By this good light, a wench of matchless mettle!
This were a leaguer-lass to love a soldier,
To bind his wounds, and kiss his bloody brow,
And sing a roundel as she help'd to arm him,
Though the rough foeman's drums were beat so nigh,
They seem'd to bear the burden.
_Old Play._
When Mistress Margaret entered the Foljambe apartment, she found the
inmates employed in their usual manner; the lady in reading, and her
attendant in embroidering a large piece of tapestry, which had occupied
her ever since Margaret had been first admitted within these secluded
chambers.
Hermione nodded kindly to her visitor, but did not speak; and Margaret,
accustomed to this reception, and in the present case not sorry for it,
as it gave her an interval to collect her thoughts, stooped over Monna
Paula's frame and observed, in a half whisper, "You were just so far as
that rose, Monna, when I first saw you--see, there is the mark where I
had the bad luck to spoil the flower in trying to catch the stitch--I
was little above fifteen then. These flowers make me an old woman, Monna
Paula."
"I wish they could make you a wise one, my child," answered Monna Paula,
in whose esteem pretty Mistress Margaret did not stand quite so high as
in that of her patroness; partly owing to her natural austerity, which
was something intolerant of youth and gaiety, and partly to the jealousy
with which a favourite domestic regards any one whom she considers as a
sort of rival in the affections of her mistress.
"What is it you say to Monna, little one?" asked the lady.
"Nothing, madam," replied Mistress Margaret, "but that I have seen the
real flowers blossom three times over since I first saw Monna Paula
working in her canvass garden, and her violets have not budded yet."
"True, lady-bird," replied Hermione; "but the buds that are longest in
blossoming will last the longest in flower. You have seen them in the
garden bloom thrice, but you have seen them fade thrice also; now, Monna
Paula's will remain in blow for ever--they will fear neither frost nor
tempest."
"True, madam," answered Mistress Margaret; "but neither have they life
or odour."
"That, little one," replied the recluse, "is to compare a life agitated
by hope and fear, and chequered with success and disappointment, and
fevered by the effects of love and hatred, a life of passion and of
feeling, saddened and shortened by its exhausting alternations, to a
calm and tranquil existence, animated but by a sense of duties, and only
employed, during its smooth and quiet course, in the unwearied discharge
of them. Is that the moral of your answer?"
"I do not know, madam," answered Mistress Margaret; "but, of all birds
in the air, I would rather be the lark, that sings while he is drifting
down the summer breeze, than the weathercock that sticks fast yonder
upon his iron perch, and just moves so much as to discharge his duty,
and tell us which way the wind blows."
"Metaphors are no arguments, my pretty maiden," said the Lady Hermione,
smiling.
"I am sorry for that, madam," answered Margaret; "for they are such a
pretty indirect way of telling one's mind when it differs from one's
betters--besides, on this subject there is no end of them, and they are
so civil and becoming withal."
"Indeed?" replied the lady; "let me hear some of them, I pray you."
"It would be, for example, very bold in me," said Margaret, "to say
to your ladyship, that, rather than live a quiet life, I would like a
little variety of hope and fear, and liking and disliking--and--and--and
the other sort of feelings which your ladyship is pleased to speak of;
but I may say freely, and without blame, that I like a butterfly better
than a bettle, or a trembling aspen better than a grim Scots fir, that
never wags a leaf--or that of all the wood, brass, and wire that ever my
father's fingers put together, I do hate and detest a certain huge
old clock of the German fashion, that rings hours and half hours, and
quarters and half quarters, as if it were of such consequence that the
world should know it was wound up and going. Now, dearest lady, I wish
you would only compare that clumsy, clanging, Dutch-looking piece of
lumber, with the beautiful timepiece that Master Heriot caused my father
to make for your ladyship, which uses to play a hundred merry tunes, and
turns out, when it strikes the hour, a whole band of morrice dancers, to
trip the hays to the measure."
"And which of these timepieces goes the truest, Margaret?" said the
lady.
"I must confess the old Dutchman has the advantage in that"--said
Margaret. "I fancy you are right, madam, and that comparisons are no
arguments; at least mine has not brought me through."
"Upon my word, maiden Margaret," said the lady, smiling, "you have been
of late thinking very much of these matters."
"Perhaps too much, madam," said Margaret, so low as only to be heard by
the lady, behind the back of whose chair she had now placed herself. The
words were spoken very gravely, and accompanied by a half sigh, which
did not escape the attention of her to whom they were addressed.
The Lady Hermione turned immediately round, and looked earnestly at
Margaret, then paused for a moment, and, finally, commanded Monna Paula
to carry her frame and embroidery into the antechamber. When they were
left alone, she desired her young friend to come from behind the chair
on the back of which she still rested, and sit down beside her upon a
stool.
"I will remain thus, madam, under your favour," answered Margaret,
without changing her posture; "I would rather you heard me without
seeing me."
"In God's name, maiden," returned her patroness, "what is it you can
have to say, that may not be uttered face to face, to so true a friend
as I am?"
Without making any direct answer, Margaret only replied, "You were
right, dearest lady, when you said, I had suffered my feelings too much
to engross me of late. I have done very wrong, and you will be angry
with me--so will my godfather, but I cannot help it--he must be
rescued."
"_He?_" repeated the lady, with emphasis; "that brief little word does,
indeed, so far explain your mystery;--but come from behind the chair,
you silly popinjay! I will wager you have suffered yonder gay young
apprentice to sit too near your heart. I have not heard you mention
young Vincent for many a day--perhaps he has not been out of mouth and
out of mind both. Have you been so foolish as to let him speak to you
seriously?--I am told he is a bold youth."
"Not bold enough to say any thing that could displease me, madam," said
Margaret.
"Perhaps, then, you were _not_ displeased," said the lady; "or perhaps
he has not _spoken_, which would be wiser and better. Be open-hearted,
my love--your godfather will soon return, and we will take him into
our consultations. If the young man is industrious, and come of honest
parentage, his poverty may be no such insurmountable obstacle. But you
are both of you very young, Margaret--I know your godfather will expect,
that the youth shall first serve out his apprenticeship."
Margaret had hitherto suffered the lady to proceed, under the mistaken
impression which she had adopted, simply because she could not tell how
to interrupt her; but pure despite at hearing her last words gave her
boldness at length to say "I crave your pardon, madam; but neither
the youth you mention, nor any apprentice or master within the city of
London--"
"Margaret," said the lady, in reply, "the contemptuous tone with which
you mention those of your own class, (many hundreds if not thousands of
whom are in all respects better than yourself, and would greatly honour
you by thinking of you,) is methinks, no warrant for the wisdom of your
choice--for a choice, it seems, there is. Who is it, maiden, to whom you
have thus rashly attached yourself?--rashly, I fear it must be."
"It is the young Scottish Lord Glenvarloch, madam," answered Margaret,
in a low and modest tone, but sufficiently firm, considering the
subject.
"The young Lord of Glenvarloch!" repeated the lady, in great
surprise--"Maiden, you are distracted in your wits."
"I knew you would say so, madam," answered Margaret. "It is what another
person has already told me--it is, perhaps, what all the world would
tell me--it is what I am sometimes disposed to tell myself. But look
at me, madam, for I will now come before you, and tell me if there is
madness or distraction in my look and word, when I repeat to you again,
that I have fixed my affections on this young nobleman."
"If there is not madness in your look or word, maiden, there is infinite
folly in what you say," answered the Lady Hermione, sharply. "When did
you ever hear that misplaced love brought any thing but wretchedness?
Seek a match among your equals, Margaret, and escape the countless
kinds of risk and misery that must attend an affection beyond your
degree.--Why do you smile, maiden? Is there aught to cause scorn in what
I say?"
"Surely no, madam," answered Margaret. "I only smiled to think how it
should happen, that, while rank made such a wide difference between
creatures formed from the same clay, the wit of the vulgar should,
nevertheless, jump so exactly the same length with that of the
accomplished and the exalted. It is but the variation of the phrase
which divides them. Dame Ursley told me the very same thing which your
ladyship has but now uttered; only you, madam, talk of countless misery,
and Dame Ursley spoke of the gallows, and Mistress Turner, who was
hanged upon it."
"Indeed?" answered the Lady Hermione; "and who may Dame Ursley be,
that your wise choice has associated with me in the difficult task of
advising a fool?"
"The barber's wife at next door, madam," answered Margaret, with feigned
simplicity, but far from being sorry at heart, that she had found an
indirect mode of mortifying her monitress. "She is the wisest woman that
I know, next to your ladyship."
"A proper confidant," said the lady, "and chosen with the same delicate
sense of what is due to yourself and others!--But what ails you,
maiden--where are you going?"
"Only to ask Dame Ursley's advice," said Margaret, as if about to
depart; "for I see your ladyship is too angry to give me any, and the
emergency is pressing."
"What emergency, thou simple one?" said the lady, in a kinder
tone.--"Sit down, maiden, and tell me your tale. It is true you are a
fool, and a pettish fool to boot; but then you are a child--an amiable
child, with all your self-willed folly, and we must help you, if we
can.--Sit down, I say, as you are desired, and you will find me a safer
and wiser counseller than the barber-woman. And tell me how you come to
suppose, that you have fixed your heart unalterably upon a man whom you
have seen, as I think, but once."
"I have seen him oftener," said the damsel, looking down; "but I have
only spoken to him once. I should have been able to get that once out of
my head, though the impression was so deep, that I could even now repeat
every trifling word he said; but other things have since riveted it in
my bosom for ever."
"Maiden," replied the lady, "_for ever_ is the word which comes most
lightly on the lips in such circumstances, but which, not the less,
is almost the last that we should use. The fashion of this world,
its passions, its joys, and its sorrows, pass away like the winged
breeze--there is nought for ever but that which belongs to the world
beyond the grave."
"You have corrected me justly, madam," said Margaret calmly; "I ought
only to have spoken of my present state of mind, as what will last me
for my lifetime, which unquestionably may be but short."
"And what is there in this Scottish lord that can rivet what concerns
him so closely in your fancy?" said the lady. "I admit him a personable
man, for I have seen him; and I will suppose him courteous and
agreeable. But what are his accomplishments besides, for these surely
are not uncommon attributes."
"He is unfortunate, madam--most unfortunate--and surrounded by snares
of different kinds, ingeniously contrived to ruin his character, destroy
his estate, and, perhaps, to reach even his life. These schemes have
been devised by avarice originally, but they are now followed close by
vindictive ambition, animated, I think, by the absolute and concentrated
spirit of malice; for the Lord Dalgarno--"
"Here, Monna Paula--Monna Paula!" exclaimed the Lady Hermione,
interrupting her young friend's narrative. "She hears me not," she
answered, rising and going out, "I must seek her--I will return
instantly." She returned accordingly very soon after. "You mentioned a
name which I thought was familiar to me," she said; "but Monna Paula has
put me right. I know nothing of your lord--how was it you named him?"
"Lord Dalgarno," said Margaret;--"the wickedest man who lives. Under
pretence of friendship, he introduced the Lord Glenvarloch to a
gambling-house with the purpose of engaging him in deep play; but
he with whom the perfidious traitor had to deal, was too virtuous,
moderate, and cautious, to be caught in a snare so open. What did they
next, but turn his own moderation against him, and persuade others
that--because he would not become the prey of wolves, he herded with
them for a share of their booty! And, while this base Lord Dalgarno was
thus undermining his unsuspecting countryman, he took every measure
to keep him surrounded by creatures of his own, to prevent him from
attending Court, and mixing with those of his proper rank. Since the
Gunpowder Treason, there never was a conspiracy more deeply laid, more
basely and more deliberately pursued."
The lady smiled sadly at Margaret's vehemence, but sighed the next
moment, while she told her young friend how little she knew the world
she was about to live in, since she testified so much surprise at
finding it full of villainy.
"But by what means," she added, "could you, maiden, become possessed of
the secret views of a man so cautious as Lord Dalgarno--as villains in
general are?"
"Permit me to be silent on that subject," said the maiden; "I could not
tell you without betraying others--let it suffice that my tidings are as
certain as the means by which I acquired them are secret and sure. But I
must not tell them even to you."
"You are too bold, Margaret," said the lady, "to traffic in such matters
at your early age. It is not only dangerous, but even unbecoming and
unmaidenly."
"I knew you would say that also," said Margaret, with more meekness and
patience than she usually showed on receiving reproof; "but, God knows,
my heart acquits me of every other feeling save that of the wish to
assist this most innocent and betrayed man.--I contrived to send him
warning of his friend's falsehood;--alas! my care has only hastened his
utter ruin, unless speedy aid be found. He charged his false friend with
treachery, and drew on him in the Park, and is now liable to the fatal
penalty due for breach of privilege of the king's palace."
"This is indeed an extraordinary tale," said Hermione; "is Lord
Glenvarloch then in prison?"
"No, madam, thank God, but in the Sanctuary at Whitefriars--it is matter
of doubt whether it will protect him in such a case--they speak of a
warrant from the Lord Chief Justice--A gentleman of the temple has been
arrested, and is in trouble for having assisted him in his flight.--Even
his taking temporary refuge in that base place, though from extreme
necessity, will be used to the further defaming him. All this I know,
and yet I cannot rescue him--cannot rescue him save by your means."
"By my means, maiden?" said the lady--"you are beside yourself!--What
means can I possess in this secluded situation, of assisting this
unfortunate nobleman?"
"You have means," said Margaret, eagerly; "you have those means, unless
I mistake greatly, which can do anything--can do everything, in this
city, in this world--you have wealth, and the command of a small portion
of it will enable me to extricate him from his present danger. He will
be enabled and directed how to make his escape--and I--" she paused.
"Will accompany him, doubtless, and reap the fruits of your sage
exertions in his behalf?" said the Lady Hermione, ironically.
"May heaven forgive you the unjust thought, lady," answered Margaret.
"I will never see him more--but I shall have saved him, and the thought
will make me happy."
"A cold conclusion to so bold and warm a flame," said the lady, with a
smile which seemed to intimate incredulity.
"It is, however, the only one which I expect, madam--I could almost
say the only one which I wish--I am sure I will use no efforts to bring
about any other; if I am bold in his cause, I am timorous enough in my
own. During our only interview I was unable to speak a word to him. He
knows not the sound of my voice--and all that I have risked, and must
yet risk, I am doing for one, who, were he asked the question, would say
he has long since forgotten that he ever saw, spoke to, or sat beside, a
creature of so little signification as I am."
"This is a strange and unreasonable indulgence of a passion equally
fanciful and dangerous," said Lady Hermione. "You will _not_ assist me,
then?" said Margaret; "have good-day, then, madam--my secret, I trust,
is safe in such honourable keeping."
"Tarry yet a little," said the lady, "and tell me what resource you
have to assist this youth, if you were supplied with money to put it in
motion."
"It is superfluous to ask me the question, madam," answered Margaret,
"unless you purpose to assist me; and, if you do so purpose, it is still
superfluous. You could not understand the means I must use, and time is
too brief to explain."
"But have you in reality such means?" said the lady.
"I have, with the command of a moderate sum," answered Margaret Ramsay,
"the power of baffling all his enemies--of eluding the passion of
the irritated king--the colder but more determined displeasure of the
prince--the vindictive spirit of Buckingham, so hastily directed against
whomsoever crosses the path of his ambition--the cold concentrated
malice of Lord Dalgarno--all, I can baffle them all!"
"But is this to be done without your own personal risk, Margaret?"
replied the lady; "for, be your purpose what it will, you are not to
peril your own reputation or person, in the romantic attempt of serving
another; and I, maiden, am answerable to your godfather,--to your
benefactor, and my own,--not to aid you in any dangerous or unworthy
enterprise."
"Depend upon my word,--my oath,--dearest lady," replied the supplicant,
"that I will act by the agency of others, and do not myself design to
mingle in any enterprise in which my appearance might be either perilous
or unwomanly."
"I know not what to do," said the Lady Hermione; "it is perhaps
incautious and inconsiderate in me to aid so wild a project; yet the end
seems honourable, if the means be sure--what is the penalty if he fall
into their power?"
"Alas, alas! the loss of his right hand!" replied Margaret, her voice
almost stifled with sobs.
"Are the laws of England so cruel? Then there is mercy in heaven alone,"
said the lady, "since, even in this free land, men are wolves to each
other.--Compose yourself, Margaret, and tell me what money is necessary
to secure Lord Glenvarloch's escape."
"Two hundred pieces," replied Margaret; "I would speak to you of
restoring them--and I must one day have the power--only that I
know--that is, I think--your ladyship is indifferent on that score."
"Not a word more of it," said the lady; "call Monna Paula hither."