CHAPTER XXVI.

La nef qui déjoint mes amours N'a cy de moi que la moitié. Une parte te reste, elle est tienne.

_Mary Queen of Scots._

The Countess of Nithsdale lost no time in quitting her present retreat, and she took up her abode at the house of a quiet honest man in Drury Lane, where, in the utmost privacy, she awaited the news of her husband's safe arrival on the Continent.

After the intense agitation of the foregoing week, she experienced a kind of listless stupefaction; she was totally incapable of employing herself. Although her mind was comparatively at ease, yet a thousand vague horrors shot across it. The inaction was oppressive and irksome to her. She wished every hour, every moment, to know how it fared with her lord; and yet she was fully aware that the only prudent course to pursue, both for his sake and her own, was to keep herself quite retired, and to avoid being seen by any.

On the Wednesday the Earl of Nithsdale, as had been previously concerted, accompanied the Venetian ambassador's coach to Dover, where he arrived without detection or danger.

When there, M. Michel hired a small vessel, and immediately set sail for Calais.

Was it a moment of unmixed joy to Lord Nithsdale when he set foot upon the vessel which was to bear him from the land in which his life was forfeited to the laws,--from the land in which he was proscribed, to seek one which held out to him all the charms of life and liberty?

It was not so:--for that land was the land of his birth,--that land contained her to whom he was bound by stronger ties than ever attached man to woman!

As the swift bark bounded over the deep, he gazed upon the receding shores with tenderness and regret. The breeze was favourable, the ship skimmed the waters, the passage was performed in so short a time that the captain remarked, "the wind could not have served better if his passengers had been flying for their lives."

Until the countess received assured intelligence of his safe arrival at Calais, she had been able to turn her thoughts to no other subject. She felt he might at any moment be discovered; it was still possible that all the horrors and the sufferings with which she was only too well acquainted might still be in store for her. At moments she accused herself of wanting that reliance she ought to feel in Heaven; at others, she thought she was presumptuous in fancying herself too secure.

But when once she knew he was safe from all pursuit, other cares beset her mind.

The feelings of the mother rose strong within her. Every paper, every document, which might secure to themselves, or to their children after them, any means of existence, had been left at Terreagles. While fearing for his life, all other considerations had been forgotten; but now that all-absorbing interest was at rest, anxiety for the fate of her children took possession of her soul.

She resolved, if possible, to revisit Terreagles. If she had exposed her life for the father, she thought she could do no less than hazard it once more to save her son from beggary.

After the great events of the last month, her mind seemed to stand in need of some strong excitement; she was almost glad to feel called upon by duty for a fresh exertion.

She hoped, through the means of the Duchess of Buccleugh, she might obtain leave openly to visit Terreagles; and she wrote to her, telling her that she understood some suspected her of having contrived her lord's escape, but that she imagined a bare suspicion, destitute of proof, would never be held sufficient ground for her being punished for a supposed offence, although it had been motive enough for her to remain in concealment. She entreated her grace to procure permission for her to depart freely upon her business.

But her application, far from being granted, rather roused in the government the desire to secure her; and she owed to the Solicitor-General (who, though an utter stranger to her, had the humanity to plead her cause,) the decision, that as long as she evinced such respect to government as not to appear in public, no search should be made for her; but that, if she showed herself in England or in Scotland, she should be forthwith secured.

This was but poor satisfaction. Having been so suddenly summoned from Scotland, she had not been able to arrange any thing at Terreagles; but before she repaired to Scone to wait upon the Chevalier, not knowing in such uncertain times what might occur during her absence, she had taken the precaution of burying in the ground the family papers, which her husband had committed to her charge, and other articles of most value.

It was fortunate she had done so, for the house had been searched after her departure; and, as the countess herself expresses it, "God only knows what might have transpired from those papers!"

If these documents were to be preserved, it seemed absolutely necessary she should repair to Terreagles, and that she should do so without delay, and as privately as possible.

For this purpose she again provided herself, Amy and Walter Elliot, with saddle-horses, and retraced her way to Scotland.

It was no longer the inclemency of the season which constituted the danger of the journey, but the fear of being discovered. On this occasion, however, it was but for herself she feared: after her long seclusion in the most confined parts of London, as she rode forward, inhaling the clear country air, with the delightful certainty that her husband was in safety and in freedom, instead of being a prisoner, in danger, distress, and loneliness, within the Tower walls, she contrasted the buoyant spirit with which she looked upon this merely personal risk, with the horrible oppressive weight which lay at her bosom as, two months before, she had traversed the same road.

Her spirits almost rose with the danger; and she gladly yielded herself up to the enjoyment of the early spring.

The hedges were already beginning to be partially clothed in their green livery; the meadows in the neighbourhood of London were fresh and bright; the birds twittered, and sprang from twig to twig; the primroses and wild violets already peeped forth on the more sunny banks. The unusually hard winter had been followed by the rapid bursting forth, the flush, of an early spring. As she advanced, the new-cut copses were spangled with wood anemones and the blue harebell; cowslips, and daffodils painted the fields. All nature seemed to smile before her. Her journey was one of positive enjoyment, notwithstanding the degree of fear which induced her prudently to avoid the large towns, and the considerable inns, at which she was likely to be known, and to put up only at the smallest and humblest resting-places.

To Amy, the naturally light-hearted Amy, the joyous laugh was no longer a stranger. Her eye danced once more with gaiety, and she even occasionally trilled a snatch of one of her old Welsh ditties.

Her lady smiled kindly upon her: "I scarcely thought ever to have heard that sound again, Amy. It does me good to hear it; and yet," she said, "there is much pain mingled with the pleasure it affords. It brings back with over-whelming tenderness past days of happiness;--past, never to return!" and her eyes filled with tears.

"My dearest madam, I could chide myself for my silly song if it makes you weep."

"No, dear Amy, sing on. I love to hear the melody, although it draws tears: they are not bitter ones."

"Nay, madam, I can sing no more; my voice is gone:" and they rode on in silence.

After several more days of continued journeying, Lady Nithsdale ventured to repose herself for two nights at Traquhair; where, with her sister-in-law, and Lord Traquhair, she enjoyed the happiness of a free outpouring of the soul, and where, to willing ears and open hearts, she gave every detail of their brother's escape.

The lieutenant of the county being an old and tried friend of her lord's, she felt assured that he would allow no search to be made for her without forwarding to her due warning to abscond.

She did not send any notice of her return to Terreagles, that the magistrates of Dumfries might not be prepared to make inquiries about her; but she suddenly made her appearance there, feigning that she had the leave of government to do so. The better to persuade them that it was with permission she was there, she sent to her neighbours and invited them to visit her; while in the interim she busied herself in securing the papers.

The gardener alone knew where they had been buried, and with the assistance of the faithful old Hugh she recovered them. They were as yet unhurt; but, although in the highest state of preservation after one very severe winter, they could not have remained much longer in the ground without prejudice.

It was, as Lady Nithsdale herself says, a particular stroke of Providence that she made the despatch she did, for the magistrates of Dumfries soon suspected her.

The indefatigable Amy, whose ears were always open, whose discretion was never slumbering, learned by a fortunate accident that one of them was heard to say, he should, the next day, insist upon seeing the Countess of Nithsdale's leave from government.

There was not a moment to be lost: Lady Nithsdale resolved to depart before daybreak. She forwarded the rescued documents by a safe hand to Traquhair, and on the following morning set forth again for London.

It was now that she bade a fond, lingering, last adieu to her home: she knew that it was for ever she quitted it! When all were at rest, she gently visited each well-known apartment. She repaired to that which her children had usually inhabited: she looked with sadness upon the vacant room. She thought how often she had there heard their prattling voices--there bent over their quiet slumbers. She paused at the door, and the tears gushed from her eyes. A thousand trifling incidents crowded on her mind: there was not a spot that was not alive with recollections.

"Truly," she thought, "did my dear lord say, as he parted hence, 'Our castles will be desolate, our name extinct!'" She looked upon the motto, 'Reviresco:' "Truly did he say, 'Not here will any Earl of Nithsdale flourish again!'--but he is safe; our children are safe; and we shall be happy, in all the charities of domestic life. 'Twere sinful to allow such regrets to stifle for a moment the gratitude which ought to over-power all other emotions."

But when, ere the early dawn appeared, they prepared to mount their horses, and she saw the faithful old gardener, with his blue bonnet in his hand, respectfully hold the bridle rein, enacting the part of 'squire, the tears would flow unbidden: "Thanks, my good Hugh! I am glad to see you once more; for, alas! Hugh, I shall never, never, return to this dear home again! Heaven bless you, and all, all, who dwell around!" she continued, looking around her at the scattered cottages on the hill-sides; "may you and yours be well and happy!"

"I feared how it was, my leddy; I fancied, if I was not here betimes, I should never look on your leddyship's fair face again. Eh! madam,'tis an awful thing when the head of an ancient house flits for ever from the home of his ancestors. 'Tis an awsome thing for a' the puir folks about! and as for me and my gude wife, why, I think it will go nigh to break our hearts! But that's neither here nor there: what maun be, maun be; and I dinna' mean to make your leddyship down-hearted! I only thought I would see the last o' ye;" and the old man brushed away a tear. "I just made bold, my leddy, to bring wi' me a little o' the seed of our famous kale, which my lord used always to praise. I thought, in the outlandish countries my lord is like to abide in now, he might not meet with any such; and I guessed 'twas next to impossible that, with so much upon your mind, your leddyship should give it a thought."

"Give it me, good Hugh; and depend upon it your kind recollection of my lord shall not be forgotten. I will tell him that his old friends here have not put him from their minds yet!"

"Nor ever will, my leddy; that's not the way with a true Scot. We shall keep the Maxwells in mind as long as you and yours remember Scotland, and, may be, longer too. But yonder's the grey light in the east; I must not be keeping your leddyship."

Lady Nithsdale could not speak; but she pressed the old man's hard weather-beaten hand in her own soft delicate fingers, and she hurried from the castle. It was in vain to struggle longer with her tears; she yielded to the natural impulse, and suffered them to flow.

As on their former journey, they only stopped at the poorest inns; and at one of these they were compelled to take their evening meal in the room where the other travellers were also accommodated. They remarked a sturdy farmer who looked hard at them, and by the blaze of the fire they recognised the yeoman with whom they had conversed on their way to York. He soon renewed acquaintance.

"Why, is it you, my demure puritan? What brings you this road again so soon? Did you not find a hearty welcome, that you are so soon for the north country again? How fared it with your friends in London?"

"It fares well with some of our dearest friends, I thank you; far better than when last we met," answered the countess.

"There have been great doings going on in London since you went this road; and what my companion said, though it was roughly said, has come out pretty true: they have made away with a good many of the rebel lords."

Lady Nithsdale shuddered.

"But the king did spare some of them, and they say would have spared more if his ministers would have let him; but a good many took French leave. There was half a dozen broke out of Newgate at once, they say; and though some were taken again, there was one Hepburn found out where his wife and children were abiding, by spying his own family tankard, the Keith tankard, as they call it, which they had stuck in the window just for that very purpose: he was a lucky fellow! And Forster, he is safe in France, they say. And pray, young woman, you can't tell me how 'twas the Earl of Nithsdale got away?"

Lady Nithsdale started. "Nay, sir! how should I know?"

"Why, you have been in London, and I thought folks must have talked enough about it there; for, to my mind, 'twas a strange thing, and that's the truth. Do you think the guards were in the secret?"

"Oh, no, no! they knew nothing!" exclaimed the countess, anxious to exculpate them from such a charge.

"Why, I thought you knew nothing!" answered the yeoman, with a cunning glance; "but if you do, you need not stand in fear of me; I should never wish to say anything of anybody to their prejudice."

"I never heard any suspicion of infidelity thrown out against the guards," answered Lady Nithsdale, in a more composed manner; "but I have left London some time, and other circumstances may have transpired."

"Then you don't know that 'twas the earl's mother that brought him the clothes in which he disguised himself?"

"No! indeed I did not," answered the countess, with a glance at Amy, which she could not control.

"They say that's a positive fact!" proceeded the farmer: "and perhaps, then, you have not heard, what they tell me is equally true, that on the 24th,--yes, it was the 24th, was it not, that the rebels had their heads off?"

Lady Nithsdale bowed assent.

"On the 24th of last month, the very day the Earl of Derwentwater was beheaded, the water in the moat round Dillstone Castle turned as red as blood! That was very singular, was it not?"

"Strange indeed!" ejaculated Amy, with a countenance in which awe and wonder were honestly visible; "on the very day he suffered!"--and the thought of the scaffold, and the blood, of which she had caught, or fancied she caught, a sight, flashed across her mind. She turned so pale, that the countess, now the most self-possessed of the two, hastened to withdraw attention from Amy, lest her emotion should become too apparent.

The feminine horror of blood, and the superstitious terror with which she listened to so unnatural a portent, had thrown her more off her guard than circumstances of real peril would have done.

Lady Nithsdale inquired whether the Earl of Wintoun's trial had yet come on, and the yeoman, proud of his superior information, told her that it had, and that he had received sentence of death; but he added, "he seemed so wild and strange that half the world thought he was not in his right senses."

Meanwhile Amy Evans had recovered herself, and the countess was glad to seize the first opportunity of retiring, and of avoiding any further observation.

Upon her arrival in London, she found from her friends, the Duchess of Montrose and Mrs. Morgan, that the king was even more than ever incensed against her, for having, against his prohibition, made her appearance in Scotland; and that if he should succeed in securing her, there was every reason to fear that she would be proceeded against according to the utmost rigour of the law. And this, she heard from some of the best law authorities, would be no other than, in a case of high treason, to make the head of the wife answerable for that of the husband.

It therefore became necessary that she should take measures for her own speedy departure. But, before she left her native land for ever, she ventured to have one more interview with her good cousin, Christian of Montrose. It was, however, by stealth that the duchess visited her, and in sorrow that she bade her farewell.

"I fear to injure you by my visit, dear cousin," she said; "and yet I longed to bid Heaven prosper you on your journey. You will let me know when you are really restored to your husband and your children. Though we may never meet again, it will be sweet to me to fancy you enjoying perfect happiness with those who are so dear to you."

"I shall indeed be happy; but, alas! dear Christian, this heart will ever yearn towards its island home. I love the very soil of England; and, as I pass along, I look with fond regret at every house, at every tree, and think with sorrow that I am henceforth to be an exile; that I can never, never, look on them again. As for my friends--such friends as you, dear Christian!----But think you in very truth there is no hope of our being ever allowed to revisit our dear England?"

"Alas! the king is still so angry with you individually. He has granted the Viscountess Kenmure 150_l._ per annum for the education of her children; the Lady Nairne too has met with favour; but, dear cousin," she added, smiling, "he says you have given him more trouble than any other woman in Europe; and although I verily believe many of the other prisoners who have made their escape have not been over-strictly guarded, yet both the warders who had charge of the earl your husband, and only they, are likely to be punished for neglect of their duty."

"They deserve no punishment on that score," replied the countess. "Neither do I owe them gratitude, nor need the government visit upon them the good deed in which they did not participate."

"But from all I tell you, dearest Winifred, it is plain you should not linger here!"

"I shall be gone to-morrow, Heaven favouring me," replied the countess. "This evening I bid farewell to two dear friends, and to-morrow I am gone!" And with many tears, and last farewells, and promises of communicating by letter, the cousins parted.

The friends to whom Lady Nithsdale alluded were Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Mills, whose names she did not care to mention even to the duchess, lest it might ever transpire that they had assisted in her lord's escape.

To them she scarcely knew in what terms sufficiently to express her gratitude; and it cast a gloom over the prospect of speedy reunion to the objects of her dearest affections, to think that she should never more see the persons to whom, under Providence, she was indebted for that happy prospect.