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.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 719
