CHAPTER XXV.

But I, that knew what harbour'd in that head, What virtues rare were temper'd in that breast, Honour the place that such a jewel bred, And kiss the ground whereas the corpse doth rest!

_Lord Surrey on the Death of Sir Thomas Wyatt._

When Lady Nithsdale, after all the varied sufferings of many weeks, the painful excitement of the few preceding days, the agonising violence she had done to her feelings for the last twelve hours, at length found herself pressed to her husband's bosom, when she knew that she was supported by his arms, over-wrought nature gave way, and she fainted.

With the assistance of Amy, however, she soon revived, and in a state of blissful exhaustion she wept freely on his shoulder. Few words were spoken.

When her lady seemed more composed, Amy stole away, for she feared to excite the notice of the other lodgers.

"Let us pray, my love!" said Lady Nithsdale when the door was closed: "let us together pour forth our souls to that Providence who has this day extended over us so special a mercy. It will relieve my bursting soul to give utterance to the gratitude which almost oppresses it;" and they both sunk on their knees in humble adoration.

For a time, nor doubt nor fear disturbed the full security of their gratitude and their joy! It was not till the first grey light began to dawn, and that the twitter of the sparrows on the house-tops, and the discordant sounds of London streets, again broke the stillness which had reigned, that the difficulties and dangers that still surrounded them recurred to their minds.

The earl sighed when first he saw the rays of the sun shine on the taller chimneys of the adjacent buildings, and that the tiled roofs of the surrounding houses became visible from their narrow window, for he remembered his own feelings as he had mentally bidden adieu the preceding evening to the sunbeams; and, mixed with gratulation and thankfulness for the different circumstances under which he now hailed the cheering light, came the recollection of his fellow-prisoners. He thought on the good Earl of Derwentwater, and on his old friend Lord Kenmure.

His wife watched the expression of his countenance. She read what passed within. "Alas!" she said, "I have been a very egotist in my joy. I have not been able to think of those who are now marking in agony and desperation the dawning of this fatal day, who turn from its glorious light in sickening, loathing despair. Alas for them! The extremes of grief, and of happiness, both make us selfish creatures. And yet can I really think of aught but you? How can I grieve, when I can gaze as now upon you, rescued from that dismal place, restored to me and to your children? Oh! we shall together hear their clear young voices; we shall together, with delighted eyes, follow them in their graceful sports; we shall both feel their twining arms around our necks; we shall together guide and direct their young minds; we shall watch the opening intellect develope itself, and ripen into all that is noble in man, all that is lovely in woman! Oh, my love! my husband! what happiness is there in store for us!"

Lord Nithsdale listened in deep-felt rapture: he hung upon her words; he let his soul go to the delightful picture she drew; he drank in the musical sounds of her soft voice; he looked with love and tenderness upon the sweet though wan countenance, which, in its delicate paleness, bore the traces of past suffering.

"What happiness indeed!" he echoed. "What unutterable happiness!"

"And how tall our noble boy will be! We shall scarcely know him, except by those clustering fair curls which contrast so prettily with the dark brows, which are all your own, my love! Oh, those blue eyes! how they used to dance from beneath the shady brow! And Anne, my darling Annie! she will not have forgotten us, I trust; she will not have forgotten to climb your knee, and nestle into your bosom, as she was used to do, while you still remained absorbed in meditation."

A smile, a pleased, a tranquil, tender smile, played over his lips as he said, "My own sweet children, I dare think of you now! Yesterday it was with such painful regret that the image of your innocent endearments rose before my mind, that I strove to banish you from my thoughts. My gallant, stout boy! my pretty Annie!" and a silent but sweet tear stole down his manly cheek. "And yet, my love, are we not almost presumptuous in looking forward thus confidently? Though no longer within a prison's walls, we must not deem ourselves too secure----"

As he spoke, one loud, deep, sonorous toll of a bell was heard. Lady Nithsdale started. The colour, which the joyous picture she had drawn had summoned to her cheeks, gave way to a ghastly paleness. Lord Nithsdale did not finish the broken sentence: both sat in mute horror. Several moments elapsed; they heard no more. They began to fancy some accidental sound had startled them, when again the clear, deep sound struck on their ears--their hearts! She looked upon him with a fearful inquiring glance.

"It must be so," he said; "this is the very hour!" He clasped his hands firmly together; and, dropping his head, he pressed them against his bosom. "My friends, my noble, my true-hearted friends!" he ejaculated in a low and smothered voice.

"O God! and is it over?" she exclaimed, and she wound her arms around him; she clung to him with desperate energy; she pressed him closely to her, while she gazed wildly at the closed door, as if she every moment expected to see it burst open, and the ministers of the law rush in to bereave her of the loved being she had rescued.

"They shall not tear thee from me! No, no! I feel this woman's arm could hold thee with so firm a grasp, that no earthly power could sever us. They shall not, they cannot wrest thee from these arms!"

Again the awful toll of the minute-bell rung upon their ears! "Does it mean all is over?" she again slowly whispered in trembling horror.

"No, no! not so! they are even now on their way to the scaffold," he said. "He breathes yet! my friend, my noble Derwentwater yet breathes this vital air! The healthful blood still flows through his veins! That gallant heart still throbs in its mortal clothing! He is yet alive; and on this vast globe there does not beat a heart more gallant,--a spirit more undaunted dwells not on this earth!"

Again that toll struck on their hearts,--that toll for which they listened, till they almost fancied each must have been the last; when, no! the next awful sound struck their very frame, jarred on their every nerve, even more painfully than that which preceded it. They were half tempted to stop their ears to exclude the torturing clang, but a power which they could not resist compelled them to listen with redoubled intensity.

"By this time they must have reached Tower Hill!" he murmured. If he had seen the fearful expression of her countenance while he thus pictured what would have been, what still might be, his fate, he would in pity have been silent; but his thoughts were at that moment all upon his friends, his companions, his fellow-prisoners. Though he pressed her to his heart, he looked not upon her, and was still absorbed by the scene which he knew was enacting.

"Hush! all is silent! the bell has ceased!" No: it came again! its brazen clang again sounded. They still listened in breathless silence! At length it really ceased.

"What means this stillness?" she faintly asked.

"It is even now," he replied, in a smothered tone, "they must have reached the spot!" He pressed his hand upon his eyes: "My friends! my friends!--my dear, my noble friends!--I should not have abandoned ye; I should be there to share your fate; I ought to be with ye now!" he exclaimed in passion.

"My husband! my life! my love?" she softly whispered, in an appealing, a deprecating tone.

"Oh! no, no! I did not mean to say so! This is my home! here is my resting-place!" and his head dropped upon her shoulder.

Minutes elapsed: neither could keep count of time; it might be moments, it might be hours!

Again the awful, the horrible bell resounded; it seemed to crack his heart-strings. He started up; he shook her from him: he paced the room with hasty strides.

"It is all over!" he exclaimed,--"it is consummated! They are now bloody corpses! head-less trunks!"

She seized him by the arm: "Hush, hush; in mercy hush! speak not with such ungoverned earnestness. Did not Amy forbid us to stir for our lives?--did she not bid us converse in subdued tones?--did she not bid us avoid every movement that might betray that this apartment was occupied? Are there not other lodgers in the house? If you do not value life yourself, take pity on me. Spare me! oh, spare me the horrors you have just brought so vividly before me! Be still, I implore, I command,--by all I have done, all I have ventured, all I have endured!" and she dragged him to the wretched bed on which they had been seated, and which was the only article of furniture the chamber contained. He unresistingly yielded to her gentle force, and re-seated himself.

The dreadful certainty that the fate of his companions in misfortune was sealed completely dispelled the gleam of secure happiness which had shone through the hearts of both.

Lady Nithsdale thought on the Countess of Derwentwater; on the Lady Kenmure; and while she closely clung to her husband's arm, to assure herself in very truth that he was safe, and to prevent his making any movement which might betray him, she pictured to herself the unavailing agonies of the other ladies, till her very brain went round!

It now seemed to her she had as yet accomplished but little. She felt there was no security in their freedom; the fact that they were still within so short a distance of the fatal spot, which had this moment been brought only too forcibly home to the feelings of both, made her impatiently await further intelligence from her faithful friends--made her feel that nought was done till the seas rolled between him and his enemies!

She listened breathlessly, hoping each step might be Amy's, or Mrs. Mills's; and yet she dreaded each sound that reached her, lest it might prove the approach of guards, who, having traced his steps, might have succeeded in discovering his retreat.

Lord Nithsdale, on the other hand, thought not of himself; his feelings were all for the departed. His imagination rapidly ran over his former intercourse with his friend.

"I never saw him from that day," he murmured thoughtfully; "we parted at the second gateway when we returned from Westminster Hall, on the 9th. As we were in the coach, on our way home, he regretted having pleaded guilty; 'for,' he said, 'it is not treason that we have committed! it would have been treason in us to have acted otherwise than we have done. Yes,' he continued; 'all, save the prisoners, all the multitudes who crowded the vast Hall--all, all were traitors, except ourselves!' And when I urged that the expression thus used was but the form in which we conveyed that we denied not our share in the business, 'But I am not a traitor to my lawful king, and I should not have allowed the word,' he replied with earnestness. We were then led from the coach to our separate lodgings," continued the earl, following the current of his own melancholy thoughts, "and as we parted,--for the last time parted,--he pressed my hand, and said, 'Nithsdale, we have been friends through life, should we be parted in death? (which I do not think we shall be, we shall probably share the same doom!) but should one survive, let me live in your remembrance, as, I promise, you shall in mine!' And so he shall! never, never will I forget you, my noble Ratcliffe; here shall your memory dwell," he added, striking his bosom,--"here, while the life-blood throbs through this heart!"

He paused, and Lady Nithsdale for a while feared to disturb the sad recollections in which he so naturally indulged; but at length she gently ventured to whisper:--

"And if you thus feel for him who was your friend, think what would have been my condition had the husband of my love shared his fate! Control your voice! Speak but in whispers. Think should you now be dragged from me!" she continued in a meek and supplicating tone.

"True, true, my gentle love!" he softly answered. "I will be prudent,--calm and prudent; I owe it in gratitude to my deliverer."

She had scarcely thus tempered down his emotions, when they were both startled by the sound of footsteps; but they were soft and stealthy. There was no heavy tramp, no sound of arms, no rough voices.

There came three gentle taps upon the door; Lady Nithsdale hastened to it; Amy gave the preconcerted sign, and she admitted her.

Her face was pale, almost livid; her eyes seemed starting from her head; she staggered into the room, but she failed not carefully to close and double-lock the door behind her.

"I came to tell you all that we have arranged," she said, in a broken voice; "and----I will speak in a moment...."

"Oh, merciful Heaven! Do they suspect? Have they traced him?" cried Lady Nithsdale, in tremulous agony.

"Oh, no! it is not that: my dear lord is safe,--I trust,--I hope; safe from that dreadful doom!" and Amy closed her eyes for a moment.

"For pity's sake explain yourself,--dear, dear Amy!"

"'Tis nothing,--it will pass. 'Tis nothing more than we all know. We knew this was the fatal morning; and I waited till all was over, for I dared not willingly risk seeing anything dreadful. I thought I might now venture here, for Mr. Mills, who was there, told me all was accomplished. I came to tell you we have hopes for my lord's speedy departure. But oh! I did not wait long enough! The scaffold is still up," she continued, shuddering at the recollection, "all hung with black cloth; and the block, the huge--bloody--wooden block,--and the saw-dust! Oh! my soul sickens!"

Deep as was her anxiety for her lord's escape, the countess herself could not command words to inquire what were the hopes of accomplishing it, to which Amy alluded. All remained for some moments speechless, with eyes fixed on the ground, fearful to meet those of the other.

At length Lady Nithsdale stole a glance towards her husband to see how he bore what Amy had just uttered. His face was concealed by both his hands.

Amy was the first to recover herself: "The Venetian ambassador sends his coach next week to meet his brother at Dover; and we hope to persuade his excellency's servant, M. Michel, to take charge of my lord. He is one on whom we may depend. He is under great obligations to Mr. and Mrs. Mills, and would do anything to repay them; and when once he is safe away, he is not responsible to those in power here. Yes, dearest madam, I have good hope that all will turn out right," continued Amy, striving to shake off the horror which had overpowered her when first she entered.

"Thanks, my faithful, true friend!" and Lady Nithsdale tenderly embraced her.

Lord Nithsdale appeared not to heed what they had said; but, in a low, hollow voice, inquired, with his face averted,--for he shrunk from showing to any eye but his own Winifred's, the traces of deep emotion which he could not master,--"Did Mr. Mills mention any particulars?"

"Nothing very particular," answered Amy, shuddering at the question.

"Did the lords address the people?" he again asked, his face still averted, and with a forced calmness in his tone.

"I believe they did, my lord."

"Was Mr. Mills within hearing?"

"Yes, my dear master; but why harrow your feelings by listening to these details? Surely it were better to think of the future, and bend your mind to all that there remains to do?"

"Nay, I must hear; I must learn all I can of my lost, lost friends!" he exclaimed, turning upon them a face so awful in its noble grief that none dared for a moment to resist his wishes. "Tell me all; let me hear everything!"

Unable to oppose, or to resist, his firm and solemn command, Amy began her tale: "They were taken, my lord, in a hackney-coach from the Tower to the Transport Office. It was a little before ten o'clock."

"I know it," he answered. "We heard the bell!" he added in a sepulchral inward voice.

"The Earl of Derwentwater was the first; and though he seemed somewhat pale, his bearing was resolute and sedate, Mr. Mills said."

"Assuredly it was!" said the earl, almost angry that it should be deemed possible his friend could have borne himself otherwise.

"After some time spent in prayer he obtained the sheriff's leave to read a paper. He came forward to the rails, and he asked pardon of those whom he might have scandalized by pleading guilty at his trial."

"I knew that weighed upon his mind," murmured the earl.

"He said he was sensible he had by this made bold with his loyalty to King James; but that he had been told it was merely a form, and that there was nothing of moment in so doing."

"They told us all so;--that, having been undeniably in arms, pleading guilty was but the consequence of submitting to mercy."

"He said he died a Roman Catholic, and was in perfect charity with all the world; and he added, that if the prince, who now governs, had spared his life, he should have thought himself obliged never more to take up arms against him." Amy was silent Lord Nithsdale, after a pause of some moments, said, in a voice scarcely audible,

"Did he suffer? Was it quickly over?"

"At one blow, my lord," answered Amy, shuddering as she spoke.

"Pardon me, good Amy,--I pain you; but I must know. And Lord Kenmure?"

"He did not speak to the people; but in his devotions he prayed for King James. He apologised for his dress; saying, he had so little thought of dying so soon, he had not provided a black suit. Mr. Mills says he showed great resolution and firmness in his carriage, though, to his mind, he was not so calm within as the Earl of Derwentwater."

"I can endure no more!" at length exclaimed Lady Nithsdale, as all these details so horribly pictured the scene: "I cannot, cannot bear it! Amy, in mercy cease!"

"I crave your pardon, dearest wife; but they were my friends--my best friends,--and they are gone! But we will hear no more!" And he again buried his face in his hands.

Amy told her lady that Mrs. Mills would soon be with them, and bring the answer of M. Michel. She was even now at the Venetian ambassador's, and hoped to have arranged everything according to their wishes.

The countess pressed Amy's hand, and they silently awaited Mrs. Mills's coming.

It was late before she arrived; but she told them that on the following day, the Saturday, Lord Nithsdale might remove to the ambassador's, where M. Michel undertook to conceal him in his own chamber; that on the Wednesday in the following week, his excellency's coach-and-six was to go to Dover to meet his brother, when M. Michel could easily take Lord Nithsdale in his master's livery as one of his retinue.

All seemed to promise well, and the countess breathed more freely.

Mrs. Mills had considerately brought with her some bread, which, with a loaf and a bottle of wine which had been provided the evening before, was all they had to subsist upon for the two days and nights they spent in their present lurking-place.

On the Saturday they parted, according to this arrangement. To both, such a parting was a severe trial!

The countess feared every possible and every impossible danger must beset his path when she could no longer see him with her own eyes. He found the task a hard one to tear himself again from her, when so lately re-united; but he also felt how incumbent it was on him to accept with gratitude so favourable an opportunity of escaping. They were both aware that to linger in England was risking all their hardly-earned happiness. In trembling hope, they parted.

"It would be sinful in us to mistrust Providence," he said; "we have been so mercifully dealt with, we ought to feel confidence that we shall be preserved to a safe and joyful meeting!"

"True, true, my love. I would not detain you one moment in this fatal land! I wish you gone! And yet--and yet--it is so painful, so very painful, to part! But you shall go--even now,--this moment! It is not for me to doubt the mercy of Heaven."

She gently disengaged herself from him: he pressed her once more to his bosom, and then followed Mrs. Mills to the door. He there paused to take one more look at her as she stood half supported by Amy. She watched him through the doorway,--she listened to his step as he descended the stairs,--she heard the street-door shut:--"He is gone!" she said; "but I must not repine. Oh, what a parting it might have been! When I think of Lady Derwentwater and of Lady Kenmure, I feel how blessed I am! I will not weep--I will not grieve: I must allow no feeling but that of gratitude to find a place within this bosom!"