CHAPTER XVI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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