VOLUME THE SECOND.

WINIFRED, COUNTESS OF NITHSDALE.

(CONTINUED.)

CHAPTER XIX.

The heroine assumed the woman's place, Confirm'd her mind, and fortified her face.

Dryden.

When Lady Nithsdale arrived at her lodgings, she there found Mrs. Morgan, who from the moment she first, through Amy Evans's means, became acquainted with her, had proved herself a kind friend, and a strenuous and efficient agent.

As the countess entered the apartment, the haggard expression of her countenance struck the little party of friends who had been awaiting her return. Amy hastened to support her lady, whose steps appeared to totter as she advanced. "Thanks, dear Amy; but I need not your assistance," she replied, with a forced composure: "I am not ill, my good girl; I do not need these attentions; I am well and strong. You do not know how strong I am!"

"Would not your ladyship be better near the fire?" inquired Mrs. Mills, rising from her chair; "the evening is chilly."

"Disturb not yourself, my good friend; I am well here;" replied Lady Nithsdale, sinking into a seat.

"How fares it with my lord, madam?—Is he of good cheer?"

"Well, Amy, right well; he is well in health, and will bear himself gallantly to-morrow, as the grandson of the brave defender of Caerlaverock castle should bear himself," answered the countess, with a forced air of resolution; for she had employed Mrs. Morgan to procure for her a seat in some obscure part of Westminster Hall, from whence she might be a witness of the trial; and she feared, if she now betrayed any weakness or emotion, even the yielding Mrs. Morgan might not comply with her wishes.

"And now I must ask my dear Mrs. Morgan, whether her friend the Earl of Dorset has been as good as his word;—may we hope for seats in the Hall to-morrow?" she inquired, in a tone which she meant should be steady.

"Yes, dearest Lady Nithsdale; he says that if you really are resolved upon being present, he can accommodate us; for you must allow me to accompany you, and also our faithful Mrs. Evans; I could not allow you to stir without her."

"My dear Amy! no; I am too well assured of her affection not to be always the better if she is near." Lady Nithsdale's eyes were for a moment suffused, for it often happens that a slight emotion draws tears which are frozen in their cells by stronger and deeper ones. "The spot is a retired one, I trust; not within sight of the prisoners: I would not that my lord should guess or suspect that I was present!"—she clasped her hands,—"it might unman him; his voice might falter; his lips might quiver; and the world might fancy it could be through fear! Oh! he must not, must not see me!" she repeated with earnestness.

"I thought of that," replied the considerate Mrs. Morgan, "and the seats provided are near the door—a back entrance—through which you may easily withdraw whenever you may see fit. But still I doubt whether I am a true friend in assisting you in this business. I fear it is rather yielding weakness, than true kindness, as my poor father used to say.—The scene will be too much for you."

"Did not Lady Russell act as her lord's secretary during his trial? Woman's affection in her over-came woman's weakness. She wavered not, she trembled not, at the time;—though afterwards she wept herself blind!—And was her husband more worthy of a wife's devotion than is mine? Did she, could she, love him with more passionate fervour than I do my own dear, dear, noble lord?—Oh no! for she had loved before; he was not the first and only object of the concentrated affection of a whole life! She had been bound by previous ties! She had known joys and sorrows unconnected with him; but I—my existence was a blank till it was wound up in his! Depend upon it, dear Mrs. Morgan, what woman's love has done, what woman's love can do, the love that warms this bosom can accomplish! You need not doubt me. I will not expose myself, nor you, to observation or remark."

The colour had returned into her pale cheeks, her eye gleamed with a holy brilliancy, her brow assumed an air of lofty resolution, and all present felt assured that, however strong might be her feelings of tenderness, she possessed the courage which could subdue them to her will.

The next day she found herself, as had been previously arranged, in the seats prepared by the Earl of Dorset, who himself conducted them through the crowd. The Earl of Pembroke also, who was nearly related to the Powis family, was not wanting in every kindness and attention.

The Countess of Nithsdale's deportment was perfectly collected. The dress of the day, which allowed much of the form to be concealed by a black silk mantle, and the face to be buried in the hood, enabled her to escape all observation.

A considerable time elapsed before those of whom the court was composed were seated in their due order, and that the prisoners were summoned. She had time to look round with awe upon the innumerable heads with which the floor of the Hall seemed, as it were, to be paved.

At one o'clock, the gates at the end of the vast and antique building were thrown open, and the lords entered walking two and two. Then followed the Garter King at arms, and other officers of the crown, in their robes of state. Then the masters in chancery. The Lord Chancellor Cowper, Lord High Steward on the occasion, walked alone, his train being borne by his attendants to the wool-pack, on which he seated himself.

The peers then uncovered themselves; and they, as well as all others present, stood uncovered during the time occupied by the reading of the commission.

All listened in breathless silence. The moment was awful in itself; but the accompaniments of solemnity and state rendered it, if possible, more so.

When the commission was gone through, the serjeant-at-arms cried with a loud voice, "God save the king!"

These words excited an undefinable sensation in the bosom of Lady Nithsdale. She felt in good sooth that he, in whom resided the power to call together and to control the imposing assemblage before her, was monarch of the realm. She felt that he, for whose sake they were placed in their present desperate situation, had proved himself little worthy of their devotion;—yet the words grated harshly on her ear,—her heart still refused to acknowledge them.

The herald, and gentleman usher of the black rod, after making three reverences, kneeling, presented the white staff to his grace, who, attended by the herald, black rod, and the seal-bearer, made his proper reverences to the throne, and removed from the wool-pack to an arm-chair which was placed on the uppermost step but one of the throne, when, seating himself, he delivered the staff to the gentleman usher of the black rod, who stood on his right hand, while the seal-bearer held the purse, standing on the left.

After a proclamation enjoining silence under pain of imprisonment, the serjeant-at-arms proceeded: "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Lieutenant of the Tower of London, bring forth your prisoners to the bar, according to the order of the House of Lords to you directed."

Each of these words fell, as it were, actually, palpably, knocking upon Lady Nithsdale's heart. For a moment she wondered how she could have willingly placed herself in her present situation; but she remembered the strong motives she had to try her powers of self-command, and she also remembered her promise to Mrs. Morgan, and she subdued the rising tumult of her soul.

Her companions, also breathless with anxiety, stole a fearful glance towards her as the prisoners were brought to the bar by the deputy governor of the Tower. When the axe, which was brought before them by the gentleman jailer, first made its appearance, they saw Lady Nithsdale for a moment close her eyes, as if unable to endure the sight; but she recovered herself, and when her lord himself made his appearance, her looks were so intently fixed upon him, that it may be questioned whether her powers of vision took in any other object.

The prisoners, when they approached the bar (after kneeling), bowed to his grace the Lord High Steward, and to the House of Peers, which compliment was returned to them both by his grace and by the House of Peers.

The Lord High Steward then ordered the articles of impeachment to be read; after which, he asked them severally what they had to say for themselves why judgment should not pass upon them according to law?

Lord Derwentwater spoke at some length; and after him the Earl of Nithsdale, and the Viscount Kenmure. They all pleaded guilty; but expressed their hope that the assurances of clemency held out to them at Preston would not prove fallacious.

Lord Nithsdale concluded with professing, what his wife well knew he spoke in sincerity and truth, that if mercy were extended towards him, "he should, during the remainder of his life, pay the utmost duty and gratitude to his most gracious majesty, and the highest veneration and respect to their lordships and the honourable House of Commons."

The Lord High Steward, who did not hear distinctly, inquired whether the Earl of Nithsdale had pleaded anything in arrest of judgment; to which the earl replied in a clear sonorous voice, whose mellow tones seemed to thrill through the whole assembly, "No, my lords, I have not!"

The Lord High Steward then stood up. Every breathing was hushed! Such stillness reigned throughout the dense mass of living creatures congregated within the spacious hall, that each rain-drop might be heard as it pattered against the windows. But there came a singing, rushing sound in Lady Nithsdale's ears: at first she could scarcely distinguish the awful words which were slowly, clearly, solemnly pronounced.

"The sentence of the law must be the same as is usually given against the meanest offenders in the like kind. The most ignominious and painful parts are usually omitted by the grace of the crown to persons of your quality; but the law in this case, being deaf to all distinctions of persons, requires I should pronounce, and accordingly it is adjudged by this court, that you James Earl of Derwentwater,"—the Lord High Steward paused between each name,—"William Lord Widdrington,"—her husband's had not yet been pronounced; the countess leaned breathlessly forward,—"William Earl of Nithsdale,"—she covered her face with her hands, but she spoke not; she did not sob, she did not faint; her companions would have led her out, but she motioned them to be still. The Lord High Steward meanwhile continued in the same clear and unmoved voice,—"Richard Earl of Carnwarth, William Viscount Kenmure, and William Lord Nairne, and every of you, return to the prison of the Tower, from whence you came; from thence you must be drawn to the place of execution: when you come there you must be hanged by the neck, but not till you be dead, for you must be cut down alive; then your bowels must be taken out, and burnt before your faces." They looked again upon the unfortunate countess; but she had fainted with her back supported against the wall, and she had not, it is hoped, heard the last few words. They feared to excite attention, and they sustained her in the position in which she sat, till in the general movement of the court breaking up, they might be able to remove her quietly from the dreadful scene. Still the same stern and brazen voice proceeded:—

"Then your heads must be severed from your bodies, divided each into four quarters, and these must be at the king's disposal. And God Almighty be merciful to your souls!"

The sergeant-at-arms then repeated: "Oyez! Our sovereign lord the king strictly charges and commands all manner of persons to keep silence upon pain of imprisonment." After which the Lord High Steward stood up uncovered, and declaring there was nothing more to be done by virtue of the present commission, broke the staff, and pronounced it dissolved.

For some moments after the whole was concluded, the silence which had been so strictly but so needlessly enjoined continued unbroken. The prisoners, the peers, and all the court, then retired in order as they entered, and an universal buzz of voices and general movement took place.

There were sounds of sorrow; feelings long repressed found vent; and in the confusion, Mrs. Morgan and Amy Evans removed Lady Nithsdale into the freer air. She gradually revived, but at first she looked wildly around.

"Alas!" said Mrs. Morgan, "I have been to blame in yielding to your wishes. How could I permit you to expose yourself to such a scene? and all the while I felt assured that you miscalculated your own strength. Oh! it was too dreadful!"

"Hush!" answered the countess; "I know all—you need not tell me; I heard enough; I knew it, I expected it. And now I must remember all I had previously resolved upon."

At this moment the Lords Pembroke and Dorset approached, with countenances expressive of deep commiseration. She pressed both their hands in silence. They conducted her down the steps to the coach which awaited her. Before she entered it, she turned to them:—

"You have each promised me your good offices in case of need. That hour of need is fast approaching; you will not forget your promises!"

They bowed assent upon her hand; and having respectfully, nay almost reverently, placed her in the carriage, they turned hastily away to conceal the emotion which overpowered them.

CHAPTER XX.

Certainly virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when they are incensed, or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue.—Lord Bacon's Essays.

Mrs. Morgan and Amy Evans expected that the control which the unfortunate Countess of Nithsdale had as yet exercised over her feelings would have completely given way when no longer exposed to the gaze of indifferent persons: they prepared themselves for tears and fainting; and were surprised when Lady Nithsdale, although silent, remained firm and collected.

Reared in a foreign convent, from which she had only been removed to a retired Welsh castle, and from thence to a life of domestic privacy in Scotland, or, if she occasionally mingled in the busy world, accustomed to look up to her lord for advice, to hang upon him for support, to rely on his judgment for the guidance of her own, it seems wonderful that under such trying circumstances as those in which she was placed, she should have possessed the worldly wisdom, the courage, the discretion, and the decision, to act for herself and for her husband, and to proceed, without wavering or irresolution, to take every measure that prudence could dictate.

When they reached Lady Nithsdale's lodgings, the kind-hearted Mrs. Morgan took her leave, after having given Amy and Mrs. Mills a thousand directions and injunctions as to the tenderness with which the countess should be treated, the possets which she hoped might compose her to sleep, and the julap which should be placed by her bed-side.

Lady Nithsdale listened to all her good-natured counsels with a placidity which astonished and almost alarmed Amy Evans, although to Mrs. Morgan it appeared but the effect of exhaustion, and, as she trusted, only augured that she might be restored by some calm and refreshing sleep.

Amy, who better knew her mistress, and knew that with increased danger and distress her strength and courage proportionably rose, was not surprised when, upon Mrs. Morgan's departure, and Mrs. Mills's leaving them to prepare the posset so earnestly recommended, Lady Nithsdale laid her hand upon her arm.

"Now, Amy, your true affection, in which I have the utmost confidence,—I rely on it almost as on my own to my lord,—now it is going to be put to the test. He must not die! and we must save him! you and I, Amy, must save him! You start, and look as though you feared that all I have heard and seen this day" (she pressed her hand over her eyes) "had turned my brain, but it is not so; for many weeks I have considered the plan, which is now almost matured within my head. Prisoners have made their escape from places as strong and as well guarded, before now! If others have succeeded in rescuing those most dear to them, why should not we succeed? Promise me, my good and faithful Amy, that you will assist me to the utmost of your power; and, above all, promise that you will offer no argument to dissuade me from my purpose. I tell you before-hand it will be of no avail: should you refuse to serve me, it will only drive me to confide in others who will not deserve my confidence so well."

"Oh, madam! do you doubt me? and do you think Amy Evans would leave undone what others could be found to do? I started, for I remembered those high walls, that broad deep moat, those guards who pace about each avenue to the Tower, and I thought what could we hope to effect? But, madam, command me, and I will diligently execute your behests, and scrupulously keep your counsel."

"Thanks, dear Amy; I was fully assured you would prove true, and I know not why I spoke for a moment as if I could doubt your devotion. Forgive me! but the necessity is so absolute that all who meddle in this undertaking should be able to answer for themselves under all circumstances, that I would not have you enter into it thoughtlessly, or unadvisedly. Even myself, to-day, I thought I could have heard unmoved, or at least without betraying emotion, the horrible, horrible words that were uttered; but I misjudged my own strength, my woman's nerves failed! And yet I bore a great deal, Amy, and wavered not. I saw the axe, the glittering axe; and I saw my lord, and I heard his voice; and I heard part of that sentence! I bore much without betraying myself; and, at last, I was only stunned, confused, for a time. Yes, I think I may rely on my own fortitude; and you, Amy, you never for a moment lost your self-command,—and you have always had a ready wit; oh, we shall succeed, I am sure we shall!"

"Heaven grant we may, my honoured lady! If zeal and perseverance can effect my lord's preservation, we shall succeed."

"Then listen:—You must purchase at various shops, and on various occasions, not to excite suspicion, all that is necessary for female dress, and we must make it up, complete, the size to fit my lord. I have one in my thoughts whom he may personate: she is very tall; and though slender, her present condition makes her appear more stout than usual, when wrapt in a loose cloak. She suspects not my design,—nor must she;—for she is timid, and might betray all by her fears. She must not know till too far engaged to retreat.—And now, Amy, send Walter Elliot to the Tower to inquire of the lieutenant at what hour to-morrow the Countess of Nithsdale may be admitted to visit her lord. I am informed that, after the sentence, we are to be allowed to see the prisoners freely; and it will be best we should do this openly. Alas! the hardest task of all will be to work on my lord to consent."

"And, madam, think you I also shall be admitted to see my lord?"

"Assuredly, I hope so; I trust we shall procure admission for many of his friends: it is upon that understanding I build my hopes. I have been informed that when sentence is once passed, such has usually been the custom. And now away; let us be stirring. I would there were something to be done every hour in the day. It is in solitude and inaction that my sorrows press upon me most heavily. But to-night there is no more I can effect; I must even wait for the morrow!"

Soon after the Earl of Nithsdale had been reconducted to his lodgings in the Tower, he heard the striking of the chapel-clock: "It is now more than an hour," he thought, "since the court broke up. By this time the news has reached her. By this time my dear wife knows my sentence, and those hopes which she was resolved to cherish, and which she never would allow me gradually to undermine, have been destroyed at one rude blow. Would I could know how it fares with her, how she supports the shock! To-morrow I shall see her; and strange is it, but I dread to see her—I dread the sight of her despair. Oh! were it not better to pass unloved into the grave, than to feel that one's fate inflicts such exquisite anguish on her, to spare whom a pang such as she now suffers, one would willingly endure any lengthened torture. Yet could I wish to lose one particle of that affection which alone suffices to make life so precious? It may be cruel,—it may be selfish;—but no! I cannot wish her love to be less! After all, we part but for a time! I do not doubt that we shall meet where the weary are at rest. And now that all hope is over, my Winifred will assist me to prepare my soul for the great change; and she will bear to speak placidly and composedly of those happy regions where the fear of parting will never embitter the enjoyment of each other's presence! and I shall be able calmly and cheerfully to fulfil my destiny, if I can see her resigned!"

But when the morrow came, and Lady Nithsdale was admitted, he found her far indeed from placidly acquiescing in the fate which he esteemed unavoidable; but neither was she bewildered with despair, nor dissolved in tears: she was altogether different from anything he had anticipated. Her cheeks were flushed, her eye was brilliant, her manner resolved. He was surprised; but he rejoiced that his own fortitude was not put to the trial he had dreaded.

"My Winifred will assist her husband to bear himself as becomes a man and a good Catholic: I see she will avoid unnerving me by her grief; and among my many causes of gratitude to her, I may still add this, that she will smooth my passage to a better world. Thanks, my own love, thanks!"

"And does my lord imagine I could speak, stand, look, move, as I now do, if I believed it would be carried into effect—that sentence, that horrible sentence! For I was there—I was in Westminster Hall—I heard it; I saw the axe! and I saw you, my own dear husband,—I saw you, and I heard your voice,—that voice which thrilled through all the court, which must have penetrated to the inmost recesses of every heart!"

"Oh, Winifred! I could almost chide my best beloved for having wantonly, without any adequate motive, exposed her feelings to so needless a trial!"

"It was not needlessly; it was not without a motive that I did so: I had the strongest earthly motive. It was with a view of ascertaining my own strength, my fortitude, that I courted what I should otherwise have shrunk from. It was with a view to the accomplishment of that plan which I have long been forming, and which not all the arguments you can adduce shall prevent me from pursuing. It was with a view to self-preservation,—for is not my life wound up in yours? Think you, in honest truth, think you, I can exist without you? Do you not believe that if you perish, I shall not survive?"

"Nay, nay, my love," he replied, almost smiling at her vehemence, "I do believe your affection for me is as strong as ever warmed the pure soul of devoted woman; still I cannot but think and hope that you will live many, many years, to be a guide and a protectress to our children. Remember, you but share the fate of many other fond and loving wives! Have not the other condemned lords wives, fond and loving wives; and must not they endure——?"

"No, no, no! Speak not of them! they do not, cannot love their husbands as I love you; for have they husbands so worthy of their love? What is the wild Lord Wintoun, the Lord Kenmure, or the good old Lord Nairne? The Lord Derwentwater, I grant you, is a worthy gentleman;—but what are they, any of them, when compared with you?"

"But, my sweet Winifred, to die is the doom of all created beings. Many have loved before; and of all who have ever loved, one must survive. It is a sad, it is a painful truth; but it is a most plain and undeniable one. Then why should not this be borne as patiently as the same bereavement by any other means? A long illness would reconcile you to the event! and yet would you wish me to endure lengthened bodily ills? Should you not rather rejoice that I shall thus be spared all the protracted sufferings of sickness, and that, comparatively speaking, I shall thus be exempted from the pains of death; that I shall pass from earth with all my intellects unimpaired, in the full enjoyment of my faculties! Could there be any satisfaction in marking the decaying mind, the enfeebled spirit, the soul waxing weak, as the body sinks under the effects of some wasting malady? Yet how often has the most devoted affection watched all these humiliating and painful harbingers of death, till the mourner has been brought to look upon the dreaded bereavement almost in the light of a blessing? But is there any consolation in this? Would one not rather choose that the memory of the departed should be undimmed, unpolluted by the recollection of mortal decay?"

"Your words are beautiful! I love to hear your voice! it thrills like music through my heart! The thoughts are noble, lofty, pure, and holy; but they persuade me not! As I gaze on you, as I listen to you, I only feel the more, that life without you is not life: it is a blank!—a dark and dreary chasm into which I dare not look: that I must, must save you; and that if you love me, you will give heed to me, and that you will agree to what I shall propose."

"Oh, Winifred! this is cruel kindness. It is cruel to wean me from the thoughts of death, which I have almost taught myself to love, to lure me back to those of life, which, alas! possesses only too many charms for me!"

There was a tenderness in the tone and the manner which gave her hope that she had worked upon him. She felt that love for her, and pity for her sorrows, might at this moment induce him to listen; and she opened to him the plan she had formed for his escape.

But she had scarcely detailed her proposed measures, when he vehemently refused to engage in what he thought could not be carried into execution without compromising others. Desperate at the ill-success which attended her efforts, she abandoned herself to grief: she strove not to control her feelings; she wrung her hands, she wept in hopeless agony.

Meanwhile he paced the apartment in anguish not less acute. He accused himself of cruelty towards her when he witnessed her desperation; and yet he could not bring himself to agree to measures which he deemed degrading, and in the success of which he placed little reliance.

Such moments comprise a greater sum of suffering than is spread over many a common life. At length he stopped before her.

"Winifred, my wife, my honoured wife! Urge me not to anything unworthy. Call up that noble spirit, which has ever deserved my respect, my admiration, as much as your beauty and your tenderness have won my love! Now listen to me in return!"

In a moment her attention was riveted. She scarcely breathed; she listened as though she would devour each word that fell from his lips, in ardent hope that he might himself have struck out some plan which she might execute.

"I have ever been unwilling to present petitions to the king, or to the government. All that I could in honour urge in self-defence, all that I could in honesty profess for the future, has been already stated in my answer to the impeachment, and in my address to my peers yesterday. I have been, and still am, unwilling to crave mercy at the hands of one who owes me nothing; from whom I have no right to expect it;—but that you should not reproach me with wilfully neglecting any means of safety, I will consent to a petition being presented to King George by you yourself. If anything can move him, it must be the sight of distress such as yours,—and in such a form as that!" he added, looking upon her, as, like a marble statue, she sat with lips apart, her slender throat bent forward, and her eyes fixed upon him. "He cannot behold thee unmoved! It may avail thee something in future, if it serve not me!" he murmured in a low voice.

"Oh! do not trust to the pity of those who have already proved themselves so ruthless: trust rather to the zeal of your own wife, and our faithful Amy Evans!"

"I will trust to your zeal, my love, but let it be employed in such a manner as befits us both; and doubly precious will life be to me if 'tis to you I owe it!"

"And if, as I expect, the king is obdurate? for he fears you; he fears the unconquerable fidelity of your family to the Stuarts, and he fears the influence of your high character: he fears,—therefore, will not pardon you!"

"There is the general petition to parliament, to which I have agreed to put my name."

"And if that should fail?"

"Then, my love, you must prove that you are a Christian, and a Catholic, and that you have not forgotten the exhortations to faith, submission and patience, which good Father Albert gave you in your youth, and which you tell me he has so often repeated by letter."

"Nay, nay. If all these fail, then promise me that you will not reject the means I will offer you; that you will not be more merciless than the king himself; that you will not obstinately refuse to save from despair one who has ever loved you with most true faith!"

"Oh, Winifred!"

"Promise that you will listen to my plans; that you will maturely consider them; that, if practicable, you will not reject them; and I will present the petition, I will cling to the knees of the king, I will wring mercy from him if it be possible; and if he pardons you, I will honour him, I will love him, and I will ever esteem him worthy to be the monarch of these fair realms by the qualities of the heart, as I already believe him to be so by those of the head! Only promise me that, if all this should fail, you will not condemn me always to plead in vain, that you, at least, will not turn away from my prayer, that you will listen."

"If all other means should fail, then—then, my love, I will listen attentively, calmly, to all you may urge."

"Thanks, I am satisfied," replied Lady Nithsdale, resolved to interpret his measured expressions into an implied assent to all her wishes: "and now prepare the petition, my dearest lord, and I will lose no time in taking measures that it should reach the king himself. These hands shall give it him. I know how I may gain access to his presence. I will see him with my own eyes; and he shall refuse me with his own lips, if he cannot be worked upon to mercy. When will it be ready?"

"Patience, my love. I must consult with those who can assist me in so wording it that I may not risk giving offence. In some days it shall be drawn up."

"Why such delay? Time is precious. Talk not of days. To-morrow, or, at farthest, the day after,—the twelfth. Tell me when, that I may seek the kind Mrs. Morgan, and with her arrange all for my admission to St. James's."

"Gently, gently, dearest Winifred. We must do nothing rashly. By the thirteenth the petition shall be ready, and we will hope it may find such grace as shall spare you all further fears on my account. Meantime, compose yourself."

"Nay, am I not composed? Surely I think I must be a stock, a stone, thus to preserve my senses, and move, act, speak, like other people. I sometimes fancy I must lack natural feeling; for it is not grief that possesses my soul, but hope and fear so strangely blended that there is no space left for grief!"

"My Winifred need not tax herself with coldness!" replied the earl tenderly, but sadly, smiling as he looked upon her. Then, resuming a calm and business-like tone, he added, "The Lord Nairne's lady, as I understand, is also to present an address to the king, and there seems good hope that hers may be graciously received. If you could accompany her it might be well; for she is a staid and discreet person, and has been much used to courts. She was for some years in great favour with Queen Anne. She may support and guide you; and, indeed, Winifred, you must not overtask yourself!"

He was half alarmed at the reliance she seemed to place on her own strength, and feared it might proceed from a feverish state of excitement.

"I will wait upon the Lady Nairne to-day," resumed Lady Nithsdale. "I will do anything, everything, you suggest, now you have promised in return to listen to my arguments."

She instinctively worded his promise as vaguely as he had done himself, fearing to alarm him into a declaration that he had only promised to listen to, not to comply with, her wishes. Without being exactly conscious that she was endeavouring to cheat him into attending to his own safety, she hoped to accustom him to the idea, that if she adopted every plan he proposed, he was thereby pledged to follow hers upon the failure of his own.

CHAPTER XXI.

Thy bosom hath been sear'd by pride of state, Hard, cold, and dead to nature's sympathies; Nor know'st thou virtue's awe—nor gentleness, How sovereign 'tis! Nor hast thou felt The nameless fear and humbleness of mind 'Gender'd by sight of others' misery. MS. Play.

When the Countess of Nithsdale quitted the Tower, she lost no time in despatching to her lord the lawyer in whose discretion he had most confidence, and who had previously assisted him in drawing up his written answer to the impeachment.

She then waited on the Lady Nairne, whom she found surrounded by her family; a quiet and sober matron, upon whose composed countenance, and in whose well-ordered deportment, it would have been difficult to detect the passions that might, or might not, affect the soul within.

The countess was introduced with all the form of those more ceremonious times, and the Lady Nairne received her with due attention. It was not till Lady Nithsdale had made many apologies for so sudden a visit to one with whose acquaintance she had not previously been honoured, and had begun to explain the cause of her intrusion, that the vehemence of her emotion made her break through the trammels imposed by custom; and she adjured her, by her own hope of saving her husband's life, by her own hope of preserving a father to her children, to give her the support of her company and countenance to the king's presence.

The Lady Nairne at first hesitated, for she was not, like the Duchess of Montrose, the ardent, devoted friend, nor, like Mrs. Morgan, the creature of impulse; but a sober and prudent lady, past the age of enthusiasm, occupied with her own interests, and discreetly intent on availing herself of every means calculated to preserve a father to her numerous family.

After some moments spent in consideration, she came to the conclusion that in all probability the king would be loth, in the very outset of his reign, to reject at once the prayers of two disconsolate wives; and that, of the two, there was every reason to believe that her lord was likely to be more favourably looked upon than the Earl of Nithsdale; and that, consequently, his countess's presence might rather advance, than mar, her own chance of success.

Having thus reflected, she politely acquiesced in the Lady Nithsdale's wishes; nor need we imagine she felt no sympathy for a fellow-creature in distress so similar to her own. On the contrary, she was happy to afford her any assistance that did not tend to injure her own cause; but bred in courts, and accustomed to repress all outward demonstrations of unusual feeling, she replied in so measured, though not unkind a tone, that the glowing expressions of gratitude, which were ready to overflow from the countess's heart, were frozen on her lips, and her thanks were couched in terms scarcely less measured than the Lady Nairne's consent.

Having, however, arranged that when the petitions of their lords were ready they would again meet, and that meanwhile Lady Nithsdale should procure the assistance of a friend who was well acquainted with the king's person, (for his outward appearance was equally unknown to both the Jacobite ladies,) the Lady Nairne accompanied the countess to the head of the stairs, and, with all the courtly forms of good breeding, dismissed her guest.

Lady Nithsdale then hastened to the warm-hearted Mrs. Morgan, and, explaining to her the nature of the service she required, obtained her cordial assurance that she would be in readiness to accompany Lady Nairne and herself to St. James's on the evening of the 13th, when she had no doubt she should be able so to place them as that they might personally present their petitions to his majesty. The expansion of heart, the melting sympathy of Mrs. Morgan, were a balm to Lady Nithsdale's feelings, after the coldness and prudence of the Lady Nairne. But deep grief is in its nature selfish.

It may be true, that unclouded prosperity sometimes hardens the heart, or, at least, renders the impressions made by sorrows which have never been felt, and are consequently ill understood, but slight and transient; and it is also true, that the having once known grief opens the heart to the full comprehension of the feelings of one's fellows,—but then it must be a grief that is past. While writhing under present anxiety, while smarting under present agony, the warmest, the most capacious heart is unable to take in the sufferings of others. Human nature, in all things limited, can feel but to a certain extent; and when every faculty of the soul is absorbed by present, actual evil, there is no power left to feel that which is not personal. Mrs. Morgan, happy and prosperous herself, had leisure to give herself to the sufferings of Lady Nithsdale; she adopted them as her own—she entered into them heart and soul! While Lady Nairne, with all most dear to herself at stake, could not but consider the concerns of another as of very secondary interest, and would not have felt herself justified in allowing compassion for a person, in no way connected with her, to interfere in the slightest degree with her duties as a wife and a mother. Lady Nithsdale would have been the first to admit such views to be most just and fitting; but still the expressions of gratitude, which had before been chilled, poured forth in eloquent profusion when addressing Mrs. Morgan.

Upon her return to her own lodgings, she perceived that Amy Evans learned with satisfaction, that a petition was to be presented to the king, before the attempt was made to effect her lord's evasion. Although resolved to assist to the utmost in carrying her lady's plan into execution, she felt that escape from the Tower must be impracticable; while, on the contrary, it seemed to her impossible that any being with human affections could resist the voice, the words, the pleading looks of her dear mistress!

The 13th arrived. Lady Nithsdale attired herself in deep mourning, considering such a habit most suitable to a person under her circumstances; but Amy gave an involuntary shudder as she looked upon her lady in this ominous garb. The expression of her countenance did not escape Lady Nithsdale's observation: "Start not, dear Amy, at this sad-coloured dress. If it betokens anything, 'tis but the failure of my this day's business. But it is not on the result of this day that I rest my hopes. I wait on the king, for my lord wishes me to do so, and I cannot choose but execute his behests; but I have slender hope of moving him by my entreaties. It is to ourselves that we must look; to our own efforts, Amy, aided by that Divine Providence, who deserts not the humble in their need. I feel hope, strong hope, within my bosom; but it is not of finding favour at the court. No! it is to a higher power I look for salvation,—on Heaven that I place my reliance!"

"Assuredly, most honoured madam. But it is right to try every means that Providence places within our reach."

"Yes, Amy, and I will leave none untried."

Mrs. Morgan and the Lady Nairne were now announced, and the Countess of Nithsdale entered the coach to proceed with them to St. James's.

Mrs. Morgan found no difficulty in procuring their admission to the antechamber through which the king must necessarily pass in his way from his own apartments to the drawing-room. The ladies placed themselves in the recess of the middle window of the three, which occupied one side of the apartment; and, somewhat concealed by the curtains, they there awaited the coming of the king.

Upon the most trifling occasions expectation makes the heart beat: the watching the opening of a door, the entrance of any particular individual, excites a certain emotion. What must then have been the feelings of the countess as, with her eyes riveted upon the folding-doors through which his majesty was to enter, she fancied every moment she saw them move! And when they unfolded, and some of the lords of the bed-chamber passed forth, she each time turned an anxious, inquiring glance on Mrs. Morgan, to know if this might be the king.

While she was thus in breathless expectation, the Duke of Montrose approached to cheer her, by a few words of kindly encouragement; but she made him a sign not to claim her acquaintance; for the Earl of Pembroke having, at the time he promised to interest himself in her favour, desired her not to address him in public, she deemed that any exertion the duke might subsequently make for her, would come with the more effect from one who did not appear in the light of a personal friend.

Every moment seemed to Lady Nithsdale an age. Even the composed Lady Nairne changed colour: and Mrs. Morgan looked from one to the other, and frequently pressed Lady Nithsdale's hand, and bade her be of good cheer and not lose courage. She assured her the king would not long tarry; that he was usually most punctual in his habits; and, in an agitated tone, uttered all the consoling nothings, which are poured into the ear of those, whose highly-wrought nerves are expected to give way at the moment it is most needful they should be collected.

At length the door again opened: there was a general stillness. Every one who could command a view of the persons approaching, arranged his countenance, composed his demeanour; the court gossip, which had been buzzed around, was suddenly hushed, the lounging attitude relinquished, the droll anecdote suspended, and the laugh silenced.

A pale man, with a good, rather than a dignified aspect, entered the apartment. He wore a tie-wig. His dress was plain, and all of one sober colour, with stockings of the same hue.

Lady Nithsdale read in Mrs. Morgan's glance that it was the king, and she hastened from the recess of the window. She threw herself on her knees before him, as he reached the middle of the room, telling him she was the unfortunate Countess of Nithsdale, who implored mercy for her husband. She spoke in French, as the king's knowledge of English was very imperfect. She held up the petition with both her hands, entreating him to read it; but the king waved her off, and attempted to proceed.

The Lady Nairne also was not backward in pressing her petition, and the king impatiently thrust them both from him, and passed on towards the opposite door; but the Lady Nithsdale clung to the skirts of his coat.

As she pleaded, and pleaded in vain, she grew desperate,—almost maddened. Still in vain! The king listened not to her prayers. She would not let go her hold, and was actually dragged in her agony from the middle of the antechamber to the door of the drawing-room, when one of the lords in attendance forcibly wrested the king's dress from her hands, while another took her round the waist and raised her from the ground.

No sooner did she feel the touch of a stranger than all her dignity and self-possession returned. Quickly disengaging herself from his grasp, she stood for a moment looking on the door by which the monarch had retired. Her bosom swelled with indignation—the blood of all her noble ancestors mantled in her face. That she, the daughter of the Duke of Powis, should thus be treated! rejected!—cast off like the scum of the earth! when it was well-known the king received the petitions of the meanest of his subjects!—that she should be dragged on the very ground—that she should be spurned from his feet—that she should be forcibly seized by rude hands!

All around seemed to swim before her eyes; and had it not been for Mrs. Morgan's kindly help, she must have fallen on the floor. Her friend gently assisted her to a seat, and then a flood of tears came to her relief.

Meanwhile, the petition which she had attempted to thrust into the king's pocket had fallen to the ground, and one of the gentlemen in waiting brought it to her. The Lady Nairne had already succeeded in delivering her's to one who promised it should reach the king; and the Lady Nithsdale, when somewhat recovered from the agitation of this strange scene, hastily wrote a few lines in pencil, addressed to the Earl of Dorset, who was the lord of the bed-chamber then in waiting, and entrusted it, with the petition, to Mrs. Morgan.

Her friend left the countess for a while, and entered the drawing-room; but to one so zealous, so devoted, so warm-hearted, the brilliant circle seemed for a moment a confused and bewildering scene. She had just parted from a fellow-creature, whose soul was harrowed by the most agonising emotions, her face pale and haggard, her dress disordered; she had just been witnessing grief,—desperation in its most touching form; and in one moment she found herself among gay and thoughtless creatures, all intent on their own objects of vanity and amusement! The studied attire, the conscious simper, the pretty blush, the down-cast lid, the bewitching smile, the graceful turn of the swan-like throat, the brilliant flash of the sparkling eye, the affected flutter of the fan, the thousand varied attractions, were all put in requisition to charm, to dazzle, or to subdue. She heard around her the playful banter, the witty repartee, the implied compliment, the softened whisper, the politely turned attack, the sharp retort; and she wondered for the moment how such frivolities could possess so absorbing an interest!

She was threading her way through the gay and dazzling throng, when her progress was arrested by the circle around the king himself. She was compelled to wait with outward composure, although she was secretly all impatience to execute the commission entrusted to her, and to return quickly to Lady Nithsdale. As she stood watching for an opportunity of slipping past unperceived, she found herself within sight, though scarcely within hearing, of the Duchess of Montrose.

Two young men were evidently paying her the sort of homage permitted by the gallantry of the day. She was answering each with animation and spirit. There was the passing frown, the lightening smile, the assumed air of absence if anything was said which she wished not to hear.

The attention of one of the gentlemen being presently withdrawn by some of his acquaintance, it appeared to Mrs. Morgan that the other continued the conversation in a more earnest tone than before. She fancied she saw a blush mantle on the cheek of the duchess,—for a moment she appeared distressed. The duke, who was near, and was engaged in deep and serious discourse with the Earl of Pembroke, had taken no part in the playful conversation which was passing behind him. But the duchess, making some light evasive answer, suddenly tapped her husband's arm with her fan, and caused him to turn round. She then seemed to be detailing to him the point in dispute, and applying to him as umpire. Mrs. Morgan watched all these little manœuvres; for she could not help wondering how one who professed friendship for the Countess of Nithsdale could thus give herself up to worldly vanities and interests. When first she caught a view of the Duke of Montrose's countenance, it bore the traces of sadness; but as he listened to his graceful and lively wife, it brightened into a bland expression of amusement. Upon the duke's being thus called to join in the discourse, the young gallant seemed discomposed but for an instant, and apparently recovering himself, at once entered into the spirit of the duchess's bantering; and Mrs. Morgan again thought of the countess's despair, and mentally exclaimed, "If she could see how gaily her friend, the lively duchess, can smile even now!" But she did not long feel thus. In a few moments the duke, in a low voice, made some communication to his wife, which had the effect of chasing the roses from her cheeks, and dimming the brilliancy of her smile. The dark and laughing eyes no longer sparkled with the gay consciousness of charming, but were fixed on her husband's face with an expression of dismay and woe.

She looked round as if wishing to make her escape; then, perceiving Mrs. Morgan, she rushed to her:—

"Oh, Mrs. Morgan!" she exclaimed, "is this all true? You were with her, were you not?"

"Yes, your grace; I was with the Countess of Nithsdale, even now, in the antechamber."

"Is she still there? I must go to her; I must go instantly to my poor cousin Winifred!"

"Stay, dearest Christian!" interposed the duke; "Lady Nithsdale herself, this very evening, motioned me not to speak to her; and the Earl of Pembroke says, the less we put ourselves forward unnecessarily, the more effectually we may be able to serve her. Be not so rash and thoughtless. That warm heart of yours carries you beyond the bounds of prudence, dear Christian!"—but the duke looked at her with pleasure and kindness while he checked her.

"Alas! and is it true that the king dragged her all across the room, and would not give heed to her petition?"

"Most true, your grace!"

"Oh, my lord duke! but indeed this was not kind and right in his majesty," said the duchess, turning once more towards her husband an appealing glance.

"We must not speak treason, dearest Christian, here, in the royal presence!"

"Nay! I cannot but think this was cruel:—and may I not go to her? Is she still in the antechamber, Mrs. Morgan?"

"Yes, but she will be gone in a few moments; and your grace may rest assured that the countess shall meet with every kindness and attention."

"You are a good, kind soul," said the duchess; "and my poor cousin has many times told me how much she owes to your friendly sympathy."

The king had changed his position, and the passage was now free. Mrs. Morgan, after briefly explaining her errand to the duchess, passed on to where the Earl of Dorset was engaged at cards with the Prince. She contrived, however, to give him the packet; and received his assurance, that when the game was over, he would peruse and attend to its contents.

As she wound her way back, she found that the king's rejection of the Ladies Nithsdale's and Nairne's petitions had been rapidly communicated from mouth to mouth; and that, except in the immediate hearing of the king, no other subject was discussed. She could scarcely make her way through the crowd, so anxious was every one to learn from her each detail of what had really passed. All were eager, some indignant; but some urged, that if his majesty once received a wife's petition, it would be most difficult then to refuse, and that unless he had made up his mind to pardon treason—proved and acknowledged treason—he had no other course to pursue than to avoid witnessing grief he could not alleviate; that his sudden, though somewhat undignified flight, did not by any means bear the character of hardness, but, on the contrary, might lead a candid mind to believe he durst not trust himself to witness the desperation of two disconsolate wives.

It was with difficulty that Mrs. Morgan regained the door, and hastened back to the friend who stood so much in need of her consoling sympathy. Slowly and drearily did they retrace their steps.

The Lady Nairne, who had secret information that her application was likely to be successful, was comparatively composed, and bore what should have seemed an equal disappointment with equanimity and resignation.

The Countess of Nithsdale, exhausted, humbled, indignant, mortified, grieved, was for the time more thoroughly subdued than she had ever been before.

And yet she had not been sanguine as to the result of this petition; those means on which she most relied were still available; but to her lofty spirit, the contempt with which she had been treated, in sight of all the court, gave her a painful sensation of degradation. It was some slight consolation to her to learn from Mrs. Morgan, what the Duchess of Montrose the next day confirmed still more strongly, that when the circumstances which had occurred without became generally whispered through the drawing-room, the harshness of the king had been the topic of conversation the whole evening.

With her gentleness there was blended a certain degree of pride, a consciousness of being the scion of an ancient stock, which would have rendered it impossible for a mean thought even to pass through her mind, and which ever enabled her to entrench herself in dignified reserve, should others neglect to pay that respect due to noble birth, which, unless forgotten by them, would never be remembered by herself.

CHAPTER XXII.

Distress is virtue's opportunity.—Southern.

The Earl of Nithsdale felt even more keenly than did the countess the indignity with which she had been treated in her interview with the king.

His dark eye flashed, he bit his compressed lip till the blood almost started; he paced the apartment with hasty strides, as he pictured to himself his graceful, his delicate, his shrinking Winifred, on whose fair form he would scarcely allow the winds to blow too roughly, dragged along the floor, the rude hands of strangers round that slender waist; and it was then he felt indeed that he was a prisoner, powerless to defend her whom he had sworn to cherish! The bars, the bolts, the high walls, the moat, the guards! oh, how his soul rebelled against them all! How agonising was the impotent indignation which possessed his every faculty.

Lady Nithsdale grieved to see his agitation, and yet from his very agitation she gathered hope that she might eventually work him to her wishes.

Meanwhile, with the assistance of Amy, she had procured most of the articles necessary for the disguise of her husband; and although resolved that every other means of safety should be tried, she still kept her mind fixed upon this last resource. The consciousness of having still a point to look to, something still to rest upon when all else failed, sustained her courage; but at the same time it prevented her attempting to submit to an event, which, in the judgment of others, was now inevitable. She could not even think of resignation; on the contrary, with this secret hope in her heart, and this plan in her mind, she would have been alarmed at her own want of reliance in that plan, had she tried to school her feelings to acquiesce in the fatal doom.

A few days after the countess's unsuccessful application to the king, the resolution was taken in council that the sentence passed upon the rebel lords should be carried into execution without delay, and on the 18th the necessary warrants and orders were despatched, both to the Lieutenant of the Tower, and to the Sheriffs of the city of London and Middlesex.

There was a startling reality in these measures that for the moment shook her inmost soul; yet she would not allow herself to dwell upon the intelligence; she scarcely gave herself time to reflect, but all the more strenuously busied herself in seeing that her preparations were complete; and she strove to interest herself in the attempt made the following day by the Countess of Derwentwater to move the king to mercy. Accompanied by the Duchesses of Cleveland and of Bolton, and by many other ladies of rank, she was introduced by the Dukes of St. Albans and of Richmond, to the king's presence, and humbly implored his clemency; but her application met with no better success than the Lady Nithsdale's more passionate appeal.

It was therefore arranged by the wives of all the condemned lords, that two days afterwards, on February the 21st, they should repair to the lobby of the House of Peers, and there implore the intercession of their lordships with the king.

More than twenty other ladies of the very first distinction accompanied them. It might have moved the most unfeeling to behold so many of the fairest and the noblest of the realm in such deep and unfeigned distress. But though among the mourning group there were many countenances which bore the traces of intense anxiety, many whose expression of grief amounted almost to despair, some perhaps who might boast of greater positive beauty of feature, on none did sorrow sit with so touching a grace as on the Countess of Nithsdale. The wan transparency of her naturally pale complexion, the refined cast of her features, which seemed moulded only to express the highest and purest affections of the soul, assorted well with the situation of deep interest in which she was placed.

But on this occasion the hearts of all seemed steeled against them. Their application met with little attention: no measures were taken, no motion made, in consequence of their petition. In blank disappointment each sought again her disconsolate, her widowed home.

Dispirited, but not utterly hopeless, they on the following day, the 22d, repaired again to Westminster Hall, and with them a still greater attendance of the first, and the noblest, of the ladies who adorned the British court; and with still more passionate earnestness they appealed to both houses of parliament.

In the Commons their petitions met with no success. Notwithstanding an eloquent address on the part of Sir Richard Steele, the court party moved that the discussion should be adjourned to the 1st of March, and carried it by a majority of seven voices.

With the Lords they found more favour. Although the Duke of Richmond, even when presenting the Earl of Derwentwater's petition, declared that he would himself vote against it, yet others spoke warmly and eloquently in behalf of men, who, though mistaken, had still acted from conscientious motives.

The Earl of Danby, moved with pity for the Lord Nairne's numerous family, urged strongly that the petitions of the several lords should be received and read. The Lord Townshend and several others, who upon all occasions had given undoubted proofs of their attachment to the present government, supported the contrary opinion; when, to the surprise of many, the Earl of Nottingham declared in favour of the petitions being read. As president of the council he drew with him many peers, and the motion was carried by nine or ten voices.

Then came the question whether in the case of an impeachment the king possessed the power to reprieve. It was now that the Earl of Pembroke redeemed his pledge of exerting himself in Lady Nithsdale's favour. His animated and eloquent address carried with him the sense of the house; and, with the assistance of the Duke of Montrose, the king's power to pardon was carried in the affirmative.

This was followed by a motion for an address to the king that, as he had the power to do so, he would be pleased to grant a reprieve to the lords who lay under sentence of death, which, although opposed by the firmest friends of government, was also carried.

Lady Nithsdale's heart bounded within her; hope for a moment danced in her bosom, and lighted up her cheek with a passing bloom. Her joy was however doomed to be evanescent, for another lord represented that "though clemency was one of the brightest virtues which adorn and support a crown, yet in his opinion the same should be exercised only on proper objects;" and he therefore moved, "that they should address the king to reprieve such of the condemned lords as deserved his mercy, and approved themselves worthy of this intercession, and not all indiscriminately."

The amendment was carried by two voices only, but it was carried;—and her heart once more sank within her. This salvo blasted all her hopes. She was assured it was aimed at the exclusion of those who would not subscribe such a petition as some of the peers had themselves prepared,—a thing she knew her husband would never submit to; nor, as she herself declared, would she have wished to preserve his life on such terms.

Still, however, the address to the king had passed generally, and she thought she might turn this circumstance to account in lulling the vigilance of the guards. She lost no time in quitting the House of Lords, and hastening to the Tower; where, affecting an air of joy and security, she told the soldiers as she passed, that she brought joyful tidings to the prisoners, for that the petition had passed in their favour. She then gave them some money to drink to the lords and his majesty; but she prudently made it but a trifling sum, hoping thereby to secure their good-will, without awakening in them any suspicion of design on her part.

And now there remained but the one last resource. She trembled as she thought that, though all was in her own mind prepared, the most difficult point remained yet to be accomplished,—her husband had not yet consented to the disguise she proposed; and although he had not retracted his promise of giving her proposal a fair and patient hearing, she had in fact extracted from him nothing more. If he should now pertinaciously refuse to accede to it! Oh, no, it was impossible. He could not doom her to such hopeless, unutterable misery!

Trembling, agitated, yet worked up to the utmost pitch of courage and resolution, she reached his apartment. She staggered into the room; and flinging herself into his arms, she sobbed convulsively on his bosom. She could not speak: but after a few moments he said, with hopeless composure and tenderness,—

"So, my poor Winifred, both houses have then rejected our prayers! Alas for you, my love! would I were able to give you consolation! would I could alleviate your sorrows!"

"You can! you can! You, and you alone, can now save me from despair!" she exclaimed with passion. Her eyes were dry, her cheek was flushed, her whole countenance seemed suddenly inspired: "My life, my existence, are in your hands! You have but to will it, to make me the happiest of wives, of mothers! If I am doomed to the early death of the heart-broken," she continued almost in a threatening tone, "or if I am doomed to drag on a weary, joyless existence, a lingering death-like life, in which the welfare of my soul—yes, the salvation of a precious soul, is in peril, for I shall murmur, I shall repine—there is no resignation here—I feel I shall not submit as it would be my duty to do:—if such is the fate before me, it will be you who doom me to it! I can save you—I am sure I can! If you refuse to lend yourself to the measures I propose, it will be you who destroy my happiness in this world, you who peril my salvation in the next!"

There was a restless fire in her eye, an energy in her manner, a fearful inspiration about her, that awed, while it touched him. He could not but think what must be the strength of those feelings which could so transport her out of herself; which could change the mild, timid, shrinking wife, into the inspired threatening Sibyl!

"Hush, hush, my love! you know not what you say!"

She looked wildly and doubtingly around her; then bursting into tears,—"Alas! alas! what have I uttered?"—and falling on her knees, with clasped hands raised to heaven,—"Pardon, O most merciful Being; pardon for my wild and wicked words! O Thou on whom my reliance is placed, Thou in whose providence I trust,—cast me not off for these hasty words, wrung from me by insufferable anguish! And thou, my lord, my love, my husband, urge me not to despair! This brain may become unsettled, reason may give way, I may again be hurried into impious ravings!—Oh, take pity upon me, dearest, dearest husband!" She clung to his knees; she stretched her beseeching arms towards him.

"Do with me what thou wilt, Winifred. If this is weakness, I am weak! If this is cowardice, I am no longer brave! Command me! guide me!—I am but the instrument in thy hands, my wife! I would sacrifice my life to honour; but if there is dishonour in my attempt to escape, I will sacrifice honour itself to you, my love!"

"It is not the sacrifice of your honour I demand; yourself cannot value it more highly than does your wife. They carried the address to the king, but it was coupled with an amendment that it should only apply to those who would sign a petition of their own framing. I knew you would not—I do not ask you to do so. Your honour is precious to me as your life—more precious than your life!—but there is no dishonour in escaping from a cruel and an ignominious death!"

"Not ignominious, Winifred; an honourable death!"

"From a cruel and an unjust death!—a treacherous death! Was it not upon the understanding that your lives were to be spared that you all surrendered at Preston? Was it not to avoid useless effusion of blood that you yielded? and that you advised others to yield? Would it not have been easier and sweeter to have perished in battle, than to die on the scaffold, as your fellow prisoners must? No! there is no dishonour in escaping from tyranny!" She spoke with energy, for the first time uttering the words of "death" and "scaffold," which had never before found their way to her lips.

"Have I not said it, my love? I am ready to follow your injunctions. Do with me what you will."

"You have promised it, you have sworn it!"—and her face was radiant with joy. "My own love! you are mine once more! We shall not be parted;—we shall live and die together,—we shall grow old together! Oh, thanks! thanks!" and her imagination had overleaped all the bars and bolts, the dreary boundaries of the prison. She felt they were at large to roam over the wide world together. He gave her one sad and grateful kiss, and walked to the window to conceal his emotion; but she saw the expression of his countenance as he slowly surveyed the court-yard, and his eye rested on each sentry as he paced in his appointed spot.

She perceived the almost mocking smile which passed transiently over his lips; and she plainly read how vain he thought her hopes, how unavailing would prove the consent she had extorted from him.

"You think my schemes all visionary!—you think me scarcely in my right senses!—you deem me already crazed with grief!"

"Nay, my love, I think your wishes run beyond your judgment, and I fear you are only preparing for yourself a more bitter disappointment. The blow will fall the heavier for coming upon you in your present state of excitement. It would tend more to your future peace of mind if, discarding all worldly thoughts, you would fix your hopes, and would assist me in fixing mine, on heaven, and heaven alone."

"And think you it could tend to my future peace of mind, the reflection that one hour of bold prudence, one hour of steady perseverance in the execution of the scheme already formed, might have led to a reunion for life?—perhaps a long and happy life! You would not surely retract the vow so solemnly made, even now?" she added in a reproachful tone.

"No! I have promised; and I will keep my promise!"

She pressed his hand in token of gratitude. "Then I must away. There are still some with whom I have need to communicate. Do not look for me early to-morrow: I shall not be with you till towards dusk,—and then——"

"Not till evening? The last day must I be deprived of your presence till evening?"

"The first day of your deliverance, my love!—the first of many days of liberty and happiness!"

He dropped his eyes. He would not sadden her by his own forebodings. And yet he felt he should be permitted to look on her for so short a space, that it was with difficulty he could bring himself to lose sight of her for a moment.

It was already night; but he watched her from his prison window, and fancied he could detect her beloved form as she glided down the steps leading to the archway. He stood gazing at the spot till tears suffused his eyes; and he flung himself upon a seat, determined to wrestle with his emotions.

When alone,—when not exposed to the influence of her tenderness,—he looked on death with perfect composure, and almost wished his course was run, and that the inevitable moment was arrived. The hopes with which she strove to inspire him unsettled and distracted him; and then he reproached himself for such weakness. Yet how collect his thoughts? how temper them down to a tranquil, firm, unmoved acquiescence in his doom, when all his energies would be required for the enterprise which was to restore him to life, to love, and to liberty? He strove to forget the plan in agitation. He tried to abstract himself in prayer; but when most he hoped to have spiritualised his meditations, visions of the future would flash across his mind, painful anticipations of what would be his Winifred's desperation upon the failure of her attempt, agonising shame at the idea of being discovered and caught in the act of evasion, dread of appearing in the undignified position of a reclaimed fugitive, dragged unwillingly to the block, instead of the loyal martyr, boldly, firmly, with an unconstrained step, mounting the scaffold, to consummate the sacrifice he had of his own free will chosen to make.

He almost repented the promise he had given; he longed for the repose of hopelessness.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Methinks my soul is rous'd to her last work, Has much to do, and little time to spare.

Dryden.

The Countess of Nithsdale had quitted her husband. She wound her solitary way through the dreary purlieus which had become only too familiar to her. She had gained the long-wished-for consent; she had extracted a vow, a solemn vow, from her lord, and she feared not that he would break it: but never did the difficulties of her undertaking appear to her so appalling as at the present moment; the sentries so innumerable, the guards so alert, the way so long, the walls so lofty, the moat so broad!

While his consent was to be gained, all else seemed easy, but now the dangers rose up in fearful array before her!

But this was not the time to waver. Where could she look for support but to her own unshrinking soul? Amy, she knew, considered her plan impracticable. To no one else had she imparted it.

During the short time which intervened before she reached her home, she had recovered her confident reliance on the protection of Providence, and on the strength which that Providence would vouchsafe to her; and with a firm countenance she informed Amy that her lord's consent was obtained, that every difficulty was smoothing itself before her, and that they had but to go on and prosper.

"Thank Heaven that my lord has consented," answered Amy; "but, dearest madam, is this, in truth, the only hope now left? Here is a packet which arrived even now from the Duchess of Montrose. Who knows but it may contain good news?"

With trembling hands the countess tore it open; but Amy saw with a glance that there was no hope administered by its contents. "No worse news, I trust, madam?"

"No worse than I expected; but read yourself, good Amy. I have nor voice nor eye-sight," as she brushed off a tear, "nor strength. All the strength I possess must be reserved for to-morrow."

The duchess's letter told her that the petition from the Lords had received no more favourable answer from the king than "that on this, and all other occasions, he would do what he thought most consistent with the dignity of his crown and the safety of his people." The duchess added, that this answer would next morning be formally announced to the public, but that meanwhile she had hastened to communicate it to her friend, thinking she might deem it advisable to adopt some farther measures, although she scarcely knew what measures to recommend.

In consequence of this information, Lady Nithsdale resolved, as a last resource, in the event of her scheme proving unsuccessful, to prepare for still presenting one more private petition to the king. To this end she appointed Mr. M'Kenzie, an old friend of her lord's, and, through her sister Lady Seaforth, a connexion of her own, to await her on the following evening, at her lodgings. She felt secure of his friendly support in any emergency. She also applied to the Duchess of Buccleugh; who promised, if Lady Nithsdale called upon her to do so, she would be in readiness to accompany her to court.

She passed what remained of that evening, and the early part of the following morning, in completing every arrangement in case of either contingency. Even had not these manifold cares occupied her time, she could scarcely have trusted herself with her husband. Constant, incessant business was absolutely necessary to her. If she had sat down to think, to calculate the chances, it would have been impossible to her to have preserved the self-command so indispensable to the success of her undertaking.

It was not till towards the afternoon of this trying day, the 23rd, that she desired Amy to request Mrs. Mills would favour her with her company for a few moments.

The compassionate Mrs. Mills instantly obeyed her summons, though almost dreading to find herself in the presence of one whose grief she feared to witness. But Lady Nithsdale was perfectly calm and collected. After thanking her for her constant kindness and hospitality, she at once entered upon the subject; and telling her that having had such experience of the goodness of her heart, she did not doubt but she would continue to prove herself the kind friend she had ever found her; and that she would not refuse to accompany her that day to the Tower, in order that, as she was not personally known to the guards and those in attendance, her lord might the more easily pass for her. She then detailed to her the whole plan for his escape, and urged that as this was the very evening preceding the execution, there was no time for doubt and hesitation. She told her all other hope was now at an end. Reprieves had been despatched for the Lords Wintoun, Widdrington, and Nairne; but at the same time orders had been given for the execution, the next morning, of Lord Derwentwater, Lord Kenmure, and of her husband! She spoke with a firm voice; and such was her excited state of hope and resolution, that the words which struck through Amy's heart, which made Mrs. Mills shrink and tremble, seemed as if they were to her but a matter of business.

Mrs. Mills, all agitated and confused, promised to assist to the best of her ability, and Lady Nithsdale instantly overwhelmed her with thanks; and having despatched Walter Elliot to Mrs. Morgan, to request she also would instantly visit her, she then occupied herself in ascertaining from Amy Evans the exact situation of the house where they were to meet, when she should have succeeded in placing her husband beyond the precincts of the Tower.

Mrs. Morgan delayed not to wait on the countess, who found little difficulty in gaining her consent to any plan which might serve one whom she had quickly learned to love with all the warmth of her enthusiastic heart. Indeed, both she and Mrs. Mills were so taken by surprise, the case was so pressing, the plan to be so instantly carried into execution, that there was no time for indecision or reflection. They must either doom the Earl of Nithsdale to certain death on the morrow, and his wife to utter despair; or they must lend themselves to the scheme so warily, so judiciously, so discreetly contrived.

Lady Nithsdale begged Mrs. Morgan, who was of a peculiarly slender make, to put under her own riding-hood that which she had prepared for Mrs. Mills, who was to leave hers in the prison for the earl.

She then hurried them both into the coach; and repeating her directions, enforcing her counsels, she allowed no pause in the conversation, during which they might have leisure to reflect and to repent.

In their hurry and their astonishment, they thought not of the possible consequences, but submitted to obey Lady Nithsdale in all things, who guided them with the overawing mastery which, at the moment of trial, the stronger mind invariably exercises over those of a more feeble and yielding temperament.

The coach stopped at the Tower. Lady Nithsdale had permission to introduce but one person at a time; and leaving Mrs. Mills in the carriage, she took Mrs. Morgan with her.

She had not seen her husband since the preceding night, and this was the eve of execution! If she failed, the morrow would see her a widow! But she drove such thoughts from her mind;—she hurried Mrs. Morgan along,—she almost pushed her into the apartment.

Lord Nithsdale rushed to his wife, and pressed her to his bosom. "Oh, Winifred!" he exclaimed, half reproachfully; "this long, long, weary day, and I have not seen you!"

She disengaged herself from him.

"I must not look on you," she said; "I must not listen to you—I must not think—we must now act, and not a word must be uttered that is not to the purpose! Here is my good, kind, dear Mrs. Morgan! She is, and has been from the first, a true and faithful friend; and now, dear Mrs. Morgan, we must lose no time in speech or compliment."

Mrs. Morgan took off the hood, and soon disencumbered herself of the dress, which had been put on over her own.

Lord Nithsdale meanwhile stood by, passive, but miserable. The long morning had appeared to him interminable. The early February twilight had seemed as if it never would arrive. He still looked upon this day as his last on earth; and his feelings, though not his reason, were almost disposed to murmur at his wife for not being with him during the few remaining hours which they might have passed together. He had to remind himself that she was toiling in his service, not to feel abandoned by her. It was with a strange and mixed sensation that he had watched the waning light. He was impatient for the shades of evening, which he trusted would bring to him the beloved of his soul; and yet, as he dwelt upon the last rays of sunshine, he felt loth to part with them for ever,—to think that he should never again see that glorious luminary fulfil its course in splendour, and shed its brilliancy on all around; hateful to him as was the dreary prospect from his prison windows, he now thought with regret that he should never again see its western beams gild the square turrets of the White Tower. At moments he felt life was worth one desperate effort; but more frequently he hoped, when his Winifred did come, it would be to tell him that her scheme was impracticable, to release him from his vow, and to allow him to meet his fate with dignity and resignation.

She came, and all was turmoil and confusion within his bosom. He was pledged to obey her. Indeed there was no time for argument or remonstrance. She would have listened to none.

Those who stand upon the threshold of the grave—those to whom in a few hours the mysteries of a future existence may all be unfolded—seem as it were a link between the living and the dead, and are ever regarded with a certain awe, as Mrs. Morgan experienced when looking on him of whom she had heard so much—on him for whom, though unknown, she had felt so keenly—on the stranger for whom she was now incurring, what might prove to herself, no inconsiderable peril.

That pensive countenance, that noble brow, those lofty features, all spoke a soul within, which might well justify his wife's devotion, and she felt that such a creature must not perish. She repented not of her consent; but gladly, willingly, incurred the present risk.

When the change in her dress was effected, Lady Nithsdale conducted her back to the staircase; begging her, in the hearing of the guards, to lose no time in sending her maid to dress her, and expressing the greatest fear lest, if she did not come immediately, she should be too late to present the last petition that night.

She presently afterwards descended the stairs to meet Mrs. Mills, who, according to their previous arrangement, concealed her face with her handkerchief, as if in tears. When the door was closed she made her take off her own hood, and put on that which Mrs. Morgan had left for her; and then bidding her assume a more cheerful countenance (in order that when her lord appeared in her dress, he might the more easily personate the lady who had entered weeping and afflicted), she took her by the hand, and led her out of the earl's chamber. In passing through the next room, she said with all the concern imaginable,

"My dear Mrs. Catherine, go in all haste, and send me my waiting-maid. She certainly cannot reflect how late it is. I am to present my petition to-night; and if I let slip this opportunity, I am undone, for to-morrow will be too late; hasten her as much as possible, for I shall be on thorns till she comes."

The guards, to whom the countess's liberality the preceding day had endeared her, disturbed her not, but allowed her to pass and repass with her company: the more freely also, as, having been told by her that the imprisoned lords were likely to obtain their liberty, they were not so strictly on the watch as they had hitherto been. All in the outer room, who were chiefly the guards' wives and daughters, seemed to compassionate her exceedingly; and the sentinel himself opened the door for them. There was nothing in the appearance of the fair and florid Mrs. Mills which could excite the slightest suspicion.

Having seen her safe out, Lady Nithsdale returned to finish dressing her lord. She had prepared false hair of a fair colour; the more to resemble Mrs. Mills, whose hair was inclined to be flaxen. She coloured his dark eye-brows with light paint; and she also painted his face with red and white, for there was no time to shave his dark beard. She dressed him in some of her own petticoats, and in the hood Mrs. Mills had worn. As the evening had by this time closed in, and she feared that the light of candles might betray them, she hastened him from the apartment. She led him by the hand, whilst he held his handkerchief to his eyes; and being dressed in the same dress, and his hair and complexion being made somewhat to resemble those of Mrs. Mills, he easily passed for the weeping young lady whose affliction at having parted for the last time from a dear friend might very naturally be even more over-whelming than when she entered a short time before.

Lady Nithsdale spoke to him in the most piteous tone of voice, bitterly bewailing the negligence of her maid Evans, who had ruined her by her delay. Yet, while she spoke, it almost went against her to accuse of negligence the devoted Amy! Still, addressing the earl, she continued:—

"My dear Mrs. Betty, for the love of God run quickly, and bring her with you. You know my lodging, and if ever you made despatch in your life, do it at present. I am almost distracted with this disappointment."

The guards opened the door. She was permitted to pass with one friend at a time: they had not kept exact account of the number who had entered, satisfied that all was right while she was accompanied by only one female, and one also whom they believed to have seen so lately enter the chamber within. She went down with him, still conjuring him to make all possible haste.

As soon as he had cleared the door, she made him walk before, lest the sentinel should take notice of his walk; and she still continued to press him to make despatch. At the bottom of the last outer step, she met the faithful Amy Evans, and into her hands she committed him.

She had before engaged Mr. Mills to be in readiness before the Tower, to conduct him to a place of safety, which at that period might be the more easily effected, as, instead of a clear and open space without the walls, the purlieus were choked with mean habitations, with close and narrow alleys. The gates were no sooner passed, than they found themselves in the throng of the most dense and busy part of the London population; but Mr. Mills had looked upon the affair as so very unlikely to succeed, and his astonishment threw him into such a consternation when he actually beheld them, that he was bewildered and quite out of himself.

Amy Evans perceived his confusion, and with that presence of mind which had so justly entitled her to her lady's confidence, instantly decided on her own line of conduct. She took no notice of his agitation, lest she might attract the attention of the passers-by; and she feared that possibly the earl might mistrust them, if he should perceive wavering and uncertainty in those to whom he was confided. She therefore at once took him to some friends of her own, on whom she felt certain she might rely; and leaving him with them, immediately returned in search of Mr. Mills.

Meanwhile the Lady Nithsdale had in safety regained her lord's apartment. As she passed, all sympathised in her distress, and pitied her for the disappointment she had met with.

She closed the door, and then kept up a conversation as if her lord had been really present. She answered her own questions in his voice, as nearly as she could imitate it. She walked up and down the room, as though they had been conversing together, till at length she imagined the earl and Amy must have thoroughly cleared themselves of the guards.

During all this time she had not allowed herself once to pause or to reflect. She had contemplated nothing but success—she had not permitted herself to anticipate failure—she had not suffered her mind to glance towards the fatal morrow. Still calm and collected, she now calculated that she might with safety depart herself. She neglected no possible precaution: she opened the door, and standing half within it, so that those without might not have an opportunity of commanding a view of the interior, she bade her lord a formal farewell for the night, saying, "That something more than usual must have occurred to make Evans negligent on this important occasion, who had always been so punctual in the smallest trifles;"—she added, "there was no remedy; but that she should go in person; that if the Tower was still open when she had finished her business, she would return that night; but bade him be assured she would be with him as early in the morning as she could gain admittance, and, as she flattered herself, should bring him favourable news."

Then, before she shut the door, she pulled through the string of the latch, so that it could only be opened from within; she closed it with some force, to make sure that it was well fastened; and as she passed she told the servant he need not carry candles to his master till his lord sent for them, as he desired to finish some prayers.

She descended the stairs. She found herself in the open air; for a moment all seemed to reel around her; she scarcely dared trust her senses that he was really free. She trembled as she passed on. She thought each sight, each sound, might be that he had been discovered, overtaken, and that they were now leading him back to captivity and certain death.

She feared to excite suspicion by looking too eagerly and curiously about her, and yet she fancied every moment she heard hurrying footsteps in pursuit of her. She reached the outer gates at last—she passed them! There were several coaches on the stand: she called one, she threw herself into it, and drove to her own lodgings.

It was all true! He was free! She had saved him! The joy seemed too great for endurance—her heart felt bursting! But there was still much to be done, she must not yet relax.

CHAPTER XXIV.

And all extremes how link'd! Do we not weep For joy?—and laugh, ay, laugh, for anguish? A hideous laugh, that tells of sorrow, more Than tears and sighs! MS. Play.

When Lady Nithsdale arrived at her lodgings, she found poor Mr. M'Kenzie in waiting to accompany her to present her last hopeless petition, had the attempt, in the success of which she had so confidently, and, as it proved, so justly relied, proved ineffectual.

She told him, with exultation, there was no need now of any petition, as her husband was safe out of the Tower, and out of the hands of his enemies, as she supposed; although, she added with truth, she knew not where he was.

It was also necessary to inform the Duchess of Buccleugh that she should not require her good offices that evening, but at the same time she was unwilling to spread the news of her lord's escape. She had discharged the coach which had conveyed her from the Tower; but, sending for a sedan-chair, she resolved to go immediately to the Duchess of Buccleugh's. She inquired if she was at home; and being answered in the affirmative, and that she was in expectation of the countess's arrival, but was at that moment engaged with another duchess.[A] Lady Nithsdale declined going up stairs, but desired to be shown into a chamber below, begging at the same time that the duchess's maid might be sent to her.

She was glad to escape being questioned by the duchess herself, and bade the maid acquaint her grace that her only reason for not waiting upon her was her having been informed she was engaged with company. She charged the maid with her most sincere thanks for her grace's kind offer of accompanying her to court, but desired her to say, she might spare herself any further trouble, as it was judged more advisable to present one general petition in the name of all: still, she should never be unmindful of her particular obligation to her grace, which she hoped soon to acknowledge in person.

She had dismissed the chair which brought her to the Duchess of Buccleugh's, lest she should be pursued and watched; and she therefore now desired one of the servants to call another, in which she proceeded to the Duchess of Montrose's.

Upon hearing of Lady Nithsdale's arrival, the duchess was seized with such a panic,—she so dreaded the notion of witnessing her despair,—that she suddenly quitted the apartment, and hastened to deny herself. Her husband, seeing her abruptly break from her company, anxiously followed to inquire the cause of her evident agitation.

"I cannot see her," she exclaimed: "I could not bear to behold my poor cousin of Nithsdale's anguish. I have no power to save her, and I have not courage to contemplate the agony I cannot alleviate. Oh! make some excuse for me! I am weak and helpless; I cannot preach resignation. Alas! alas!" she continued, wringing her hands, "I know too well what must be her feelings; I am too well aware of what a nature is her devotion to her lord; it would be mockery in me to bid her be patient,—to tell her time will temper her despair. I know it will not: I could but feed her grief! It must be some stronger, firmer mind than mine that dare face such agony as hers!"

Even while she spoke, the servants, who had not understood the order to deny their mistress, and who were accustomed at all hours to admit Lady Nithsdale, entered the apartment to inform her grace that the countess was below.