VOLUME THE SECOND. (continued 2)

"What shall I do?" exclaimed the duchess, in dismay.

"Go to her, dear Christian," answered the duke; "though you may not be able to inspire her with firmness to bear such affliction, your sympathy must soothe."

"Oh, that is true! Yes, I will go to her, poor soul! Assuredly I would rather die than be unkind; and have I not promised she should always find a friend in Christian Montrose. But if you knew how fearful her grief is when she is so resolutely calm, you would not wonder that I shrink from seeing her under her present circumstances."

The duchess slowly, hesitatingly, descended, and fearfully entered the apartment where Lady Nithsdale awaited her.

Instead of the harrowing image of despair, which the duchess had pictured to herself, she saw the countess with glowing cheeks and a countenance brilliant with joy, who rushed into her arms in her ecstasy of delight. The duchess stood appalled. She apprehended that her cousin's troubles had, indeed, unsettled her reason, and that it was the light of madness which flashed from her eye. She shrank in fear and amazement.

"He is safe!" exclaimed the countess. "My husband is in freedom!—he is restored to me!"

"My gentle cousin, my sweet Winifred!—Alas! you are not well; be seated, and let me entreat you to compose yourself!"

"You do not rejoice with me!" she cried, seizing both the duchess's hands. "Why do you not congratulate me? I am the happiest creature in the whole world!" she exclaimed, bursting into a flood of tears. The duchess's alarm increased every moment. "I tell you, Christian, he is out of prison!—he has escaped them all!—he is, I trust, safe from all discovery. Oh! Heaven has been very merciful to me!" she continued, bowing her head with a meek fervour, which somewhat re-assured her friend, and made her hope the countess's words were not all the hallucinations of a maniac.

By degrees she became more composed, and gave some account of how her lord's escape had been effected: then, indeed, did the duchess mingle tears of joy with hers, and smile to think how she had misconstrued her friend's expression of happiness.

When they had sufficiently recovered themselves to converse with some composure, the duchess informed Lady Nithsdale that the king was so much incensed against her for attempting to force her petition upon him, that she advised her to keep herself as closely concealed as possible. She told her she would herself go to court that evening, that she might the better judge how the intelligence of the Earl of Nithsdale's evasion was there received: and the friends once more parted.

The countess, as before, had discharged her chair, and now procured another, in which she proceeded to the house at which she had appointed to meet Amy Evans.

The duchess repaired to St. James's, where she found the king much irritated, and declaring that such a thing could not have been effected without a conspiracy: he that night despatched two persons to the Tower, to ascertain that the other prisoners were well secured: and on all sides the duchess heard different surmises as to the mode in which the earl's evasion could have been accomplished. Some threw the blame in one, some in another quarter,—none glanced at the true mode.

The duchess alone was acquainted with the countess's part in it; and if she had not still felt too deep an anxiety for the ultimate fate of such dear friends, she could almost have smiled at the confident assertions, the contradictory reports, the consequential hints, which were either loudly spoken or mysteriously whispered in all directions.

Indeed it has been a singular circumstance that an event of considerable importance, and one of such recent occurrence, should for many years have been enveloped in such mystery!

Meanwhile Lady Nithsdale had been the first to reach the appointed spot; but Amy Evans soon joined her. She told her how, after having placed the earl in temporary security, she had returned in search of Mr. Mills; how she had traced him to his own home, which he had regained when he recovered from his astonishment; and how they had then removed her lord to the house of a poor woman, directly opposite the guard-house. They imagined that, having changed the disguise in which he had made his escape, all means of tracing him would become difficult; and that the last place which would be searched would be one so near the Tower itself.

The poor woman had but a single small room to spare, up one pair of stairs, and which was almost destitute of furniture. Guided by Amy, the countess hastened to this humble abode, and there she had the inexpressible happiness of finding herself re-united to her husband.

There are moments of agony too intense to bear description; there are also moments of bliss which baffle the power of language to paint. And if it is sometimes a relief to think the woes that excite our sympathies too acutely are fictitious woes, there ought to be pleasure in reflecting that the happiness which these two devoted spirits then enjoyed was real;—that this is no fiction, but a plain and simple narrative of what has actually occurred.

CHAPTER XXV.

But I, that knew what harbour'd in that head, What virtues rare were temper'd in that breast, Honour the place that such a jewel bred, And kiss the ground whereas the corpse doth rest! Lord Surrey on the Death of Sir Thomas Wyatt.

When Lady Nithsdale, after all the varied sufferings of many weeks, the painful excitement of the few preceding days, the agonising violence she had done to her feelings for the last twelve hours, at length found herself pressed to her husband's bosom, when she knew that she was supported by his arms, over-wrought nature gave way, and she fainted.

With the assistance of Amy, however, she soon revived, and in a state of blissful exhaustion she wept freely on his shoulder. Few words were spoken.

When her lady seemed more composed, Amy stole away, for she feared to excite the notice of the other lodgers.

"Let us pray, my love!" said Lady Nithsdale when the door was closed: "let us together pour forth our souls to that Providence who has this day extended over us so special a mercy. It will relieve my bursting soul to give utterance to the gratitude which almost oppresses it;" and they both sunk on their knees in humble adoration.

For a time, nor doubt nor fear disturbed the full security of their gratitude and their joy! It was not till the first grey light began to dawn, and that the twitter of the sparrows on the house-tops, and the discordant sounds of London streets, again broke the stillness which had reigned, that the difficulties and dangers that still surrounded them recurred to their minds.

The earl sighed when first he saw the rays of the sun shine on the taller chimneys of the adjacent buildings, and that the tiled roofs of the surrounding houses became visible from their narrow window, for he remembered his own feelings as he had mentally bidden adieu the preceding evening to the sunbeams; and, mixed with gratulation and thankfulness for the different circumstances under which he now hailed the cheering light, came the recollection of his fellow-prisoners. He thought on the good Earl of Derwentwater, and on his old friend Lord Kenmure.

His wife watched the expression of his countenance. She read what passed within. "Alas!" she said, "I have been a very egotist in my joy. I have not been able to think of those who are now marking in agony and desperation the dawning of this fatal day, who turn from its glorious light in sickening, loathing despair. Alas for them! The extremes of grief, and of happiness, both make us selfish creatures. And yet can I really think of aught but you? How can I grieve, when I can gaze as now upon you, rescued from that dismal place, restored to me and to your children? Oh! we shall together hear their clear young voices; we shall together, with delighted eyes, follow them in their graceful sports; we shall both feel their twining arms around our necks; we shall together guide and direct their young minds; we shall watch the opening intellect develope itself, and ripen into all that is noble in man, all that is lovely in woman! Oh, my love! my husband! what happiness is there in store for us!"

Lord Nithsdale listened in deep-felt rapture: he hung upon her words; he let his soul go to the delightful picture she drew; he drank in the musical sounds of her soft voice; he looked with love and tenderness upon the sweet though wan countenance, which, in its delicate paleness, bore the traces of past suffering.

"What happiness indeed!" he echoed. "What unutterable happiness!"

"And how tall our noble boy will be! We shall scarcely know him, except by those clustering fair curls which contrast so prettily with the dark brows, which are all your own, my love! Oh, those blue eyes! how they used to dance from beneath the shady brow! And Anne, my darling Annie! she will not have forgotten us, I trust; she will not have forgotten to climb your knee, and nestle into your bosom, as she was used to do, while you still remained absorbed in meditation."

A smile, a pleased, a tranquil, tender smile, played over his lips as he said, "My own sweet children, I dare think of you now! Yesterday it was with such painful regret that the image of your innocent endearments rose before my mind, that I strove to banish you from my thoughts. My gallant, stout boy! my pretty Annie!" and a silent but sweet tear stole down his manly cheek. "And yet, my love, are we not almost presumptuous in looking forward thus confidently? Though no longer within a prison's walls, we must not deem ourselves too secure——"

As he spoke, one loud, deep, sonorous toll of a bell was heard. Lady Nithsdale started. The colour, which the joyous picture she had drawn had summoned to her cheeks, gave way to a ghastly paleness. Lord Nithsdale did not finish the broken sentence: both sat in mute horror. Several moments elapsed; they heard no more. They began to fancy some accidental sound had startled them, when again the clear, deep sound struck on their ears—their hearts! She looked upon him with a fearful inquiring glance.

"It must be so," he said; "this is the very hour!" He clasped his hands firmly together; and, dropping his head, he pressed them against his bosom. "My friends, my noble, my true-hearted friends!" he ejaculated in a low and smothered voice.

"O God! and is it over?" she exclaimed, and she wound her arms around him; she clung to him with desperate energy; she pressed him closely to her, while she gazed wildly at the closed door, as if she every moment expected to see it burst open, and the ministers of the law rush in to bereave her of the loved being she had rescued.

"They shall not tear thee from me! No, no! I feel this woman's arm could hold thee with so firm a grasp, that no earthly power could sever us. They shall not, they cannot wrest thee from these arms!"

Again the awful toll of the minute-bell rung upon their ears! "Does it mean all is over?" she again slowly whispered in trembling horror.

"No, no! not so! they are even now on their way to the scaffold," he said. "He breathes yet! my friend, my noble Derwentwater yet breathes this vital air! The healthful blood still flows through his veins! That gallant heart still throbs in its mortal clothing! He is yet alive; and on this vast globe there does not beat a heart more gallant,—a spirit more undaunted dwells not on this earth!"

Again that toll struck on their hearts,—that toll for which they listened, till they almost fancied each must have been the last; when, no! the next awful sound struck their very frame, jarred on their every nerve, even more painfully than that which preceded it. They were half tempted to stop their ears to exclude the torturing clang, but a power which they could not resist compelled them to listen with redoubled intensity.

"By this time they must have reached Tower Hill!" he murmured. If he had seen the fearful expression of her countenance while he thus pictured what would have been, what still might be, his fate, he would in pity have been silent; but his thoughts were at that moment all upon his friends, his companions, his fellow-prisoners. Though he pressed her to his heart, he looked not upon her, and was still absorbed by the scene which he knew was enacting.

"Hush! all is silent! the bell has ceased!" No: it came again! its brazen clang again sounded. They still listened in breathless silence! At length it really ceased.

"What means this stillness?" she faintly asked.

"It is even now," he replied, in a smothered tone, "they must have reached the spot!" He pressed his hand upon his eyes: "My friends! my friends!—my dear, my noble friends!—I should not have abandoned ye; I should be there to share your fate; I ought to be with ye now!" he exclaimed in passion.

"My husband! my life! my love?" she softly whispered, in an appealing, a deprecating tone.

"Oh! no, no! I did not mean to say so! This is my home! here is my resting-place!" and his head dropped upon her shoulder.

Minutes elapsed: neither could keep count of time; it might be moments, it might be hours!

Again the awful, the horrible bell resounded; it seemed to crack his heart-strings. He started up; he shook her from him: he paced the room with hasty strides.

"It is all over!" he exclaimed,—"it is consummated! They are now bloody corpses! head-less trunks!"

She seized him by the arm: "Hush, hush; in mercy hush! speak not with such ungoverned earnestness. Did not Amy forbid us to stir for our lives?—did she not bid us converse in subdued tones?—did she not bid us avoid every movement that might betray that this apartment was occupied? Are there not other lodgers in the house? If you do not value life yourself, take pity on me. Spare me! oh, spare me the horrors you have just brought so vividly before me! Be still, I implore, I command,—by all I have done, all I have ventured, all I have endured!" and she dragged him to the wretched bed on which they had been seated, and which was the only article of furniture the chamber contained. He unresistingly yielded to her gentle force, and re-seated himself.

The dreadful certainty that the fate of his companions in misfortune was sealed completely dispelled the gleam of secure happiness which had shone through the hearts of both.

Lady Nithsdale thought on the Countess of Derwentwater; on the Lady Kenmure; and while she closely clung to her husband's arm, to assure herself in very truth that he was safe, and to prevent his making any movement which might betray him, she pictured to herself the unavailing agonies of the other ladies, till her very brain went round!

It now seemed to her she had as yet accomplished but little. She felt there was no security in their freedom; the fact that they were still within so short a distance of the fatal spot, which had this moment been brought only too forcibly home to the feelings of both, made her impatiently await further intelligence from her faithful friends—made her feel that nought was done till the seas rolled between him and his enemies!

She listened breathlessly, hoping each step might be Amy's, or Mrs. Mills's; and yet she dreaded each sound that reached her, lest it might prove the approach of guards, who, having traced his steps, might have succeeded in discovering his retreat.

Lord Nithsdale, on the other hand, thought not of himself; his feelings were all for the departed. His imagination rapidly ran over his former intercourse with his friend.

"I never saw him from that day," he murmured thoughtfully; "we parted at the second gateway when we returned from Westminster Hall, on the 9th. As we were in the coach, on our way home, he regretted having pleaded guilty; 'for,' he said, 'it is not treason that we have committed! it would have been treason in us to have acted otherwise than we have done. Yes,' he continued; 'all, save the prisoners, all the multitudes who crowded the vast Hall—all, all were traitors, except ourselves!' And when I urged that the expression thus used was but the form in which we conveyed that we denied not our share in the business, 'But I am not a traitor to my lawful king, and I should not have allowed the word,' he replied with earnestness. We were then led from the coach to our separate lodgings," continued the earl, following the current of his own melancholy thoughts, "and as we parted,—for the last time parted,—he pressed my hand, and said, 'Nithsdale, we have been friends through life, should we be parted in death? (which I do not think we shall be, we shall probably share the same doom!) but should one survive, let me live in your remembrance, as, I promise, you shall in mine!' And so he shall! never, never will I forget you, my noble Ratcliffe; here shall your memory dwell," he added, striking his bosom,—"here, while the life-blood throbs through this heart!"

He paused, and Lady Nithsdale for a while feared to disturb the sad recollections in which he so naturally indulged; but at length she gently ventured to whisper:—

"And if you thus feel for him who was your friend, think what would have been my condition had the husband of my love shared his fate! Control your voice! Speak but in whispers. Think should you now be dragged from me!" she continued in a meek and supplicating tone.

"True, true, my gentle love!" he softly answered. "I will be prudent,—calm and prudent; I owe it in gratitude to my deliverer."

She had scarcely thus tempered down his emotions, when they were both startled by the sound of footsteps; but they were soft and stealthy. There was no heavy tramp, no sound of arms, no rough voices.

There came three gentle taps upon the door; Lady Nithsdale hastened to it; Amy gave the preconcerted sign, and she admitted her.

Her face was pale, almost livid; her eyes seemed starting from her head; she staggered into the room, but she failed not carefully to close and double-lock the door behind her.

"I came to tell you all that we have arranged," she said, in a broken voice; "and——I will speak in a moment...."

"Oh, merciful Heaven! Do they suspect? Have they traced him?" cried Lady Nithsdale, in tremulous agony.

"Oh, no! it is not that: my dear lord is safe,—I trust,—I hope; safe from that dreadful doom!" and Amy closed her eyes for a moment.

"For pity's sake explain yourself,—dear, dear Amy!"

"'Tis nothing,—it will pass. 'Tis nothing more than we all know. We knew this was the fatal morning; and I waited till all was over, for I dared not willingly risk seeing anything dreadful. I thought I might now venture here, for Mr. Mills, who was there, told me all was accomplished. I came to tell you we have hopes for my lord's speedy departure. But oh! I did not wait long enough! The scaffold is still up," she continued, shuddering at the recollection, "all hung with black cloth; and the block, the huge—bloody—wooden block,—and the saw-dust! Oh! my soul sickens!"

Deep as was her anxiety for her lord's escape, the countess herself could not command words to inquire what were the hopes of accomplishing it, to which Amy alluded. All remained for some moments speechless, with eyes fixed on the ground, fearful to meet those of the other.

At length Lady Nithsdale stole a glance towards her husband to see how he bore what Amy had just uttered. His face was concealed by both his hands.

Amy was the first to recover herself: "The Venetian ambassador sends his coach next week to meet his brother at Dover; and we hope to persuade his excellency's servant, M. Michel, to take charge of my lord. He is one on whom we may depend. He is under great obligations to Mr. and Mrs. Mills, and would do anything to repay them; and when once he is safe away, he is not responsible to those in power here. Yes, dearest madam, I have good hope that all will turn out right," continued Amy, striving to shake off the horror which had overpowered her when first she entered.

"Thanks, my faithful, true friend!" and Lady Nithsdale tenderly embraced her.

Lord Nithsdale appeared not to heed what they had said; but, in a low, hollow voice, inquired, with his face averted,—for he shrunk from showing to any eye but his own Winifred's, the traces of deep emotion which he could not master,—"Did Mr. Mills mention any particulars?"

"Nothing very particular," answered Amy, shuddering at the question.

"Did the lords address the people?" he again asked, his face still averted, and with a forced calmness in his tone.

"I believe they did, my lord."

"Was Mr. Mills within hearing?"

"Yes, my dear master; but why harrow your feelings by listening to these details? Surely it were better to think of the future, and bend your mind to all that there remains to do?"

"Nay, I must hear; I must learn all I can of my lost, lost friends!" he exclaimed, turning upon them a face so awful in its noble grief that none dared for a moment to resist his wishes. "Tell me all; let me hear everything!"

Unable to oppose, or to resist, his firm and solemn command, Amy began her tale: "They were taken, my lord, in a hackney-coach from the Tower to the Transport Office. It was a little before ten o'clock."

"I know it," he answered. "We heard the bell!" he added in a sepulchral inward voice.

"The Earl of Derwentwater was the first; and though he seemed somewhat pale, his bearing was resolute and sedate, Mr. Mills said."

"Assuredly it was!" said the earl, almost angry that it should be deemed possible his friend could have borne himself otherwise.

"After some time spent in prayer he obtained the sheriff's leave to read a paper. He came forward to the rails, and he asked pardon of those whom he might have scandalized by pleading guilty at his trial."

"I knew that weighed upon his mind," murmured the earl.

"He said he was sensible he had by this made bold with his loyalty to King James; but that he had been told it was merely a form, and that there was nothing of moment in so doing."

"They told us all so;—that, having been undeniably in arms, pleading guilty was but the consequence of submitting to mercy."

"He said he died a Roman Catholic, and was in perfect charity with all the world; and he added, that if the prince, who now governs, had spared his life, he should have thought himself obliged never more to take up arms against him." Amy was silent Lord Nithsdale, after a pause of some moments, said, in a voice scarcely audible,

"Did he suffer? Was it quickly over?"

"At one blow, my lord," answered Amy, shuddering as she spoke.

"Pardon me, good Amy,—I pain you; but I must know. And Lord Kenmure?"

"He did not speak to the people; but in his devotions he prayed for King James. He apologised for his dress; saying, he had so little thought of dying so soon, he had not provided a black suit. Mr. Mills says he showed great resolution and firmness in his carriage, though, to his mind, he was not so calm within as the Earl of Derwentwater."

"I can endure no more!" at length exclaimed Lady Nithsdale, as all these details so horribly pictured the scene: "I cannot, cannot bear it! Amy, in mercy cease!"

"I crave your pardon, dearest wife; but they were my friends—my best friends,—and they are gone! But we will hear no more!" And he again buried his face in his hands.

Amy told her lady that Mrs. Mills would soon be with them, and bring the answer of M. Michel. She was even now at the Venetian ambassador's, and hoped to have arranged everything according to their wishes.

The countess pressed Amy's hand, and they silently awaited Mrs. Mills's coming.

It was late before she arrived; but she told them that on the following day, the Saturday, Lord Nithsdale might remove to the ambassador's, where M. Michel undertook to conceal him in his own chamber; that on the Wednesday in the following week, his excellency's coach-and-six was to go to Dover to meet his brother, when M. Michel could easily take Lord Nithsdale in his master's livery as one of his retinue.

All seemed to promise well, and the countess breathed more freely.

Mrs. Mills had considerately brought with her some bread, which, with a loaf and a bottle of wine which had been provided the evening before, was all they had to subsist upon for the two days and nights they spent in their present lurking-place.

On the Saturday they parted, according to this arrangement. To both, such a parting was a severe trial!

The countess feared every possible and every impossible danger must beset his path when she could no longer see him with her own eyes. He found the task a hard one to tear himself again from her, when so lately re-united; but he also felt how incumbent it was on him to accept with gratitude so favourable an opportunity of escaping. They were both aware that to linger in England was risking all their hardly-earned happiness. In trembling hope, they parted.

"It would be sinful in us to mistrust Providence," he said; "we have been so mercifully dealt with, we ought to feel confidence that we shall be preserved to a safe and joyful meeting!"

"True, true, my love. I would not detain you one moment in this fatal land! I wish you gone! And yet—and yet—it is so painful, so very painful, to part! But you shall go—even now,—this moment! It is not for me to doubt the mercy of Heaven."

She gently disengaged herself from him: he pressed her once more to his bosom, and then followed Mrs. Mills to the door. He there paused to take one more look at her as she stood half supported by Amy. She watched him through the doorway,—she listened to his step as he descended the stairs,—she heard the street-door shut:—"He is gone!" she said; "but I must not repine. Oh, what a parting it might have been! When I think of Lady Derwentwater and of Lady Kenmure, I feel how blessed I am! I will not weep—I will not grieve: I must allow no feeling but that of gratitude to find a place within this bosom!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

La nef qui déjoint mes amours N'a cy de moi que la moitié. Une parte te reste, elle est tienne. Mary Queen of Scots.

The Countess of Nithsdale lost no time in quitting her present retreat, and she took up her abode at the house of a quiet honest man in Drury Lane, where, in the utmost privacy, she awaited the news of her husband's safe arrival on the Continent.

After the intense agitation of the foregoing week, she experienced a kind of listless stupefaction; she was totally incapable of employing herself. Although her mind was comparatively at ease, yet a thousand vague horrors shot across it. The inaction was oppressive and irksome to her. She wished every hour, every moment, to know how it fared with her lord; and yet she was fully aware that the only prudent course to pursue, both for his sake and her own, was to keep herself quite retired, and to avoid being seen by any.

On the Wednesday the Earl of Nithsdale, as had been previously concerted, accompanied the Venetian ambassador's coach to Dover, where he arrived without detection or danger.

When there, M. Michel hired a small vessel, and immediately set sail for Calais.

Was it a moment of unmixed joy to Lord Nithsdale when he set foot upon the vessel which was to bear him from the land in which his life was forfeited to the laws,—from the land in which he was proscribed, to seek one which held out to him all the charms of life and liberty?

It was not so:—for that land was the land of his birth,—that land contained her to whom he was bound by stronger ties than ever attached man to woman!

As the swift bark bounded over the deep, he gazed upon the receding shores with tenderness and regret. The breeze was favourable, the ship skimmed the waters, the passage was performed in so short a time that the captain remarked, "the wind could not have served better if his passengers had been flying for their lives."

Until the countess received assured intelligence of his safe arrival at Calais, she had been able to turn her thoughts to no other subject. She felt he might at any moment be discovered; it was still possible that all the horrors and the sufferings with which she was only too well acquainted might still be in store for her. At moments she accused herself of wanting that reliance she ought to feel in Heaven; at others, she thought she was presumptuous in fancying herself too secure.

But when once she knew he was safe from all pursuit, other cares beset her mind.

The feelings of the mother rose strong within her. Every paper, every document, which might secure to themselves, or to their children after them, any means of existence, had been left at Terreagles. While fearing for his life, all other considerations had been forgotten; but now that all-absorbing interest was at rest, anxiety for the fate of her children took possession of her soul.

She resolved, if possible, to revisit Terreagles. If she had exposed her life for the father, she thought she could do no less than hazard it once more to save her son from beggary.

After the great events of the last month, her mind seemed to stand in need of some strong excitement; she was almost glad to feel called upon by duty for a fresh exertion.

She hoped, through the means of the Duchess of Buccleugh, she might obtain leave openly to visit Terreagles; and she wrote to her, telling her that she understood some suspected her of having contrived her lord's escape, but that she imagined a bare suspicion, destitute of proof, would never be held sufficient ground for her being punished for a supposed offence, although it had been motive enough for her to remain in concealment. She entreated her grace to procure permission for her to depart freely upon her business.

But her application, far from being granted, rather roused in the government the desire to secure her; and she owed to the Solicitor-General (who, though an utter stranger to her, had the humanity to plead her cause,) the decision, that as long as she evinced such respect to government as not to appear in public, no search should be made for her; but that, if she showed herself in England or in Scotland, she should be forthwith secured.

This was but poor satisfaction. Having been so suddenly summoned from Scotland, she had not been able to arrange any thing at Terreagles; but before she repaired to Scone to wait upon the Chevalier, not knowing in such uncertain times what might occur during her absence, she had taken the precaution of burying in the ground the family papers, which her husband had committed to her charge, and other articles of most value.

It was fortunate she had done so, for the house had been searched after her departure; and, as the countess herself expresses it, "God only knows what might have transpired from those papers!"

If these documents were to be preserved, it seemed absolutely necessary she should repair to Terreagles, and that she should do so without delay, and as privately as possible.

For this purpose she again provided herself, Amy and Walter Elliot, with saddle-horses, and retraced her way to Scotland.

It was no longer the inclemency of the season which constituted the danger of the journey, but the fear of being discovered. On this occasion, however, it was but for herself she feared: after her long seclusion in the most confined parts of London, as she rode forward, inhaling the clear country air, with the delightful certainty that her husband was in safety and in freedom, instead of being a prisoner, in danger, distress, and loneliness, within the Tower walls, she contrasted the buoyant spirit with which she looked upon this merely personal risk, with the horrible oppressive weight which lay at her bosom as, two months before, she had traversed the same road.

Her spirits almost rose with the danger; and she gladly yielded herself up to the enjoyment of the early spring.

The hedges were already beginning to be partially clothed in their green livery; the meadows in the neighbourhood of London were fresh and bright; the birds twittered, and sprang from twig to twig; the primroses and wild violets already peeped forth on the more sunny banks. The unusually hard winter had been followed by the rapid bursting forth, the flush, of an early spring. As she advanced, the new-cut copses were spangled with wood anemones and the blue harebell; cowslips, and daffodils painted the fields. All nature seemed to smile before her. Her journey was one of positive enjoyment, notwithstanding the degree of fear which induced her prudently to avoid the large towns, and the considerable inns, at which she was likely to be known, and to put up only at the smallest and humblest resting-places.

To Amy, the naturally light-hearted Amy, the joyous laugh was no longer a stranger. Her eye danced once more with gaiety, and she even occasionally trilled a snatch of one of her old Welsh ditties.

Her lady smiled kindly upon her: "I scarcely thought ever to have heard that sound again, Amy. It does me good to hear it; and yet," she said, "there is much pain mingled with the pleasure it affords. It brings back with over-whelming tenderness past days of happiness;—past, never to return!" and her eyes filled with tears.

"My dearest madam, I could chide myself for my silly song if it makes you weep."

"No, dear Amy, sing on. I love to hear the melody, although it draws tears: they are not bitter ones."

"Nay, madam, I can sing no more; my voice is gone:" and they rode on in silence.

After several more days of continued journeying, Lady Nithsdale ventured to repose herself for two nights at Traquhair; where, with her sister-in-law, and Lord Traquhair, she enjoyed the happiness of a free outpouring of the soul, and where, to willing ears and open hearts, she gave every detail of their brother's escape.

The lieutenant of the county being an old and tried friend of her lord's, she felt assured that he would allow no search to be made for her without forwarding to her due warning to abscond.

She did not send any notice of her return to Terreagles, that the magistrates of Dumfries might not be prepared to make inquiries about her; but she suddenly made her appearance there, feigning that she had the leave of government to do so. The better to persuade them that it was with permission she was there, she sent to her neighbours and invited them to visit her; while in the interim she busied herself in securing the papers.

The gardener alone knew where they had been buried, and with the assistance of the faithful old Hugh she recovered them. They were as yet unhurt; but, although in the highest state of preservation after one very severe winter, they could not have remained much longer in the ground without prejudice.

It was, as Lady Nithsdale herself says, a particular stroke of Providence that she made the despatch she did, for the magistrates of Dumfries soon suspected her.

The indefatigable Amy, whose ears were always open, whose discretion was never slumbering, learned by a fortunate accident that one of them was heard to say, he should, the next day, insist upon seeing the Countess of Nithsdale's leave from government.

There was not a moment to be lost: Lady Nithsdale resolved to depart before daybreak. She forwarded the rescued documents by a safe hand to Traquhair, and on the following morning set forth again for London.

It was now that she bade a fond, lingering, last adieu to her home: she knew that it was for ever she quitted it! When all were at rest, she gently visited each well-known apartment. She repaired to that which her children had usually inhabited: she looked with sadness upon the vacant room. She thought how often she had there heard their prattling voices—there bent over their quiet slumbers. She paused at the door, and the tears gushed from her eyes. A thousand trifling incidents crowded on her mind: there was not a spot that was not alive with recollections.

"Truly," she thought, "did my dear lord say, as he parted hence, 'Our castles will be desolate, our name extinct!'" She looked upon the motto, 'Reviresco:' "Truly did he say, 'Not here will any Earl of Nithsdale flourish again!'—but he is safe; our children are safe; and we shall be happy, in all the charities of domestic life. 'Twere sinful to allow such regrets to stifle for a moment the gratitude which ought to over-power all other emotions."

But when, ere the early dawn appeared, they prepared to mount their horses, and she saw the faithful old gardener, with his blue bonnet in his hand, respectfully hold the bridle rein, enacting the part of 'squire, the tears would flow unbidden: "Thanks, my good Hugh! I am glad to see you once more; for, alas! Hugh, I shall never, never, return to this dear home again! Heaven bless you, and all, all, who dwell around!" she continued, looking around her at the scattered cottages on the hill-sides; "may you and yours be well and happy!"

"I feared how it was, my leddy; I fancied, if I was not here betimes, I should never look on your leddyship's fair face again. Eh! madam,'tis an awful thing when the head of an ancient house flits for ever from the home of his ancestors. 'Tis an awsome thing for a' the puir folks about! and as for me and my gude wife, why, I think it will go nigh to break our hearts! But that's neither here nor there: what maun be, maun be; and I dinna' mean to make your leddyship down-hearted! I only thought I would see the last o' ye;" and the old man brushed away a tear. "I just made bold, my leddy, to bring wi' me a little o' the seed of our famous kale, which my lord used always to praise. I thought, in the outlandish countries my lord is like to abide in now, he might not meet with any such; and I guessed 'twas next to impossible that, with so much upon your mind, your leddyship should give it a thought."

"Give it me, good Hugh; and depend upon it your kind recollection of my lord shall not be forgotten. I will tell him that his old friends here have not put him from their minds yet!"

"Nor ever will, my leddy; that's not the way with a true Scot. We shall keep the Maxwells in mind as long as you and yours remember Scotland, and, may be, longer too. But yonder's the grey light in the east; I must not be keeping your leddyship."

Lady Nithsdale could not speak; but she pressed the old man's hard weather-beaten hand in her own soft delicate fingers, and she hurried from the castle. It was in vain to struggle longer with her tears; she yielded to the natural impulse, and suffered them to flow.

As on their former journey, they only stopped at the poorest inns; and at one of these they were compelled to take their evening meal in the room where the other travellers were also accommodated. They remarked a sturdy farmer who looked hard at them, and by the blaze of the fire they recognised the yeoman with whom they had conversed on their way to York. He soon renewed acquaintance.

"Why, is it you, my demure puritan? What brings you this road again so soon? Did you not find a hearty welcome, that you are so soon for the north country again? How fared it with your friends in London?"

"It fares well with some of our dearest friends, I thank you; far better than when last we met," answered the countess.

"There have been great doings going on in London since you went this road; and what my companion said, though it was roughly said, has come out pretty true: they have made away with a good many of the rebel lords."

Lady Nithsdale shuddered.

"But the king did spare some of them, and they say would have spared more if his ministers would have let him; but a good many took French leave. There was half a dozen broke out of Newgate at once, they say; and though some were taken again, there was one Hepburn found out where his wife and children were abiding, by spying his own family tankard, the Keith tankard, as they call it, which they had stuck in the window just for that very purpose: he was a lucky fellow! And Forster, he is safe in France, they say. And pray, young woman, you can't tell me how 'twas the Earl of Nithsdale got away?"

Lady Nithsdale started. "Nay, sir! how should I know?"

"Why, you have been in London, and I thought folks must have talked enough about it there; for, to my mind, 'twas a strange thing, and that's the truth. Do you think the guards were in the secret?"

"Oh, no, no! they knew nothing!" exclaimed the countess, anxious to exculpate them from such a charge.

"Why, I thought you knew nothing!" answered the yeoman, with a cunning glance; "but if you do, you need not stand in fear of me; I should never wish to say anything of anybody to their prejudice."

"I never heard any suspicion of infidelity thrown out against the guards," answered Lady Nithsdale, in a more composed manner; "but I have left London some time, and other circumstances may have transpired."

"Then you don't know that 'twas the earl's mother that brought him the clothes in which he disguised himself?"

"No! indeed I did not," answered the countess, with a glance at Amy, which she could not control.

"They say that's a positive fact!" proceeded the farmer: "and perhaps, then, you have not heard, what they tell me is equally true, that on the 24th,—yes, it was the 24th, was it not, that the rebels had their heads off?"

Lady Nithsdale bowed assent.

"On the 24th of last month, the very day the Earl of Derwentwater was beheaded, the water in the moat round Dillstone Castle turned as red as blood! That was very singular, was it not?"

"Strange indeed!" ejaculated Amy, with a countenance in which awe and wonder were honestly visible; "on the very day he suffered!"—and the thought of the scaffold, and the blood, of which she had caught, or fancied she caught, a sight, flashed across her mind. She turned so pale, that the countess, now the most self-possessed of the two, hastened to withdraw attention from Amy, lest her emotion should become too apparent.

The feminine horror of blood, and the superstitious terror with which she listened to so unnatural a portent, had thrown her more off her guard than circumstances of real peril would have done.

Lady Nithsdale inquired whether the Earl of Wintoun's trial had yet come on, and the yeoman, proud of his superior information, told her that it had, and that he had received sentence of death; but he added, "he seemed so wild and strange that half the world thought he was not in his right senses."

Meanwhile Amy Evans had recovered herself, and the countess was glad to seize the first opportunity of retiring, and of avoiding any further observation.

Upon her arrival in London, she found from her friends, the Duchess of Montrose and Mrs. Morgan, that the king was even more than ever incensed against her, for having, against his prohibition, made her appearance in Scotland; and that if he should succeed in securing her, there was every reason to fear that she would be proceeded against according to the utmost rigour of the law. And this, she heard from some of the best law authorities, would be no other than, in a case of high treason, to make the head of the wife answerable for that of the husband.

It therefore became necessary that she should take measures for her own speedy departure. But, before she left her native land for ever, she ventured to have one more interview with her good cousin, Christian of Montrose. It was, however, by stealth that the duchess visited her, and in sorrow that she bade her farewell.

"I fear to injure you by my visit, dear cousin," she said; "and yet I longed to bid Heaven prosper you on your journey. You will let me know when you are really restored to your husband and your children. Though we may never meet again, it will be sweet to me to fancy you enjoying perfect happiness with those who are so dear to you."

"I shall indeed be happy; but, alas! dear Christian, this heart will ever yearn towards its island home. I love the very soil of England; and, as I pass along, I look with fond regret at every house, at every tree, and think with sorrow that I am henceforth to be an exile; that I can never, never, look on them again. As for my friends—such friends as you, dear Christian!——But think you in very truth there is no hope of our being ever allowed to revisit our dear England?"

"Alas! the king is still so angry with you individually. He has granted the Viscountess Kenmure 150l. per annum for the education of her children; the Lady Nairne too has met with favour; but, dear cousin," she added, smiling, "he says you have given him more trouble than any other woman in Europe; and although I verily believe many of the other prisoners who have made their escape have not been over-strictly guarded, yet both the warders who had charge of the earl your husband, and only they, are likely to be punished for neglect of their duty."

"They deserve no punishment on that score," replied the countess. "Neither do I owe them gratitude, nor need the government visit upon them the good deed in which they did not participate."

"But from all I tell you, dearest Winifred, it is plain you should not linger here!"

"I shall be gone to-morrow, Heaven favouring me," replied the countess. "This evening I bid farewell to two dear friends, and to-morrow I am gone!" And with many tears, and last farewells, and promises of communicating by letter, the cousins parted.

The friends to whom Lady Nithsdale alluded were Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Mills, whose names she did not care to mention even to the duchess, lest it might ever transpire that they had assisted in her lord's escape.

To them she scarcely knew in what terms sufficiently to express her gratitude; and it cast a gloom over the prospect of speedy reunion to the objects of her dearest affections, to think that she should never more see the persons to whom, under Providence, she was indebted for that happy prospect.

CHAPTER XXVII.

But I wad rather see him roam An outcast on a foreign strand, And wi' his master beg his bread, Nae mair to see his native land, Than bow a hair o' his brave head To base usurper's tyrannye, Than cringe for mercy to a knave That ne'er was owned by him or me. Jacobite Song.

Lady Nithsdale's voyage was performed in safety; and at Paris she joined her husband and her children, whom he had conveyed thither from Bruges to await her coming.

The happiness which they had almost feared to picture was at length realised. They together gazed upon their noble boy;—she saw the little Lady Anne nestled in her father's bosom,—she gave herself up to the joy of gazing on them, with no fear that this joy should be snatched from her by any power except the immediate will of Heaven.

On the 4th of May they reached Avignon, where all his adherents flocked around the Pretender,—the Earl, or, as he was there styled, the Duke of Mar, the Duke of Ormond, and many others, to the number of thirty lords.

But the petty broils, the dissensions, and the jealousies of this mock court assorted but ill with the feelings and habits of Lord and Lady Nithsdale. They soon left Avignon, and proceeded to Italy, where they lived in privacy, with no wish beyond each other's society and the company of their children.

After all which they had endured, it was enough to be together; and for weeks, nay, months, the delightful certainty of being restored to each other, stood in lieu of all things else.

But human nature is so constituted that the continued possession of that which we have long enjoyed, and that which we no longer fear to lose, will not alone be productive of lively, positive happiness; other thoughts, other desires, find room within the heart.

As their children advanced in years, they could not but feel that they were doomed to vegetate in a foreign soil,—they could not but feel that their position in life was very different from that to which they had been born.

The remembrance of home, the images of absent friends, the memory of departed ones, were treasured up in their minds: and Lady Nithsdale would, unperceived, dwell on the pale sad brow of her lord as, hanging on his arm, she paced with him the shores of the Mediterranean; and she could easily read that his thoughts had leaped over intervening time and space, over years gone by, and over the mountains, plains, and seas that interposed between them and their home, and were sadly fixed upon the past, and the distant. He caught her eye, as tearfully, fondly, it was turned on him.

"Yes," he said, "my thoughts were far from hence. The clear pure heaven above us is unbroken by a cloud, but dearer to my eyes the misty sky of Scotland; the deep blue of the unruffled sea is beautiful, but to my feelings the dusky waves that dash against the ruined walls of our own Caerlaverock are more sublime in their wild grandeur. The distinct, defined outline of yon purple mountains may be more brilliant, but my heart yearns for the softened hazy outline of our own Scotch hills, melting into the pearly hues of our watery sky!"

As he spoke, a light bark glided rapidly by, and the boatmen kept time with their oars as they chanted, in their musical tongue, Italian poetry to Italian melody.

"And dearer to my ears," said Lady Nithsdale, "the simple ballad of a Scottish maiden, than even these sweet sounds as they are wafted to us over the waters!"

They stopped to listen to the song as it died away; and, as they listened, another and more awful sound struck upon their ears.

The bell of one of the small chapels, often constructed on the shores of Catholic countries, was tolled for the soul of a departed mariner. As it happened, the tone was not unlike one of which they both retained only too vivid and painful a recollection.

The countess felt her husband's frame quiver beneath the stroke. There was no need of words. With a mutual pressure of the arm, they returned upon their steps and sought their home.

Unconsciously their pace quickened. They seemed to fly before the stroke of that bell! Such suffering as they had both experienced leaves traces in the soul which time itself can never wholly efface.

To those who may have been interested in the fate of the two persons who form the subject of the foregoing memoir, it may be satisfactory to know, that the Lady Nithsdale was not parted by death from her beloved husband till many years afterwards, when, in the year 1744, he died, in his exile, at Rome. She survived him five years: but she had the comfort of knowing that, by her exertions in her last visit to Terreagles, she had succeeded in securing a competency to her son, who married his cousin the Lady Catherine Stewart, daughter to the Earl and Countess of Traquhair. Her daughter, the Lady Anne Maxwell, became the wife of Lord Bellew.