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.