Читать книгу The Manchester Rebels of the Fatal '45 - Ainsworth William Harrison - Страница 3

About midnight, in the autumn of 1724, two persons cautiously approached an old moated mansion, situated in Cheshire, though close to the borders of Lancashire. The night being almost pitch-dark, very little of the ancient fabric could be distinguished; but the irregular outline of its numerous gables showed that it was of considerable size. It was, in fact, a large picturesque hall, built in the early days of Elizabeth, and was completely surrounded by an unusually broad, deep moat. The moat was crossed by a drawbridge, but this being now raised, access to the mansion could only be obtained by rousing the porter, who slept over the gateway. All the inmates of the house seemed buried in repose. Not a sound was heard. No mastiff barked to give the alarm.

A melancholy air had the old hall, even when viewed by daylight. Of late years it had been much neglected, and portions were allowed to go to decay. Several rooms were shut up. Its owner, who died rather more than a year before the date of our story, preferred a town residence, and rarely inhabited the hall. Extravagant, and fond of play, he had cut down the fine timber that ornamented his park to pay his debts. Death, however, put an end to his career before he had quite run through his fortune. He left behind him a wife and an infant son – the latter being heir to the property. As there would be a long minority, the estates, by prudent management, might be completely retrieved. On the demise of her husband, the widow quitted her town house, and took up her abode with her child at the old hall. With a greatly reduced establishment, she lived in perfect seclusion. As she was young, very beautiful, and much admired, people wondered that she could thus tear herself from the world. But her resolution remained unchanged. Her affections seemed centred in her infant son. She had few visitors, declined all invitations, and rarely strayed beyond the limits of the park.

She had got it into her head that her child would be taken from her, and would not, therefore, let him out of her sight. The infant was as carefully watched as if he had been heir to a dukedom; and at night, for fear of a surprise, the drawbridge was always raised. In the event of the young heir dying under age, the estates passed to the brother of her late husband, and of him she entertained dark suspicions that did not seem altogether unwarranted.

Having offered this brief explanation, we shall return to the mysterious pair whom we left making their way to the hall. As their design was to enter the house secretly, they did not go near the drawbridge, being provided with other means of crossing the moat. One of them carried a coracle – a light boat formed of a wicker framework covered with leather.

Though they had now reached the margin of the moat, which was fringed with reeds and bulrushes, they did not put their plan into immediate execution, but marched on in silence, till a light was observed glimmering from one of the windows. A taper had been thus placed to guide them, proving that they had a confederate in the house.

On perceiving this light, which streamed from the partly-opened casement on the dusky water beneath it, the foremost of the twain immediately halted. He was a tall man wrapped in a long black cloak, with a broad-leaved hat pulled over his brows, and was well-armed.

As soon as the coracle was launched, he stepped into it, and was followed by his attendant, who pushed the frail bark noiselessly across the moat.

On reaching the opposite side, the chief personage sprang ashore, leaving his follower in the boat, and made his way to a postern, which he found open, as he expected. Before entering the house, he put on a mask.

The postern communicated with a back staircase, up which the midnight visitor quickly mounted, making as little noise as possible. The staircase conducted him to a gallery, and he had not advanced far when a door was softly opened, and a young woman, who had hastily slipped on a dressing-gown, came forth, bearing a light. It was the nurse. She almost recoiled with terror on beholding the masked figure standing before her.

"What's the matter with you, Bertha? Don't you know me?" asked the mysterious personage in a low voice.

"Yes, I know you now, sir," she rejoined in the same tone. "But you look like – I won't say what."

"A truce to this folly. Where is the child?"

"In his mother's bed. I offered to take him, but she would not part with him to-night."

"She will be obliged to part with him. I must have him."

"Oh, sir! I beseech you to abandon this wicked design. I am certain it will bring destruction upon all concerned in it. Do not rob her of her child."

"These misgivings are idle, Bertha. Bring me the child without more ado, or I will snatch it from its mother's arms."

"I cannot do it. The poor soul will go distracted when she finds she has lost her darling."

"What means this sudden change, Bertha?" he said, surprised and angry. "You had no such commiseration for her when we last talked over the matter. You were willing enough to aid me then."

"You tempted me by your offer; but I now repent. I understand the enormity of the offence, and will not burden my soul with so much guilt."

"You have gone too far to retreat. Having made a bargain you must fulfil it."

"Swear to me that you will not injure the child, or I will not bring it to you."

"I have already told you I do not mean to harm it."

"But swear by all you hold sacred that you have no design upon the child's life. Do this, or I will give the alarm."

"Attempt to utter a cry and I will kill you," he said, sternly. "I have not come here to be thwarted in my purpose. Go in at once."

Terrified by the menacing tone in which the order was given, Bertha obeyed, and returned to the room from which she had issued. Perhaps she might have fastened the door if time had been allowed, but the man in the mask followed her too quickly.

It was an antechamber which she occupied as nurse. A door communicating with the inner apartment stood partly open, and in obedience to an imperious gesture from the terrible intruder, she passed through it.

She was now in a large antique bed-chamber, imperfectly lighted up by a lamp placed on a small table near the bed, in which lay one of the fairest creatures imaginable. The contour of the sleeper's countenance was exquisite, and her raven tresses, which had not been confined, flowed over her neck, contrasting strongly with its dazzling whiteness.

Close beside her, with its little head resting upon a rounded arm that might have served a sculptor as a model, slept her babe. A smile seemed to play upon the slumbering mother's lips, as if her dreams were pleasant.

The sight of this picture smote Bertha to the heart. Only a fiend, it seemed to her at that moment, could mar such happiness. Could she turn that smile to tears and misery? Could she requite the constant kindness shown her, and the trust placed in her, by the basest ingratitude and treachery? She could not do it. She would rather die. She would return to the terrible man who was waiting for her, and brave his fury.

But she found herself quite unequal to the effort, and while she remained in this state of irresolution he entered the room with his drawn sword in his hand.

He signed to her to go to the bed and take the child, but she did not obey. Half paralysed with terror, she could neither move nor utter a cry.

At once comprehending the state of the case, he determined to act alone, and stepping softly forward he extinguished the lamp that was burning on a small table beside the bed, and seizing the child enveloped it in his cloak.

The daring deed was so rapidly executed that the poor lady did not wake till she was robbed of her treasure. But becoming instantly aware that her child was gone, and hearing footsteps in the room, she raised herself, and called out in accents of alarm, "Is it you, Bertha?"

"Make no answer, but follow me quickly," whispered the terrible intruder to the nurse.

But she had now burst the spell that had hitherto bound her, and seizing him before he could reach the door held him fast.

Finding his departure effectually prevented, the remorseless villain unhesitatingly liberated himself by plunging his sword into Bertha's breast.

The wound was mortal. The unfortunate woman fell speechless, dying, just as her mistress, who had sprung from the couch, came up; while the assassin escaped with his prize.

The poor lady understood what had happened, but fright almost deprived her of her senses. She uttered scream after scream, but before any of the household came to her assistance all was silent.

When they ventured into the room a shocking spectacle greeted them. Their young mistress was lying in a state of insensibility by the side of the slaughtered nurse. The child could not be found.

How the perpetrator of this dark and daring deed entered the house remained a mystery. No one supposed that poor murdered Bertha, who had paid the penalty of her crime with life, had been his accomplice. On the contrary, it was believed that she had flown to her mistress's assistance, and had perished in the attempt to save the child.

How the murderer had crossed the moat was likewise a mystery, for the coracle was carried away when its purpose had been fulfilled. On examination, the postern-door was found to be locked and the key taken out. Nothing had been seen of the terrible visitor, the gloom of night shrouding his arrival and departure. Thus he remained wholly undiscovered.

When the poor lady recovered from the fainting fit into which she had fallen, her senses were gone. Nor did she long survive the dreadful shock she had sustained.