The drowsy night grows on the world, and now
The busy craftsman and o'erlabour'd hind
Forget the travail of the day in sleep:
Care only wakes, and moping pensiveness.--Rowe.
The sun was now midway through its course, and their progress had been
but slow. "Is not my dear lady in need of rest?" inquired Amy Evans,
as they approached a small village, at the entrance of which there was
a newly-painted gaudy sign of the King's Head.
"No, Amy, no; I need no rest. The consciousness of drawing nearer to my
lord is rest enough for me."
"But, honoured madam," interposed Walter Elliot, "it were not ower
wise in us to push our steeds too hard. They dumb creatures are but
flesh and bluid like our ainselves; and should they chance to knock up,
what shall we do, I'm thinking. 'Tis weary wark for them lifting their
hoofs eighteen or twenty inches through the snaw every step they take.
An' it please your leddyship, we had better gie them a rest at yon
bra'-looking inn."
"Not there, good Walter, not there. Look at that flaring sign! A little
farther on there is another place of refreshment; 'tis but an humble
one I grant, but at this moment any one will be more welcome to me than
this." And she averted her eyes from the "King George's Head," in large
and golden letters, which adorned the front of the building. The place
she had selected was indeed but a wretched ale-house, and they only
stayed there long enough to allow the animals necessary food. She was
impatient to be gone; and as they seldom could proceed beyond a foot's
pace, they were still some miles from their destined resting-place for
the night when the short day had closed in; the sun had already set
crimson beyond the cold snowy fields, and the clear deep blue of the
heavens was spangled with innumerable stars.
The cold was piercing; and her attendants shivered, and wrapped their
cloaks closer around them. At length they passed a blacksmith's
forge; and the bright sparks which darted upwards through the chinks
in the roof, the ruddy light which flared through the open door, the
clear blaze of the fire itself, looked invitingly warm. Amy could not
help remarking to Walter Elliot how comfortable and tempting was the
interior of the forge.
"Art thou cold, my poor girl?" inquired the countess.
"Why, madam, of a surety the wind is very sharp; I should have thought
your ladyship would have felt it more keenly than myself, who have
not been so softly reared. I have been regretting all the day that
we forgot to bring your mantle lined with sable, which her grace of
Montrose sent you last winter."
"Nay, heed me not, good Amy: I thought not of the cold--But now you
speak of it, the night is frosty."
"I have been fain to ask you, honoured madam, where your ladyship means
to abide when you reach London?"
"In truth, Amy, I cannot tell; I thought but of seeing my lord: when
once in London, I felt I should be near to him; but it is more than
probable they will not allow me to share his prison, and I suppose
I must seek lodgings. Her grace of Montrose bade me live privately,
and advised me not to affect any state in my accommodations: but I am
little used to the bustle of a crowded city, and scarcely know how I
must proceed."
"If your ladyship will excuse my boldness, I have been thinking that
I know of some one who might stand our friend. Does not your ladyship
recollect, when you were in Wales, just at the entrance of the village,
about a mile from Poole Castle, a low white house, with a high tiled
roof composed of many gables and strange angles? Two goodly cypress
trees grew before the windows on each side of the gravel walk which led
to the porch, and the trim garden was fenced from the road by a low
stone wall, and a laurustinus hedge within. Your ladyship must remember
they were the finest laurustinus' in all the country, and they were
always the first in bloom in that sheltered spot."
"Yes. I think I remember the white house, Amy; the sun seemed ever to
shine upon it, and make it gleam white against the green hill which
rose behind."
"Sure enough, madam, that was it. The mid-day sun shone full upon it,
just about the hour your ladyship and your honoured mother were used to
take your customary airing. And do you not remember, madam, a tall pale
gentleman, who wore his hair parted up the middle of his forehead, and
hanging long over his ears: it was silver-white, for he was very old?"
"Oh, yes! I recollect him well, for he used to lean over the gate that
opened upon the road, and watch our carriage as it drove by. He always
bowed with a respectful yet a stately air to my mother as we passed:
and I well remember her saying he had been a cavalier in King Charles
the First's time, and she regretted that his increasing infirmities did
not allow him to visit her, for she would have been proud to receive
under her roof one who had been a faithful servant to his master in
times of trouble. If I mistake not, my mother said that when quite a
youth he had been one of the gallant cavaliers who rode post, along
this very road, to carry to the king at York the news of each day's
proceedings in the parliament. Would we had their steeds, and their
strength! by this time we might have reached London."
"Well, madam, this old gentleman had a young daughter, who was little
older than myself. Her mother had died early; and the old gentleman
had no companion but the merry maiden, and the merry maiden had none
but her reverend but melancholy father. She made acquaintance with me
one May morning, when we were gathering cowslips and primroses for our
garlands. I was to be queen, and she gave me all her posies to help
adorn my crown; and when we all came round, a troop of laughing girls
with our garlands, Colonel Hilton gave me a gold piece. After that we
often met; and as the colonel found that my mother was looked upon more
as a friend than as a servant by the honoured duchess, and as I was
somewhat better taught than other maidens of my degree, he would often
let us pass an afternoon together, and young Mrs. Mellicent Hilton
would teach me some of her songs, and read to me from her beautiful
books, and in return I instructed her in many curious stitches and
rare sorts of embroidery; and thus we whiled away the hours; and she
promised that we always should be friends, though she was a lady, and
I but the daughter of a menial. She married a Mr. Morgan a few months
before your ladyship came into Wales: they said the old cavalier did
not over well like the match, for Mr. Morgan's family had turned
against King James the Second; but he was a well-favoured young man,
and Mrs. Mellicent, poor soul, saw no one else, so it was but natural
she should incline towards him.
"The poor old colonel died soon after; but before he died he grew quite
fond of his son-in-law, and he left all he had been able to save of his
property to him and to Mrs. Mellicent, provided they added his name
of Hilton to that of Morgan. I have since heard that Mr. Morgan is
in favour with the new people, and that he has a place about the new
court, so I think she must have it in her power to serve us; and if
Amy Evans's old playmate, Mrs. Mellicent, has not quite forgotten the
pleasures and the pastimes of her youth, I am sure she will have the
inclination to do so."
"My good and thoughtful Amy! and do you know where Mrs. Morgan now
resides?"
"Yes, dearest madam. 'Twas only in the last letter I received from
Wales, that I learned many of these particulars about my old friend,
and that she was just settled in her new house in Bloomsbury."
"But if her husband is so staunch a Whig, 'tis more than probable she
will look coldly on me, who am the wife of one whom she thinks a rebel."
"Nay, madam, but she loved her good old father dearly, though she would
have been loth to give up her sweetheart for what then seemed a by-gone
matter. She would affect you none the less for being of the same way
of thinking as the parent to whom she was ever a dutiful child; and,
moreover, the world may work great changes in the hearts of those who
live in it, but Mrs. Mellicent Hilton's must be sorely changed indeed
if she is not one whose eyes will overflow at any tale of woe, and if
she will stop to calculate the chances of success before she troubles
herself to assist a fellow-creature in distress. Her old father used
often to bid her have more discretion in her kindness, and to tell her
she gave her alms to those who least deserved them: but she never could
say "no" to any one that asked charity in a piteous tone of voice, and
the very dogs about the white manor-house were kept so fat by Mrs.
Mellicent that you might tell them from any others by their good case.
And then, madam, it seems to my poor judgment, that one who knows
something of the court, and yet is not so very great as the Duke of
Montrose, or his lordship's cousin her grace of Buccleugh, or the Earl
of Pembroke, or any of those nobles, may prove of service in a quiet
way, when such great people might fear to attract notice."
"There is much truth in what you say. You have a pertinent judgment,
Amy, and it may be of good avail; we will think more of this. But we
are drawing near our place of destination. See! by the lights gleaming
from so many windows, this must be a considerable town. Walter, is it
not here we are to pass the night?"
"Yes, madam. Your leddyship maun set up here for the night, an' it so
please you. I weel know, for one, that my puir nag could na' carry me a
mile farther."
The snow became less deep as they approached the metropolis, the roads
more beaten, and they were enabled each day to compass longer journeys.
On the evening of the 23rd of January they entered London.
Lady Nithsdale's first impulse would have led her to the Tower, but
it was too late to hope for admittance, and she thought that from the
Duchess of Montrose she was most likely to learn how it fared with her
husband, and what steps it might be most advisable for her to take.
Leaving Amy, therefore, to make what arrangements were necessary for
their accommodation, she instantly took coach and proceeded to the
residence of the Duke of Montrose. She sent word by a servant to the
duchess, that a person desired to see her grace upon business of
importance, and with the message she gave a written billet entreating
to see her in private. She did not sign the paper, not feeling assured
how far any communication with the wife of a state prisoner might
compromise the duchess herself. She was certain that the sight of her
hand writing would procure her instant admission; and yet the few
moments she passed waiting in the street were spent in a state of
mental agitation which surprised herself.
It was a painfully new situation for the daughter of the Duke of Powis,
who was thoroughly imbued with the indelible nobility of aristocratic
birth, to find herself alone, in a hired coach, as a suitor at the
door of one with whom she had ever lived on terms of equality and
intimacy. It was not that she doubted the kindness, the sincerity, the
generosity, of her good friend and cousin; but she now felt more lost,
more unprotected, in the busy, noisy, thronged streets of London, than
she had done in all the difficulties of her perilous journey.
Only a few moments, however, elapsed before the portals were thrown
open, and she found herself ushered through the rank of powdered
liveried domestics, who in those days were deemed indispensable
appendages to the great, into a small ante-room on the ground-floor.
Lady Nithsdale sank on a seat, bewildered, overcome. It all seemed to
her like a strange dream. What news might await her! Three weeks had
elapsed since the date of the duchess's letter--what fearful events
might not have occurred!
The door opened; the duchess appeared, beautiful, brilliant, blooming,
glittering in diamonds and jewels, and rustling in satins and
point-lace. "My sweet cousin! my dear Winifred!" exclaimed the duchess.
"Oh, Christian! dearest friend!" and Lady Nithsdale rushed into her
open arms, and wept upon her neck.
For twelve days body and mind had been upon the stretch, and the words,
the tones of kindness at this moment of exhaustion, completely unnerved
her. "How is he?" she inquired, as she sobbed upon the duchess's bosom.
"Well, dear cousin, well. Compose yourself; why is this, my gentle,
staid, tranquil cousin of Nithsdale? These tears, this trembling, do
not promise well for the work you have in hand."
"True, true!" exclaimed Lady Nithsdale, "it is over! 'twas but a
momentary weakness. I have ridden a weary distance to-day," she
continued, attempting to smile, and hastily pushing her hair off her
brow; "and with a heart not well at ease," she added, pressing her hand
upon her bosom, as if to still its throbbings: "but tell me all; I am
ready now to hear and to endure. On the 10th they were impeached," she
said firmly and resolutely; "of course, my lord pleaded guilty."
"He did. Last Thursday, the 19th, when the lords sent in their reply to
the impeachment, your noble husband, with Lord Derwentwater and Lord
Kenmure, pleaded guilty to the articles exhibited against them. Lord
Wintoun alone on various pretences petitioned for longer delay."
"I knew my lord would never deny the share he took in this sad
business," exclaimed Lady Nithsdale, with a confidence and pride in his
integrity which for a moment over-came her fears for his safety. Then
she added, in a tone which seemed to ask for reassurement, "Surely this
plain-dealing, this honesty, cannot indispose the king! His surrender
at Preston----"
"Yes, yes, we will hope for the best," interrupted the duchess, anxious
to evade the question, for she was too well aware that the Earl of
Nithsdale was looked upon with fear and suspicion; and though she
could not bring herself to crush Lady Nithsdale's hopes, she dared not
encourage them,--"only be calm and prudent."
"Trust me, I am now firm and resolved: I am ready, even impatient,
to be stirring in my husband's service. It was the sight of you, dear
cousin, and the kind tones of your sweet voice----!"
"Well, no more of this: I will see you to-morrow, when we will confer
more at large: I must not now delay. I am to court to-night, as you
may perceive by all this gay apparel; my lord duke is there already
in attendance, and I must not be late. But, before I leave you, let
me enforce one thing; I fear they will refuse you admittance to your
husband, unless you consent to share his imprisonment: this must not
be! You must remain at liberty, or we cannot concert our measures;
you must yourself see and speak with some I will name to you. I have
assurances that the king will show mercy to several of the prisoners;
but still we all know the good Earl of Nithsdale has many enemies, and
there is the more need you should be in freedom to use your influence
with them. Remember, that for his sake, you must not preclude yourself
from serving him far more effectually than you could by sharing his
prison."
"Trust me, my dear friend, I will obey your injunctions. Whatever it
may cost me, I will turn back from his prison-door, if it is for his
good that I should do so. May Heaven bless and reward you, dearest
cousin!" and she seized the duchess's hand and pressed it to her heart.
"'Pshaw! silly Winifred, you need not thank me yet," replied the
duchess, half turning away, and brushing off a tear; "you must not
make me weep before I go to court, or my eyes will make no conquests
to-night, and my lord duke, who loves to hear me praised, will be angry
with you, fair cousin. I must stay with you no longer, or I shall play
the very fool, and not be fit to show myself at St. James's. One kiss,
dear cousin, and adieu! It would not be wise that I should absent
myself from the king's presence just now. For your sake I must not
linger;" and the fair creature moved away in grace and beauty.
She glided through the hall; the splendid coach drove off; the
running-footmen, bearing torches, preceded and accompanied her.
"How unjust," thought Lady Nithsdale, "is the common accusation that
pomp and splendour harden the heart! Where could I find more true
kindness and sympathy than in my dear cousin Christian, whose life has
been one sunny dream of unclouded brilliancy?" But as she slowly and
thoughtfully returned in solitude to the temporary lodging which Amy
had procured for her, she pondered on the duchess's words--"My lord
has many enemies, she said: how can he have enemies? Surely, if favour
is to be shown to any, to whom could it be more properly extended than
to him? Does not the kind duchess alarm herself needlessly? And yet
she knows the counsels of those in power. She would not wish to excite
unreasonable fears in my mind. Alas! what can she mean? My lord was not
one of the first to join the insurgents: Lord Derwentwater was already
in arms; Forster was at the head of a considerable body of troops; the
Earl of Mar had set up King James's standard. Neither had he, like the
Earl of Mar, ever made professions of loyalty to the House of Hanover.
General Forster is even now a member of King George's parliament. But
my dear lord is not obnoxious from either of these causes. He has
never been guilty of treachery, neither has he ever been forward in
causing disturbances in his native land; but when civil broils became
inevitable, then--then he was not found wanting to the family for which
his ancestors have bled and suffered. Oh! would that the morrow were
arrived! This long tedious night, which must intervene before I can
see, learn, hear, know, do anything further, how wearisome, how irksome
is it!"
Upon her return to her lodgings, she found that Amy Evans, on her part,
had not been idle. She had already sought and obtained an interview
with her former companion Mrs. Morgan.
Nearly ten years had elapsed since Mellicent Hilton had left the Welsh
valley of her childhood as the bride of Mr. Morgan, and from that time
the playfellows had never met; for before Mrs. Morgan returned to
visit her father in his solitude, Amy had accompanied the Countess of
Nithsdale into Scotland.
Mrs. Morgan was fortunately alone on the evening in question, when Amy,
half-alarmed at her own presumption, presented herself at her door.
She did not at first recollect, in the Mrs. Evans who was announced,
the merry Amy of her childhood; neither would Amy have recognised, in
the tall, slender, modish lady before her, the buxom, rosy girl who
had climbed the mountain paths, and pulled the wild flowers with her.
She hesitated for a moment, while she assured herself that, although
the complexion was less brilliant, and the full form had fined into a
marvellous taper waist, still the laughing blue eye was the same, the
expression of the free hearty smile the same, although the dimples were
not so visible in the less rounded cheek.
Mrs. Morgan, with an air of courtly breeding, bent herself gracefully
towards the stranger, waiting till she opened her business; when Amy,
half abashed at the changes which had taken place in the exterior
of her former friend, half re-assured by the kindly countenance
which spoke that the heart remained unchanged, after making a low
and respectful courtesy, began with some hesitation, "that she could
scarcely hope Mrs. Morgan would still bear in mind the childish
playmate of Mrs. Mellicent Hilton,--Amy, the daughter of old Rachael
Evans, of Poole Castle."
"What, Amy, the Queen of the May! is it you, my old friend?" exclaimed
Mrs. Morgan, holding out her hand with the frankness she brought from
the Montgomeryshire valley, unimpaired by the intercourse she had since
had with the world. "Oh! I have often wished to see you again, and
often thought what happy hours we have passed together, when we have
laughed even to tears without knowing wherefore, and sung for very want
of thought and care. But, my good Amy, your looks speak that, since
those days, you have been made acquainted with thought and care. Your
countenance is sorrowful. Is your mother, the good Rachael, well? And
David?--How comes it you are still Amy Evans? Have you been cruel after
all?"
"Alas, madam! my poor mother has been dead these two years; she scarce
survived her mistress more than a few weeks: but they were both in
years; and the good Duke of Powis allowed her to be buried in his own
family vault, and she lies near her honoured mistress, the duchess.
And as to David, my dear Mrs. Mellicent, I have not thought of him
for many and many a year; I should esteem it beneath me to pine for
him! He showed the truth of the old saying, 'out of sight, out of
mind;' and I shall never be the one to prove an old proverb false!"
answered Amy, with a flash of her former spirit. "But, madam, I have
other cares, and heavier ones, upon my mind. My dear mistress the good
Countess of Nithsdale's lord is in prison, with the other lords whom
they call rebels, and my lady and I have rode to London to attend
him, and, as I hope, to be of some service to him. But we are nearly
strangers in London; and I thought, madam, that for old acquaintance
sake, perhaps, you would stand our friend. I knew Mr. Morgan was much
about the palace; and they say, madam," she continued, smiling, "there
is nothing like a friend at court; and so I made bold to come to you at
once. I thought, also, you could perhaps inform us where we might lodge
respectably, and yet privately; for her grace the Duchess of Montrose
warned my lady not to live in state, but to keep private."
"Alas! good Amy, I fear you are come on a sad errand," answered Mrs.
Morgan, with a serious countenance. "I fear that the Earl of Nithsdale
is one whose fate is sealed. I hear no talk of mercy being extended
towards him. So staunch a Catholic!--so influential a man on the
borders of Scotland and England!--so forward as his family have ever
been in support of the exiled race! Alas, for your poor mistress! Is
she much attached to him?"
"Oh, madam!" exclaimed Amy, with a face of consternation, "it will kill
my mistress if anything happens to my lord! I am sure, quite sure, she
could not outlive him," she continued, wringing her hands; "you never,
madam, saw such love as hers; it is not like anything else that ever I
heard of. I am sure, when I see how she hangs upon my lord's words--how
she honours and reveres him--how she watches his looks, and lives but
for him--I cannot think I ever cared anything at all about David. And
you, madam, you were very partial to Mr. Morgan; and I well remember
you were resolved to have him" (Mrs. Morgan smiled); "but still your
love was not like my poor mistress's!"
"Poor soul!" said Mrs. Morgan; "what can I do for her? I would serve
her, or any one in such distress, if I knew how I could do so. More
especially, I would gladly serve any one whom you seem to love so
dearly."
"I do indeed love my dear lady with my whole heart, and no one who
knows her excellence could do otherwise."
"Well, dear Amy, you may count on my exerting what little influence I
may possess; and Mr. Morgan is so kind, I am sure he will assist us,
if he can. In the mean time, I can tell you of a worthy family with
whom your mistress might be comfortably and respectably lodged. I will
see Mrs. Mills to-morrow; her house is not far removed from the Tower,
which would, I think, be a recommendation to the Countess of Nithsdale;
and she is a gentle, kind soul, who will be ready to weep with your
lady, and will never wound her by a thoughtless or indiscreet word."
Amy Evans's countenance brightened. "I was right," she exclaimed,
"when I told the countess the world might work great changes, but it
would be indeed a great one if Mrs. Mellicent Hilton had not still
the kindest heart that ever beat. I feared I was making very bold,
and was presuming too much upon the freedom permitted in childhood,
when I ventured to come to you; but I thought time could never have
hardened such feelings as yours, so as to make you resent the liberty
I was taking. In my honoured lady's name, and my own, receive our most
grateful thanks, madam;" and Amy kissed the hand which Mrs. Morgan
cordially extended towards her.
"I will see Mrs. Mills to-morrow morning; and then, with the Countess
of Nithsdale's permission, I will wait on her, and inform her what
arrangements I have been able to make."
"Our blessings on you, dear madam!" repeated Amy, as she took her
leave, and hastened back to meet her lady upon her return from the
Duchess of Montrose.
Lady Nithsdale listened with gratitude to all that Amy told her; and
the kindness they had both met with on their several missions proved
the best cordial which could be administered to feelings so tried as
hers had been. Exhausted nature, however, claimed its rights, and she
slept. The bodily fatigue which caused sleep,--
"Tir'd nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep,"
to give a respite to the workings of her mind, may have assisted in
enabling her to bear all that awaited her.