Constance Rawcliffe gains a RecruitConstance Rawcliffe gains a RecruitPage 78.
Constance Rawcliffe gains a RecruitPage 78.
"I have gained another recruit for the prince," she said.
"So I see," replied Monica. "His royal highness could not have a better officer."
"I am sure not," said Jemmy Dawson.
And embracing his friend, he cried, "I longed for you as a companion-in-arms, and my desire is gratified. We shall serve together—conquer together—or die together. Whatever it may be, apparently our destiny will be the same."
"You are certain of a rich reward," said Atherton. "But I——"
"Live in hope," murmured Constance.
"Not till I have discovered the secret of my birth will I presume to ask your hand," said the young man.
Constance thought of the packet confided to her by her father—of the letter she had read—and felt certain the mystery would be soon unravelled.
Just then Monica interposed.
"Pray come into the house, Mr. Atherton Legh," she said. "Mamma will be much pleased to see you. We have been extolling you to the skies. She is a great invalid, and rarely leaves her room, but to-day, for a wonder, she is downstairs."
Atherton did not require a second bidding, but went with them into the house.
In a large, gloomy-looking, plainly-furnished room might be seen a middle-aged dame, who looked like the superior of a religious house—inasmuch as she wore a conventual robe of dark stuff, with a close hood that fell over her shoulders, and a frontlet beneath it that concealed her locks—blanched by sorrow more than age. From her girdle hung a rosary. Her figure was thin almost to emaciation, but it was hidden by her dress; her cheeks were pallid; her eyes deep sunk in their sockets; but her profile still retained its delicacy and regularity of outline, and showed she must once have possessed rare beauty. Her countenance wore a sweet, sad, resigned expression.
Mrs. Butler—for she it was—suffered from great debility, brought on, not merely by ill-health, but by frequent vigils and fasting. So feeble was she that she seldom moved beyond a small room, adjoining her bed-chamber, which she used as an oratory; but on that day she had been induced by her daughter to come down-stairs.
She was seated in a strong, oaken chair, destitute of a cushion, and propped up by a pillow, which she deemed too great an indulgence, but which was absolutely requisite for her support. Her small feet—of which she had once been vain—rested on a fauteuil. On a little table beside her lay a book of devotion.
On the opposite side of the fireplace sat a thin, dark-complexioned man, in age between fifty and sixty, whose black habiliments and full powdered wig did not indicate that he was a Romish priest. Such, however, was the case. He was Sir Richard Rawcliffe's confessor, Father Jerome. At the time when we discover them, the priest was addressing words of ghostly counsel to the lady, who was listening attentively to his exhortations.
They were interrupted by the entrance of the party.
As Atherton was conducted towards her, Mrs. Butler essayed to rise, but being unequal to the effort, would have immediately sunk back if her daughter had not supported her.
She seemed very much struck by the young man, and could not remove her gaze from him.
"Who is this, Monica?" she murmured.
"He is the young gentleman, mamma, of whose courage Constance has been speaking to you in such glowing terms—who so gallantly liberated Sir Richard from arrest this morning, and subsequently preserved Salford Bridge from destruction. It is Mr. Atherton Legh. I felt sure you would like to see him."
"You judged quite right, my dear," Mrs. Butler replied, in her soft, sweet accents. "I am very glad to see you, sir. Pardon my gazing at you so fixedly. You bear a strong resemblance to one long since dead—a near relation of my own. Do you not remark the likeness, father?" she added to the priest.
"Indeed, madam, I am much struck by it," replied Father Jerome.
"I am sure you mean my uncle, Sir Oswald," observed Constance.
"True. But as Mr. Legh has probably never heard of him, I did not mention his name."
"I think you have a miniature of my uncle?" said Constance.
"I had one," returned Mrs. Butler. "But I know not what has become of it."
"Strange! I never saw a portrait of him," remarked Constance. "There is not one at Rawcliffe. Nor is there a portrait of his beautiful wife, who did not long survive him."
"There you are mistaken, Miss Rawcliffe," observed Father Jerome. "Portraits of both are in existence, for I myself have seen them. But they are locked up in a closet."
"Why should they be locked up?" cried Monica.
"Probably Sir Richard does not care to see them," said her mother, sighing deeply. "But let us change the subject. We are talking on family matters that can have no interest to Mr. Atherton Legh."
Atherton would have been pleased if more had been said on the subject, but he made no remark. Constance was lost in reflection. Many strange thoughts crossed her mind.
At this juncture Jemmy Dawson interposed.
"You will be glad to learn, madam," he said to Mrs. Butler, "that my friend Atherton Legh has decided on joining the Manchester Regiment. Constance has the credit of gaining him as a recruit."
"That a young man of so much spirit as your friend should support the cause of the Stuarts cannot fail to be highly satisfactory to me, in common with every zealous Jacobite," said Mrs. Butler. "May success attend you both! But it is for you, father, to bless them—not for me."
Thus enjoined, the two young men bent reverently before the priest, who, extending his hands over them, ejaculated fervently:
"May the Lord of Hosts be with you on the day of battle, and grant you victory! May you both return in safety and claim your reward!"
To this Mrs. Butler added, with great earnestness and emotion:
"Should Heaven permit them to be vanquished—should they be taken captive—may they be spared the cruel fate that befel so many, who, in by-gone days, fought in the same righteous cause, and suffered death for their loyalty and devotion."
This supplication, uttered in sorrowful tones, produced a powerful impression upon all the hearers.
"Why have you drawn this sad picture, mamma?" said Monica, half reproachfully.
"I could not repress my feelings, my child. A terrible scene perpetually rises before me, and I feel it will haunt me to the last."
"Have you witnessed such a scene, mamma?" cried her daughter, trembling. "You have never spoken of it to me?"
"I have often wished to do so, but I felt the description would give you pain. Are you equal to it now, do you think?"
"Yes," she replied, with attempted firmness, but quivering lip.
"And you, Constance?" said Mrs. Butler.
"I can listen to you, aunt," rejoined Constance, in tones that did not falter.
Before commencing, Mrs. Butler consulted Father Jerome by a glance, and his counsel to her was conveyed in these words, "Better relieve your mind, madam."
"I was very young," she said, "younger than you, Monica, when the greatest sorrow of my life occurred. At the time of the former rising in 1715, my faith was plighted to one who held a command in the insurgent army. I will not breathe his name, but he belonged to a noble family that had made great sacrifices for King James the Second, and was prepared to make equal sacrifices for the Chevalier de St. George. The brave and noble youth to whom I was betrothed was sanguine of success, and I had no misgivings. I was with him at Preston during the battle, and when the capitulation took place, he confided me to a friend whom he loved as a brother, saying to him, 'Should my life be taken by our bloodthirsty foes, as I have reason to fear it will, be to her what I would have been. Regard her as my widow—wed her.' His friend gave the promise he required, and he kept his word."
Here she paused for a short time, while Monica and Constance—neither of whom had ever heard of this singular promise, or of the betrothal that preceded it—looked at each other.
Meanwhile, a change came over Mrs. Butler's countenance—the expression being that of horror.
Her lips were slightly opened, her large dark eyes dilated, and though they were fixed on vacancy, it was easy to perceive that a fearful vision was rising before her.
"Ay, there it is," she cried, in tones and with a look that froze the blood of her hearers—"there is the scaffold!" stretching out her hand, as if pointing to some object. "'Tis there, as I beheld it on that fatal morn on Tower Hill. 'Tis draped in black. The block is there, the axe, the coffin, the executioner. A vast concourse is assembled—and what an expression is in their faces! But where is he? I see him not. Ah! now he steps upon the scaffold. How young, how handsome he looks! How undaunted is his bearing! Every eye is fixed upon him, and a murmur of pity bursts from the multitude. He looks calmly round. He has discovered me. He smiles, and encourages me by his looks. Some ceremonies have to be performed, but these are quickly over. He examines the block—the coffin—with unshaken firmness—and feels the edge of the axe. Then he prays with the priest who attends him. All his preparations made, he bows an eternal farewell to me, and turns—— Ha! I can see no more—'tis gone!"
And she sank back half fainting in the chair, while her daughter and niece sought to revive her.
So vivid had been the effect produced, that those present almost fancied they had witnessed the terrible scene described.
For a brief space not a word was spoken. At the end of that time, Mrs. Butler opened her eyes, and fixing them upon the young men, exclaimed:
"Again, I pray Heaven to avert such a fate from you both!"
Monica burst into tears. Her lover flew towards her, and as she seemed about to swoon, he caught her in his arms.
"Ah! Jemmy," she exclaimed, looking up at him tenderly, "how could I live if I lost you! You must not join this perilous expedition."
"Nay, I cannot honourably withdraw," he replied. "My promise is given to the prince. Were I to retire now I should be termed a coward. And all my love for you would not enable me to bear that dreadful reproach."
"'Tis I who induced you to join," she cried. "If you perish, I shall be guilty of your death. You must not—shall not go."
"How is this?" he cried. "I cannot believe you are the brave Jacobite girl who urged me to take arms for the good cause."
"My love, I find, is stronger than my loyalty," she replied. "Do not leave me, Jemmy. A sad presentiment has come over me, and I dread lest you should perish by the hand of the executioner."
"This idle foreboding of ill is solely caused by your mother's fancied vision. Shake it off, and be yourself."
"Ay, be yourself, Monica," said Constance, stepping towards them. "This weakness is unworthy of you. 'Tis quite impossible for Jemmy to retreat with honour from his plighted word. Those who have embarked in this hazardous enterprise must go through it at whatever risk."
And she glanced at Atherton, who maintained a firm countenance.
But Monica fixed a supplicating look on her lover, and sought to move him.
Fearing he might yield to her entreaties, Constance seized his hand.
"For your sake I am bound to interpose, Jemmy," she said. "You will for ever repent it, if you make a false step now. What is life without honour?"
"Heed her not!" exclaimed Monica. "Listen to me! Till now I never knew how dear you are to me. I cannot—will not part with you."
Both Mrs. Butler and Father Jerome heard what was passing, but did not deem it necessary to interfere—leaving the task to Constance.
"Take him hence!" said Constance, in a low tone to Atherton. "She may shake his determination. Ere long she will recover her energies, and think quite differently."
After bidding adieu to Mrs. Butler and the priest, Atherton tried to lead Jemmy gently away. But Monica still clung to him.
"Come with me," said Atherton. "I want to say a few words to you in private."
"Say what you have to tell him here," observed Monica.
"This is mere childishness, Monica," observed Constance. "Let him go with his friend."
Monica offered no further resistance, and the two young men quitted the room together.
No sooner were they gone than Monica flew towards Mrs. Butler, and throwing herself at her feet, exclaimed:
"Oh, mother! let us pray that Jemmy may not share the tragical fate of him you have mourned so long. Let us pray that he may not die the death of a traitor!"
"A traitor!" exclaimed Mrs. Butler. "He whom I mourn was no traitor."
"Listen to me, daughter," said Father Jerome, in a tone of solemn rebuke. "Should he to whom you are betrothed fall a sacrifice to tyranny, oppression, and usurpation—should he suffer in the cause of truth and justice—should he lay down his life in asserting the right of his only lawful sovereign, King James the Third—then be assured that he will not die a traitor, but a martyr."
Monica bore this reproof well. Looking up at her mother and the priest, she said, in penitential tones:
"Forgive me. I see my error. I will no longer try to dissuade him, but will pray that he may have grace to fulfil the task he has undertaken."
Tom Syddall's shop was situated on Smithy Bank, in the immediate neighbourhood both of the Cross and of Salford Bridge.
The house was a diminutive specimen of the numerous timber and plaster habitations, chequered black and white, that abounded on the spot; but it was quite large enough for Tom. The gables were terminated by grotesquely-carved faces, that seemed perpetually grinning and thrusting out their tongues at the passers-by; and a bay-window projected over the porch, the latter being ornamented with a large barber's pole and a brass basin, as indications of Tom's calling, though his shop was sufficiently well-known without them.
The door usually stood invitingly open, even at an early hour in the morning, and the barber himself could be seen in the low-roofed room, covering some broad-visaged customer's cheeks with lather, or plying the keen razor over his chin, while half-a-dozen others could be descried seated on benches patiently waiting their turn.
At a somewhat later hour the more important business of wig-dressing began, and then Tom retired to a back room, where the highest mysteries of his art were screened from the vulgar gaze—and from which sacred retreat, when a customer emerged, he appeared in all the dignity of a well-powdered peruke, a full-bottomed tie-wig, a bob, a bob-major, or an apothecary's bust, as the case might be.
Tom did a great deal of business, and dressed some of the best "heads" in Manchester—not only ladies' heads, but gentlemen's—but, of course, he attended the ladies at their own houses.
But Tom Syddall, as we have seen, was not only a perruquier, but an ardent politician. Frequent Jacobite meetings were held in his back room, and plots were frequently hatched when it was thought that perukes alone were being dressed.
Perfectly loyal and trustworthy was Tom. Many secrets were confided to him, but none were ever betrayed. Every opportunity was afforded him for playing the spy, had he been so minded, but he would have scorned the office.
However, he had his special objects of dislike, and would neither dress the wig of a Whig, nor shave a Presbyterian if he knew it. Equally decided was Tom on his religious opinions, being a zealous member of Dr. Deacon's True British Catholic Church.
After his great exploit at the bridge, and his subsequent deliverance by the mob, several Jacobites came in the evening—when his shop was closed—to offer him their congratulations, and were introduced—as they arrived singly, or two or three at a time—to the back room, of which we have just made mention.
By-and-by a tolerably large party assembled, all of whom being very decided Jacobites, a good deal of treason was naturally talked.
As there were not chairs for all, several of the company sat where they could, and a droll effect was produced in consequence of their being mixed up with the wig-blocks, one of which, from its elevated position, seemed to preside over the assemblage, and caused much laughter.
Among the persons present were Dr. Byrom and Dr. Deacon, the latter of them having with him his three sons, all of whom were fine-looking young men.
Besides these there was the Rev. Thomas Coppock, who, it may be remembered, had been promised the appointment of chaplain to the Manchester Regiment by Colonel Townley. Though the young Jacobite divine wore his cassock and bands, he looked as if martial accoutrements would have suited him better. His big looks and blustering manner did not harmonise with his clerical habit. Vain and ambitious, Parson Coppock fully believed—if the expedition proved successful—he should be created Bishop of Chester, or, at least, be made warden of the collegiate church.
With those we have particularised were four other young men who had been promised commissions—Thomas Chadwick, John Berwick, George Fletcher, and Samuel Maddocks.
When we have added the names of Jemmy Dawson and Atherton Legh, the list of the party will be complete.
An important communication had been made to the meeting by Dr. Deacon, who had just received an express informing him that the prince had arrived at Preston with the first division of his army, so that Lord Pitsligo's regiment of horse might be expected to reach Manchester on the morrow.
"Of this information, gentlemen," pursued Dr. Deacon, "you alone are in possession, for precautions have been taken to prevent any other express from being sent from Preston to the authorities of Manchester. The magistrates, therefore, will be in complete ignorance of the prince's approach till he is close at hand. It will now be apparent to you how great has been the service rendered by Mr. Atherton Legh and our brave Tom Syddall. Had Salford Bridge been destroyed—according to the boroughreeve's plan—the prince could not have entered Manchester, without making a lengthened and troublesome détour, that might have exposed him to some unforeseen attack, whereas he will now march into the town at the head of his army without encountering any obstacle."
Expressions of approval were heard on all sides, and Syddall appeared quite elated by the commendations bestowed upon him.
"Since the prince will be here so soon it behoves us to prepare for him," he said. "Care must be taken that he does not want food for his men and forage for his horses. As you are all no doubt aware, a great quantity of provisions has been sent out of the town. This must be stopped."
"You are right, Tom," cried Dr. Byrom. "But how stop it?"
"Very easily," replied Syddall. "We must engage Ben Birch, the bellman, to go round to-night, and warn the townsfolk not to remove any more provisions."
"A good plan," cried Dr. Byrom. "But will Ben Birch obey the order?"
"If he won't I'll seize his bell and go round myself," rejoined Syddall. "But never fear, doctor; Ben will do it if he's well paid."
"But where is he to be found?" cried Dr. Byrom. "'Tis getting late."
"I know where to find him," replied Tom. "Before going home to bed he always takes his pot of ale and smokes his pipe at the Half Moon in Hanging Ditch. He's there now I'll warrant you."
Everybody agreed that the plan was excellent, and ought to be carried out without delay, and Syddall, who undertook the entire management of the affair, was just preparing to set off to Hanging Ditch, which was at no great distance from his dwelling, when a knock was heard at the outer door.
The company looked at each other. So many strange things occurred at this juncture that they could not help feeling some little uneasiness.
"Don't be alarmed, gentlemen," said Tom. "I'll go and reconnoitre."
So saying, he hurried up a staircase that quickly brought him to an upper room overlooking the street.
It was a fine moonlight night, almost as bright as day, and when Tom looked out he saw that the person who had just knocked was no other than Ben Birch.
Now the bellman was a very important functionary at the time, and it seemed as if the town could not get on without him. Whenever anything was to be done the bellman was sent round. The magistrates constantly employed him, and he paced about the streets ringing his bell, and giving public notices of one kind or other, all day long.
Tall and stout, with a very red face, Ben Birch looked like a beadle, for he wore a laced cocked hat and a laced great-coat. Fully aware of the importance of his office, he was consequential in manner, and his voice, when he chose to exert it, was perfectly stentorian. Ben Birch, we ought to add, was suspected of being a Jacobite.
"Why, Ben, is that you?" cried Tom, looking at him from the window.
"Ay, Mester Syddall, it's me, sure enough," replied the bellman. "I've got summat to tell you. Some mischievous chaps has been making free with your pow, and what dun yo think they've stuck on it?"
"I can't tell, Ben."
"Why, your feyther's skull. Yo can see it if yo look down. I noticed it as I were passing, and thought I'd stop and tell you."
"I should like to hang the rascal, whoever he may be, that has dared to profane that precious relic," cried Tom, furiously. "It must have been stolen, for I kept it carefully in a box."
"Well, it's a woundy bad joke, to say the least of it," rejoined Ben, with difficulty repressing a laugh. "Luckily, there's no harm done."
So saying, he took the pole and handed up the skull to the barber, who received it very reverently.
"Much obliged to you, Ben," he said, in a voice husky with emotion. "If I can only find out the rascal who has played me this trick he shall bitterly repent it."
"A Presbyterian, no doubt," cried the bellman.
"Ay, those prick-eared curs are all my enemies," said Syddall. "But we shall soon have a change. Wait a moment, Ben, I've got a job for you."
He then restored the relic to the box from which it had been abstracted, and went down-stairs.
On returning to the room where the company was assembled, he explained to them that the bellman was without, but said nothing about the indignity he himself had undergone.
"Shall I settle matters with him, or bring him in?" he asked.
"Bring him in," cried the assemblage.
In another moment Ben was introduced. Greatly surprised to find the room thus crowded, he stared at the party.
"What is your pleasure, gentlemen?" he said, removing his cocked hat and bowing.
"We have heard with great concern, Ben," said Mr. Coppock, gravely, "that provisions are beginning to run short in the town. We, therefore, desire that you will go round this very night, and give notice to the inhabitants that no victuals or stores of any kind must be removed on any pretext whatsoever."
"I am very willing to obey you, gentlemen, particularly as such a notice can do no harm," said Ben; "but I ought to have an order from the magistrates."
"This will do as well, I fancy," said Coppock, giving him a guinea.
"I'll do the job," rejoined the bellman, pocketing the fee. "I shan't fail to end my proclamation with 'God save the king!' but I shall leave those who hear me to guess which king I mean."
Wishing the company good-night he then went out, and shortly afterwards the loud ringing of his bell was heard in the street.
His first proclamation was made at the corner of Deansgate, and by this time—though the street had previously appeared quite empty—he had got a small crowd round him, while several persons appeared at the doors and windows.
"No more provisions to be taken away!" cried one of the bystanders; "that means the town is about to be besieged."
"That's not it," cried another. "It means that the young Pretender and his army will soon be here."
"Whatever it means you must obey the order," said the bellman. "And so, God save the king!"
"God save King James the Third!" "Down with the Elector of Hanover!" shouted several persons.
And as these were violently opposed by the supporters of the reigning monarch, and a fight seemed likely to ensue, the bellman marched off to repeat his proclamation elsewhere.
Meanwhile, the party assembled in Tom Syddall's back room had separated, but not before they had agreed upon another meeting at an early hour on the morrow.
End of the First Book.
BOOK II.
PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD IN MANCHESTER.
Manchester arose next day in a state of great ferment. No one exactly knew what was about to occur, but everybody felt something was at hand.
The proclamation made overnight by the bellman, and the studiously guarded answers given by that discreet functionary to the questions put to him, had caused considerable anxiety. No news had been received from Preston—except the secret express sent to the heads of the Jacobite party—but a notion prevailed that the prince would make his appearance in the course of the day.
Any real defence of the town was out of the question, since the militia was disbanded, but some staunch Whigs and zealous Presbyterians declared they would certainly make a stand. This, however, was looked upon as mere idle bravado. Most of those who had delayed their departure to the last moment now took flight. At an early hour on that very morning all the justices and lawyers had quitted the town. The boroughreeve had gone, but the constables remained at their post. As on the previous day, no business whatever was transacted, and the majority of the shops continued closed.
As the day went on the total want of news increased the public anxiety, for the few who were in possession of authentic information took care to keep it to themselves. The excitement, therefore, was increased by a variety of contradictory rumours, none of which had any foundation in truth, the Hanoverians doggedly maintaining that the young Pretender had turned back at Preston, and was now in full retreat to Scotland; while the Jacobites declared with equal warmth that the prince was within half a day's march of Manchester, and would soon present himself before the town.
Whatever might be the feelings of others, it is quite certain that all the prettiest damsels were impatiently expecting the handsome prince, and would have been sadly disappointed if he had turned back.
As the weather chanced to be fine, and no business was going on, a great many persons were in the streets, and the town had quite a holiday air.
Towards the afternoon, the crowds that had been rambling about during the morning had returned to their mid-day meal, when a cry arose from Salford that the advanced guard of the rebel army was in sight.
The report proved incorrect; yet it was not entirely without foundation. Three persons in Highland dresses, and no doubt belonging to the insurgent army, had actually entered the town by the Preston road, and were riding slowly along, looking about them in a very easy and unconcerned manner. All the beholders stared in astonishment, but nobody meddled with them, for it was naturally concluded that the regiment they belonged to must be close behind.
From its singularity, the little party was sufficient in itself to attract general attention. It consisted of a sergeant, a drummer, and an exceedingly pretty Scottish lassie. All three were well mounted, though the state of their horses showed they had ridden many miles. Both the men were in full Highland dress, wore plumed caps, and were armed with claymore, dirk, and target. Moreover, the sergeant had a blunderbuss at his saddle-bow, but his comrade was content with the drum.
Sergeant Erick Dickson, a young Highlander, and bold as a lion, was handsome, well-proportioned, and possessed of great strength and activity. Sandy Rollo, the drummer, was likewise a very daring young fellow.
Helen Carnegie, the Scottish damsel, deserves a few more words. Her beauty and virtue were constant themes of praise among officers and men in the Highland army. Having given her heart to Erick Dickson, Helen Carnegie had accompanied him in the march from Edinburgh, after the victory at Preston Pans—or Gladsmuir, as the Highlanders called it—but her character was without reproach. Any man who had breathed a word against her fair fame would have had a quick reckoning with Erick.
Helen Carnegie was not yet nineteen, and perhaps her charms were not fully developed, but she was very beautiful notwithstanding. Her golden locks had first set the sergeant's heart on fire, and her bright blue eyes had kept up the flame ever since. Yet, after all, her exquisite figure was her greatest beauty. No nymph was ever more gracefully proportioned than Helen, and no costume could have suited her better than the one she adopted—the kilt being as long as a petticoat, while a plaid shawl was thrown over her knee when she was on horseback. The blue bonnet that crowned her golden locks was adorned with a white cockade.
Such was the little party that had entered Salford, and they all seemed much amused by the curiosity they excited.
Leaving them on their way to the bridge, it may now be proper to inquire what had brought them thither.
At Preston, on the previous evening, Sergeant Dickson came up to the Chevalier de Johnstone, his commanding officer, and aide-de-camp to Lord George Murray, lieutenant-general of the Highland army, and saluting him, said:
"May I have a word with you, colonel? I have been beating about Preston for recruits all day without getting one, and I am the more vexed, because the other sergeants have been very lucky."
"You ought to have taken Helen Carnegie with you, Erick," said Colonel Johnstone, laughing.
"That's exactly what I propose to do, colonel," said Dickson. "I've come to ask your honour's permission to set out an hour before dawn to-morrow for Manchester, and so get a day's march ahead of the army. I shall then be able to secure some recruits."
"I cannot grant your request," rejoined Colonel Johnstone. "What would you do alone in a strange town? You will be instantly taken prisoner—if you are not killed."
"Your honour needn't alarm yourself about me," replied Erick, in a wheedling voice, which, however, did not produce the desired effect. "I know how to take care of myself. If I get leave to go I'll take Helen Carnegie with me, and Rollo, the drummer."
Again the colonel shook his head.
"No, no, you mustn't think of it, Erick," he cried. "Go to your quarters, and don't stir out again to-night."
Sergeant Dickson retired, resolved to disobey orders, feeling certain the offence would be overlooked if he proved successful.
He therefore set out from Preston in good time next morning, accompanied by Helen and Rollo.
We left them riding towards Salford Bridge, and when they were within fifty yards of it, they came to a halt, and Rollo began to beat the drum vigorously. The din soon brought a great number of persons round them, who began to shout lustily, when the sergeant, judging the fitting moment had arrived to commence operations, silenced the drum, and doffing his plumed cap—his example being followed by his companions—called out in a loud voice, "God save King James the Third!"
Some cheers followed, but they were overpowered by angry outcries, and several voices exclaimed, "Down with the rebels!"
Judging from these menacing expressions that he was likely to be assailed, Erick, whose masculine visage had begun to assume a very formidable expression, placed himself in front of Helen so as to shield her from attack, and then hastily putting on his target, and getting his blunderbuss ready for immediate use, he glared fiercely round at the assemblage, roaring out:
"Keep off!—if ye wadna ha' the contents of this among ye."
Alarmed by his looks and gestures, the concourse held back; but only for a few moments. Some of them tried to lay hands on Helen, but they were baffled by the rapidity with which the sergeant wheeled round, dashing them back, and upsetting half-a-dozen of them.
But he had instantly to defend himself from another attack, and this he did with equal vigour and address, receiving all blows aimed at him on his target, and pointing the blunderbuss at those who attempted to seize him. However, he was careful not to fire, and shortly afterwards gave the blunderbuss to Helen and drew his claymore.
Meantime, Rollo, who was a very courageous fellow, though he had not the sergeant's activity, rendered what aid he could; but he was now beginning to be sorely pressed on all sides.
The conflict had lasted two or three minutes without any disadvantage to the sergeant, when several persons called upon him to yield. To this summons he answered disdainfully that he had never yet yielded, and never would, while his hand could grasp a sword.
"I have come to raise recruits for the yellow-haired laddie," he cried. "Will none of you join me? Will none of you serve the prince?"
Some voices answered in the affirmative, but those who called out were at a distance.
"Here, friends, here!" shouted Dickson, waving his claymore to them. "I want recruits for the yellow-haired laddie. Ye ken weel whom I mean."
"Ay, ay. We'll join!—we'll join!" cried twenty voices.
And the speakers tried to force their way toward Erick, but were prevented by the Presbyterians in the crowd.
The tumult that ensued operated in the sergeant's favour, and enabled him to keep his assailants at bay till assistance really arrived in the shape of a band of some fifty or sixty Jacobites, mustered on the instant, and headed by Tom Syddall.
Erick, with Helen and Rollo, proclaim King James at ManchesterErick, with Helen and Rollo, proclaim King James at ManchesterPage 99.
Erick, with Helen and Rollo, proclaim King James at ManchesterPage 99.
It was now a scene of triumph and rejoicing. Since his opponents had taken to flight, and he was so numerously supported, Sergeant Dickson declared he would take possession of the town in the name of his sovereign, King James the Third, and the proposition was received with loud shouts. These shouts, with the continuous beating of the drum by Rollo, soon brought large additions to the numbers friendly to the Jacobite cause; and Dickson, with Helen by his side, and attended by Syddall on foot, crossed the bridge at the head of a victorious host, who made the air ring with their acclamations.
On reaching the Cross, the sergeant placed himself in front of it, and waiting for a few minutes till the concourse had gathered round him, in a loud voice he proclaimed King James the Third. A tremendous shout followed, accompanied by the waving of hats.
Among the spectators of this singular scene were Dr. Byrom and Beppy. Being stationed at an open window, they were free from any annoyance from the crowd.
Both were much struck by the sergeant's fine athletic figure and manly features, but they were chiefly interested by Helen, whom Beppy thought the prettiest creature she had ever beheld.
"Do look at her lovely golden locks, papa!" she said. "Don't you think they would be completely spoiled by powder? And then her eyes!—how bright they are! And her teeth!—how brilliantly white! I declare I never saw an English beauty to compare with her."
"She certainly is exceedingly pretty," replied Dr. Byrom. "And there is an air of freshness and innocence about her scarcely to be expected in a girl circumstanced as she is, that heightens her beauty."
"She is as good as she is pretty, I am quite sure," said Beppy.
"I hope so," returned Dr. Byrom, rather gravely. "I will make some inquiries about her."
"Never will I place faith in a physiognomy again, if hers proves deceptive," cried Beppy.
Beppy, however, was not the only person bewitched by Helen.
When beheld at the Cross, the fair Scottish lassie electrified the crowd, and many a youth lost his heart to her.
As soon as the proclamation had been made, Sergeant Dickson addressed himself to the business on which he had come. Causing the drum to be beaten, he made a brief speech, in which he urged all brave young men who heard him to take up arms for their lawful sovereign, and help to restore him to the throne.
"All who have a mind to serve his royal highness, Prince Charles, are invited to come forward," he cried. "Five guineas in advance."
Many young men promptly responded to the call, and pressed towards the sergeant, who still remained on horseback near the Cross, with Helen beside him. Rollo, likewise, was close at hand, and kept constantly drubbing away at the drum.
Helen gained as many recruits as the sergeant himself—perhaps more. Her smile proved irresistible. When an applicant hesitated, a few words from her decided him. Each name was entered in a book by the sergeant, but the payment of the five guineas was necessarily deferred until the arrival of Mr. Murray, the prince's secretary.
Altogether, a great deal of enthusiasm prevailed, and the sergeant had good reason to be satisfied with the result of his advance-march from Preston. He remained nearly half an hour at the Cross, and then proceeded to the market-place, accompanied by all the new recruits, and followed by an immense crowd.
As they passed the house at the windows of which Beppy Byrom and her father were stationed, a momentary halt took place, during which Beppy came forward, and waved her handkerchief to the Scottish damsel. Helen bowed in acknowledgment with a grace peculiarly her own, and taking off her bonnet, pointed significantly to the white cockade that decked it.
"Will ye wear this, my bonnie young leddy, an I gie it ye?" she cried.
"Ay, that I will," replied Beppy.
Helen immediately rode up to the window, which she saw was quite within reach, and detaching the ribbon from her bonnet gave it to her admirer, who received it with every expression of delight, and instantly proceeded to fix it upon her own breast.
"Ye are now bound to find a recruit for Prince Charlie, my bonnie young leddy," said Helen, as she moved away amid the laughter and cheers of the beholders.
Previously to this little occurrence, Dr. Byrom and his daughter had been made acquainted with Helen's history by Tom Syddall, and had learnt that her character was irreproachable.
"I hope I shall see her again," said Beppy. "I should like so much to converse with her."
"Well, I make no doubt your wish can be gratified," said her father. "I'll speak to Syddall, and he will bid her call upon you. But why do you take so much interest in her?"
"I can't exactly tell," replied Beppy. "She seems to me to possess a great many good qualities, and, at all events, I admire her romantic attachment to her lover. Still, I don't think I should have been so very much charmed with her if she hadn't been so exceedingly pretty. And now you have the truth, papa."
"Good looks evidently go a long way with you, Beppy," said her father, laughing.
"Indeed they do, papa. But now that the street has become clear, let us go and speak to Tom Syddall."
The room from which they had viewed the proceedings at the Cross formed the upper part of a draper's shop. Thanking the owner, they now took their departure, and sought out Tom Syddall, whom they found at his door. He readily undertook to send Helen Carnegie to Miss Byrom as soon as the recruiting was over.
But the sergeant had a great deal to do, and did not care to part with either of his companions.
He continued to parade the town for some hours, enlisting all who offered themselves; and the number of the recruits soon exceeded a hundred.
The authorities did not interfere with him—probably deeming it useless to do so. Had they really surrendered the town they could not have proved more submissive.
Nothing had been heard of Sir Richard Rawcliffe since his sudden flight, but Constance had no fears for his safety, for all danger was over as soon as he got fairly out of Manchester.
But she looked forward to his return with an uneasiness such as she had never before experienced. Her father loved her dearly—better than any one else—for she was his only child. But he was of a violent temper—easily offended, and by no means easily appeased, as she herself had found, for she had more than once incurred his displeasure, though for matters of very trifling import. From her knowledge of his character, she could not doubt he would be exceedingly angry that she had read the letter relating to Atherton Legh, and though it would be easy to say nothing about it, she could not reconcile herself to such a disingenuous course.
After some reflection, she determined to consult Father Jerome, and be guided by his advice. Accordingly she sought a private conference with him, and told him all that had occurred.
The priest listened to her recital with great attention, and then said:
"I am glad you have spoken to me, daughter. If the matter is mentioned to Sir Richard it must be by me—not by you. It would trouble him exceedingly to think you are acquainted with this secret. He would blame himself for committing the papers to your care, and he would blame you for reading them."
"I have only read a single letter, father, as I have explained to you."
"That I quite understand; but I fear Sir Richard will suspect you have indulged your curiosity to a greater extent."
"My father will believe what I tell him," said Constance, proudly.
"'Tis better not to give him so much annoyance if it can be helped," rejoined the priest; "and though frankness is generally desirable, there are occasions when reticence is necessary. This is one of them. Have you the packet with you?"
"Yes, 'tis here," she replied, producing it.
"Give it me," he cried, taking it from her. "I will restore it to Sir Richard. He will then say nothing more to you. But mark me!" he added, gravely, "the secret you have thus accidentally obtained must be strictly kept. Breathe it to no one. And now I must not neglect to caution you on another point. Yesterday I saw this young man—this Atherton Legh—of whom we have just been speaking. He is very handsome, and well calculated to inspire regard in the female breast. I trust you have no such feeling for him."
"Father," she replied, blushing deeply, "I will hide nothing from you. I love him."
"I grieve to hear the avowal," he said. "But you must conquer the passion—'twill be easy to do so in the commencement. Sir Richard would never consent to your union with an obscure adventurer. I therefore forbid you in your father's name to think further of the young man. Any hopes you may have indulged must be crushed at once."
"But I cannot—will not treat him in this way, father."
"I charge you to dismiss him. Recollect you are the daughter and heiress of Sir Richard Rawcliffe. You have committed a great imprudence: but the error must be at once repaired. Disobedience to my injunctions would be as culpable as disobedience to your father, whom I represent. Again I say the young man must be dismissed."
Before she could make any answer, the door opened, and the very person in question entered, accompanied by Monica.
"He has come to receive his sentence," said the priest, in a low, unpitying tone.
"Not now," she cried, with a supplicating look.
"Yes, now," he rejoined, coldly.
On this he went up to Monica, and telling her he had something to say, led her out of the room, leaving Atherton and Constance alone together.
"I fear I have come at a most inopportune moment," said the young man, who could not fail to be struck by her embarrassment.
"You have come at the close of a very severe lecture which I have just received from Father Jerome," she replied. "He blames me for the encouragement I have given you, and forbids me, in my father's name, to see you again."
"But you do not mean to obey him?" cried Atherton. "Surely you will not allow him to exercise this control over you? He is acting without authority."
"Not entirely without authority, for my father is guided by his advice in many things. This must be our last interview."
"Oh! say not so. You drive me to despair. Give me some hope—however slight. May I speak to Sir Richard?"
"'Twould be useless," she replied, sadly. "Father Jerome has convinced me that he never would consent to our union. No, we must part—part for ever!"
"You have pronounced my doom, and I must submit. Oh! Constance—for I will venture to call you so for one moment—I did not think you could have so quickly changed!"
"My feelings towards you are unaltered," she rejoined. "But I am obliged to put a constraint upon them. We must forget what has passed."
"The attempt would be vain on my part," cried Atherton, bitterly. "Oh! Constance, if you knew the anguish I now endure you would pity me. But I will not seek to move your compassion—neither will I reproach you—though you have raised up my hopes only to crush them. Farewell!"
"Stay—one moment!" she cried. "I may never have an explanation with you——"
"I do not want an explanation," he rejoined. "I can easily understand why Father Jerome has given you this counsel. So long as a mystery attaches to my birth, he holds that I have no right to pretend to your hand. That is his opinion. That would be Sir Richard's opinion."
"No, it could not be my father's opinion," she cried.
"Why do you think so?" he exclaimed, eagerly.
She was hesitating as to the answer she should give him, when the priest reappeared. He was alone.
"You are impatient for my departure, sir," said Atherton. "But you need not be uneasy. Miss Rawcliffe has followed your advice. All is at an end between us."
With a farewell look at Constance, he then passed out.
Towards evening, on the same day, Lord Pitsligo's regiment of horse, commanded by General Sir John MacDonald—Lord Pitsligo, owing to his age and infirmities, being compelled to occupy the prince's carriage—entered the town.
The two divisions of the Highland army were left respectively at Wigan and Leigh. Lord Pitsligo's regiment, though its numbers were small, scarcely exceeding a hundred and fifty, made a very good show, being composed chiefly of gentlemen—all wearing their national costume, and all being tolerably well mounted.
General MacDonald had ordered the official authorities to meet him at the Cross, and he found the two constables waiting for him there; but an excuse was made for the boroughreeve. The general demanded quarters for ten thousand men to be ready on the morrow, when the prince would arrive with the army, and immediate accommodation for himself, his officers, and men; intimating that his followers must not be treated like common troopers.
Declaring that they acted on compulsion, the constables, who were very much awed by Sir John's manner, promised compliance with his injunctions. They recommended him to take up his quarters for the night at the Bull's Head, and undertook that the Highland gentlemen composing the troop should be well lodged.
Satisfied with this promise, General MacDonald rode on to the market-place, attended by his officers, while the troopers were billeted without delay under the direction of the constables and their deputies.
It may be thought that the arrival of this regiment—one of the best in the Highland army—would have created a much greater sensation than the trivial affair of the morning. But such was not the case. Sergeant Dickson, being first in the field, gained all the glory. The popular excitement was over. No shouting crowds followed General MacDonald to the Black Bull, and the streets were almost empty, as the troopers were billeted.
Later on, the all-important bellman was sent round to give notice that quarters for ten thousand men would be required next day. At the same time a fresh prohibition was issued against the removal of provisions.
Among the few whose curiosity took them to the neighbourhood of the Cross to witness the new arrival, were Beppy and her father. They were joined by Atherton Legh, who had been wandering about in a very disconsolate state ever since his parting with Constance.
Remarking that he looked very much dejected, Beppy inquired the cause, and easily ascertained the truth; and as she regarded Constance in the light of a rival, she was not sorry that a misunderstanding had occurred between them. Naturally, she did her best to cheer the young man, and though she could not entirely cure his wounded feelings, she partially succeeded.
From the Cross the little party proceeded to the marketplace, and as they drew near the Bull's Head they were surprised to see Sir Richard Rawcliffe, who had evidently just alighted, and was conversing with General MacDonald at the entrance to the inn. No sooner did the baronet descry Dr. Byrom than he called to him, and presented him to the general, who shook hands with him very cordially.
But Sir Richard's conduct towards Atherton was marked by great rudeness, and he returned the young man's salutation in a very distant and haughty fashion, and as if he scarcely recognised him.
"Apparently Sir Richard has quite forgotten the important service you rendered him," remarked Beppy, who could not help noticing the slight.
Deeply mortified, Atherton would have turned away, but she induced him to remain, and shortly afterwards he was brought forward unexpectedly.
General MacDonald being much struck by his appearance, inquired his name, and on hearing it exclaimed:
"Why this is the young man who delivered you from arrest, Sir Richard. Have you nothing to say to him?"
"I have already thanked him," replied the baronet, coldly. "And he shall not find me ungrateful."
"Zounds! you have a strange way of showing your gratitude."
Atherton could not help hearing these observations, and he immediately stepped up and said with great haughtiness:
"I have asked no favour from you, Sir Richard, and will accept none."
The baronet was so confounded that he could make no reply. Bowing to General MacDonald, Atherton was about to retire, but the other stopped him.
"There is one thing you will accept from Sir Richard, I am sure," he said, "and that is an apology, and I hope he will make you a handsome one for the rudeness with which he has treated you."
"I cannot discuss private matters in public, Sir John," said Rawcliffe. "But from what I have heard since my return—and I have called at my sister's house and seen Father Jerome—I think I have good reason to complain of Mr. Atherton Legh's conduct."
"I must bear what you have said in silence, Sir Richard, and with such patience as I can," rejoined Atherton. "But you have no reason to complain of my conduct."
"I am certainly of that opinion, and I happen to know something of the matter," observed Dr. Byrom. "I think Mr. Atherton Legh has behaved remarkably well."
"Cannot the matter be adjusted?" asked General MacDonald.
"Impossible," replied Sir Richard. "And I am sure you will agree with me, Sir John, when I give you an explanation in private."
"But you are bound to state, Sir Richard," said Dr. Byrom, "that Mr. Atherton Legh's conduct has been in no respect unbecoming a gentleman."
"That I am quite willing to admit," rejoined the baronet.
"And with that admission I am satisfied," observed Atherton.
"'Tis a thousand pities the difference, whatever it may be, cannot be amicably arranged," said the general; "but since that appears impracticable, 'twill be best to let the matter drop."
Then turning to Dr. Byrom, he added, "Am I wrong, doctor, in supposing that the young lady standing near us is your daughter. If so, pray present me to her."
Dr. Byrom readily complied, and Sir John seemed delighted by the zeal which the fair damsel displayed in the Jacobite cause.
"I see you already wear the white rose," he said, glancing at the favour which she had pinned on her breast.
"It was given me by Helen Carnegie," replied Beppy.
"And you needn't scruple to wear it, for she is as honest and true-hearted a lassie as ever breathed," said Sir John. "I know all about her. Though she has been exposed to many temptations, her character is quite irreproachable."
"You hear what General MacDonald says, papa?" cried Beppy. "It confirms the good opinion I had formed of her. She seems to me to possess a great many good qualities, and at all events I admire her romantic attachment to her lover. Still, I don't think I should have been so very much charmed with her if she hadn't been so exceedingly pretty."
"Ay, there's her danger," cried Sir John. "But I trust she will come to no harm. I hear Sergeant Dickson has brought her with him in his advance-march. 'Tis a bold step."
"But it has proved successful," said Beppy. "They have gained more than a hundred recruits."
At this moment the beating of a drum was heard, followed by a shout that seemed to proceed from the direction of Market Street Lane, a thoroughfare which turned out of the market-place on the left near the Exchange.
Immediately afterwards Sergeant Dickson and his companions made their appearance, followed by a great number of young men, all of whom turned out to be volunteers.
As soon as Dickson became aware of the arrival of Sir John MacDonald, he led his large company of recruits towards the inn, and drawing them up in front of the house, dismounted and presented himself to the general.
Helen alighted at the same time, but did not come forward.
While this movement took place, all the officers had issued from the court-yard, and collected near their leader.
"Well, Dickson," cried MacDonald, glancing at the band of young men drawn up before him. "Are these your recruits?"
"They are, general," replied the sergeant, proudly. "And I trust Colonel Johnstone will be satisfied with me."
"You have done well, that's certain," said Sir John. "But, to speak truth, how many of these fine young fellows do you owe to Helen?"
"I can't tell, general. 'Tis enough for me that they've agreed to serve King James."
"Nay, then, I must question her."
At a sign from the sergeant, Helen left her horse with Rollo, and stepping forward, made Sir John a military salute.
She had now thrown off the plaid shawl which she had worn while on horseback, so that the exquisite symmetry of her lower limbs, set off by the tartan hose, was revealed. Her tiny feet were almost hidden by the buckles in her shoes.
Beppy gazed at her with admiration, and thought she looked even better than she had done on horseback. But she had other and more ardent admirers than Miss Byrom. Among the officers was a Captain Lindsay, a very handsome young man, who had long been desperately enamoured of her, but had managed to constrain his passion. He now kept his eyes constantly fixed upon her, and strove—though vainly—to attract her attention. Whenever Helen met his ardent glances, she turned aside her gaze.
"Aweel, Helen," cried MacDonald; "I have been congratulating the sergeant on his success. But I think he mainly owes it to you, lassie. A blink o' your bonnie blue een has done more than all his fair speeches."
"You are mista'en, general," replied Helen. "I may have gained a dizen, but not mair."
"You do yourself an injustice, lassie. Half those brave lads belong to you."
"I could tell you how many she enlisted at the Cross, for I was present at the time," remarked Beppy.
"Then you must needs tell the general that I enlisted yerself, fair leddy, and that ye promised to find me a recruit," said Helen.
"And so I will," said Beppy. "Can I do aught more for you?"
"Give me a few yards of blue and white ribbon to make cockades, and I will thank you heartily," rejoined Helen.
"Come home with me, and you shall have as much ribbon as you require, and I will help you to make the cockades," said Beppy.
"You cannot refuse that offer, Helen," remarked General MacDonald.
"I am na like to refuse it," was the rejoinder. "The young leddy is ower gude."
Helen then consulted the sergeant, who signified his assent, upon which she told Beppy she was ready to go with her. Excusing herself to the general, Beppy then took her father's arm, and they set off for the doctor's residence, accompanied by the Scottish damsel.