WINIFRED, COUNTESS OF NITHSDALE.

CHAPTER I.

My father stood for his true king, Till standing it could do nae mair; The day is lost, and so are we,— Nae wonder mony a heart is sair.

Jacobite Song.

The sound of the organ pealed through the chapel of the English Augustine convent at Bruges: a bright gleam of sunshine, streaming through the painted window to the south of the altar, shone upon the clouds of incense which arose in silvery folds from the censers; it shone upon the white-robed assistants, upon the priests, and upon the calm brow of the young nun who had that moment taken the irrevocable vows which separated her from the world—a world of which she knew but little; but which, from the circumstances in which her family was placed, offered not to her the temptations it usually holds out to youth, beauty, and rank such as hers.

The Lady Lucy Herbert was the fourth daughter of William Marquis of Powis, who, having devoted himself to the cause of James the Second, and accompanied his queen in her flight to France, received from the exiled monarch, as a reward for his uncompromising loyalty, the empty titles of Marquis of Montgomery and Duke of Powis.

James afterwards appointed him steward and chamberlain to his household—offices which, although of small advantage, may have been gratifying to his feelings, as proofs of the estimation in which he was held by the master to whom he had sacrificed everything.

Upon the Duke of Powis's death, which took place in 1696, his widow placed her two youngest daughters in the English Augustine convent at Bruges; while the three elder remained with her at the melancholy shadow of a court still kept up at St. Germain's.

It was no grief to the widowed mother when she found that the bent of the young Lucy's mind was sincerely and enthusiastically directed towards a religious life. Although the attainder had been reversed, and her son had been restored to the Marquisate of Powis, it was not till some years afterwards that she had ventured to return to England; even then she lived in retirement and privacy. The widow of so zealous an adherent to King James could not be regarded without suspicion; her means were scanty; her elder daughters had not then made the advantageous alliances which they afterwards formed; and joyfully did she hail the vocation which she hoped would secure, to one of her children at least, a peaceful and tranquil existence, secure from any farther vicissitudes of fortune.

But to one person the decision of the Lady Lucy Herbert was a matter of deep and unmixed sorrow. Her younger sister, the Lady Winifred, loved her with all the devotion of a fresh and unpractised heart. They had been early separated from the rest of their family. At the period of their father's death, when their childish hearts had for the first time been made acquainted with grief, they had been thrown entirely on each other for support and consolation.

Though many years had now elapsed, the moment was still fresh in their memories, when their mother, in her mourning habit, with pale cheek and streaming eyes, delivered them over to the care of the friend who was to convey them to Bruges. The sad countenances and black garments of their sisters, and of the few domestics who still remained of their former establishment, coupled with the vague, ill-defined feeling, half resembling fear, half shame, which children experience when they witness grief more intense than their young minds can comprehend, had left a deep impression upon both the youthful pensioners. When first they found themselves in the convent, with none but strangers around them, the timid Winifred clung instinctively to her sister; while Lady Lucy, forced, as it were, to become the prop and stay of one younger and weaker than herself, acquired at an early age the habit of seeking strength and support from above.

Loving and admiring her sister as did the Lady Winifred, it may excite wonder that she did not imbibe her strict religious notions; that she also should not have looked forward with joy to the idea of devoting herself to pious seclusion, and thus, at the same time, preserving the society of the being she most loved on earth. But it was not so. On the contrary, she felt her sister's vows as a barrier of separation between them.

Although she had no wish to wander beyond the walls of the little convent garden, though she seldom even went to the parlour grate, and never wished to avail herself of the occasional opportunities which occurred to the pensioners of mixing in society, still she felt an instinctive horror of irrevocable vows, to renounce—they knew not what. It was with a feeling amounting to despair that she witnessed the funeral rites, that she heard the service for the dead, that she saw the black veil dropped between her sister and the world, of whose pains and pleasures they could form no idea. Moreover, these vows for ever precluded the possibility of her seeing their native country in company with that beloved sister; and in the heart of the Lady Winifred there existed the strong instinctive affection for the land of her forefathers, which the coldest and the most hardened are not wholly without, but which in minds of a more ardent temperament amounts almost to a ruling passion. She had never beheld the British shores, she had never breathed British air, and yet she felt as if England was her home—her natural resting-place.

When first the young girls had been sent to Bruges, an old and faithful servant of the name of Evans had accompanied them. She was a native of Wales, and had been born in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Herbert family, Poole Castle, in Montgomeryshire.

Loyalty to the family of Herbert had grown with her growth and strengthened with her strength, and was only balanced by the attachment to her country, which is generally more enthusiastic in the inhabitants of mountainous districts than of any other.

The young girl had listened for hours together to old Evans's glowing descriptions of the cloud-capped Snowdon, the green mountains, the smiling valleys, the rapid streams, the wreaths of mist,—all the varied beauties of her own Wales. From the windows of their convent they could descry nothing but the flat and uninteresting country which surrounds Bruges: but when the clouds formed themselves into a thousand fantastic shapes, old Evans would point out to them how one mass resembled such a mountain near their ancestral castle—how another was the very picture of Snowdon when he wore his white cap of clouds, as she familiarly expressed herself. She would describe to them the peculiar customs of Wales—the snowy caps, the small black hats, of the women,—would expatiate on the light form and airy step with which they trod the mountain paths—would picture to them how beautiful were the white sheep dotting the soft green of the steep and swelling hills, till the youthful Lady Winifred's heart would burn within her to flee to the home of her ancestors.

Nor, though Evans afterwards returned to her mistress, the duchess, when she established herself in England, did these impressions fade away.

The nunnery was all composed of English, most of whom had been driven into exile by the adherence of their families to that of Stuart; thence it naturally arose that all their ideas of prosperity, happiness, splendour and gaiety, were blended with the memory of England. These recollections also partook of the colouring thrown around them by the joyousness of youth; so that perhaps in no spot of earth had patriotism a firmer hold on the human heart than in the English Augustine convent at Bruges. There also did King James the Third, as he was ever styled, reign without a rival. To every inhabitant of the convent was his cause endeared by the sacrifice of friends, of property, of rank, or of situation; and all those whose age or disposition inclined them to hope, rather than to despond, looked forward with superstitious confidence to the time when "the king should enjoy his own again."

It was an additional grief to the Lady Winifred that her sister's vows would prevent her ever witnessing the glorious restoration which was to take place at some future and unknown period; and it was with a feeling of desolation keener than any emotion she had experienced since the grief of childhood at her father's death, that she retired for the first time to her solitary apartment as one of the pensioners; while her sister—her friend, her companion by day and by night—was now a professed nun, immured within her narrow cell, and henceforward subject to all the rules and regulations of the order.

The Lady Lucy's vocation had been so decided, and her only surviving parent's consent so unhesitating, that her noviciate had been shortened; and it seemed to Lady Winifred a sudden and violent separation.

During the next year, her thoughts, which could no longer be communicated as they arose in the hourly companionship of sisterhood, turned more frequently than ever towards her native land; her studies were all of the glorious deeds of England; she read none but English poets; she carolled none but English ballads; and she hailed with joy the intelligence that her eldest sister, the Lady Mary, was united to the eldest son of Carril Viscount Molineux, and that an alliance was in treaty between the Lady Frances and the Earl of Seaforth, for she hoped her mother might wish for her society when her sisters were honourably disposed of in marriage.

Since she had taken the vows, the Lady Lucy had unavoidably been not only less her companion, but moreover the constant practice of religious forms and exercises occupied her mind as well as her time. She was unable to sympathise with Lady Winifred: her lot was cast within her convent walls; and she would have considered it a vain and sinful indulgence to let her thoughts wander towards scenes or pleasures, which she had renounced. At the age of fifteen, therefore, the Lady Winifred's mind had been thrown back upon itself; and it gradually acquired a gentle reserve, a mild thoughtfulness, which suited well the cast of her features. The placid brow, and the full white eyelids,—the rounded cheek, which, except when some sudden emotion called up an evanescent bloom, was pale as the white rose consecrated to the Jacobite party,—were not calculated to strike at first sight; but any one who had once looked upon her, could not choose but look again. The dove-like eyes, the lips so full of expression, the whole form so aristocratic in its mould, so feminine in its movements, so delicate, so fragile,—all were rather like a poet's dream, than a being formed to encounter the chances and changes of this rough work-day world. Her slender throat gleamed white from the close, narrow mantilla of black silk edged with lace, which, according to the fashion of the time and country, was closely fastened down the front; her soft brown hair was smoothly parted off her brow, and tucked under the little white cap, enclosing the back of the head, which is still worn in the Low Countries, and which formed part of the dress of the young pensioners.

The character, the countenance, the features, and the habit, all seemed in unison with each other.

CHAPTER II.

Hail, Childhood! lovely age, in thy short race Too oft we know our only happy hours. With what fond yearnings later we retrace Each several step in thy sweet path of flowers. The spirit bounding wild, unknowing why, And still expectant of new ecstacy— The little sorrows that to memory seem As 'twere joys undefin'd in some fair dream.

Unpublished Poems.

One evening the Lady Winifred was alone in the small and simple apartment of which she was now the sole inhabitant; the fading light had obliged her to relinquish her employment, and she gazed through the narrow grated window as the sun sank behind the bank of purple clouds which, in low flat countries, so frequently accompany the decline of day. She thought on old Rachael Evans's descriptions of her home, and she remained lost in fanciful imaginings, conjuring the masses of vapour into the forms of mountains which she had never beheld, when she was roused from her meditations by the entrance of the sister porteress, who came to announce to her that a messenger from England had arrived, and to summon her to the parlour grate.

What were her joy and surprise at recognising old Evans herself, who, with a trusty servant, was sent to convey her in safety to London, where she would meet her mother, the Duchess of Powis, as she was called by all her immediate dependants, although the title conferred upon her husband by James the Second was not allowed to her son at the court of Queen Anne.

The Lady Winifred listened with even fresh delight to all which Rachael Evans could impart respecting her family and her country, though she could not but express her surprise that her mother should so suddenly command her to her presence.

"Your lady mother may have her reasons," replied the old woman, with a mysterious and important air; "and it is likely his gracious majesty himself, (Heaven bless and restore him to his own!) may also have his reasons for wishing you should not follow your sister's example."

"The king! He cannot surely take any thought of what my fate may be!"

"It is not for me to make so bold as to dive into a king's counsels; but it would not be fitting for all the heads of noble Catholic families and true Jacobites to be intermarrying with the daughters of crop-eared Whigamoors, as many of the young lords have done of late. If all the beautiful young ladies of loyal families were to take the veil, as the Lady Lucy has done, it would not be the better for the true cause. Your fair sister, the Lady Anne, is about to be married to the Viscount Carrington; and there may be other nobles as great, or greater, whom King James may also wish to see attached to his cause, rather than withdrawn from it, by the lady whom they may chance to marry."

Lady Winifred was half alarmed at Rachael Evans's insinuations. Love and marriage were topics of conversation interdicted by the elder nuns, and subjects on which she had never wittingly allowed her thoughts to dwell. Yet she could not but collect from various expressions which Evans let drop, that some alliance, by which the Jacobite cause might be strengthened, was in contemplation for her.

Her thoughts were all duty, submission, and obedience, both towards her mother and her king; but her pure and ardent soul recoiled from the idea of being condemned to love and honour one of whom she knew nothing. She questioned Evans more closely, and extracted from her that Colonel Hook had been despatched with credentials from the court of St. Germain's, for the purpose of ascertaining the situation, numbers and ability of King James's adherents in Scotland; that he had reported the Earl of Nithsdale to be a nobleman of much weight and consideration in the southern counties, and the head of a Jacobite family; and that he was considered by the Chevalier de St. George as a person whom it was of great importance to attach firmly to his cause, by uniting him to a lady of undoubted loyalty.

The Lady Winifred received this intelligence with tears and sorrow. The notion of resistance to the wishes of her superiors never crossed her mind as within the scope of possible events; but the prospect which unfolded itself before her seemed to her simple, yet ardent imagination, awful in the extreme.

"Have you ever seen the Earl of Nithsdale?" she timidly inquired, after the long silence which succeeded Rachael Evans's developement of the views entertained with regard to her.

"No, my sweet young lady," replied Evans; "but you need not harbour a fear that he is other than a good and a noble gentleman. There never was a Whig nor a traitor among any of the Maxwells of Caerlaverock. Was it not his ancestor, the noble Sir Eustace, who was as true to King Robert Bruce, as your own blessed father was to his king? and rather than that the enemy should have a chance of turning it into a garrison for themselves, did he not, with his own hands, assist in demolishing his fair castle of Caerlaverock? The king gave him twenty-two pounds in money for this piece of service; and though that sounds little enough in these days, they say it was then thought a great sum of money. It was his ancestor, Lord Robert, who was killed at the battle of Flodden, fighting by King James's side. They always were a noble family, and true to their lawful sovereign. It was the first earl who spent all his princely fortune in the wars of King Charles the Martyr;—nor would he surrender his castles of Caerlaverock and Thrieve, till he had received his majesty's own letters commanding him to do so. It may be a bold speech for me who am but a servant—though, I am proud to say, a trusted one—but I think a young lady should esteem herself honoured to ally herself with one descended from such worthy parentage."

The Lady Winifred sighed: she also set a high value upon an honourable and noble lineage; that a woman should match herself beneath her station appeared to her a shameful degradation. The idea of a Jacobite intermarrying with a Whigamoor was as revolting to her imagination as to Rachael Evans's; yet she would fain have learned something more of her future husband's character, his age, and his appearance.

"But, Evans," she replied, "it sometimes happens that persons of noble birth are mean and sordid in their minds, and such that it would be difficult to love and honour them, as a wife should love and honour her husband, and as I have heard you say my mother loved and honoured my father. Oh! I could tell you a sad tale which one of our nuns has often told to me, how a friend of hers was married to a great duke, who was of the oldest and noblest family in France."

"And was he not noble in mind, as such a great person should ever be?"

"I will repeat it all to you, as sister Margaret has so often told it to me, and you will not wonder at my fears:—She was brought up in the same convent as Eugénie de St. Mesnil: they were friends from childhood; and when Eugénie was removed to her father's house, previous to her betrothment, she begged that her friend might be permitted to accompany her. One morning they were all dressed in their most brilliant apparel,—sister Margaret says that poor Eugénie looked more like an angel than a woman,—the relations were assembled, and in the adjoining apartment waited the notaries and the family of the bridegroom. The folding doors opened:—sister Margaret kept close to Eugénie, who stole a fearful glance towards the gentlemen at the farther end of the room. She whispered softly to sister Margaret 'she only hoped it was not he who wore the blue and silver!' The future bride and bridegroom were now summoned to sign their names to the parchments. Eugénie advanced, and from among the gentlemen she indeed saw him who wore the blue and silver step forward, and it was he who signed his name with hers. Sister Margaret says, that to her dying day she shall never forget the expression of despair in poor Eugénie's countenance. At that moment she resolved she would profess herself a nun; and the very day which saw Eugénie become a miserable wife, sister Margaret returned to her convent. She was soon afterwards removed hither, that she might take the veil among others of her own country.—Alas! alas! how often have I wished to see my native land; and now how much rather would I embrace the fate of sister Margaret, than that of Eugénie de St. Mesnil, if I could do so without failing in duty to my mother!"

"My dear young lady, you should not listen to these love tales; they are almost as bad for young people as reading idle romances and songs."

The Lady Winifred could not suppress a smile. "Nay, dear Evans, I do not think my tale has been a tale of love," she replied.

"I dare say sister Margaret's French friend was very happy after a while, when she became accustomed to the strange duke."

"Alas! I believe not"—and the young Winifred shook her head. "Sister Margaret never would tell me any more of what befel her. She says poor Eugénie is at rest, and bids me ask no farther of her history. It was a very sad one, she always adds; so sad, that she rejoiced when she heard of her friend's death!"

CHAPTER III.

You call this weakness!—It is strength, I say; the parent of all honest feeling! Who loves not his country, can love nothing. The Two Foscari.

Dear as her sister had ever been to the Lady Winifred, never had she seemed so dear as at the moment of parting from her for ever: never had she so loved the convent garden, which had hitherto been her only place of recreation; the cloisters, through which she had so often wandered in the twilight; the chapel, where she had so regularly joined her companions in devotion. It was with a sensation resembling awe, that she bade adieu to the tranquil retreat where she had passed a youth unruffled by any grief, if not enlivened by many pleasures, to enter upon a career which was destined to call forth feelings as pure and as ardent as ever informed mortal clay; feelings which, whatever might prove their intensity in after years, now lay dormant under an exterior almost child-like in its placidity.

To her unpractised eyes every object was new, every sight interesting. The very streets of Bruges were not familiar to her, for she had seldom passed the portals of the convent. The town appeared to her interminable. So many houses, with their high roofs and their pointed gables; the innumerable people, who hurried past each other in every direction, intent on business or on pleasure; the various vehicles which crowded the streets;—all confused her, and she forgot for the moment the grief of parting from her sister, the joyful prospect of seeing her mother, her curiosity concerning her native land, and even her dread of the husband to whom she was destined.

Uninteresting as was the country between Bruges and Ostend, she looked with pleasure at the fields so brightly green, at the hedgerows of willow, at the luxuriant crops; at the industrious peasant who still toiled at his daily labour, or at the noisy boors who were enjoying the relaxation of their favourite game of bowls; at the stout and active boys, who almost excited her mirth by their antics as they ran with incredible speed by the side of the carriage.

The extreme flatness of the country prevents the traveller from becoming aware how near he is to the ocean, till he finds himself almost upon the shore. Though overpowered, her first emotion was mixed with disappointment. When standing on a level with the sea, the eye embraces so much smaller a range than when placed on higher ground, that she did not receive that impression of its boundless expanse which she had anticipated. Yet the sight of the ocean awakened other emotions. She almost felt as if it were part of her native country. She had imbued and fed her mind with the history of England's glories—of England's triumphs. She felt as if the waters were all tributary to the Island Queen; she knew that the navies of England maintained the empire of the sea, and she hailed with a feeling of love and reverence the waves which washed the white cliffs of Albion—the waves which bore the British fleets to conquest and to glory.

It was not till on board the vessel which was to convey her to her long-loved though stranger home, and that the first surprise had in some degree subsided, that her thoughts were again able to dwell on her own future fate.

After a long and thoughtful silence, she thus addressed Evans:—

"It would be impossible that a person who was good should fail to love her husband, would it not?"

"A woman's first duty, madam, is towards her husband."

"Then I trust I shall assuredly love the Earl of Nithsdale," she replied with a brightened countenance; "for when my confessor parted from me, he bestowed on me this little crucifix, which was brought from Our Lady's holy convent at Einsiedlin, and giving me his benediction, he told me I had been ever a good girl, and that he felt confident I should prove myself a virtuous woman. I have felt happier from that moment; for since Father Albert says so, I suppose I must prove virtuous, and fulfil my duties, whatever they may be."

"I wish her grace, your honoured mother, were present," answered Evans, "to hear you speak so beautifully and so properly!"

"But if I should not love Lord Nithsdale, I shall be sinful!" exclaimed Lady Winifred with a look of terror.

"Young ladies' minds should not be turned upon such subjects as love: it is a word which does not befit a maiden's lips," replied Rachael Evans, with an expression of severity in her countenance.

The Lady Winifred was silent and abashed. She feared to have been unmaidenly in her questions, and she buried within her own bosom the emotions which she could not subdue.

It was long before she again ventured to address her companion. She found that years had not softened the old woman's character. She was faithfully devoted to the objects of her loyalty—the Herbert family, the exiled Stuarts, and after them the mountains of Wales; she did not imagine that any doubts or scruples could lawfully interfere where duty towards either of the first-mentioned objects was in question.

The Lady Winifred sat watching the waves as they dashed one after another against the side of the vessel; she wondered within herself to find that the accomplishment of her constant and early wish—the prospect of so soon setting her foot on British land—should not give her more pleasure. She wished she had remained in ignorance of her mother's intentions respecting her, and she felt a certain awe of that mother stealing upon her, from finding old Evans so much more stern and serious than when she had parted from her. Since that period, Evans, who was a privileged person, had been entrusted with many of the secrets of the Jacobite party, and had occasionally been of service in conveying intelligence between the Duchess of Powis and her friends. She had consequently become more and more devoted to the cause, and would have resented any difficulty thrown in the way of a Jacobite plan as an injury offered to herself. She feared Lady Winifred might not blindly submit to the decrees of her mother, and she felt almost displeased with her for even wishing to know to whom she was destined. But the Lady Winifred was so thoroughly imbued with the principles of submission and duty, that resistance to parental authority seemed to her impossible: yet her submission would have been that of a mind in which the sense of duty was stronger even than the warm and ardent feelings of which she in after life gave such signal proofs, not the submission of weakness or of indifference.

At length the white cliffs of Albion actually greeted her eyes, and she once more forgot herself and all that might await her. What a strange and strong tie is that which binds the soul to the land of one's forefathers! Her heart went forth towards the very earth: strange as it was to her, it seemed familiar: and as the vessel glided up the stately river, and passed the ships which bore the riches and the arms of England to every region of the habitable globe, she exulted in the power and the wealth of her country.

They passed the Tower of London; and little did the fair young creature, who gazed with youthful curiosity upon the antique edifice, anticipate what she would one day endure within those walls! Little did she think, when the Traitor's Gate was pointed out to her awe-struck and wondering eyes, that he in whom her own existence was wound up would one day mount those dreary steps, and pass that ominous portal.

The duchess's coach was in waiting to convey the Lady Winifred to her mother's presence—the Duchess of Powis having undertaken a journey to London purposely to receive her daughter: she usually resided in retirement at her son's castle in Wales. She did not wish to excite suspicion by openly refusing to attend the court of Queen Anne; yet she could not bring herself to pay the accustomed homage expected of one of her exalted rank, when, in truth, she was devoted to the cause of the Chevalier de St. George—when she looked upon Queen Anne as an usurper, though, as many others at that time did, she looked upon her in the light of an unwilling usurper.

Queen Anne was known to speak with kindness and pity of her exiled brother; and she was not regarded by the Jacobites with the same horror they had entertained towards Mary, whose want of filial piety afforded her enemies a never-failing topic for eloquent invective.

As the heavy coach, with its ponderous horses, conveyed Lady Winifred to that part of the town where the Duchess of Powis had for the time established herself, her feelings were too much excited to remark upon the long, muddy, and unpaved streets, which contrasted so strangely with the extreme brilliancy of the shops, and which usually called forth the astonishment of those who visited London for the first time.

At length she was ushered into the presence of her who was at once a parent and a stranger. She knelt at her feet;—it was her mother's hand which was placed upon her head—it was her mother's voice which pronounced a blessing over her. The venerable lady embraced her, while a tear shone beneath her eyelid. She looked with tenderness upon her child—her youngest child, but it was a tenderness mixed with reserve and with habitual stateliness. Her mind had been of late years turned to matters of secrecy and importance, and her countenance had acquired an expression which, while it did not amount to sternness, was nearly enough allied to it to awe her young daughter rather than to attract her. Her silver hair was parted smoothly from her forehead, while a black silk hood, from beneath which appeared a close cap of the finest lace, formed her head-dress. Her stature was tall, and remarkably erect. She moved and looked the daughter of a long line of ancestors—the widow of the true and loyal Duke of Powis—the mother of a race of nobles!

The Lady Winifred was presented to many of her relations; and to her sisters, the Ladies Seaforth and Carrington, and the Lady Mary Molineux.

All were delighted with the timid and graceful girl, whose heart was so ready to receive them, as if she had ever been nurtured among them; while the freshness of her mind, her wonder at all she saw, and her determination to love and to admire every thing English, rendered her as interesting as she was attaching.

The Duchess of Powis did not devote many days to making her daughter acquainted with her kinsfolk, but shortly set forth upon her journey to Wales; and at length the Lady Winifred's ardent desire to gaze on real mountains was likely to be gratified. In the agitations of the last few days, and the anticipated delight of visiting Wales, the destined husband had been forgotten. Her mother had not alluded to the subject; and with the natural buoyancy of early youth, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment, and would not look beyond the present happiness.

CHAPTER IV.

Peace, brother, peace! Speak not irreverently Of maiden bashfulness; it were to slander The breath of morn—the dew-drop on the bud— The thousand, thousand evanescent sweets That mix in Nature's earliest incense. Unpublished Poems.

For the first few miles of her journey every step of the way called forth from the Lady Winifred fresh expressions of delight; at every inequality of the ground, she inquired whether these were yet the mountains of Wales, although at the same time she would have been disappointed had she received an answer in the affirmative, for her imagination had pictured something far more wild and sublime.

By degrees her questions became fewer, her exclamations less frequent. It was not that her wonder, or her delight, decreased; it was not that her mother was unkind; but there was no sympathy between the artless child, (for she was scarcely more than a child in experience,) and the aged and serious women, who had arrived nearly at the end of a career, in which they had witnessed the overthrow of the monarch to whom they were attached, the destruction of the religion they professed, and the blasting of the hopes of youth. All that remained of warmth of feeling in the Duchess of Powis was concentrated in the desire of once more seeing a Catholic king upon the throne; all the energies of a lofty and commanding spirit were devoted to that one object.

The innocent wonder, the simple delight of her young daughter, would have afforded to many a subject of pleasing interest: but her thoughts were upon weightier matters; and to a person engaged in secret negotiations for the restoration of a dynasty, such artless graces possessed no charm. The Lady Winifred's personal attractions were such that there was no reason to fear the Earl of Nithsdale would not gladly fulfil the engagement which was desired by his king; from the gentleness and duty of her child, no resistance to her wishes could be anticipated, and she was satisfied.

The duchess journeyed with her own horses, and from the state of the roads in those days there was leisure during their progress for much reflection. By the time the dark blue outlines of the mountains became visible, the Lady Winifred had learned to subdue her raptures, and to resume the staid and sober demeanour which had been usual to her in the convent, but which had in some measure given way under the excitement of her first arrival in England.

When once established in the castle, of which Lord Powis considered his mother as the mistress, and where he himself only occasionally resided, the Lady Winifred found her life nearly as monotonous as it had been at Bruges. She had the pleasure of looking upon the beauties of nature, it is true; but it was only from a distance. The duchess would have considered it improper and undignified for her daughter to have strayed beyond the terrace which surrounded two sides of the castle, or the pleasaunce, which, having been neglected during the years that the Herbert family passed in exile, now rather resembled a straggling orchard, and, although superior in extent, was very inferior in neatness and cultivation to the trim garden of the Augustine convent at Bruges.

There were moments when the Lady Winifred looked back with regret to her convent life—when she thought with painful tenderness of her beloved sister—when she keenly felt the want of congenial companions.

Her mother, serious and abstracted, would sometimes pass whole hours in unbroken silence. Seated in her carved arm-chair of black oak, with its high back and its velvet cushions, she industriously plied her needle at the elaborate piece of carpet-work which had occupied her fingers, though not her thoughts, for the last twelve years; while the Lady Winifred as patiently toiled at the delicate embroidery, in the execution of which persons brought up in foreign convents are usually so skilful.

An airing in the ponderous coach, through roads which would now be deemed impassable, constituted the only break in the routine of their life.

But even then, there was no one to whom she might exclaim upon the beauties of the Dovey, the rich interchange of meadow and mountain, wood and fields of waving grain, or admire the more majestic glories of Cader Idris; which, although inferior in height to Snowdon, strikes the eye as being more lofty, from its more abrupt and bolder outline.

The daughter of Rachael Evans had been appointed as the personal attendant of the Lady Winifred, and notwithstanding the difference in their birth, their condition, and their education, it was not long before the high-born Lady Winifred Herbert discovered in the humble Amy Evans a spirit as simple, as ardent, as unsophisticated, as her own.

Their young hearts warmed to each other. The want of sympathy in the other persons who surrounded her naturally led the Lady Winifred to an unconstrained communication with her waiting-woman; which, had Amy's mind been stamped in a common mould, might have produced disrespect or familiarity, but which, with a soul so true, so frank, as that of the Welsh girl, inspired the enthusiastic devotion which subsequently proved invaluable to her lady.

The Lady Winifred was one evening summoned from her walk upon the terrace, where she was calmly listening to the tinkling of the distant sheep-bells, and watching the sun as it gradually sank behind the blue mountains.

It was Rachael Evans, whose tall and stately form approached through the twilight. From the circumstances before alluded to, she had been associated with those in a class above her, till she had acquired manners, as well as sentiments, beyond her station. She now wished to prepare the Lady Winifred's mind for the unresisting compliance to her mother's wishes, which she knew would be expected from her; but she was too really well-bred ever to lose, in the freedom of the trusted companion, the respect due from a menial to her superiors—while at the same time the affection she felt for one whom she had nursed in infancy, though it tempered the sternness of her character, was but secondary to her devotion to her lady, and the cause her lady had espoused.

There was respect, affection, and decision in Rachael Evans's tone as she thus accosted Lady Winifred:—"Her grace requests your presence in the oak-chamber, madam: she has matters of high importance to communicate to your ladyship. You remember, my dear young lady, what I once told you, that your honoured mother had chosen for you a gentleman of noble lineage and undoubted honour; and I trust that my dear young mistress will show herself, as I know she is, a dutiful and grateful child."

"Oh, Evans! you do not mean—that my mother is really about to speak to me of the gentleman you mentioned—now!—this evening?"

The Lady Winifred clasped her hands and trembled.

"Yes, madam, assuredly is she. And from whom can a young lady more properly receive the first intimation of her approaching marriage, than from her parent—her only remaining parent? But I thought I would prepare you for what you were about to hear, lest you should at first look strange upon her grace; and you know full well that the lady duchess is not one of those who could brook an undutiful word, or a look of disobedience. Ever since his grace's death—Heaven rest his soul!—my mistress has been used to rule everything; and nobly has she contended with adverse fortune, and well is she entitled to observance and respect from all around her!"

"Certainly, Evans. Full well do I know that it is the first duty of a child to honour and obey her parents: still I cannot but feel uneasy and alarmed."

"Compose yourself, my sweet child. I know you are dutiful, although somewhat timid. Do not linger on the way, but hasten to her grace; she is in the oak-room,—and see! the tapers are already lighted. Hasten, lest the supper may be served, and her grace may not be pleased if you are absent."

The Lady Winifred followed old Rachael's injunctions, neither did she venture to question her any farther. Though kinder and less stern than when she had formerly opened the subject, still Rachael's manner was firm and uncommunicative, and she feared to show a curiosity which might be deemed forward or unbecoming. In ages and in countries where marriages are arranged and contracted by parental authority, love, whether lawful or unlawful, is equally treated as a feeling improper to be indulged.

With trembling hands the Lady Winifred turned the lock of the high and massive door. The apartment was brilliant from the wax tapers in heavy silver sconces which illuminated it. The venerable lady was content to live in retirement; but though she inhabited only a few rooms of the rambling old castle, in those she would not dispense with any of the state to which her youth had been accustomed.

She was, as usual, employed upon her carpet-work. How many serious and lofty thoughts—how many ambitious, proud, and melancholy feelings—how many sad and tender recollections—how many aspiring and loyal hopes—had passed through the mind of the noble embroideress, while her fingers had been employed in tracing the unconscious leaves and fruits!—if unrolled, it would have been to her as a journal of past thoughts and feelings!

The Lady Winifred gently closed the door behind her, and timidly approached her mother.

"I sent Rachael Evans to bid you hither, my child," said the duchess, as Lady Winifred stood before her: "be seated, Winifred; I have much to say to you. I have just received a letter from your brother, informing me that he will be here to-morrow by mid-day, and with him the Earl of Nithsdale, who accompanies him from Scotland. He is a nobleman of undoubted loyalty and gallant bearing, and one to whom I shall feel proud and happy in committing the welfare of my child. He is to become your husband, my dear Winifred; your king, your surviving parent, and your brother, have chosen him for you: so prepare yourself to receive him with such maidenly attention as may be fitting in one of your noble birth."

The Lady Winifred answered not; but the tears stood in her eyes, and at length flowed down her cheeks.

"What mean these tears?" resumed the duchess, when she observed them.

"Oh, nothing, madam; only the news is sudden, and I scarcely know——"

"You scarcely know what, my child?"

"I scarcely know how I should comport myself on such an occasion. Is he—is the Earl of Nithsdale—a person—such a person—is he a good man?" the Lady Winifred faltered forth.

"Assuredly is he. Does my daughter think I would wed her to a person who was mean in character—a heretic, a coward, or a profligate? No; not even to fulfil the commands of my king would I peril the immortal soul of my child!" answered the lady, with a proud reliance on her own integrity of purpose.

"Oh, no! my honoured mother, I never imagined such a thing: only——" but she durst frame no other question. If in her secret bosom she wished to know whether he was in outward appearance, and in manners, such as might win a youthful heart, she scarcely ventured to acknowledge to herself any anxiety upon subjects concerning which both her mother and Rachael Evans had appeared to consider it unbecoming in her to inquire.

The Duchess of Powis presently resumed. "The young earl" (the word young was not lost upon Lady Winifred) "was at Bruges when your sister Lucy took the veil; indeed, he has not been many months returned from Flanders. When there, he was fortunate enough to obtain a secret interview with our gracious king."

"Did he indeed?" asked Lady Winifred with eagerness; for the loyalty in which she had been nurtured invested every thing that appertained to the exiled monarch with interest in her eyes.

"Yes; it was when King James was serving in the King of France's army. His retinue, alas! was scarcely equal to that of a private gentleman; and his gracious majesty was suffering so severely from ill-health, that he was shortly obliged to return to St. Germain's; but he received the earl most graciously, and accepted his homage and devotion. Colonel Hook, who has since been sent from St. Germain's to Scotland, has been for some time in communication with the earl, and it is through him that the king has expressed a wish that the loyal family of the Maxwells should form an alliance with that of the Herberts."

The servant now entered to announce that supper was served, and the Lady Winifred offered her supporting arm to conduct her mother into the adjoining apartment, although perhaps at that moment the daughter more needed a stay to her footsteps than the parent, who was pleased and satisfied at the successful termination which she anticipated to the plans she had long been forming.

The repast was silent. The Lady Winifred felt as if the gray-headed butler and the two serving-men must all be aware that she was a destined bride, and she blushed for the agitation which prevented her being able to touch any of the viands placed before her.

It was the custom of the ladies to retire to rest soon after supper; and when the young girl had carefully folded and arranged all belonging to her mother's work, and had dutifully lighted her to her apartment, the duchess gave her a more tender and fondling embrace than was usual, according to the formal manners of the time, and the cold bearing of the person we have described.

This temporary unbending on the part of the parent roused all the smothered feelings in the bosom of the daughter.

"Give me your blessing, dearest mother," she exclaimed, with an emotion her mother had never yet witnessed: "Bless me before I leave you, and pray that I may make a good wife to the stranger I am to marry."

"I do indeed bless you, my good child; nor can I doubt that you will prove the virtuous wife that is a crown of glory to her husband. None of your race and lineage have failed, nor will you, my gentle daughter. Heaven bless you, and preserve you, my Winifred, to be an honour to your family and to your sex!"

Amy Evans was surprised, when her young lady had closed the door of her sleeping-apartment, to see her suddenly throw herself into a chair and burst into convulsive sobs. She was greatly alarmed, and prescribed such simple nostrums for hysterics as occurred to her. She knelt by her side; she patted her lady's hands; she bathed her temples with distilled waters.

"I am not ill, dear Amy! I shall be better in a moment; but—but, I am going to be married, Amy!"

"Indeed, my lady! You do not say so? I hope it is to a worthy gentleman."

"Oh, yes: my mother says he is in every respect most worthy, and was almost angry with me that I could doubt it."

"And is he young?"

"I think the word young escaped my mother's lips."

"And handsome, I hope?"

"Nay, of that I know nothing."

"How! my lady, not know?"

"I have never seen him, and these are questions it would not have been fitting for me to ask."

"Oh! I thank my kind stars I am not a lady," exclaimed Amy, "to be married to some ugly old man one knows nothing of."

"Alas! is he indeed old and ugly? Oh, Amy! would I were an humble country-girl! But," she added, after a moment's pause, with a gentle dignity and firmness of resolve—"but, being what I am, I must do that which my station requires. I must obey my mother, even though he may be as old and as disagreeable as you say."

"Nay, my dear, dear lady, do not look so sad! I know not that he is old and ugly; I was only thinking it would be a sore trial to be married to some old stranger, when—when——" It was now Amy's turn to blush, and to look confused, for she was betrothed to the son of a tenant of the Duke of Powis's. "But with you, my lady, it is quite different. Who knows but your future husband may prove as dear to you, as—as—David is to me?" she added, half-blushing, but half-smiling also, for her engagement was an acknowledged thing.

"Perhaps you may have seen him, Amy? He is a friend of my brother's,—the Earl of Nithsdale."

"No, my sweet lady, I have never seen him; but the name is a marvellous well-sounding name; so do not look sorrowful, but hope for the best. If your lady mother has chosen him, and if your brother loves him, why should not you love him also?"

"And the king, Amy—the king approves of him, and confides in him; and the king wishes for this union!"

"His majesty!" exclaimed Amy with awe; "then it must be right! And yet," she added, "I know not how it would fare with me, if the king was to send his commands from beyond the seas, that David was not to be my husband, but that I was to marry some one he chose for me! Ah, well! it is all as it should be! You are a lady, and I am a country maiden; and it is all for the best!"

CHAPTER V.

His soul is tost sweet hopes and doubts between, And you might almost 'mid these flutterings trace A dear assurance to be lov'd by her; For silence is Love's best interpreter. He might, besides, as she drew near, observe O'er all her face a deep vermilion dye; And short and broken, check'd by cold reserve, Her accents of condoling courtesy. Translation from the Italian of Pulci.

The morrow came. The Lady Winifred was pale, more pale than usual. Her hands trembled as she toiled at her many-coloured silks; more time was spent in disentangling them than in embroidering. Her heart beat at every sound: she started every moment. But the duchess was in the habit of veiling all emotions under an exterior of imperturbable composure, and proceeded with the eternal carpet-work without making one false stitch, although she might feel some inward agitation at the prospect of presenting her daughter to her future husband, and some joy at that of seeing her son, who had been many months absent.

Once or twice she turned her eyes upon her daughter, and secretly regretted that she seemed pale and languid, and she even fancied she could perceive traces of tears upon her cheek; but she knew that the marriage was arranged, and she was certain that a shade more or less of beauty in his betrothed would not affect the ultimate success of the negotiations with the Earl of Nithsdale. She was confident that the Herbert family was too noble to be slighted; and she doubted not that the gentleness and virtues of Winifred must attach her husband, even should her personal attractions fail to strike him at first.

The Lady Winifred, meantime, thought not of her own appearance. She imagined that Lord Nithsdale was as inevitably bound to her as she was to him; and her agitation at the notion of first beholding him, and her longing desire to see the brother, who was equally a stranger to her, swallowed up all personal feelings.

The apartment already described as that usually inhabited by the Duchess of Powis was a corner room, and was lighted by windows on two sides. Lady Winifred habitually established herself in one of those which looked towards the east; it commanded the most extensive view; and, moreover, when gazing in that direction, her thoughts o'erleaped the space between, and wandered towards the friends and playmates of her childhood. From the other, to the south, could be seen the approach of travellers from some distance. If her brother only had been expected, probably she would have placed herself so as to command a view of the road, but now she scarcely ventured to turn her eyes that way: she sat with her face bent low over her frame, almost breathlessly listening to every sound.

The castle clock struck three. The Duchess of Powis wondered her visitors had not yet arrived. She desired her daughter to look out towards the southern entrance, and tell her whether she saw any one approaching.

"Yes, madam!" answered Lady Winifred, in a voice scarcely audible.

"Well, my child, whom and what do you see?"

"There are four horsemen, madam, riding quickly up the hill."

"Then I imagine we may order dinner to be served," answered the mother, who was accustomed to the strictest punctuality. "How near are they?"

"They are even now entering the castle gate;" and Lady Winifred sunk on the window-seat, while her eyes became so dizzy she could scarcely distinguish anything farther. A vague indistinct recollection of sister Margaret's French friend, Eugénie de St. Mesnil, and of the betrothed in blue and silver—a confused thought of Amy's expression, "old and ugly," ran through her brain—when her mother bade her ring the bell: she obeyed; and rallying herself, she returned to the embroidery, which she hoped would assist her in recovering from her confusion.

In a few moments footsteps were heard in the adjoining apartment; the clank of boots—the sound of voices. The door opened; and the Marquis, or, as he was more usually called, the Duke of Powis, advanced to his mother, and having kissed her hand, was folded in her maternal embrace; while Lady Winifred, having risen mechanically from her seat, stood pale and immovable behind her.

"My sister?" inquired the duke.

"Our dear Winifred," replied the duchess; and, to her utter surprise and confusion, the Lady Winifred suddenly found herself embraced by a bluff, gay, honest-looking man, who was indeed her brother.

"And now, my lady mother, you must allow me to present to you my friend and companion, the Earl of Nithsdale, who has been my host for the last three weeks, which I have passed with him at Terreagles."

The Earl of Nithsdale, who had hitherto kept in the background, now advanced with a graceful and respectful bow to make his obeisances to the duchess, who then presented him to her daughter.

The Lady Winifred, startled by her brother's greeting, blushed rosy-red. Lord Nithsdale bowed still lower than to the duchess, and for a moment gazed upon the fair young thing before him, but as quickly withdrew his glance; for, with the nice feeling of a refined mind, he perceived, although her eyes were not for one moment raised from the ground, that she quivered beneath his gaze.

The parent might have been satisfied with the personal attractions of her daughter at this moment. The surprise and the excitement had summoned a bloom that gave her all the brilliancy which at times she might require. The extreme purity of her expression, and bashfulness of her demeanour, suited well with the embarrassing situation in which she was placed.

The mid-day repast was announced. The duchess was handed by Lord Nithsdale; while the Duke of Powis gave his arm to his shrinking sister, who, shy and trembling, scarcely ventured to slightly touch it, alarmed to find herself on so familiar a footing with any man, even though a brother—she who had scarcely spoken to one of the other sex, except good Father Albert.

Had the soft innocent eyes of young Winifred never yet been raised? Had she not yet beheld the face of her future lord? When first the door had opened, she had stolen a furtive glance—had seen enough to convince her that the person who accompanied her brother, if indeed he were the Earl of Nithsdale, was neither old nor ugly. But from that moment forward they had been riveted to the ground.

The dinner was dull and constrained—how should it have been otherwise? Though the Duke of Powis exerted himself to the utmost, and told many lively anecdotes concerning his exploits when deer-stalking in the Highlands, or salmon-fishing in the Lowlands, his unassisted efforts could not succeed in sustaining the conversation. The venerable duchess was always stately in her manners: she had lived almost entirely out of the world, and had none of the small talk of the day. Lady Winifred, of course, could not be expected to speak. Lord Nithsdale, although he had read much, travelled far, and although he had seen much of the world in general, felt that in his situation, also, light and flippant conversation would be out of season; and upon subjects of nearer interest, of deeper anxiety, whether personal or political, they could none of them touch while surrounded by attendants.

When, however, they adjourned to the pleasaunce, they were able to communicate more freely.

The Duke of Powis imparted to the duchess all that Colonel Hook had told them of the Chevalier's hopes and fears; of all the promises of assistance which were held out to him by Louis the Fourteenth; of all the pledges of devoted attachment to the cause which he had received from the various nobles and lairds of Scotland.

The Earl of Nithsdale qualified his friend's hopeful view of the case, by mentioning the divisions which, in consequence of Colonel Hook's mismanagement, had arisen between the more zealous partizans, including the Dukes of Athol and of Perth, who were for at once receiving the king without any conditions, and the Duke of Hamilton, the Earl Marishal, and others, who adopted more moderate principles.

The Lady Winifred cowered close to her mother; but once or twice, attracted by the deep, low, earnest tones of his voice, as he feelingly deplored these disunions, which he feared might prove the destruction of all their hopes, she found her eyes involuntarily turn towards the speaker; and once—once only—he surprised them fixed upon him.

Confused and shocked at herself, she hastily withdrew them, and from that instant found herself, all loyal Jacobite as she was, totally incapable of listening to the chances of success which attended the plans in agitation, but wholly occupied in wondering what must have been the Earl of Nithsdale's impression of her boldness, in having ventured thus to gaze upon him, and fearing he must necessarily have formed a very unfavourable opinion of her.

This was a great change! She was little aware herself that the subject of her anxiety had so completely shifted its ground, from the impression he might make on her, to that which she might make on him.

The Lady Winifred found the young Amy awaiting her with impatience in her chamber. "I have seen him, my dear lady—I have seen him!" she exclaimed with eagerness; "and if he is but as good as he is comely, why there is no harm in leaving it to one's king and one's parents to choose for one. I am so overjoyed to think my dear mistress may be as happy as she deserves to be! for you never could have been happy, my lady, if they had married you to such a husband as I had fancied in my own mind.—But you do not look half pleased, madam! Think you he is not so worthy a gentleman?" inquired Amy with a tone of alarm.

"Oh, yes, Amy; I do not think any one with such a voice could be other than most excellent and most gentle!"

"And it seemed to me, madam, as he was walking in the pleasaunce, that he had the goodliest eye-brows!—so black, and so straight! And yet he did not look as though he were stern."

"I believe not;—but indeed I scarcely ventured,—I was fearful—lest——"

"And then every time you turned at the end of the broad walk, he bowed with such grace and respect to your honoured mother, it did one's heart good to see; for it seemed as though he would make a dutiful son to her, as well as a good husband to you."

"Oh, Amy! I cannot think it possible he should ever be my husband."

"Why, I thought, madam, he was come here on purpose."

"He never can think of me, I am sure! so wise, so noble as he is! And I who know nothing, and have seen nothing—I never can make him a wife such as would be worthy of him!"

"And if you are not worthy to match with any earl, or duke, or prince in the wide world, my lady, I do not know who is—good, sweet, gentle, beautiful, and noble as you are!" exclaimed Amy, with a burst of enthusiasm which almost resembled indignation at her lady for undervaluing herself.

"Oh, no! Amy, not beautiful! I never thought before how much more beautiful my dear sister Lucy is than I am!"

"Nay, my dear, dear lady, I have often heard my mother say the Lady Lucy may be taller, and may have more colour in her cheeks, but that for real beauty her features are not near equal to yours; and as for the Lady Carrington, or the Lady Mary, or——"

"Stop, stop, Amy! I must not listen to such flatteries! What would Father Albert say, if he knew I was listening to such sinful vanities as praises of personal beauty, and that I was listening to hear myself preferred before my sisters? Oh, no! It is not thus I may make myself worthy of him who is to be my lord, if indeed he can condescend to such as I am."

"Oh, my sweet mistress! you are only too good. Bear with me, my lady, and I hope in time I may learn to be something like you. But indeed it hurts me to hear you speak so humbly and so sadly: I am sure that every time you dropped behind, I saw the earl slacken his pace, and steal a look to see if you were there."

"Did he, indeed?" said the young Winifred; but, checking herself, she added, "but now I will to my prayers. Alas! I wish Father Albert were here! I feel as if I had much need of confession, and of ghostly counsel; and yet I do not know what sin I have committed which seems to weigh so heavily upon me. My mind is bewildered. It is so very long since I have confessed! I wonder what Father Albert would say!"

CHAPTER VI.

His affection was of a very extraordinary alloy,—a composition of conscience, and love, and generosity, and gratitude, and all those noble affections that raise the passion to its greatest height.

Clarendon's Life.

On the following morning, after some private conversation between the duchess, her son, and the Earl of Nithsdale, the Lady Winifred was summoned to the oak-chamber, where her mother formally taking her hand, placed it in that of the earl. They both knelt before her to receive her blessing; and though as yet they had never addressed one word to each other, they rose from their knees, their faiths mutually plighted.

Such marriages have often been contracted, and sometimes they may have proved as well assorted as those in which the choice of the individuals has been more consulted; but it has seldom occurred that hearts have so sincerely acquiesced in the vows dictated by others as on this occasion.

The Earl of Nithsdale was approaching the age of thirty. He had visited Paris, he had travelled in Italy, he had passed some time in Germany. There was a singularity in the eye-brows, whose darkness had already attracted Amy's notice, and the clear but melancholy blue eyes which they shaded, in the pale complexion, and the expression of sadness about the mouth, which had proved irresistible to many a foreign fair one. He had often won unwooed the hearts of those Parisian belles, who were not devoted to the dreary court decorum prevalent during the reign of Madame de Maintenon; while many of the more glowing beauties of Italy had absolutely courted the favour of the young Englishman, and many a sentimental German seemed ready to yield her heart, almost before he could lay siege to it.

In his early youth he had not failed to profit by the advances which were thus made to him; but his was not a character which could long find pleasure in such conquests. He had an innate preference for virtue and purity; his disposition was naturally enthusiastic and contemplative. The gay, the thoughtless, passing attachments to which we have alluded, were not in unison with his mind. The sprightly Parisian was too volatile to make any lasting impression on such a heart, the Italian too little refined, the German too easily won; so that, though he had passed the first flush of youth, his real affections were still unhackneyed.

He had accidentally found himself at Bruges when the Lady Lucy pronounced her vows, and was one of the assembly who crowded the church to witness the ceremony. Lady Winifred had been pointed out to him among the convent pensioners, as being sister to the young nun; and he had then remarked upon the innocence and purity of her countenance, and had thought within himself how much more attractive was such an expression than all the graces and fascinations which are meant to allure.

If there is any foundation of virtue in the heart of a man, the more he has been thrown with the less respectable part of the sex, the more he has been exposed to their allurements, the more highly does he prize entire innocence when he meets with it, and the more strict is his line of demarcation between the modest, and those in whose conduct there may be any touch of levity. It might almost be taken as a touchstone of the original disposition, whether or not, through all the errors into which man, when tempted, is liable to fall, he yet preserves a quick perception of genuine purity, and also retains a taste and a veneration for it. Whatever may have been his aberrations, there is always hope that such a one will return to the path of virtue.

The Earl of Nithsdale, however, was not one who had ever been completely carried away in the vortex of dissipation. He had still cherished within his mind an ideal model of perfection, which had preserved him from yielding up his affections to any of the fair creatures who fluttered around him. He had always resolved that the woman to whom he should unite himself should be pure as the unsunned snow, with mind, soul, and affections fresh and unpolluted.

It was, therefore, willingly that he entered into the alliance urged by the agent of his master—a master towards whom he inherited loyalty with the blood which flowed in his veins, and to whom, since his interview with him in Flanders, he felt additionally bound by every tie of romantic honour.

Lord Nithsdale had sought that interview with all the feelings of enthusiasm naturally inspired by the circumstance of the young prince so gallantly entering the King of France's army. He was then saddened at the appearance of ill-health visible in the Chevalier, and he was disheartened by perceiving how poorly he was attended. These facts, unpromising as they were, affected his hopes of success, but they did not lessen the interest he felt for the royal exile. The divisions among the Chevalier's adherents, consequent upon Colonel Hook's imprudent neglect of the more moderate Jacobites, who were not prepared rashly and unconditionally to yield the hard-earned liberties of their country into the hands of a restored monarch, portended, to a person who was not of a sanguine temperament, the ill-success which attended the attempt of 1707, but it did not for a moment affect his allegiance.

This despondent, yet devoted loyalty threw over his whole demeanour a tinge of melancholy, which was calculated to render him only more interesting in the eyes of a young girl; and she soon learned to watch with anxiety the varying expression of his brow, and to hail with joy the smile which her presence invariably called forth.

His affection for her was a mingled feeling of almost parental care and protection, with a punctilious respect, excited by her innocence and her noble birth.

She had been brought up to honour and to obey; and the love to which she gladly and dutifully yielded every faculty of her soul, evinced itself in a thousand actions of almost filial reverence. She was unaccustomed to the common attentions mechanically granted by the other sex, and unconsciously received by those who have lived in the world; and he sometimes smilingly checked her when she stooped for her own roll of silk, or performed for herself and others a thousand little services, which, in former days especially, were exacted not only from a lover, but from all gentlemen towards all ladies.

When, however, they occasionally found themselves alone, a circumstance of rare occurrence, then her instinctive inborn nobleness and modesty made her for the time assume, unknown to herself, the dignity of demeanour befitting one of her rank and station. She was no longer the timid and affectionate girl, only watching to forestall the wishes of him to whom she owed duty and allegiance; but the high-born damsel, whose gentle purity was more awful in its simplicity than the frown of another.

The novelty of such a character—the contrast it afforded to those which he had previously met with—the unusual mixture of perfect confidence in her entire affection for himself, and of perfect certainty that a few weeks would make her his wedded wife, with the fear of alarming the shrinking bashfulness of one nurtured in such utter seclusion,—the desire of winning the unreserved confidence of a creature accustomed to reveal the secret workings of her innocent soul to her confessor alone, and the pleasure of gently insinuating himself into her heart of hearts,—gave a new and singular character to this courtship. His own soul seemed to grow fresh, young, and pure by the study of hers. He enjoyed once more all the simple tastes and pleasures of childhood, which had long ceased to charm him; and he hailed with as much delight, as in some cases a lover would the confession of reciprocal affection, any detail of the youthful amusements of her convent life which he could succeed in luring her to describe.

It was seldom, however, that she spoke herself. She loved to sit in her own accustomed and retired seat, apparently occupied with her embroidery, while she gave up her whole soul to the rapture of listening to his voice, and of drinking long draughts of the new and absorbing passion which it was become her duty to feel. If, as not unfrequently happened, he addressed himself to her, and asked her opinion, her feelings, upon the subject which might be under discussion, she started as from a reverie; and unless it was one which touched upon some matter of morality, of religion, or of loyalty, she could give no opinion, for in truth she had none. She listened for the pleasure of hearing his full, sweet, mellow voice; of learning his sentiments; and of sometimes stealing an occasion of dwelling unobserved upon the countenance, which, in her eyes, beamed with all that was noble and intellectual.

On the day preceding that on which the marriage ceremony was to be performed by a Catholic priest in the chapel of Poole Castle, the Duchess of Powis gave her daughter some of the sage maternal counsel which was to fit her to become a virtuous wife, and the head of a noble household, at a period when the duties of housewifery really devolved upon the mistress.

"Be seated, my dear Winifred, and listen to me attentively. You are now about to enter upon a mode of life entirely new to you; you will have no one to guide and direct you."

"Oh! madam! think you my lord is likely to be called away from me so soon?"

"No, my child; it is not on that account I speak, unless indeed our gracious master should carry his proposed landing into effect; in such a case you would not be a degenerate daughter of the house of Herbert, but you would wish your husband to be among the first who flock to the standard of our rightful sovereign. But though no such paramount duty, to which all others must yield, should call him from your side, there are many points connected with your household arrangements in which you must act and judge for yourself. Of course, should any circumstance occur on which there should be a diversity of opinion between yourself and your husband," (the Lady Winifred looked up in her mother's face with an expression of unfeigned astonishment,) "remember, Winifred, that on such occasions it will be your duty to submit, whether your reason is convinced or not."

"Is it possible?"

"Is what possible, my child?"

"Is it possible, madam, that I should ever hold an opinion contrary to my lord's?"

"Such things have occurred," resumed the duchess, while a transient, almost imperceptible smile passed over her lips. "When you have lived more in the world, you may perhaps acquire wishes and sentiments of your own. Should subjects of dispute arise——"

"Oh! madam!"

"Remember, it is the wife's duty to yield; and remember, that a soft word turneth away wrath."

The duchess had proceeded so far with her advice, because she had ever deemed it right thus to admonish each of her daughters before they entered into the marriage state, when the Lady Winifred exclaimed with tears in her eyes—

"Oh! my dearest mother! surely you have not seen in me any signs of wilfulness! Heaven knows my heart is all submission towards him to whom it has pleased you and my sovereign to unite my destiny. Heaven is my witness," she added, clasping her hands, "that I honour him—that I revere him, (saving yourself, madam, and Father Albert,) second to nothing under Heaven! And to-morrow, mother—to-morrow, I suppose, I may honour him first of all created beings!" She turned her soft and tearful eyes to Heaven with an expression of such enthusiastic, such sublime devotion—though the devotion was not at the moment all religious, that the duchess looked upon her for a space in mute astonishment.

"You are a strange girl," at length she said; "so silent, so reserved, and yet so ardent:" and the mother, who had been too much occupied with other thoughts to study the real character concealed under the gentle, unobtrusive deportment of her child, was surprised and perplexed at this unexpected burst of feeling.

After a pause she resumed. "And there is another thing which I have never failed to impress upon your sisters, which is, that however exalted may be a woman's rank, however ample her husband's fortune, she should not disdain to be the diligent housewife as well as the high-born lady. I have in this small clasped book a collection of family receipts, which I wish you to study carefully, and which you will find of infinite service. They descended to me from my grandmother, her grace of Somerset; and our family have always been renowned for our almond comfits and our spiced cakes. Amy Evans can assist you, for she has learned to compose these condiments under our faithful Rachel."

The Lady Winifred with gratitude and humility received from her mother's hand the small green book with silver clasps which contained these valuable documents. The duchess continued: "In uniting you to one of the Maxwell blood, I need scarcely fear for your principles of loyalty. There can be no doubt that, born of the Herberts, and married to a Maxwell, you will live and die true to the king of your ancestors. And now, my dear child, may a merciful Providence grant that, firm in the faith in which you have been brought up, you may live a virtuous, if not a happy life, and that you may die the death of the righteous!"

The Lady Winifred knelt; and her mother having thus advised her upon conjugal, economical, political, and religious subjects, kissed her fair child's forehead, and they retired to rest.

The next day witnessed the vows of the betrothed pair; and they shortly afterwards took up their abode at the Earl of Nithsdale's castle of Terreagles, in Dumfriesshire.

CHAPTER VII.

The realm from danger to secure, To foreign aid we cry; With papists and non-jurors join To keep out popery. Whig Song.

In the mutual affection which subsisted between herself and her lord, the Countess of Nithsdale would now have enjoyed happiness, as perfect and as unalloyed as mortals may look for here below, had not the public affairs of the time been to both a subject of deep interest and anxiety.

The party of the Chevalier de St. George was strong in Scotland. The people in general were disaffected to the government in consequence of the Union: a measure against which many signed a protest, which was presented by the Duke of Athol; and a measure which, in the eyes of many Scotchmen, appeared contrary to the honour, interest, and constitution of their country, the birthright of the peers, the privileges of the barons and boroughs, and to the claim of right, property, and liberty of the subject.

While such feelings tended to produce discontent among all orders, the regular troops, under the Earl of Leven, did not exceed 2500 men, many of whom upon the landing of the Chevalier would most probably have joined him. The castle of Edinburgh was destitute of ammunition; and if it had surrendered, the Jacobites would have found themselves masters of a considerable sum of money.

The King of France, with the view of making a diversion from the Netherlands, and of occupying Queen Anne with disturbances at home, had granted considerable assistance to the Pretender. A squadron was assembled at Dunkirk under the Chevalier de Fourbin, and a body of land forces was embarked under M. de Gace: James was furnished with services of gold and silver plate, sumptuous tents, splendid liveries, and all sorts of necessaries, even to profusion. Louis had presented him with a sword studded with diamonds, and had repeated to him the same words with which he had dismissed his father,—that the kindest wish he could express towards him was, "that he might never see him again."

The Scottish nobles but awaited the moment of the Chevalier's landing to rise simultaneously in his favour: though outwardly all was quiet, they were on the tip-toe of expectation, when the active measures taken by Queen Anne, the vigilance of Sir George Byng, who intercepted the squadron before it could reach Edinburgh, and the wind, which prevented its ever arriving at Inverness, rendered vain all their hopes and fears.

The Chevalier, after having been tost upon the seas during a month of tempestuous weather, returned to Dunkirk; and Sir George Byng sailed up the Leith road to Edinburgh, for the purpose of receiving the freedom of the city which he had delivered from impending danger.

Thus ended the Chevalier de St. George's first, and almost ridiculous, attempt to recover the throne of his ancestors.

To the Earl of Nithsdale this period had been one of no common anxiety: he was too well aware of the dissensions which Colonel Hook's imprudence had produced among the Chevalier's most faithful partisans, to feel confident of the result under any circumstances; and he knew that till the king was actually in Scotland, and was himself a rallying point for all his adherents, nothing but mischief could accrue from any movement among his friends. He had therefore so conducted himself as to escape the notice of government: his disappointment was great when he found that a moment, in many respects so favourable for the Jacobite cause, had been allowed to escape; but far greater was his mortification at finding the monarch to whom he had devoted himself could be so easily persuaded to return to dependence on the court of France; and his fears for the future affected him still more deeply than his vexation at the failure of the present attempt.

His young wife also grieved at the dispersion of their cherished hopes; but to her, the object of real and deep anxiety was her husband. Sometimes, when, with folded arms, he would gaze vacantly upon the blazing fire, his dark brows knit, his lips compressed, his mind absorbed in sad retrospections and melancholy forebodings, the un-read book would fall upon her knee, or the needle drop from her hand, as she watched the expression of his face. On one occasion, when he caught her eyes thus fixed upon him, a kind but passing smile illumined his countenance; and addressing her with the low and mellow voice which first made her maiden heart his own,—"My gentle Winifred," he said, "you have exchanged a calm and peaceful home, beloved and cheerful friends, the sister of your affections, and all the joyous carelessness of youth, for an unsettled country, a troubled land, and a gloomy husband—who hates himself, dearest, when he thinks his thoughtfulness and his abstraction can cast a shade of care over that smooth and tranquil brow——"

"Oh my dear lord!" she exclaimed, as she looked up at him, her eyes half filled with tears.

Lord Nithsdale continued,—"Or that his moody silence can bring tears into those dear eyes!" and seating himself beside her, he pressed her slender hand in his.

"It is not his silence, but my beloved lord's kind words, that have brought tears into these foolish eyes. I can scarce believe that one so far above me in wisdom and in knowledge—one whose mind is engrossed by subjects of such moment, can take so much thought for such an ignorant child as I am. I often regret my convent education; for I feel, my lord, that I can be no companion to you; and in these times especially, when——"

"Wish not yourself other than you are, my love! It is that purity, that heavenly innocence, that confiding simplicity, which render you in my eyes so immeasurably superior to all the far-famed beauties of this, or any other land. What are their charms, their wit, their talents, their learning, their acquired attractions, to that pure blush which even now mantles my own sweet Winifred's cheek, to hear her praises, though from a husband's lips?"

And Winifred was happy; for she found that in truth her unobtrusive affection, her gentle cares, could alone dispel the gloom which hung over that beloved husband.

Time, however, changed the nature of his regrets. Lord Nithsdale's clear understanding could not fail to perceive that his country was quiet, prosperous, and glorious under the rule of its present monarch; and the doubt would cross him whether it were the act of a true patriot to favour the pretensions of one who must necessarily overturn much of what tended to promote that prosperity.

Still, was he not by birth a Jacobite? a Catholic? and therefore bound from motives of religion to support a Catholic claimant to the throne? Moreover, had he not, in his romantic interview with the Pretender, pledged himself personally to his service? It was too late to retract! If any attempt were renewed in his favour, he could not but join in it. Yet the consciousness of being bound in honour to a cause of which his reason could not thoroughly approve, oppressed him with a sense of care—almost of guilt.

He was a man who wished strictly to act as honour and as duty might dictate, and he was not carried away by eager hopefulness, or by ambition, or by passion. He saw and balanced so nicely the reasons and arguments on both sides, that he was apt to be dissatisfied with himself; sometimes to think he was guilty of a dereliction of duty towards his lawful sovereign, when his clear judgment forced upon him the thriving condition of his country; at others, to feel that he was perhaps ready to sacrifice the real good of thousands to his own private notions of personal honour.

The Lady Nithsdale, with never-failing gentleness, soothed these wayward feelings, if wayward they may be called, which were so natural to a conscientious man in times such as those we treat of. She would chase away his gloom by light and playful converse; she would gather around him their friends and neighbours, and lure him to forget his careful thoughts in the pleasing duties of hospitality; or she would draw his attention to the gambols of their children, the young Lord Maxwell and the little Lady Anne, and lead him to join in their sports, and thus lose the sense of the conflicting duties which pressed so heavily upon his mind. He was always, and at all times, the object of her thoughts; and the earl in return hung on her as his stay, his support, his consolation.

The bond of their mutual affection thus became more firmly knit than if their lives had passed in an uninterrupted flow of happiness. The affection which is wearied by sadness, or falls off in sorrow, is one which has taken but shallow root in the heart.

It is perhaps to the credit of human nature, that misfortune is not the trial under which mutual attachment so frequently gives way as under that of unbroken prosperity. When there is any groundwork of tenderness, the sight of the object of that tenderness in sorrow, in sickness, or in suffering, endears it more and more. The attention is fixed; the thoughts are occupied: affection is called into action; it is not allowed to drop into a slumber, which sometimes ends in lethargy. The enduring love of wives to wayward husbands, the exceeding fondness of some husbands for capricious wives, may thus be accounted for. How natural was it, then, that an anxious and thoughtful temper, produced by conscientious scruples, devoted loyalty, romantic honour, and disinterested patriotism, should concentrate upon her husband every feeling of a soul which, like the Countess of Nithsdale's, was made up of duty and of tenderness!

The imprudent boldness with which many Jacobites professed their principles and their attachment to the Pretender was to Lord Nithsdale a source of much vexation. The Duchess of Gordon sent the faculty of advocates a silver medal, representing on one side the Chevalier de St. George, and on the reverse the British islands, with the motto "Reddite." The duchess was thanked for having presented them with a medal of "their sovereign lord the king;" and a confident hope was expressed that her grace would soon have an opportunity of offering them a second medal, struck upon the "restoration of the king and royal family, and the destruction of usurping tyranny and whiggery."

This whole proceeding was afterwards disowned by the faculty, and by a solemn act they declared their attachment to the queen and the Protestant succession. But such uncalled-for boldness, such weak retracting of daring imprudence, in the opinion of Lord Nithsdale, augured ill for the cause to which he was bound. Such conduct could in no wise forward the hopes of his master, and it only served to keep the country in an unquiet and disturbed state.

He disapproved of the measures of his party; and consequently he kept himself somewhat retired at Terreagles, associating more with his immediate neighbours than courting political connexions. With the Earl of Derwentwater alone he kept up a constant and confidential intercourse. They together deplored the infatuation of some of their friends: in loyalty and patriotism each found in the other a spirit congenial to his own.

Lord Nithsdale's visits to London, or to Edinburgh, were rare; and no change occurred to mark the lapse of years, unless we may note that which took place in the bearing of Amy Evans. She was still, as before, high in her lady's favour, who regarded her more in the light of a confidential, though humble friend, than merely as a waiting-woman. Indeed, Amy in her childhood had been admitted as play-fellow and associate to the daughter of an old cavalier who resided in the neighbourhood of Poole Castle, and from her youthful intercourse with Mrs. Mellicent Hilton, she had acquired a tone of feeling somewhat superior to those in her station of life.

Lady Nithsdale could not but remark that the laughing eyes which once sparkled with merriment were now dull and spiritless, and that the ruddy cheek had lost its bloom. When she sought the chamber where her maidens were employed at their needle, she no longer heard the clear voice of Amy, who used to enliven the light labours of her companions with the ditties she had learned in her childhood. Her gay laugh no longer pealed cheerily on the ear. Lady Nithsdale attributed the change which had gradually stolen over the demeanour of her dear Amy Evans to her separation from her lover.

"You are sad, dear Amy," she one day remarked to her; "but I think I have news that will call up the bloom on those pale cheeks, and I shall hear your old Welsh songs carolled with fresh glee. The farm of Hetherstone is vacant now, and my lord proposes that David should become his tenant;—and then I suppose I must make Jeannie Scott my 'tirewoman!"

"Alas! my gracious mistress, not unless your ladyship is weary of the services of poor Amy Evans. I trust that I can still diligently ply my needle, and that I can arrange your ladyship's head-gear with as neat a hand as Jean Scott at the least."

"Nay, you have been a diligent and careful servant to me, Amy, and I shall love to see you as careful and diligent a wife; and when I visit you in your home, I shall once more see your merry eyes sparkle as they used to do."

"No, madam, those days are gone by for me. You shall ever find me a true and faithful servant, but I shall never be a wife."

"And what will David do without a housewife to see to his dairy, to bake his bread and his bannocks, and to trim his hearth, and keep all neat and seemly around him?"

"He needs not me for a housewife, madam: he has found one, more to his taste, these six months back. He was married, madam, last Lammas-tide;" and, though her hands trembled, she still proceeded in the composition of the spiced comfits which her lady had come to overlook.

"Oh! my poor Amy! And is this true? Can men really be so false?"

"Indeed can they, madam. And I am not the first girl who has been slighted: they all tell me so! But I always held myself high; and it is no comfort to hear how, when his wedding morning came, Donald M'Rae was nowhere to be found; or how Jockie Smith deserted Kate Armstrong, after he had broken a gold piece with her; or how Mary Morrison pined herself to death for the loss of Jamie Elliot. But I am not one to pine myself to death! David's wife shall never hear that Amy Evans had so mean a spirit; no, she shall hear of me cheerful, and contented, madam. And why should I not be so, when I have such a good, kind lady, whom I love better—ay, better than I once did David himself!" And now the tears rained fast from her eyes, which Nature seemed to have intended should only express sprightliness and warm affection. "But, I beseech you, madam, speak not to Jean Scott or to Annie Bell of my griefs. They have never yet seen me weep, and I would not have them know that David's falsehood had wrung tears from me. I shall not feel it so much after a while, my lady! And when all is said and done, where could I ever be so happy as with my kind, my honoured mistress? So you will never say anything more, my lady, of making Jean Scott your 'tirewoman?"

"Oh no! dear Amy; I should never, never like any one about me so well as you!"

"I thought so, my lady; and I told Jean Scott I was sure you would never turn me off, though she prides herself so upon her taste, and the nimbleness of her fingers, and is always throwing out that the time will come when she will have my place!" And Amy was half consoled for the loss of David, when she had ascertained that she retained the same hold on her mistress's affections. Since the blight which had fallen on her first and early love, she valued the favour of her lady above all other earthly goods, and watched over it with the jealous tenderness of a lover.

Her secluded education, and her own early marriage to so honourable a man, had prevented the Countess of Nithsdale's having ever witnessed, much more having ever experienced, the caprice and infidelities of the other sex. She had heard and read of them, as of matters undoubtedly true, but as never likely to come under her own immediate cognizance; and she was astonished at Amy's treating a lover's desertion of his mistress as an event of common occurrence. She wondered still more that pride should, in a low-born country maiden's heart, almost overbalance the more instinctive feeling of love. That a noble damsel should resent any slight was indispensable to her birth and breeding; and the proud blood of the Herberts mantled in her cheeks at the mere imagining such a case. But she thought, had she been lowly born, pride could never have sustained her under so cruel a blow. She forgot that, in all ranks alike, each feels the eyes of his equals upon him,—that the lowest, as well as the highest, have their world, before whom to blush is degradation.

It was not that the gentle Lady Nithsdale was haughty in her nature; the affection which subsisted between herself and Amy sufficiently proved the contrary; but as she was imbued with the divine indefeasible right of kings, so was she with the innate inherent nobility of an ancient family.

CHAPTER VIII.

The virtue of her lively looks Excels the precious stone, I wish to have none other books To read or look upon. The modest mirth that she doth use Is mixed with shamefacedness. Attributed to Lord Rockford, Anne Boleyn's brother.

Although they differed widely in politics, the Duke of Montrose was one of the persons whom Lord Nithsdale looked upon as a true patriot, and a young man of great promise. He was the grandson of the great marquis, and had been by Queen Anne lately raised to the dignity of Duke of Montrose.

The family of the Earl of Nithsdale was, through Douglas, Earl of Moreton, nearly connected with that of the duke; and also, through the marriage of Lord Nithsdale's sister, the Lady Mary Maxwell, to the Earl of Traquhair, with that of his young duchess, the Lady Christian Carnegie, daughter to the Earl of Northesk.