The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “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 Ha
ll 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.