WINIFRED, COUNTESS OF NITHSDALE. (continued 3)

The countess began to think she had conversed long enough with the trusty messenger, especially after his supper at the buttery-hatch; and repeating her thanks in the manner most satisfactory to the worthy Dickon, she dismissed him to seek the repose he must need after his journey.

The Chevalier's arrival, which Lord Nithsdale in his letter had considered almost certain, had not yet taken place: and although the Earl of Mar was resolved, by keeping possession of Perth, to retain at least one town where his master might be sure of an honourable and safe reception, the defection of the whole clan of Fraser, the advance of the Earl of Sutherland, the reinforcements which strengthened the Duke of Argyle's army from the regular troops, whose presence was no longer required in England, rendered each day the situation of the Jacobite general more desperate.

Still, having formally invited the Chevalier to put himself at the head of the insurrectionary army, Mar felt himself under the necessity of keeping his remaining troops together, to protect the person of the prince when he should effect his landing. In this dilemma, he proposed a military oath in the name of King James the Eighth; but the attempt to bind together those who were only waiting for an excuse to disperse proved as unavailing as his previous proposal of an association. All the principal chiefs and leaders complained that they had been deluded by promises which had never been fulfilled. They insisted—and there was much reason in their arguments—that they had no more grounds for now believing the king was on the point of arriving, than that the long promised arms, ammunition, and treasure, should be sent from France; and from this period a party was established in the very army of the Earl of Mar which declared for opening a negotiation with the Duke of Argyle.

CHAPTER XIV.

——Since I parted hence, I have beheld misfortune face to face; Have mark'd the ills of desolating war In all the sad details kings never see. The sun that rises on the peasant's toil In happy lands not visited by war, And gilds their waving harvests with his beams, With barren splendour glares on desert fields Depopulated by the sword.—The gale Sweeps sullen o'er them, loaded with the cries Of frantic widows and of orphan babes, That else had borne upon its gladsome wing The careless carol of the husbandman, Tilling in peace and liberty his field. Gonzalvo of Cordova.

Reports of the indignities to which the noble prisoners had been exposed on their journey to London failed not to reach Scotland; indignities which, galling enough in themselves, were not likely to be softened in the recounting.

Upon their arrival at Barnet, they were all, without distinction of persons, pinioned with cords. By some of the younger and more hot-headed of the noble rebels this humiliating ceremony was not submitted to without remonstrance and resistance. Lord Nithsdale simply remarked to the Earl of Wintoun, "Degrade not yourself, my friend, by bandying words with those who are appointed to execute the behests of their superiors: the disgrace is on them who exult in this unworthy triumph; not on us, who are thus triumphed over. Surely, Seaton, you would rather endure, than inflict, such insults." Presently, however, he added, while he held his hands to have the cords attached, "I grant you I should be sorry my wife should witness this. My gentle Winifred! thy shrinking, sensitive pride would never brook seeing thy husband thus manacled. For the first time I rejoice that thou art far, far away."

At Highgate the prisoners were met by a large detachment of horse grenadiers and foot-guards, and here a halter was placed around the neck of each horse, which was held by a common soldier, walking by its side.

In this mode did they make their entrance into the metropolis, accompanied by a concourse of people shouting at them and reviling them; some loading them with abuse, others singing scurrilous songs, and many beating upon warming-pans, in allusion to the popular notion concerning the birth of the Chevalier.

With these increased indignities the spirit of Lord Nithsdale was excited. As he rode on, his carriage became each moment more lofty; his dark brow assumed a more awful gloom; his eye, from beneath its shade, flashed defiance on the mob; his nostrils dilated; the curl of his contemptuous lip plainly expressed how utterly he despised the mean taunts of the senseless rabble! Thus erect, undaunted, he passed on through the crowded suburbs; but before they entered the streets, a separation took place between those whose destination was different.

General Forster and Brigadier Mackintosh were taken to Newgate, some to the Marshalsea, some to the Fleet; while Lords Nithsdale, Derwentwater, Kenmure, Widdrington, Nairne, &c. were conveyed to the Tower.

The moment of parting from their companions in misfortune, those with whom they had shared hopes and fears, with whom they had enjoyed triumph and endured defeat, was one of bitterness; a parting, too, which to all might be, and to many proved, an eternal one; one which took place under the gaze of an insulting populace, and under circumstances which admitted of no word of kindness, no last injunction, not even the pressure of the friendly hand!

At that moment all former differences of opinion were forgotten; the prudent counsel neglected, the headstrong perseverance in contrary measures, the impatient rejection of advice, the contempt of timely warnings, all faded from the mind. As the different bands receded from each other's view, they saw but the trusted companion in arms, the fellow-sufferer, endeared by similar misfortunes.

The Earl of Nithsdale and the other noblemen proceeded towards Westminster Bridge, where, according to custom, they were placed in a government barge, and were rowed down the river to the Tower. The boat shot London Bridge; it was admitted through the Traitor's Gate; and, as it darted from the open day-light under the three low and gloomy arches, each prisoner cast a lingering look behind him, and as he withdrew his eyes, met those of his companions.

There was no need of words to express the feelings of that moment; each read his neighbour's but too plainly in his own; each was aware the other felt he had taken his last look at the free bright world without the prison walls. And, alas! to more than one was it indeed but too truly his last glimpse of freedom; more than one was doomed never to pass those barriers, but to take his trial at Westminster Hall, and then to mount the scaffold upon Tower Hill.

Not a word was spoken. The plash of the waves against the stone stairs, as the sudden entrance of the barge into the narrow landing-place caused the muddy sullen water to overflow the bottom steps and as quickly to recede, the hollow echo of the oars as they were shifted, were the only sounds heard.

The barred gates were unlocked, and the prisoners, one by one, mounted the dank steps, and emerged into day-light, opposite the Bloody Tower. They heard the portals closed and barred behind them; they heard the splash of the portcullis as it was let down into the water, and each was then delivered over to the warder in whose apartments lodgings were assigned to him.

As long as he remained exposed to the observations of others, the most acute physiognomist could not have perceived any alteration in the countenance of the Earl of Nithsdale. He had, as it were, set his features to an expression of calm contempt and stoical endurance, which he would allow no circumstances to alter. With a firm step, a lofty unembarrassed air, he followed his guide into the small and narrow apartment which was destined to his use. He showed no emotion when the cords were removed from his wrists, and he replied with punctilious politeness to the civilities of the warder.

At length the door was closed upon him, he was left in solitude; no eye was upon him, and he was able to relax for a moment from the imperturbable composure which he had forced himself to maintain. He hid his face in his hands, and allowed the thought of his beloved wife, the memory of his innocent children, whom he perhaps was never, never more to behold, to rush over his soul!

With what tenderness did the recollection of home over-power him!—the thousand every-day enjoyments, which are not prized till they are lost!

The current of these enervating thoughts was checked by the sounds of steps upon the stairs, and he had only time to resume the unmoved countenance he had before preserved, when the entrance of some menials and attendants again forced him to repress the emotions, which, though repressed, could not be extinguished.

The bringing in of his few necessary packages, the arrangements for his personal accommodation, the preparations for some refreshment, were all inexpressibly irksome to him; and he impatiently awaited the welcome solitude of night, when he might revel in the luxury of thinking of the happy past, the wretched present, the fearful future, without a witness.

It was at this moment of general dismay, when, as we have already mentioned, each day saw the gradual diminution of the Earl of Mar's army; when the greater proportion of the most zealous Jacobites were already in the hands of government; in the midst of increasing disaffection among his remaining partisans; that the unfortunate descendant of the house of Stuart landed in his native country, at Peterhead, on the 22d of December, in the year 1715.

He arrived almost as a fugitive. He had been obliged to traverse Normandy in disguise; his retinue consisted but of six gentlemen; and when the Earl of Mar, the Earl Marischal, and some others, to the number of thirty, went from Perth to kiss the hand of the prince for whose cause they were in arms, they found him at Fetteresso, suffering with a severe attack of ague.

Neither in body nor mind was he capable of inspiring his adherents with the ardour which could alone turn or even arrest the untoward course of events. Mutual discouragement was the feeling consequent upon this melancholy meeting. The unwelcome news which awaited the Chevalier, that, for a month previous to his landing, the resolution had been taken to evacuate Perth, did not tend to dispel the despondency natural to him; while in the speech which he made to the privy council, whom he had immediately proceeded to name, the despairing view which he took of his own situation pierced every moment through the words of hope which he thought himself bound to utter. He closed his address by saying, "That for him it would be no new thing to be unfortunate; his whole life, even from his cradle, had shown a constant series of misfortunes; and he was prepared, if it so pleased God, to suffer the extent of the threats which his enemies threw out against him."

With a spirit thus crushed by repeated disappointments, and a constitution impaired by illness, did this ill-fated prince proceed to enact the sovereign to a diminished and dispirited party of disunited followers.

The intelligence of his arrival was speedily communicated to Seaforth, Huntley, and all the other chiefs who had formerly flocked to his standard, and who had withdrawn, wearied out by his protracted delay; but they were summoned in vain, none of them heeded the notice.

Preparations were made for King James's coronation at Scone; a day of thanksgiving was appointed for his safe arrival; prayers were offered up for his majesty in all the churches; the currency of foreign coins was enjoined; and the convention of the Scottish estates was called together.

The Countess of Nithsdale experienced a momentary sensation of hope and exultation when she heard that the monarch to whom all belonging to her had been so constantly devoted had actually set foot in the realm of his ancestors; and her generous heart throbbed with indignation when she heard of the nobles who neglected to obey his summons. She thought how different would have been the conduct of her own brave lord; and she resolved to do as, if he had been at liberty, he would himself have done, and as he seemed, by what he said concerning General Forster, to expect her to do. She therefore prepared herself for journeying to Scone, there to pay the homage she conceived to be due to her lawful sovereign.

She travelled privately, not to attract the notice of the royalists; but as she passed through the country which lies between Stirling and Perth, all was one scene of desolation. By an edict of James's, the villages of Auchterarder, Blackford, and Dunning, and other hamlets, had been destroyed by fire; houses, corn, and forage had all been laid waste, lest they should afford quarters to his enemies.

Helpless women and desolate children had been deprived of their homes; the blackened walls of the buildings which had been burnt contrasted cheerlessly with the snow which covered the ground.

Lady Nithsdale's journey was one of sorrow and dismay. She thought upon the days of her youthful enthusiasm, and she looked into her heart in vain to find it there. She remembered how in her Flemish convent her girlish heart had beat when she imagined her king actually on British land, and herself a witness of the joyous restoration; and her childish dream was fulfilled, the king was

Hame, hame, hame— Hame to his ain countree:

but misfortune, disappointment, time, had worked their effect; and with her husband a prisoner, her children banished, her country laid waste, she could not work up her feelings to the pitch of loyalty which she deemed it her duty to have experienced.

At length the fair town of Perth rose to her view, and the broad Tay swept gracefully around it. She saw the ancient palace of Scone, the spot where all the Scottish kings had been crowned, and she tried to feel assured that "the king would enjoy his own again."

That night she took up her lodgings in Perth; and the following day she repaired to the royal palace of Scone, there to kiss the hand of her monarch.

She felt an universal trepidation; not so much from the awe which majesty inspires, as from the fear of seeing her king in a condition so unbecoming his dignity. A noble mind shrinks from seeing nobility degraded; and she felt more abashed at the poor attendance around the king, and at the want of state in his appointments, than others do at all the pomp and ceremony of the most gorgeous and splendid court.

The Chevalier received the Countess of Nithsdale with what he meant to be marked attention; but his manner was subdued, his bearing dejected; partly through his late illness, and partly from that consciousness of being marked out for misfortune, which pervaded his every look, his every action. There was a melancholy majesty in his thin person, and his handsome but pale features, which (although united with a certain stiffness and reserve, little calculated to find favour in the sight of the adventurous and the desperate who alone adhered to his cause,) interested Lady Nithsdale, while it saddened her.

The Earl of Mar presented her to the Chevalier, whom, upon her entrance, she found engaged in conversation with the Earl Marischal in one of the windows that overlooked the flat country between the palace and the Tay. She dropped upon both her knees, overcome with emotion at finding herself in the actual presence of her king, and with grief at the desolate appearance of all around him, of all without and all within his residence.

He quickly raised her, and imprinting on her marble forehead a royal kiss, he professed his satisfaction at becoming personally acquainted with one, whose family had ever been faithful servants to his own.

The measured expressions chilled her; she had never before looked upon the sacrifices made either by the Herberts or the Maxwells but as the performance of a bounden duty, in which they had not failed; but when these sacrifices seemed to be considered in the same light by him for whom they had been made, their magnitude and their extent increased in her eyes. The Chevalier then inquired whether she had received news lately from the earl her husband.

Her eyes filled with tears; the inquiry was made in so cold, so formal a tone: "But once, sire, since he has been a prisoner;" and had she at that moment attempted a longer sentence, her voice would have failed her altogether.

"We hope that the worthy lord's health continued unimpaired by confinement?"

She struggled with her feelings, and replied, "My lord complained not of any personal privation or hardship. His thoughts were all, as they have ever been, for his king, his country, and his faith!"

"It is now many years since we once had an interview with the Earl of Nithsdale in Flanders; and if our memory does not fail, we were then suffering from this same agueish complaint which discomposes us at present. Methinks our health is always least fitted for exertion and fatigue when circumstances call most imperiously for both! But so it has ever been with us!" He sighed, and his eyes instinctively sought the ground. Then turning again to the countess, "Is your ladyship's seat situated far from hence?" he inquired, for, a stranger to Scotland, he knew not the topographical details of the country.

"Please your majesty, I journeyed from my husband's castle of Terreagles near Dumfries."

"We hope your journey was prosperous and agreeable, although we fear in this weather it must have been somewhat tedious. Dumfries is some days' journey hence, I fancy."

Lady Nithsdale thought upon the villages in ashes, the desolated fields, and could not find words for her reply, but contented herself with bowing assent. When, turning to the Earl of Mar, the Chevalier remarked, that if the present severe weather continued, the Tay would soon be completely frozen over. "In that case," he continued, "the river will no longer be serviceable as a protection and defence."

"Neither will it be any impediment to the design I have been explaining to your majesty," replied the earl in a low voice.

Lady Nithsdale soon after retired from the royal interview, discouraged and dissatisfied. She had never found the desired opportunity of speaking her husband's sentiments concerning General Forster; and she now felt intimately convinced how wild and hopeless an enterprise it must ever have been, to replace on the throne one who was so little calculated to conquer or to win it.

CHAPTER XV.

Nay, heed them not, fair Margaret; true, they are Untutor'd, and in 'haviour surly, rough; But they have hearts, nor unacquainted are With sturdy charities and strong affections— As oft within the prickly husk lies lapt The sweetest kernel. Unpublished Poems.

The Countess of Nithsdale had intended to return for the present to Terreagles, till she could ascertain what course would be most pleasing to her husband, when, upon her return from Scone, she received a letter from the Duchess of Montrose, which decided at once what was the line of conduct it now became her duty, as well as her inclination, to pursue. The duchess's epistle was conceived in the following terms:—

"Though the late unfortunate events have separated Christian Montrose from her dear Lady Nithsdale, her friend and cousin must not imagine that she has forgotten the happy days she spent at Terreagles, or that the affection she then professed has aught abated. Trust me, dearest cousin, I have felt for you, as I am sure you would have felt for me, had the cause you have espoused proved successful, and had my husband been the sufferer in that which he esteems the just one.

"At my earnest request, my lord duke has constantly made inquiries concerning the prisoners in the Tower, and your good lord arrived there in health and safety on the 10th. I understand he is not inconveniently lodged, and I do not learn that he is in want of any necessary comforts; indeed, many of your party who have been slack in openly joining the insurrection, make peace with their consciences by supplying the Jacobite prisoners with money and luxuries of all kinds. I have heard say, that when in the streets it has been difficult to procure silver for a guinea, in the various prisons change for large sums might be procured in silver and in gold. They say also, that among the more wild and thoughtless of the prisoners, much mirth and revelry prevail; and, as I hear, they so confidently rely upon the merit of their unconditional surrender at Preston, that they trouble themselves but slightly concerning their approaching trials. It is reported, that the Earl of Derwentwater observed to your good lord, that many of his followers were fitter inhabitants for Bridewell than a state prison.

"Let not my dear cousin be needlessly alarmed, when I tell her that the lords will be impeached on the 10th of January, and that I have reason to believe my Lord Nithsdale would not now deem it unadvisable that she should repair to London. Indeed, I am informed that his most earnest wish is to see her; and I have no doubt that, supposing the result should not be so favourable as many of the more sanguine are inclined to believe, her presence may prove of service as well as of comfort to her lord.

"I should advise her to lodge herself privately, as, to my poor way of thinking, any appearance of rank or splendour may not be agreeable to those in power; and I think I am not mistaken when I say that the riotous mode of living of many of those in confinement does not serve to forward their cause.

"I would myself have visited the good Earl of Nithsdale, that I might have informed you how it fared with him, had it been fitting that I should do so openly; but my lord duke deemed such a measure would not be advisable; and as to visiting him privately, I feared that you and others might have suspected your noble husband of having learned from young Bottair of Athol, that a prisoner may be a very dangerous gallant, that—

'Stone walls do not a prison make.'

"'Mad-cap Christian,' as you called me once at Terreagles, is not so void of discretion as to run the risk of being taken for one of the 'divine Altheas' who come 'to whisper at the grate.'

"Indeed, I am sobered since those days; and these are times which may make the most unthinking reflect. Sad or merry, thoughtful or giddy, my heart is still with my dear cousin, and she may count on my willing services should the time arrive when they may be useful. She will not fail to let me know when she reaches London; and meanwhile she will believe me her faithful and affectionate friend

and cousin, Christian Montrose."

This letter had followed Lady Nithsdale from Terreagles, which had occasioned some delay in its coming to hand. It had been brought by Walter Elliot, an old and trusty servant, who had been ever in the confidence of his master, and on whom Lady Nithsdale had relied for advice and protection since the absence of her husband.

Her resolution was instantly taken; with Amy Evans and Walter Elliot she determined at all hazards to set forth upon her journey: but in the condition of the country at that period, means of conveyance were not easily procured; and it was highly expedient she should escape all observation: she therefore gladly availed herself of such steeds as Walter Elliot could procure in the exigency of the moment, and although totally unaccustomed to horse exercise, proceeded in this manner as far as Newcastle.

She there parted with the horses, and took the stage, thinking she should thus travel more expeditiously; and trusting that, when quite beyond the boundaries of Scotland, she was not so likely to be recognised. Such had been the tumult of her feelings, she had scarcely had time to be conscious of fatigue or cold, or to be aware of the strange and unusual companions with whom she was occasionally brought in contact. When, however, she found herself enveloped in her cloak, her hood brought low over her face, and ensconced in a corner of the heavy and lumbering vehicle, she found leisure to think, to feel, and to suffer.

The capacious coach contained several other passengers, but Lady Nithsdale heeded them not: their discourse turned chiefly on the comparative merits of different breeds of cattle and sheep, on Scottish Kyloes and Cheviot mutton, and she knew not what words they uttered, till her attention was suddenly arrested by one of them remarking, "The last time I journeyed along this road was some six months back; I had been as far as Hawick to buy some of those famous north-country sheep, and, to be sure, all those parts were in a fine disturbed state. I was obliged to come back without the sheep. Some thought their property was safer in sheep than in money, for whichsoever side got the upper hand, butchers' meat would still be wanted; others thought they should be sure of a good price when there were two armies, as it were, in the neighbourhood, and they asked twice their worth for the sheep. As for me, I would not give much hard money for the creatures, which might be taken from me, and killed, and then what should I do? There's no telling in troublous times what's justly the value of any thing, so I had my journey for my pains! and as I came back, those rebel lords were going about proclaiming their mock king, and a pretty penalty they are likely to pay for their folly. Why could not they be quiet, and enjoy themselves at their own great houses, where they say the Earl of Derwentwater lived like a prince, and was beloved by great and small: and why could not they let us enjoy ourselves too? Farming went well while good Queen Anne lived; crops were pretty fair, and prices held steady, and I don't know what folks would have more, not I!"

"Well, it all bids fair to be quiet enough now," replied a rough-looking farmer who sat opposite; "they'll settle old scores with them all. They have made away with a pretty many of them at once at Preston; and I know for certain that the king means to have off the heads of every one of those he has got up at London now, so they will make no more disturbance!"

Amy turned an uneasy glance upon her lady, whose bosom she could perceive heaved rapidly beneath the folds of her cloak; but her face was towards the window, and the black hood concealed it from all within the coach. She feared to draw attention upon her, and she remained tranquil.

"Nay, I can't think the king will have all their heads off either," rejoined the first spokesman. "Why, there are as many as twenty lords, to say nothing of knights, and gentlemen, and members of parliament, and such."

"I have been informed that such are his most gracious majesty's intentions," answered the yeoman, with the importance of a privy-councillor.

"For God's sake, what is your authority?" exclaimed the Countess of Nithsdale, unable any longer to control her feelings.

"Young mistress, I do not consider myself called upon to give up those who tell me a bit of news."

"Well, neighbour, you need not be so touchy about your news; who knows but the young woman may have a friend among some of the rebels, and she need not be the more of a rebel herself! Brothers and sisters, fathers and sons, have taken different sides, but they are not the less relations for that. Ah! that's one of the misfortunes of these civil wars! They're not like a good war with the French, or the Dutch, or the Spanish; when you know for certain that every parlez-vous, and every mynheer, and every Don, is your enemy. But when people of one country take to fighting, why, if you chance to be in a battle, you don't know who you may be killing; and if you chance to tell a bit of news promiscuously, you don't know whose feelings you may be hurting. Folks should not be over free of their speech in these times; and, I ask your pardon, neighbour, but you should not be so positive about what such as you and I can't know. Don't you look so sad, mistress. How should we, any of us, know what the king's thoughts are?"

"But we may know those who do know what the king's thoughts are: not that I wish to hurt the gentlewoman's feelings." And the farmer relapsed into silence, somewhat offended at the doubt with which his annunciation of the sovereign's private sentiments had been received.

"Are you from Scotland, madam?" resumed the good-natured yeoman, whose curiosity was somewhat awakened by Lady Nithsdale's evident emotion.

"Yes, sir," answered Amy quickly. "My friend and I come from Scotland last, but we are natives of Wales;" which, although strictly true, would, she imagined, lead their new acquaintances from suspecting who they really were.

"And are ye for London now, my pretty lass?"

"Yes, sir; our friends live in London now."

"If this snow goes on falling at such a rate, why, I think we shall never get to York; and as for you, you will never get to London. I'll be bound the stage will be stopped to-morrow. I declare there's no making out the hedge from the ditch, the snow has drifted so in some places. I don't know that I ever remember such a hard winter as this has been. My poor ewes!" he continued, shaking his head, "I fear I shall have bad luck with them! However, 'tis as the Lord pleases! I dare say 'tis all for the best. If we have quiet times, and we have nothing to fight against but the seasons, as God sends them to us, we shall do well enough. As long as we are in the Lord's hands, and have only the troubles He sees fit to try us with, and none of those man makes for himself, it will all be right! Is not that true, young woman?"

"Indeed, sir, I am no judge of public matters," replied Lady Nithsdale in a faltering voice, for she felt that it had been the Jacobites who had disturbed the public tranquillity; and true and reasonable as was the sentiment expressed by the yeoman, she could not echo it without throwing blame on those she most loved and honoured, or without belying the opinions and the feelings of her whole life.

"Humph!" replied the yeoman: "I do not call those public matters. I think I have said nothing but what every good Christian should say amen to. I don't see how anybody can help saying 'tis better to be in the hands of the Lord than of men, not I."

"Nor I, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Nithsdale with fervour. "O Lord, take us into thy hands, and deal with us according to thy mercy!"

"Well, that's much what I said, only not in such a way. Verily, if I don't believe she is one of the new Dissenters that have sprung up of late!"

Amy Evans, anxious to withdraw observation from her lady, asked him some question concerning his flock; and, affecting great interest in such matters, she was enabled, from her youthful Welsh education, to converse with sufficient knowledge of the subject to lead the honest unsuspicious farmer into a detail of his own plans and systems, in which he readily forgot what had at first excited his surprise in the bearing of the silent and serious young gentlewoman.

By the time they reached York, his prediction concerning the weather was fully verified: the wheels of the heavy vehicle could scarcely cut through the deep snow; and so slow was their progress, that it had long been dark before the stage arrived at its destination in one of the most dismal streets of the ancient city of York.

The snow continued to fall during the whole of the night, and the next morning the roads were found to be so totally impassable, that not only were all stage-coaches and carriages of every description arrested in their progress, but the post itself was stopped.

Lady Nithsdale's disappointment amounted almost to despair. Every hour was precious. The letter which announced her husband's wish to see her had already been somewhat delayed on the road, and the duchess said that on her exertions might depend the mode in which his case might be looked upon. She thought, too, on his desolate, his forlorn condition; she judged from her own feelings how intensely he must desire her presence; and she deemed any hardship, any suffering, preferable to the mental anxiety of being shut up in York, unable to hear of him, to communicate with him, to exert herself for him.

The long period of suspense and of forced inactivity which she had passed at Terreagles had been almost insupportably irksome; and now, when her lord had expressed a wish for her company, when possibly she might be of real service to him, to be imprisoned in a dismal room in an inn at York:—it was an infliction not to be endured.

She again employed Walter Elliot to procure three saddle-horses; and, in spite of his dutiful remonstrances, and all unused as she had ever been to brave the inclemencies of the weather, or to encounter any bodily fatigue, she set off on horseback, through roads in which the snow often came up to the girths of the saddle. To Amy, who had been a mountain-bred lass—who had often wandered about her native hills on the rough Welsh ponies—the undertaking was not one of such difficulty; though she feared the strength of her delicately nurtured lady would never stand such hardships; but the soul which animated that apparently fragile form was such as to communicate to the frame some of its own power and elasticity. As they rode out of the town, the sun shone forth in dazzling splendour upon the brilliant whiteness of the scene. The roof of each house was clothed with a thick soft covering of newly-fallen snow, which the smoke of the town had not yet tarnished, though the power of the sun had already melted it in some degree, so that each gable was ornamented with a fringe of long pendent icicles. As they quitted the town and waded through the obstructed road, still the same dazzling whiteness presented itself to their view: the load which bent down the branches of the trees was not yet dissolved; and when the small birds, twittering in the welcome sunshine, lighted on a feathered spray, they shook from it a shower of bright snow-flakes.

To a mind at ease the scene was beautiful and cheerful; and Lady Nithsdale in the midst of her sorrows felt grateful for the cheering light and for the clear pure atmosphere.

CHAPTER XVI.

The drowsy night grows on the world, and now The busy craftsman and o'erlabour'd hind Forget the travail of the day in sleep: Care only wakes, and moping pensiveness.—Rowe.

The sun was now midway through its course, and their progress had been but slow. "Is not my dear lady in need of rest?" inquired Amy Evans, as they approached a small village, at the entrance of which there was a newly-painted gaudy sign of the King's Head.

"No, Amy, no; I need no rest. The consciousness of drawing nearer to my lord is rest enough for me."

"But, honoured madam," interposed Walter Elliot, "it were not ower wise in us to push our steeds too hard. They dumb creatures are but flesh and bluid like our ainselves; and should they chance to knock up, what shall we do, I'm thinking. 'Tis weary wark for them lifting their hoofs eighteen or twenty inches through the snaw every step they take. An' it please your leddyship, we had better gie them a rest at yon bra'-looking inn."

"Not there, good Walter, not there. Look at that flaring sign! A little farther on there is another place of refreshment; 'tis but an humble one I grant, but at this moment any one will be more welcome to me than this." And she averted her eyes from the "King George's Head," in large and golden letters, which adorned the front of the building. The place she had selected was indeed but a wretched ale-house, and they only stayed there long enough to allow the animals necessary food. She was impatient to be gone; and as they seldom could proceed beyond a foot's pace, they were still some miles from their destined resting-place for the night when the short day had closed in; the sun had already set crimson beyond the cold snowy fields, and the clear deep blue of the heavens was spangled with innumerable stars.

The cold was piercing; and her attendants shivered, and wrapped their cloaks closer around them. At length they passed a blacksmith's forge; and the bright sparks which darted upwards through the chinks in the roof, the ruddy light which flared through the open door, the clear blaze of the fire itself, looked invitingly warm. Amy could not help remarking to Walter Elliot how comfortable and tempting was the interior of the forge.

"Art thou cold, my poor girl?" inquired the countess.

"Why, madam, of a surety the wind is very sharp; I should have thought your ladyship would have felt it more keenly than myself, who have not been so softly reared. I have been regretting all the day that we forgot to bring your mantle lined with sable, which her grace of Montrose sent you last winter."

"Nay, heed me not, good Amy: I thought not of the cold—But now you speak of it, the night is frosty."

"I have been fain to ask you, honoured madam, where your ladyship means to abide when you reach London?"

"In truth, Amy, I cannot tell; I thought but of seeing my lord: when once in London, I felt I should be near to him; but it is more than probable they will not allow me to share his prison, and I suppose I must seek lodgings. Her grace of Montrose bade me live privately, and advised me not to affect any state in my accommodations: but I am little used to the bustle of a crowded city, and scarcely know how I must proceed."

"If your ladyship will excuse my boldness, I have been thinking that I know of some one who might stand our friend. Does not your ladyship recollect, when you were in Wales, just at the entrance of the village, about a mile from Poole Castle, a low white house, with a high tiled roof composed of many gables and strange angles? Two goodly cypress trees grew before the windows on each side of the gravel walk which led to the porch, and the trim garden was fenced from the road by a low stone wall, and a laurustinus hedge within. Your ladyship must remember they were the finest laurustinus' in all the country, and they were always the first in bloom in that sheltered spot."

"Yes. I think I remember the white house, Amy; the sun seemed ever to shine upon it, and make it gleam white against the green hill which rose behind."

"Sure enough, madam, that was it. The mid-day sun shone full upon it, just about the hour your ladyship and your honoured mother were used to take your customary airing. And do you not remember, madam, a tall pale gentleman, who wore his hair parted up the middle of his forehead, and hanging long over his ears: it was silver-white, for he was very old?"

"Oh, yes! I recollect him well, for he used to lean over the gate that opened upon the road, and watch our carriage as it drove by. He always bowed with a respectful yet a stately air to my mother as we passed: and I well remember her saying he had been a cavalier in King Charles the First's time, and she regretted that his increasing infirmities did not allow him to visit her, for she would have been proud to receive under her roof one who had been a faithful servant to his master in times of trouble. If I mistake not, my mother said that when quite a youth he had been one of the gallant cavaliers who rode post, along this very road, to carry to the king at York the news of each day's proceedings in the parliament. Would we had their steeds, and their strength! by this time we might have reached London."

"Well, madam, this old gentleman had a young daughter, who was little older than myself. Her mother had died early; and the old gentleman had no companion but the merry maiden, and the merry maiden had none but her reverend but melancholy father. She made acquaintance with me one May morning, when we were gathering cowslips and primroses for our garlands. I was to be queen, and she gave me all her posies to help adorn my crown; and when we all came round, a troop of laughing girls with our garlands, Colonel Hilton gave me a gold piece. After that we often met; and as the colonel found that my mother was looked upon more as a friend than as a servant by the honoured duchess, and as I was somewhat better taught than other maidens of my degree, he would often let us pass an afternoon together, and young Mrs. Mellicent Hilton would teach me some of her songs, and read to me from her beautiful books, and in return I instructed her in many curious stitches and rare sorts of embroidery; and thus we whiled away the hours; and she promised that we always should be friends, though she was a lady, and I but the daughter of a menial. She married a Mr. Morgan a few months before your ladyship came into Wales: they said the old cavalier did not over well like the match, for Mr. Morgan's family had turned against King James the Second; but he was a well-favoured young man, and Mrs. Mellicent, poor soul, saw no one else, so it was but natural she should incline towards him.

"The poor old colonel died soon after; but before he died he grew quite fond of his son-in-law, and he left all he had been able to save of his property to him and to Mrs. Mellicent, provided they added his name of Hilton to that of Morgan. I have since heard that Mr. Morgan is in favour with the new people, and that he has a place about the new court, so I think she must have it in her power to serve us; and if Amy Evans's old playmate, Mrs. Mellicent, has not quite forgotten the pleasures and the pastimes of her youth, I am sure she will have the inclination to do so."

"My good and thoughtful Amy! and do you know where Mrs. Morgan now resides?"

"Yes, dearest madam. 'Twas only in the last letter I received from Wales, that I learned many of these particulars about my old friend, and that she was just settled in her new house in Bloomsbury."

"But if her husband is so staunch a Whig, 'tis more than probable she will look coldly on me, who am the wife of one whom she thinks a rebel."

"Nay, madam, but she loved her good old father dearly, though she would have been loth to give up her sweetheart for what then seemed a by-gone matter. She would affect you none the less for being of the same way of thinking as the parent to whom she was ever a dutiful child; and, moreover, the world may work great changes in the hearts of those who live in it, but Mrs. Mellicent Hilton's must be sorely changed indeed if she is not one whose eyes will overflow at any tale of woe, and if she will stop to calculate the chances of success before she troubles herself to assist a fellow-creature in distress. Her old father used often to bid her have more discretion in her kindness, and to tell her she gave her alms to those who least deserved them: but she never could say "no" to any one that asked charity in a piteous tone of voice, and the very dogs about the white manor-house were kept so fat by Mrs. Mellicent that you might tell them from any others by their good case. And then, madam, it seems to my poor judgment, that one who knows something of the court, and yet is not so very great as the Duke of Montrose, or his lordship's cousin her grace of Buccleugh, or the Earl of Pembroke, or any of those nobles, may prove of service in a quiet way, when such great people might fear to attract notice."

"There is much truth in what you say. You have a pertinent judgment, Amy, and it may be of good avail; we will think more of this. But we are drawing near our place of destination. See! by the lights gleaming from so many windows, this must be a considerable town. Walter, is it not here we are to pass the night?"

"Yes, madam. Your leddyship maun set up here for the night, an' it so please you. I weel know, for one, that my puir nag could na' carry me a mile farther."

The snow became less deep as they approached the metropolis, the roads more beaten, and they were enabled each day to compass longer journeys. On the evening of the 23rd of January they entered London.

Lady Nithsdale's first impulse would have led her to the Tower, but it was too late to hope for admittance, and she thought that from the Duchess of Montrose she was most likely to learn how it fared with her husband, and what steps it might be most advisable for her to take.

Leaving Amy, therefore, to make what arrangements were necessary for their accommodation, she instantly took coach and proceeded to the residence of the Duke of Montrose. She sent word by a servant to the duchess, that a person desired to see her grace upon business of importance, and with the message she gave a written billet entreating to see her in private. She did not sign the paper, not feeling assured how far any communication with the wife of a state prisoner might compromise the duchess herself. She was certain that the sight of her hand writing would procure her instant admission; and yet the few moments she passed waiting in the street were spent in a state of mental agitation which surprised herself.

It was a painfully new situation for the daughter of the Duke of Powis, who was thoroughly imbued with the indelible nobility of aristocratic birth, to find herself alone, in a hired coach, as a suitor at the door of one with whom she had ever lived on terms of equality and intimacy. It was not that she doubted the kindness, the sincerity, the generosity, of her good friend and cousin; but she now felt more lost, more unprotected, in the busy, noisy, thronged streets of London, than she had done in all the difficulties of her perilous journey.

Only a few moments, however, elapsed before the portals were thrown open, and she found herself ushered through the rank of powdered liveried domestics, who in those days were deemed indispensable appendages to the great, into a small ante-room on the ground-floor.

Lady Nithsdale sank on a seat, bewildered, overcome. It all seemed to her like a strange dream. What news might await her! Three weeks had elapsed since the date of the duchess's letter—what fearful events might not have occurred!

The door opened; the duchess appeared, beautiful, brilliant, blooming, glittering in diamonds and jewels, and rustling in satins and point-lace. "My sweet cousin! my dear Winifred!" exclaimed the duchess.

"Oh, Christian! dearest friend!" and Lady Nithsdale rushed into her open arms, and wept upon her neck.

For twelve days body and mind had been upon the stretch, and the words, the tones of kindness at this moment of exhaustion, completely unnerved her. "How is he?" she inquired, as she sobbed upon the duchess's bosom.

"Well, dear cousin, well. Compose yourself; why is this, my gentle, staid, tranquil cousin of Nithsdale? These tears, this trembling, do not promise well for the work you have in hand."

"True, true!" exclaimed Lady Nithsdale, "it is over! 'twas but a momentary weakness. I have ridden a weary distance to-day," she continued, attempting to smile, and hastily pushing her hair off her brow; "and with a heart not well at ease," she added, pressing her hand upon her bosom, as if to still its throbbings: "but tell me all; I am ready now to hear and to endure. On the 10th they were impeached," she said firmly and resolutely; "of course, my lord pleaded guilty."

"He did. Last Thursday, the 19th, when the lords sent in their reply to the impeachment, your noble husband, with Lord Derwentwater and Lord Kenmure, pleaded guilty to the articles exhibited against them. Lord Wintoun alone on various pretences petitioned for longer delay."

"I knew my lord would never deny the share he took in this sad business," exclaimed Lady Nithsdale, with a confidence and pride in his integrity which for a moment over-came her fears for his safety. Then she added, in a tone which seemed to ask for reassurement, "Surely this plain-dealing, this honesty, cannot indispose the king! His surrender at Preston——"

"Yes, yes, we will hope for the best," interrupted the duchess, anxious to evade the question, for she was too well aware that the Earl of Nithsdale was looked upon with fear and suspicion; and though she could not bring herself to crush Lady Nithsdale's hopes, she dared not encourage them,—"only be calm and prudent."

"Trust me, I am now firm and resolved: I am ready, even impatient, to be stirring in my husband's service. It was the sight of you, dear cousin, and the kind tones of your sweet voice——!"

"Well, no more of this: I will see you to-morrow, when we will confer more at large: I must not now delay. I am to court to-night, as you may perceive by all this gay apparel; my lord duke is there already in attendance, and I must not be late. But, before I leave you, let me enforce one thing; I fear they will refuse you admittance to your husband, unless you consent to share his imprisonment: this must not be! You must remain at liberty, or we cannot concert our measures; you must yourself see and speak with some I will name to you. I have assurances that the king will show mercy to several of the prisoners; but still we all know the good Earl of Nithsdale has many enemies, and there is the more need you should be in freedom to use your influence with them. Remember, that for his sake, you must not preclude yourself from serving him far more effectually than you could by sharing his prison."

"Trust me, my dear friend, I will obey your injunctions. Whatever it may cost me, I will turn back from his prison-door, if it is for his good that I should do so. May Heaven bless and reward you, dearest cousin!" and she seized the duchess's hand and pressed it to her heart.

"'Pshaw! silly Winifred, you need not thank me yet," replied the duchess, half turning away, and brushing off a tear; "you must not make me weep before I go to court, or my eyes will make no conquests to-night, and my lord duke, who loves to hear me praised, will be angry with you, fair cousin. I must stay with you no longer, or I shall play the very fool, and not be fit to show myself at St. James's. One kiss, dear cousin, and adieu! It would not be wise that I should absent myself from the king's presence just now. For your sake I must not linger;" and the fair creature moved away in grace and beauty.

She glided through the hall; the splendid coach drove off; the running-footmen, bearing torches, preceded and accompanied her.

"How unjust," thought Lady Nithsdale, "is the common accusation that pomp and splendour harden the heart! Where could I find more true kindness and sympathy than in my dear cousin Christian, whose life has been one sunny dream of unclouded brilliancy?" But as she slowly and thoughtfully returned in solitude to the temporary lodging which Amy had procured for her, she pondered on the duchess's words—"My lord has many enemies, she said: how can he have enemies? Surely, if favour is to be shown to any, to whom could it be more properly extended than to him? Does not the kind duchess alarm herself needlessly? And yet she knows the counsels of those in power. She would not wish to excite unreasonable fears in my mind. Alas! what can she mean? My lord was not one of the first to join the insurgents: Lord Derwentwater was already in arms; Forster was at the head of a considerable body of troops; the Earl of Mar had set up King James's standard. Neither had he, like the Earl of Mar, ever made professions of loyalty to the House of Hanover. General Forster is even now a member of King George's parliament. But my dear lord is not obnoxious from either of these causes. He has never been guilty of treachery, neither has he ever been forward in causing disturbances in his native land; but when civil broils became inevitable, then—then he was not found wanting to the family for which his ancestors have bled and suffered. Oh! would that the morrow were arrived! This long tedious night, which must intervene before I can see, learn, hear, know, do anything further, how wearisome, how irksome is it!"

Upon her return to her lodgings, she found that Amy Evans, on her part, had not been idle. She had already sought and obtained an interview with her former companion Mrs. Morgan.

Nearly ten years had elapsed since Mellicent Hilton had left the Welsh valley of her childhood as the bride of Mr. Morgan, and from that time the playfellows had never met; for before Mrs. Morgan returned to visit her father in his solitude, Amy had accompanied the Countess of Nithsdale into Scotland.

Mrs. Morgan was fortunately alone on the evening in question, when Amy, half-alarmed at her own presumption, presented herself at her door.

She did not at first recollect, in the Mrs. Evans who was announced, the merry Amy of her childhood; neither would Amy have recognised, in the tall, slender, modish lady before her, the buxom, rosy girl who had climbed the mountain paths, and pulled the wild flowers with her. She hesitated for a moment, while she assured herself that, although the complexion was less brilliant, and the full form had fined into a marvellous taper waist, still the laughing blue eye was the same, the expression of the free hearty smile the same, although the dimples were not so visible in the less rounded cheek.

Mrs. Morgan, with an air of courtly breeding, bent herself gracefully towards the stranger, waiting till she opened her business; when Amy, half abashed at the changes which had taken place in the exterior of her former friend, half re-assured by the kindly countenance which spoke that the heart remained unchanged, after making a low and respectful courtesy, began with some hesitation, "that she could scarcely hope Mrs. Morgan would still bear in mind the childish playmate of Mrs. Mellicent Hilton,—Amy, the daughter of old Rachael Evans, of Poole Castle."

"What, Amy, the Queen of the May! is it you, my old friend?" exclaimed Mrs. Morgan, holding out her hand with the frankness she brought from the Montgomeryshire valley, unimpaired by the intercourse she had since had with the world. "Oh! I have often wished to see you again, and often thought what happy hours we have passed together, when we have laughed even to tears without knowing wherefore, and sung for very want of thought and care. But, my good Amy, your looks speak that, since those days, you have been made acquainted with thought and care. Your countenance is sorrowful. Is your mother, the good Rachael, well? And David?—How comes it you are still Amy Evans? Have you been cruel after all?"

"Alas, madam! my poor mother has been dead these two years; she scarce survived her mistress more than a few weeks: but they were both in years; and the good Duke of Powis allowed her to be buried in his own family vault, and she lies near her honoured mistress, the duchess. And as to David, my dear Mrs. Mellicent, I have not thought of him for many and many a year; I should esteem it beneath me to pine for him! He showed the truth of the old saying, 'out of sight, out of mind;' and I shall never be the one to prove an old proverb false!" answered Amy, with a flash of her former spirit. "But, madam, I have other cares, and heavier ones, upon my mind. My dear mistress the good Countess of Nithsdale's lord is in prison, with the other lords whom they call rebels, and my lady and I have rode to London to attend him, and, as I hope, to be of some service to him. But we are nearly strangers in London; and I thought, madam, that for old acquaintance sake, perhaps, you would stand our friend. I knew Mr. Morgan was much about the palace; and they say, madam," she continued, smiling, "there is nothing like a friend at court; and so I made bold to come to you at once. I thought, also, you could perhaps inform us where we might lodge respectably, and yet privately; for her grace the Duchess of Montrose warned my lady not to live in state, but to keep private."

"Alas! good Amy, I fear you are come on a sad errand," answered Mrs. Morgan, with a serious countenance. "I fear that the Earl of Nithsdale is one whose fate is sealed. I hear no talk of mercy being extended towards him. So staunch a Catholic!—so influential a man on the borders of Scotland and England!—so forward as his family have ever been in support of the exiled race! Alas, for your poor mistress! Is she much attached to him?"

"Oh, madam!" exclaimed Amy, with a face of consternation, "it will kill my mistress if anything happens to my lord! I am sure, quite sure, she could not outlive him," she continued, wringing her hands; "you never, madam, saw such love as hers; it is not like anything else that ever I heard of. I am sure, when I see how she hangs upon my lord's words—how she honours and reveres him—how she watches his looks, and lives but for him—I cannot think I ever cared anything at all about David. And you, madam, you were very partial to Mr. Morgan; and I well remember you were resolved to have him" (Mrs. Morgan smiled); "but still your love was not like my poor mistress's!"

"Poor soul!" said Mrs. Morgan; "what can I do for her? I would serve her, or any one in such distress, if I knew how I could do so. More especially, I would gladly serve any one whom you seem to love so dearly."

"I do indeed love my dear lady with my whole heart, and no one who knows her excellence could do otherwise."

"Well, dear Amy, you may count on my exerting what little influence I may possess; and Mr. Morgan is so kind, I am sure he will assist us, if he can. In the mean time, I can tell you of a worthy family with whom your mistress might be comfortably and respectably lodged. I will see Mrs. Mills to-morrow; her house is not far removed from the Tower, which would, I think, be a recommendation to the Countess of Nithsdale; and she is a gentle, kind soul, who will be ready to weep with your lady, and will never wound her by a thoughtless or indiscreet word."

Amy Evans's countenance brightened. "I was right," she exclaimed, "when I told the countess the world might work great changes, but it would be indeed a great one if Mrs. Mellicent Hilton had not still the kindest heart that ever beat. I feared I was making very bold, and was presuming too much upon the freedom permitted in childhood, when I ventured to come to you; but I thought time could never have hardened such feelings as yours, so as to make you resent the liberty I was taking. In my honoured lady's name, and my own, receive our most grateful thanks, madam;" and Amy kissed the hand which Mrs. Morgan cordially extended towards her.

"I will see Mrs. Mills to-morrow morning; and then, with the Countess of Nithsdale's permission, I will wait on her, and inform her what arrangements I have been able to make."

"Our blessings on you, dear madam!" repeated Amy, as she took her leave, and hastened back to meet her lady upon her return from the Duchess of Montrose.

Lady Nithsdale listened with gratitude to all that Amy told her; and the kindness they had both met with on their several missions proved the best cordial which could be administered to feelings so tried as hers had been. Exhausted nature, however, claimed its rights, and she slept. The bodily fatigue which caused sleep,—

"Tir'd nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep,"

to give a respite to the workings of her mind, may have assisted in enabling her to bear all that awaited her.

CHAPTER XVII.

The less I may be blest with her company, the more I will retire to God, and my owne heart, whence no malice can banish her. My enemies may envy, but they can never deprive me of the enjoyment of her virtues, while I enjoy myself.—Eikon Basiliké.

As the day began to dawn, and the grey winter light gradually illumed the narrow dirty streets, which the remains of snow rendered more than usually dreary, the Countess of Nithsdale wound her way to the Tower.

It was still too early to gain admittance, or even to be allowed to speak with the porter. The gates were not yet opened: she stood and gazed till her feelings were almost intolerably excited, and then she paced up and down with a quick and hurried step, till, abruptly stopping, she pressed the arm of her faithful companion, Amy, and pointing to the antique building, she cried, in an accent of despair, "He is there, Amy, he is there, and I cannot be with him!"

Amy looked with awe and vague fear at the spot, which, from our cradle, is united in our minds with the ideas of murder, the scaffold, open executions, and secret assassination. She trembled at the certainty that her dear master actually lay within its fearful precincts; and she turned an eye of commiseration on her lady, to think that she was, in sober truth, an actress in one of those tragedies of which we are apt to hear and read as of fictitious horrors.

They gazed upon the thick and muddy water of the moat, upon the lofty wall which rose on the other side, and in which the inhabitants, of whose dwellings it formed a part, had here and there opened windows, added gabled roofs, and pieced the ancient rough stone-work with brick additions of their own. This patch-work took off from its antiquity and solemnity, without imparting to such a building any air of comfort. On the contrary, it spoke of long residence within the narrow limits of a prison.

At length the clock struck the appointed hour, and she hastened to the gates to solicit an interview with the Lieutenant of the Tower.

After some delay, the request was granted, when she received the answer the Duchess of Montrose had led her to anticipate. The orders were most strict that none should be allowed to visit the prisoners before the day appointed for pronouncing sentence upon them; but hopes were held out to her that she might obtain permission to share Lord Nithsdale's confinement.

Had it not been for the duchess's caution, it is more than probable she would gladly have accepted the conditions: for to feel herself so near him, and yet to be withheld from seeing him;—to know that he was in solitude and sadness, looking only for her company to cheer him, and to refuse to share his prison;—to turn away when she had it in her power to look upon his face, to hear again that soft, deep, melodious voice,—alas! it was a sore trial! But she was firm in adhering to her resolution. Such, however, was her agitation, that as she tottered from the lieutenant's apartments, some of the soldiers, moved with compassion, offered her a seat for a few moments in the guard-room. One kindly brought her a cup of water, for which she did not fail to show her gratitude by deeds as well as words. He accompanied her to the outer gate; and she succeeded so well in working on his feelings of kindness and of self-interest, that she obtained from him a promise to exert himself in her behalf, and an assurance that when he was on guard, he would not watch too narrowly which way she passed.

With many a lingering look towards the dismal edifice, she tore herself away, but it was not without a hope of compassing by stealth the interview which she had been refused.

She hastened to her appointment with the duchess, when she did not fail to tell her how faithfully she had obeyed her injunctions, how resolutely she had even turned from his prison gates, when her heart burned to rush to her husband; but at the same time she imparted to her the hopes she entertained of seeing him through the means of the kind-hearted guard.

"If all that is said be true," answered the duchess archly, "it is not so difficult to gain access to the prisoners; a golden key is often more potent than an iron bar! Meantime, I would advise your exerting all the influence you may possess with my Lord Townshend and the Duke of Richmond. My husband tells me they are both likely to advocate measures of severity; and yet I should hope the Duke of Richmond would remember that the Earl of Derwentwater is his kinsman. The Earls of Danby and of Nottingham I spoke with last night, and I trust with good effect. They both promised they would second any petition from the prisoners. Some will certainly be pardoned; but, dearest cousin, we must exert ourselves to the utmost, and yet our zeal must be tempered with discretion. The earl your husband has, as I told you, many enemies; and I should be a false friend did I not confess to you that he is not one of those who are likely to be most leniently dealt with." Lady Nithsdale clasped her hands with such an expression of anguish that the duchess hastened to add, "But I know not, neither can any one know, in truth, what will be the sentence of the court. 'Tis all conjecture."

"But why, O why, should conjecture be unfavourable to my lord?"

"Nay, I cannot say. It may be—a Catholic,—his property on the very borders of the two countries,—his family so long attached to the Stuarts;—but all may yet be well. Circumstances may arise in his favour. Should the sentence be—be such as to blast our hopes,—they speak of a petition to be signed by the prisoners."

"My lord will never put his name to anything that may savour of dishonour. I know not what this petition may prove; but if it is such as should change any sentence that may have passed, I marvel if it can be such as it would become my lord to sign,—or such"—she added emphatically,—"or such as I could wish him to sign:" her voice broke, and she burst into tears at thus, as it were, with her own lips pronouncing his doom. "His life," she continued, as if to justify herself for what she had uttered, "must not be preserved at the price of honour!" and her delicate form reared itself, and her eye glanced upwards, as if to seek from Heaven the strength she so much needed.

The duchess sighed. "What a noble spirit," she thought, "is probably destined to be crushed! what a generous heart, in all probability, will be condemned to drink the bitter cup of sorrow to the very dregs!" She cast her dark bright eyes on the ground to conceal her emotion.

Lady Nithsdale saw the tears glistening in her eye-lashes: "You weep, cousin! you are weeping for me! Alas! alas! you know his doom. You know the counsels of those in power; and you know that they are his inveterate foes. You fear to tell me that you know it!"

"On my honour, I know nothing," repeated the duchess with solemnity; "but surely we all suspect and fear enough to draw tears from drier eyes and harder hearts than mine. My dear cousin knows of old, that a little thing will move me to smile, or to weep; so you must not augur ill from my childish weakness, but set it down to the account of Christian Montrose's variable temperament:" and she strove to smile through the tears which now flowed every moment faster down her cheeks.

After some farther consultation between the friends they parted, and at dusk Lady Nithsdale again repaired to the Tower. The accommodating guard was in attendance. He quickly and silently admitted her through the wicket. As she passed under the first archway, she fancied she perceived another muffled female figure who glided quietly on, as if accustomed to the way. The sight re-assured her, as it seemed to confirm what the duchess had told her of the potency of a golden key. In silence she crossed the bridge over the moat: she looked fearfully on all sides, dreading lest each form she saw might be that of some guard more strict in the performance of his duty; and doubting whether in a few moments she might be blessed with the sight of her husband, or whether she might be driven forth despairing to her desolate lodging.

When on the bridge, the masts of the vessels lying in the Thames were visible over the parapet. She could just distinguish them dark against the sky. She cast towards them a lingering look, and thought, "O that we were together on board the meanest of those vessels; together, on our way to life and liberty!"

They emerged from the gloom of the second archway, and keeping under the shadow of the southern wall, they passed, what seemed to her, a considerable distance between the lofty buildings. "Those are the warders' apartments," whispered the guard, pointing to the high wall to the north: "'Tis there that most of the rebels have their lodgings; go straight on, till you get to the Traitor's gate,—there, to the right,"—she shuddered as the word was uttered, and looked fearfully as he directed to the portals which are only opened to admit a prisoner, but never to send him forth to freedom;—"when you get there, turn to your left through the Bloody Tower,"—a more icy chill ran through her veins;—"then to your left again, up the steps, and you will see a girl who will lead you where you wish to go. I must not be seen any farther than this spot. I shall be on guard just an hour longer. Be sure you do not linger beyond that time, or you will never make your way out of this dismal place; and as for me! I shall pay a heavy price for my good-nature."

"Would I could adequately reward you for your charity!" answered the countess, pouring gold into his hand;—"but Heaven will not forget this deed of mercy!"

She found the girl upon the steps, as she had been led to expect, and she immediately followed her to a door about the centre of the building to the south of the court, when, bidding her wait for a moment, the girl disappeared. Lady Nithsdale trembled from head to foot: her heart seemed almost to stop its pulsations, so agonising was the fear that now, on the very threshold, something might occur to disappoint her hopes.

Intense as was her anxiety to see her husband, as the moment actually approached, a dread came over her at the notion of seeing him under such circumstances. Her thoughts were painfully broken in upon by the sounds of merriment and revelry which burst from one of the neighbouring windows—loud songs and shouts of laughter! They jarred upon her ear as something out of tune, unfitting for the place or season, and she wondered how gaolers could be so devoid of feeling as to indulge in noisy jollity, within hearing of their prisoners.

The young girl quickly returned.

"This is the moment, madam. The guards are all engaged; they are going to convey those prisoner lords, whom you may hear carousing within, back to their several apartments; and now you can slip up unperceived."

"The axe suspended over their heads," thought Lady Nithsdale, "and this unseemly recklessness! and shall such as they find mercy, while my lord——"

In a few seconds she had mounted the narrow stairs; passed the outer room, which was at that moment vacant; and the young maiden having gently unbolted the farther door, she found herself in her husband's presence!

He was reading by a dimly burning candle, and started at the sound of footsteps; but before he could ascertain the cause of this interruption, his wife was on his bosom, her arms were around his neck.

"I am here! I am with you at last! It is your own Winifred!" she exclaimed.

"Then Heaven has mercy still in store for me!" he replied.

For a few moments neither could speak. Words seemed all inadequate to express the strong emotions of joy, and of grief, which struggled in their hearts. The Earl of Nithsdale, whose mind was chastened, whose feelings were tempered by long confinement, was the first to recover his self-possession. "Now I see you, my love, I am indeed no longer comfortless! Oh, Winifred! I have passionately longed for this blessed moment! It is five long months since we parted, love;—I have counted the days, the hours;—there has not been one in which I have not required your gentle strength, your trusting patience, to support me or to soothe me. Thanks be to Heaven that has vouchsafed to me once more the joy of beholding you!"—and he lifted her gently from his shoulder, on which her head had sunk.—"And now let me look upon that dear face, and from those pure and holy eyes draw faith, submission, and resignation." He gazed upon her for some moments with a tenderness, which, as he gazed, increased in intensity. "Alas!" he suddenly exclaimed, and flinging his arms upon the table, he hid his face in his hands—"Alas! it is not thus I shall learn to submit cheerfully to my fate! To see you once again!—to hear that voice—to press that beloved form once more to my heart—to feel that if my life were spared, it would be to pass that life with you, for you! oh! this does not reconcile one to what must be——" Then checking himself, he added, in a calmer tone, "But are you well, my love? you have not suffered on your journey? And the children?—you hear of them? I know not how it has fared with them for many, many weeks. Poor innocents!"—And the thought that he should never see them more, made his voice quiver as he spoke.

"Oh, they are well, and safe, and happy, in health and freedom, in a more favoured land than this!"

He looked up, and a smile illumined his features; but by the dim light of the solitary taper his countenance looked wan, and the last few months had left deep traces of care upon his brow.

"You are ill!" she exclaimed in affright; "you must be ill."

"Nay," he replied, with gentleness, "my health is unimpaired; and now my Winifred is come, my spirits will soon be cheered."

"Alas! I have seen you pale before, and I have seen you sad; but never, never did I see you look thus!"

"Time will do its own work, dearest! and I am older by some months than when you saw me last. My Winifred must not quarrel with her husband," he added, smiling, "because age steals upon him with no gentle hand. Oh! is it not our wish, our most earnest wish, my love," he continued, with solemnity and tenderness, "to see each other grow old? And do you not think that if we should be spared to each other, years would only rivet still closer the bonds which unite us; that for every charm which may depart with youth, there would arise a thousand recollections of mutual kindnesses, mutual sufferings, ay, and mutual joys, (for we have known many days of happiness,) which would still render us more dear, one to the other? Methinks that when that delicate form shall have lost its roundness," and he passed his arm around her slender waist; "and when those eyes shall have lost their brilliancy, and that clear forehead its smoothness; when these soft curls," and he pressed to his lips one of the two or three long curls which, according to the fashion of the time, were suffered to fall on her neck,—"when these soft brown curls shall be mixed with grey—that my Winifred would be, if possible, more precious to my heart than she is even now; for I should remember that those eyes have been dimmed with tears for me, that smooth brow care-worn on my account." Lady Nithsdale wept softly, unresistingly; she struggled not against her tears, for she was almost unconscious that they flowed. "Should those blessed days ever come to us, Winifred, the recollection of this hour will be sweet; and should there be no future for me——"

"There will be none for me," she quickly interposed; "I feel assured," and she pressed her hand against her heart—"I feel assured, there would be none for me!"

"Hush, hush, dearest!—remember the children; they must not be orphans:—but we will not unnerve ourselves. I have still much to hear: as yet I have thought but of myself,—I blush that private feeling should so wholly have engrossed me. Did you see the king? for thus I must still call him, though I well see that he is fated never to rule over this land. And I begin to think that it might not be for the general weal that he should do so. The sight, the actual sight of civil war, makes one view matters in a different light."

"Yes, my dearest lord, I waited on his majesty at Scone; for I imagined you would have wished me so to do."

"Assuredly, assuredly!"

"Though many whom we believed to be his most faithful adherents heeded not the summons to attend him, I thought that my dear lord would be the more anxious I should not be backward in my service."

"My Winifred judged of my feelings as she is ever wont. And did the king receive you graciously?"

"Yes, graciously; they told me most graciously: but I know not how it was; he seemed ill at case, suffering in body and in mind. He said as much, I suppose, as is usual and fitting; and yet, methought, under the circumstances, there lacked something of that warmth which might have relighted the expiring flame of loyalty in one's bosom."

"The expiring flame of loyalty in your bosom, my Winifred? If I had spoken so, having seen all I have seen!"

"Oh! but I have seen enough! I passed through the blackened ruins of the burned villages,—burned by his own orders. I saw the houseless inhabitants of what once were flourishing and happy homes; I saw the helpless children perishing in the snow, the old and the infirm without a shelter; I saw the desolated fields; and I had heard—oh! I had heard how the noblest of the land had been treated on their approach to this city, and I felt that it was for his sake that my husband had been pinioned, that his hands hail been tied with cords; for his sake that he had been exposed to the gibes of the multitude! And there he stood, cold and unmoved, and 'hoped my good lord's health continued unimpaired!' Oh! at that moment my loyalty died within me! and I felt—oh! how agonisingly did I feel—that we had sacrificed all for one who was little worthy of the sacrifice!"

"Alas! I have, as you know, long feared that such was the case. His spirit has been early crushed, and it does not possess the elasticity to spring up again. They still retain Perth. Do they expect to hold it?"

"The proclamation orders that a public thanksgiving for King James's safe arrival should take place on the 26th; but there were vague rumours that the Earl of Mar had resolved to evacuate the town; still these were only rumours."

"A thanksgiving for his safe arrival!" Lord Nithsdale repeated with a faint sad smile; "one for his safe departure would be more to the purpose, I fear. Did you see the king but once?"

"It was on my return from Scone I received the good duchess's letter, and you may well imagine I did not linger on the way."

"Some one told me the roads were impassable from the snow; that all carriages were stopped, and that even the post was delayed; so I did not look for you to cheer me yet."

"I rode from York," she replied, "with Walter Elliot and our faithful Amy Evans."

"You, Winifred, who never could be persuaded to mount the gentlest and best-paced palfrey!"

"Oh! I forgot those foolish fears, those fears which were bred of too much happiness, and of being too tenderly cared for; I never thought of any fear but one—that of being delayed on my journey."

"My own love! that soul of thine will ever have the mastery over that fragile form."

"Hark! The clock strikes. I have but a few moments more. The hour is wearing away. I have seen the duchess, and she has told me to whom I must most strenuously apply; and she has warned me that I must not do what, as you may well believe, my heart would prompt,—share your prison. I must be at liberty to act in your service: but I have bribed a kindly guard, and he will admit me when it is possible. I understand others, without the holy claim I have, gain access to some within the walls: so trust me, I shall soon be here again; and, as I hope, with news to cheer us both." Lord Nithsdale shook his head slightly, but then, with an assumed cheerfulness, listened to what she had to communicate. "Lord Danby and Lord Nottingham are friendly; the Duke of Richmond, though not friendly, cannot be forward in the prosecution, related as he is to Lord Derwentwater; and I feel persuaded the next news from Scotland will be such as to quiet the fears of government."

"And is the time come when one calculates upon the failure of the cause to which oneself and all one's house have ever been devoted?"

"Nay! can I now think of any cause but my own dear lord's? such days are past, and gone forever! To accomplish all that may he compassed with honour is now my first, my only object!" and she tore herself from the husband who, whatever might be her devotion to him, repaid her with the love and reverence he might feel for a guardian angel.

She was gone! He remained in his solitude, gazing upon the door through which she had disappeared, and almost doubting whether he had been blessed with her actual presence, or whether it had not been a cheering vision vouchsafed to him in mercy.

How often had he thought that were she near to console and to support him, he could meet his fate without a murmur. He fancied that the bitterest part of his present condition was the entire separation from her who was the partner of all his feelings, the depositary of his sorrows, the sharer of his anxieties. But alas! while life was so dreary, so joyless, so irksome, it was far less precious to him than when the sight of her had brought before him all he was to lose. He was sad, hopeless, resigned before. He felt that, if wrong, he had not been wilfully so in the course he had pursued; he consoled himself with the reflection that no stain could rest on his fair fame; that, though his name might be attainted, he left behind him to his children a character of unblemished honour. He had deliberately, and with little hope of any better result than the present, upheld the pretensions of the prince for whom he was now suffering; and he felt it would not become him to repine at an event to which he had always looked forward as probable.

An honourable death in battle, a more awful one on the scaffold, or at best an eternal banishment, were the alternatives which he had ever contemplated; and he thought he had schooled his mind to acquiesce calmly in the fulfilment of that which awaited him, although it might be the least welcome of the three.

Once more to see his beloved wife, to pour forth all his thoughts and feelings into her bosom, to deliver to her his last injunctions concerning his children, to arrange with her some plan for her future life, to give and to receive the last adieux, and then placidly and composedly to lay his head upon the block,—such had been the course in which he had guided his feelings and his reflections.

He had seen her! He had felt how dearly he was loved! He had felt what charms life still possessed for him! He had also felt how utterly impossible it was that she could ever acquiesce as he did in his fate, how completely her happiness was bound up in his! And where were now the resignation,—the cheerful submission,—the philosophical indifference with which he had brought himself to anticipate his probable sentence?

Never since the first night he had become an inmate of the Tower, had he experienced such a struggle of conflicting feelings! The picture which he had himself drawn of the gradual approach of age, of the happiness of descending hand in hand into the vale of years, had awakened a desire of life which he had hoped no longer lurked within his bosom, and it required the aid of prayer to subdue, and all the pride of man to conceal, the agitation of his mind.

CHAPTER XVIII.

It is God's indulgence which gives me the space, but man's cruelty that gives me the sad occasion for these thoughts.—Eikon Basiliké.

The greater part of the night which succeeded the Earl of Nithsdale's interview with his wife, was spent by him in restlessly measuring with hasty strides the mean apartment to which he was confined.

In the morning he obtained permission to refresh himself by walking on the leads over the warders' lodgings, an indulgence occasionally granted to the prisoners.

The fresher air, all chilly as it was, and loaded with London smoke, revived him; and as he paced the narrow limits, his eye turned involuntarily towards the vessels which crowded the river up to London Bridge. As he watched, he saw one who sesails were beginning to be unfurled, while all was bustle, hurry, and confusion on board: she was getting under weigh, and he sighed to think how impossible to be surmounted were the obstacles which interposed between him and the vessel which seemed so near.

His eye dropped, and rested on the Traitor's Gate, and he almost thought he once more heard the jarring sound of the iron bolts and bars which had closed behind him.

As his eye passed on, it was arrested by the Bloody Tower, which, as some say, was the spot in which the tragic murder of the young princes was enacted. "They knew not the pains of life," he thought, "neither knew they its joys! They knew not that mutual affection which so painfully yet so sweetly attaches one to existence! But there," and he looked upon the stone which marks the place where Lord Guildford Dudley and Lady Jane Grey were executed,—"there did two pure creatures, bound to each other by every holy tie of faith and love, yield up their innocent spirits. They who had scarcely tasted of happiness,—the cup was snatched from their lips ere they could fully know its sweetness! They would have esteemed themselves most blessed, could they have been assured of as many years of mutual affection, of wedded bliss, as I have already enjoyed. Alas for ye, innocent victims of the ambition of others! when I remember you, I must not repine! And there, again!" as his thoughts followed the objects on which his eye dwelt,—"that was the prison of the unfortunate Anne Boleyn,—wounded in her affections, in her honour,—pampered with flattery, surrounded with pomp, enervated by splendour, only to be the more cruelly and suddenly plunged into the depths of misery and disgrace. No! no! I must not repine!"—and he again schooled his mind to resignation and submission. "I have neither met with falsehood nor with ingratitude! my honour is not impeached! I must not, will not, repine!"

Lady Nithsdale meanwhile was not inactive. She visited the Countesses of Derwentwater and Wintoun; and they agreed that, should the sentence not prove favourable, they would together present a petition to parliament, and in the intervening space of time that each should exert her private influence with those in power, to win as many as possible to their interest.

She visited her husband's cousin, the Duchess of Buccleugh, and obtained the duke's promise to present a petition should the necessity occur; and having taken every measure that prudence could dictate, she had but to await in tremulous anxiety the sentence which was to be pronounced on the 9th of February.

She frequently contrived to see her lord, though she was always obliged to do so by stealth. These visits, although so ardently desired by both, were to both hours of bitter anguish.

The Earl of Nithsdale, fully aware of the feeling which prevailed against him, anticipated but too justly the sentence which would be pronounced, and could not bring himself to echo the hopeful sentiments with which his wife buoyed up her spirits; neither had he the heart fully to express to her his own more gloomy apprehensions.

He listened to the details of all she had done, and all she projected, with a gentle, hopeless gratitude, which saddened and dispirited her; although she could not, she would not, adopt his view of the subject.

This produced a certain reserve. She felt he restrained his own feelings for her sake, that he smothered the anticipations of which she could not endure to hear the utterance; and the open communion of thought was at an end! She dared not allude to the future, his countenance so plainly expressed there was no future for him; and they both shrunk from a recurrence to the joys of that dear home which neither hoped again to inhabit.

To a third person it would often have appeared strange that, under such circumstances, a wedded pair, so devotedly attached, should be able to dwell at such length upon the public affairs of the day, and to discuss with so much interest the movements in Scotland.

But the earl could not be indifferent as to what befel the prince to whom he had sacrificed himself; while Lady Nithsdale, on the contrary, since her interview with the Chevalier, in which her feelings had been so little gratified, had looked on him as the unworthy object for which her happiness had been wrecked. As her sorrows pressed more heavily upon her, she felt more and more that he had seemed careless of the sufferings of others. As her fears increased, and as her hopes diminished, she more and more resented the cold inquiry after "the health of the earl her husband;" and the behaviour, which at the time had only seemed measured and unsatisfactory, assumed, as she dwelt upon it, the character of selfish hardness.

Alas! the keen edge of sensibility must have been blunted long ere this in the heart of the unfortunate Chevalier de St. George! Inured to misfortune, he appears to have been stupified by it. With the resolution already taken to evacuate Perth, three days after that appointed for the general thanksgiving, did the infatuated prince carry on the pageant of royalty.

The address then offered up—"O Lord, who hast preserved and brought back our dread sovereign King James safely into his own dominions, to the comfort of all those who, in obedience to thy holy word, 'fear God and honour the king'"—could to none present have appeared a more sickening mockery than to the dispirited, despairing descendant of a hundred kings.

Surrounded by a scanty train of heart-broken attendants, in the midst of those very counsellors who had declared the absolute necessity of abandoning the only town of importance which they yet held,—the very spot where they were assembled in prayer and thanksgiving,—did he listen to the words, "Bow the hearts of all his subjects as one man, so that they may only contend who shall be the first to bring the king to his own house."

When, upon the approach of the Duke of Argyle, a vague rumour arose, that it was purposed to retire before the enemy without striking a blow, the indignation of the Highlanders knew no bounds. The love of fighting, inherent in that hardy race, had caused them to look forward with joy and alacrity to the desperate conflict which they imagined to be approaching.

But when they found that the unwelcome report was only too true grief and disappointment turned all to rage, and they assailed their officers as they passed in the streets with every species of reproach.

"What can we do?" was the answer of one who was supposed to be intimately acquainted with the counsels of the Earl of Mar.