The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “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.