The Fortunes of Nigel by Walter Scott (bookreader .txt) 📖

“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