did not voluntarily meet Captain Lindsay."

"That fawse villain, Rollo, has fled, but there is a young leddy
without, my lord--Miss Byrom--who will testify to the truth of my
statement, if you will hear her."

"Let her come in," said the president.

Beppy Byrom was then introduced.

She was accompanied by her father, who remained near her during her
brief examination.

Though looking very pale, Beppy was perfectly self-possessed, and
quite confirmed Helen's statement that she had been lured from the
house by a supposed message from the sergeant; adding emphatically:

"I am sure she would never have gone forth to meet Captain Lindsay,
for I know she detested him."

"Ay, that I did!" exclaimed Helen, unable to control her feelings, and
wholly unconscious that she was guilty of disrespect.

Lord George then ordered the court to be cleared, and Beppy and Dr.
Byrom went out, but Helen, scarcely comprehending the order, did not
move, till her arm was touched by the officer.

She then cast an agonised look at Erick, and would have flung herself
into his arms if she had not been prevented.

As she went out, she turned to the judges and said:

"Be merciful to him, I pray you, my lords."

The court then deliberated for a short time, during which Lord George
was earnestly addressed in a low tone both by Colonel Townley and the
Chevalier de Johnstone, but his countenance remained very grave.

At last, amid profound silence, he addressed the prisoner in the
following terms: "Sergeant Dickson, the court has taken into
consideration your excellent character, and the strong provocation
that impelled you to commit this desperate act, and which certainly
mitigates the offence; and such is our pity for you, that, were it in
our power; we would pardon your offence, or at all events would visit
it with a slight punishment; but we have no option--leniency on our
part would be culpable. You have murdered an officer, and must die.
Sentence of death is therefore passed upon you by the court."

"I expected this, my lord," observed the sergeant firmly, "and am
prepared to meet my fate. But I would not die as a murderer."

"The crime you have committed is murder," said Lord George; "and I can
hold out no hope whatever of pardon. You are too good a soldier not to
know that if your life were spared it would be an ill example to the
army, besides being a violation of the law."

An awful pause ensued.

The profound silence was then broken by the prisoner, who said, in a
low, firm voice:

"All the grace I will ask from your lordship and the court is, that
execution of the sentence you have passed upon me, the justice of
which I do not deny, may not be delayed."

"We willingly grant your request," replied Lord George. "The execution
shall take place at an early hour in the morning."

"I humbly thank your lordship," said Dickson. "But I would further
pray that my affianced wife, who has been unwittingly the cause of
this disaster, be permitted to bear me company during the few hours I
have left; and that she also be permitted to attend my execution."

"To the former part of the request there can be no objection," said
Lord George. "Helen shall remain with you during the night, but she
can scarcely desire to be present at your execution."

"She will never leave me to the last," said the sergeant.

"Be it as you will," replied Lord George.

The sergeant was then removed by the guard, and given in charge of the
provost, and the court broke up.




CHAPTER VIII.

HELEN PLEADS IN VAIN.


Immediately after the breaking up of the court, Lord George Murray and
the other members of the council waited upon the prince to acquaint
him with their decision.

Though greatly pained, he thought they were right, and after some
discussion they retired and left him alone.

But the prince was so much troubled, that though excessively fatigued
he could not retire to rest, but continued to pace his chamber till
past midnight, when Captain Dawson entered and informed him that Miss
Byrom earnestly craved an audience of him.

"She is not alone," added Jemmy. "Helen Carnegie is with her."

Charles hesitated for a short time, and said, "I would have avoided
this, if possible. But let them come in."

Beppy was then ushered in by Jemmy, and made a profound obeisance to
the prince.

Behind her stood Helen, who seemed quite overwhelmed with grief.

"I trust your highness will pardon me," said Beppy. "I have consented
to accompany this poor heart-broken girl, and I am sure you will
listen to her, and if possible grant her prayer."

"I will readily listen to what she has to say," replied the prince, in
a compassionate tone; "but I can hold out little hope."

"Oh, do not say so, most gracious prince!" cried Helen, springing
forward, and catching his hand, while he averted his face. "For the
love of Heaven have pity upon him! His death win be my death, for I
canna survive him. Ye haven a mair leal subject nor a better sodger
than Erick Dickson. Willingly wad he shed his heart's bluid for ye!
Were he to dee, claymore in hand, for you, I should not lament
him--but to dee the death o' a red-handed murtherer, is not fit for a
brave man like Erick."

"I feel the force of all you say, Helen," replied Charles, sadly.
"Erick is brave and loyal, and has served me well."

"Then show him mercy, sweet prince," she rejoined. "He is no
murtherer--not he! Pit the case to yersel, prince. Wad ye hae seen the
mistress o' yer heart carried off, and not hae slain the base villain
who took her? I ken not."

"'Tis hard to tell what I might do, Helen," observed Charles. "But the
rules of war cannot be broken. A court-martial has been held, and has
pronounced its sentence. I must not reverse it."

"But you are above the court-martial, prince," she cried. "You can
change its decree. If any one is guilty--'tis I! Had I not come wi'
Erick this wad never have happened. He has committed no other fawt."

"On the contrary, he has always done his duty--done it well," said the
prince. "Both Colonel Johnstone and Colonel Townley have testified
strongly in his favour. But I required no testimony, for I well know
what he has done."

"And yet ye winna pardon him?" she cried, reproachfully.

"I cannot, Helen--I cannot," replied Charles. "My heart bleeds for
you, but I must be firm."

"Think not you will set an ill example by showing mercy in this
instance, prince," she said. "Erick's worth and valour are known. Sae
beloved is he, that were there time, hundreds of his comrades wad beg
his life. If he be put to death for nae fawt, men win think he has
been cruelly dealt with."

"You go too far, Helen," said the prince, compassionately, "but I do
not blame your zeal."

"Pardon me, sweet prince--pardon me if I have said mair than I ought.
My heart overflows, and I must gie vent to my feelings, or it will
break! Oh, that I were able to touch your heart, prince!"

"You do touch it, Helen. Never did I feel greater difficulty in acting
firmly than I do at this moment."

"Then yield to your feelings, prince--yield to them, I implore you,"
she cried, passionately. "Oh, madam!" she added to Beppy, "join your
prayers to mine, and perchance his highness may listen to us!"

Thus urged, Beppy knelt by Helen's side, and said, in an earnest
voice:

"I would plead earnestly with you, prince, to spare Erick. By putting
him to death you will deprive yourself of an excellent soldier, whose
place you can ill supply."

"Very true," murmured Charles. "Very true."

"Then listen to the promptings of your own heart, which counsels you
to spare him," she continued.

For a moment it seemed as if Charles was about to yield, but he
remained firm, and raising her from her kneeling posture, said:

"This interview must not be prolonged."

Helen, however, would not rise, but clung to his knees, exclaiming,
distractedly:

"Ye winna kill him! ye winna kill him!"

Jemmy removed her gently, and with Beppy's aid she was taken from the
room.




CHAPTER IX.

TOGETHER TO THE LAST.


For a few minutes after her removal from the cabinet, Helen was in a
state of distraction, but at length she listened to Beppy's
consolations and grew calmer.

She then besought Captain Dawson to take her to the guard-chamber,
where Erick was confined. Before going thither she bade adieu to
Beppy. It was a sad parting, and drew tears from those who witnessed
it.

"Fare ye weel, dear young leddy!" she said. "May every blessing leet
upon your bonnie head, and on that ov yer dear, gude feyther! Most
like I shan never see you again on this airth, but I hope you win
sometimes think o' the puir Scottish lassie that loo'd ye weel!"

"Heaven strengthen you and support you, Helen!" cried Beppy, kissing
her. "I trust we shall meet again."

"Dinna think it," replied the other, sadly. "I hope and trust we may
meet again in a better world."

Beppy could make no reply--her heart was too full.

Embracing the poor girl affectionately, she hurried to her father, who
was waiting for her, and hastily quitted the house.

Helen was then conducted to the guard-room in which the sergeant was
confined.

Erick was seated on a wooden stool near a small table, on which a
light was placed, and was reading the Bible. He rose on her entrance,
and looked inquiringly at her.

"Na hope, Erick," she said, mournfully.

"I had nane, lassie," he replied.

They passed several hours of the night in calm converse, talking of
the past, and of the happy hours they had spent together; but at last
Helen yielded to fatigue, and when the guard entered the chamber he
found her asleep with her head resting on Erick's shoulder.

The man retired gently without disturbing her.

Meanwhile, the warrant, signed by Lord George Gordon, appointing the
execution to take place at seven o'clock in the morning, had been
delivered to the Chevalier de Johnstone, as commander of the corps to
which the unfortunate sergeant belonged, and all the necessary
preparations had been made.

There was some difficulty in arranging the execution party, for the
sergeant was so much beloved that none of his comrades would undertake
the dreadful task, alleging that their aim would not be steady. No
Highlander, indeed, could be found to shoot him.

Recourse was then had to the Manchester Regiment, and from this corps
a dozen men were selected.

The place of execution was fixed in an open field at the back of
Market Street Lane, and at no great distance from the prince's
residence.

The Rev. Mr. Coppock, chaplain of the regiment, volunteered to attend
the prisoner.

Helen slept on peacefully till near six o'clock, when a noise, caused
by the entrance of Colonel Johnstone and Mr. Coppock, aroused her, and
she started up.

"Oh! I have had such a pleasant dream, Erick," she said. "I thought we
were in the Highlands together. But I woke, and find mysel here," she
added, with a shudder.

"Well, you will soon be in the Highlands again, dear lassie," he said.

She looked at him wistfully, but made no answer.

"Are you prepared, sergeant?" asked Colonel Johnstone, after bidding
him good morrow.

"I am, sir," replied Dickson.

"'Tis well," said the colonel. "In half an hour you will set forth.
Employ the interval in prayer."

Colonel Johnstone then retired, and the chaplain began to perform the
sacred rites, in which both Erick and Helen took part.

Just as Mr. Coppock had finished, the sound of martial footsteps was
heard outside, and immediately afterwards the door was opened and the
provost entered the chamber, attended by a couple of men. Behind them
came Colonel Johnstone.

"Bind him," said the provost to his aids.

"Must this be?" cried Dickson.

"'Tis part of the regulation," rejoined the provost.

"It need not be observed on the present occasion," said Colonel
Johnstone. "I will answer for the prisoner's quiet deportment."

"You need fear nothing from me, sir," said Dickson.

"I will take your word," rejoined the provost. "Let his arms remain
free," he added to the men.

The order to march being given, the door was thrown open, and all
passed out.

Outside was a detachment from the corps to which Sergeant Dickson had
belonged. With them was the execution party, consisting of a dozen
picked men from the Manchester Regiment, commanded by Ensign Syddall,
who looked very sad. The detachment of Highlanders likewise looked
very sorrowful. With them were a piper and a drummer. The pipes were
draped in black, and the drum muffled. Though the morning was dull and
dark, a good many persons were looking on, apparently much impressed
by the scene.

Having placed himself at the head of the detachment, Colonel Johnstone
gave the word to march, and the men moved slowly on. The muffled drum
was beaten, and the pipes uttered a low wailing sound very doleful to
hear.

Then came Erick, with Helen by his side, and attended by the chaplain.

The sergeant's deportment was resolute, and he held his head erect. He
was in full Highland costume, and wore his bonnet and scarf.

All the spectators were struck by his tall fine figure, and grieved
that such a splendid man should be put to death.

But Helen excited the greatest sympathy. Though her features were
excessively pale, they had lost none of their beauty. The occasional
quivering of her lip was the only external sign of emotion, her step
being light and firm. Her eyes were constantly fixed upon her lover.

Prayers were read by the chaplain as they marched along.

The execution party brought up the rear of the melancholy procession.
As it moved slowly through a side street towards the field, the number
of spectators increased, but the greatest decorum was observed.

At length the place of execution was reached. It was the spot where
the attempt had been made to capture the prince; and on that dull and
dismal morning had a very gloomy appearance, quite in harmony with the
tragical event about to take place.

On reaching the centre of the field, the detachment of Highlanders
formed a semicircle, and a general halt took place--the prisoner and
those with him standing in the midst, and the execution party
remaining at the back.

Some short prayers were then recited by Mr. Coppock, in which both the
sergeant and Helen joined very earnestly.

These prayers over, the sergeant took leave of Helen, and strained her
to his breast.

At this moment, her firmness seemed to desert her, and her head fell
upon his shoulder. Colonel Johnstone stepped forward, and took her
gently away.

The provost then ordered a handkerchief to be bound over the
sergeant's eyes, but at the prisoner's earnest request this formality
was omitted.

The fatal moment had now arrived. The detachment of Highlanders drew
back, and Erick knelt down.

The execution party made ready, and moved up within six or seven yards
of the kneeling man.

"Fire!" exclaimed Syddall, and the fatal discharge took place--doubly
fatal as it turned out.

At the very instant when the word was given by Syddall, Helen rushed
up to her lover, and kneeling by his side, died with him.

Her faithful breast was pierced by the same shower of bullets that
stopped the beating of his valiant heart.




CHAPTER X.

MR. JAMES BAYLEY.


In spite of the exertions of the magistrates, only a very small sum
could be obtained from the inhabitants of the town, upon which another
meeting took place at the Bull's Head, and a deputation was formed to
wait upon the prince.

Accordingly, a large body of gentlemen proceeded to the prince's
head-quarters, and some half-dozen of them, including the two
magistrates and Mr. James Bayley, were ushered into the
council-chamber, where they found Charles and his secretary.

Mr. Fowden, who acted as spokesman, represented to the prince the
utter impossibility of raising the money, and besought that the
payment might be excused.

Charles, however, answered sternly:

"Your fellow-townsmen have behaved so badly that they deserve no
consideration from me. The subsidy must be paid."

"I do not see how it can be accomplished," said Mr. Fowden.

"If it is not paid by one o'clock, you will incur the penalty,"
rejoined Mr. Murray. "Meantime, stringent measures must be adopted. I
am aware, Mr. Bayley, that you are one of the wealthiest merchants of
the town, and I shall therefore detain you as a hostage for the
payment. If the money is not forthcoming at the appointed time, we
shall carry you along with us."

"Surely your royal highness will not countenance this severity," said
Mr. Bayley, appealing to the prince. "I have not slept out of my own
house for the last two years, and am quite unable to travel. If I am
forced off in this manner I shall have a dangerous illness."

"I cannot part with you, Mr. Bayley," said the prince. "But I will put
you to as little personal inconvenience as possible. You shall have my
carriage."

"I humbly thank your royal highness for your consideration, but I
still hope I may be excused on the score of my age and infirmities."

"You cannot expect it, Mr. Bayley," interposed Mr. Murray. "Your case
is not so bad as that of the two magistrates, who will certainly be
shot if the money is not forthcoming."

"We have done our best to raise it, but we find it quite impossible,"
said Mr. Fowden. "The amount is too large. I do not think there is
five thousand pounds in the whole town."

"I am sure there is not," added Mr. Walley, with a groan.

"Since you give me this positive assurance, gentlemen," said Charles,
"I consent to reduce the amount to half. But I will make no further
concession. Meantime, Mr. Bayley must remain a prisoner."

"I pray your royal highness to listen to me," said the old gentleman.
"By detaining me you will defeat your object. If I am kept here I can
do nothing, but if you will allow me to go free I may be able to
borrow the money."

Apparently convinced by this reasoning, Charles spoke to his
secretary, who said:

"Mr. Bayley, if you will give the prince your word of honour that you
will bring him the sum of two thousand five hundred pounds in two
hours, or return and surrender yourself a prisoner, his royal highness
is willing to set you at liberty."

"I agree to the conditions," replied the old gentleman.

With a profound obeisance to the prince, he then withdrew with the
magistrates.

Accompanied by the rest of the deputation, who had waited outside in
the hall, Mr. Bayley returned to the Bull's Head, where a conference
was held.

After some discussion, Mr. Bayley thus addressed the assemblage: "You
see, gentlemen, the very serious position in which I am placed--and
our worthy magistrates are still worse off. The money must be
raised--that is certain. Let us regard it as a business transaction.
You shall lend me the sum required. I and my friend Mr. Dickenson will
give you our promissory notes at three months for the amount."

The proposition was immediately agreed to. The meeting broke up, and
in less than an hour the money was brought to Mr. Bayley. Promissory
notes were given in exchange, and the sum required was taken to Mr.
Murray by the two magistrates, who were thus freed from further
responsibility.




CHAPTER XI.

THE VISION.


Nearly a fortnight had passed since Constance's return to Rawcliffe
Hall, and during that interval much had happened. Sir Richard had been
laid in the family vault. The interment took place at night, and was
witnessed only by the household, the last rites being performed by
Father Jerome. Mrs. Butler and her daughter were now inmates of the
hall, but the old lady seldom left her chamber. Gloom seemed to have
settled upon the mansion. The two young damsels never strayed beyond
the park, and rarely beyond the garden. As yet, they had received no
tidings of the Highland army, except that it had arrived at Derby.
They knew nothing of the retreat, and fancied that the prince was on
his way to London. The next news they received might be of a glorious
victory--or of a signal defeat. Rumours there were of all kinds, but
to these they attached no importance.

It was a dark dull December afternoon, and the principal inmates of
the hall were assembled in the library. A cheerful fire blazed on the
hearth, and lighted up the sombre apartment. Father Jerome was reading
near the window. Mrs. Butler was reciting her prayers, and the two
girls were conversing together, when the door opened, and an
unexpected visitor entered the room. It was Atherton. Uttering a cry
of delight, Constance sprang to her feet, and was instantly folded to
his breast.

Before he could answer any questions, Monica rushed up to him, and
said:

"Oh! relieve my anxiety. Is Jemmy safe?"

"Safe and well," replied Atherton. "He is in Manchester with the
regiment, but Colonel Townley would not allow him to accompany me."

"What am I to understand by all this?" cried Constance.

"All chance of our gaining London is over," replied Atherton. "The
prince has retreated from Derby, and is now returning to Scotland."

"Without a battle?" cried Constance.

"Ay, without a battle," he replied, sadly.

"I can scarcely believe what I hear," cried Monica. "I would rather a
sanguinary engagement had taken place than this should have happened."

"The prince was forced to retreat," rejoined Atherton. "The Highland
chiefs would proceed no further."

"Will Jemmy retire from the regiment?" cried Monica.

"No, he will proceed with it to Carlisle. I shall go there likewise. I
have obtained leave from the prince to pay this hasty visit. I must
return in the morning. We may yet have to fight a battle, for it is
reported that the Duke of Cumberland is in hot pursuit, and Marshal
Wade may cut off our retreat."

"I will not say that all is lost," observed Constance. "But it seems
to me that the prince has lost all chance of recovering the throne.
His army and his friends will be alike discouraged, and the attempt
cannot be renewed."

"Such is my own opinion, I confess," replied Atherton. "Nevertheless,
I cannot leave him."

He then addressed himself to Mrs. Butler and Father Jerome, who had
been looking anxiously towards him, and acquainted them with the cause
of his unexpected return. They were both deeply grieved to hear of the
prince's retreat.

Tears were shed by all the ladies when they were told of the execution
of poor Erick Dickson, and they deplored the fate of the faithful
Helen Carnegie. Atherton had a long conversation with Constance, but
they could not arrange any plans for the future. At last the hour came
for separation for the night, and it was in a very depressed state of
mind that he sought his chamber.

It was a large apartment, panelled with oak, and contained a massive
oak bedstead with huge twisted columns, and a large canopy. Though a
wood fire blazed on the hearth, and cast a glow on the panels, the
appearance of the room was exceedingly gloomy.

"'Tis the best bedroom in the house, and I have therefore prepared it
for you," observed old Markland, who had conducted him to the room.
"You will easily recognise the portrait over the mantelpiece. I have
not removed it, as I have not received orders to do so."

Atherton looked up at the picture indicated by the old butler, and
could not repress a shudder as he perceived it was a portrait of his
uncle, Sir Richard.

However, he made no remark, and shortly afterwards Markland quitted
the room.

Seating himself in an easy-chair by the fire, Atherton began to
reflect upon the many strange events that had occurred to him, and he
almost began to regret that he had ever joined the unlucky expedition.

While indulging these meditations, he fell into a sort of doze, and
fancied that a figure slowly approached him.

How the person had entered the room he could not tell, for he had not
heard the door open, nor any sound of footsteps. The figure seemed to
glide towards him, rather than walk, and, as it drew nearer, he
recognised the ghastly and cadaverous countenance.

Transfixed with horror, he could neither stir nor speak. For some time
the phantom stood there, with its melancholy gaze fixed upon him.

At last a lugubrious voice, that sounded as if it came from the grave,
reached his ear.

"I have come to warn you," said the phantom. "You have neglected my
counsel. Be warned now, or you will lose all!"

For a few moments the phantom continued to gaze earnestly at him and
then disappeared.

At the same time the strange oppression that had benumbed his
faculties left him, and he was able to move.

As he rose from his chair, he found that the fire was almost extinct,
and that his taper had burnt low.

On consulting his watch he perceived that it was long past midnight.
He could not be quite sure whether he had been dreaming, or had beheld
a vision; but he felt the necessity of rest, and hastily disrobing
himself, he sought the couch, and slept soundly till morning.

He was awake when old Markland entered his room, but he said nothing
to him about the mysterious occurrence of the night.

Determined to abide by his plans, and fearing his resolution might be
shaken, he ordered his horses to be got ready in half an hour. He did
not see Constance before his departure, but left kind messages for
her, and for Mrs. Butler and Monica, by Markland.

The old butler looked very sad, and when Atherton told him he should
soon be back again, he did not seem very hopeful.

A fog hung over the moat as he crossed the drawbridge, followed by his
groom. On gaining the park, he cast a look back at the old mansion,
and fancying he descried Constance at one of the windows, he waved an
adieu to her.

As it was not his intention to return to Manchester, but to rejoin the
retreating army at Preston, he forded the Mersey at a spot known to
Holden, and avoiding Warrington, rode on through a series of lanes to
Newton--proceeding thence to Wigan, where he halted for an hour to
refresh his horse, and breakfast, after which he continued his course
to Preston.

On arriving there he found the town in a state of great confusion. The
Highland army was expected, but it was also thought that Marshal Wade
would intercept the retreat.

To the latter rumour Atherton attached very little credence, but put
up at an inn to await the arrival of the prince.




CHAPTER XII.

THE RETREAT FROM MANCHESTER TO CARLISLE.


On the evening when Atherton visited Rawcliffe Hall, intelligence was
received that the Duke of Cumberland was advancing by forced marches
to Manchester, and as it was not the prince's intention to give the
duke battle, he prepared for an immediate retreat.

Early on the following morning, therefore, the main body of the army,
with Charles at its head, quitted the town, and crossed Salford Bridge
on the way to Wigan.

Very different was the departure from the arrival. Those who witnessed
it did not attempt to conceal their satisfaction, and but few cheers
were given to the prince.

At a later hour the Manchester Regiment commenced its march. Its
numbers had again been reduced, several desertions having taken place.
Some of the officers went on very reluctantly, and one of them,
Captain Fletcher, who had refused to proceed further, was dragged off
by a party of soldiers.

Shortly after Colonel Townley's departure an express from the Duke of
Cumberland was received by the magistrates, enjoining them to seize
all stragglers from the rebel army, and detain them until his arrival.
The duke also promised to send on a party of dragoons, but as they had
not yet come up, and several regiments had not yet quitted the town,
the magistrates did not dare to act.

However, as the rear-guard of the army was passing down Smithy Bank to
the bridge, a shot was fired from a garret-window, by which a dragoon
was killed, upon which the regiment immediately faced about, and the
colonel commanding it was so enraged that he gave orders to fire the
town.

In an instant all was confusion and dismay. The men, who were quite as
infuriated as their leader, were preparing to execute the order, when
they were pacified by the capture of the author of the outrage, and
summary justice having been inflicted upon him, the regiment quitted
Manchester, very much to the relief of the inhabitants.

On that night the prince slept at Wigan; on the following day he
marched with his whole forces to Preston, and here Atherton joined
him.

Next day, Charles pursued his march to Lancaster, where he remained
for a couple of days to recruit his men before entering upon the fells
of Westmoreland.

After quitting Lancaster, the army moved on in two divisions, one of
which rested at Burton, and the other at Kirkby Lonsdale, but they
joined again at Kendal, and then continued their march over Shap
Fells. The weather was exceedingly unpropitious, and the fine views
from the hills were totally obscured by mist.

The prince's deportment seemed entirely changed. He had quite lost the
spirit and ardour that characterised him on the onward march, and he
seemed perpetually to regret that he had turned back. He thought he
had thrown away his chance, and should never recover it.

One day he unburdened his breast to Captain Legh, for whom he had
conceived a great regard, and said:

"I ought to have gone on at all hazards. The army would not have
abandoned me--even if their leaders had turned back. By this time I
should have been master of London--or nothing."

In vain Atherton tried to cheer him. For a few minutes he roused
himself, but speedily relapsed into the same state of dejection.

Heretofore, as we have stated, the prince had marched on foot at the
head of one column of the army, but he now left the command of this
division to the Duke of Perth, and rode in the rear, attended by the
Marquis d'Eguilles, Sir Thomas Sheridan, Secretary Murray, and Captain
Legh.

Lord George Gordon commanded the rear-guard, and was more than a day's
march behind the van--great fears being entertained lest the
retreating army should be overtaken by the Duke of Cumberland, who was
in full pursuit. At length, these apprehensions were realised.

The duke came up with the rear-guard at Clifton, near Penrith, and
immediately attacked it, but was most vigorously and successfully
repulsed by Lord George; and little doubt can be entertained that if
Charles, who was at Penrith, had sent reinforcements, the duke would
have been defeated, and perhaps might have been taken prisoner.

Be this as it may, the pursuit was checked, and Charles reached
Carlisle without further interruption.


End of the Third Book.




BOOK IV.

CARLISLE.




CHAPTER I.

COLONEL TOWNLEY APPOINTED COMMANDANT OF THE CARLISLE GARRISON.


On the prince's march south, three companies of Highlanders had been
left at Carlisle under the command of Colonel Hamilton, but it was now
proposed to strengthen the garrison by the addition of the Manchester
Regiment, in case the town should be besieged by the Duke of
Cumberland.

To this plan Colonel Townley raised no objection, as his men were
disinclined to proceed further, and he doubted whether they could be
induced to cross the Border. He was therefore appointed commander of
the town garrison, while Colonel Hamilton retained the governorship of
the citadel.

The Scottish army did not remain more than a day in Carlisle, and none
of the men wished to be left behind.

On the contrary, it was sorely against their inclination that the
three companies of the Duke of Perth's regiment remained with Colonel
Hamilton.

On the morning of the prince's departure from Carlisle, the Manchester
Regiment, now reduced to a hundred and twenty men, was drawn up on the
esplanade of the old castle. With it was Colonel Townley, now
commandant of the garrison. On the glacis, also, were ranged the three
companies of Highlanders who were to be left with Colonel Hamilton.

Already the greater portion of the Scottish army had quitted the town,
but Charles remained behind to bid adieu to his devoted adherents.
Apparently he was much moved as he thus addressed the officers and men
of the Manchester Regiment:

"I am loth to leave you here, but since it is your wish not to cross
the Border, I do not urge you to accompany me to Scotland." Then
addressing the Highland companies, he added: "Scotsmen, you must
remain here for a short time longer. Should the town be besieged, you
need have no fear. The castle can hold out for a month, and long
before that time I will come to your assistance with a strong force."

This address was received with loud cheers, both by Englishmen and
Scots.

Colonel Townley then stepped forward and said:

"Your royal highness may rely upon it that we will hold the place till
your return. We will never surrender."

"I will answer for my men," added Colonel Hamilton. "The Duke of
Cumberland and Marshal Wade shall batter the castle about our ears
before we will give it up."

"I am quite satisfied with this assurance," rejoined the prince. Then
turning to Captain Legh, he said to him: "Will you remain, or
accompany me to Scotland?"

"Since your royal highness allows me the choice, I will remain with
the regiment," replied Atherton. "I think I can best serve you here."

Charles looked hard at him, but did not attempt to dissuade him from
his purpose.

"I leave you in a perilous post," he said; "but I am well aware of
your bravery. I hope we shall soon meet again. Adieu!"

He then mounted his steed, and waving his hand to the two colonels,
rode off.




CHAPTER II.

ATHERTON TAKEN PRISONER.


Surrounded by walls built in the time of Henry the Eighth, Carlisle,
at the period of our history, boasted a fortress that had successfully
resisted many an attack made upon it by the Scots.

Situated on an eminence, and partly surrounded by a broad, deep moat,
fed by the river Eden, the citadel, strongly garrisoned and well
provided with guns and ammunition, would seem to be almost impregnable.
At the foot of the western walls flowed the river Caldew, while the
castle overlooked the beautiful river Eden.

On the summit of the keep floated the prince's standard, and from this
lofty station remarkably fine views could be obtained. On one side
could be noted the junction of the Caldew and the Eden that takes
place below the castle, and adds to the strength of its position. The
course of the Eden could likewise be traced as it flowed through
fertile meadows, to pour its waters, augmented by those of the Caldew,
into the Solway Firth.

From the same point of observation could likewise be descried the
borders of Dumfries, with the Cheviot Hills on the right, while on the
other side the view extended to the stern grey hills of
Northumberland. Looking south, the eye ranged over a sweeping tract in
the direction of Penrith. Of course the keep looked down upon the
ancient cathedral which closely adjoined the castle, and upon the town
with its old gates and bulwarks.

Though the walls had become dilapidated, and were of no great
strength, yet, from its position and from its castle, it would seem
that Carlisle was able to stand a lengthened siege; and such was the
opinion of Colonel Townley, who considered it tenable against any
force that could be brought against it by the Duke of Cumberland.

One important matter, however, could not be overlooked. The
inhabitants were hostile, and were only controlled by the garrison. In
Carlisle, as in all Border towns, there was an hereditary dislike of
the Scots, and this feeling had been heightened by the recent events.

Immediately after the prince's departure, Colonel Townley examined the
walls, and caused certain repairs to be made. Guns were mounted by his
direction, and chevaux de frise fixed at all the gates and entrances.

A house from which the prince's army had been fired upon was likewise
burnt, to intimidate the inhabitants; and notice was given that any
violation of the commandant's orders would be severely punished. A
sallying party was sent out under the command of Captain Legh to
procure forage and provisions, and returned well supplied.

Amongst the most active and efficient of the officers was Tom Syddall,
who had now been raised to the post of adjutant, and rendered the
colonel great service. As the number of men ran short, Parson Coppock,
whose military ardour equalled his religious zeal, abandoned his gown
and cassock, and putting on military accoutrements, acted as
quarter-master to the regiment.

The greatest zeal and activity were displayed both by the officers and
men of the corps, and Colonel Townley seemed almost ubiquitous.

Colonel Hamilton lacked the spirit and energy displayed by the
commandant of the town, and was content to remain quietly shut up
within the walls of the castle, leaving the more arduous duties to
Colonel Townley, who discharged them, as we have shown, most
efficiently. Moreover, though he kept the opinion to himself, Colonel
Hamilton felt that the garrison would be compelled to capitulate,
unless it should be reinforced.

By the end of the third day all possible preparations for the siege
had been made by Colonel Townley, and he now deemed himself secure.

On the following day Captain Legh was sent with a message to the
governor, and found the castle in a good state of defence. The
court-yard was full of Highland soldiers; a few cannon were planted on
the battlements, and sentinels were pacing to and fro on the walls.

Colonel Hamilton was on the esplanade at the time, conversing with
Captain Abernethy and some other Scottish officers, and Atherton
waited till he was disengaged to deliver his message to him; but
before the governor could send a reply, a small party of horse, with
an officer at their head, could be seen approaching the city from the
Penrith Road.

Evidently they were English dragoons. After reconnoitring for a few
moments, Colonel Hamilton gave his glass to Atherton, who thought they
must be coming to summon the city to surrender.

"No doubt of it," replied the governor. "I wonder what Colonel
Townley's answer will be?"

"A scornful refusal," rejoined Captain Legh, surprised.

"That is all very well now," remarked the governor, shrugging his
shoulders; "but we shall have to capitulate in the end."

"Does your excellency really think so?"

"I do," replied Hamilton.

The answer returned by Colonel Townley was such as Atherton had
anticipated. He positively refused to surrender the city, and declared
he would hold it to the last extremity.

On the following day the Duke of Cumberland appeared before the town
with his whole army, and immediately began to invest it on all sides.
He continued his siege operations for nearly a week, during which a
constant fire was kept up from the walls and from the larger guns of
the castle, and frequent sallies were made by the garrison. One of
these, headed by Captain Legh, was attended with some little success.
He drove the enemy from their trenches, and nearly captured the Duke
of Richmond.

Hitherto, the besieged party had sustained very little damage, and had
only lost a few men. The duke had not indeed opened fire upon them,
because he had not received some artillery which he expected from
Whitehaven.

Colonel Townley, therefore, continued in high spirits, and even
Colonel Hamilton acquired greater confidence. One morning, however,
they were startled by perceiving a six-gun battery, which had been
erected during the night. Colonel Townley did not lose courage even at
this sight; but the governor was seriously alarmed.

"We shall be compelled to submit," he said; "and must make the best
terms we can."

"Submit! never!" cried Colonel Townley. "We had better die by the
sword than fall into the hands of those cursed Hanoverians. The duke
will show us no mercy. Oh that we could but get possession of those
guns!"

"Give me twenty well-mounted men and a dozen led horses, and I will
bring off a couple of the guns," cried Atherton.

"The attempt were madness," cried Colonel Townley.

"Madness or not, I am ready to make it," rejoined Captain Legh.

Half-an-hour afterwards the north gate, which was nearest the battery,
was suddenly thrown open, and Captain Legh, mounted on a strong horse,
and followed by twenty well-mounted men, half of whom had spare horses
furnished with stout pieces of rope, dashed at a headlong pace towards
the battery. The attack was so sudden and unexpected that the enemy
was quite taken by surprise. Only an officer of artillery and
half-a-dozen artillerymen were near the battery at the time, and
before they could fly to their guns, Captain Legh and his party were
upon them, and drove them off. A desperate effort was made to carry
off two of the guns, but it was found impossible to move the heavy
carriages.

The Duke of Cumberland, who was at a short distance with his
aide-de-camp, Colonel Conway, planning and directing the operations,
witnessed the attack, and instantly ordered Conway with a troop of
horse to seize the daring assailants.

But the latter dashed off as hard as they could to the gate, and
gained it just in time. All got in safely with the exception of their
leader, who was captured by Colonel Conway and led back to the duke.




CHAPTER III.

THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.


William, Duke of Cumberland, second surviving son of the reigning
sovereign, was at this time a handsome young man of twenty-four.

Strongly built, but well proportioned, he had bluff and rather coarse
but striking features. Young as he was, the duke had gained
considerable military experience. He had fought with his father,
George the Second, at the battle of Dettingen, in 1743, and in May,
1745, he engaged Marshal Saxe at Fontenoy, and sustained a most
crushing defeat--highly prejudicial to English renown.

Though thus defeated by the superior military skill of Marshal Saxe,
the duke displayed so much gallantry and personal courage during the
action, that he did not lose his popularity in England, but was very
well received on his return; and on the outbreak of the rebellion in
the same year, followed by the defeat of General Cope at Preston Pans,
the attack on Edinburgh, and the march of the young Chevalier at the
head of the Highland army into England, he assumed the command of the
royal forces, and prepared to drive the rebels out of the kingdom. But
instead of doing this, to the general surprise, he allowed the Scots
to continue their advance as far as Derby, and it will always remain
doubtful whether, if the prince had marched on to London, his daring
attempt would not have been crowned by success. A contemporary
historian unquestionably thought so, and emphatically declares: "Had
the adventurer proceeded in his career with the expedition which he
had hitherto used, he might have made himself master of the
metropolis, where he would have been certainly joined by a
considerable number of his well-wishers, who waited impatiently for
his approach."[2] But when the prince commenced his retreat the duke
immediately started in pursuit, though he made no real efforts to
overtake him; and, as we have seen, he was repulsed by Lord George
Gordon at Clifton, near Penrith. Again, instead of pursuing the rebels
into Scotland, he sat down to besiege Carlisle. The duke was
surrounded by his staff when Captain Legh was brought before him by
Colonel Conway.

          [2] Smollett's History of England. Reign of George the
          Second.

"Who is this rash fellow, who seems anxious to throw away his life?"
demanded the duke.

"I thought I knew him, for his features seem strangely familiar to
me," replied Colonel Conway. "But I must be mistaken. He gives his
name as Atherton Legh, captain of the Manchester Regiment."

"Atherton Legh! ha!" cried the duke. Then fixing a stern look upon the
young man, he said:

"You had better have remained faithful to the Government, sir. Now you
will die as a traitor and a rebel."

"I am prepared to meet my fate, whatever it may be," replied Atherton,
firmly.

"I might order you for instant execution," pursued the duke. "But you
shall have a fair trial with the rest of the garrison. It must
surrender to-morrow."

"Your royal highness is mistaken--the garrison can hold out for a
week."

"'Tis you who are mistaken, Captain Legh," rejoined the duke,
haughtily. "I have just received a letter from Colonel Hamilton,
offering me terms of submission."

"I am indeed surprised to hear it," said Atherton. "Your royal
highness may credit me when I affirm that the citadel is in a very
good state of defence, has plenty of arms and ammunition, and ought to
hold out for a month."

"That may be," rejoined the duke. "But I tell you I have received a
letter from the governor, asking for terms. However, I will only
accept an unconditional surrender."

"Colonel Townley, the commander of the city garrison, will hold out to
the last," said Atherton.

"Colonel Townley is a brave man, and may die sword in hand; but hold
the town he cannot. His regiment does not number a hundred men. You
see I am well informed, Captain Legh. To-morrow you will see your
colonel again."

"I shall be glad to see him again--but not here," replied Atherton.

"Take the prisoner hence," said the duke to Colonel Conway. "Let him
be well treated--but carefully watched."

Colonel Conway bowed, and Atherton was removed by the guard.




CHAPTER IV.

SURRENDER OF CARLISLE TO THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.


Shortly after the incident just related, fire was opened from the
battery, but not much damage was done; it being the duke's intention
to alarm the garrison, rather than injure the town. A few shots were
directed against the castle, and struck the massive walls of the keep.
The fire was answered by the besieged--but without any effect.

At this juncture it was with great difficulty that the inhabitants
could be kept in check, and, with the small force at his command, it
became evident to Colonel Townley that he must surrender.

Calling his officers together, he thus addressed them:

"Our position is most critical. Outside the walls we are completely
blockaded, and inside the inhabitants are against us. One means of
escape has occurred to me; but it is so hazardous, that it ought
scarcely to be adopted. A sortie might be made by a small party of
horse, and these might succeed in cutting their way through the enemy.
If a couple of barges could be found, the rest might manage to float
down the Eden."

"That plan has occurred to me, colonel," said Captain Dawson. "But it
is impracticable, since all the barges and boats have been destroyed.
Possibly a few men might escape by swimming down the river--but in no
other way."

"No," said Colonel Townley; "we are so completely environed that
escape is impossible, unless we could cut our way through the enemy,
and this cannot be done, since there are no horses for the men. I will
never abandon my gallant regiment. Since Colonel Hamilton has resolved
to surrender, it is impossible for me to hold out longer--though I
would a thousand times rather die with arms in my hand than submit to
the mercy of the Duke of Cumberland."

Several plans were then proposed, but were rejected, as none seemed
feasible; and at last a muster was made of the regiment, and Colonel
Townley's resolution being communicated to the men, was received by
them with the greatest sorrow.

Later on in the day, Colonel Townley repaired to the citadel, where he
had a conference with the governor, and endeavoured to induce him to
change his purpose, but in vain.

On the following morning the besieged town of Carlisle presented a
singular spectacle. The inhabitants, who had hitherto been kept in awe
by the garrison, assembled in the streets, and did not attempt to hide
their exultation; while the Highlanders in the castle, and the
officers and men of the Manchester Regiment, looked deeply dejected,
and stood listlessly at their posts. The cause of all these mingled
feelings of ill-concealed satisfaction on one side, and deep dejection
on the other, was, that the garrison had declared its intention to
surrender by hanging out the white flag. The men still stood to their
arms--the engineers and artillerymen remained upon the walls--the
gates of the city were still guarded--but not a gun had been fired.
All was terrible expectation.

Colonel Hamilton, Captain Abernethy, Colonel Townley, and some of the
officers of the Manchester Regiment, were assembled on the esplanade
of the castle, when Captain Vere, an officer of the English army,
attended by an orderly, rode towards them. As the bearer of a despatch
for the governor, he had been allowed to enter the city.

Dismounting, Captain Vere marched up to the governor, and, with a
formal salute, delivered a missive to him, saying, "This from his
royal highness."

The governor took the letter, and, walking aside with Colonel Townley,
read as follows:

"'All the terms his royal highness will or can grant to the rebel
garrison of Carlisle are, that they shall not be put to the sword, but
be reserved for the king's pleasure.'"

"The king's pleasure!" exclaimed Colonel Townley. "We have nothing but
death to expect from the usurper. But go on."

"'If they consent to these conditions, the governor and the principal
officers are to deliver themselves up immediately; and the castle,
citadel, and all the gates of the town are to be taken possession of
forthwith by the king's troops."

"I cannot make up my mind to this," cried Colonel Townley.

"Unfortunately there is no help for it," observed Colonel Hamilton.
"But hear what follows: 'All the small arms are to be lodged in the
town guard-room, and the rest of the garrison are to retire to the
cathedral, where a guard is to be placed over them. No damage is to be
done to the artillery, arms, or ammunition.' That is all."

"And enough too," rejoined Colonel Townley. "The conditions are
sufficiently hard and humiliating."

"Gentlemen," said the governor, addressing the officers, "'tis proper
you should hear the terms offered by the duke."

And he proceeded to read the letter to them.

Murmurs arose when he had done, and a voice--it was that of Adjutant
Syddall--called out:

"Reject them!"

"Impossible," exclaimed Hamilton.

Thinking he had been kept waiting long enough, Captain Vere then
stepped forward and enquired, "What answer shall I take to his royal
highness?"

Colonel Townley and his officers were all eagerness to send a refusal;
but the governor cried out, "Tell the duke that his terms are
accepted."

"In that case, gentlemen," said Captain Vere, "you will all prepare to
deliver yourselves up. His royal highness will at once take possession
of the town."

With this, he mounted his horse, and rode off, attended by his
orderly.

About an hour afterwards, the gates being thrown open, Brigadier Bligh
entered the town with a troop of horse, and rode to the market-place,
where, in front of the guard-room, he found Colonel Hamilton, Captain
Abernethy, Colonel Townley, and the officers of the Manchester
Regiment, a French officer, and half a dozen Irish officers.

They all yielded themselves up as prisoners, and the brigadier desired
them to enter the guard-room, and when they had complied with the
order, placed a guard at the door.

The Highlanders, the non-commissioned officers and privates of the
Manchester Regiment, with a few French and Irish soldiers, who were
drawn up in the market-place, then piled their arms, and retired to
the cathedral, where a strong guard was set over them.

Crowded with these prisoners, the interior of the sacred building
presented a very singular picture. Most of the men looked sullen and
angry, and their rage was increased when the sound of martial music
proclaimed the entrance of the Duke of Cumberland with his whole army
into the town.

Attended by General Hawley, Colonel Conway, Colonel York, and a large
staff of officers, the duke was received with acclamations by the
townspeople who had come forth to meet him. Riding on to the citadel,
he dismounted with his staff, and, entering a large room recently
occupied by the governor, ordered the prisoners to be brought before
him. After charging them with rebellion and treason, he told them they
would be sent under a strong guard to London, there to take their
trial.

When he had finished, Colonel Townley stepped forward, and said:

"I claim to be treated as a prisoner of war. For sixteen years I have
been in the service of the King of France, and I now hold a commission
from his majesty, which I can lay before your royal highness if you
will deign to look at it."

"But you have received another commission from the son of the
Pretender, and have acted as colonel of the rebel regiment raised by
yourself in Manchester," interposed General Hawley. "Your plea is
therefore inadmissible."

"I have as much right to the cartel as any French officer taken by his
royal highness at the battle of Fontenoy," rejoined Townley.

"As a liege subject of his majesty, you are not justified in serving a
prince at war with him," said the Duke of Cumberland, sternly. "I
cannot entertain your plea. You will be tried for rebellion and
treason with the rest of the prisoners."

Seeing it would be useless to urge anything further, Colonel Townley
stepped back.

The only person allowed the cartel was the French officer.

The prisoners were then removed, and ordered to be kept in strict
confinement in the castle until they could be conveyed to London.

Some deserters from the king's army were then brought before the duke,
who ordered them to be hanged, and the sentence was forthwith carried
out on a piece of ground at the back of the castle.

The prisoners passed the night in strict confinement in the castle,
their gloom being heightened by the sound of the rejoicings that took
place in the town at the Duke of Cumberland's success.

On the following morning, at an early hour, three large waggons, each
having a team of strong horses, were drawn up near the gates of the
castle. These were destined to convey the prisoners to London. The
foremost waggon was assigned to Colonel Townley, Captain Dawson,
Captain Deacon, and Captain Legh. The rest of the officers of the
Manchester Regiment were similarly bestowed. A strong mounted guard
accompanied the conveyances, having orders to shoot any prisoner who
might attempt to escape.

As the waggons moved slowly through the streets towards the south
gate, groans and execrations arose from the spectators, and missiles
were hurled at the prisoners, who no doubt would have fared ill if
they had not been protected.

The Duke of Cumberland remained for two days longer at Carlisle, when
having received a despatch from the king enjoining his immediate
return, as an invasion from France was apprehended, he posted back to
London, taking Colonel Conway with him, and leaving the command of the
army to General Hawley, who started in pursuit of Prince Charles.


End of the Fourth Book.




BOOK V.

JEMMY DAWSON.




CHAPTER I.

THE ESCAPE AT WIGAN.


The prisoners were treated very considerately on their journey to
London. Whenever the waggons stopped at an inn, their occupants were
allowed to alight and order what they pleased, and as they had plenty
of money, they were served with the best the house could afford. At
night they sometimes slept in the waggons, sometimes at an inn, if
sufficient accommodation could be found. In the latter case, of
course, a guard was placed at the doors.

Passed in this way, the journey might not have been disagreeable, if
it had not been for the indignities to which they were occasionally
exposed. None of the officers felt any great uneasiness as to their
fate. Despite what the Duke of Cumberland had said to Colonel Townley,
they were led to expect that they would be treated as prisoners of
war, and regularly exchanged.

Entertaining this conviction, they managed to keep up their spirits,
and some of them led a very jovial life.

A great change, however, had taken place in Colonel Townley's
deportment. He had become extremely reserved, and associated only with
Captain Deacon, Captain Dawson, and Atherton. The two latter would
have been far more cheerful if they had obtained any tidings of those
to whom they were tenderly attached.

On the third day after leaving Carlisle, the prisoners arrived at
Lancaster, and on the following day they were taken to Preston. Here
the feeling of the inhabitants was so strong against them that they
had to be protected by the guard.

At Wigan, where the next halt was made for the night, Atherton
remarked that John Holgate, the host of the Bear's Paw, the inn at
which they stopped, looked very hard at him. He thought he knew the
man's face, and subsequently remembered him as a tradesman in
Manchester.

In the course of the evening Holgate found an opportunity of speaking
to him privately, and told him not to go to bed, but to leave his
window slightly open--as something might happen. Having given him
these directions, Holgate hastily left him.

On entering his room, which was at the back of the house, Atherton
found it looked into the inn-yard, where the waggons were drawn up,
and as some men were going in and out of the stables with lanterns, he
perceived that several of the troopers were preparing to take their
night's rest in the waggons.

Immediately beneath the window, which was at some height from the
ground, a sentinel was posted.

Having made the observations, Atherton withdrew, leaving the window
slightly open, as he had been enjoined, and put out the light.

In about an hour all became quiet in the yard--the troopers had got
into the waggons, and no doubt were fast asleep, but he could hear the
measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro.

Another hour elapsed, and the sentinel being still at his post,
Atherton began to fear that Holgate might fail in his design. But his
hopes revived when the footsteps could no longer be heard, and softly
approaching the window he looked out.

The sentinel was gone. But in his place stood another person, whom
Atherton had no doubt was the friendly landlord.

Having intimated his presence by a slight signal, Holgate retreated,
and Atherton instantly prepared to join him. Emerging from the window
as noiselessly as he could, he let himself drop to the ground, and
achieved the feat so cleverly, that he was only heard by Holgate, who
immediately took him to the back of the yard, where they clambered
over a low wall, and gained a narrow lane, along which they hastened.

"I think you are now safe," said Holgate. "At any rate, you will be so
when we reach our destination. I have brought you this way because it
would have been impossible to elude the vigilance of the sentinel
placed in front of the house. I have given the man who was stationed
in the yard a pot of ale, and he has retired to the stable to drink
it."

"You have proved yourself a good friend to me, Holgate," said
Atherton; "but I fear you are running great risk on my account."

"I don't mind that," replied the other. "The moment I saw you, I
determined to liberate you. I dare say you've forgotten the
circumstance, but I haven't. You saved me from being drowned in the
Irwell--now we're quits. I'm going to take you to the old Manor House
in Bishopsgate Street. It belongs to Captain Hulton, who is in the
king's army, but he is away, and my aunt, Mrs. Scholes, who is his
housekeeper, has charge of the house. She is a staunch Jacobite. I
have seen her and told her all about you. You may trust her
perfectly."

Proceeding with the utmost caution, they soon came to Bishopsgate
Street, in which the old Manor House was situated.

Taking his companion to the back of the premises, Holgate tapped at a
door, which was immediately opened by a very respectable-looking
middle-aged woman, who curtsied to Atherton as she admitted him.
Holgate did not enter the house, but with a hasty "good-night,"
departed, and the door was closed and bolted.

Mrs. Scholes then took Atherton to the kitchen, and explained that she
meant to put him in the "secret room" in case the house should be
searched.

"You will be indifferently lodged, sir," she said; "but you will be
safe, and that's the chief thing."

Atherton entirely concurred with her, and without wasting any further
time in talk, she led him up a back staircase to a bedroom, from which
there was a secret entrance through a closet, to a small inner
chamber. The latter was destined for Atherton, and scantily furnished
as it was, he was very well content with it, and slept soundly in the
little couch prepared for him.

Next morning, when the prisoners were mustered, the greatest
consternation was caused by the discovery that Captain Legh was
missing. It was quite clear that he had got out of the window, and it
was equally clear that the sentinel must have neglected his duty, or
the prisoner could not have escaped; but no suspicion attached to the
landlord.

Of course the departure of the waggons was delayed, and strict search
was made for the fugitive throughout the town. A proclamation was
likewise issued, announcing that any one harbouring him would be
liable to severe penalties. But the notice had no effect.

In consequence of some information received by the officer in command
of the escort that two persons had been seen to enter the Manor House
in Bishopsgate Street late at night, the house was strictly searched,
but the secret chamber was not discovered, nor was anything found to
indicate that the fugitive was concealed there.




CHAPTER II.

THE MEETING AT WARRINGTON.


At Warrington, where the visitors were conveyed next day, a meeting
took place between Jemmy and Monica, who had come over from Rawcliffe
Hall to see her unfortunate lover. She was accompanied by Father
Jerome.

Jemmy was alone in a little parlour of the inn at which the waggons
had stopped, when Monica was admitted by the guard, who immediately
withdrew, and left them together.

Springing forward, Jemmy clasped her to his heart.

So overpowered were they both, that for some minutes they could not
give utterance to their feelings, but gazed at each other through eyes
streaming with tears.

"Alas! alas!" cried Monica, at length. "Is it come to this? Do I find
my dearest Jemmy a prisoner?"

"A prisoner of war," he replied, in as cheerful a tone as he could
assume. "I am sure to be exchanged. We shall be separated for a time,
but shall meet again in another country. You imagine we shall all be
put to death, but believe me the Elector of Hanover has no such
intention. He dare not execute us."

"Hush! Jemmy--not so loud. I have been wretched ever since the retreat
from Derby took place, for I foresaw what it would come to. I have
never ceased to reproach myself with being the cause of your
destruction."

"You have nothing to reproach yourself with, dearest girl," he
rejoined, tenderly. "'Tis a pity the prince did not march to London.
'Tis a still greater pity the regiment was left at Carlisle."

"Yes, you have been sacrificed, Jemmy--cruelly sacrificed. I shall
never think otherwise."

"Such imputations, I am aware, are laid to the prince's charge, but he
doesn't deserve them--indeed he doesn't. He is the soul of honour. No
one believed the Duke of Cumberland would stop to besiege the town;
and those best informed thought it could hold out for a month.
However, fortune has declared against us. But I won't allow myself to
be cast down." Then lowering his tone, he added, "You know that
Atherton has escaped?"

"Yes, I know it," she rejoined. "And so does Constance. Oh, that you
had been with him, Jemmy!"

"I shall find means to follow--never doubt it," he rejoined. "But it
won't do to make the attempt just yet, for we shall be much more
strictly watched than before. But I have a plan, which I mean to put
in practice when an opportunity offers, and I hope it will succeed."

"Can I aid you, Jemmy?" she asked, anxiously.

"No," he replied. "But don't be surprised if you see me some night at
Rawcliffe Hall."

"Now, indeed, you give me fresh spirits," she cried. "Heaven grant I
may see you soon! But there may be danger in your coming to Rawcliffe,
and you mustn't run any needless risk on my account."

"The first use I shall make of my liberty will be to fly to you,
dearest girl. Of that you may be quite sure. But we are talking only
of ourselves. You have scarcely mentioned Constance or your mother.
How are they both?"

"They have been full of anxiety, as you may easily imagine. But
Constance has somewhat revived since she heard of Atherton's escape,
and the tidings I shall be able to give her of you will make her feel
more easy. As to my mother, whatever she may suffer--and I am sure she
suffers much--she is perfectly resigned. Father Jerome is without.
Will you see him?"

"No. I will devote each moment to you. Ah! we are interrupted!" he
exclaimed, as the guard came in to say that the time allowed them had
expired.

Again they were locked in each other's arms, and when they were forced
to separate, it seemed as if their hearts were torn asunder. Even the
guard was moved by their distress.

Nevertheless, Monica returned to Rawcliffe Hall in far better spirits
than she had quitted it in the morning. She had now some hopes that
her lover would escape.

Shortly after her departure Jemmy was obliged to take his place in the
waggon, and for some time felt very wretched; but at length he
consoled himself by thinking that his separation from the object of
his affections would not be long.

The waggons proceeded so slowly on their journey to London, that
before they reached Dunstable news was received of the defeat of
General Hawley, at Falkirk, by the prince. These tidings caused great
alarm throughout the country, as the opinion generally prevailed that
after the siege of Carlisle the rebellion had been completely
suppressed.

Though the prisoners rejoiced at the prince's success, they felt that
their own peril was considerably increased by the event, and that in
all probability the severest measures would now be adopted against
them.

Hitherto, such strict watch had been kept that Jemmy Dawson had found
no means of executing his plan of escape.




CHAPTER III.

ATHERTON TAKES REFUGE AT RAWCLIFFE HALL.


On the third day after Atherton's escape at Wigan, as Constance and
Monica, who had been tempted forth by the fineness of the weather,
were walking in the park, a young man, in a plain country dress that
gave him the appearance of a farmer, made his way towards them.

From the first moment when they beheld this personage their suspicions
were excited, but as he drew nearer they perceived it was Atherton.
Constance would have hurried forward to meet him, but feeling the
necessity of caution she restrained herself. Presently, he came up,
and thinking he might be noticed by some observer, he adopted a very
respectful and distant manner, consistent with the character he had
assumed, and took off his hat while addressing them.

"Of course you have heard of my escape," he said. "I did not attempt
to communicate with you, for I had no one whom I could trust to convey
a message, and I did not dare to write lest my letter should fall into
wrong hands. For two days I was concealed in the old Manor House at
Wigan, and most carefully attended to by the housekeeper, who provided
for all my wants. I had some difficulty in getting away, for the house
was watched, but on the second night I ventured out, and soon got
clear of the town. Before I left, Mrs. Scholes procured me this
disguise, without which I should infallibly have been captured, for my
uniform must have betrayed me. Even thus attired, I have had more than
one narrow escape. If I can only get into the house unobserved I shall
be perfectly safe."

"You must wait till night and all shall be ready for you," rejoined
Constance. "As soon as it grows dark Markland shall come out into the
park."

"He will find me near this spot," replied Atherton.

"But what will you do in the interim?" asked Constance, anxiously.

"Give yourself no concern about me," he rejoined. "You may be sure I
will not expose myself to any needless risk. Adieu!"

With a rustic bow he then moved off, and the two damsels returned to
the hall.

Constance's first business was to summon Markland and tell him what
had occurred.

The old butler did not manifest much surprise at the intelligence, for
when he had first heard of Atherton's escape he felt certain the young
gentleman would seek refuge at the hall, and he had already made some
quiet preparations for his concealment. He therefore expressed the
utmost readiness to carry out his young mistress's instructions, and
declared that he could easily manage matters so that none of the
servants should be aware that Captain Legh was hidden in the house.

"Even if he should remain here for a month," he said, "with common
caution I will engage he shall not be discovered."

"I am very glad to hear you speak so confidently, Markland," she
rejoined; "for I feared it would be impossible to conceal him for more
than a day or two."

Having made all needful arrangements, Markland stole out quietly as
soon as it became dark, and found Atherton at the spot indicated.

"You are so well disguised, sir," he said, "that if I hadn't been
prepared I should certainly not have known you. But don't let us waste
time in talking here. I must get you into the house."

The night being very dark their approach to the hall could not be
perceived. On reaching the drawbridge Markland told his companion to
slip past while he went into the gate-house to speak to the porter,
and by observing these instructions, Atherton gained the court-yard
unperceived.

The butler then gave orders that the drawbridge should be raised, and
while the porter was thus employed, he opened the postern and admitted
Captain Legh into the house. Having first satisfied himself that no
one was in the way, Markland then led the young man along a passage to
his own room on the ground floor.

All danger was now over. The small room into which Atherton had been
ushered looked exceedingly snug and comfortable. Thick curtains drawn
over the narrow window facing the moat prevented any inquisitive eye
from peering into the chamber. A bright fire burnt on the hearth, and
near it stood a table on which a cold pasty was placed, with a bottle
of claret.

"I have prepared a little supper for you, sir," said Markland. "Pray
sit down to it. I'll take care you shan't be disturbed. You will
please to excuse me. I have some other matters to attend to."

He then went out, taking the precaution to lock the door, and Atherton
partook of the first quiet meal he had enjoyed for some time.

Old Markland did not return for nearly three hours, and when he
unlocked the door, he found Atherton fast asleep in the chair. Great
havoc had been made with the pasty, and the flask of claret was nearly
emptied.

"I have got a bed ready for you, sir," he said. "It isn't quite so
comfortable as I could wish, but you will make allowances."

"No need of apologies, Markland. I could sleep very well in this
chair."

"That's just what I mean to do myself, sir," replied the butler,
laughing.

With this, he took Captain Legh up a back staircase to a disused suite
of apartments, in one of which a bed had been prepared, while a wood
fire blazing on the hearth gave a cheerful air to the otherwise
gloomy-looking room.

"I have had this room got ready as if for myself, sir," observed
Markland; "but as I have just told you, I mean to sleep in a chair
below stairs. I wish you a good-night, sir. I'll come to you in the
morning."

So saying, he quitted the room, and Atherton shortly afterwards sought
his couch, and slept very soundly.

Next morning, the old butler visited him before he had begun to dress,
and opening the drawers of a wardrobe that stood in the room, took out
two or three handsome suits of clothes--somewhat old-fashioned,
inasmuch as they belonged to the period of George the First, but still
attire that could be worn.

"These habiliments belonged to your father, Sir Oswald," said
Markland; "and as you are about his size, I am sure they will fit
you."

"But are they not out of fashion, Markland?" cried Atherton. "People
will stare at me if I appear in a costume of five-and-twenty years
ago."

"Well, perhaps they might," rejoined the butler; "but there can be no
objection to this dark riding-dress."

"No, that will do very well," said Atherton, in an approving tone,
after he had examined it.

"You will find plenty of linen in this drawer--laced shirts,
solitaires, cravats, silk stockings," continued the butler; "and in
that cupboard there are three or four pairs of jack-boots, with as
many cocked-hats."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Atherton. "You have quite set me up, Markland. But
now leave me for a short time, that I may try the effect of this
riding-dress."

The butler then withdrew, but returned in about half an hour with a
pot of chocolate and some slices of toast on a tray.

By this time Atherton was fully attired, and everything fitted
him--even to the boots, which he had got out of the cupboard.

"Why, I declare, you are the very image of your father!" exclaimed
Markland, as he gazed at him in astonishment. "If I had not known who
you are, I should have thought Sir Oswald had come to life again. If
any of the old servants should see you, you will certainly be taken
for a ghost."

"That's exactly what I should desire," replied Atherton; "and should
it be necessary, I shall endeavour to keep up the character. However,
I don't mean to qualify myself for the part by eating nothing, so pour
me out a cup of chocolate."

The butler obeyed, and Atherton sat down and made a very good
breakfast.

Before he had quite finished his repast, the butler left him, and did
not reappear.




CHAPTER IV.

AN ENEMY IN THE HOUSE.


Not having anything better to do, Atherton began to wander about the
deserted suite of apartments, with which his own chamber communicated
by a side door.

As the windows were closed, the rooms looked very dark, and he could
see but little, and what he did see, impressed him with a melancholy
feeling; but the furthest room in the suite looked lighter and more
cheerful than the others, simply because the shutters had been opened.

It was a parlour, but most of the furniture had been removed, and only
a few chairs and a table were left.

Atherton sat down, and was ruminating upon his position, when a door
behind was softly opened--so very softly that he heard no sound.

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!"




CHAPTER V.

A POINT OF FAITH.


Left alone, Atherton endeavoured to reconcile himself to his
imprisonment, but with very indifferent success.

How he longed to join the party downstairs--to go forth into the
garden or the park--to do anything, in short, rather than remain shut
up in those gloomy rooms! But stay there he must!--so he amused
himself as well as he could by looking into the cupboards with which
the rooms abounded.

In the course of his examination he found some books, and with these
he contrived to beguile the time till old Markland made his
appearance.

The old butler brought with him a well-filled basket, from which he
produced the materials of a very good cold dinner, including a flask
of wine; and a cloth being spread upon a small table in the room we
have described as less gloomy than the other apartments, the young man
sat down to the repast.

"I have had some difficulty in bringing you these provisions, sir,"
observed Markland. "Father Jerome has been playing the spy upon me all
the morning--hovering about my room, so that I couldn't stir without
running against him. Whether he heard anything last night I can't say,
but I'm sure he suspects you are hidden in the house."

"What if he does suspect, Markland?" observed Atherton. "Do you think
he would betray me? If you believe so, you must have a very bad
opinion of him."

"I can tell you one thing, sir; he was far from pleased when he heard
of your escape, and wished it had been Captain Dawson instead. I told
him I thought you might seek refuge here, and he said he hoped not;
adding, 'If you were foolish enough to do so you would certainly be
discovered.' I repeated these observations to Miss Rawcliffe, and she
agreed with me that they argued an ill-feeling towards you."

"What can I have done to offend him?" exclaimed Atherton.

"I don't know, sir, except that you are heir to the property. But give
yourself no uneasiness. I will take care he shan't harm you. Don't on
any account leave these rooms till you see me again."

"Has Father Jerome access to this part of the house, Markland?"

"No; I keep the door of the gallery constantly locked; and he is not
aware of the secret entrance to the library."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Quite sure, sir. I never heard him allude to it."

"He is frequently in the library, I understand?"

"Yes, he sits there for hours; but he generally keeps in his own room
in the evening, and you might then come down with safety. Have you
everything you require at present?"

"Everything. You have taken excellent care of me, Markland."

"I am sorry I can't do better. I'll return by-and-by to take away the
things."

With this he departed, and Atherton soon made an end of his meal.

Time seemed to pass very slowly, but at length evening arrived, and
the butler reappeared.

"You will find Miss Rawcliffe in the library," he said, "and need fear
no interruption, for Father Jerome is with Mrs. Butler. I shall be on
the watch, and will give timely notice should any danger arise."

Instantly shaking off the gloom that had oppressed him, Atherton set
off. The butler accompanied him to the head of the private staircase,
but went no further. Though all was buried in darkness, the young man
easily found his way to the secret door, and cautiously stepped into
the library.

Lights placed upon the table showed him that Constance was in the
room, and so noiselessly had he entered, that she was not aware of his
presence till he moved towards her. She then rose from the sofa to
meet him, and was clasped to his breast. Need we detail their
converse? It was like all lovers' talk--deeply interesting to the
parties concerned, but of little interest to any one else. However, we
must refer to one part of it. They had been speaking of their
prospects of future happiness, when he might be able to procure a
pardon from the Government and return to Rawcliffe--or she might join
him in France.

"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.




CHAPTER VI.

A LETTER FROM BEPPY BYROM.


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.




CHAPTER VII.

ATHERTON QUESTIONS THE PRIEST.


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.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE SEARCH.


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.




CHAPTER IX.

WHO WAS FOUND IN THE DISMANTLED ROOMS.


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."




CHAPTER X.

A SUCCESSFUL STRATAGEM.


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.




CHAPTER XI.

ATHERTON MEETS WITH DR. DEACON AT ROSTHERN.


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.




CHAPTER XII.

A SAD COMMUNICATION IS MADE TO DR. DEACON.


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."




CHAPTER XIII.

A JOURNEY TO LONDON PROPOSED.


"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.




CHAPTER XIV.

JEMMY DAWSON'S LETTER.


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!"




CHAPTER XV.

THE PARTING BETWEEN MONICA AND HER MOTHER.


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.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE JOURNEY.


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.




CHAPTER I.

MONICA VISITS JEMMY IN NEWGATE.


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.




CHAPTER II.

COLONEL CONWAY.


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.




CHAPTER III.

CUMBERLAND HOUSE.


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.




CHAPTER IV.

THE TRIAL OF THE MANCHESTER REBELS.


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."




CHAPTER V.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE EXECUTIONS.


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.




CHAPTER VI.

THE FATAL DAY.


Next morning all those condemned to die breakfasted together in a
large room on the ground floor of the prison. Their fetters had been
previously removed.

There was no bravado, no undue levity in their manner or discourse,
but they looked surprisingly cheerful, in spite of the near approach
of death under the most dreadful form.

All had passed the greater part of the night in prayer. And as they
hoped they had settled their account on high, there was nothing to
disturb their serenity.

"Our time draws very near," observed Syddall to Captain Dawson, who
sat next him. "But for my part I feel as hearty as ever I did in my
life. Indeed, I think we all look remarkably well considering our
position."

"Death does not terrify me in the least," said Jemmy. "Its bitterness
is past with me. May Heaven have mercy on us all!"

"We die in a good cause," observed Captain Deacon. "I heartily forgive
all my enemies--even the chief of them, the Elector of Hanover and the
Duke of Cumberland. It has been falsely said that I was induced by my
revered father to take up arms for the prince. The assertion I shall
contradict in the manifesto I have prepared. For the rest I care not
what my enemies say of me."

"The Duke of Cumberland has not kept faith with us," exclaimed Captain
Fletcher. "When we surrendered at Carlisle, he declared that the
garrison should not be put to the sword, but reserved for his father's
pleasure--the Elector's pleasure being that we should be hung, drawn,
and quartered. Gracious Heaven! deliver all Englishmen from this
Hanoverian clemency!"

"My sole regret is that we ever surrendered," cried Colonel Townley.
"Would we all had died sword in hand! However, since we are brought to
this pass, we must meet our fate like brave men. As we have been
allowed wine with our last repast, let us drink to King James the
Third!"

Every glass was raised in response, after which they all rose from the
table.

Several friends of the prisoners were now permitted to enter the room.
Among them were Mr. Saunderson, Colonel Townley's confessor, and
Captain Deacon's youngest brother, Charles.

Charles Deacon had been reprieved; but, while embracing his brother
for the last time, he expressed deep regret that he could not share
his fate.

Poor Monica was there--dressed in deep mourning. She and her lover
were somewhat removed from the rest; but they were so engrossed by
each other, that they seemed to be quite alone.

Their parting attracted the attention of Tom Syddall, and moved him to
tears--though he had shed none for his own misfortunes.

"How did you pass the night, dearest Jemmy?" inquired Monica.

"Chiefly in prayer," he replied. "But towards morn I fell asleep, and
dreamed that you and I were children, and playing together in the
fields. It was a pleasant dream, and I was sorry when I awoke."

"I, too, had a pleasant dream, dearest Jemmy," she rejoined. "I
thought I saw my mother. She had a seraphic aspect, and seemed to
smile upon me. That smile has comforted me greatly. Ha! what sound is
that?"

"'Tis the guard assembling in the court-yard," he replied. "We must
part. Do not give way."

"Fear me not," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck.

At this juncture, the sheriffs entered the room, attended by the
keeper of the prison. The sheriffs wore black gowns, and were without
their chains.

While the sheriffs were exchanging a few words with Colonel Townley
and the other prisoners, Mr. Jones conducted Monica to the
mourning-coach which was waiting for her at the gates of the prison.

Meanwhile, a guard of grenadiers had been drawn up in the court-yard,
and the ignominious conveyances, destined to take the prisoners to the
place of execution, had been got ready.

By-and-by, the unfortunate men were brought down, and in the presence
of the sheriffs and the keeper of the prison were bound to the hurdles
with cords.

This done, the dismal procession set forth.

At the head of the train marched a party of grenadiers. Then followed
the sheriffs in their carriages, with their tipstaves walking beside
them.

Those about to suffer came next. On the foremost hurdle were stretched
Colonel Townley, Captain Deacon, and Jemmy Dawson. The remaining
prisoners were bound in like manner. Another party of grenadiers
followed.

Next came several hearses, containing coffins, destined for the
mangled bodies of the victims.

After the hearses followed a number of mourning-coaches, drawn by
horses decked with trappings of woe. In the foremost of these coaches
sat Monica, with her attendant, Lettice.

In this order the gloomy procession shaped its course slowly towards
the place of execution. The streets were crowded with spectators
anxious to obtain a sight of the unfortunate men who were dragged in
this ignominious manner along the rough pavement. But no groans were
uttered--no missiles thrown. On the contrary, much commiseration was
manifested by the crowd, especially when the mourning-coaches were
seen, and great curiosity was exhibited to obtain a sight of their
occupants. For Monica, whose story had become known, unwonted sympathy
was displayed.

At length, the train drew near Kennington Common, where a large
assemblage was collected to witness the dreadful scene. Hitherto, the
crowd had been noisy, but it now became suddenly quiet. In the centre
of the common, which of late years has been enclosed, and laid out as
a park, a lofty gibbet was reared. Near it was placed a huge block,
and close to the latter was a great pile of faggots. On the block were
laid an executioner's knife and one or two other butcherly
instruments.

At the foot of the fatal tree stood the executioner--a
villainous-looking catiff--with two assistants quite as repulsive in
appearance as himself. The two latter wore leather vests, and their
arms were bared to the shoulder.

On the arrival of the train at the place of execution, the sheriffs
alighted, and the grenadiers formed a large circle round the gibbet.
The prisoners were then released from the hurdles, but their limbs
were so stiffened by the bonds that they could scarcely move.

At the same time the faggots were lighted, and a flame quickly arose,
giving a yet more terrible character to the scene.

Some little time was allowed the prisoners for preparation, and such
of them as had papers and manifestoes delivered them to the sheriffs,
by whom they were handed to the tipstaves to be distributed among the
crowd.

At this juncture a fair pale face was seen at the window of the
foremost mourning coach, and a hand was waved to one of the prisoners,
who returned the farewell salute. This was the lovers' last adieu.

The dreadful business then began.

Colonel Townley was first called upon to mount the ladder. His arms
were bound by the executioner, but he was not blindfolded. His
deportment was firm--his countenance being lighted up by a scornful
smile. After being suspended for a couple of minutes, he was cut down,
and laid, still breathing, upon the block, when the terrible sentence
was carried out--his heart being flung into the flames and consumed,
and his head severed from the body and placed with the quarters in the
coffin, which had been brought round to receive the mangled remains.

Colonel Townley's head, we may mention, with that of poor Jemmy
Dawson, was afterwards set on Temple Bar.

Many of the spectators of this tragic scene were greatly affected--but
those about to suffer a like fate witnessed it with stern and stoical
indifference.

Amid a deep and awful hush, broken by an occasional sob, Jemmy Dawson
stepped quickly up the ladder, as if anxious to meet his doom; and
when his light graceful figure and handsome countenance could be
distinguished by the crowd, a murmur of compassion arose.

Again the fair face--now death-like in hue--was seen at the window of
the mourning coach, and Jemmy's dying gaze was fixed upon it.

As his lifeless body was cut down and placed upon the block to be
mutilated, and the executioner flung his faithful heart, which happily
had ceased beating, into the flames, a cry was heard, and those
nearest the mourning coach we have alluded to pressed towards it, and
beheld the inanimate form of a beautiful girl lying in the arms of an
attendant.

All was over.

The story spread from lip to lip among the deeply-sympathising crowd,
and many a tear was shed, and many a prayer breathed that lovers so
fond and true might be united above.

Before allowing the curtain to drop on this ghastly spectacle, which
lasted upwards of an hour, we feel bound to state that all the
sufferers died bravely. Not one quailed. With his last breath, and in
a loud voice, Captain Deacon called out "God save King James the
Third!"

When the halter was placed round poor Tom Syddall's neck, the
executioner remarked that he trembled.

"Tremble!" exclaimed Tom, indignantly. "I recoil from thy hateful
touch--that is all."

And to prove that his courage was unshaken, he took a pinch of snuff.

The heads of these two brave men were sent to Manchester, and fixed
upon spikes on the top of the Exchange.

When he heard that this had been done, Dr. Deacon came forth, and
gazed steadfastly at the relics, but without manifesting any sign of
grief.

To the bystanders, who were astounded at his seeming unconcern, he
said:

"Why should I mourn for my son? He has died the death of a martyr."

He then took off his hat, and bowing reverently to the two heads,
departed.

But he never came near the Exchange without repeating the ceremony,
and many other inhabitants of the town followed his example.




CHAPTER VII.

FIVE YEARS LATER.


Once more, and at a somewhat later date, we shall revisit Rawcliffe
Hall.

It still wears an antique aspect, but has a far more cheerful look
than of yore. Internally many alterations have been made, which may be
safely described as improvements. All the disused apartments have been
thrown open, and re-furnished. That part of the mansion in which the
tragic event we have recounted took place has been pulled down and
rebuilt, and the secret entry to the library no longer exists.
Everything gloomy and ghostly has disappeared.

Father Jerome no longer darkens the place with his presence, but
before his departure he was compelled to give up all the documents he
had abstracted. A large establishment is kept up, at the head of which
is worthy old Markland.

Sir Conway Rawcliffe has long been in possession of the estates and
title. Moreover, he is wedded to the loveliest woman in Cheshire, and
their union has been blessed by a son. It is pleasant to see the young
baronet in his own house. He has become quite a country gentleman--is
fond of all country sports, hunts, shoots, and occupies himself with
planting trees in his park, and generally improving his property. So
enamoured is he of a country life, so happy at Rawcliffe, that his
wife cannot induce him to take a house in town for the spring. His
uncle, Colonel Conway, wished him to join the army, but he declined.
He avoids all dangerous politics, and is well affected towards the
Government.

Lady Rawcliffe is likewise fond of the country, though she would
willingly spend a few months in town, now and then, as we have
intimated. She looks lovelier than ever. Five years have improved her.
Her figure is fuller, bloom has returned to her cheeks, and the
melancholy that hung upon her brow has wholly disappeared. Need we say
that her husband adores her, and deems himself--and with good
reason--the happiest and luckiest of men?

They often talk of Monica and Jemmy Dawson. Time has assuaged their
grief, but Constance never thinks of the ill-fated lovers without a
sigh. Poor Monica sleeps peacefully beside her mother in the family
vault.

Sir Conway and Lady Rawcliffe frequently pass a day at Manchester with
the Byroms. The closest friendship subsists between them and that
amiable family. Wonderful to relate, Beppy is still unmarried. That
she continues single is clearly her own fault, for she has had plenty
of offers, not merely from young churchmen, but from persons of wealth
and good position. But she would have none of them. Possibly, she may
have had some disappointment, but if so it has not soured her
singularly sweet temper, or affected her spirits, for she is just as
lively and bewitching as ever. She is a frequent visitor at Rawcliffe
Hall.

Dr. Deacon is much changed, but if he mourns for his sons it is in
private. After a long imprisonment, his youngest son Charles has been
sent into exile.

A word in reference to the unfortunate Parson Coppock. He was
imprisoned in Carlisle Castle with the other non-commissioned officers
of the Manchester Regiment, and brought to the scaffold.

For many months after the suppression of the rebellion the magistrates
of Manchester held constant meetings at a room in the little street,
most appropriately called Dangerous Corner, to compel all suspected
persons to take oaths to the Government, and abjure Popery and the
Pretender.

Denounced by some of his brother magistrates, and charged by them with
aiding and abetting the cause of the rebels, Mr. Fowden, the
constable, was tried for high treason at Lancaster, but honourably
acquitted.

On his return the worthy gentleman was met by a large party of friends
on horseback, and triumphantly escorted to his own house.

After being exposed for some time on the Exchange, the heads of poor
Theodore Deacon and Tom Syddall were carried away one night--perhaps
by the contrivance of the doctor--and secretly buried.

Though disheartened by recent events, the Jacobites still continued in
force in Manchester. They greatly rejoiced at the escape of the young
Chevalier to France, after his wanderings in the Highlands, and the
more hopeful of the party predicted that another invasion would soon
be made, and frequently discussed it at the meetings of their club at
the Bull's Head.

At length, a general amnesty was proclaimed, and several noted
Jacobites, compromised by the part they had taken in the rebellion,
reappeared in the town.

Amongst them was the Rev. Mr. Clayton, who was reinstated as chaplain
of the collegiate church.

Long afterwards, whenever allusion was made at a Jacobite meeting to
the eventful year of our story, it was designated the "fatal
'Forty-Five."

A sad period no doubt. Yet some ancient chroniclers of the town, who
have long disappeared from the scene, but to whom we listened
delightedly in boyhood, were wont to speak of the prince's visit to
Manchester as occurring in the Good Old Times.

    The Good Old Times!--all times are good when old!


THE END.


  LONDON:
  WHITING AND COMPANY, LIMITED, SARDINIA STREET, LINCOLN'S-INN-FIELDS.








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