Tales of the peerage and the peasantry

WINIFRED, COUNTESS OF NITHSDALE.

(CONTINUED.)

CHAPTER XIX.

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

Dryden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And if that should fail?"

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

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

"Oh, Winifred!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXI.

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

MS. Play.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Most true, your grace!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXII.