The silver glen

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

A few days ago, as I sat in my pleasant parlour looking out on one of the fairest prospects in this our fair land of England, my cousin, Sir Henry Erskine, who hath been spending some days at our house, entered the room with his quick soldier-like step, and came to a halt, as he would say, at my side.

“See here, cousin!” he cried, holding out to me a packet of papers, “there is something here that will interest you. These letters were given me by my Uncle Charles, my Lord Tinwald, t’other day when I was visiting at Alva House, and I have but just looked into them. They were written, I find, by my mother of blessed memory to Sir John, while he was abroad in exile for his misdeeds, as one may say now, in the year 1716.”

I caught at the papers with a cry, half of delight and half of tender sorrow, for if Henry’s voice had softened as he mentioned his mother’s name, ’twas no more than her due, who was ever the wisest and most loving of parents; and if to him, the thought of her represented all that is sweetest and best in womanhood—as one may suppose, seeing he hath not yet crowned perfection by taking unto himself a wife—to me it did no less, being as I was the object of her most tender care and kindness at a time in my life when I sorely needed both.

The sight of those thin broad sheets, covered with the fine clear writing which had once been so familiar to me, brought the tears to my eyes. Sure they were well worn, those ancient letters, having been borne in Sir John’s wallet, no doubt, for many a weary month, and since lain by in some desk or chest at Alva House for safety; and at the sight of the seal on the back, so carefully broken that the wax still retained on many of the sheets its perfect imprint, a vision of my dear lady folding and sealing with trembling haste one of these same precious letters, came so clear to my mind, that almost I thought I heard her voice calling to me as in the days of old.

“See, Henry,” I said softly, pointing to the seal, “how well I remember the ring she ever used. Too large for her slender hand, she wore it on a long gold chain around her neck. Your father, Sir John, had used it when writing to her before they were wed, and, sweet woman that she was, she would never have any other for the letters that passed between them. ‘For, Barbara,’ said she to me once, and I can still see her smile, ‘the legend is so true, that ’twould be folly to take to another.’”

Together we bent over the faded wax, and Henry laid his lips upon it gently. There has ever been a spirit of poetry and chivalry in this stalwart soldier, whom as a little child I had so often held upon my knee.

“A heart embossed, and round it the words, ‘Vous y regnez seul.’ True, indeed!” said he with a smile; “Sir John reigned there alone, and even her children were in her heart but little subjects to their rightful king.”

“Sure, my dear, you lost nothing by that,” I cried, “for happier children, or a kindlier home I never did see. The love that filled my lady’s heart was a bounteous fire that brightened and warmed all who approached her. Sweet soul! I thank God still for having known and loved her.”

Saying this I turned my eyes again upon the letters in my hands, and so potent was the spell of the first few words I read, that my mind leapt back across a gulf of forty years, and left my body sitting blind and deaf in the chair in my sunny English parlour.

A sudden laugh from Sir Henry brought my wits home again.

“Cousin Barbara,” he cried, “I have been speaking to you for some minutes and not one word have you heard of my discourse. Nay, dear cousin, do not apologise. The love you bore my mother hath ever been a tie between her children and yourself, and I know well that your tender heart is filled with regretful memories at sight of these letters writ by her hand.”

“She was indeed the dearest woman-friend I ever had,” said I. “Alas! too early lost.”

“And for that very reason,” said he, “I made my bold request, which, as you did not hear it, I must needs repeat. Will you not, for the love you bore those that are passed away, and a little for the love of us who remain, write out for our instruction and profit, your recollections of that troublous time, with something also of your own romance, and the strange story of the Silver Glen which I have so often heard from you as a boy?”

My gaze went past him out of the window, across miles of green pasture and softly waving foliage to the silver shining of the Severn beyond. Far, far away the hills of Wales rose into the sky, the day being clear and bright. Close to the house the flowers were blooming very sweet and fragrant, for the month was June, and in the shrubbery behind the garden, the blackbirds and thrushes sang their best.

“Of course, if you should think it too great a labour—” Sir Henry broke in upon my musings, but I held up my hand to stop him.

“Nay, cousin,” I cried, “’twould be what is called ‘a labour of love’ surely. I was but thinking how little fit I am to be the chronicler of those exciting times. I will not be so mock-modest as to pretend to consider myself unfit in the matter of appreciating your dear mother’s character and conduct, for few had the opportunities to know and esteem her that I had. But I am truly no historian, and the tale will be written from my own point of view, which needs must be a narrow one. I have, I believe, upstairs hidden away in the corner of some ancient chest, a diary of that same year writ in a girlish hand. By help of this, and by reading, since you permit it, these sacred letters, I promise you I will do my best endeavour to give you a true and full account of the events that took place in your home, and among your family, when you were an innocent small boy of four or five years old. But consider a little how long a time has passed. My youth with all its fears and follies, its joys and sorrows, is far away. I have wandered back and forth upon the earth, knowing many changes and living in distant lands, for a wife, as you know, must ever be ready to follow her husband; and if now in the evening of my life I can sit placidly at this sunny window looking out upon the Severn Sea, and know that my dear and kind spouse is no further away than in the next room, or in the garden, or at the home-farm, I thank God very humbly in my heart, Who has brought me to this peaceful place by a way that I knew not, and little expected to find. Dear Henry, I am but a garrulous old woman, and what I want to say is, that if my memory of those distant days is grown a little dim, and certain things are gone from my mind never to return, I must pray you to forgive me, and put it down, not to foolishness, but to old age.”

Whereupon Sir Henry rallied me upon my fears, and laughed at me for calling myself old, who am scarce more than a dozen years his senior, and kissing my hand in the gallant way he has, he left me sitting by the window with these old letters in my lap.

And suddenly, after a long silence, a single mavis burst into song, and trilled and throbbed so exquisite a melody that I held my breath to listen. For there were many years of my life in which I did not hear that lovely music, and now a mavis never sings in the long sweet twilight but my thoughts fly out to my lost dear, Catherine, Lady Erskine (for a reason that I hope to tell you by-and-bye), and it seemed strange that when my mind was so full of her, the bird that I always think of as hers should start to make music beside me. But I have often noticed in my changeful life, the little happenings that link our minds with the past and the future, with facts on earth and aspirations in Heaven, with human hopes and divine longings, so that the scent of a flower, or a child’s laugh, or a glorious sunset, or a sudden happiness, may lift our hearts, before we know it, right into the presence of God.

All letters it seems to me must in a greater or less degree be the exponents of the writer’s mind. Of some, indeed, we might say that they mirror very clearly the character and disposition of their authors, and more especially when exchanged between two close and loving friends without fear of outside criticism, or any thought of possible publicity. Most truly is this the case in the letters before me. So intimate and natural they are that I almost shrink from exposing them to the eyes of strangers, however kind and sympathetic these may be; and yet they can but excite the warmest affection and admiration in all minds, being the outpourings of a loyal, loving and courageous heart. They were written in haste oftentimes, in doubt and fear and terrible anxiety, but not once does the brave spirit falter nor the love in them grow cold or dim.

Now it is true that, as I said to Sir Henry, my view of those far-off events of my girlhood, besides having grown somewhat dim, must be but a narrow one, for I lived as it were in the midst of the story, and could not know at the time many facts and results that were afterwards made plain to all. To such as may care to read my simple narrative, which, if plain and unstudied, is yet true and I think not wanting in interest, I must say at once that my sole reason in undertaking the task is my desire to make more widely known among her descendants, namely, my dear God-daughter, Barbara; her niece, Christian, poor Charles’s little girl, and Sir Henry, who will I hope marry and have a family of his own, as well as to my own dear daughter and her children—the character of the sweet and noble woman who was the friend of my youth.

I therefore make no apology for leaving to the writers of history many details of that unhappy time; only so far as it touched upon the lives and happiness of those I loved does it concern me. And so, with no more than a humble regret that my skill is not more worthy of my theme, I take up my pen to begin this story of the so-called Rebellion in the year seventeen hundred and fifteen.

CHAPTER I

’Twas in the early hours of a dark December morning in the year 1714 that I was awakened suddenly by the cautious opening of the chamber door, and saw with blinking eyes the bare room where I slept with three of my school companions. The wavering flicker of a candle carried by a cautious hand showed me the night-capped heads upon their pillows, the bare walls, the uncarpeted floor, the staring, black, uncurtained window, and, the sight arousing no interest in my mind, I closed my eyes against the intruding light. Little Miss Gordon, the youngest girl in the school, who slept in the bed with me, raised a protesting arm across her face, and called out in accents sleepy and petulant, “Oh, Betsy, take that horrid light away. ’Tis not morning yet, I am but just fallen asleep!”

Now it has always been my custom to awake up instantly with all my senses on the alert. I say it not to boast, though the faculty hath served me well once or twice in my life, for some are born so, just as others are drowsy-heads from the cradle to the grave; but this being my habit, I had seen with the first opening of my eyes that it was not Betsy, the maid, who had entered our room, but no less a personage than Mistress Marget Lindsay, the younger of the two sisters who kept a boarding-school for young ladies in Paterson’s Court, off the Lawnmarket in Edinburgh. Now, Mistress Marget, besides being the younger of our school-mistresses, was the one least feared by their pupils; I had almost said the best loved, but in those days (I know not if it be so still), anything so gentle as love scarce entered into the training of young ladies at school. That she had a kind heart, however, I have been sure ever since that dark, winter morn, as, shading the candle with her hand, she came quickly to my bed-side and bent down to discover if I were still asleep.

“Miss Stewart, my dear—Barbara. Are you awake?” she cried softly.

I sat up in bed and untied my cap-strings, the better to hear what she had to say.

“I am awake, madam; what is it you want of me? Sure, ’tis not time yet for me to be at my exercises!” said I, a little alarmed at the gravity of her face.

She shook her head and sat down beside me on the bed.

“No, no, child; do not be alarmed! And yet I fear I have news that will disquiet you. A man-servant has come from Rosyth to take you home. You must rise at once and attire yourself for the journey.”

“A man-servant?” I repeated, obediently putting one foot out of bed. “Old Robert, belike. Oh, Mistress Marget!” I cried, stopping suddenly, “pray tell me at once what is wrong.”

With the truest kindness the good woman did not attempt to turn my thoughts aside from their fear. She answered immediately and without circumlocution.

“Your grandfather, Miss Stewart, has met with an accident, and ’tis feared he cannot live. He would see you, dear bairn, before he dies.”

There may be some who think this stern announcement to a young maid of sixteen somewhat wanting in tenderness and compassion. They may consider that to hint at a possible calamity, mentioning a severe illness or the like, but holding out hopes of a speedy recovery, would have been the kinder way. If so, I cannot agree with them. The progress of “preparing the mind” of any poor creature to receive a blow hath always seemed to me both cruel and useless. In many cases, the more sudden the shock, the more strongly is the mind braced to bear it for the moment; and so it was in my own case. I leapt from my bed and began hurriedly to put on my clothes.

“My grandpapa dying, and asking for me? Oh, Mistress Marget, I must hasten; I pray you, assist me with this lace. Will you not kindly tie these strings? Hath Robert brought the carriage? Ah no! the snow is too deep. I am to ride pillion? Yes, I must wear my thickest shawl and hood. Oh, do not hinder me, dear madam, I must be going now; I cannot keep Robert waiting another moment.”

“My dear Miss Stewart,” said my mistress, quietly detaining me while she tied a thick veil over my face, and searched for scarf and mits, “Robert is in the kitchen being warmed and fed. The good creature was almost lifeless from the cold. And do you think, my dear girl, that my sister would suffer you to leave her house at this hour fasting? There is no speed in such senseless haste as you know, and while I admire your courage and fortitude, and the eagerness you exhibit to do your grandfather’s behest, I must counsel you, my dear, to remember that patience is one of the highest virtues a woman can possess, and self-control is another.”

Tears rose in my eyes, not so much at the rebuke as in rebellion against it; for Barbara Stewart was ever hot and hasty in those young days, and indeed hath scarce yet learned to exercise the virtues extolled by good Mistress Marget in all the years that she hath lived. But chafe as I would at the delay, I was forced to go into the parlour, where the elder sister Lindsay, hastily attired, and with a shawl over her night-cap, waited for me in the candle-light with hot chocolate and buttered oatcake.

I think the strangeness of that morning scene, and the unwonted consideration with which I was treated, took my mind a little from the gravity of the situation. I know that it was not till I was mounted behind Robert, and clinging to the broad belt he wore as we paced along the stony street, that it entered into my head to ask him for news of my poor grandpapa. It was then that I heard how, in riding not many days before, his horse had slipped upon a piece of ice, and had thrown the poor gentleman with such violence that an old wound, got near twenty years before at the siege of Namur, had opened, and inflammation having set in, the doctor now gave little hope of his recovery.

“I’m thinkin’, mem, the Colonel’s juist waitin’ tae bid ye gude-bye,” said honest Robert very sadly.

The news made me grave and sober enough—sorrowful, too, and fearful, for my good grandpapa had been indulgent beyond the common, and, besides him, I knew of no other relative that I possessed in the world. My father, his only son, had been one of Webb’s most gallant officers, and had married in Flanders, after the Peace of Ryswick, Mademoiselle Jeanne de St. Pierre, the orphan niece of the French admiral of that name; for, as you know, love and peace grew and flourished between private individuals of the rival nations even while their countries were at daggers drawn. My mother, besides possessing wit and beauty, had a small fortune of her own, and she and my dear father lived very happily together, sometimes in Brussels, in Paris, or in London. But he, dying of fever, induced by wounds which he received at the taking of Liège in 1702, left his young widow and little daughter to the care of Colonel Stewart of Rosyth House in the county of Fife. My mother, fragile and broken-hearted, survived his death little more than a year. Thus, before I had reached my sixth birthday, was I bereft of both my parents.

Brought up with care and kindness in my grandpapa’s commodious house on the shore of the Forth, I had been sent at the age of thirteen to the Seminary for Young Ladies of Good Family, kept by the sisters Lindsay, and had just completed my third year in that select and fashionable school.

Such in brief was the story of my life down to that dismal winter morning which found me riding behind Robert Guthrie, my grandfather’s old servant, along the bare road that leads from Edinburgh to the Queen’s Ferry. Very bleak and cold it was, for the sun was not yet risen, and a chill wind blew right in our faces out of the north-west. The ground was covered with snow, and, though at another time I might have noticed with pleasure the purity of its whiteness in contrast to the grey sky and the black waters of the Firth (for all my life I have had open eyes and heart to the beauties of the earth) this day my mind was too full of anxious cares to allow me any such consolation. I was cold and cheerless enough with the nine miles ride when we reached the Hawse Inn, where we alighted to wait for the ferry-boat to take us across to the coast of Fife, and the good landlady bustled out with a cup of hot spiced claret to take the chill out of my bones, as she said. She brought me in to the warm fireside, and with many kind commiserating words she sought, in the fulness of her heart, to lighten my gloom. She had heard from Robert Guthrie how Colonel Stewart lay at the point of death, and, in her motherly way, she pitied the poor girl who was so soon to be left alone in the world. I thanked her with what courage I could muster, but when she saw that I could scarce restrain the trembling of my lips, she very wisely left me to myself and busied herself about her household tasks.

Almost at the moment when we stepped on board the ferry-boat, the sun, which was now some way above the horizon though wrapped in clouds, struggled forth from the enveloping mists, and in a very short time changed the aspect of the landscape from dismal gloom to sparkling radiance.

Before we were half-way across the Frith I was so far roused from my abstraction to note this change, and whether it was that, the day being a sort of landmark between the old life and the new, all impressions received then upon my mind retained a peculiar distinctness, I know not; but this I know, that though I have made the same crossing many scores of times since, whenever I think of the passage of the Forth, I see it as I saw it that winter morning. The noble river flowing between its ever widening shores sparkled in the early light, reflecting on its bosom the blue of the sky, broken here and there by little white waves that seemed to laugh to each other as they raced out to sea. The grey stone houses of the little town we had just left, with their red-tiled roofs, looked picturesque, all huddled down together to the water’s edge. Westward as I gazed, the tall thin masts of vessels moored at Charlestown and Borrowstownness, stood up slender and distinct in the clear air; and far away as a dream-like background the peaks of the majestic mountains, Ben Lomond, Ben Ledi, Ben Muich Dhui, their summits crowned with gleaming snow, towered towards the pale blue sky. Near at hand, the fishing craft putting out from either coast, shot up their sails to catch the freshening breeze, and over all the sea-gulls flew restlessly, or dived into the water with wild, musical cries, their white wings gleaming in the sunlight.

For a moment I forgot my grief in the freshness and beauty of the morning, and turned for a sympathetic word from my companion, but at sight of his face I refrained. The old man was standing not far from where I sat, one hand upon the bridle of his horse, his head drooping, and his dim blue eyes fixed on vacancy. His kindly, weather-beaten face was very sorrowful, and I knew that he was looking far back into the past, when he and his beloved master had been young, for Robert had followed my grandfather to the wars, and they had been through many hardships and shared some triumphs together. Into my light and girlish mind came the thought that here was a grief ten times greater than my own, and in presence of it I felt strangely small and insignificant. Sandy, the horse, too used to the ferry-boat to be disturbed by the crossing, seemed to divine his old friend’s trouble in the curious way dumb animals have, for he rubbed his soft cheek against the groom’s shoulder with an affectionate, caressing motion.

My heart went out to the old man in his sorrow, and when two slow tears welled out of his eyes and rolled down his wrinkled face, I started up, impulsive as I too often was, and ran to his side to comfort him.

“Dinna greet, Robbie!” I cried, though softly, that the boatmen should not hear. “Dinna greet! I canna bear to see ye. You and me’ll aye be friends!”

He turned and smiled at my words, and I thought the smile was sadder than the tears.

“Eh, my bonnie wee leddie!” he said, as if I had been still but a bairn, “it’s Robbie has got a sair heart the day.”

CHAPTER II

Rosyth House stood (for alas! it stands no longer, having been burned to the ground in the year 1727, on the very day that his present Gracious Majesty came to the throne), on the high ground above the Forth, about a mile and a half from the landing place at the North Ferry. A quarter of a mile further west, the ancient castle of the same name stands on a promontory stretching out into the sea, so near the water that at high tide it is wholly surrounded and cut off from the shore, except for an artificial stone causeway connecting it with the mainland.

My grandfather, who was a distant cousin of the Laird of Rosyth, had got leave, upon retiring from active service, to build a house upon his land; but the latter, having some years before I was born disposed of his estate to a gentleman of the name of Drummond, it was understood that Colonel Stewart had only a life-rent of the same, his heirs being to receive a fair sum of money in lieu thereof at his death. This arrangement, though little to his liking at the time, grieved him less after the death of his son, my father, and although he could not feel the loving pride in keeping up the place that a man expends upon his own, still the cultivation of his grounds and garden had been a source of pleasure and solace to him in the latter years of his life. The house was comfortable and commodious, and sheltered from the winds, so that the shrubs and trees he had taken pains to plant had well grown up around it; and from the windows there was at all times a fair view of the waters of the Frith with the ships passing up and down, and beyond them the low green coast of the Lothians.

Beautiful or plain, it was the only home I had ever known, and for that reason very dear to me; and as we rounded the bend of the road that skirts St. Margaret’s Hope, and the familiar landmarks came into view, the tears rushed to my eyes and ran down my cheeks, as I thought that in a few short days it would shelter me no more. The half-formed fears of extreme youth are perhaps harder to endure than our later forebodings, being intensified by the sharpness of imagination and the uncertainty of ignorance as well. With my outward senses I took in all the beauty of the morning: the blue sky and the dancing waves, the sparkle of the snow so dazzling in its country purity, and the wild glad cries of the sea-gulls never still; but my heart was cold and very heavy, because for the first time in my life I feared the future with the dull aching fear that I suppose only a helpless woman can ever know.

At the door of Rosyth House, Robert dismounted stiffly and lifted me to the ground. The noise of Sandy’s hoofs could not have been heard on the snow-covered approach, but my feet had scarce touched the threshold when the door was pulled quickly open and I found myself in the arms of my kind old nurse.

“What news, woman?” cried Robert Guthrie, hoarsely before I could speak, for Phemie was his wife, though many years his junior, and had been, as long as I could remember, the prop and stay of our household. She looked at him over my shoulder, and shook her head sadly.

“Oh, wheesht, my bairn, wheesht!” she crooned above my head, for I had burst out crying, and she drew me into the lobby and softly shut the door. “There, there,” she went on tenderly, “I’ll no’ stop ye; just greet yer fill, and syne ye’ll feel a’ the better for’t.”

As she spoke she led me into the parlour where was a bright fire burning, very pleasant to the chilled little traveller, and a basin of her own famous chicken-broth was steaming on the table. And very soon, warmed, fed and comforted by the excellent creature, I felt the deadly weight at my heart lighten, and the future, in spite of its impending bereavement, did not appear altogether hopeless. So wonderful is the power of human sympathy, and the touch of a warm, kindly hand upon our own.

Upstairs in his chamber Colonel Stewart lay dying, and thither Phemie conducted me as soon as she considered me capable of bearing myself with dignity and self-control.

“Be a woman, my dear lamb, for yer gran’pa’s sake!” she whispered, as she led me to his door. “The Colonel’s far through, his time is gey short.”

The room was bare and empty for the bed-chamber of the master of the house, but the old soldier had ever treated himself with a certain austerity bred of early days of hardship in the field; and his wife, my grandmother, being long dead, there had been none to interfere with his love of simple things. His bed had neither tester nor hangings, and there was no carpet on the floor nor curtains at the window. One of the shutters was partially closed to soften the glare from the snow, but the winter sunshine brightened the room and showed me the face of my grandfather on the pillow, very white and worn, and with closed eyes. He opened them as we approached, and smiled as his glance fell on me.

“Ah, Barbara, my child!” he cried, and my heart gave a hard throb at the weak tones of his voice. “You have come, I am glad you are here. ’Tis a cold journey from Embro’ in the winter-time. Has the bairn had her noon-chin?” he enquired of Phemie, for he was ever kindly and courteous, and wondrous thoughtful about small things, unusually so for a man, as I now know. On being assured that I was neither cold nor hungry, he motioned me to sit by him, and signified to Phemie that he wished to be alone with me.

“Go you and see to the comfort of your gudeman, and tell him I thank him for bringing the wee leddy home in time.”

When she was gone, “My dear Barbara,” said he, “this is as unexpected as most of the blows of Fate, but as Fate is only another name for the Hand of God, it behoves us to bow to its dictates. I hope I know how to die as a soldier and a Christian should, but ’tis hard to leave a woman-bairn alone in the world.”

The thin, tired voice with which my dear grandpapa spoke touched my heart with sorrow even more than the words he said. I laid my hand on his, so brown and wrinkled, and turned away my face that he might not see my tears.

After a pause he went on.

“You are, my dear girl, the only child of two only children, and I myself had neither brother nor sister. Your relatives are therefore few and distant. There are in France some cousins of your late dear mother, but seeing I know them not, I have no mind to send you so far seeking a home. Dost remember thy mother, dear bairn?”

I nodded doubtfully.

“I have mind of her face,” I said, “and how soft and white her hands were—much softer than my good Phemie’s, I always thought,—and I mind the way she kissed me and held me in her arms.”

Colonel Stewart sighed.

“Poor bairn, you were but a babe when she died. A great loss, Barbara! Your mother was a notable woman. But I’m wondering if you have any mind of a friend of hers—the Honourable Catherine Sinclair, to wit, from Dysart, that used to come a great deal about Rosyth at that time?”

I peered far back into my childish memories, and then I smiled.

“Was she a lady in a blue gown?” I cried, “with a string of pearls round her neck? She was very merry and kind, and talked French with my mother. She told me to call her Cousin Katie.”

“Very like, very like,” said my grandfather, “though I cannot swear to the colour of her gown. But she was a blithe, happy creature, and very fond of your mother, Barbara.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is to her that I look to befriend you, child, when I am gone. Your father and she were cousins in the fourth degree through their mothers, and her father, my Lord Sinclair, for old friendship’s sake, may be willing to give you a home at the Hermitage at Dysart, for so his house is called, until you are of an age to choose your own place of abode.”

Here he stopped again and pointed feebly to a bottle of cordial that stood with a glass upon the table. I hastened to pour some out and held it to his lips, trembling inwardly lest he should faint from weakness, or die with me alone in the room. My fears, however, were not realised, for after a few minutes’ silence he spoke again.

“The year after your dear mother died, Catherine Sinclair was wedded to Sir John Erskine of Alva, a gentleman of old and noble family, greatly respected in the country. His mother was Mistress Christian Dundas of Arniston, a clever and pious woman who is still living. Though the younger Lady Alva has not been here since her marriage, I have met her at her father’s house, where she comes frequently to stay, and have been greatly attracted by her kindliness and good sense. There are some wild tales abroad about her husband, Sir John, but though he is impulsive and reckless in certain directions, I take him to be as honest and kind-hearted as he is witty and pleasant in company.”

Again he paused to gather strength, and I watched a sunbeam that had strayed to the wide fire-place, and seemed to play at fighting with the flames that flickered somewhat feebly round the half-charred log. I took no interest in sunbeam or fire at the time, and yet it all comes back to me as if I had seen it but yesterday.

“Your fortune, Barbara,” said my grandfather, so suddenly that I started, “is not small. You are no penniless lass, thank God! and your affairs are safe in the hands of my good friends and lawyers, Messrs Carmichael & Dymock, Writers to the Signet in Embro’. Two days back I writ a letter to my Lady Erskine at the Hermitage, where I believe her now to be, giving her all particulars and information concerning my affairs. Her brother-in-law, Charles Erskine, a shrewd lawyer, will assist her in any difficulty, and I have appointed these two your guardians until the time you shall come of age, or marry.”

“Yes, sir,” I murmured, as the low voice ceased; and as if he had come to an end of all that was in his mind, he turned his head aside and fell into a light slumber.

During the night the inflammation and fever increased, and towards evening of the next day he died. His last look and words were for his faithful comrade and servant. He had been lying unconscious for some hours, or so it seemed, and we had thought that he would pass without a sign, but suddenly he opened his eyes and fixed them on Robert Guthrie standing at the foot of his bed.

“It’s marching orders I’ve got, Rob,” he said, in a stronger voice than could have been expected, “and I maun leave you behind. But you’ll follow, my man, as soon as you’re able.”

And Robbie, speechless with grief, brought his hand to the salute, and standing thus motionless he watched his old master die.

CHAPTER III

The snow was very deep and still falling on the day of my grandfather’s funeral, and many of his friends and neighbours who would willingly have honoured Colonel Stewart by following him to the grave, were unable to win through the drifts to Inverkeithing. Had the roads been more passable they would, Phemie told me, have thought little of riding twenty, thirty, or even fifty miles to foregather at Rosyth House, partly out of friendship for the dead man no doubt, but also because such meetings are a means of seeing friends and hearing news in a quiet and not over populous neighbourhood.

For the honour of the house, our good Phemie saw to it that the board was well-spread in the dining-room, and that roast and boiled meats in plenty, and the best of my poor grandpapa’s cellar, were set forth before the hungry mourners. But out of pity for the orphan girl, whom they knew to be alone in the house, the gentlemen were wondrous considerate, and neither sat long over their meat, nor indulged freely in wine-drinking. The names of some of these kindly men, as retailed to me by Phemie, are still clear in my memory. There were Mr. Moubray of Culcarnie, or Cockairney as it is now called; Sir John Henderson of Fordell; and the Earl of Moray from Donibristle Castle. Sir Alexander Bruce, he that was now Earl of Kincardine, came from Broomhall; and Sir Robert Blackwood, that not long before had purchased the estate of Pitreavie, rode with him to show respect to the old Colonel’s memory.

I was sitting in an upper chamber, disconsolate enough, and growing rather weary of the murmur of voices below, when I heard what seemed to be the bustle of an arrival at the front door.

“Some late comer,” I was thinking, with girlish bitterness, “just in time to join the feast,” when my door opened, and I heard a pleasant voice say softly, “Nay, I thank you, I would see the young lady alone,” and rising from my seat I was confronted by a lady still wrapped in her travelling cloak, who came forward quickly, pushing back the hood from her face.

“My poor Barbara,” cried she, “to think that a girl should be alone on such a day as this! I would have given twenty pound to have been with you earlier, my bairn, but I will explain the delay by-and-bye. Didst think thyself forsaken by all kind friends, my little Barbara, as well ye might?”

Then putting her hands on my shoulders, and holding me from her, she smiled.

“Nay! not little Barbara now, but tall Barbara, bonny Barbara, winsome Barbara. Even with so sad a face you mind me of your mother, child, but never, oh never, will you be as beautiful as she.”

Without speaking I drew her to the settle by the fire. I knew very well who she was—my lady in the blue gown, with the merry voice and the kind smile, the “Cousin Katie” of my childhood, my new guardian, Lady Erskine. And then she fell to talking of my loss, and praised my dear grandpapa for a kindly and courteous gentleman, a brave and honourable soldier, a man of wisdom and intellect, polished and mellowed by contact with the world. I know not now all she said of him, but when she ended, I felt that it was a proud thing to be the granddaughter of such a man, even although he had borne no high-sounding title, nor held any great position as the world counts greatness.

After a thoughtful silence between us, she took my hand in hers and smiled brightly.

“And now for my explanation and apology, Barbara. I was indeed expected at the Hermitage a sennight since, as Colonel Stewart had heard, but alas! what should befall but that my youngest son should be ailing—no serious sickness, thank God! but one of those childish bouts of heats and chills, when the little head is heavy and the active limbs grow weak, and the poor bairn lacks nothing but to lie in its minnie’s lap. I fear you will blame me, Barbara; I am held by my own sisters to be a weak and foolish mother in that I let my children see how much I love them. Alack! I cannot hinder my love from having its way, and when a bairn is sick, and weak, and helpless, what better place can be found for it than its mother’s arms?

“Ah, I see you agree with me, my dear, I have nothing to fear from your censure. Well, my little Harry held me in Alva with his tiny hands, though had I known the truth of what was happening here, I own I would have tried to break away a little sooner. I arrived at Dysart only last night, found your poor grandpapa’s letter awaiting me there, and learned the sad news that he was to be buried to-day. All my brothers are from home, and my lord is an old man unfit to venture out in such a storm; otherwise, my dear, some of my family would have been present at the funeral. But when I thought of you, poor child, alone and friendless in your sorrow, I could not wait another day before I came to you.”

“Indeed, cousin,” I said, “I am most grateful and glad to see you. But I know not how your horses had power to drag you through the drifts. Did not the wheels stick often?”

“I did not come on wheels, my dear, or I should never have reached you.”

“What, did you ride then?” I cried, astonished.

“No, no, I sat in my coach and kept as warm among my wraps as possible.”

Then, seeing my perplexity, she added,

“Have you never heard how in colder countries than Scotland the people ride about in winter in sleighs, that glide over the surface of the snow without making any deep ruts as wheels would? You must know that my husband’s youngest brother, Dr. Robert Erskine, is private physician to that great man, Peter, the Czar of all the Russias, and lives with him in Moscow, the capital of his kingdom. Well, when brother Robin writes about the sleighing and the comfort and convenience of it, and how smoothly they rush along, Sir John, my husband, claps his hand to his forehead and cries out, ‘Just the thing for Scotland! we’ll try it when the first snow comes!’ Oh, Barbara!” cried my lady with sparkling eyes, “there never was such a man as mine for trying new inventions, they are verily the delight of his life. So he writes to Russia for instructions as to the method, and gets a drawing from his brother how it’s done, and then when next the snow lies deep, off come the wheels of our lightest coach, and ’tis placed on runners and becomes a sleigh.”

“And now, my dear Barbara,” said my lady, after I had asked many eager questions and received most kind replies, “now we must talk business. How old are you, my dear?”

“I shall be seventeen, madam, in February.”

“Why, you are a woman grown. Too old to go back to school, eh?”

“Oh, madame!” I cried, “if only I need not return!”

“Ah! you have not much love for the blackboard and the ruler; or is it the virginal and tambour-stitch that you are weary of?”

“Nay, cousin, I love my lessons, and my dear grandpapa was, as you know, a learned gentleman. We read many books together that Mistress Lindsay and her sister, I am sure, never saw. He made me study French and talk it with him all my life, that I might not forget my mother’s tongue. The sisters Lindsay could teach me no more of that than I knew. I like to play on the virginal and sing, and my satin-piece and sampler were the best in the school. I can walk a minuet and sweep a curtsey with the best, and—and—in fact, madam, I know not what more they can teach me!”

To this conceited speech, my lady replied with a smile and the quiet remark,

“You had a more fortunate up-bringing than many country maids, my dear. Never forget what you owe to your good grandfather’s care. But still, I think,” she continued, “though not quite for the reasons you give, that you have been long enough at school, and now as to the question of a home.”

“My grandpapa thought,” I ventured timidly, “that perhaps my Lord Sinclair, your father——”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “he writ me of that in his letter. But the Hermitage is not the home I should choose for you. My lord is old, and my sisters are often away from home. You would scarce be happy at the Hermitage, Barbara; do you think you could be happy with me?”

“With you, madam?” I cried.

“At Alva,” she replied. “There are the two little boys, you know, Charles and Henry—very good-humoured children, though I, their mother, say it. They keep us stirring I can tell you, and dear little companions they are. Charles is not yet six years old, he is called after his paternal grandfather; little Henry, my father’s namechild, is just turned four. There was another, Barbara——”

She paused, and her eyes took that deep, still look that I have seen in the eyes of other mothers of dead children.

“Little Jamie, my bonnie baby! God only lent him to us for a few months, not quite a year, then He took him back again. Ah, Barbara, to see your baby lying dead—that makes a wound in a mother’s heart that the good God himself cannot wholly heal; indeed, I think He knows better than to try. But let us not speak of these sad things. Do you think you could live happy with us at Alva?”

“Oh, very gladly indeed, madam,” I cried. “But Sir John—he has not been asked. He knows nothing as yet of my dear grandfather’s death.”

“My dear,” said Lady Erskine, and the light in her face made even me, a young girl, wonder, “Sir John is my husband, and master in his own house truly, but he is still my lover, my best friend, my kindest companion, and no wish that I express doth he ever gainsay. Whether it be that I never wish for anything that could displease him I know not, but I am very sure that I have only to tell him the truth about you, and to say that I desire you to live with us, for him to receive you at Alva with the warmest, most fatherly of welcomes. His brother, Charles, is, as you know, appointed your other guardian, and it is meet and right you should share our home.”

And so, in short, it was arranged, and more besides, for before she left Rosyth that day, my Lady Erskine had talked with Robert and Phemie, and prayed them in her gracious way, to accompany me to Alva House.

“If Robert will take charge of the stables,” she said, “he will be doing Sir John a kindness, and find enough to occupy his time; and as for you, my good Phemie, I ask nothing better than to install you as head of my nursery, where you may keep an eye on my turbulent little lads, and watch over your own young lady as well.”

Not all of her kind intentions were carried out, however, for alas! old Robert had contracted so grievous a chill standing bare-headed in the snow-storm by Colonel Stewart’s grave, that a mighty inflammation of the lungs set in, and before ten days were past the good old man was laid at the feet of his beloved master.

“I kent weel hoo it wad be!” said Phemie sadly, yet with a certain pride in her tones. “Robbie was aye that set upon the maister, he just couldna bide wantin’ him!”

CHAPTER IV

It hath often been a matter of surprise to me, as well as of great thankfulness, that a beneficent Providence should have cast my lot with friends so large-hearted and generous as Sir John Erskine and his dear lady. I might so easily have been compelled to find a home with people of a very different type, kind and excellent no doubt, but ignorant, narrow and obscure. It might have been my fate to live with a family of austere manners, of rigid life, of homely interests, like so many families at that time in Scotland, which indeed would have ill-accorded with my own disposition, and who knows what disastrous results might have ensued? With such people, and I have met with many in my life, ’twould have been scarce possible for me to live happily, nor, I suppose, would they have found me to their taste any more than I them. For looking back upon my early life and character I know that I was but an undisciplined girl, needing firm but gentle guiding, spoiled by indulgence no doubt, impulsive, hot-headed, and rash, inheriting from my mother a strain of gaiety and light-heartedness calculated to lead me into temptation, and withal impatient of control. Still to be just to myself, I must allow that I was affectionate, honest, and fearless, and so capable of strong attachment to one whom I admired and loved as I did my Cousin Catherine, that any sacrifice made for her or hers seemed easy, and her simplest word was enough to check me, so eager was I at all times for her approbation.

My dear husband, who knows me, I think, as no other human being ever did, tells me sometimes that one of my chief characteristics (he is too kind to call it a fault), is to idealise where I love. I believe he is right; but though it lays me open now and then to his friendly ridicule, I would not have it otherwise. It is a power (though some regard it as a weakness), which raises the standard of life for those who possess it. It closes their eyes to the mean side of human nature, for except where love and admiration are possible they take little concern; it gives wings to the hopeful heart that lift it high above the quagmires of despair, and it opens to faithful eyes a secret window in Heaven that lets a little of the holy light shine forth upon the dark things of the earth. And if we seldom realise our ideals, what then? Are we any the worse for having sought them? No more than is the lark, who, having mounted half a mile towards the sun, sinks back singing to his lowly nest, only to rise again to-morrow.

I had no sooner set eyes upon Sir John Erskine, than I understood, in a dim and girlish way, the meaning of that light which I had seen upon his wife’s face when she spoke of him to me. There was that in his big and burly form, as he stood at the door of his house to welcome us, in the kindly lines of his face and the humorous gleam of his eye, in the hearty tones of his great manly voice that had yet a thrill of tenderness in them, that caused me to realise, as far as a young maid may, that here was a man that no woman and very few men could dislike. I have heard since that day, God knows, many evil things about Sir John, not one half of which I believe. I know him to have been a careless liver, gay, reckless and imprudent, more witty than wise, and as wild in his speculations and inventions as any foolish gambler. I know what misfortunes his conduct brought to his family, and I cannot but blame him for many things that he did, and yet with it all he was a much loved man, one whom his friends excused even while they accused him, a man who never did a cowardly action, nor, I firmly believe, ever spoke an unkind word—in short, a man of genius wanting ballast, but possessing a most generous nature, and a charm of manner that won all hearts, even those that were fain to reprove him.

To me, Barbara Stewart, the orphan girl who had but little claim upon him, he was kind beyond all telling, and if my lenient view of his character be somewhat inspired by grateful remembrance, who can blame me?

I can see him now as he appeared to me on that late winter afternoon, lifting his wife over the snow-sprinkled threshold into the lighted hall, and kissing her hands with tender courtesy while she clung to his arm for a moment, her sweet face raised to his. But before I had time to do more than cast a glance of timid curiosity round, she turned and drew me forward.

“And this is Mistress Barbara Stewart,” cried Sir John, holding out his hand in kindest greeting. “I bid you welcome to Alva, my dear young lady, and trust you will find with us a happy home. Our family and yours have intermarried more than once in by-gone years, so I beg of you to look upon me now and always as your loving kinsman and faithful servant.”

With that he made me a very low bow, which I answered with a deep but modest curtsey, trying in faltering, girlish words to express my thanks for his goodness. But the strangeness of my surroundings and perhaps the fatigues of the long, cold journey well-nigh overcame my composure, and I cast my eyelids down to hide the rising tears. My lady came to my rescue, and taking my hand in hers, began to lead me towards the staircase.

“Poor Barbara,” said she, “is quite exhausted; her very lips are stiff with cold. She will answer your courteous speeches better, my life, when she hath drunk a cup of hot wine, and sat awhile beside the fire; and here are our little lads waiting to kiss her hand.”

Looking up, I saw descending slowly towards us two of the bonniest boys it had ever been my lot to meet. The elder, whose fair face was lighted up with eager excitement, looked ready to fly to his mother’s arms, had it not been that his steps were hampered by the less active movements of his younger brother whose hand he carefully held. Golden-haired and blue-eyed, with strong and sturdy limbs, little Charles appeared to me a child to rejoice the hearts of parents and friends alike; but charming as he was, it was to the pretty baby, Hal, that my whole heart went out upon our first meeting. He looked at me from a pair of eyes so large and dark that I named him “Harold Beaux-yeux” on the spot, and after a moment’s grave contemplation of me, his little face broke into a winning and bewitching smile, and he suffered me, stranger as I was, to take him in my arms, with the most gracious air of dignity in the world.

You may judge if Barbara did not speedily forget her loneliness and fatigue as she pressed the lovely child to her heart, and how soon the happy prattle of both the little lads gave her the blessed sense of feeling perfectly at home.

Limited as my experience was, I very quickly discovered that the manner of living at Alva House was greatly in advance of the general rule in Scotland at that time. Not only was the restless genius of Sir John continually engaged in schemes for beautifying and embellishing his estate, but the appointments inside the house showed culture and refinement which could only have been acquired by contact with the world beyond our narrow borders. The walls of the public rooms were set in panels and hung with pictures, there were carpets and rugs upon the floors—a luxury by no means common even in the houses of the rich—curtains of foreign tapestry hung over the doorways and before the windows, and silken cushions and pieces of rich embroidery added beauty to the furnishings. My lady drank her tea at “the four hours” out of dainty chinay cups brought from overseas, and the house was full of beautiful and curious objects fetched home by Sir John and others from Paris, Holland and London, or things of stranger, wider interest sent by Doctor Robin Erskine from his far-off home in Moscow.

The winter months went swiftly, and, when in the middle of February the snow had left the ground, Sir John was constantly employed with his men at the work so dear to his heart, namely: making walks and terraces about the house, improving the garden, and laying out the policies to the best advantage. Having gathered some small interest in such matters from my dear grandfather, I was ever ready to accompany my kind host in his tours of inspection, especially as my lady, having contracted a cold in the latter end of January which still confined her to the house, was unable to be his companion, a source of grief at all times to her whose happiest moments were those spent by her husband’s side.

“Go you with him, Barbara!” she would cry with a smile. “Oh, go, and listen to his talk, but don’t forget the lonely and jealous wife who would fain be taking your place!”

To say truth, Sir John proved himself an entertaining comrade, and since he was pleased to remark that I had an intelligence for outdoor matters beyond my years, he would discourse to me about his plans and schemes for hours together.

“You must understand, Barbara,” he said one day, “that although I have little liking for the English or their manners, and, so far as seeking good company goes, would infinitely rather take ship and sail to France than step into my coach and be carried to London, yet I cannot but allow that in matters of agriculture and husbandry, in farming, forestry, and all country lore, our southern neighbours are many years ahead of us.”

“Will you please to tell me about England, Sir John,” I said, partly from genuine interest in his talk, and partly, I doubt not, with unconscious feminine guile because I saw that it pleased him to have a listener.

“Since 1707,” he went on, “the year, as you are aware, of the political union of the two countries, a union which has scarce yet proved very happy for Scotland, but which I have strong hopes may yet be the making of her commercial fortune, and aid greatly in the general amelioration of her people—well, since the Union, I and many others, as members of Parliament have been obliged to ride yearly to London; and passing as I do, so many of the seats of the nobility and gentry, I was at first struck with amazement, then with shame, and finally with envy that gave birth to emulation, to think that within a few hundred miles of these, our land—with far greater natural beauty to boast of—should be left so wild, so bare, so uncultivated. My kinsman and neighbour, the Earl of Mar, has indeed shown a noble example at his house at Alloa, and it will give my lady pleasure to take you there one day to see his gardens. They are laid out in the Dutch taste, and are modelled on those at Hampton Court, which, as you know, was the favourite residence of King William. My lord gives constant employment to something like a dozen men under a master-gardener, and he has of late years planted a large number of forest-trees. But though his zeal for this sort of work is great, and his taste remarkable, he cannot be persuaded to take so much interest in the enclosing of pastures, or the dressing and enriching of his fields, as I could wish.”

“Is the cultivation in England finer than ours?” I asked.

“Oh, beyond all comparison!” quoth Sir John. “It would astonish you, my dear Barbara, to see upon a June day, the rich waving foliage of trees that stretch for miles along the smooth and pleasant highways, the well-tilled fields divided by blossoming hedges, the comfortable inns, the neat cottages with their little gardens well filled with flowers and fruit. One receives an impression of peace, comfort and prosperity which is very pleasing, and as I said before, it seems strange to think that the two countries lie close to each other, and that their climates are not so very different. It irks me the more,” he went on, “in that Scotsmen themselves are acknowledged by all foreigners to be more learned, wise and polite than the English, and where many an English country squire would be barbarous, ignorant and rude, a Scotsman of the same station displays all the accomplishments of a well-bred gentleman. Yet in matters of such importance as those I have mentioned our country is not to be compared with theirs.”

“Pray, Sir John,” cried I, “are not the farmers very grateful to you for instructing them in more civilised methods?”

He laughed, a great merry laugh. “Indeed, my dear, they are not. They would fain dig up my trees and burn my hedges, as hath been done already on some estates, only I believe the love they bear to my lady holds them back. They grumble monstrously at ‘Sir John’s new-fangled ways,’ and say that the trees do but eat the good out of the land, and the hedges harbour birds that devour their grain. For some winters back I have fed my beasts on clover-grass, red clover made into hay, which the creatures relish and fatten on; but my tenants call it English weeds, and prefer their old method of crushed whin and dried bracken for winter fodder. Great and powerful is the old devil, Ignorance, Barbara, and most devoutly do some folk cling to his feet and worship him.”

“And what, Sir John, will enlighten them?” said I.

“Nothing but intercourse with the outside world, which, by degrees, will become easier and more general. Only by seeing others living in better condition than himself will the Scots peasant be moved to try to improve his own lot.”

“I am glad you are planting trees,” cried I. “They are lovely and lovable, and their shelter and shade are most pleasant.”

“Ay,” said Sir John, “but all do not think alike on this subject, for one of my tenants said to me but yesterday, ‘If the Lord had ettled tae hae trees in the carse, Sir John, wad He no’ hae planted them there Himsel’?’ And when I made answer that, as the Lord had not caused us to be born with houses on our backs like the snail, doubtless He meant us to dwell upon the bare hillside, the good old man looked at me sorrowfully, and humbly begged my honour not to blaspheme. Now, what,” said Sir John, with a shrug of his shoulders, “can you make of a mind like that, Barbara?”

CHAPTER V

I can bring to mind one morning when my lady, having recovered from her indisposition, called me to her and proposed that we should walk through the grounds and see what had been done about the place. The little boys, tired of the nursery in which they had been prisoners during a week of rain, came running and shouting by our side. The sunshine made the fresh world golden; the sky was blue and cloudless, and the wide carse seemed to be a cup filled with opal-tinted air, rimmed by the distant hills. The blackbird and the mavis led the concert with their love-songs, and frequently we stopped to listen to their notes. In the garden walks near the house the deep yellow crocuses opened their hearts to the sun, and the green spikes of the hyacinths pushed through the brown earth, giving promise of beauty and fragrance to come.

“The spring is a lovesome time,” quoth my lady, smiling happily on flowers and birds and children. “When the earth renews herself after her winter torpor I want to live for ever. I feel that every year we ought to have the power like her to grow young and fresh again; but, alas!” she sighed, “this is not so. We fade like the leaves and drop off and are forgotten. Others arise in our place, but we ourselves return again never.”

“You will live for fifty happy years, at least, cousin,” I cried, “and will come again in your children’s children for many generations. It is impossible that you can ever be forgotten!”

She smiled at me and shook her head. “You must bear with my moods, dear bairn, for, when you know me better, you will find in me a strange commingling of light and darkness, of gaiety and gloom. Sir John, who by nature looks ever on the bright side of things, tells me that I love to contemplate the clouds only. I know not how it is, but even my happiness gives me pain, and I enjoy all pleasures so keenly that the very enjoyment ofttimes leaves me tired and sad.”

I mind me of her words very well, because at the time they struck me with a great surprise. Of all the women I have seen and known my Cousin Catherine was the one with whom I most associated the idea of constant, gentle gaiety. The ready smile, the kindly word, with her were never wanting, and although I have seen her angry and disturbed enough when things went wrong and folks were stupid, or when any injustice done came to her knowledge, these moods were but the flashing of a summer storm that quickly passed and left the wonted serenity behind. That all her brightness covered unknown depths of seriousness, and that the spring of her laughter lay very near to tears, was an idea which, to my childish mind, was well nigh incomprehensible. Looking back across the years with wistful eyes—the years of chequered light and shade, of joy and pain, of strife and peace that have made up my life—I, grown older and wiser, know and understand the sweet, deep nature of my friend, as I never could have done while I was near her.

“I have never seen you dumpish or melancholy, madam,” I murmured, half abashed by her words. “I took it that you were a very happy woman, cousin.”

She laughed merrily at that.

“Why, so I am, Barbara, one of the happiest in Scotland. Never heed my words, child; I was but dreaming aloud.”

I looked into her face, relieved, (so sensitive are the young to the influences around them), and saw there a look that spoke of happiness indeed. The soft pink colour rose in her cheeks, and her eyes grew brighter and softer as she gazed in front of her. Following her glance, I caught sight of Sir John standing at the end of the long avenue, directing his men at their work.

“Why, there is your papa, my little sons,” she cried. “Now, see who can reach him first to kiss his hand. If Barbara would run with little Hal, perhaps it would be safer for the small feet.”

At this, nothing loth, we three children (for I was little better than a child when it came to a frolic) ran off down the broad walk with shouts of glee, and, because of Baby Harry’s lagging steps, to which I had to pay heed, the race was won by Master Charles, very proud and triumphant.

“Mama is here! mama is coming, papa!” he cried, “and she bids me kiss your hand. Will you walk with us, if you please, Sir John, and show Barbara the mavis’s nest we found before the rain began?”

With a parting word to his men and a kindly smile to me, Sir John lifted little Hal to his shoulder and walked back with us to meet my lady.

And here I may say that what my Lady Erskine had told me of her method with her children was perfectly true. There were more love and confidence between these little lads and their parents than was at all common in most families; and yet I did not find that the conduct of the children needed censure, nor that their characters suffered in any way. How was it possible when their lives were made so bright that their minds should not expand more readily than when surrounded by dread and gloom? Was their obedience not more spontaneous, and therefore more precious, because given through love, than when forced by fear of punishment? And was not the frank exchange of thought with older minds a constant advantage to their growing intelligence? And yet I know that young Lady Alva was regarded by many as a lax and indolent mother, seeing that she spared herself the trouble of correcting her little sons by harsh discipline and stern reproof.

“When my own life is filled with so much brightness, Barbara,” she said to me one day, after a visiting neighbour had tried to bring her to a sense of her imperfections, “how can I fail to make my children happy too?” And she added in her sweet and pious way, “I do most truly endeavour to lead my little ones to love their Heavenly Father through the love their earthly parents bare to them. But there are some folk, Barbara, who think it shame to talk of earthly love, and presumption to think of the heavenly, and with such I have no traffic in thought or sympathy at all.”

Such, then, was the atmosphere in which these children were brought up, and I must own that two more innocent, sprightly, good-humoured little lads it would have been hard to find.

But to return to the happy party on that sunny morning strolling in the broad walk. While little Hal was prattling from his father’s shoulder, my lady walking by her husband’s side, her hand locked in his, Charles skipping and running, now before, now behind, and Barbara as gay and careless as any, it suddenly occurred to me to make a somewhat forward remark.

“Pray, Sir John,” I cried, “are you not a very rich man, to be able to give work to so many folk?”

Looking back over my shoulder as I asked this question, I intercepted a glance between Sir John and my lady, which appeared to me full of mutual understanding. Instead of replying to me the gentleman said softly to his wife, “Shall we tell her the secret of the hills, my heart?” To which she replied in French,

“I think she is to be trusted; but be careful of the children, my friend, for our eldest is ever ready to pick up information, and has not yet the discretion to withhold it from others.”

“You must know, Barbara,” said Sir John in the same language, which he spoke with great fluency and address, “that what you say is true. I am indeed a wealthy man, so wealthy that all my schemes of policy for this place, though likely to cost a fortune, will not exhaust my resources. You have heard that I am the possessor of coal mines, which already yield me a good sum yearly; but now I am going to tell you of something more precious still to be found within the bowels of those dear, beautiful hills, of which you are so great an admirer. What do you say to silver, Mademoiselle, a vein of silver, forming a mine so rich that it seems as if neither I nor my sons will ever come to an end of it!”

“Silver!” I exclaimed, more astonished than I ever expected to be. “Silver in Scotland, Sir John? Why, I never imagined such a thing possible.”

“Not only possible, but actually here,” rejoined the knight, “and some day you shall be taken to see it in working. Now that the frost is like to be out of the ground if this thaw continues, we can set in motion the engineers and miners, who, during the winter months, are perforce kept idle. Oh, there is no end to my dreams and imaginings about this ore, and what may be done with it—Why do you pull so hard at my hand, my lady?”

“Oh, my dear Sir John,” cried she, half laughing and half vexed; “your mine is like the milkmaid’s pail in the fable. Think of its fate, and of the disappointment of the poor dreamer, and do not let your hopes soar too high.”

“Ta-ta-ta, my dear,” cried her husband, “now is not this just like you? No sooner do I begin about the glories of our future wealth, which is no dream, but founded on solid fact, than you tug at my hand, pull down your pretty lip, and cry, ‘Beware!’”

“I care not for your scorn, dear husband,” said Lady Erskine seriously. “There is something within me stronger than I, which whispers forebodingly whenever this mine of yours is mentioned. I know not what it means, but if I believed these inner ghostly warnings, I should say that your silver is fated one day to bring us all ill-luck.”

“But how many times, my life, have your warnings come to naught? Did you not say t’other day that you had a heavy presentiment of coming evil which concerned our eldest son, and the only thing that happened to him was the bruising of his fingers with the carpenter’s hammer. And when I was well-nigh lost in a storm crossing from France, two years since, were you not merry and gay in your father’s house, recking nothing of your poor spouse his danger?”

My lady laughed, but she gave a little shiver. “Do not remind me of these horrors, I pray you. What I feel about the mine I cannot explain, and foolish though it may be, it has yet to be proved groundless. Look you, my dear, is it not possible for the precious metal suddenly to give out, and to leave you with all your projects on your hands, and nothing wherewith to meet them?”

“Now, a truce to such gloomy forebodings!” cried Sir John gaily in English, and calling to Charles to lead the way to the mavis’s nest, he swung little Hal to the ground and bade him run with his brother, while their father would do his best to catch them.

“Will you tell me, madam,” I said, as we walked more slowly behind, “why you bade Sir John speak French a little while back? Is the silver mine to be kept secret?”

“Assuredly, my dear Barbara,” cried my lady in some alarm; “I understood you to have gathered as much from our method of talk. This, you must know, is one of our difficulties, and it is perhaps the chief reason why the subject lies so heavy on my mind. The affair is worked in secret, and kept private to our family, for should the knowledge of it slip out, there are not wanting those who could make trouble for Sir John. By an ancient act in Scots law, all ore found in the country must pay a heavy tax to the Crown; and as Sir John has no great mind to enrich the coffers of the Hanoverian, either in a public or private way, he hath hitherto managed to keep all knowledge of his mine well within his control, and the silver it yields in his own pocket. But alas! Barbara, a secret shared by many is no secret at all, and there is no end to the mischief that might ensue were you to let your tongue wag never so wisely on the matter.”

“Believe me, dearest cousin,” I cried with some heat, “such a thing is far indeed from my intention. I would rather be dumb for the rest of my life than harm you or Sir John by one careless word. There is nothing I would not do to serve you and yours, madam, who have been so unspeakably kind to me. Pray, pray, believe me, and trust me as you would your own heart.”

“What a fiery creature it is!” said my lady, smiling kindly, as she patted my flushed cheek. “Well—but all I ask of you, Barbara, is just a little discretion.”

CHAPTER VI

“Aunt Betty returns home to-day!” cried Charles one morning, as I came into their room to give my good Phemie greeting, “and I am to ride with the coach to fetch her, my mama says, and to be her little escort.”

Now I had heard much from my Lady Erskine of her favourite sister Betty, and was looking forward with girlish eagerness mixed with diffidence (being troubled with the fear that the engaging young lady might not find me to her taste), to making her acquaintance. I therefore turned quickly to the child and clapped my hands.

“How glad I am to hear it!” I cried. “She is very bright, and gay and pretty, is she not, your Aunt Betty?”

The boy stared at me for a moment in surprise, and then he broke into a laugh.

“Why, no, Cousin Barbara,” he cried. “Aunt Betty is dull and sad, and—but my mama does not allow me to say it—sometimes a little ill-humoured. We must be very gentle with Aunt Betty because she is old, but I must own to you that I do not love her very much.”

“She gives me sugar-drops,” cried little Hal stoutly, “and for that I love her—sometimes!”

My perplexity grew as I looked from one bright face to the other.

“Whither do you ride to meet her?” I asked of Charles.

“Oh, all the way to Stirling!” he cried. “I may not be back till bed-time. I am a big lad now, cousin; I do not need to sleep during the day like my brother.”

“But does not your Aunt Betty live at Dysart with my lord, your grandpapa?” I enquired, still much in a puzzle.

“Oh, yes!” they cried together, “the other Betty does, dear Betty, kind Betty! She it is who is bright and gay. But great-aunt Betty Erskine—well, you will see!”

“She hath been spending some months,” went on Charles, “with her brother the Colonel, who you know is Governor of the Castle of Stirling. I love to go with him round the ramparts, and he took me once down into the dungeons, but—” with a faint note of regret—“there were no prisoners in them.”

“Perhaps there will be some before very long,” I said to console him, little dreaming how soon my careless words were to come true.

“Well, be very careful of your great-aunt, Cha, and we must all endeavour to make her happier when she comes.”

My good opinion of my dear lady, already great, was much increased when I beheld her bearing towards her husband’s aunt, for with the direct ways of children, her sons had spoken nothing but the truth.

Mistress Betty Erskine, who made her home for some months of the year at Alva, was not a cheerful inmate for any house. Her age, her infirmities, and a certain habit of looking on the worst side of everything, rendered her querulous and gloomy; and I watched with admiration, learning gradually to curb my own impatience and follow the example of the house, the gentle toleration with which the poor lady was treated. Sir John had ever a cheerful word with which to greet her. My lady bore her complainings with quiet kindness, and the little boys, as you have seen, were taught to behave to her with deference and respect. And surely ’tis a beautiful thing to see this kindly treatment of the old, for age, beyond a doubt, is a great misfortune, and one from which there is no escape but death. Sure, no one would choose to grow old, but would prefer to keep their youth and vigour unimpaired; and though many (unlike poor Aunt Betty,) give us fair and sweet examples of a cheerful old age, even towards these some patience is required, and every sympathetic art should be used that can console them.

At last, however, “the other Betty” did arrive, and what a rush of fresh gaiety entered the house with her! If my lady was the personification of peaceful cheerfulness, her sister was the very spirit of joyous merriment. The first made me think of a soft bright day in June, but the other was April and July in one, with at times a brisk touch of December. Such laughter, such kindness, such whims, such little tempers! And how the Honourable Betty contrived to be so charming with it all has puzzled wiser heads than Barbara’s.

Even her own sister was sometimes astonished at her sayings and doings, her sudden gusts of anger, her sharp words, her fits of gloom, but before she had time to reprove her, Betty’s arms would be round her neck, and a gay laugh or a murmur of loving words would disarm her displeasure. Sir John watched them together, laughing at and with his sister-in-law, for they were fast friends and boon companions, although the knight teased her sometimes almost to the verge of tears. Her little nephews adored her, and any servant about the place would cheerfully have cut off a finger at her bidding. Even great-aunt Betty smiled a wintry smile at some of her gay sallies, and forgot to complain of the weather, or the country, or her own aches and pains, while Betty held the table at attention.

I remember the day she came, a breezy, sunny, laughing April afternoon, when we were assembled in the parlour for “the four hours.” Suddenly there was a sound of horses’ feet stamping and scraping at the front-door, and a merry voice made itself heard above the din, calling out for Andrew, or Peter, to come and take the nags.

“Why, tis Betty!” cried my lady rising, the pretty colour coming to her cheeks as it did so easily upon any excitement, and before I knew it we were both in the front-hall, watching the dismounting of a lady in a dark blue habit, assisted by a man in the garb of a gentleman, whose face I could not see. Another moment, and with a rush and a whirl she was in my lady’s arms, and saying a hundred merry, happy things in a breath.

“I thought you would like me to take you by surprise, sister,” she cried, “and it was so long to wait till next week, and I longed to be with you and to see Sir John before his departure, and the travelling-coach lacks repairs; so as the roads are good and the weather fine, my lord permitted me to ride horseback with, as you see, our good friend David for escort.”

At this she beckoned with her hand to the young gentleman who stood on the threshold, and Sir John, coming up at that moment, he gave him hearty greeting.

“Welcome, friend David!” he cried, laying his hand upon the other’s shoulder, “and so this wild girl as usual bids you drop all other duties, and act as mounted guard in her ladyship’s journeyings. Oh, ho! Mistress Betty, art never happy but with a train of followers all ready to do thy bidding.”

“Nay, Sir John,” cried Betty, pouting, but holding up her cheek for him to kiss, “my train of followers this time is modest enough, though to be sure David Pitcairn is, for kindness and quickness, a host in himself, as the saying is. But when a poor girl hath only brothers who are ever too busy to attend her, and a father, loving and tender but infirm, must she refuse herself the comfort of a gentleman’s company upon the road, and be content with serving-men?”

“Indeed!” cried the young gentleman, who had meantime been paying his respects to my lady, “Mistress Betty knows how willing all her friends are to serve her, and Sir John is aware that no duties could possibly stand in the way of a gracious command to attend her.”

Now I may say here that I have seen Elizabeth Sinclair in many dresses and in various surroundings—in the ballroom, swimming and languishing through the minuet with infinite grace; in the garden gathering roses; in the still room, her white arms bare and her pink fingertips daintily busy; laughing and romping with the children, her hair ruffled, and her breath coming quick through parted lips; at her spinning-wheel in the twilight, silent and absorbed; and seated at the virginal, singing some old French song, her round chin uplifted and the candle-light forming a halo round her head; but fair and attractive as she was in all these attitudes, I loved and admired the most to see her on horseback. Then, indeed, she appeared at her best—slim, graceful, joyous, a thing of life and motion swaying to every movement of the animal as though the same will inspired them both; and it is no marvel to me now to recall the adoring look with which young Mr. Pitcairn regarded her as he spoke. Even then, I, a girl but just waking up to the knowledge of life, thought ’twas writ plain in his face, how willingly he would ride with the lovely and seductive Betty through the wide world till life ended.

But all this time I had been standing apart watching the newly arrived lady, shy, silent and doubtful, longing for a word, a look of recognition, but heavy at heart with the fear that she might find me too young, too trivial to notice; and then my lady’s kind voice said, “And this is Barbara.”

Betty turned on me in her swift, light way.

“Why, of course it is!” she cried, and her hands clasped mine, and her merry eyes were raised to my face, for she was several inches the shorter.

“What a tall girl! and oh!—my dear Barbara, I swear it is not honest to steal a Scotswoman’s complexion of clear white and red, and add to it a foreigner’s charms of liquid dark eyes and hair nearly black.” Then pulling my face down, she whispered roguishly, “Dost know that thou art lovely, child, and I am almost jealous of thee?”

So saying, she turned and followed her sister into the parlour, leaving me tingling with delight and confusion at hearing for the first time from the lips of another the thing that I had often hoped might be true.

I think it was the next afternoon, for Mr. Pitcairn was with us, and I know that he had been bidden to lie at Alva for a couple of nights, that we made our excursion to the Silver Glen.

There are, as you know, many lovely ravines in the Ochil Range, formed by the age-long working of the burns that, rising near the summit, tumble noisily down the sides by their self-made channels till they reach the quiet river that bears them to the sea. These mountain-streams were ever a delight to me, and I could sit for hours upon a mossy stone watching the ever-changing water as it slipped past, now lying at rest in a quiet brown pool, anon breaking over the stones with a gurgling ripple, and then flinging itself down the steep rocks in a foaming cascade. And as I watched I listened to the voices that for me were never silent—three voices there were that talked, separately and altogether—a deep roaring bass, a soft middle voice, and a high tinkling treble; and what they said to me I cannot tell you, but perhaps some young maid, who has sat dreaming vague dreams to the sound of falling water, reading this may remember and understand.

The Silver Glen lies not far from Alva House, and though small is very beautiful; and on this April day when the young leaves of the birch trees were fast beginning to shake themselves out of their winter wrappings and toss their graceful beauty in the sun, when the ground smelt sweet with new life, and the pale primrose and frail anemone were beginning to appear in the grass, it seemed to my foolish young mind a grievous thing that the place should be filled with busy workers, that heaps of ore and broken rock should lie in confusion beside the burn, and that the sound of pick and hammer should almost drown the music of the water.

As we began to climb the hillside, Betty had turned to her friend, David, with an impressive gesture, and cried gaily,

“Remember, sir, the secret of the hills must be guarded inviolate. Are you strong enough to keep silent?”

They were standing a little apart, and no one but myself heard his reply. Looking deep into her eyes, he said in a low voice,

“Betty, do you need to ask me that? You know that I am!”

Just for one moment a shadow fell on her face, and her eyelids dropped. Then she gave a little laugh.

“David, you are cruel to be so serious over a trifle! What is it that I know? Can you hold your tongue, ay, even in the torture-chamber, about what you are going to see here? Remember the head of my dear Sir John is not safe should you or any of us babble, for is it not high treason to deprive the King of his revenues? Swear eternal silence, or else turn round and march straight home.”

“Madam,” cried Mr. Pitcairn, becoming aware, as I think, of my presence, “I swear by the light of your own beautiful eyes never to divulge the secret of what you are about to show me.”

With that we laughingly continued the ascent, and joined my lady who stood at the entrance of one of the long tunnels talking to a man whose back was turned to us. Sir John had gone on a little further to where some workmen were beginning to form a new opening.

“Betty,” cried my lady on our approach, “here is James Hamilton returned. He hath been, as I told you, in Germany on an errand for Sir John, connected with the assaying of the ore. He is glad enough to get back, I trow.”

I glanced at the man who stood smiling beside her. He was tall and had a handsome face, save that the eyes were too near together; and although he was dressed in the rough clothes of a common workman, he had the air and bearing of a gentleman. When he spoke his accent was refined, and his voice had a pleasant ring.

“Yes, indeed, madam,” he answered, bowing low in reply to Betty’s greeting, and then to me as my lady pronounced my name. “I was not born for wandering. Travel in foreign lands does but endear my own the more to me.”

“Tush, James!” cried Sir John, coming towards us, “what is this nonsense you talk? ’Tis but to make yourself acceptable in the eyes of the ladies, I dare swear. If Mr. Pitcairn and I were alone with you, doubtless we should hear another tale. Far be it from me to belittle Scotland, but there’s many a flaxen-haired Gretchen and blue-eyed Marie fair enough to delight the heart of man betwixt Rhine and Elbe, and I’m vastly mistaken if thou’rt the sort of fellow to go about with thine eyes shut to the beauties of nature.”

“I vow,” cried Mr. Hamilton, laughing in his turn, “that I never, Sir John, in all my travels for the last two months, had the good fortune to light on anything so fresh, so beautiful, so entrancing, as the group before me at this moment.”

He swept us a courteous bow which included all three, but it seemed to me that his eye rested longest on Betty, and a little wicked jealous pang pinched my heart. Should I ever, I wondered, be so attractive as to draw the eyes of all men to me as seemed to be the way with Betty. Alas! what foolish, useless thoughts we suffer to lodge in our minds when we are young, to the exclusion often of that which is wiser, higher and infinitely more worthy.

“La, Mr. Hamilton,” cried Betty, “you are vastly polite. But as you have already told us that nothing in the country pleased you, the compliment you pay us is not so exalted as it seems.”

Mr. Hamilton turned to my lady.

“There is one thing, madam, with which I can never keep pace,” he said, “travel as hard as I may, and that is Mistress Betty’s tongue!”

“I must own ’tis a very nimble one,” said my lady, smiling. “And now, James, I want you to show the working of the mine to Mistress Stewart, who hath but lately come to live here. Give Mr. Hamilton your hand, my dear, and trust yourself to his guidance.”

It was a strange thing to me to leave the green and sunny world behind, and to walk straight into the heart of the hill, where, in the stifling darkness, by the dim light of lanterns, men toiled and sweated with pick-axe and spade to wrest from the very entrails of the earth the treasure that was enabling Sir John to beautify and improve his estate. The passage through which we walked was narrow—I could lay a hand upon the walls on either side, and the foot-way was rough and slippery and precarious, so much so that I could scarce attend to what my guide was saying, as he explained the method of finding and extracting the silver. Here and there water oozed through the rock and dripped upon us as we crept along, and presently we came upon a deep hole or pit, where looking down I saw the forms of men bending to their work. So weird and goblin-like they looked in that uncertain light that I shivered and drew hastily back. Upon that Mr. Hamilton caught me sharply by the arm with a quick word of warning, and glancing round I perceived with a thrill of horror that another opening or shaft, narrower but much deeper than the first, gaped darkly just behind me. So startled was I at the sight, that I clung to my companion’s arm in terror, and for a moment could neither speak nor move. Seeing this, Mr. Hamilton soothed me in a very kind and gentle way, and turning slowly he guided my footsteps back along the way we had come.

“I must have your forgiveness, Mistress Barbara,” he said, “for having startled you by so suddenly clutching at your arm. But I feared that you might step too far the other way, and I did not, as you may imagine, wish to see the light of the loveliest eyes in all broad Scotland quenched in the darkness of the pit.”

Now, had I been a few years older or more experienced, no doubt I should have treated this speech with the haughty displeasure it deserved, for the man was a stranger, and the young maid he addressed was the ward of his employers; but Barbara was in those days very young, very thoughtless and foolish, and the compliment pleased me, little feather-head that I was, because it was the first that I had ever received from one of the sterner sex. Here was a proof of the admiration that I longed for, and an opportunity of showing myself the accomplished coquette. The sunlight was glimmering on the dusky walls as we approached the entrance, so I tossed my head and replied in tones which I fondly hoped resembled those of the Honourable Betty,

“La! Mr. Hamilton, you are monstrous kind, I am sure, to pay me such a pretty compliment. But how can your words be true, when you know that Mistress Betty is standing within a few yards of us?”

“Mistress Betty!” he cried in low tones, and with a kind of soft amazement. “You cannot possibly think, madam, that any man of taste would glance at that charming lady while such an one as yourself was by?”

Now I have said that Barbara was silly, which is true; but she was not for all that an absolute fool, and inexperienced as she was, she had sense enough to see that this time the compliment was too gross to be genuine. So she laughed very merrily, and begged Mr. Hamilton not to talk any more nonsense.

We proceeded for some way in silence, but just as we neared the full daylight the gentleman turned and spoke quickly and gravely in my ear.

“The truth, madam, can never be nonsense,” he said. “For my part I would sooner have one glance from your dark eyes, and a smile from your exquisite lips, than all the sparkle and charm of Mistress Betty’s beauty and wit, great as these are.”

Alas! for my fleeting discretion, how his words set my heart a-beating! When we stepped out upon the hillside into the wind and the sunshine, I knew that my cheeks were glowing, and my eyes shining with unwonted light.

“Why, Barbara,” cried my lady, “you look fey! What didst see and hear within the hill to give thee such a colour, child?”

I was silent in confusion, but Mr. Hamilton came to my rescue.

“I regret to tell you, madam, that Mistress Barbara narrowly escaped falling down the shaft, and the little incident has no doubt shaken her nerve.”

“How strange!” scoffed Betty, with a keen glance at me. “Now when I am frightened, sister, I turn as white as chalk: but to be sure, Barbara’s way is the more becoming!”

That night after Phemie had left me—for the good creature would always attend me to my couch as in the old days—I heard a light tap at my chamber door, and opening it, I found Betty, in night-rail and slippers, standing on the threshold, her fair hair demurely braided ready for her cap.

“I am coming in, Barbara,” she said, and walking past me into the room she seated herself in a chair, and left me standing before her.

“Now,” she cried, lifting a finger at me, “confess! What did that man say to you to-day in the tunnel!”

Utterly taken aback I could only gaze at her, and gradually the remembrance of the words, which I had well-nigh forgotten, came back to me, and the colour deepened in my face.

“Mistress Betty!” I cried, “what mean you?”

“My good child,” she exclaimed, “do not try to deceive me, for it is useless. I know as well as if I had been by your side all the time that James Hamilton was saying something to you, as foolish as it was pretty, down there in the dark, and I wish to know what it was.”

“But, madam,” I protested feebly, “I do not see why I should tell you!”

“Hoity-toity!” cried she, “so the child has some spirit! And why not, pray? At so early a stage in the proceedings he can hardly have said anything you are ashamed to repeat.”

This was attacking me upon another side, and finding it useless to fence with her, I weakly surrendered.

“Ashamed!” I repeated, blushing hotly. “Why no, scarcely that; but standing here with you, Mistress Betty, the words seem to me senseless and vain, which by his side in the darkness yet gave me a certain pleasure.”

“Ahem! I thought so. He praised your dark eyes, I suppose, and delicately gave you to understand that beauty such as yours is a new and rare thing in this country-side. Perhaps he told you that beside you I was not worth a glance. Was that it?”

Amazed, I could only murmur. “But how, madam, could you know?”

Betty lay back in her chair and laughed. “How do I know? Ah, Barbara, what an innocent you are. I know because I have been seventeen myself, though that was some time ago now; and because men are all cut out on one pattern, at least most of them; and because your eyes and your blushes called it aloud to all the world; and because compliments made to one maid are very much like compliments paid to another, and—oh, well, because I am a woman, and know a good many things without being told at all.”

I stood, looking no doubt as much chagrined as I felt, till Betty had finished speaking, then I threw myself down on a settee a little way off, and cried petulantly.

“But where is then the harm of a compliment, seeing they are so common? and why should I not be innocent in such matters—a girl but just out of school? ’Tis not quite kind of you to laugh so, Mistress Betty.”

She was grave again at once, and answered gently.

“Nay, child, it was wrong of me to mock, and having come to warn you, I have but succeeded in angering you. Forgive me, Barbara. James Hamilton is a handsome man, and a clever one; he is a scion of an old and noble house, and ’tis no shame to him but much to his credit that he works hard for his living. But, Barbara, I do not trust him; why, I know not. There is something in his nature antagonistic to my own. I mock and joke with him, but all the time my spirit is saying to his spirit, ‘Keep off, we are not friends!’ and if we lived together fifty years, at the end of that time we should still be strangers.”

She spoke so gravely that I could not be offended; here was no womanish jealousy, no idle fault-finding, no carping at a laggard lover. I was wise enough to comprehend this, and I answered with a gravity equal to her own.

“In what do you distrust him, madam?”

Betty spoke more lightly.

“Nay, that I can hardly tell you; but look you, my dear, you are young, and fair, and a fortune. ’Twould not be detrimental to James Hamilton’s ambitions to win a bride like yourself; but you are destined, I trust, for better things than that. During the summer you will see a good deal of this gentleman, and I beg of you not to let yourself be drawn into a net, out of which you might, later, long in vain to escape.”

Without waiting for a reply, she jumped up and made for the door, crying,

“Good-night! Forget not the words of wisdom, but do not allow them to disturb your slumbers.”

She vanished behind the closing door, and I retired to bed, not quite so convinced of her wisdom as I ought to have been.

CHAPTER VII

The days of spring fled swiftly and easily for me in my pleasant abode although nothing happened to mark their passage with any particularity. Less than a week after the arrival of Betty, Sir John, whose journey had already been delayed much beyond the usual time, by the state of the roads and the inclemency of the weather, took his departure for London, leaving behind him as I know now, though at the time I gave but little thought to the subject, a very lonely and disconsolate wife.

Whatever burden that tender heart was forced to bear, it was hidden under an aspect of calm cheerfulness, and the healthful activity which so greatly distinguished my Lady Erskine. And indeed, I have often wondered how Alva House and estate would have held together, had its mistress given way to repining, or indulged herself in selfish grieving and idle brooding over her troubles. When, after a short stay, her sister returned to Dysart, she busied herself from morning till night both inside the house and about the place. I have often found her in the farm-yard before seven o’clock of a morning consulting with Mr. Rose, the grieve, as to the buying or selling of certain cattle, the condition of the young lambs, or the sowing of seeds in field or garden. Anxious to follow her husband’s lead in all things, she contrived with some trouble to keep the men at the walks which she longed to have completed before the knight’s return, and all questions regarding the planting of flowers or vegetables were submitted to her for arbitration. Besides all this, there were friends and visitors to be entertained, poor folk to be assisted, beggars to be fed; and sure never was house so famed for hospitality to rich and poor alike, for scarce a day passed without guests in the dining-room, or pensioners in the kitchen. Placed so near the high-road that runs between Stirling and Dunfermline, and night and day was thronged with passers-by, it served as a convenient house-of-call from which none were sent empty away; and though some might feel inclined to grumble at the vast expenditure which this open-heartedness entailed, it never seemed to enter the minds of Sir John and his lady that any other manner of living was possible.

Among the neighbours who lived within a few miles of Alva were many friendly gentlemen who, with their ladies, appeared to enjoy nothing better than to ride over and dine or sup with us, in order as they said, to cheer my Lady Erskine in her loneliness; and right welcome did she make them all, though at times I have fancied she had been as well pleased to be left in peace and quietness with her children. Living in the centre of a large circle of relations, her own and her husband’s families being largely represented in that part of the country, there was a constant coming and going among them, and as the roads grew more fit for travelling, my lady would occasionally spend a night or two from home with one or other of her numerous relatives. At Stirling Castle lived her husband’s uncle, Colonel Erskine, a kind and jovial old officer, and a vast favourite with all the younger generation. Not far off lived her eldest sister-in-law, the widowed Lady Ardoch, whose son, Sir Harry Stirling, was a frequent visitor at Alva. Another sister-in-law, her namesake, Catherine, was Mrs. Patrick Campbell of Monzie; while a third, Helen, was the wife of Mr. Haldane of Gleneagles. My lady’s eldest sister, Grizel, was married to Mr. John Paterson of Prestonhall, and a younger, Margaret, had lately become the wife of Sir William Baird of Newbyth. So with her home at Dysart still occupied by a kind father, and several brothers and sisters, you can imagine that there was much pleasant intercourse between them in those days.

Sometimes we took the road to Edinburgh, where we passed a day or two with the Dowager Lady Alva, at her house in Miln’s Square. The first time I went was when we carried Aunt Betty there on her yearly visit. It was then also I made the acquaintance of my guardian, Mr. Charles Erskine, one of the kindest men and most fascinating companions it has ever been my lot to meet. You will have come to the conclusion among yourselves that it is next to impossible for your cousin Barbara to have any word but of praise to say of any creature bearing the name of Erskine, and indeed it would ill become me to regard them in any other way. But the charm of manner, the kindliness and courtesy which distinguished Sir John, and his brothers, Charles and Robert, though of the last I can only speak from hearsay, were such as to have left a lasting impression, not only on the mind of a simple girl, but upon society in general.

No words of mine are needed to establish the reputation of my Lord Tinwald, happily still among us; and though circumstances have prevented me seeing much of him since my marriage, I have heard from time to time of his honourable career, of his many virtues, and of the happy circle with which he is surrounded at Alva. Happy and kind and good, he was likewise in those far-off days busy with his work at the Bar, and rejoicing in the love of his pretty wife (his beloved Chrissy), and their baby daughter. I remember him very well as he appeared to me then, handsome and courtly, full of humour and liveliness, his face beaming with kindness, his manner winning, and his voice soft. He spoke with a slight natural lisp, which so became him that his brother, Sir John, often declared he would not part with it for a fortune, and of no man could it be said with more truth than of your Uncle Charles, that he knew how to suit his discourse to his audience; for among his colleagues in the courts, or with his little nephews in their nursery, he found ever the right words to speak, and the subject most congenial to his hearers.

You will no doubt be wondering what effect the wise and kind words of Mistress Betty Sinclair, regarding modesty and discretion, had had upon the conduct of Barbara, and I am sorry to be obliged to tell you that although they were not forgotten, the impression they had made very soon slipped from her mind. Although it was but seldom she saw Mr. Hamilton, except in the presence of my Lady Erskine, I can well recall that even thus he was able to convey in silent and unobtrusive manner, many hints of his admiration and respect, which inflamed her silly vanity and set her heart a-fluttering. There is nothing on earth so foolish as a young girl in her first encounters with the other sex, if she be unaccustomed to flattery and somewhat inclined to frivolity. I must honestly own that I cannot recollect any great breach of modesty on my part towards my admirer, but there is no denying that I practised upon him all the little feminine arts (such as soft glances and coy blushes, sudden frowns and scornful smiles), that many women are skilled in from their cradles. It pleased me to see him come and go, and to hear his voice speak my name, for in some subtle way he continued to let me know that, however much he was occupied by affairs with my lady, mine was the presence he regarded, and mine the eyes that his own were anxious to meet.

Partly on account, I imagine, of this senseless attraction, and partly because my life at Alva seemed the perfection of simple happiness, I heard with some dismay that my lady was about to leave home for several weeks, taking me with her to my Lord Sinclair’s house at Dysart. Just at first I felt moved to protest against the plan and to beg her to leave me behind, but a moment’s reflection showed me that not only would such a course savour of great ingratitude, but that the request would be both foolish and useless, as it was not seemly that I should live in the house protected only by the servants.

It gave me a certain satisfaction, however, to meet Mr. Hamilton that same evening, as I walked in the garden with little Charles for my companion. It was near the middle of May, and the blossom was thick on the fruit-trees, and the flowering shrubs were gay. The air was fragrant with scent, and a cuckoo was calling loudly from some secret place among the trees. The sun was gone behind the hill, though it was a long way yet from setting, and a soft light breeze blew across the valley from the unseen river. I was chatting merrily with my little friend, when suddenly I heard a footstep behind me and turned to find James Hamilton close upon us. His hat was in his hand, and his eyes were full of a pleasant deference. Charles ran back a step or two to catch hold of his hand, and I must needs pause also, until they made up upon me.

“This is sad news, Mistress Barbara,” he said in answer to my smile, “if it be true that we are to lose the light of life from Alva for a couple of weeks or more. Tell me if it is so, and give me, I pray you, some word of consolation.”

“If by the light you prize so much, you mean my lady’s presence, Mr. Hamilton, ’tis true that you are to be left in darkness for some time, and the only consolation I can offer you is that I trust it will not be for ever.”

He gave me a glance of half-comic reproach. “Cruel creature!” cried he, “’tis your pleasure to torment me. Great as is my respect and liking for her ladyship, ’twould be hypocritical to pretend that her absence will darken my sky. Do you not know, Mistress Barbara, who it is that I shall long for with a great longing?”

I looked at him from under my eyelashes, and frowned as if perplexed.

“Sure then there is only myself left,” I said slowly.

“And I wish that you could be left!” he cried with fervour, “seeing that I am to remain at Alva. Well, Mistress Barbara Stewart,” he went on, as I declined to respond to this advance, “I wonder if you will find the Hermitage to your liking. There are gallants enough among my Lord Sinclair’s sons to please you, and if their time is not too much occupied with politics, they may even succeed in making you forget us altogether.”

“Are the family at Dysart, then, so much interested in affairs of state?” I asked.

Mr. Hamilton laughed.

“Rather more than His Gracious Majesty, King George, would approve of. But I must be careful, madam, how I talk. Your inclinations and sympathies, no doubt, are in accord with your name.”

“Nay, sir,” I cried, “I protest I know not what you mean. But as my lady is waiting for little Charles we must not linger now. Farewell, Mr. Hamilton; I daresay by the time we meet again you may have grown more serious-minded.”

“Farewell, madam!” he replied, with a bow. “By the time we meet again we shall all, doubtless, have become wiser.”

I scarce can tell you when it first dawned on my mind that, with regard to political matters, something stirring was afoot. I had heard since coming to Alva, some talk about the King in Lorraine and his chances of success, from the various visitors who frequented the house, and many a bowl of punch was brewed, from which we ladies were given a glass to drink to the downfall of the usurper, and the establishment of the rightful heir. I had listened in a vague way to the toasts and the jokes, for many a gay laugh was raised among them, and I, smiling too, had not thought it worth my while to discover if they were serious or no. But one afternoon when my lady had driven to Stirling to visit the wife of Sir Hugh Paterson of Bannockburn, I heard some talk that was grave enough to set me thinking.

Lady Jean was, as you know, sister to my lord, the Earl of Mar, and at this time she had staying with her in the house, her nephew, Thomas—“Lordy Erskine” as we often called him—a boy of some eleven or twelve years old. To our little Charles he was of course a great hero, being twice his age, and tall and strong for his years, and the two were now at play in the garden while I sat with the ladies in the parlour to drink a dish of tea. My lady had been enquiring after the health of my Lady Frances, Tommie’s step-mother, and her young daughter, a babe of a few months old, and Lady Jean was lamenting the fact that they were not yet able to come to Alloa.

“But indeed, my dear,” she said, “all things seem unsettled, and I am gravely anxious about my brother and his projects. You know that his sympathies jump with our own, and yet it seems to me he inclines to ingratiate himself with the enemy. Were he to turn cat-in-the-pan now, I know not how our friends could bear it.”

I saw my Lady Erskine’s fair face flush with displeased surprise.

“Nay, Lady Jean,” she cried, “I’ll not believe it! Such a thing is not possible from the Earl. Why, I know that it is his dearest hope to bring the King back from exile, and our husbands, madam, have as you know, not hesitated to put their fingers in the pie.”

“From which they will be lucky if they extract anything but a scalding!” said Lady Jean with a rueful smile. “My dear creature, have patience with me! Are you never yourself tormented with forebodings of evil when all the rest of the world is prophesying prosperity? That is my condition whenever I think on the subject so near our hearts, but it is useless to speak of it. We women must nurse our fears in silence.”

“Indeed!” cried my lady, “Barbara Stewart here will tell you how apt I am to look on the dark side of the cloud on many occasions, but this thing cannot fail. We hear that the King of France is heart and soul for the Cause, and Charles of Sweden likewise, and with a General like the Duke of Berwick, and my Lord Bolingbroke for Councillor to King James, there is no fear this time of the project coming to naught.”

“God grant it may be so!” sighed the other. “No woman in Scotland has the wish for the restoration of that family more at heart than I. Were it only for the sake of the poor, good, true-hearted Queen, who, blameless and innocent herself, has suffered so much and with such patience, I should desire it most warmly. But restoration means rebellion, and rebellion means war, and my woman’s heart trembles at the very thought.”

“I try not to think too much of that,” Lady Erskine replied gravely. “As my father’s daughter I should be willing to give my best and dearest for the King, but if it means my parting with my husband, Lady Jean, or you with yours, then God help us both!”

“Nay, nay!” cried Lady Jean, seeing the look in my dear lady’s eyes, “I meant not so to disturb your mind. We are both brave women, I take it, and can bear what Fate sends. But I dearly wish poor, foolish Anne had been reconciled to her brother before she died, when, despite the Act of Succession, I dare swear justice would have been done without our having to fight for it.”

But here my lady thought it wise to send me from the room, on the pretext of finding Charles for our return home, and what further was said upon the matter I know not.

Now I should like to say here that ’tis prodigiously uneasy for me to write of those days, and the events that happened, and the people that took part in them, without permitting the influence of later knowledge to colour my narrative. Therefore it must be forgiven me if my tale appears to halt in some places, and to be over-particular in others. More especially must this be the case in speaking of the characters of the actors in this drama I am endeavouring to describe, with some of whom I came in contact, though of many I can but speak from hearsay.

After all, I would ask, how is it possible to know with accuracy the inner motives of any man’s actions? To his Maker alone, I am inclined to think, is this knowledge given. He, himself, is influenced by many happenings, urged on consciously and unconsciously by the words and even the thoughts of others, so that at times he regards his own doings with surprise, now astonished at his unlooked for success, now bitterly repenting his grievous mistakes; and if you tell me that by setting forth such a belief I try to rob men of their responsibilities to God and to their neighbours, I will only reply that it is possible we may not be so responsible for the good that we do and the evil that we commit, as we suppose. My dear grandpapa, who was a great admirer of the works of Mr. Shakespeare (a dramatist who has, I fear, gone somewhat out of fashion) was fond of quoting, among other of his wise sayings, that, “There is a Destiny that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will!” and to him, as also to me, this thought has oft brought comfort.

It is a thought that is very apt to come to my mind in considering the character and conduct of the Earl of Mar. Saving once only, and for a short time, I never set eyes upon this gentleman, but his name was once as familiar in my ears as my own, and there is no man in the world of whom I have heard so much good and so much evil spoken. The kinsman and near neighbour of my guardian at Alva, of the same age, and with the same tastes, John Erskine, sixth Earl of Mar, was a man greatly beloved and trusted in his own country-side. By his opponents he has been called treacherous and shifty, by his rivals, ambitious and unscrupulous, and his conduct as statesman and as general has laid him open to the bitter attacks even of those whom he might have counted as his friends; but by his neighbours at home he was known to be affable and obliging, kind and helpful, never withholding assistance where it was desired in matters great or small, and doing all with so easy a grace as made his favours the more acceptable; for he asked nothing in return, and seemed to live only to gain the good-will and affection of all around him.

At Alva House, as I can bear witness, he was admired and loved for his private, rather than for his public character. He hath long ago passed beyond the reach of human praise or blame, dying after long exile in a foreign land, and if his sins and mistakes were great, they brought him neither happiness nor reward. May his ashes rest in peace! I remember him as a kind and courteous gentleman; and his gardens at Alloa were a sight most beautiful to behold.

CHAPTER VIII

Far as I have travelled and beautiful as are the countries I have seen, the fairest pictures that hang in the galleries of my memory are pictures of bonnie Scotland. To me it seems that in those far-off days of which I write the sunshine was brighter, the air more limpid, the shadows bluer, and the trees of a softer green than any I have seen in later years. But well my foolish heart knows ’tis but the glamour of distance, that enhanceth all beauty, lingering round the scenes of my youth, and the magic strength of early impressions that keeps them ever fresh in my mind.

And yet it would be hard to deny that the prospect seen from the coast of Fife, looking southward, is one of the fairest of its kind in the world. How blue and sparkling was the water of the Frith on that May morning, as my lady and I approached the little town of Dysart; how white the foam of joyous wavelets that broke upon the rocks! Far away the great Bass and Berwick Law rose like twin fortresses side by side, and against the opposite coast the white sails of ships and small boats shone in the sunlight. Westward, where the slender masts of the shipping rose thickest, the town of Leith was hidden in its own blue smoke, but behind it the Lion kept watch over Edinburgh Castle, and the Pentlands melted faintly into the soft summer sky. Our road had followed the coast for some miles, and it had pressed heavy on my heart to come so near to my own dear home, and yet to pass it by. My kind cousin had known very well what was in my mind, and had laid her hand on mine with a mute pressure of sympathy at sight of grey Rosyth, with the ripples breaking round its feet. But the beauty of the day forbade me to be sad, and as we reached the Hermitage, I broke out into cries of delight and admiration which pleased my lady well.

Mistress Betty and her youngest sister, Mary, were waiting at the door to welcome us, and we were immediately shown into the presence of my Lord Sinclair, whose stately demeanour impressed, while his kindness of manner delighted me. His greeting of his daughter, Catherine, was all that a tender father’s could be, and her joy at seeing him again was as little restrained as if she had been still but a child. While she settled herself beside him for such converse as was most agreeable to them both, Betty and her sister bore me off between them, the former full of questions that awaited no answers, the latter, who was a delicate, gentle girl, silent and smiling and willing to be friendly.

“We are a large family, my little Barbara,” cried the former, “and I trust that you have plenty of spirit to face it. Fortunately it is not here in full force at present, as Jamie is with his regiment abroad, and Matthew still at school; Grizel and Meg, as you know, are in homes of their own, so there remain only my eldest brother, John, Will, Harry and little Nannie here. Still, when we are met round the family-board, we make a goodly show; and as we are not silent people, it sometimes requires my lord’s sternest frown to quell the tempest of noise.”

Later in the day, I met for the first time, that strange, and to me incomprehensible gentleman, your uncle, the Master of Sinclair. As his not too happy life came to a close some five years ago, he leaving no children to cherish his memory, I count myself free to make my comments upon his character, as otherwise I could not have done. It was difficult to believe when I looked upon this heavy, sullen-browed man, that he was the son of my handsome and courtly host, and brother to the sunny-faced ladies whom I loved. To me he ever appeared the one sour fruit upon a sweet and wholesome tree; and though seeing him in the bosom of his family, where his deference to my lord and his affection for his sisters predisposed me in his favour, there was about him, in his looks and in his words, such a scarce-veiled bitterness that I wondered at times they did not check him for it.

My dear Elizabeth, I soon discovered, had a prodigious admiration for her brother, and took every occasion to extol or excuse him even to me, of whom as an insignificant girl he took but little notice, leaving me therefore the more at leisure to observe him.

“The Master hath not been one of Fortune’s favourites, Barbara,” she told me one afternoon, as we sat on the rocks below the house and watched the sea-gulls wheeling about after their evening meal. “My father, proud of his learning, for indeed he is passing clever, and a scholar of no mean degree, was opposed to his going into the army—a thing upon which my brother had set his heart. He set out for the Continent with scarce any money, and many and great were the hardships he endured. But a soldier he would be, and by degrees he won the friendship and esteem of his Grace, the Duke of Marlborough, so that when sorely slandered and in danger of his life, he stood his friend; and through him also was gained the favour of the Queen, who, by granting my brother his pardon, showed very plainly that she considered him not in fault.”

Now I had heard from Aunt Betty Erskine the doubtful story of the Master’s quarrel with Captain Schaw and his brother, of the trial by Court Martial of Captain Sinclair, of his escape out of camp after being sentenced to death—an escape assisted, as most people surmised, by the great duke himself—of his terrible night ride through the forest to the sea-coast and safety, and of his arrival at the Hermitage, where he had some difficulty in convincing his father, the most honourable of men, of the integrity of his conduct. All this is a matter of history, and, I thereby betray no secrets. But as the ancient lady who recounted these things to me, had added many caustic remarks of her own as to the bullying, quarrelsome nature of the Master, and the probability of his having been wholly in the wrong, I found it difficult to answer Betty with the enthusiastic agreement she seemed to expect.

“Do you not admire my brother, Barbara?” she cried, looking sharply at my embarrassed face. “What have you in your mind against him, child?” she asked hastily, as I strove to find an answer.

“I am displeased with him to-day,” I answered, with a childish petulance wholly feigned to cover my deceit, “because I heard him speak of my dear Sir John as—as an intolerable fool!”

Betty laughed and sighed a little.

“Oh, Barbara,” she said then, “one of the strangest things in the world is the amount of enmity that exists between those who might so easily be friends. My brother was abroad when Catherine was married to Sir John, and I think he resented finding him coming and going as a son of the house, when he returned under a cloud as it were. That is the only reason I can think of in the beginning. He was also bitterly against the Union which Sir John supported, and now when more than half the country is anxious for its repeal, and my brother-in-law of Alva is strong for the Restoration which should bring it about, the Master, as you can understand, hath many a jibe ready to fling at those ‘waverers’ as he calls them. It grieves me much that they are not better friends, for Catherine, of course, supports her husband and is not best pleased at my brother’s attitude.”

“Your family is strong for the King?” I questioned, not wishing to discuss the Master further.

“Oh, my dear,” cried Betty, clasping her hands, “that is another matter of dissension that hurts me to the very heart. You know that my lord was the only man of the Scottish nation who had courage to protest against the title of King William to the throne, and when none would listen to him he rose and left the Assembly. The matter goes very deep with him. For myself, I am willing to lay down my life almost for King James, and my sisters, Grizel and Catherine, are also of my mind. Of my brother James I cannot speak. He is Major in the Royal Scots Regiment of Foot and is a brave and able soldier, but I pray he may never have to use his gifts in fighting against the King. Will and Harry will do as my father bids them, and John is already deep in preparations among our neighbours. But many of those we know and love the best are bitterly opposed to our schemes, and we are obliged to be very secret regarding them.”

“Your great-grandfather, I have heard, suffered imprisonment for King Charles,” I said.

“Indeed he did; being taken at the Battle of Worcester, he was kept a prisoner for nine long years. But I rejoice to think the brave old man lived to see the Royal House restored and to rejoice in the King’s favour, who graciously made mention more than once of his gratitude to my lord.”

“Ah!” cried I, “to suffer for those we love but binds the ties of affection closer. My dear Lady said this to me t’other day, but I scarce understood her words. ’Tis in the blood of your family to fight for the rightful King, and doubtless had my dear grandpapa lived I should have known more about it than I do now.”

“He deemed you too young, child, to discuss such matters with you, but I know that he was one of the gentlemen, who, along with my father and many other noblemen, signed the memorial to the King of France, brought over to Scotland by one Captain Hooke, in the year 1707; and I have heard him tell how often and how longingly he had scanned the Frith from the windows of his house, hoping that early some summer morning he should see the King’s ships with sails full-set come boldly up the river to anchor in Leith harbour.”

“And why came they not?” I asked, my heart beating at the tones of her voice, and the thought of my dear grandfather’s eagerness disappointed.

“Alas! they came indeed, but after long delay. First ’twas promised for the month of August, and our hopes were very high, but the summer and the autumn passed, and we had to bear our anxieties in patience through the winter, which was hard. Letters were written by one and another of the loyal lords and gentlemen asking the meaning of the delay, and begging the King for God’s sake to come speedily; but little satisfaction did they get. At last, in the Spring, the French King ordered the expedition to sail from Dunkirk, but even then there arose confusion and many difficulties, owing, it was said, to dissensions between the ministers of War and Marine. The expedition was under command of the Comte de Forbin, an Admiral of skill and discretion, and into his careful charge the young King was delivered with all ceremony by the King of France. But if his own story is to be believed, and he hath spoken often with my brother of Alva on the matter, he had no great faith in his mission, nor in the sincerity of those who pretended to further it.”

“What mean you by that, madam?” I asked.

“Listen, my dear, and you shall hear. I suppose it is difficult for you, Barbara, to understand my heat and interest in this subject, but you have not been through it all as I was; you did not see and feel the fears and hopes, the sickening anxieties, the impatience and despair, and finally the wild and joyful exultation, when we heard that at last our young King was about to land on Scottish shores. My lord was kept supplied with the latest news by our good friend, Mr. Straton, in Edinburgh, who still works faithfully for the Cause, and you may be sure that, had the King landed, as was expected, close to our doors, my father would have been one of the first to welcome him. And to think that he actually came almost in sight of them, only to be snatched away again by a cruel fate!”

“I can but dimly remember,” I cried, “the French ships in the Forth, and the firing of the guns, and how Phemie told me one morning that the King was come to his own. But I heeded it little at the time, being much taken up with a new puppy that Robert Guthrie had brought for me the day before, and after that it slipped from my mind and nothing occurred to bring it back again. I think shame now to be so ignorant and indifferent.”

“Nay,” said Betty, “you were but a child, and Colonel Stewart was a discreet man. Indeed we were so much wounded and disappointed in our hearts that we spoke but little on the subject for years.”

“But tell me more of the expedition, I beg, and why it failed and disappointed everybody,” said I.

“Well, they set sail from France, in spite of stormy weather, and by God’s good Providence they eluded the English Fleet which was cruising about on the watch for them, and sailing before a favourable wind they overreached their mark, for instead of making the entrance of the Frith, they found themselves on the fourth day off the coast of Scotland opposite to Montrose. They immediately put about and endeavoured to enter the river, but meeting with contrary wind and tide, they were obliged to anchor out yonder, Barbara, near the Isle of May. In the meantime, as soon as the Fleet had been pronounced ready to sail, the King had dispatched from France a trusty messenger in the person of Mr. Charles Fleming, brother to the Earl of Wigton, to prepare us for his arrival. He landed in Aberdeenshire at the house of the Earl of Errol, who, upon receiving the King’s instructions, instantly sent off a messenger to our good neighbour, Mr. Malcolm of Grange, who was to have a boat and pilots ready to go on board the first vessel that should give the signal—five shots was what had been agreed upon—after entering the Frith. This indeed we did, but before any use could be made of his directions, the sound of the firing of cannon came from the South, and Sir George Byng with the English ships of war was upon them. Admiral Forbin, with his precious charge on board, thought only of saving him and the treasure, and with some difficulty he escaped capture, returning to Dunkirk with the loss of but one vessel, the Salisbury, which after three hours’ engagement with the English, struck her colours.”

“And what happened then?” cried I, eagerly.

“Ah! then we fell into great depression. Many noblemen and gentlemen who had mounted their horses so gaily to ride to Edinburgh to receive the King, turned their faces sadly home again. From universal joy the town passed to distraction. Consternation reigned in many hearts, for none knew what the Government might do in revenge. As a matter of fact, many of these gentlemen, my dear father among them, were clapped into prison, and there remained for some weary months. But I believe they felt that less than the humiliation of their Cause and the disappointment of all their hopes, for these had risen very high, and our hearts had been full of exultation.”

We sat for some time watching the fair evening light settle down over the scene. The sun was setting far away behind the Highland hills, but the soft reflections tinged the opposite coast, and veiled the distance in a golden mist. The sea-birds were still crying up and down in front of us; the sound of the waves had grown fainter with the out-going tide.

The lovely picture pleased only my outward eye to-night, for I was thinking deeply of the tale out of the past that I had just heard from my companion. Some tone in her voice, more earnest than her wont, proved to me without doubt how deeply she had been stirred at the remembrance; and I knew that this pure loyalty was in her heart’s blood, and that her love for the exiled King would leave her only with life.

“But, Betty,” I ventured at last, very softly lest I should disturb her brooding thoughts, “why did they not land the King at Montrose when there were no English ships in pursuit? Would it not have been better to come ashore anywhere, seeing the county was expecting them and only too glad to welcome them? I think Mr. de Forbin was a very foolish person.”

Betty laughed heartily, and turned an approving glance upon me.

“Why, little Barbara, you are asking the very questions that our disappointed lords and gentlemen asked themselves and others, and to which no answers have ever been given. The conclusion the wisest of them—my father being among them—came to was this: that King Louis had no mind at that time to allow the King to land in Scotland, but if the attempt raised an insurrection in this country, and recalled the Duke of Marlborough and some of his army from fighting against the French, it would serve Louis pretty well. It did not even do that, as you have seen; it only served to pain and humiliate some loyal and faithful people.”

“I fear King Louis is not a friend to trust to,” cried I, with youthful impulsiveness.

“Oh, do not say that now, child,” cried Betty, “lest it be an omen of evil. It is to his help and succour we are looking at this present moment, when we are again on the tip-toe of expectation. Ah! Barbara, if it fails this time I think our hearts will break. None but God can tell what countless prayers are rising from thousands of hearts in Scotland every day, that the rightful King may be restored, and our land be at peace, and prosper as it has never done before. But alas! will the prayers avail us anything? We prayed earnestly enough seven years ago, but our petitions were not answered then.”

“Perhaps the answer is but long delayed,” cried I, “and is now close at hand. The King is seven years older and seven years wiser; King George cannot be called our rightful sovereign, whatever Queen Anne may have been. Oh, indeed, the time seems more propitious now than ever, and I hope, I hope, Betty, that I may see something of the struggle. How excited I feel! You have filled me with enthusiasm and loyalty for King James.”

“Hush! child,” said Betty rising, for it was time to go home, “’tis no matter for excitement, but very sober thoughts and much prudence are needed. As for me, I wish the Restoration might be made without the struggle at all. Sometimes I long to be a man, to scheme, and plan, and fight for the Cause; but even a woman can do something that may not be altogether despised.”

When we had climbed the rocky path that led from the shore to the grounds round the house, she turned and looked away across the Frith, and kissed her hand towards the south with a pretty gesture.

“Come quickly, my King!” she cried, softly. “Come quickly, and be wise! There are no hearts in all the world so true as Scottish hearts, no memories so faithful to the past, no love so tender! Come soon, my King, and prove them!”

And though she spoke the words with a little laugh, I saw that there were tears in her eyes.

CHAPTER IX

It pleased me to meet again at Dysart, Mistress Betty’s grave admirer, Mr. David Pitcairn, for that such he was I never hesitated in my mind to believe. I found that he was the nephew and adopted son of the worthy minister of the First Charge of Dysart (for there were then, as now, two churches in that place), who bore the same name. The elder Mr. Pitcairn was a man of great piety and learning, of most amiable character and uncommonly gentle manners. (I speak of him in the past tense, but I understand he is still living, though something over fourscore years of age.) He had previously been chaplain in Colonel Preston’s regiment, of which his elder brother was at one time an officer; and the latter being killed in action and leaving behind him a young widow and only son, the good gentleman had watched over them with tender kindness, and upon the death of the lady, ten years later, he made the orphan boy his own. Upon his being presented with the living by my Lord Sinclair, his nephew being then at the University of Edinburgh, his kind patron promised that when his education was completed the young man should have a post with him as overseer, or manager, of the workmen engaged in his lordship’s coal-pits and salt-pans round Dysart. This post he had now held for over five years, and living at the manse with his uncle, he had many opportunities of increasing his admiration for the fair Mistress Elizabeth. By her he was treated in a half familiar, half-cavalier manner, which aggravated even while it checked his ardour, and watching them both with bright, youthful eyes, I decided that love and liking were unequally armed for defence.

One morning we had ridden towards Kirkcaldy, Betty having ordered Mr. Pitcairn to meet us thereabouts, and accompany us on our promenade. Just outside the town we halted to wait for him, and turning our horses’ heads towards the sea, she was pointing to the view of the opposite coast. Hearing a horse’s feet on the stones behind us, she cried over her shoulder, without looking round: “At last, David! You did not expect to find us here before you.”

“Faith, no indeed, Mistress Betty!” a strange voice replied, “nor did I look for so friendly a greeting from your High Mightiness.”

At the first word Betty had turned with a great start, and the colour mounting to her face as I had never seen it. A very gallant and handsome gentleman, somewhat past his first youth, sat on horseback facing us with his hat in his hand, and a smile of very pleasant humour in his eyes. His long brown curls hung about a face of which the features still retained much beauty, and the voice with which he spoke had in it the rich tones of a kind and hearty nature. My poor Betty looked more taken aback than ever I had seen her, and she even faltered as she answered.

“Indeed, my lord, the address was not meant for you, as your lordship very well knows, seeing I did not suppose you to be within four hundred miles of me. What brings your lordship so early into Fife?”

“Nay, Mistress Bess, why will you use this haughty tone with me?” said the gentleman, very mildly. “You do yourself injustice, believe me, ever to let yourself be seen in so shrewd a character. But will you not present me to your fair companion?” he continued, turning to me with a smile. “Mayhap she will enlighten me as to the identity of the happy swain who bears my name, and has more than double my privileges.”

“Mistress Barbara Stewart,” cried Betty, now a little recovered, “let me make you acquainted with the most noble the Earl of Wemyss, our next neighbour, the champion of the people, the upholder of all Whig principles, and the most devoted subject of his Hanoverian Majesty, King George.”

The Earl acknowledged my bow with charming courtesy, but he turned to my sarcastic companion with a laugh full of goodnature.

“What!” said he. “Still the old grievance? Still as staunch a Jacobite as ever—”

But Betty interrupted him with a flash of fire in her eyes, and I did not wonder at the admiration which was plain to be seen in his own.

“As staunch a loyalist—yes!” she cried, “and ever will be, my lord. But upon that subject we shall never agree. There is but one rightful King, just as there is but one God, and if you say otherwise you are deceiving yourself for the sake of your political ambitions. You can afford to laugh and jeer to-day, but wait, my lord, only wait! Is there not a word in the Scripture that saith, ‘Woe unto you that laugh now, for ye shall mourn and weep!’”

Utterly taken aback by her vehemence, I sat still on my horse gazing at her heated face, and in much uneasiness as to how his lordship would take her rudeness. He was looking at her gravely but very kindly, while the naughty creature stormed and scolded like a common wife in the fish-market. And yet that is a coarse and untrue simile; for Mistress Betty Sinclair, even in her anger, spoke like a high-born lady, and ’twas but the fervour of her warm, true heart that made her words at once so free and so trenchant.

The Earl moved his horse a step or two nearer, and, still uncovered, answered her gently.

“If I tried to tell you how much I admire your loyal and faithful affection to that unfortunate house, Mistress Betty, you would but tell me I was mocking at you; and yet, believe me, no man could see and hear you and remain unmoved. Would to God I could think as you do upon the matter, for otherwise I fear you will never permit me to enjoy your friendship, though you know, I think, how much I desire it. But I have taken my stand upon the other side, and even you would not desire me to turn traitor.”

I admired his brave and temperate words, and already he seemed to me a very perfect and chivalrous gentleman, but Betty tossed her head and turned her burning face away.

“Why do you continually torment me?” she cried petulantly. “Why are you so sure that you are right? The day will come, and that speedily, when you may indeed want my friendship, and that of all the King’s faithful subjects, to put you right with His Majesty. Then, perhaps, you will find it easy to take the other side, my lord!”

“Ah, Betty, Betty!” he cried, “why will you talk of such folly? King George is firm on the British throne, where the will of the people has placed him. The Chevalier de St. George had better remain where he is, for any attempt to dislodge the King will only prove disastrous to us all.”

She fired up again.

“The Elector of Hanover hath scarce had time to settle himself very comfortably on his stolen throne,” she answered, in a contemptuous tone, “and King James has more chance of regaining it than some may think. But, to be sure, my lord, ’tis not likely that you should believe this. You take no interest in our affairs, and ’tis as well that you should not.”

And suddenly her own sunny smile broke through the clouds of petulance that had transformed her, and wheeling her horse beside that of the earl, she announced her intention of accompanying him along the road to Wemyss.

“As for that lazy David,” she cried, “he does not deserve that we should wait for him!”

Just at that moment Mr. Pitcairn joined us from a crossroad, and I judged he had some news to tell us, so eager was the expression of his face. He looked surprised at sight of his lordship, but greeted him very frankly and with great respect; and so we turned and rode back the way that we had come, Betty riding between the gentlemen, and chatting lightly in her wonted manner.

Whatever had been the words upon David Pitcairn’s lips when he met us, it was plain they were not to be spoken in the present company. I noticed that he ever tried to meet Betty’s eye, and though that in itself was nothing out of the common, yet there was in his countenance and manner a sort of suppressed excitement which convinced me that something unusual was afoot. Whatever it was, it was evident he did not desire to rouse the curiosity of my Lord Wemyss, for he conversed with him quietly on commonplace topics, and presently fell silent to listen to Betty’s discourse.

As for me, although I was not discourteously left out of the conversation, I was too busy with my own speculations about this new actor on the scene to care whether they addressed me or no. I tried to recollect all I had heard concerning the Earl of Wemyss, and I was bound to confess he presented a more gallant and interesting figure than I had expected. I knew that he was a widower for the second time, and the father of two tall lads, as fine and promising as any in Scotland. But hearing this, I had settled in my mind that he was old and dull, most likely grave and sad, as would become a man who had been twice bereft of the wife of his bosom—so ran my childish thought; yet here he was, scarce older in appearance than David Pitcairn, as brave and handsome a knight as the most exacting maiden could desire, riding in the sunshine by the side of a lady who, for all her merry speeches, had been ready enough to flout him when first he startled her by appearing at her side.

I stole a look at his face, and was bound to confess to myself that if sorrow had left its traces there they did but add to the attractiveness of his beauty. No man of heart, I knew, could have come through the great tragedy of his lordship’s early years, and remain untouched to sympathy and tenderness. As often as I had heard the tale of the young Countess’s death, my heart had thrilled in pity for her husband’s agony of suffering. You have no doubt been told ere now of how that lady, gentle, lovely, and pious, retired to her praying-closet one evening to engage in private devotion; of how her dress caught fire at the candle while she was on her knees; and how, before help could reach her, she was so terribly burned that, though she lingered in great pain for some days, those who loved her best gave thanks aloud when they saw her eyes close in death. To be young, beautiful, and happy, adored by a tender husband, and the mother of two lovely babes, and yet to be torn from a life so bright by an accident so brutal, did it not require the fortitude of a good Christian to enable the young Earl to retain his reason when he remembered that this was the fate of the being he loved? Nothing, I think, but supreme faith in the Divine wisdom and love, which can somehow turn our cruellest sorrows into blessings, could have sustained any man under a trial so crushing. Yes, I felt certain my Lord of Wemyss was a good man, whatever Betty might think of his political errors, and deserved all the happiness that yet remained to him in life. Of his second Countess, an English lady from Northampton, I knew but little, save that, having no children of her own, she lavished all her tenderness on her husband’s little sons, bringing them up with such wisdom and kindness that they were regarded with admiration and delight by all who knew them.

These thoughts and many more passed through my mind as we rode slowly along towards Wemyss Castle that bright May morning, but suddenly, when we were half-way between that place and Dysart, Mistress Bess took another whim, and pulling up abruptly, she bade his lordship good-morning, saying that she believed her father had need of her.

Now, luckily for himself, the Earl appeared to have an abounding sense of humour and a vast amount of good temper to back it; for after the first moment, when a flicker of surprise crossed his face, he answered with placid courtesy the capricious young lady’s salute, adding, with a twinkle in his eyes which he did not try to conceal,

“Ah, Mistress Betty, it is not every father who is so blest in his daughters as my Lord Sinclair.”

Again the hot colour famed up in Betty’s cheeks, for the tone of his lordship’s address was unmistakable; but for once she had no words to answer him. Instead, she waved her hand as carelessly as she might, and turning round, urged her horse to a gallop, so that Mr. Pitcairn and I had some ado to catch her up. As soon as we were abreast, the gentleman began in a hurried way, “Mistress Betty, I have news!” Betty turned to him quickly.

“David! News—of him? Are they good or bad?”

He bent his head. “He has left Bar-le-duc, and was on his way to the coast when the messenger left St. Malo.”

“Where got you the news?”

“From Mr. Malcome who crossed last night to Burntisland, he having spent some hours in Edinburgh with Mr. Harry Straton.”

Betty drew a long breath; she had grown quite pale.

“God save the King!” she cried softly “Oh, David, Barbara, to think that in a day or two he may be with us. Does it not seem too good to be true?”

Then, turning in her saddle and shaking her whip in the direction of Castle Wemyss, she cried, exultingly, “So, my lord! I was talking folly just now, was I? King George is fixed without fear of dislodgment on the British throne; the Chevalier must stay where he is. Ah ha! we shall see. Oh, I did not dream when we set out this morning, Barbara, how joyfully we should return home. Let us hasten to bring the good news to my lord and Catherine.”

That night, as my little diary reminds me, there was a supper-party held at the Hermitage where many of the neighbouring gentlemen (of whom I recollect the names of three or four: Mr. Malcome of Grange, Mr. Bethune, the Laird of Balfour, Harry Balfour of Dunbog, brother to the Lord Burleigh, and the Laird of Orrock, a gentleman of old though inconsiderable family, and a stanch supporter at all times of the Master of Sinclair) met round my Lord Sinclair’s table and discussed the news from France. The Reverend Mr. Pitcairn was there, grave and courteous as was his wont, taking no part in the discussion, but making his presence felt when any wise advice was needed. His nephew David was my partner, but I cannot remember that he had time to address to me one word, for Betty sat opposite us, and her eyes, shining like stars, were bright enough to attract any man’s attention. The Master of Sinclair, more urbane than I had seen him, spoke much and with an air of authority, which, from his having seen service with the Duke of Marlborough, was allowed to him as his right. So far as we ladies could judge from the effect of his speeches on the other gentlemen, he seemed to have a certain military sense and knowledge, which was not unappreciated by them; and as for my dear Betty, she hung upon his words with affectionate admiration and regard.

“’Tis hoped the King himself will land in Scotland, while the Duke of Ormond raises the West of England,” said Mr. Balfour.

“I would rather, were it possible,” observed the Master, “that the Duke of Berwick headed the expedition. Let him land where he will, the young King is all unproved, and though his courage is well-known, his military skill would not advantage us much.”

“Whoever may lead the affair,” said my lord, gravely, “let us be ready to receive them. The fault this time must not lie with us, and if the rising be but sufficiently advertised, I have little fear of the result.”

“We mean to do our best in Fife, sir,” said his son, stoutly.

“All Fife is ready to mount, my lord,” cried Mr. Malcome. “They do but need the assurance that the affair is genuine to bring them flocking to the King’s Standard.”

“Perth likewise,” cried another, “and the Mearns and Aberdeen. As for the Clans, save the Laird of Grant with some thousand men, and the Laird of MacLeod, who is a young lad and not to be counted on, there is not a chieftain in the Highlands that is not against the present Government.”

“All they want is a leader,” said Mr. Pitcairn, thoughtfully. “Courage, loyalty, self-sacrifice, these are there in plenty, but all may be useless for lack of the personal influence to weld them into the force that makes for victory.”

“The Duke of Berwick would do it,” broke in the Master’s voice, “and I know not another who would. But, gentlemen, one part is clear before us: men, horse, arms and ammunition are all wanted, and cannot be got together at a day’s notice. Let us set about our preparations to-morrow, more especially with regard to providing the beasts, that whoever come among us we may have nothing to reproach ourselves withal.”

This sentiment met with general acclamation, for the company was now in the mood to agree to anything that was proposed, and before a later stage was reached, which might prove a more disputatious one, my lady thought it well that we should withdraw.

Before we departed, however, they insisted that we fill our glasses once more to honour the toast which Mr. Harry Balfour in a witty speech gave us.

“Long life and success to the King!” he ended up gaily, raising his glass on high. “And dire confusion to all his enemies.”

And I think I was the only one to notice how Betty drank but to the first part of that toast. As the second clause was added she gave a furtive glance at the speaker, and perceiving that no one regarded her, she softly replaced her glass upon the table.

Now all that I have written about this one day might lead you to imagine that ’twas the beginning of great events, but alas! it is only given as an example of the many false hopes that were raised in us, and the many disappointments that ensued. In the words of Mistress Betty that morning, though she little meant them to express the truth, the news were “too good to be true.” The message was a false one; the King had not left France, and many weeks and months were to elapse before he landed upon Scottish shores.

CHAPTER X — LETTER I. — LETTER II.

My Lady Erskine was by this time mighty anxious to be back at Alva, not only for the sake of her children, from whom she could never bear to be long parted, but also because she was in expectation soon to be welcoming home Sir John from London. Yielding to the request of Betty, that I should be left at Dysart still some weeks, she took her leave of us, intending first to visit her sister; Margaret, my Lady Baird, in her home at Newbyth, and also to pass some days with the family of Sir Peter Wedderburn at Gosford House. I think I cannot do better than transcribe here two of the letters which she wrote to her husband on her return home. They are full of domestic concerns, and of but little interest to a stranger, but they are loving and dutiful as my lady herself ever was, and show in some degree the cheerful, diligent spirit she commonly displayed.

“My Dearest,

I cannot omitt writting every post tho’ I have but little to say, except tell you thatt I begin now to be mighty impatient to have you home. All the members of Parlyment that I know I think is come already, and yett there is no word of your leaveing London. Doe nott think I blame you in saying so for I make no doubt of your coming as soon as ye can. Ye had need of a good coachman if ye travell with four horse wanting a postilion. Your folks are busy att the walks, butt since I came home, I find itt convenient to have seven carts going and eighteen men, and will continue that number if possible till itt’s ended. There is such a deepness of earth thatt itt is no easy work.

I told you in my last I was going to Stirling. Your uncle looks very well. He is surprised at your stay and longs to see you. I presst Lady Jean and Lordy Areskine to come to Alva some days, and the Colonel, butt they seemed to be so uncertain of their setting out for London, they could not leave Stirling. You desire to know what the Col. says about Meg’s marriage. He told me he wisht her all happyness, and he thought Sir Wm. had been very lucky, and he wondered my lord did not ask better terms. Sir Wm. said to me he was sure you wold not goe close by his door, and not come in, and they design to intercept you at Gosford if they can. Butt if I am to meet you at Edinr. if ye please so to order itt, I will do itt att Gosford, but if ye can come straight to Alva, I do not incline to stir from itt. Your sons are perfectly well and are my only comrads now. Dearest life, adieu.”

Alva, June 13.

In the next letter, as you will see, there is a veiled allusion to the project on which all our thoughts were fixed, and the uncertainty of which had already caused its partisans much uneasiness. It is impossible now to imagine what little breath of dissension had blown between my lady and her kind brother, Mr. Charles Erskine, but sure I am that the words set down in some mood of passing vexation were never meant to be preserved or remembered. How often and how eagerly my lady turned to Mr. Erskine for help and advice in the sad days when she was “so unhappy as to want” her husband, and how willingly and kindly he spent himself in service for her and hers, you will see presently in her later letters.

“My Dearest Life,

I did not writ last post in hope I wold gett one from you forbidding mee to writ, but I got one of a different nature telling me ye was just goeing to my Lord Mar’s country house, which made me very thoughtful some hours after; that ye seem’d to have no guess when ye wold take your journey. I regrate your uneasyness of being obliged to wait so long upon what it seems is very uncertain, and I begin now to fear will hardly be worth your while. I doe now wish you at home att anyrate.

The black cattell is giving a great price here just now. The man that brought your stots was here yesterday inquiring if ye was for any this year. They held so well out att Aikenside last year he made no doubt ye wold take more. I know not what number ye wold incline to, so lett me know as soon as ye can. I am in uncertainty whether to buy cows for killing, and we’ll be sure to buy them dear att the end of the year if we want them. My being so undetermined will make things of that kind mighty uneasy to me, butt I cannott help itt.

Your brother Charles has now been a fortnight in Edinr., and tho’ I writ to him to send mee your letter he wold not doe itt, nor any reason for not doeing itt. I could hardly believe Charles wold have been so indifferent of mee for I am sure I never gave him any reason; but when he behaves after that manner comeing from you, I see what I might expect if ever I were so unhappy (as) to want you, which I hope in God will never bee.

I am afraid all the sheep mercats will be over before I gett any account from you whether ye are to buy or not. The sheep is dear this year, they talk. I have sent your Gelding this day to Perth Fair, and bid them take ten Guineys for him before they bring him home. I was advised to doe so by people that understand horse, and had seen him at Edinr. He never look’t so well as he does att this moment, butt there is no help, part with him ye must, for he will never bee of use.

I send you a letter from Gleneaglis. I am glad to hear from my sister. She has a letter from your Brother Robin.

I am still fighting with John Harley and Mr Rose, to keep folks at the walks, butt I no sooner turn my back, or has anybody here I am oblig’d to wait on, butt something is done in opposition. The narrow walk has all the earth laid thatt itt wants, and the brode walk is pretty well advanc’d, butt the earth that was on the walks will not serve to make them up at the other end. Your turnip seed is come, and I will write to Monzie and get my directions how to use it. Dearest life, adieu. Your sons are well.

Yours.”

Alva, June 25.

As I read the clear faint writing I can see her sitting in the room at Alva at her own scrutoire, the sweet scents and sounds of summer coming in at the open windows, and a smile on her face while writing, as she thinks how soon might she be seeing the knight’s stalwart form and kindly face, and listening to the voice she loved. Alas! almost before the summer flowers were dead my lady had ceased to smile, and for many and many a weary month all thoughts of her husband were mingled with anxiety, grief, and dread.

It was about the middle of July when Sir John came home, and although his wife received him with her wonted tender welcome, and the little boys made his appearance the occasion of much joyful outcry, it was evident from the first that his mind was preoccupied, and he scarce gave his usual genial attention to home matters. For some days he was busy and hurried in his movements, riding often from home, and when in the house, being closeted with Mr. Peck, his secretary. The neighbours came and went even more than before, but now it was only the men who rode hastily to the door, spent a private hour with Sir John in his own room, and rode away again with scarce more than a civil word to my lady and myself. There was no merry-making when they met, no pledging each other with jest and laughter, no toasts called for. If they took a stirrup-cup at parting, twas drunk for the most part in silence, while a meaning glance passed from eye to eye, that in some way stirred my girlish heart to deep excitement. I was left much to myself and to the children in those days, for my lady went about with a serious face, attending on her lord, upon whom I saw her cast many a wistful look, but refusing to answer my questions when I would have asked her what was toward.

At last one evening—I remember it well—we were seated at supper in the long twilight, when the sound of a galloping steed arrested our attention. The day had been sultry, and doors and windows stood open. Sir John laid down the knife with which he was carving and rose to his feet, looking across the table at his wife. My lady, with her eyes upon his face, turned pale though she uttered no word, and I, Barbara, forgetful of ceremony, and moved by the strange thrill that seemed to touch us all, ran to the window and leaned out. A man upon a smoking horse before the door was wiping his heated face with a napkin, and Andrew Short, Sir John’s faithful attendant, had just reached his side and was calling out for news. Too breathless to speak, the messenger drew from his breast a packet, and rolled, rather than dismounted, from his beast, which stood with panting sides and fore-legs outstretched, the picture of exhaustion. A stableman ran up and led him slowly away, and the rider, still staggering and breathing hard, came up the steps leaning on Andrew’s arm, the papers grasped in his hand.

“’Tis a messenger, Sir John,” I cried, for all this had passed in a few moments. “He enters the house with Andrew; he bears a packet, doubtless for you.”

The knight strode from the room and met the man in the hall who, seeing the master of the house, dropped upon one knee, and holding out the packet, muttered in a thick, hoarse voice—“From my Lord, the Earl of Mar, to the hands of Sir John Erskine of Alva. God save the King!”

With this strange address delivered, ’twas evident that the poor man felt his task was accomplished, for he incontinently fell forward in a heap upon the floor, and lay in a kind of stupor.

Having ascertained that the good fellow suffered from nothing but want of sleep, he having posted from London with the utmost speed, taking scarce any rest on the way, Sir John bade Andrew see to him, and calling upon Mr. Peck to follow him, he went into his room and shut and locked the door. I wrung my hands with impatience, for I would have given a good deal at that moment to be able to see through the walls, and as I turned I found my lady standing near. Her eyes also were fixed upon the closed door, and were full of a strange, unhappy light that set my heart aching. I went to her and laid my arm round her waist.

“Dear madam!” I cried, “what is’t you fear? Will you not tell Barbara, who longs to comfort you?”

“Ah, little Barbara,” she answered, smiling sadly, “thou hast the will, but not the power to ease my heart. Something tells me that this,” and she glanced again at that baffling door, “is the beginning of sorrows, for whether we lose or win, my dear, there will be many tears shed and many hearts broken.”

“Oh, cousin!” I cried eagerly, “could I but see the despatch what would I not give! Do you not wish to be in Mr. Peck’s place, reading those all-important papers?”

“Nay, my dear,” she said, quietly, “you must exercise patience as I do. The letter, whatever it contains is in cipher, and some time must pass before Sir John can get at its meaning. Mr. Peck and he may be closeted there till midnight, and after all, Barbara, there may be nothing that can be told to you or me.”

“The King was landed, madam, I feel sure of it, and my Lord Mar is joining him at once. Oh, will he come to Alva, think you? I do so long to see him. If he visits with the Earl at Alloa he may indeed come here also. I wonder greatly what he is like, cousin?” I cried,

“If you believe Sir John’s report, child, you will perhaps find the King different from your expectations of him. I will tell you what I have gathered. He is well favoured in face and figure, of staid and quiet demeanour, unselfish, gentle, and reasonable, but neither affable nor merry. That he is conscientious and kind-hearted I am convinced, but his life has been too full of misfortune for him ever to have accomplished his desires. He is a devoted and affectionate son, we know, and adored his young sister, the Princess Louisa—a gay and charming creature, whose death three years since he sorely mourned. With good councillors to aid him he will make a wise and tolerant Ruler, of that I have no doubt, and I pray God he be not led away by ill advice.”

We went into the parlour and sat down together in the dim light. The business-room, or study, where Sir John was, being next to us, we could hear a faint murmur of voices through the wall, and gradually all other sounds in the house ceased. My lady went on talking of the King in low tones, sometimes answering my questions, or telling me little anecdotes which she had heard and fondly remembered; for her husband being often in France, had met his Majesty more than once, besides hearing much concerning him from those who were continually about him. She spoke of his melancholy childhood, cast away in a foreign land; his elderly father, the poor exiled King, resigned to his fate and in ill-health; his mother, the Queen, devoted and patient, but perhaps not always wise; he, himself, now snubbed and restricted, now flattered and exalted, his hopes of restoration now raised to the highest pitch, and again laid low in the dust. Would it be strange, she asked, if the young man were indeterminate, timid, and depressed? For physical courage he certainly did not lack, as she reminded me how he charged repeatedly with his Cavalry in the battle of Malplaquet; and had it been left to his judgment, she thought the expedition under Admiral Forbin, in the year 1708, would not have been the failure it became.

“I know it for a fact,” said my lady, “that his Majesty begged to be landed in Fife, in Aberdeen, anywhere, with but one attendant, as he would trust himself alone, he said, to the Scottish people; but he was not listened to. And yet I firmly believe that, had he come among us then in any guise, the country would have risen as one man, would have crowned him at Scone, and within a week he would have been dwelling as undisputed King in the Palace of Holyrood.”

“That is what will happen now,” I cried eagerly. “Surely, oh surely, madam, this time he will succeed!”

“Alas, Barbara, who can tell? It seems to me that in our party, for ten faithful men who have the King’s cause at heart, there are fifty to be found who care nothing for it, whose only thought is for power, or ease, or personal gain. They quarrel among themselves, they have jealousies that make their tempers childish; no man can trust his neighbour, and how can he then trust his country? If there were real love for the much wronged Prince away there in France in each Scottish heart, were it but the size of a grain of mustard-seed, sure that love would bind the whole nation together, and make it so strong that we could rise in a great army and chase the Hanoverian out of England.”

I made no reply, but I remembered her words afterwards, and have often considered them since, and in considering them have wondered; for many of the best and bravest in Scotland and England have thought as my lady did, and yet, good and true as they were and are, God has seen fit to give them no victory, but only disaster upon disaster, bringing to nought their loyal designs, and furthering the cause of those whom they distrusted.

When we had sat for perhaps ten minutes silent, scarce seeing each other in the dusk, for it must have been close on ten of the clock, we heard the door of the business-room open, and next moment Sir John appeared in the room. My lady, who had started up, ran forward with a little cry, and he caught her in his arms.

“Tell me, my life, what news?” she cried.

“What, sweetheart, art not in bed?” he answered. “And all alone?” for me he did not see. Then he bent his head and whispered in her ear. She gave an exclamation, half-amazed, half-triumphant; but a moment after I heard a sob, and saw her lay her face upon his breast.

So I stole away unheeded, and went to bed and to sleep with my curiosity still unsatisfied.

CHAPTER XI

Whatever tears bedewed the pillow of my dear Lady Erskine that night there was no sign of them in the morning. The household was early astir as usual, and at once the bustle of preparation seemed to spread from attic to cellar. Sir John was about to depart once more, and though I scanned my lady’s face for that look of foreboding and dissatisfaction that I expected to see, so well did she have her heart in control that no shadow of it appeared; indeed, there was an air of alertness about her manner of moving and speaking which took me by surprise. Instead of the fearful wife mourning over the prospect of her coming loneliness, there was the brave woman arming her husband, so to speak, for the battle, and sending him from her with words of cheer and glad prophecies of victory.

At her request Sir John consented to make me a sharer of the news that had arrived the night before, and drawing me into his room he closed the door, and bidding me come close to him he said in a low voice, but with his wonted smile,

“’Tis of vast importance, Barbara, this that we have heard. My Lord of Mar hath, only a few days back, got news from France; no less than a letter from the King, in which his Majesty tells him that for the sake of his honour he can no longer delay coming to Scotland. He will be at Dieppe the end of the month, a sennight from now, and the Rising, Barbara, the Rising is appointed for—nay, I will not name the exact date to you, child, but ’tis to be early in the coming month.”

I held my breath and clasped my hands. “And will my Lord Mar fight?” I whispered.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said the knight with a laugh, “but he may be Commander-in-chief of the King’s army.”

“Then you, Sir John, will be in the thick of it,” cried I. “Oh, for my lady’s sake, be good to yourself and go not in the front of the battle, cousin.”

“Silly child!” he answered, and, indeed, I knew that I was silly ere ever the words were uttered. “Who thinks of dangers at a time like this? A man’s life is no more secure for hiding behind a hay-stack, which might catch fire at his back, when he ought to be facing the bullets. Depend on’t, we none of us die before our time, nor can we preserve our lives beyond it. ’Tis best not to take account of death, my lass, but to do our duty just where we find it.”

The smile had left his face as he laid a kind hand on my shoulder, and for a moment my heart was so full that I found means to relieve it by an unuttered prayer for his safety. Then, not wishing to appear moved before him, I said, “Is the Duke of Ormond ready, too, sir?”

I thought his face fell.

“Of that I can scarce speak,” he said. “My lord is somewhat uncertain on this point; but I doubt not all will be right once they hear the King’s Standard is raised in the north.”

And, Mr. Peck coming at that moment to the door, Sir John dismissed me hurriedly, though with his wonted kindness. I flew to my lady, and finding her calm and occupied in the contemplation of her husband’s hose, “Dear cousin,” I cried, “I know all; and now tell me what I can do, for I am dying of eagerness to help you.”

“Then go,” she said at once, “and see about the making up of your mails, for Phemie is busy with the children’s things. We start for Dysart to-morrow.”

At my exclamation of surprise she smiled. “You must know,” she went on, “that every year, in the month of August, I take my sons to their Grandfather’s house for the benefit of the sea-air and bathing. To our neighbours who are not with us our departure has, therefore, nothing out of the common; but to you I can say a little more. Sir John believes that the Earl of Mar will land in Fife. If he does, he will meet him there and perhaps follow him north, and, seeing that my Lord Sinclair is a man of some standing, and my brother in the midst of this affair, ’twill be easier for me to get news at the Hermitage than here at Alva. So he desires me to go there for a time and await the result of the Earl’s arrival; and, though I love best, when deserted, to be in my own house, Barbara, where every stone and tree speaks to me of Sir John, still, as it is his pleasure, I am glad to go. You will see Betty again, my dear, and that will content you also.”

So, in little more than a month from leaving it, I found myself again at Dysart.

In spite of our anxiety and excitement, which, with all our will, ’twas impossible to hide, the week that followed was a happy one. My Lady Erskine had her husband and children with her, and as she tenderly loved her father and sisters, she was in the midst of all that were dearest to her. Her brother, the Master, was for once in good humour and forebore to vex her by his sarcastic speeches to her husband. Indeed, Sir John and he were almost on friendly terms, for the knight, partly to please his dear lady, and partly, as I think, from a genuine appreciation of the younger man’s gifts, deferred to him as the eldest son of his host in a manner both courteous and kindly. It is true that in the last few weeks the conduct of the Master had gone far to establish his reputation for caution and diplomacy among his neighbours in the country. You must know that an order had come from Court to the sheriffs throughout England and Scotland that they should make search among the gentry, how many horses they had and if there were any signs of disaffection among them, their animals should be confiscated in the name of King George, as well as any arms found in their possession. I understand that the Master, with some difficulty, persuaded the zealous magistrate that this order could not apply to Fife, where all was quiet and orderly, but must be intended for England which was ever in a state of disturbance. He bade them look round upon his neighbours and judge if they had among them all enough horses to form a troop, or indeed, any beasts fitted for war. No, he told them, nor had they even the proper saddles and bridles for fitting out Cavalry. It would be foolish, he warned them, to get themselves into disfavour by robbing poor, innocent gentlemen of their only means of getting about, and as for arms he could swear there were not two score of pistols in his corner of Fife.

So skilful was his address, and so easy his manner, that for a time the good folk were persuaded to leave them in peace; but he suspected, as he told my lord, his father, that it could not be for long. All this Sir John Erskine knew and approved, and, indeed, he was generous enough to forget his brother-in-law’s ill-humours, and to take into consideration his military knowledge and real ability for management.

But at last one night, early in the month of August, our tranquillity came to an end; and indeed, though we knew it not then, ’twas the end of all peace and happiness for many days to come.

Sir John and my lady, the Master and Betty, were bidden to dinner to the house of Mr. Malcome of Grange; and his kind sister, Mistress Anne, seeing me at the Hermitage one day when she came to visit, and remembering my grandpapa and my parents, very cordially asked me to be of the party. The Master, who had business that day of a private nature some miles away, was late of arriving at the house, but late as he was our host was still later. Mistress Anne, having waited already for the guest, decided not to delay longer for the master, and telling us gaily that the dinner would be spoilt, not to talk of the cook’s temper, she made us sit down without him. I remember nothing about the meal except that when Mr. Malcome did arrive, which was not till we had been half-an-hour at table, he appeared to be in a very hilarious mood, and scarce eat anything, though he called for many toasts. His apologies for his discourtesy were vague though profuse, and he carried on his conversation in jerky phrases, quite unlike his wonted flowing style.

What was in the air, however, we did not discover till the feast was ended and most of the guests departed. As the party from Dysart were to lie that night at Grange, we alone remained, and were seated with Mistress Anne in the parlour, when her brother who had been seeing his guests away from the front door, entered the room, accompanied by Sir John and the Master of Sinclair.

At once Mr. Malcome shut to the door, closed the shutters with their heavy iron bar, and extinguished some of the candles. Then beckoning to us ladies to come round him, he began to talk in a low voice.

“Great news to-day, my friends! My lord, the Earl of Mar, is landed.”

Sir John, my lady and myself were all eagerness at this, but showed no surprise. Mistress Malcome threw up her hands in amazement, Betty appeared puzzled, but the face of the Master grew as black as thunder.

“My Lord of Mar?” he cried out harshly.

“Just so!” continued Mr. Malcome, “he landed last night at Elie, not far from this very house, having come all the way from London, so he tells me, in a coal-barque. He was disguised as a common sailor, and wrought like one too, as the ship possessed but three seamen.”

“What need of so much theatrical display?” interrupted the Master with a sneer.

“To baffle our friends at Court,” was the reply, “where my lord took care to attend a levee the very night that he sailed.”

“Does he come alone?” inquired Sir John.

“He is accompanied by General Hamilton and Colonel Hay, also disguised, my lord travelling as Mr. Maule. ’Twas cleverly arranged, and no mortal in London can as yet be aware of his movements. He has now gone to be with Bethune of Balfour, and from thence in a day or two he spurs north to Dupplin House.”

“What means his coming, brother?” asked Mistress Malcome, still perplexed.

“I will tell you, my dear; ’tis to pave the way for the coming of the Duke of Berwick—”

“The Duke of Berwick!” cried Betty, with sharp displeasure in her tones, “and why not the King?”

“Because, Mistress Betty, it is not yet quite certain that the King may not have to go to England, and join with the Duke of Ormond there.”

“Is England ready also?” asked my lady.

“Yes, madam, and so is France. King Louis, as you know, is eager to help us. He hath promised us ten thousand men, of whose landing either in England or Scotland we may hear any day, with great store of arms and ammunition.”

Darker and darker grew the Master’s face as he listened, and now he burst forth in his harshest and most scornful tones:

“And pray, what hath my Lord of Mar to do with all this? Is it to be supposed that he who hath thrown himself under the feet of the Elector of Hanover, only to be kicked away as he deserved, will be trusted as a leader by the leal gentlemen of Fife? I wonder to hear you, sir, speak thus complacently of a man of my lord’s temper, upon whom no reliance can be placed! Did he not betray us over the Union, and will he not do it again?”

This speech had the effect of altering the aspect of the company as may well be imagined. My lady and our kind hostess looked alarmed; Sir John turned to the Master and bade him curtly be silent, in a tone I had never heard him use before; Betty jumped up, and running to her brother put her white arm round his neck, and begged him for her sake to have patience. Mr. Malcome seemed uncomfortable, as well he might, while as for myself, Barbara, I sat entranced, absorbed and interested as if I were beholding some drama that was being enacted before my eyes.

At length Mr. Malcome answered soothingly:

“I believe that there is no reason to doubt the Earl’s good faith seeing he is prepared to give himself wholly for the Cause. As for the Union, I spoke of that to his lordship, and he owned very frankly that he had been in the wrong to do what he did, but that he hoped by his future conduct to make amends to Scotland and to us, and in trusting him we should never repent it.”

“Repent!” snarled the master, “and if we were ever such fools as to trust such a man, think you that repenting afterwards would retrieve it?”

Again the other attempted to pacify him.

“I have told him, my dear Master, of the daily fears we have been in, and of the struggle you have had to keep our horses; but I said also that the danger could not be staved off much longer.”

“And what said he to that?” asked Sir John, who during the interview had spoken little, as one who scarce needed information on the subject in hand. “What said he to that?”

“He said,” replied Mr. Malcome, “and I scarce know how to take it, ‘whenever they are pressed let them draw together and defend themselves.’”

For a few moments there was dead silence and then the Master spoke, this time in a voice of icy coldness that had the sound of a sneer all through it. ’Twas this voice that so oft enraged and exasperated his brother, Sir John, and hearing it I justified my dear guardian for any expression of anger he had ever used towards Captain Sinclair.

“Truly, we ought to thank my Lord of Mar for this precious piece of advice, for as such,” he said, “I regard it, seeing that in prospect of the coming of the Duke of Berwick, the Earl can scarcely consider himself in a position to issue orders. But I, for one, decline to take it. What! can it be imagined that the gentlemen of Fife are so rash and foolish as to gather themselves together like rats in a corn-yard, with the prospect of being worried by the terriers? Consider, sir, the facts that we already know. The Government are sending my Lord Duke of Argyle with his dragoons to Stirling, which alas! is but a few miles away. We hear that the Whig magistrates and burghers of Perth have made themselves masters of that town. Consequently, as they hold the Bridge of Earn, which is our only passage out of Fife, what is easier than to keep us prisoners here! My Lord Rothes, our worthy Sheriff, has armed the whole mob of the county, who could readily surround and take us, or if fortune favoured us so far as to let us escape, who could assure us of a refuge in the Highlands? Which of us would be bold enough to make our way through the Athole Country, whose Duke would have vast pleasure in seizing us and delivering us up to the Government?”

But Sir John could keep silence no longer, and his full mellow voice fell like balm upon my ears, now aching from the Master’s grating tones.

“The Master of Sinclair,” he said, “knows me too well to imagine that I could for a moment call in question his courage or his honour; but it seems to me that thus to conjure up so many difficulties, where in fact there are none, is scarce the act of a brave and experienced officer.”

“No difficulties?” cried out the master. “Call you the want of arms nothing?”

“But arms are coming from France,” persisted Mr. Malcome. “Are they not promised already, and indeed may now be on the way. Arms, ammunition, men, money, there will be nothing lacking; and it doth surprise me not a little to find so hardy a young gentleman as the Master of Sinclair naturally is, turning so backward in an adventure of the sort.”

“Hardihood is not necessarily folly, my good friend,” growled the Master. “But, to be sure, you are known as ‘the honest laird,’ and what you say to the people they will stand by. But a day may come when not only Fife, but all Scotland, shall rue the landing of the Earl of Mar from his coal-barque at Elie last night.”

This speech was followed by a prudent silence, and after a pause our host rose, and turning to the knight said courteously:

“And now, Sir John, will you grant me a few minutes in private?”

As they left the room, my lady and Mistress Anne followed to make some arrangement for the morrow, and thus we three, Betty, Barbara, and the Master were left alone.

“You do not trust the Earl of Mar, brother?” said Betty, somewhat timidly.

“No more than I would trust a serpent not to sting me, were I fool enough to warm it in my bosom,” was his contemptuous reply.

“My brother, Sir John, thinks different,” quoth she.

“I know it well, my dear, and though I acquit the knight of being so great a knave as his kinsman, he is in my opinion no less of a fool.”

At this my face burned hot, and I called out from my corner.

“You do not like Sir John, Captain Sinclair; you are ever unjust to him.”

He turned at that, surprised to hear so bold a speech from the girl who had sat dumb for the past hour, but he smiled stiffly. With all his ill-humour I have never seen him discourteous to a woman; and seeing that in after years he was twice married, both times to good and sensible women, it may be that there was a side to his character to which the world was a stranger. If this were not so, as I have often thought, my dear Betty could not have loved him so tenderly.

“Your heat, Mistress Barbara, does credit to your heart,” he said, “and I blame you not for disagreeing with me. Sir John is my brother-in-law, it is true; but the nearness of our relationship, while it assures me of his virtues as a husband and a friend, does not blind my judgment to his character. The darling passion of his life is the attempting of desperate projects, and no matter how often he should fail, there is that buoyancy in his nature which will not suffer him to be convinced of his own insufficiency. He hath still the misfortune to imagine he is born to be a Great Man, and when all fails, nothing but want of wings can hinder him from undertaking the voyage of the moon.”

He was not without discernment, the Master of Sinclair; and although at the time I bitterly resented his words, and believed that he spoke thus out of jealousy, I have since had reason to think that, robbed of its extravagance, his estimate of my kind guardian’s character was not altogether wrong.

CHAPTER XII

Now I think it will be agreed that an idea which had sprung full-formed into my mind during my silent listening, with regard to the Master’s conduct, was not without weight. It seemed clear to me then, and grew, if possible, clearer in the light of after events, that his hatred and jealousy of the Earl of Mar were the cause of all his strange behaviour. He received the news of his landing, as we have seen, with surprise and scorn, and the first hint of that nobleman as a leader and commander roused his wrath to such a pitch, that from that moment he put little check upon his fury. Had the Duke of Berwick landed in place of the Earl, or had my Lord of Ormond arrived at the head of the expedition, it is my opinion that the Master of Sinclair would have raised no obstacles and seen no difficulties any more than our host of Grange himself. But his hatred of my Lord Mar was of old standing and well known to their friends, and his jealous spirit could not brook the notion of being under orders to the man he despised. From that day, although in obedience to my Lord Sinclair’s commands, he continued in the affair, his heart was not in it. He was thought to be but a lukewarm adherent, and when honour demanded that he should endeavour to hide his misgivings, support his Commander, and do nothing to foster dissensions in the camp, he made himself obnoxious to the Earl and his friends, raising up strife, frustrating plans, and sowing everywhere the seeds of mistrust and insubordination, which quickly sprang up and bore most bitter fruit.

When it became known to him that Mr. Malcome had been charged with a private message from the Earl to Sir John, his jealous rage increased ten-fold, and from that day onward in spite of the knight’s efforts to pacify him, which for his lady’s sake he most generously made, his bearing towards his brother-in-law was marked by scorn and bitterness, which, while it merely provoked Sir John, deeply annoyed my Lord Sinclair and grieved his whole family.

In consequence of my Lord Mar’s message, whatever it may have been, Sir John did not next morning return with us to Dysart, but rode straight to the house of Mr. Bethune of Balfour, to interview the nobleman, and hear from him of his plans. Secret messages were sent to all the honest gentlemen in that part of the country to wait upon his lordship, but it was only by dint of stern commands from his father, and the loving entreaties of Betty herself, that the Master of Sinclair could be persuaded to attend on him. I believe that the Earl, from the first, treated Captain Sinclair with great kindness and deference, making inquiries of him about the state of feeling in the country, asking his advice, and otherwise behaving in a very frank and manly way. This, Sir John told my lady; and that at first the Master attempted to hide his gruffness and to respond in like manner, and Sir John, with his genial, sanguine nature, had great hopes that the rupture between them might be healed. As a further proof of his friendliness, my lord, in going to Dupplin House in Perthshire, the seat of the Lord Kinnoul, decided to come by Dysart in order to spend a few hours at the Hermitage, and pay his respects to my Lord Sinclair.

This was the sole occasion upon which I saw the Earl of Mar, and I make no secret of the fact that his appearance, manners, and courteous behaviour quite won me over to the side of Sir John and my lady, who thought him one of the best and cleverest of men. As I have said before, I have no desire to dig too deep into the causes and motives of any man’s actions. All the world knows of the Earl’s mistakes, because the project he undertook failed; but so closely are we “bound up in the bundle of life,” as the Scripture saith, one with another, that it were impossible either at that time, or now, forty years after, to determine who else were at fault, or how many mistakes and errors went to make up the whole. I suppose, that if the King’s Cause had prospered, and if he were now seated upon the throne of his forefathers instead of living in sad exile, not much would be heard of the incapacity of the Earl of Mar, or the motives, good or bad, which urged him on. Truly, as it saith again in the Book of Proverbs, “The lot is cast into the lap, but the whole disposing thereof is of the Lord.” And to those of you who, ten years back, witnessed the triumph of that brave young Prince as he rode gaily up the High Street of Edinburgh, with strong hopes in his heart of winning back the kingdom for his royal father, and who, later, mourned with him over these same hopes utterly cast down, this assurance from the pages of Holy Writ is the only comfort you could have. For myself, I was at that moment far away with my dear husband in the East Indies, so that only the rumours of Prince Charles Edward’s coming and going reached our ears; but as I heard of his charm, his courage, his successes, and in the next breath of his sufferings, his disappointments, and his failure, my tears fell for pity of the Lost Cause, just as they had done so many years before.

But what must you be thinking of this garrulous old woman, who lets her thoughts so wander from the path and her pen run away with her? I was telling you of the visit of the Earl to the Hermitage, and it all comes back to me very plain and clear. I had heard the Master say that my lord was a humpback, or at least deformed, but though I could perceive that one shoulder was slightly higher than the other, he carried himself with so much grace that it scarce detracted from his appearance. He was dressed very plain to avoid attention, but I thought for all that he looked the great gentleman he was. Upon my being presented to him, he saluted me very kindly on the cheek, as was then the custom, and told me that he knew my Grandpapa very well, saying also in a laughing tone that if I lived up to my name I must needs be happy to see him, and to know the reason of his coming. Upon which I told him that I was very glad and thankful that the King had so good a friend, and at this he looked pleased and made me a low bow. He talked respectfully with my Lord Sinclair of the coming Rising, rallied Mistress Bess gaily on her enthusiasm, and answered very cordially my lady’s enquiries as to the health of his Countess and the welfare of their infant daughter. He took little Henry upon his knee, and calling Charles to his side told him of his friend, Tommy, who, he said, was now considered the bully of Westminster, for to that famous school Lordy Erskine had lately gone.

“I like Tommy,” cried Charles, “he’s a great friend of mine!”

“And I like Tommy too,” lisped Harry, not to be outdone, “he gives me a pick-a-back!”

My lady bade the children not be troublesome, and sent them away to Phemie; but when was a mother’s heart not warmed by small attentions to her children, or how could any woman think ill of a man who thus fondled her little sons? I am sure that if my lady’s faith in the Earl had been in any way dimmed by her brother’s cruel suspicions, it burned bright and steady again after this visit to Dysart.

Before he left us, and his stay was but brief, he drew from his bosom a portrait done in miniature, and, smiling, offered it to each of us in turn. We looked at it in silence. It was the face of the King. A face singularly attractive in its youthful grace, for the high forehead, the long, gentle, hazel eyes, even the lack of power in the full mouth and rounded chin, all helped to give it an air of sweetness which yet had a tinge of sadness in it; and while my heart was filled with a sudden strange yearning, I was not surprised to see tears in Betty’s eyes, as she lifted the miniature to her lips and reverently kissed it.

And so with kind adieux, and hearty wishes for Godspeed in his venture, and gay waving of the hand, my Lord of Mar rode off to join his friends; and we watched him long upon the winding road, with smiles on our lips and prayers in our hearts, little dreaming that not one of us should ever look upon his face again.

Neither Sir John nor the Master of Sinclair was present at this interview, the latter having private affairs at the other side of the county, and my guardian being absent on one of the many secret missions which now occupied all his time. Several times he crossed to Edinburgh, returning the same day, for our agent there, Captain Harry Straton, was by now in the thick of business. On one of these occasions he brought back the discouraging news that the Duke of Ormond, had, on fear of being arrested, fled in haste from England, thus destroying our hopes in that direction; but it was thought that being now in France, he might combine with the King, and that on his return to England, the soldiers, by whom he was greatly beloved, would readily flock to his Standard. Sometimes Sir John was absent from Dysart many days together, being sent with important messages to gentlemen between Edinburgh and the Border, and even as far south as Dumfries and Galloway with despatches to the Earl of Nithsdale, and my Lord Kenmure.

But that part of the business came to an end at last, and one night upon his return we learned the meaning of it all. My Lord Mar was holding a great Tinchel or Hunting of the deer, in his forest of Braemar, on the 26th day of August, and from near and far his invited guests were spurring north to join him. On the eve of departure, Sir John and the Master, though intending to ride together on the morrow, again broke out in dissension. ’Twas at supper, and some of our trusty neighbours were present. The Master, still smarting at the thought of Mar’s supremacy, threw doubts upon his wisdom in calling together so large a gathering which could not be kept private.

“And what need for privacy,” cried Sir John, “when the country is ready to rise at our bidding?”

“With the King still in France,” replied the Master, “Ormond fled from England, Argyle to take command in Scotland, and with six thousand Dutch troops ready to cross the sea to his assistance at a day’s notice, it seems to me that the quieter we make our plans the better.”

“And to me it seems,” returned the other, “that enough time has been wasted, and the sooner the King’s Standard is openly raised, the more secure we shall stand.”

And as all the company, including ourselves, were in agreement with this notion, and everyone weary of the repeated delays, the Master’s arguments were silenced, though I have no doubt his opinion remained the same.

And now so many things crowd into my memory that I despair of setting the half of them down. I must leave it to history to tell you of that great meeting at Braemar, when noblemen and gentlemen from all parts of Scotland, from Caithness to the Border, and from Fife to the Western Isles, assembled to hear what the Earl of Mar had to tell them. What it was you know very well, and his manner of telling it. Also how, after enthusiastically agreeing to join the project—with, I fear, too little forethought or consideration—they dispersed to their homes in order to gather their forces together.

Still the days went slowly by for us, hearing nothing from the north, and little from other sources, for in the absence of our men we saw, designedly, but little of our neighbours, and except for the two Pitcairns, uncle and nephew, had no communication with the outer world.

My lady was growing anxious for news of her husband, and the strained look which I was to see so often in her kind eyes was beginning to show itself. When late one night, as we two were on our way to bed, after the rest of the household had retired, there came a sound of gentle knocking at the small door in the tower past which we must go to reach our rooms. The muffled sound at that hour, in the darkness (for we carried no light) was one to set our hearts beating, and I clutched at my cousin’s arm as we paused to listen. The knocking continued, and without a word my lady turned and began to go down the little flight of steps that led to the door.

“Madam!” I cried softly, “be careful. Shall I call your brother, Mr. Will?”

But my lady did not pause. She looked back at me up the winding stair, and the moonlight from the narrow window fell upon her face; it was white, but she was smiling. I knew that in those days there was no time for foolish fears, and secrets, however they were carried, were not to be trusted to servants. There was nothing for my lady to do, but what she was doing, so I stood in breathless suspense and listened. Surely she would not open without a question to those without.

Down below a bolt was drawn, and the door creaked slightly as it was shoved back. Then I heard a cry, and after that—silence. Trembling with fear and uncertainty I strained my neck to peer down the twisting stairway, holding my skirt up with one hand, and descending slowly step by step. It was not far to go, and suddenly I saw in the patch of moonlight that shone through the open door two figures that looked like one. ’Twas my lady in her husband’s arms. I laughed for very relief and joy, and they both looked up and smiled. My good Sir John was dusty and travel-worn, and his eyes were heavy with fatigue. He had ridden fast and far, and the hand he held out to me trembled, while his voice was weak and husky.

“Didst ever know such a wench as mine, Barbara?” he cried softly. “Here she comes stealing down the turret-stair in the moonlight to open the door to a lover belike, only to discover her husband!” and he laughed below his breath.

“My dearest life!” cried my lady, her face all smiles, “would I not know your knock among a thousand? Come, come, we must close the door and get you something to eat, for you must be well-nigh starving.”

“Drink first, sweetheart!” laughed the knight. “There’s no room in this throat of mine for meat to pass down till some of the dust has been washed out of it.”

Softly he shut and bolted the door, and taking off his riding-boots to carry them in his hand, he stole behind us up the stairs and into the dining-hall on the left. Once there he flung himself into an arm-chair and stretched his weary limbs with a great sigh. In a few minutes we had collected food and wine from the buttery and the pantry, and it was with a feeling of relief, as intense as though the terrible thirst had been my own, that I watched the huge tankard filled and emptied.

“And now, my dearest,” cried my lady, when her lord had demolished half a cold pasty and much bread and cheese, “why come you so late and in secret? What news do you bring? Are they good or bad?”

Sir John’s face was grave. “Mayhap you have heard,” quoth he, “the King of France is dead.”

“The King!”

“Dead?”

“Ay, dead as mutton! And the power in the hands of a Regent, who, I know well enough, whatever my Lord of Mar may say, is not well affected to our cause.”

My lady seated herself beside him.

“Nay, we have heard nothing. No news have come from Edinburgh this sennight. All our friends are from home as you know, and David Pitcairn has thought it well to bide quiet and attend to business.”

“Betty’s business?” cried the knight, and my lady laughed.

“Nay, my dear; Betty’s business would be the King’s, as you very well know, and if he is to be of use to us later, he must not draw suspicion on himself too soon.”

“Right and true!” said Sir John. “He may help us all by-and-bye; David’s a wise lad and can hold his tongue.”

“So we have heard nothing,” continued my lady. “But this death of King Louis is a terrible loss to us. What says the Earl?”

“He insists,” said Sir John, “that the Duke of Orleans is as much in favour of the Restoration as the old King was, and that his death is no loss, but rather a gain to the cause. But I know the Regent better than he, and I hope for no help from him. Indeed, if he do nothing to hinder us, twill be less than I expect of him.”

“And now, Sir John,” I cried, “will you not tell us why you come thus, in such haste and privacy, to tell us what all the world must know in a day or two?”

He laughed and called me a “saucy minx.”

“To say truth, Mistress Barbara, your humble servant is a bit of a coward, and I must own that I stole here to-night under cover of the darkness (though the moon shines cruelly bright for conspirators), because I hoped to avoid my eldest brother-in-law, whose jibes and sneers I can ill brook in my present disturbed state of mind. He left the north some days ago. Is he at home?”

My lady smiled, and fondled his hand like one humouring a child.

“No,” she said, “but he may return to-night, and you will see him most like at breakfast.”

“That will I not,” cried he, “for by breakfast-time I must be far from here. Only a few hours’ sleep, and then up and off again. Come, my lady, this food has made a new man of me; now to bed, for I must be on the road by five o’ the clock, and ’tis now half on midnight.”

A shadow fell over her face.

“And whither now?” she asked. “I had hoped you could remain a few days with us.”

“To Edinburgh,” he cried, “no less! For by the end o’ the week, I trust the Castle and all its supplies will be in my Lord Drummond’s hands.”

My lady was again all eagerness and poured forth question after question as to the time and the method of taking so important a stronghold, but Sir John only kissed her and put her off in his usual light-hearted style, and soon after we crept stealthily up to our rooms.

“I dreamed my papa came and kissed me in the night,” said little Charles to me next morning. “I thought it was true, and told Phemie that Sir John was returned, but when I asked my mama, she laughed and said I must have dreamed it.”

CHAPTER XIII

The very next day, being the tenth of September, came Mr. Malcome to visit us, with news both good and bad. The Master had not yet returned home, so that we were ignorant of what had passed since Sir John left the north. Four days before, our visitor told us, the Earl of Mar had set up the King’s Standard at Braemar, proclaiming him King of Scotland, England, France and Ireland. They were making arrangements for doing likewise in many of the larger towns, such as Aberdeen, Dunkeld, Brechin, and Montrose, and hoped before long to take Perth out of the hands of the Whigs and make that place their headquarters. The affair, said Mr. Malcome, was spreading like fire in the heather (an ill-sounding simile, thought I) and he believed there would be a rousing welcome for King James when he arrived.

“And what of Edinbro’?” asked my lady anxiously, for where her treasure was, there also was her heart.

Mr. Malcome gave a long, slow whistle, and turned to my Lord Sinclair.

“Have you not heard, my lord?”

The old lord shook his head. “Nothing as yet,” he said.

He drew a little nearer us, and sank his voice almost to a whisper.

“A fiasco, my lord, an utter failure, the stupidest piece of bungling that ever was perpetrated.”

“But how, sir, did it fail?” cried my lady, with wide, anxious eyes.

“Strangely enough, madam, through the treachery of a woman,” sighed Mr. Malcome. “A woman got hold of the scheme, my lady, and, as was natural, the thing slipped out.”

“For shame, sir!” cried Betty, her cheeks flaming. “Do you mean to insinuate that a woman cannot keep a secret—that women are more often traitors than men? How dare you speak so, Mr. Malcome?”

Our guest was too old a friend to take umbrage at Mistress Betty’s wrathful tone. He sighed again but offered no apology.

“Tell us all you know, sir, I beg,” said my lady.

“Madam,” said he, “I name no names. If they are not known to you now, they will be public property soon. But ’tis reported that a certain young officer who had charge of this scheme, not satisfied to be alone in his family on our side, engaged his brother, a certain physician in Edinbro’, to join in with him. The latter, madam, has a wife, who seeing her husband very melancholy, as weighed down by his knowledge of the secret, begged him with wifely solicitude to unburden his mind to her. The gentleman not able to resist her wiles confessed his anxiety, whereupon the lady, whose sympathies unfortunately lay on the other side, sent an anonymous despatch to my Lord Justice Clerk. Sir Adam Cockburn, worthy man, communicated with Colonel Stuart, the Governor; the plot was frustrated, the Castle was saved, or rather—lost!”

“And what of the conspirators?” we cried.

“Most escaped, but two or three fell into the hands of the Town-band, which the Lord Provost had sent out to patrol the town.”

“Tell me, sir, have you seen my husband, Sir John?” cried my lady. “Was he with Mr. Straton last night?”

“Madam, he was, but this morning he rode north again with the news of our misfortune to the Earl of Mar.”

She sighed even as she smiled.

“Here is a woman,” she cried, laying her hand on her bosom, “who is traitor enough to the Cause to wish that her husband were not so useful a man. ’Tis mighty uneasy at times, my friend, to balance the scales betwixt love and honour; and though I am very sorry that our project has failed, I cannot as a wife, blame that lady who doubtless loves her husband as much as I do mine, and wished to save him in spite of himself.”

“Madam,” said the discreet Mr. Malcome, “there are always two sides to a question, if not more; and besides, the story may not be true.”

After this, many rumours came to our ears without greatly affecting our daily life, though my lady lived from hour to hour in the hope of despatches from her husband, and Betty and the rest of the household were never weary of gathering news from every conceivable source.

One day the Rev. Mr. Pitcairn, having gone on some errand to Edinburgh, came back with the news that the Duke of Argyle had arrived from London, and was gone to Stirling to take up his quarters there. General Wightman had been for some weeks now in the Castle, and his troops, some 1800 strong, lay encamped in the King’s Park. Old Colonel Erskine had not yet been superseded as Governor of the Castle, it being well known that the majority of that family were in favour of the Government, though his affection for Sir John and my Lady of Alva drew his sympathies in the other direction. Old Lady Alva belonged to a staunch Whig family, and her son Charles at that time seemed in full sympathy with her, so that neither from them, nor from Aunt Betty did my lady, as she told me, look for help or pity did things go wrong with Sir John. But, as you know, in such affairs it is the common rule for families to be divided amongst themselves, and at present there was no thought of misfortune.

The town of Perth fell into possession of the King’s men about the middle of September in a very simple manner, for the Tory burghers, having sent privately to Colonel Hay to let him know that they were ready to revolt against the magistrates, who were Whigs, if he could bring a sufficient force to back them up, that gentleman, with about forty horse, shortly afterwards appeared before the town (though on the wrong side of the river), and his friends, seizing the boats without any resistance from the town, brought them all across the Tay. The Whigs who were, we were told, terrified by the report of the approach of the Earl of Mar with some thousands of Highlandmen, very meekly gave up their arms to their adversaries, and took no more active part in opposition than to ride post to Edinburgh to inform the Government of what had happened.

To Perth, therefore, by degrees came flocking the noblemen and gentlemen with their followers, who had agreed to join my Lord Mar. The young Earl of Strathmore, a fine and gallant gentleman, with two hundred of his men, was the first to arrive, and following him came the Earl of Southesk with about the same number. My Lord Panmure, that brave and staunch old hero, brought with him an hundred Highlandmen, and two hundred from the Lowlands. My Lord Nairne and his son came likewise; while the Master of Sinclair at the head of the Fifeshire gentlemen, of whom he had assumed a kind of unofficial command, rode away from home with our Godspeeds in his ears to join this gallant company.

After the departure of that gentleman, we had more news from headquarters than most people, I suppose; for the Master, being a great scribe, thought little of penning more than one long letter of an evening. So that my lord, his father, and his sister Betty, were constantly receiving despatches. I cannot but own that the picture he drew was far from encouraging. The Earl of Mar was not yet come to Perth, nor General Hamilton with his troops, and every man did what seemed right in his own eyes. The lack of order and discipline to a man accustomed to the ways of tried soldiers must indeed have been vexatious, and even making allowance, as we all half laughingly did, for the trend of the Master’s temper and the sharpness of his pen there was much in his accounts to make my lord shake his head, and keep us all somewhat anxious.

One thing that greatly annoyed him was the indifferent way in which some of the gentlemen, who ought not to have exposed themselves, rode about the country alone on the smallest excuse. They were constantly returning home on one pretext or another, generally on the plea of getting fresh supplies of money; spending perhaps a night or two away from camp, and returning with the utmost carelessness in broad daylight. Again and again the Master told us he had warned them that they would be kidnapped, and at last what he predicted really happened. Our friend, Sir Thomas Bruce, riding home on some such errand, was taken by a party of dragoons, under Lord Rothes, near to the town of Kinross, and carried prisoner to Leslie House.

“And serve him right!” cried Betty indignantly, when we heard of it. “He should have listened to my brother’s warning.”

About this time we heard that the Earl of Sutherland had landed at Leith from England, and had sailed north to his own county, of which he had lately been made Lord-lieutenant, to raise the Clans in that neighbourhood in favour of the Government. This dashed our spirits a little, but we had soon reason to be glad of it.

One evening about six o’clock, we were walking in the wood that borders the shore between the Hermitage and the grim old Castle of Ravenscraig which was now being allowed to fall into decay. My lady walked in front with young Mr. Pitcairn at her side, and little Charles ran before her, Betty and myself following. It had been a still, bright day, such as we often get in the end of September in Scotland, and scarcely a ripple rose to break upon the rocks. The sun was out of sight behind us, but its full light shone upon the water, and the distant coast seemed very far away. Some boats were in the Frith, but the air was so light that their sails were almost useless; for though they filled enough to bear the little crafts gently onward, in most of them the boatmen had taken to the oars.

Suddenly Betty stood still, her keen eyes fixed on one of these tiny barks, which seemed to be steering towards us; it was as yet too far off for me to make out its occupants, but my companion had the eyes of a hawk.

“Sister!” she cried, “the boat, do you see it?”

My lady turned and stood beside us, looking where she pointed.

“Surely, Bess, I see it—what then? ’Tis but a fishing-boat going out for the night.”

“Nay, my dear,” laughed Betty, “there you are wrong. Can you not see? They are making signals.” And snatching her kerchief from her neck she waved it above her head.

“Take care, my woman!” cried her sister, catching at her arm, “that is a dangerous thing to do. You know not who it is, Betty. Do you want every Tom, Dick, and Harry to land at the Hermitage? One would take you for a child at times, so rashly do you act.”

But Betty’s cheeks were red and her eyes bright with excitement, while she still gazed eagerly at the boat. Presently, when the little bark was heading for the harbour just below us, and we could all see in it the figure of a man in a travelling-cloak, she twisted her kerchief again round her neck and began to walk quickly forward.

“You may trust me, my dear Catherine,” she said, “I know their signals. ’Tis one of our party, though I know not who, as yet. Let us meet him at the stair-foot.”

We passed down the rough-hewn stone steps that led to the harbour, David Pitcairn leading and Betty close behind. As the boat touched, the traveller, who was now on his feet, sprang out, and, with hat in hand, stood looking up at us.

“Why?” cried my lady, “’tis Mr. James Murray! You were right, Bess, ’tis a friend indeed. Welcome home, sir! Are you but newly from France?”

The last words were added in a whisper, as the young man bent to kiss her hand. He nodded silently, and turned to fee his boatmen (very liberally, to judge from the satisfaction on their faces). They handed him up a box, which David with a laugh, and in spite of the other’s protest, swung upon his shoulder, and we all started again for the house.

“Was it you, Mistress Elizabeth, who answered my signal?” asked the traveller. “I was surprised to find you could see mine from so far. Had I not caught sight of you ladies in the wood, I should not have ventured, I fear, to approach the house.”

“Why not, Mr. Murray? My lord will be over-joyed to see you,” cried Betty. “’Tis many months since you left us. How is the King? Is this your first return?”

“Yes, madam, I have been in France since April, and come now with good news for the Earl of Mar. I arrived in Edinburgh this morning, disguised, having travelled by way of England; but when I left France, his Majesty was well and in good spirits.”

“Then, indeed, you are welcome to us all,” cried my lady, and with this we were come to the front door, and our guest was ushered in with every expression of hospitality.

Supper was hurried forward, and entertainment of the best was bestowed upon the traveller. I had gathered that this Mr. Murray was second son to the Viscount of Stormont, and a trusted friend of King James. We learned now that his Majesty had appointed him Secretary of State for the affairs of Scotland, and while we knew that he carried the Royal Commission to the Earl of Mar, he whispered, under seal of solemn secrecy, that he brought also a Patent creating him a Duke. This news was greeted with all joy and approval, and we drank to the health of the Duke of Mar.

“Pray, sir,” said the elder Mr. Pitcairn, for David had been sent in haste to bid his uncle to supper, “can you give us any news of the King’s movements?”

“I give you my word, sir,” was the reply, “that his Majesty is resolved to cross very shortly; but the roads in France are all guarded, and it will not be without difficulty that he reaches the coast. My Lord Stair would not be grieved overmuch were his Majesty to fall into the hands of some convenient highwayman.”

“Oh!” cried Betty, in horror, “you cannot mean, sir, that he wishes for his death?”

“That, Mistress Betty, is a harsh manner of speaking, but the Ambassador certainly thinks that King James is in the way.”

“God preserve him,” breathed the minister, “from the hands of wicked men.”

“Amen!” cried my lord. “And what, sir, is being done in the way of material assistance, for of that we have heard a vast deal, though nothing has been seen.”

“When I left France, my lord, there were ships in the ports of Havre, St. Malo, and other places, twelve ships of war in all, with several swift frigates being loaded with great store of ammunition—small arms, shells, bullets, and some pieces of artillery, while soldiers and officers in abundance only waited their orders to embark.”

“God be praised!” cried my lord, “this sounds like reality at last. If only they do not delay, but strike, as the saying is, while the iron is hot.”

“And what of the Duke of Berwick?” asked his younger son, William.

Here Mr. Murray looked uncomfortable and made no reply for a moment, but presently he said he feared there had been trouble between the King and his half-brother, of which he could give no details, but he now believed the Duke would not take part in the expedition at all.

“The more’s the pity!” he added, “for there is no doubt that he is a good and brave man, as well as a skilful general.”

It is needless to say that we were all very much cast down at this news, for our opinion of the Duke had always been that of Mr. Murray, and we had been led to hope great things from his assistance. We talked the matter over, and again fell back upon the hope that the Duke of Ormond, though inferior in skill, might take his place in England. We discussed it far into the night, until my lady, rising, protested that Mr. Murray must have some rest, seeing he intended starting in search of the Earl of Mar, whose whereabouts was uncertain, early the next day.

But on the morrow as we sat at breakfast a despatch was brought in from the Master of Sinclair, which saved the important messenger any unnecessary delay. The Earl, he said, had arrived at Perth with a large following of Highlanders the day before. The companies already in the town were drawn out on the North Inch to receive him, and our informant added that my Lord Mar had already begun to stick thorns in his (the Master’s) side, by his arrogant assumption of authority and infallibility. As her brother could not mention this nobleman’s name without some sign of irritation, my lady smilingly suppressed this addition, and assuring Mr. Murray of our delight in having had the good fortune to waylay and entertain him, we bade him a hearty adieu.

CHAPTER XIV

It seemed to us all in those days that Fortune was playing a game of see-saw with us and our hopes. No sooner were we elated by some piece of good luck, than something happened of the reverse order to cast us down into the depths of depression. Two days after the visit of Mr. James Murray, news was sent to Mr. Harry Straton in Edinburgh that, following hard upon his track, came one, Mr. Ezekiel Hamilton to wit, with very evil tidings. The Regent, Orleans, to whom we had been told to look for help, had proved himself the very reverse, for he had caused the ships, of which Mr. Murray had spoken with such confidence, to be unloaded of all the arms and ammunition, and it was added that Admiral Byng had leave from him to search all ships coming from Havre and other ports to Scotland. Here was a blow to our hopes, and we were just where we had been, or perhaps a little lower in the scale of unhappiness in consequence of the severity of our disappointment.

“Ah!” sighed my lady, “you see my dear Sir John was right. He mistrusted the Regent, and indeed feared he would do us harm. Was ever king so unjustly treated, or surrounded by so much treachery!”

“Oh,” cried Betty, “would to God I could do something to help! How terrible it is to be a weak woman in times like these! Come, Barbara, let us at least get to horse, and ride out and hear some news. I shall go mad if I stay cooped in the house another hour.”

Nothing loth, I did as she bade me, and we were soon upon the road. She had refused to take a servant, “for,” said she, “if we hear any secrets we must keep them to ourselves.”

“We are not like to hear many, my dear,” said I, “for there is no one to tell them to us. See, as far as I can look along the road, there is not a soul in sight. How far shall we go? ’tis getting late to be out alone!”

“Oh, fear not, child!” cried Betty, shortly. “Naught can happen to us here, where all the world knows us. Pray do me the favour to be silent. I wish to think.”

It was a quiet bright evening, with the first touch of frost to make the air keen upon our faces. On and on we rode till the houses of Burntisland came in view. When we were near the town, Betty pulled her horse to a walk, and pointing to the harbour, bade me look at a little ship anchored in the roadstead.

“I wonder whence it comes and what it contains,” said she idly; and I wondered at her interest, for there were several vessels in the harbour, and ships were constantly coming and going in the Frith, so that there was nothing to distinguish this in any particular way.

Not deeming it prudent to go into the town, as the evening was darkening down and we two women alone, Betty stopped at a little inn at the entrance of the street, where the wife was one Janet Spiers, who had formerly been cook-maid at the Hermitage. Rapping on the door with her whip-handle, Betty soon brought the good woman out, who, on seeing the quality of her visitors, overwhelmed us with kind requests to come in and rest.

“Why, Jenny,” said Betty, “we do not mean to alight; ’tis close on seven o’clock and the days are growing short. We did but ride this way to take the air, and being so near your house I stopped to ask for your gudeman.”

“Thank ye kindly, Mistress ’Lizabeth,” said the woman, “he’s real weel. The hoast was sair on him a while back, but sin’ the hairst he’s ta’en up fine.”

They chatted together for a few minutes, and upon my remarking on the number of ships in the harbour, Janet Spiers pointed to the very vessel which had attracted the attention of Betty a short while back, and asked her if she knew what it contained.

“Why, no,” said Betty, “nothing very valuable I should say.”

The woman tossed her head with a contemptuous smile.

“Ye wad wonder!” she cried. “What think ye, Mistress Betty? There’s fire-arms intilt, and pouther and bullets and a’, and what for? To send awa’ north to my Lord Sutherland for him tae arm his men and gar them fecht for the English King. Set him up indeed! I’m for King Jamie, ye ken, my leddy, as ye are yersel’.”

“Arms!” cried Betty, in great surprise, “arms and ammunition! But where do they come from, and what do they here?”

“Weel, weel,” said Janet Spiers, “they were shipped at Leith frae the Castle at Edinbro’, but the chiel that’s maister o’ the ship is a Bruntisland man. He lives down bye in the close there, forenent the quay. He’s been awa’ this three weeks, and as he kent the gudewife was near her time, he couldna think tae sail awa’ north without spierin’ for her. Aweel, she was brocht tae bed o’ a fine laddie this morn, and naethin’ wad satisfy the creatur (a spoilt quean she is), but keep her man by her for a wee. An’ he, honest man, was sweer tae leave her, and sae, there he is, and there’s his ship, and there’s nae hurry aboot sailing, that I can see.”

“How long will he stay, think ye, Jenny?” said Betty, and I could hear a thrill of excitement in her voice.

“Till the morn’s nicht at the full o’ the tide, onyway,” said the other, “an’ maybe langer.”

“And how many stands of arms did they tell you the ship contained?” she asked.

“Oh,” said Jenny, doubtfully, “twa-three thoosan’, maybe.”

“Dear me!” cried Betty, “my Lord Sutherland will be lucky to get them. Well, Jenny, we must say good-night, and ride fast to get home before the darkness falls. Come, Barbara.”

And away we went again upon the homeward road, while the land behind us darkened, and the first bright star shone out above us in the pale sky.

So fast rode Betty that I was soon out of breath and called out to her to stop, but she only urged her beast to the utmost, and left me to follow some way behind. What had come to her I wondered; could she be afraid of the approaching night? But no, fear and Betty were not well acquainted, and I soon dismissed the thought. My dear friend was full of whims, and her mind I knew was greatly disturbed. I did my best to keep up with her, and bent my attention on the road we had to follow. It was almost dark when we came abreast of the Town-House of Dysart (for straight into the town we had ridden), and the place was nearly empty. Betty stopped abruptly and seemed to be considering what to do next. A man came out of Quality Street and turned towards us, and in the dim light we both recognised Mr. David Pitcairn.

“David, oh, David!” cried Betty, not loud but with an intensity of feeling in her tone which would have carried her words much further, and in a few quick strides he was beside us.

How clearly I remember his appearance as he stood there with his hand upon her horse’s neck, and his fine face lifted to hers in the twilight. So well I knew the devotion that filled his soul, though none had told me of it, that I felt sure, whatever she asked of him, he would then and there consent.

“Dear David,” said Betty, “you are the very man I was hoping to see,” and my heart contracted at the words, knowing what they must mean to him. “I have a project, ’tis formed within the last half-hour. There is something you must do for me—nay, not for me, for the King, David—and if you love me you will not refuse.”

Ah! Betty, was it kind to put it thus? But what woman would have refrained from using her sweetness as a lure in a like case?

“If I love you, Betty!” said he, very gravely. “Have I ever refused you anything you required of me?”

Even at that moment I saw her falter. Was she putting him to a test too hard?

“Then walk with us along the shore, where no envious ears can overhear us. Oh! David, such a chance, such good fortune as never could have been expected! I can scarce restrain myself from laughing aloud. But we must be quiet. It must be kept secret; no one shall know but you, and Barbara, and my lord. ’Tis better so.” So fast she talked, and appeared so excited, that I almost feared her agitation would overcome her, but by-and-bye when we were beyond the houses she spoke more quietly.

“Listen, David. There is lying outside the harbour of Burntisland at this moment, a ship filled with arms and ammunition intended for the Earl of Sutherland in the north. You can guess what he means to do with them. There they are now for anyone to take, for the master, poor fool, is grinning over the cradle of his new-born son; and the crew, I dare swear, are as pleasantly, if less innocently, employed about the town. Now we must, by hook or by crook, get those arms for our own. Three thousand stands, David, and much powder and bullets, think what a haul! Is it not splendid?”

“Magnificent!” said David, smiling. “But do you propose my boarding the vessel alone in the night, and bearing them away on my back, Betty?”

“Nay!” she cried, reproachfully, “I am not so foolish. But this I propose: my brother, the Master, must be told of it; he will know what to do. He will come with a troop from Perth, and take them by force if necessary. But it must be done at once, and in as secret a way as possible. The ship will sail to-morrow at midnight, with the tide. Someone—you, dear David, must go this night to Perth, carrying a despatch from me, which I will write presently; and you must ride in hot haste, so as to be there by daybreak, and lose no time in waking my brother and telling him of the matter. He may have to consult my Lord of Mar, but no one, I think, will be so mad as to neglect this great opportunity.”

David walked along slowly, his eyes on the ground. He was between us, and I listened for his answer as eagerly as Betty. To my surprise it was long of coming, and my companion, still more astonished, broke out again impatiently.

“You will not refuse, David! ’Tis not so hard a task. A night in the saddle cannot mean much to you. Why do you hesitate? I thought—”

Then he lifted his head and looked at her in quiet wonder.

“Do you mean to say you doubt me, Betty! I was but thinking out my best road. And my horse has been out all day.”

So, I suppose, had he, but Betty did not notice the admission.

“You shall have the best horse in my lord’s stables!” she cried, joyfully. “You shall choose for yourself. Oh no, I did not doubt you, David. I knew you would do it. There is no one more faithful and true.”

And she cast upon him a look so sweet and kind that I, not knowing the secrets of this wayward woman-heart, began to think for the first time that, for her patient squire, the reward he wished might not be quite impossible. He lifted the little hand that hung down beside him, and raised it to his lips.

“And what shall my payment be?” he asked.

But even as if he scorned his own question, he hurried forward to push open the gate, and Betty rode up to the house in silence.

My Lord Sinclair was sitting down to supper when we entered the hall, but his daughter, in her impetuous way, swept him with her into a little room which stood empty, and beckoning to David and myself, she bade us enter and shut the door. It did not take long to acquaint my lord with our story, and he was heartily pleased to approve of Betty’s plan. The sole objection that he made was that nothing should be written; papers were dangerous, and Mr. Pitcairn might be waylaid, and even searched.

“Let the message go by word of mouth,” said he. “David has brains enough to deliver it as you give it to him, and my son knows him too well to doubt that he comes from us.”

So it was arranged. David was to sup at the Hermitage, going after to his uncle at the Manse to acquaint him with his intended venture. A good horse was to be provided for him, and as soon as it was dark enough, which would be by ten of the clock, he was to ride out of the town and make his way to Perth. By riding all night, but keeping to unfrequented ways, he would come there by five or six in the morning, and he had instructions to find out the Master’s lodging, and rouse him at once to receive the news.

You may imagine, at supper there were at least two of us with little appetite, and my lady chid her sister for having ridden too far and tired both herself and me. As soon as possible I escaped upstairs, and right glad was I when my cousin joined me, to find that the secret had been imparted to her. Indeed, I believe it might have been discussed openly before all the house without any harm done, the entire household being too faithful to my lord’s interests to breathe a word that would endanger any of them.

As we sat and talked in the half-dark, for the room was lighted but by one small taper, we heard the sounds of preparation in the stable-yard, for upon that my window looked. I opened the casement and we leaned out. A horse, ready saddled, stood there with a groom beside him! By the feeble light of the lanthorn hung on the wall we could see his grand form, and the proud lift of his head, as his nostrils snuffed the cold night air.

“’Tis La Flèche!” my lady whispered, “the best horse my lord has left.”

Out of the low doorway leading from the kitchens came David Pitcairn, booted and spurred, but with his hat in his hand. Behind him tripped Betty, and with a word dismissed the groom, who shuffled back into the stable. As Mr. Pitcairn stood ready to mount, Betty came close to him, and spoke in a tone so low that it did not reach us. When he answered her she took something from her bosom and held it out to him in her open hand. The light gleamed on a little gold heart, and I recognised a trinket that she was fond of wearing. With a smile she let him take it, and with a smile he raised it to his lips. Just then the town-clock struck ten. He caught hold of both her hands and kissed them lingeringly, swung himself into the saddle, and waving his hat with a cheerful “good-bye,” rode out into the darkness. For some minutes we listened to the sound of the horse’s hoofs growing fainter in the distance, and then we drew back into the room and closed the window.

My lady sighed. “Poor David!” she said softly.

“I wish,” cried I, “that Betty could be kinder to him, madam.”

“Alas! child,” said she, “Bess is already far too kind, and yet I know she means no harm. She loves him in every way but one, and he worships her with body, heart, and soul, as it is not good for any woman to be worshipped.”

“You think she would not marry him?” I asked. My lady laughed, but not unkindly.

“Oh, no!” she said. “I do not always understand my sister (I think at times she scarce understands herself) but I am ready to wager my life’s happiness that she will never be David Pitcairn’s wife.”

And at that moment the subject of our talk knocked at the door and entered.

Her face was very pale, and her eyes burned bright with excitement. She came in quietly, and sat down by us in silence. My lady put out her hand, and laid it affectionately on her shoulder. By the glad, uplifted look upon her face, we knew that she was deeply moved.

By-and-bye she spoke gravely, almost solemnly.

“Sister! Barbara! is it not strange that, after all, my passionate desire to do something for the King has been gratified? Do you not see the hand of God in it? What led us to ride in the direction of Burntisland this evening, when we might as easily have gone the other way? What prompted me to ask for Janet Spiers’ gudeman, who, I knew, had lost his cough a month since; and above all, what induced the woman to talk to us about that little ship? Oh, will it not be wonderful if, by my means, the Government Army is defeated, and the Country turned so loyal that when the King comes home he will have nothing to do but ride to Holyrood and receive the loving homage of a united people.” She waved her hands in a sort of delighted ecstasy, and ended with a laugh so joyous that we were fain to join with her.

“God grant your beautiful dream comes true, my Betty!” cried my lady, kissing her. “’Twas well thought out, your plan, and can hardly fail. My brother is the man to attempt the enterprise, and seeing that arms and ammunition are the things most needed, he will move heaven and earth to get them. Let us think now of David Pitcairn riding through the night, and pray that no harm may befall him.”

“Dear, faithful David!” murmured Betty. “I would trust him with all I possess.”

“Except yourself!” said my lady slyly.

“I do not possess myself, sister!” said Betty, somewhat sharply. “Let us go to bed and try to sleep off some of our excitement. It will soon be Sunday morning, and I fear Mr. Pitcairn will have but an inattentive listener in me, if I am calm enough to go to Kirk to-morrow.”

And soon after we parted, and went to bed with our various thoughts and dreams.

CHAPTER XV

And now I am going to relate an adventure so foolish and freakish that, looking back upon it from the standpoint of discreet years, I cannot but wonder how my friend Betty ever thought of proposing it, or how Barbara could be so ready to join in it. But I fear it has been in all ages, and will continue to be so, that young girls take delight in doing many things which in after years they regard as impossible, and which they would certainly prevent their own daughters from doing if they could. And so the world goes on, and each must sow her little crop of experiences, and reap her own harvest of wisdom, or mourn over the doubtful fruits of folly.

That our folly brought forth no great bitterness was due to the kindness of Providence, rather than to any credit of our own. Indeed, while I condemn my own act in yielding to Betty’s request, I cannot but remember our adventure with a warm stirring at my heart, for a certain thing happened then that had an after-effect upon my whole life.

It was upon Saturday night, you will remember, that David Pitcairn left us to ride to Perth, and the next day being Sunday, we had much ado to attune our hearts and minds to the sacred duties of the day, for our thoughts would fly to the Earl of Mar’s army, and back again to the little ship outside Burntisland harbour. While we all felt the strain of an anxious and almost sleepless night, my poor Betty’s nervous tremors were pitiful to behold, the more so that such a condition was very foreign to her nature, and quite unlike her wonted liveliness. My lady, who was ever a fragile, delicate woman, had so great a control over herself that she appeared at times the stronger of the two; but so sympathetic was she towards her sister that I feared at times they might betray themselves.

Anxious or not, it behoved us all to go to church, and to bear ourselves as if nothing unusual were afoot. But I fear that the pious and learned discourse of good Mr. Pitcairn bore little fruit in our hearts that day. We were waiting we knew not for what, and even among ourselves had little to say save interjections of wonder and longing.

It seemed as if the day would never pass. After dinner we took the little boys to the rocks below the wood, Phemie being gone to church, and there told them tales and let them play quietly. But as the afternoon waned, a strong wind rose and blew from the north-west, and as it grew colder and colder we made a retreat to the house.

As I descended from my room to supper I heard the sound of the turret door opening, and light steps coming up the twisted stairway made me pause to see who was there.

It was Betty, her cheeks rosy with the cold, her hair wind-tossed, her eyes bright. When she saw me she laughed and clutched my hand.

“Come to my room directly after supper!” she whispered. “I have a little thing to tell you.”

It was evident that something had happened to raise her drooping spirits, and my lord nodded approval when he heard her laugh as we sat down to table, while my dear lady looked pleased though surprised to see that her sister’s appetite had returned. For myself, I could scarce swallow a bite, being in a state of excitement half fearful, half pleasant, throughout the meal, not being able to fix in my mind upon any possible reason for her recovered gaiety. I waited with the utmost impatience till we were closeted together in Betty’s room, and then demanded eagerly what had happened.

She laughed a gay, reckless little laugh, and drew me down upon the settee beside her. “Nothing has happened yet, my little Barbe,” she cried, “but something is going to happen soon. Look you, child,” she went on more seriously, “I am about to ask a great thing of you, and if you are doubtful, or afeared, tell me now and I will say no more. Can you undergo some discomfort, run some risks, and trust yourself to me for a few hours? Tell the truth sincerely.”

“Why, Betty,” I cried, “you know I love you dearly, and would do a good deal to pleasure you, but is it fair to make me give my promise without telling me what you would be at?”

She looked at me a moment in silence. “You do not answer me as David did,” she said slowly.

“Frankly, dear Betty, is there anyone else in the world who would?” I asked smiling.

“You are growing up mighty fast, Barbara,” was all she answered, and for a few moments she sat in silence.

“Hark ye, my dear,” she roused herself to say, “I mean to trust you. I cannot bear one hour longer of this suspense than I can help, and I mean to ride forth at daybreak, and find out, if possible, what has taken place at Burntisland.”

“At daybreak?” I cried, incredulous, “but why not wait till after breakfast?”

“And have all the world know?” she answered. “Why, Barbara, we must not be seen. There is always the possibility that some wind may carry the news to Stirling, where my Lord of Argyle and his dragoons lie in wait. What would be easier for them than to intercept the Master and his Command, either on their way hither, or on the return journey? You see I know nothing, and this ignorance is torture to me. If David is returned he is probably as ignorant of what happened after he left Perth as I am. My brother may have started at once, and may be busy even now at the harbour, or he may have waited till the dusk fell, and be at this moment on the road. In that case I may just see him to-morrow, which would be a consolation in itself, and get a word of approbation from him for my part in this affair, which of course no one else must know.”

I suppose I looked as doubtful as I felt, for she went on persuasively.

“I only wish for your company, my dear; there is naught for you to do. Michael, the groom, will ride with us, and if necessary be our protector. I want to see for myself what has been done, and to find out about my brother. We shall wear masks and hoods, but indeed if any strangers are about the town they will be those busy with the boats, and the townsfolk would never think of molesting us.”

“When do you mean to start?” I asked, with a sigh and a smile together.

At that she kissed me and called me her dear, and her kind obliging friend, and promised me all manner of favours, including her abiding love, which was the only one I cared about. Then she told me how she had already arranged everything, hoping, nay believing, that I would be as agreeable as she had always found me. At four of the clock we were to rise and dress, and slipping down the turret-stair, let ourselves out by the door already mentioned. Michael was instructed to lead the horses quietly, one by one, outside the gate, so that those in the house should not be roused by the sound of our starting. She had placed a pitcher of milk outside her window on the sill to keep it fresh, and she had carried some bread up from the supper-table, so that in the morning we should not ride out fasting. When all was expounded, she promised to awaken me lest I should lie too late, and bade me go straight to bed, and to sleep soundly.

In the dark chill hour before the dawn, with the stars still shining in the sky, and a cold wind stinging our faces and whipping the black waters of the Frith into foamy crests, I own I did not think so well of the expedition; but Betty possessed what few women have—determination enough to carry a project through in spite of every obstacle, and as I had committed myself to her guidance, I rode on beside her in dogged disregard of discomfort, while Michael, the groom, jogged in the rear.

Just before we came in sight of the town she drew near to me and, speaking in her most persuasive tones, divulged what was really the most important part of her enterprise.

“I have been thinking,” said she, “that were we to draw near the town on horseback, we should attract too much attention. Gentlewomen are not given to riding abroad at this hour; so, Barbara, if you do not mind, we will dismount by yonder dyke, and Michael will hold the horses under cover of it for half-an-hour or so, while we go quickly into the town to see and hear what we can. What say you, my dear?”

Knowing that whatever I said ’twould make little difference, and being too loyal to allow her to go alone, as well as too timorous to stay behind, I murmured my agreement with her plan; and a few minutes later we dismounted, and adjusting our masks, and drawing our plaids about us, head and shoulders, in such a way that it were impossible for anyone to know us for gentle or simple, we advanced quickly towards the opening of the street which was at that moment silent and empty.

As we came near a corner we heard the steps and voices of approaching men, and without a moment’s hesitation we drew into the shadow of a doorway and waited for them to pass. To our dismay, however, they paused close by our hiding-place, and continued their conversation in voices that betrayed to us that they were well-to-do townsfolk.

“Ay!” said one, “’tis a sad mischance for poor Jock Wilson, but I would ha’ thought the loon had as muckle sense as to ken what he was aboot. It looks a’most as if he’d left his ship and a’ it contained, just for anyone that liked to help himsel’.”

“Man!” said the other, “’twas a gran’ venture! To come a’ the way frae Perth in the night, and hae the work done afore folks were oot o’ their beds. He’s a dour man, the Maister o’ Sinclair, but when there’s a thing tae be done, he’s the man for it. But I’m wonderin’, Andrew, hoo the deevil he cam’ tae hear o’ Jock Wilson’s boat. He hasna been at Dysart this week back and mair, and the thing wasna kent afore yestreen.”

“Weel, weel!” said the first, “the Cause has its friends in the Kingdom o’ Fife if anywhere in Scotland, and there’s ways and means o’ getting knowledge. The Government made nae secret of what they were aboot, but they didna reckon on Mistress Wilson’s lyin’-in. That was the cause o’ the mischief, Jamie; a wumman at the bottom o’t, as usual.” And with a laugh at his own jest the speaker moved on up the street, while his companion entered the house exactly opposite to our doorway. Betty drew near me and seized my arm.

“You heard, Barbara,” she whispered; “the thing has succeeded. My brother came from Perth early this morning, and is even now busy at the harbour. Oh, how I wish I could see him, if only to tell him how proud I am of his achievement! Come, child, I must go on! No one will molest us, there will be other women about by this time, and I fancy the town is too excited over what has taken place to have room for notice of us.”

Quickly we stole into the street and hurried on. We met some people and heard snatches of talk, but no one spoke to us, though one or two eyed us curiously. Suddenly, on rounding a corner, we found ourselves in an open space in which were a number of people, all talking excitedly and in loud voices. Involuntarily we stopped, and in turning round to retrace our steps we collided with a young gentleman who was moving in our direction. He was dressed in uniform, and looked as if he had but just staggered out of the adjoining tavern, as indeed he had.

“Beg pardon, my dear,” he said in a thick voice, lurching near us and trying to peer under the folds of our plaids. “Hullo! masks, by Jove! Who’d ha’ thought it at this hour?” and he looked first at Betty and then at me, as if not certain whether to hold us or to let us pass.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Betty, in her haughtiest tone. “Can you direct me to the Master of Sinclair?”

“Sinclair, by gad! Direct you to Sinclair? No, I can’t, and I wouldn’t if I could. Blesh my life, why should I? Sinclair’s done nothing for me; rather keep you to myself, my chuck.”

No words can express the horror that crept over me at this man’s look and tone. I had seen often enough a gentleman in his cups. ’Twas not thought so much of a disgrace as to be a matter of great concern to a woman. But though I instinctively shrank from any man when fuddled and bemused with wine, never in my life had the like condition aroused in me such a sense of loathing. His eyes were heavy, yet insolent; his face was flushed, and his loose lips wore a foolish smile. His words, as they dropped from his slippery tongue, now came in a rush, now halted painfully; and his breath, which was foul with wine, sickened me as he puffed it in my face.

“If you cannot be civil, sir,” cried Betty, enraged, but not the least dismayed, “pray, let us pass.”

“Don’ want to let you pass,” stammered our tormentor. “Too lovely, by half! Come, lift your mask, my dear. Ball’s over, ’s time to sup.” And with that he advanced to seize her; but Betty quickly slipping on one side, the creature lost his balance and fell prone in the mud. In falling, he clutched hold of my plaid, and, dragging it off my head, dislodged my mask, which broke from its fastening and fell at my feet. Not wishing to escape at the expense of leaving my warm covering in the hands of this wretch, and unable to wrench it from his grasp, I stood still and called piteously to Betty, who had sped a little way along the street, believing me close behind her. In terror lest she should get out of sight, and still more lest the man should succeed in rising to his feet, I was standing thus, my heart beating in my throat, my head bare, and tears of fright in my eyes, when another officer stepped out of the tavern-door, and stared in amazement at the figures before him.

Only for a moment did he remain inactive (while I, with a curious throb of relief, realised that a helper was at hand), then, as if reading the whole in my white and horror-stricken face, he strode towards us, and, with a sharp rap of his cane, loosed the hold of those rude hands upon my dress. Standing stiff and tall above his recumbent comrade, he asked in a very stern voice, “What does this mean, Mr. Wallace?”

The other struggled to his feet; but his fall, instead of sobering him, appeared to have left him still more fuddled, and also a little aggressive.

“I say, Tony,” he muttered, “tha’s my prize. Wha’ d’ you want here? No, by Jove, ’s the other one I want—the brown-haired filly, where’s she gone? Asked for the Master of Sinclair, she did. Pretty game, that, for his Mastership to play, making assin—assig—nashus with lovely ladies—six ’clock in the morning—”

“You fool!” broke in Betty’s voice, and I found her at my elbow. “The Master of Sinclair is my brother. Perhaps you, sir, if you are not also drunk at six o’clock in the morning, can direct me to him.”

The officer saluted her with grave respect. “I have had the honour of being presented to you, Mistress Sinclair,” he said, “at the house of the Earl of Wigton. My name is Anthony Fleming, and I am very much at your service.”

Betty gave a gasp of relief.

“I remember you very well, Mr. Fleming,” she said, “now that I have time to look at you, and I am grateful to you for appearing thus opportunely to our help. Can you tell me whether my brother is still in the town? Having heard a rumour of his coming from Perth last night, my friend and I—let me present you to Mistress Barbara Stewart—rode over this morning to have speech with him, and I was asking this gentleman to direct me to him, when he forgot himself.”

Mr. Wallace was now standing somewhat sheepishly with his back against the wall of the house, and Betty glanced at him scornfully and turned away. As for me, I was still trembling, and the tears which I had before restrained kept brimming to my eyes.

“Madam,” said Mr. Fleming, and his eyes sought mine with a kind and pitying glance, “I cannot sufficiently express my regret for the annoyance and trouble you have had, and my brother-officer will, I am sure, think and say the same when he is come to himself. I can only, in his name, humbly beg your pardon. I fear your friend is still suffering. If there is anything I could do—”

“If you will direct us to my brother,” cried Betty, impatiently, “’tis all I ask now.”

“Madam,” said he, “I greatly regret that that is impossible. The Master of Sinclair, after some splendid work, which I should like to tell you of if there were time, quitted the town soon after four o’clock, and, having left Mr. Wallace and myself in command of some troopers he has installed in the Castle, is already well on his way back to Perth.”

Betty’s face fell at this, although his words had pleased her. She was about to reply when a great crowd of turbulent people, sailors and fishermen, accompanied by women of the lowest sort, came reeling down the street with shouts and laughter. Some of the men hustled me rudely aside, whereupon Mr. Fleming sprang to my assistance, and, putting his arm round my shoulders, stood thus to protect me until the crowd had passed.

“Pray, take us out of this, Mr. Fleming,” cried Betty imploringly. “Right sorry am I that I ever brought myself or my companion into such a mess; but I cannot be too thankful that you found us. Come, Barbara, I am ready to go home and confess my sins and eat any amount of humble-pie.”

Mr. Anthony Fleming bent down to look at my face before he freed me from his protecting arm. “Are you able to walk, madam?” he enquired very kindly. “Will you not lean upon my arm?” But so comforting and strength-giving had been his support that I was able to smile back at him and assure him I felt perfectly well. He helped me to adjust my plaid, and upon Betty’s informing him where we should find our horses, in a very few minutes he had us clear of the town, and was walking between us along the open road.

“Tell me now, if you please, sir,” cried Betty, “what my brother has been doing, and what brought him from Perth in such haste?” for, as she told me later, she did not wish it to be known that she had had a hand in the matter.

“You must know, madam,” said our guide, “that yesterday, very early in the morning, the Master of Sinclair was called out to the South Inch to see a certain messenger, who had ridden all night from this place to inform him that there was a ship lying in the Frith containing arms and ammunition from the Castle of Edinburgh which had been shipped at Leith, to be sent north for the use of the Earl of Sutherland. The master of this vessel, he was told, was come ashore to see his family, and did not intend to put to sea for another four-and-twenty hours. Here was a chance, if the right man could be found, to supply ourselves with weapons and bullets, of which we stand greatly in need. Your brother was fired by the notion, and, bidding his friend rest, and return home privately, keeping the matter secret, he went off to the Earl of Mar and acquainted him with the story. I must own that my lord delayed some hours in issuing the order, and I, meeting the Master of Sinclair at one Hardy’s, a vintner in Perth, he told me what was toward, and said that if he got the Command he hoped that I would ride with him. Finally, the order being given in writing at last, we left the town by five o’clock, a company of fourscore horse. We came by cross-roads and by-paths, avoiding towns and villages, and got here a little after midnight. The Master posted sentries about the town to avoid surprises, and himself went to the harbour and very easily seized some of the boats there. In these we rowed out to the ship and, though the wind and tide were against us, succeeded in bringing her in. Your brother, madam, stood in the water up to the middle of the leg and received the arms into his own hands. Of these there were but three hundred—”

“Three hundred!” cried Betty, so sharply that I feared she would betray herself.

“Three hundred wanting one,” continued Mr. Fleming, “and we had expected two or three thousand. ’Twas a great disappointment I must own; but later we seized the arms of another big ship in the harbour, and took also those of the Town-guard, and as they are now lodged, with the ammunition we got, in the Castle which we are left to guard, I think you may be satisfied with your brother’s work, madam.”

“I wish there had been more,” she murmured discontentedly.

“Why, madam, so do we; but ’tis better than nothing, and when the news of the Master’s exploit is brought to the King, I’ll wager his Majesty will be prodigiously pleased.”

By this we had reached the rough dyke behind which our steeds were ambushed, and were preparing to mount. Betty, who had listened to Mr. Fleming’s words with a smile of approval, gave him her hand with a grateful look.

“His Majesty knows how to appreciate all his faithful subjects,” she said softly, “and among them I am glad to count Mr. Anthony Fleming.”

He bowed over her hand before raising it to his lips. Betty was looking her brightest, I noticed, in spite of the cold, the agitation, the fatigue, while Barbara, I felt sure, was at her worst; and I remember regretting to have been seen at a disadvantage by this particular gentleman, who, although he had been unknown to me half-an-hour before, seemed more of a friend than many with whom I was well acquainted.

“I count it a special mercy,” said Betty, as we rode away, “that we fell in with that young man. Do you not think there is something very attractive in his face?”

“Why, yes,” cried Barbara, quickly. “I am sure it is the kindest face in the world.”

And from that day to this she has seen no reason to alter her opinion.

CHAPTER XVI

I have often thought that our mad escapade would not have been passed over so lightly had the news we brought been less satisfactory. My lord was never, I believe, made aware of the depths of our folly, and only to my dear lady did I dare to relate our morning’s adventures, and from her received the chiding I so richly deserved. To one other was the affair confided by Betty, namely, to David Pitcairn. She told him in my presence the same afternoon, and greatly was I astonished to see him so much roused. For a moment or two he could scarcely speak, and it was some time before we were able to understand the reason of his displeasure. When at last ’twas explained, I felt that he had reason on his side, and even Betty appeared struck by his words.

He had accomplished his task on the Saturday night without hindrance, arriving in Perth early on Sunday morning, and arranging, as we knew, an interview with the Master. He now told us that, after the latter had acquainted the Earl of Mar with the good tidings, my lord expressed a desire to see for himself the bearer of them, and the Master of Sinclair had followed Mr. Pitcairn about the town until he could set his lordship’s wishes before him. At first our friend David demurred, saying he could tell my lord no more than he had already divulged, but finally he consented, and was borne to the Earl’s presence; but beyond the fact that my lord had received him graciously, and asked him a number of questions as to the size of the ship and the quantity of arms on board, we got little out of him on that point.

“He asked me,” said David, “if it were possible to ride from Perth to Burntisland avoiding towns and villages, and when I told him yes, ‘Then,’ said he, ‘will you act as guide to the convoy?’ But upon my informing him that the Master of Sinclair and Mr. Malcome knew the country every whit as well as I, he said, ‘Very well, perhaps there was no need of a guide.’”

David left Perth at ten o’clock, and having rested for some hours at the house of a friend about half-way home, was able to join the expedition when it was within three miles of its goal. He was full of praise for the Master and for one or two of the gentlemen who accompanied him, among whom it pleased me to hear him mention Mr. Fleming, but the rabble they commanded were, he said, some of the worst that could be imagined. Sentries were placed about the town, but no sooner were the officer’s backs turned, than these undisciplined Highlanders left their posts and scampered off to the taverns and wine-shops, and there had ensued such rioting and confusion as had made of the town a perfect pandemonium. How we had escaped much worse injury and insult than we suffered he could not imagine, “except,” as he said, with a look at Betty both angry and tender, “it was true that a special Providence guarded daft folk and bairns.”

Indeed I shuddered at some of the things he told us, among them the fact that the drunken men, upon being called to order by their officers, the latter narrowly escaped being shot by these wretches, many of whom could not understand a word of any language but the Gaelic.

“I thank my stars,” said David, “that I have nothing to do with such a crew, and since they left the town in the morning we have heard sad tales of their raiding the country-side, and plundering the poor folk on their way back to Perth.”

I cannot but say that our spirits were much dashed by this intelligence, and our triumph did not seem quite so brilliant as it had appeared that morning. For some hours after it left me sad, and Betty very thoughtful.

But events were hurrying forward, and in the next few days much was accomplished for the Cause. We heard with delight that the Master of Sinclair had been sent into Fife with a body of horse, both to seize any arms that could be found, and also to set up the King’s Standard in the small towns round the coast. This he accomplished with ease, beginning at Cupar, and going from St. Andrews to Kirkcaldy, he took possession of each town in the name of the King, thus making our party masters of the whole of the north coast of the Firth of Forth. To the grief and chagrin of Betty, her brother did not present himself at home for more than a passing call of a few minutes, so that she was not able to hear nor to give any news. But to our great joy, Sir John, who was riding in the Master’s Command, decided to return to Dysart instead of proceeding at once to Perth, and surprised us by appearing one evening about supper-time, well and hearty and with news to tell.

It was from him that we learned of the designed project of sending a large body of men across the Frith to the Lothians, so that they might march south, and eventually join the rising in Northumberland.

’Twould take too long were I to tell you of the exciting days that followed, while boats were chartered in all the small fishing villages, and secretly brought to Crail from whence the crossing was to start. Mr. Harry Crawford it was that had the bringing of the boats together, and as there were upwards of two thousand men to be conveyed, you can imagine that the task was no light one. Now as there were several ships of war lying at Leith, and the custom-house smacks were constantly moving about in the Frith, my Lord of Mar ordered that a small number of men should march to Burntisland and make a feint of embarking there, to attract the attention of the Government boats. Meanwhile, protected by a screen of Cavalry under the command of Sir John Erskine and Sir James Sharp, the main body got off under cover of night, from Crail and Elie and Pittenweem. As a certain number were obliged to wait till the next night, however, the design was made known by spies to the Government ships, which immediately set sail to intercept them. Fortunately a contrary wind detained them, so that only one of our boats was taken, but several were forced to return to the coast of Fife. One company of three hundred men under command of my Lord Strathmore, with the Laird of Barafield as his Lieutenant, was obliged to land on the Isle of May, where they were detained for several days. When threatened by the ships of war, they made a most determined stand, and the young earl, himself scarce more than a schoolboy, behaved in a heroic manner. Not only did he hold his men in check when some of them were for surrendering, but he exhibited the greatest courage and self-denial during their detention; and when the opportunity came at length of getting off in boats to return to Crail, he was the last to leave the island. How our hearts kindled when we heard of his brave conduct from the Master, who had for this young nobleman an unbounded admiration.

The success of this project, and the landing of our men on the coast of Haddington, threw the good people of Edinburgh into such a state of panic that the Lord Provost at once ordered out the City Guards, the Trained Bands, and the new Levies of Volunteers for the defence of the city and the prevention of any disturbance therein. He also took the precaution to send an express to the Duke of Argyle at Stirling, who without delay marched post-haste to the Capital accompanied by three hundred chosen dragoons. As the Highlanders, under the brave Brigadier Mackintosh, had marched to Leith and entrenched themselves in the old citadel there, his Grace, who had left his cannons, gunners, mortars and bombardiers all behind at Stirling, could do little to dislodge them, save calling upon them as rebels to lay down their arms and surrender, upon pain of High Treason. This they very resolutely refused to do, and the Duke not being able to make a better of it, retired to Edinburgh to begin preparations.

Mackintosh, however, having managed to send off two letters to my Lord Mar, by the cunning expedient of pretending to fire upon the boats that bore them, as though he mistook them for the enemy, that nobleman ordered a body of horse under command of my Lord of Drummond to march from Perth upon Stirling, so as to draw, if possible, the Duke of Argyle from pursuit of the Highlanders in the Lothians. As the Master of Sinclair was one of that party, we heard later of how the matter was carried out, how they rode in heavy rain and bitter cold to Dunblane, did nothing there, and marched back to Perth on hearing of the arrival of Argyle at Stirling. I have no doubt, knowing my lady’s brother so well, that he did his best to set them right in no very agreeable way; howbeit I have heard since then some trenchant remarks on the supine behaviour of the Earl of Mar on this occasion, so I am aware that the Master was not angry altogether without cause. A General with more self-confidence, it was said, would have occupied Stirling ere the Duke had time to reach it. As for Mackintosh of Borlum, he entrenched himself first at Seton House, where he remained some days; but shortly afterwards, having received answers to his letters from my Lord Mar, he pushed on towards Kelso, and later as you know, crossed over into England. An incident took place on his march south which, coming to the ears of my Lady Erskine, greatly grieved her. This was the plundering of Hermiston House, the seat of her uncle, Dr. Sinclair, who had incurred the resentment of the Jacobite party very early in the rising. The fierce old Brigadier would even have set fire to the place, but being dissuaded from this extreme measure by some of the gentler spirits, he gave permission to the Highlanders to sack the house, who readily plundered it of every valuable thing that could be carried away. Such strange and vexatious doings take place in a country when it is divided against itself.

The events which I have mentioned took place rapidly one after another, but did not in any way affect our lives at Dysart, save that from early morn till late night we existed in a turmoil of excitement, never knowing what should transpire, and expecting all manner of wonderful things to happen, from the arrival at our door of King James himself, to the willing abdication of King George in London.

One morning, however, a despatch was brought to my lady, which proved to be from Sir John in Perth, in which he recommended her to leave her father’s house and return to Alva, where, he said, were many things requiring her care. This my lady, at all times ready to obey her lord, was very willing to do, and although it grieved us all to leave our kind friends at Dysart, we knew that our visit, already lengthy, could not last for ever. By order of the Earl of Mar, as Sir John writ in his letter, an officer from the garrison at Burntisland Castle, with a small company, was to escort my lady’s carriage all the way to Alva, in order to prevent, as he said, any surprise or discourtesy from the Dragoons of Argyle who constantly patrolled the roads; and although the precaution turned out to be wholly unnecessary, my lady was flattered by the attention, and pleased at the kindness of the thought.

The officer told off for this honorary duty was, to my great relief, our friend, Mr. Anthony Fleming.

“What should I have felt,” I murmured to Betty, on his arrival at the door of the Hermitage, “had it been Mr. Wallace?”

“Less confidence in the security of your journey than you do now, I suppose,” was her shrewd reply. “But I am grieved that our good friend should be soaked to the skin, while the other is warm and dry in barracks.”

The season had indeed set in very wet, and our chief difficulty in returning to Alva lay in the badness of the roads which made our progress extremely slow. The rain poured down without ceasing, and several times our heavy coach stuck fast in the clogging mud; and our escort, instead of keeping the enemy at bay with swords and pistols, were obliged to dismount, and by dint of their united strength extricate us from the ruts. At such times we inside the coach could hear Mr. Fleming’s firm, pleasant voice as he directed and encouraged his men, and once he rode up to the carriage window to apologise to my lady for the delay.

This civility struck her as so unnecessary that she laughed very heartily as she replied, “Nay, my dear Mr. Fleming, I feel rather that it is my place to apologise to you for obliging you to employ your soldiers in so trivial a manner. Confess that you would rather they should encounter half a hundred dragoons, and rout them at the point of the sword!”

“Oh, madam,” he answered, with his kind eyes smiling at us both, “a soldier learns very early in his career to call nothing in the way of duty trivial. The rain is unavoidable, the roads are bad; let us trust the weather is too inclement to allow of Argyle’s scouts delaying us any further.”

“That,” said my lady, as he turned away, “is a young man who will go far, if God spares his life through these turmoils. My lord speaks well of him, my dear husband regards him with affection, and even my brother, the Master, has nothing spiteful to say of him.”

How my heart warmed at his praise perhaps it would be foolish to mention, for, as you will see, the young gentleman was at this time scarce even to be called an acquaintance. But ’tis true that some are our friends from the first look and word, and no thought but of kindness and sympathy ever enters our minds concerning them. Because of his timely help to me that morning in Burntisland, I looked upon Mr. Fleming with a peculiar feeling of respect and gratitude, with which was mingled an almost unconscious trust in his goodness and truth. That our instincts in these matters occasionally mislead us, many poor women have had bitter proof, but to you who know what my life has been, I do not require to say that in Barbara’s case no such mistake was made.

“Mr. Fleming,” said I, “is kinsman to the Earl of Wigton, is he not, madam?”

“Ay,” she answered, “he is, and but for an untoward accident would one day be in the Earl’s place.”

“Indeed, madam,” cried I, more for the pleasure of hearing my friend spoke of, than from any great curiosity about his family. “What accident was that, pray?”

“’Tis a romantic tale,” said my lady, “and sorrowful too, as romance is apt to be, but I will tell it you to beguile the tedium of this weary road, seeing we cannot fall asleep like Phemie and my little sons.” And she eyed the sleeping children fondly.

“You must know,” she went on, “that the present Earl’s grandfather had seven sons, of whom five died unmarried. William, the fifth son, succeeded his eldest brother John, whose only child was a daughter, Lady Jean, married to Lord Panmure. But the fourth brother, Tom, who died nearly fifty years ago, left a son who is the father of our friend here, Mr. Anthony. This Thomas, I have heard my lord say, was one of those pleasing but irresponsible persons who are said to be no one’s enemy but their own. He was handsome, gay, and clever, but selfish, thoughtless, and wanting in ballast. It seems he made the acquaintance of a young lady, the daughter of a respectable merchant in London, and either by false representations, or specious promises, induced her to run away with him, intending, as he solemnly averred afterwards, to make her his lawful wife at his earliest convenience. He left her after a few months in a small village in Hampshire, while he returned to London, and entered again into all his social pleasures; but letters passed constantly between them, and the forsaken girl seems to have believed thoroughly in his integrity, for she made no complaint to her family, being satisfied to trust and be patient. At last, however, she knew it would be fatal to delay further, and for the sake of her unborn child she wrote to her lover a passionate appeal desiring him to return at once and right her in the eyes of the world. There must have been something in this letter that touched the heart of Thomas Fleming, for directly upon receipt of it, he set off post-haste for Hampshire. But alas! within twenty miles of London his chaise was overturned, and he himself so badly injured that he was unable to pursue his journey. Being carried into a friendly house upon the road, he learned from the surgeon that he had not many hours to live. His grief and sorrow were great, not so much, as he said, for his own sake, though life was sweet to him, as for the sake of the woman who had trusted him, and the child that he would never see. Whatever there was of good and noble in the poor man, came out in these last hours of his life. He implored those round him to send swift messengers first to his brother William, who fortunately at that time was living in London, and also to the father of the poor girl he had wronged. They obeyed the summons without delay, and were lucky enough to reach the house in time to hear his full confession, and to promise their help and protection to her who was in the sight of Heaven his wife. The poor father who was bowed down with grief ever since the loss of his daughter, was so touched with the genuine remorse and repentance of the dying man that he accorded him his forgiveness in a very Christian spirit, which allowed the other at least to die in peace.”

“And what of the poor lady?” I asked, much moved by this tale of love and wrong. “Did she also forgive the wretch?”

“Alas! my dear, she loved him,” said my lady.

“But one is almost thankful to know that she did not live long to suffer the consequences of his perfidy. The shock of his death was too much for her, and three days after the birth of her little son she passed quietly away. She had the comfort, however, of knowing that her child was safe in the care of his grandfather and uncle. The old Earl also, who was still alive, acknowledged the boy, and sanctioned his bearing the name, though to be sure the bar sinister prevents him ever inheriting the title. He carries on the business of his maternal grandfather in London, and is now a man of wealth and standing. He married the only daughter of a Suffolk baronet—a beauty and a fortune—and Anthony Fleming is their son.”

The close of this interesting tale brought us to Tillicoultry, the little village nearest to Alva on the eastern side, and soon afterwards we found ourselves at home.

We were received at the door by Mr. Peck, John Harley and Mr. Rose, all very glad and thankful to see my lady returned, for many untoward events were happening, and they had been sore perplexed how to conduct themselves in her absence. The country-side was in a sad state it seemed, for the Government soldiers made free with the property of the inhabitants, no matter on which side their sympathies might be. Mr. Rose had already lost some considerable quantity of fodder, as well as numerous hens and ducks; also sheep and cattle not being safe in the fields, he had been obliged to drive them all within the enclosures near the house, and had men set to guard them night and day.

“And indeed, my lady,” said Mr. Peck, “the enemy are so cautious and their plans so well-laid that the whole neighbourhood can do little against them, for they place their sentries so skilfully that not once have they been discovered nor surprised in their depredations.”

This was not a cheerful aspect of things to be presented to us on our return home, and no doubt my lady’s heart sank as she realized what was before her. It was not however her way to sit down and bemoan her troubles, and she busied herself in giving orders for the comfort of our rain-drenched escort, who were to rest for some hours at Alva before taking the road back to Burntisland. Indeed, as the rain had somewhat abated and it promised to be a clear moonlight night, Mr. Fleming remarked that, with her ladyship’s permission, the later they were of starting the better. With this my lady agreed, and on her telling the young gentleman that she would be glad of his company at supper, we dispersed to our various occupations and duties.

A little before the time for that meal, having arranged the things in my chamber, and assisted Phemie in getting the children’s affairs in order, I came downstairs and entered the dining-hall, expecting to find my lady already there. The table was set, but the room was lit only by the flames from the coal-fire, which threw long shadows across the wall and ceiling. On entering the room I thought it had been empty, but as I turned to leave it, a tall form rose from the seat at the corner of the hearth, and Mr. Fleming’s voice spoke my name. I came forward again slowly.

“Will you not give me the pleasure of your company, Mistress Barbara,” he said, “for the few minutes before supper. Although this is the third time we have met, I do not think you have ever done me the honour to address me.”

“Then, indeed, sir,” said I, forgetting my shyness, “you may well wonder at my manners. But it has been my great desire ever since our first troubled meeting, to offer you my heartfelt thanks for your kind assistance that morning.”

He stood looking down at me very kindly, and yet his face bore an expression which I did not understand.

“Were it not that it gave me the pleasure of an introduction to you, madam,” he said, “I could heartily wish that you had never needed it.”

“Truly,” said I, “’twas not a pleasant experience, but I must own I brought it upon myself. ’Twas a madcap adventure at best, and since we have known more fully the risks we ran, both Mistress Betty and I have had the grace to be ashamed of our temerity.”

“Indeed, the risks were much greater than you thought,” he answered gravely. “I can only be thankful that I arrived upon the scene when I did.”

“I had never in my life been really frightened before,” said I, “but when I felt that man’s hot breath on my cheek as he fell, clutching my plaid with his hands, I thought I should have died of terror.”

“Faugh!” exclaimed Mr. Fleming, “I cannot bear to think of it!”

“And when I lifted my eyes and saw you,” I continued, but steps now sounded without, and a servant entered the room, bearing candles which he placed upon the board. I moved a little further from the fireplace, but Mr. Fleming made a step forward and stopped me.

“Yes,” he said eagerly, “when you saw me—what then?”

“I knew I need fear no longer,” said I simply.

He took my hand and kissed it gravely.

“That, madam, is a speech that any man may be proud to hear from a woman. I thank you, and I shall never forget it.”

Among those bidden to supper by my lady on this first night came Mr. James Hamilton, and as at this moment he entered the room his eyes lighted immediately on me, and he came smiling up to greet me.

“Welcome back to Alva, Mistress Barbara Stewart!” he cried, bowing before me. “The winter is approaching, ’tis true, but you bring the light and warmth of summer in your train.”

Now a few months back this fulsome speech would doubtless have pleased me well, and set me trying to answer the gentleman in the same vein, but to-night it seemed mere empty compliment—too blatant to be in good taste—and it vexed me that Mr. Fleming, who was standing near, should hear it. I tried to answer coldly, but Mr. Hamilton was at once too good-humoured and too conceited to believe himself snubbed; he therefore took my scorn for coquetry, and redoubled his attentions. Mr. Fleming, after waiting for some minutes, as if wishing to continue our conversation, evidently considered himself dismissed and strolled off to the other side of the room. As he was placed on my lady’s right hand at supper, and I sat at the other end of the table, I had no further opportunity of speaking to him, and was obliged to conceal my chagrin as best I might. Mr. Hamilton plied me with friendly questions, to which I made random answers, and before the end of the meal I fell so silent that my lady, believing me worn out, withdrew as soon as possible, taking me with her from the room. In the hall outside she kissed me kindly and bade me go at once to bed.

Half-an-hour later, while I still lingered over my disrobing, I heard below the sounds of our escort departing. Softly I opened my casement, and having extinguished the taper, I leaned out. The moon was hidden and I could see but little. I heard the trampling of the horses, the gruff tones of the men, the jingling of the bridles, and an occasional laugh. Next came the voice of Mr. Fleming bidding my lady adieu, and his quick spurs ringing on the stones of the court-yard. Then I heard the order to mount, the heavy swing of the men into their saddles, the horses’ hoofs striking the stones as the troop moved off into the night. The moon sailed out from behind the clouds, and just then their Captain turned and looked back at the house. In an agony of startled modesty I shrank away from the window, and crouched upon the floor until the sound of their going had died away. As I knelt to say my prayers, I remember wondering if I should ever see Mr. Anthony Fleming again—I believe I prayed that God would bless him whether I did or no.

CHAPTER XVII

We had scarce been at home a day, when we seemed to be drawn into the current that was setting towards active warfare, whether we would or no.

Not content with doing her best to guard her own property, my Lady Erskine was diligent to lend what help she could to our party in various ways. Having heard from her brother at Perth of an expedition being sent, under Major Graham, to levy a cess, as it was called, in Dunfermline, which, being a Whiggish town, was not too ready to pay taxes to King James, she sent out scouts from among her trusted servants, who were to pick up information in a private way, and had orders from her to act according to what they heard. My Lady Alva being much beloved by the country-folk, and on good terms with all her neighbours, her people had little difficulty in learning the doings of both parties, and acted with no little discretion in several emergencies. On this occasion the force from Perth made the mistake of taking their way among the hills so as to avoid the direct road, and in so doing passed “under the nose,” as the Master put it, of the small garrison placed by the Duke of Argyle in Castle Campbell above the little village of Dollar. The reason of this detour we were never able to understand, for, as a natural consequence, news of the expedition was immediately sent to the Duke at Stirling, who ordered Colonel Cathcart with a party of dragoons to start at once for the threatened town. This coming to my lady’s ears, she despatched a trusty servant on a fleet horse to warn Major Graham of the movements of the enemy; and we all awaited his return with some anxiety, which greatly increased when three days had passed and the worthy man had not returned home. My lady was making up her mind to send a second messenger after the first, when early in the morning of the fourth day, poor Andrew arrived at the house, hungry and cold and much crest-fallen. Upon my lady bidding him into her presence, and asking the reason of his tardy return, he told a tale which caused his mistress much chagrin, and covered the narrator himself with confusion.

Colonel Cathcart, it seems, had reached the town before him, but not caring to enter it until the middle of the night, he with his dragoons lay without the walls in the dark, sending spies hither and thither to bring him word as to how things were within. Into this watchful company poor Andrew, all unwittingly, fell; and while they did not ill-treat him they took from him his horse, and by dint of threats compelled him to act as guide to those who would enter the town. This they did about two o’clock in the morning, and as it seems the gentlemen were all abed, and the watch very carelessly kept, the enemy were among them before they were aware. Some few were killed, and Colonel Cathcart took eighteen gentlemen prisoners. He did not wait to follow up his success, but the result was the same as if he had done so, for the startled invaders waited not to reason or to fight, but fled from the place on horse or on foot until all were escaped in various directions. Our poor Andrew was carried back to Stirling by the dragoons, kept in durance for two nights and a day, and on disclosing his name and occupation was liberated early on the second morning and bidden to make his way home.

I think I have never seen my lady so angry as she became upon the recital of this shameful tale. The carelessness and indifference of the King’s officers, sent upon so important a mission, appeared to her criminal in a high degree. Such waste of life and loss of property, where a little foresight and military precision would have saved all, rankled in her mind and set her brain and heart on fire. But angry as she was, it did not prevent her making the attempt to save another party sent on a like errand, under Lord George Murray, a week or two later, and this time her interference was crowned with success. Our good Andrew was again her emissary; and he not only succeeded in reaching the town in time to warn Lord George of the approach of the dragoons, but made the attempt by his own observation to further benefit our party a little. He returned to Alva without delay, and in high disgust informed his mistress that his entry into Dunfermline had been all too easy, for not a single sentry was set, and no opposition was made, nor question put to the visitor. My lady shared the good man’s righteous indignation.

“Are they all fools in my Lord Mar’s army?” she exclaimed in great vexation. “Sure, never was so much negligence shown, or such ignorance allowed to flourish. I heartily wish we might take an example by the enemy, who, as you know, place sentries in all the passages of the hills within two miles of this house, when taking away my corn and straw. This news of their carelessness shall reach the Earl’s ears before many hours are over, for I shall write a letter to my brother this very day, with the request to have it shown at headquarters.”

Which she accordingly did, and sent it to the Master by a sure hand; but whether it produced the effect she desired, we had no opportunity of judging.

One afternoon in the beginning of November, having returned from walking abroad with Phemie and the little boys who were anxious to visit their favourite haunts before the winter set in, I found my dear Lady Erskine seated in her own room with a letter in her lap and the traces of tears upon her face. I ran to her, eager to know the reason of her grief, but she would not suffer me to condole with her.

“Indeed, I am but a foolish woman, my dear,” she said with a smile, though her voice quivered, “and not fit to be the wife of an officer immersed in affairs. Here is Sir John sent off to France at very short notice, and Heaven knows when we shall see him again! I ought to feel glad and proud that he is trusted with business of so great moment; but I must own the thought of being without him for so many weeks is very bitter to me.”

“Oh, and to me too, madam!” I cried foolishly. “The house is not the same without him. Pray, cousin, is this important business a secret, or may I know what it is?”

“’Tis not to be talked of to all and sundry,” my lady replied, “but you may see here what he says for your own satisfaction,” and she gave me the letter, pointing to these words which Sir John had written. “Having orders from Mar to presse the King’s coming, and the sending over officers, arms and ammunition, and in particular to inform Earl Bolingbroke how much all these are wanted.”

“An onerous task truly,” sighed my lady, “and I pray God he may succeed; and above all that he may be kept from harm, and brought safe back to us who love him.”

“Amen!” cried I fervently, greatly impressed by the importance of Sir John’s mission, and realising full well my lady’s sorrow at being thus parted from her husband.

“I think the heaviest end of my burden,” said she, “lies in the fact that under the circumstances his letters to me may be long delayed, and mine may never reach him. You see here he was despatched upon the 28th October, and ’tis now the 6th day of November, yet this letter has never left Britain. Situated as we are, Sir John being an agent in the Jacobite interests, he cannot trust his papers and despatches to the common post nor, can I address letters openly to him, who has reason for keeping his movements private. This, Barbara, I foresee, will constitute one of my worst troubles in the coming time. It is no little relief for one so indeterminate as myself to be able to pour out my difficulties on paper to him who is my best friend, and to be certain of receiving sympathy and counsel and safe advice in return.”

“Sir John does not say when he will return, madam?” I asked.

“Alas! child, he probably knows as little about that as we do. My only comfort is, that for the moment he is out of danger, should the Earl of Mar decide to give battle as my brother in his last epistle gives a hint of.”

“He talked of the Earl coming south did he not?”

“Ay, he intends to cross over the Forth above Stirling into the Lowlands, and so march into England to join the friends there. My brother, to be sure, sees a hundred difficulties and dangers, the chief being the impossibility of making use of the fords in face of the enemy, for the Duke of Argyle has them very well guarded, and as we heard yesterday has cut the bridge of Doune which is the only way to reach them; how it will end, I know not. The country is already bare and destitute, and the poor folk reduced almost to beggary. They tremble at the rumours of a horde of wild Highlandmen being let loose upon them, for brave and loyal as the clansmen are, Barbara, they are a rough and undisciplined set, and were it for nothing else but to satisfy their hunger they must needs make raids upon many of the peaceful farms and cottages.”

“Truly,” said I soberly, “civil war is a grievous thing, and the working out of King James’s Restoration is not quite the exciting romance I foolishly pictured it.”

“They are to march from Perth by Dunning, Auchterarder and Dunblane,” said my lady, “so that we are luckily not in the direct route. But with several thousand horse and foot sweeping along in one direction, many will spread out over the hills and may even be diverted into this road to reach the south, should their passage of the Fords of Forth prove impossible. We can but take all precautions for the safety of the stockin’, and be you very careful, child, to keep close to the house these days lest any harm befall you.”

Not the least of the troubles for the country folk at this time was the wintry weather which now began, for a frost so severe and so continuous set in, that their privations were greatly increased. On the night of the tenth there was a slight sprinkling of snow, which was only the forerunner of the heavy storms that all that winter continued to fall. Aunt Betty Erskine, who was with us, suffered much from the cold, which with the sad state of matters in the country afforded her ample grounds for grumbling and discontent; but my lady bore it all with exemplary patience, her mind in truth being fully occupied with other matters.

We were living in a state of expectation, not unmixed with dread, for no one knew what might take place next.

My Lord Mar and his army could not, we judged, remain much longer inactive at Perth. Indeed there were already impatient voices heard condemning him for the lack of energy, or the excess of caution, which kept him from coming to issues with the Duke of Argyle. The latter nobleman was lodged in his own house at Stirling (the Earl of Stirling’s mansion, as it was still called, tho’ it had now belonged to the Argyle family for about fifty years) at the head of the Castle Wynd, and his forces lay in the King’s Park. His design was to prevent the Insurgents getting besouth Forth, and being a good General he kept himself well informed by his spies and scouts of all the movements going on at Perth.

I need not tell you now, who are by no means ignorant of the history of your country, that the remembrance of those November days and all that occurred in them is fraught with humiliation to me. The Battle of Sheriffmuir has long ago become a word of scorn in the ears of Whig and Jacobite alike. The tears caused by its tragedy (for no battle is wanting in that element) were scarcely dried, ere the humour of it struck the common people, who, whatever our English friends may say (and I have often heard the Scots accused of melancholy and gloom) are not slow to perceive the comic side of a thing. It became the subject of much ribald rhyme, and the great men engaged on either side were not spared by the rhymsters. But without stopping to give you my comments on this unlucky affair, I will try to tell you what happened in our own small sphere, in which I well remember we experienced as much excitement, terror, anxiety and amazement, as if we had been witnesses of the entire drama.

On Saturday afternoon, the 12th day of November, one of my lady’s messengers, who were posted secretly among the hills and on the roads, came in hot haste to say that a mighty host, horse and foot, was on the road between Auchterarder and Dunblane. Scarcely had we realised the significance of these tidings, when another arrived with the news that the Duke of Argyle had marched out from Stirling about noon, and was also approaching Dunblane from the other side. What consternation ensued among us! Were they each aware, we wondered, of the other’s proximity, or would they fall upon each other without warning? My lady, whose faith in my Lord Mar’s skill as a General was not so great as she could have wished, felt tolerably certain that the meeting, if it occurred, would come as a surprise to their side at least. She therefore sent off a trusty man, a shepherd, swift of foot and well acquainted with the hills, to find her brother who was with the Earl, and deliver him a letter in which she gave him as much information as possible of Argyle’s movements. This the shepherd, Allan Maclean, had orders to deliver to the Master of Sinclair only if he found the army dangerously near Dunblane and all unwarned. The messenger despatched, my lady set us all to work, preparing food, baking bread, brewing cordials, looking out old garments, and in every way she could think of making ready for emergencies should a battle be fought in our neighbourhood.

It was quite dark and about nine of the clock when Allan returned, not having reached Lord Mar’s army. He had been told by several of the country folk upon the roads that my Lady Kippendavie had already sent to warn them early in the afternoon, and the leaders had decided to bivouack for the night in a hollow place near the little village of Kinbuck. Here, as we were told afterwards by the Master, eight thousand men were packed into so small a space, that “it could not,” he wrote, “be properly said they had a front or a rear, more than it can be said of a barrel of herrings.” By the kindness of Providence it did not occur to my Lord of Argyle to plan an attack that night, otherwise, as our informant told us, the entire force might have been slaughtered almost before they could defend themselves. The horses were picketted in the small kailyards of two farm-houses, while the officers found quarters where they could in house or barn. It was a bitter cold night, the frost being very hard, and many a time I waked to think of the poor men of both armies shivering under the stars. But such privations were common, I knew, in time of war, and worse would surely follow.

The next day being Sunday, we rose with mingled feelings, not knowing what the day might bring forth. Very early came a lad with a message for my lady from the minister, to say that, “There wad be nae Sabbath the day.” This meant, as you know, that the church was not open, and that no services were held either at Alva or in any of the neighbouring parishes, the people all being gone out to see the battle. To my lady, ever of a serious and pious nature, this proceeding did not commend itself.

“For where,” she asked, “was it more fitting we should spend our time, or carry our burdens on such a day, than into the House of God?”

But as the ministers were gone after their flocks, no bells were rung and the church doors remained closed.

As the hours wore on, we heard from time to time items of news which gave us some idea of the proceedings taking place within a few miles of the house. A spur of the Ochils, as you will remember, lies between Alva and Dunblane, but by climbing the hills a good view could be had of all the country round. On a clear winter day, such as this was, one could see for many miles, and it was plain to our watchers that about noon the two armies had met on the rising ground of Sheriffmuir and that the fighting had begun. The noise of the cannon and fusils was plain to be heard in the frosty air, and sent panic into our hearts, for we were new to the idea of war; and now that the worst had come, I, for one, was no more anxious for the destruction of the Government troops than of those on our own side. Oh, indeed I fear that little of the world’s fighting would have been done had it been left to the women to decide, and yet I know not in truth if they could have devised any better method for settling many difficulties.

With my lady’s leave, I climbed the hill in company with Mr. Rose, the grieve, and sat there during the short afternoon, my eyes fixed upon the distant scene in a strange turmoil of hope and fear. Little could I see save the smoke of the guns, and masses of men moving or running among the undulating hills, in what seemed a very aimless way. But the noise of the firing, the clash of steel, the wild hoarse cries of the Highlanders as they rushed on their foes, made strange clamour in the peaceful upper air of that un-Sabbathlike Sunday afternoon. It would require the pen of a person skilled in warfare to explain the movements of both armies from so great a distance, for to me it was mostly confusion, and I scarce knew what I expected to see when I begged to be allowed to climb the hill. Perhaps I imagined a mighty host from the north rushing furiously upon the Government troops, so that in the course of an hour or so they should be completely annihilated, or only a remnant left to cry quarter, as the Earl of Mar pushed triumphant on to Stirling Castle. If so, I was mightily disappointed, for as dusk fell it seemed that the fighting ceased; both parties appeared to stand at gaze, motionless themselves, but watching for the movements of the other. Then Argyle’s men were seen to draw off along the road to Dunblane, and the Earl of Mar’s army marched slowly away northwards towards Ardoch.

“Is it finished?” I cried to Mr. Rose, rising to my feet. “Is this all? Which side has won? Will they fight again to-morrow?”

For so quickly had the end come, that I was plunged in amazement and perplexity, and could scarce realise that I had been witness of a genuine battle.

The grieve shook his head doubtfully.

“Deed, missy, I couldna say,” he answered. “But it’s time ye were back in the hoose wi’ my lady, I’m thinkin’.”

And stiff with the cold, and burdened with a dull weight of apprehension which I did not understand, I made my way down the hill which was now shrouded in darkness.

I found the house in the deepest gloom, for to my surprise not a lantern or taper had been lit, and as I mounted the stairs I heard the sound of loud weeping coming from one of the rooms of which the door was open. I entered quickly and a curious scene met my eyes. My lady was seated upon a couch, little Hal whimpering on her knees, while Charles leant against her side and gazed fearfully up in her face. Phemie stood silent and grim beside her, while all the other women of the house, some in attitudes of despair upon the floor, some supporting each other in their arms, were sobbing and wailing as if the last day had come. My lady’s face was a study, so white, so set, so stern, and with eyes fixed in a stare so fateful, that for a moment my heart was in my mouth, as the saying is, and I imagined nothing less than that the awful tidings of the death of Sir John had reached her. At the thought I rushed into the room, crying out,

“For Heaven’s sake, madam, what is amiss? Pray, Phemie, bid those women hold their peace, and tell me what has happened. Is it Sir John? Why looks my lady so?”

While Phemie tried to quiet the maids, my lady turned to answer me, and the effort seemed to break the frozen spell that held her, for the tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her face.

“Oh, Barbara, did you not see—have you not heard? The battle is over and Argyle hath vanquished Mar, whose army is broken and fleeing to the hills. The Cause is lost, my girl, and we are undone. The kindest thing to do now is to stop the King from coming over, and did I but know where to address Sir John, I would send a despatch to France this very night.”

Utterly bewildered I tried to put into sane words what I had just witnessed from the hill, but as I spoke I felt that I was not convincing my audience.

“A battle there was surely, madam,” I said, “but indeed there was no rout of my Lord Mar’s army. It drew off when the dusk fell as orderly as the other, and if I am not mistaken they have but retired for the night to fight again to-morrow.”

Even while they looked at me, trying to take in my words of hope, a clamour arose in the courtyard, and a great voice shouted, “Hurrah!” I flew to the window, and opening it wide, leaned out. A group of men holding torches were round the door, and among them I could see the shepherd, Allan Maclean, who appeared to have but just arrived among them.

“What news?” I cried. “What news, men? Is it Allan Maclean that has brought them?”

The men looked up, and seeing that my lady had joined me, surrounded by the agitated women, they tossed their bonnets into the air, shouting,

“Victory, my leddy, victory for my Lord Mar! A gran’ fecht, and Argyle’s beaten! Lang live King Jamie, and doun wi’ German Geordie.”

Now on hearing these cries, my lady turned and caught my hand, and we looked in each other’s faces, perplexed; and there was something so whimsical in the occurrence (also the relief of the reaction was so great), that we both burst out laughing, and stood there swaying to and fro till we became exhausted with our mirth and were obliged to stop.

“Sure,” said my dear lady, wiping her eyes, “this is the strangest battle that ever was fought, where both sides claim the victory, and neither has suffered defeat. For the Stirling folk, we are told, are rejoicing over their success as heartily as Allan Maclean, and have already spread abroad about the town that my Lord Mar’s forces are utterly broken.”

“That,” cried I, “I am convinced they are not; but how far the rest is true or untrue I fear we must wait till the morrow to learn. Oh, madam, ’tis pity that the field lies so far from us—there must be many wounded and dying. To think of them lying out in this bitter cold nigh breaks my heart. Pray God none of your own people are among them!”

“Alas!” she sighed, “if all is not well with them, they are either dead or taken prisoners. But I would fain succour the others, even as you would, Barbara, were we not too distant here. To-morrow we must see what can be done. Ah, my dear, how could we laugh so heartily just now, when some of our kindest neighbours and friends may be lying stark and stiff on Sheriffmuir?”

And I hope you will not despise us when you hear that upon that we both sat down and wept.

CHAPTER XVIII

Tidings we had upon the morrow in plenty, but no great certainty, for Rumour, many-mouthed, roamed the country-side, and each mouth had a different tale to tell. One thing was sure—part of each army had vanquished part of the other; that is to say, Mar’s left wing was put to flight by Argyle’s right, while his centre column had routed Argyle’s left. That it was a well ordered battle no man on either side dare affirm, and the confusion, the bad discipline, and the lack of strategic skill on the part of the insurgents, prevented the Earl of Mar, whose numbers were by far the larger, from recording a complete victory over the Government troops. Had he even returned to give battle on the morrow all might have been well; but owing partly to the desertion of many of the Highlanders from his ranks, partly to the lack of victuals, and a little, I fear, to dissensions among his chief officers, he remained inactive, and gradually drew off towards Perth, claiming the victory on his part, and leaving Argyle to proclaim it on his own.

In the meantime, on this dark Monday, we heard heavy enough tidings from time to time. Some were said to be dead who were only taken prisoners, and others were thought safe whose corpses were found upon the field. Upwards of eighty officers and gentlemen were lodged as prisoners in Stirling Castle, while many also on the other side were carried off to Perth. We heard in the course of the day with real sorrow, of the death of the gallant young Earl of Strathmore, and of the brave Chief of Clanranald; and how, sore wounded, that fine old hero, my Lord Panmure, was a prisoner. Many other ill tidings came to us, for, as you know, we had friends on both sides in the battle; and all day long the house was besieged by people of the poorer sort, with some tale to tell of death or disaster, of loss by battle, or by the thieving soldiers, making requests for meal or meat, clothing or money, or merely to pour into my Lady Alva’s ears some incident of harrowing importance.

Soon after the noon-day dinner, little Charles called me to see a troop of some five hundred horse which were passing the house, going in the direction of Dunblane; and my lady desiring to know who they were, went cautiously to the gate, accompanied by her son and myself, and looked at the officers who passed to see if she might find any friends among them. Several went by without her recognising them, but at last came one who was well-known to her, namely, my Lord George Murray, who upon seeing my lady, saluted and came forward to speak with her. From him we learned that he, with the Laird of Inveruitie, had received orders to march from Burntisland with their battalions to join the Earl of Mar between Auchterarder and Stirling. They had come with what speed they could, but owing, I believe, to some delay in the message being delivered, they were arriving, as my lady told them, “a day behind the Fair.” Lord George questioned us eagerly upon what had taken place, and hoped that yesterday’s battle might only be the first of the campaign. He would not stop for refreshment, even though the servants were now appearing with jugs of small beer and bottles of claret, but must press on, as he said, in order to reach headquarters, wherever these might be, before the dusk fell. As my lady drew back she asked a question which I had so longed to put myself, that when the words fell from her lips I was startled by the quick throb of my heart.

“Pray, is our friend, Captain Anthony Fleming, in your company?” she said. “We should like to salute him kindly.”

Lord George was already riding off, and looked back to answer her.

“Fleming? Anthony Fleming?” he called out. “No, madam, he left Burntisland on a special mission to my Lord Mar a week since, and is in all probability over there now with the army. Adieu.”

And the heavy horses went thudding and pounding past us, and for no reason at all my heart sank low, and the blood ebbed in my cheeks.

“Poor Anthony!” murmured my lady, as we turned away, “God grant he has come safe out of it!”

I could neither answer nor look at her, for all at once it seemed to me I saw my friend lying wounded, or perhaps dead, out there on the frozen morass. So clearly I pictured his face turned up to the sky, his kind eyes closed to all earthly light for ever, his strong arm lifeless by his side, that it seemed to me like a prophetic vision, or like the strange knowledge of current events, which the Highlanders call “second sight.” I shivered with a sort of fear, and having entered the house crept away upstairs to the nursery, where little Hal was playing, and my good Phemie sat placidly spinning, as if no such things as battles had ever been heard of. I sat myself down on the floor beside her, as I was used to do as a bairn, and leaned my head against her while I listened to the drowsy humming of the wheel. She stopped for a moment to lay her kind hand upon my hair.

“What ails my lamb the day?” she said, tenderly, and at the touch and tone, so truly motherly, the tears rose in my eyes and dropped down into my lap. Harry, who had stopped playing, came running up, and putting his soft arms round my neck, bade me “not to greet.”

“She’s sorry about the battle, Phemie,” said the dear little fellow, “and the poor shotted soldiers and the hurt horse and all. How glad I am that my papa is not in Scotland—he would have been in the fight, and perhaps have got shotted too.”

The baby speech, and the loving clasp of the little arms, comforted me strangely, and when a few minutes later I heard my lady’s voice calling me, I ran downstairs quite cheerful again, and asked what I could do for her. She stood in the hall with a basket in her hand, and Charles beside her wrapped in his winter cloak.

“I have heard but now, Barbara,” said she, “that Alison Macdonald, the herd’s wife, is sick and in need of some comforts. She is alone in bed in the hut, but the key is hid in the thatch (you are tall and can reach it). So many are coming and going that I cannot spare one of the servants to send to her, yet I cannot let the poor woman starve, for her husband, you know, went to Dunfermline on an errand this morning, and cannot be back till late. I fear the snow will shortly be coming down heavily, so, although I scarce like to ask you to go a yard from the house to-day, if you keep to the road till you come to the glen, I do not think any one will molest you. ’Twill not take more than half-an-hour, going and returning, and my brave little Charles will be your protector.”

“Why, yes, Cousin Barbara,” cried the child smiling, “I will not let anyone touch you, and I am to carry the can of broth.”

The herd’s bothie stood about half-way up a small glen that lay parallel with and next to the Silver Glen. The stream which ran through it was a mere trickle, except when a great rain flooded the hills, and the trees and shrubs were mostly stunted and of little beauty. I left the house with few misgivings for the road was quiet, and if there were any fugitives hiding from the soldiers of Argyle they would, we knew, keep to the hills and not frequent the highways.

We met no soul on our short journey, and found the poor woman, as my lady had said, alone in the hut and very thankful to see us. I did what I could for her comfort: built up the fire of coal and peat till it glowed cheerfully upon the hearth, gave her some of the broth, and under her directions placed the other things within her reach. Then promising that someone should come to her in the evening, in case her husband might be detained, we left her much cheered, and locking the door again, departed.

It was now about four of the clock, and evening was approaching. In the glen it was darker because of the close growing trees, and we were obliged to walk carefully for the path was steep and narrow. A slight snow had fallen, and the frost held the ground like iron. Among the grasses at the edge of the burn were fringes of ice, though the running water itself was not yet frozen. A chill wind had sprung up and was moaning among the almost leafless trees.

Suddenly little Charles, whose hand I held, stopped short, and shrinking nearer to me pointed, and whispered,

“What is that, cousin?” I looked, and my heart stood still, for lying on the snowy ground a little way from the path, and half hidden by a low-growing bush, was the body of a man. My first impulse was to run, as far and as fast as possible from the dreaded object; but my second, I am glad to say, conquered my first, and bidding Charles stay where he was, I stepped over the frozen grass, and bending down, examined the recumbent figure. He was lying on his back, with his face upon his arm as if he slept, but it was turned towards me, and with a sharp cry I sprang back. Charles, in whom curiosity was ever greater than fear, ran to my side and seized my hand.

“Is he dead, cousin? Is it a soldier? Oh, Heavens! ’tis Captain Anthony,” and without a pause the boy dropped on his knees and shook the shoulder nearest him with both hands.

“Charles, Charles!” I cried, “stop for pity’s sake! Perhaps the poor man is dead. Oh, what shall we do if he is?”

“He is not dead, cousin,” cried Charles. “He lives, I am sure of it. See, his chest moves as he breathes. But he is very cold, and oh look! there is blood upon his coat.”

Half sick with terror I looked where he pointed. The officer had been wounded on the shoulder, and his sleeve being saturated with blood had frozen as stiff as a board. I touched his face, it was cold and very white, but sure enough I could see the feeble rise and fall of his chest, and I knew that Charles was right. A moment’s reflection showed me what I must do.

“Would you be afraid, dear Cha, to run to the house alone,” I said, “and tell them to bring men to carry Mr. Fleming down. They must bring a board of some kind for he is badly wounded. Go straight to my lady and tell her the poor gentleman is unconscious—unconscious, Charles, will you remember that word? Say that Barbara is watching beside him; she will know what to order. Can you do this, my dear?”

The little lad looked up in my face, then down the lonely path that was quickly growing darker, then at the wounded soldier in the grass.

“Ay, Cousin Barbara, I can. Am I not your protector?” he said.

“You are!” I cried, as I kissed him, “my brave protector and kind helper. And remember, dearest Cha, you are going to save Captain Anthony’s life.”

With that he darted off, and left me alone in the darkling glen with my wounded friend and my anxious thoughts. I chafed his lifeless hands to bring some warmth to them, but with little result. I tried to raise his head, and succeeded in moving it a little and straightening out his unwounded arm; but the pallor of his face alarmed me much, for I knew not how long he had been lying there, nor how far his strength had ebbed. Oh, for a fire, for a surgeon, for brandy!

At that thought I rose to my feet, and unwinding the plaid from my head and shoulders, I folded it over the unconscious man, and, regaining the path, began running up the glen as fast as the steepness and slipperiness of the way permitted. For among the comforts sent to Alison Macdonald, I had seen a little flask of the French brandy which my lady kept to dole out as medicine, and some of that brandy I was bound to have. I startled the poor woman half out of her wits by my abrupt entrance, but a few hurried words explained the matter, and she earnestly besought me to take the flask with me as the poor soldier needed it more than she. This I refused to do, but, pouring about half the contents into a cup, I locked the door once more, and for the fourth time retraced the narrow path.

It was some time before I succeeded in forcing a little of the spirit between the poor pale lips, but in spite of the trembling of my hands (caused as much by nervousness as by the cold), I persevered, and was at last made happy by the knowledge that some had been swallowed. Anxiously I continued my ministrations, too much occupied with my task to have room for thought, and at last to my intense joy the eyes opened, and the lips seemed to form some inaudible words. Had he recognised me I wondered, did he know who was so eagerly tending him, would mine be the first name he uttered on regaining consciousness? Again I held the cup to his lips, and this time he drank more freely. As the life-giving cordial went down he stirred a little, and opening his eyes again vaguely, he murmured, “Mistress Betty Sinclair.”

Now at this date it is easy to smile at the shock of dismay these words caused me, but at the time I remember very well ’twas no matter for smiling. It struck me with a kind of sad irony, that I had looked upon this gentleman as my peculiar property. I had found him in dire straits, I had ministered to him with my own hands, I had perhaps brought him back to life, and for what? To hear him, with his first conscious thought, call for Betty Sinclair! I sat by his head on the chilly ground, too numb to feel the cold. I still chafed his hands, and offered him brandy, but it was done with a difference. The warm feeling of motherly protection, which moves a maid towards the man who attracts her, had fled. I would nurse him and watch him, and save him if I could, but it was to be for another, and as I thought thereon, I wept.

Ah, foolish Barbara! thus to torture herself because of three little words. Where was her reason gone, her modesty, her pride? For full five minutes, I verily believe, they had fled from the stronghold of her mind, and during that period she abandoned herself to cold despair and helpless, gnawing jealousy.

The sound of steps and voices in the distance brought me to myself. I wiped the tears from my face, and redoubled my efforts with so much success that by the time the men approached, Captain Fleming was well enough to notice them, though of me he did not seem to be aware. Mr. Rose, and John Harley, Allan the shepherd, and Thomas, one of the stablemen, bearing a stretcher between them, came hurriedly up the glen, and with kind haste and skilful hands lifted the wounded man upon it. Mr. Rose carried a warm cloak which had been given him by my lady for the soldier’s use, but on catching sight of Barbara shivering in her house-dress he wrapped it round her shoulders, leaving her plaid where she had placed it.

Just as they were starting Captain Fleming made an effort to speak, and Mr. Rose bent down to listen.

“Whaur are we takin’ ye, sir? Just to Alva Hoose, whaur my leddy waits tae pit ye tae bed. You bide quiet, Mr. Fleming, ye’re in guid hands, and will be well cared for.”

With a sigh of satisfaction the sick man closed his eyes, but as I walked soberly in the rear of the procession I was not able to see his face.

My lady was too anxious as to the state of her unbidden guest to do more than lay her hand on my shoulder with a, “Well done, Barbara!” that warmed my heart. But upstairs in the nursery, to which I was at once dragged by Charles, we were regarded as hero and heroine by Phemie and little Hal. There I was treated to all sorts of petting and cossetting, to words of praise and wonder, to hot spiced wine, and a warm bath for my feet. So that, ere ten minutes had passed, I had well nigh forgotten my lonely vigil in the glen, and was ready to laugh at Harry’s wee face as he listened excitedly to his brother’s chatter. He told us of his quick run home, and how frighted he was at the dark; and how he had taken the grunting of a pig for a Highlander calling him, and had raced all the faster past the stye; and how Devon, the watch-dog, had seemed to know his step, for he stopped barking and crawled back into his kennel, and let my brave protector run straight in at the door.

“And what did you do when I left you, Cousin Barbara?” he cried. “Were you terrible frighted without me?”

Whereupon I had to add my chapter to the tale, and relate my adventures with the brandy, receiving great credit from Phemie for my thoughtfulness, as I had probably, she said, saved the poor gentleman’s life.

“And did he not open his eyes and see you?” asked Hal, “and say, ‘Fank you, Mistress Barbara?’”

“Indeed he did not, Harold Beaux-yeux!” said I. “Poor Barbara was not even noticed.”

“But did he say nuffin at all?” persisted the child.

I rose up laughing, for the foolish mood had passed, and lifted the boy in my arms.

“Oh, yes, he did,” I cried. “He asked for your Aunt Betty Sinclair.”

“Eh!” said Phemie grimly, “another of ’em!”

And though this mysterious utterance pricked my heart, I laughed again, and joined in a game of romps with the children.

But half an hour afterwards I stood outside a closed door, with my head against the panel, listening hungrily for a sound from within. The stillness terrified me, for I thought he must be dead. I longed to lift the latch and go in, but modesty and fear forbade me. How long I stood there I know not, but footsteps behind me in the passage made me turn my head, to see my lady approaching with a cup in her hand. She had not, as I was glad to know, perceived my attitude, and took it for granted that I had but just come. She signed to me to open the door, and we entered the room together. By the light of a dimly burning taper I caught sight of the form upon the bed. His head was bandaged, for there was a scalp wound under the hair which had started bleeding, and this made the pallor of his face more ghastly; his eyes were closed. I stole into the shadow of the curtain, and watched my lady as she bent over the bed and raised him on her arm to hold the cup of broth to his lips. He was not asleep, and thanked her gratefully as he drank it.

“Are you in pain?” she asked, gently.

“It will pass,” he answered in a weak voice, but cheerily. “’Twas worse upon the hillside.”

“Mr. Peck, who is a clever surgeon, says you must not talk,” said my lady; “but if you have anything upon your mind, he thinks it will ease you to tell me if you are able.”

His next words startled me, prepared as I was.

“Is your sister Mistress Betty Sinclair, in the house with you, madam?” he asked.

“Nay,” said my lady, “she is still at Dysart. Have you aught you wish me to tell her?”

“’Twas your brother, the Master,” went on Mr. Fleming, “that told me she was here. He writ her a letter after the battle, a few lines only, thinking she and you, madam, would be anxious to know of his safety. When he found me wounded, he very kindly said that if I could find my way here I should be well cared for, and could join the army again in a few days when a little recovered from my wound. He gave me the letter, telling me to deliver it to Mistress Sinclair if she were here, or to you, madam, if she were not. He directed me how to come in order to avoid the enemy, but a small body of dragoons espied and chased me, and though I escaped them by great good luck, my horse was caught by a stray bullet, and shortly after the poor beast stumbled and fell, to rise no more. I came on foot, but missed my way in the dark and wandered far, and I know not how many hours I had been on the hillside when your searchers found me. The letter, madam, is in the inner pocket of my tunic, and that is all my task accomplished, save to offer my heartfelt apologies for giving you so much trouble.”

Now this lengthy speech was faltered out, sentence by sentence, as the poor man’s strength allowed, but my lady waited patiently, believing rightly that when the tale was told his mind would be more at ease. Upon its conclusion she assured him that his apologies were unnecessary at such a time, and at his request she found the letter he had suffered so much in bringing.

As for me, only one thing at that moment seemed important—the strange exclamation in the glen was accounted for. He had been bidden to find Betty Sinclair, and naturally her name came first to his lips. How simple it was! Already my heart felt lighter, and as my lady moved to the door after bidding her patient try to sleep, I slipped from the shadow of the curtain and passed close to the bed. For one moment I paused and looked down upon him, and our eyes met. Oh! the glad light that sprang into his as he recognised me.

“Barbara!” he whispered, and that was all; but the word was so fraught with tender gladness that my heart vibrated like a harp-string touched to music, and I could scarce restrain my tears. I held out my hand impulsively, and for a lingering moment our fingers touched. What magic lay in that brief handclasp not even the wisest of the ancients, I believe, could explain, but in the twinkling of an eyelid it changed my life for me. With a smile and a backward glance I passed on, and an instant later I was standing outside the door, a heedless girl no longer, but a glad, startled, loving, anxious woman.

CHAPTER XIX — LETTER III

My dear Lady Erskine was so wrapt in the perusal of her brother’s letter that she neither noticed my delay in quitting the bedroom, nor my agitation when I joined her. For a moment it seemed to me that the overwhelming emotion I had experienced must have left its mark upon my face, that my eyes would betray it, and my lips tremble forth their confession, without her saying one word. But the next instant it came to me, as a woman, that the sweet and agitating secret was not mine own, that indeed ’twas so vague and impalpable I scarce had the right to regard its existence, and with the marvellous self-control that comes to our sex in such crises, I closed the door behind me and slowly followed my lady to her room.

The letter from the Master told us little that we had not already heard, except that it gave us the names of many friends who were taken prisoners to Stirling. Lord Strathallan among others, and his brother, Mr. Thomas Drummond, Colonel Walkinshaw, the Laird of Barafield, and Mr. Murray, younger, of Auchtertyre. He found time to lament in touching words the sad death of young Lord Strathmore, than whom a truer gentleman, or a braver soldier, never bore a sword. I give his words as he wrote them—

“On our left the brave young Strathmore was killed. I can’t help wishing he had kept his promise to me to honour me with being under my command, and joyning my squadron. When he found all turning their backs, he seized the Colours, and persuaded fourteen, or some such number, to stand by him for some time, which drew upon him the enemie’s fire by which he was wounded; and going off was taken and murdered by a dragoon—a mill-stone crushing a brilliant. He was the young man of all I ever saw who approached the nearest to perfection, and had a just contempt of all the little lyes and selfish tricks so necessary to some and so common among us.”

He told us also that Mr. Irvine of Drum, “a young gentleman of good hopes, was ill wounded.” On the other side, my Lord Islay, the Duke’s brother, was sore hurt; and the Earl of Forfar was so badly wounded, that although he was taken prisoner by Mar, they could not carry him to Perth, but sent him back to Stirling, where alas! he died next day.

The Master we learned in a later letter (and I beg you will forgive me if I confuse the information got at different times), toiled and moiled for hours with the cannon, wishing rather to bury them than to leave them a gift to the enemy; but eventually he was obliged to abandon most of them on the highroad to Ardoch, though some he did get to Perth. He lost his way in the darkness, and rode about the moor half the night, being indebted at last to the kindness of a gentleman, met by accident, who carried him to Urchell where he had a few hours’ sleep.

Lord Panmure, of whose staunch courage I can never say enough, was, as I told you, taken prisoner, but being grievously wounded, was left in the hut of some peasants, where the good souls tended him kindly. He was but slightly guarded, and was soon rescued by his brother, Mr. Harry Maule, and taken to a safe place till he was a little recovered, when he rejoined the army at Perth.

Indeed and indeed we had grounds enough for mourning, for not only were we grieved by all this loss and suffering, but our hearts were heavy because we knew not if the sacrifice was to bring its own reward; in other words, we had begun to fear that success was not to crown our efforts.

“It is not, Barbara,” said my lady to me, “that I think the Cause unworthy, but it may be that God in His infinite wisdom has ordained that it shall not prosper.”

And in how many minds this bitter doubt was growing up it would be difficult to tell, for except in the privacy of our own closets, no loyal tongue would give it voice.

But all this time my lady had no word from Sir John, and this, as you may imagine, did not ease her burden. Our patient, too, was causing her great anxiety, and for many days had been so ill that, by Mr. Peck’s orders, no one but himself and one of the women appointed as nurse, was allowed to enter his chamber.

The secretary went about with a troubled face, and for a little time we feared the worst.

What this meant to me I cannot tell you; but in those days I first learned the meaning of patience, not the meek and lifeless resignation of the placid mind, but the discipline of soul which forces an outward quiet, while the spirit within consumes itself in an agony of waiting. Ah! how many times in her life has Barbara had to endure the same fear, anxiety, and helpless longing; but at that time her heart was fierce and wild, and her nature all unused to pain. I had grasped my inheritance of happiness, only to have it wrenched from my hand. I had stood and gazed into Heaven, and the door had been shut in my face. What wonder that I struggled with indignation and surprise against this blow of Fate, and that many secret tears bedewed my pillow?

It was a merciful relief to find very soon my hands and thoughts so occupied that my private troubles must be pushed and hidden out of sight. You must not imagine that Mr. Fleming was our only patient, for in all the great houses round the scene of the battle, kind hearts were moved to set up hospitals for the wounded, and you will readily believe that Alva was not behind the rest in this work of mercy. The men were mostly of the rank and file, for the officers were made prisoners; and though on both sides there was much leniency and courtesy shown, it was not to be expected in a conflict of this sort that gentlemen of influence could be trusted in the houses of their friends and sympathisers. A few of the worst cases Lady Erskine caused to be brought into the house, but for the most part the men were provided with accommodation in the barns and out-houses; and being sturdy fellows, not used to lying soft, nor to delicate fare, they very quickly responded to the kindness of their rescuers, and were speedily healed of their wounds. One or two died, to our great sorrow, especially when, as in the case of two of the Highlanders, who had no English and could not make known to us more than their names, we were unable to learn their wishes or bear any message to their friends.

I must not forget to tell you that outside our little world affairs had not been prospering. You will remember that after the battle the Earl of Mar drew off slowly to Perth, resting his exhausted army by the way, and taking three or four days to perform the journey. But, ere they reached the town, tidings were brought to the Earl of Seaforth that Inverness had fallen to my Lord the Earl of Sutherland, and he with General Gordon hurried north to prevent the victorious Earl from coming south to threaten Perth. Another bitter disappointment followed, for on Saturday the 19th day of November, my Lord Mar, having reached the town, received there a despatch from Brigadier Mackintosh at Preston in Lancashire, stating how they had taken that town, and hoped on the morrow to march to Manchester. The Earl of Mar gave orders for what proved to be premature rejoicings, for he set the bells a-ringing; and next day, being Sunday, was made the occasion of a public thanksgiving. But alas! in the midst of their jubilation another messenger arrived from the same quarter with very sorry tidings to tell, namely: the surrender of Preston to General Wills, and the complete collapse of the rising in the north of England. Many of our bravest and most important leaders were thus taken prisoners and carried to London, among them the brave old Mackintosh, Lords Kenmure and Nithsdale, Lord Nairn and the Earl of Wintoun, also of Englishmen, the young and popular Earl of Derwentwater, my Lord Widdington, and Mr. Thomas Forster, a gentleman of Northumberland. I leave you to imagine the effect of this dismal news upon the already disaffected army at Perth. It did not take long for the tidings to spread, though to us it was first conveyed in a letter from the Master of Sinclair to his sister. Following hard upon this disaster came rumours of the approach of English regiments from across the border, and of the arrival of the Dutch troops on our shores, and although these last did not come upon us for some weeks yet, the fear of their invasion filled our hearts with terror.

In the midst of all this woe and trouble I can still recall two happy events which, oddly enough, fell upon the same day, the 5th of December, being just three weeks after the Battle of Sheriffmuir. Very early in the morning, my lady, coming to the door to give some order, descried in the wan light the figure of a man hurrying along the broad walk which gave upon the highroad. He was dressed in the rough garb of a common sailor, but his face when he came nearer was clean and intelligent, and he doffed his hat with a certain courtesy of manner not quite in keeping with the dress.

My lady eyed him keenly, and demanded what she could do for him. He replied by taking a packet from his breast and holding it out before her eyes, but he did not utter a word. It was a letter addressed to herself, and in her husband’s writing. Most gladly did she seize it from him, asking eagerly how he had come by it, and a dozen other questions in a breath; but the man merely smiled and bowed, making signs as though he were dumb. Whether this was so or not, we were never able to discover, but all the time he was at Alva (and you may be sure he was well-fed and well-paid ere he left), he never spoke, nor made the least attempt at communicating with any. He departed as silently and mysteriously as he came, and we never, to my knowledge, heard of him again.

Howbeit he had brought light and gladness into my lady’s heart and relief to the whole household, so that we were better attuned for the hearing of further good news in the assurance of Mr. Peck that Captain Fleming was now convalescent, and might receive visits from the inmates of the house. My lady, it is true, had seen him once or twice during the past week; but now she called me, and bidding me take Charles as companion, sent me into the sick-room with a cup of coffee for the invalid.

Now you must know that ever since we had been escorted home by Mr. Fleming and his troopers, our little lads had talked incessantly of “Captain Anthony”—how brave he was, how tall; what a great horse he rode, and how kind he looked when he smiled. Since our adventure in the glen, Charles had enacted the interesting scene many times in his play, he, himself, being the wounded soldier, and little Hal taking now the part of Cha, running breathless down the dark road, now of Barbara, ministering to the unconscious man alone. It was with feelings, therefore, of great and awe-struck delight that the boy put his hand in mine as I stood before the door of the bed-room, and at my bidding knocked. Upon our entering, I was relieved to find the gentleman up and sitting in a chair by the hearth. His face was pale and thin, for the fever had been high; but his eyes were clear and bright, and he held out his hand with a smile.

“Forgive me, Mistress Barbara,” he cried, “that I cannot rise to greet you; and accept my best thanks for the kindness of your visit.”

Charles walked up to him and shook him gravely by the hand.

“I am pleased to see you, sir,” he said in his old-fashioned way, “and Cousin Barbara and I are very glad that we found you in the glen.”

“Hush, Charles!” cried I. “Remember your mama said you were not to talk too much.”

“This is not ‘too much,’ Barbe,” returned the boy, “and you know we are glad!”

“Pardon me, madam,” said Mr. Fleming, when he had, at my bidding, drunk the coffee. “It will amuse me greatly and do me no harm if you permit your little cousin to explain himself. I imagined that I was found by some of my Lady Erskine’s men, sent out to look for stragglers in the hills.”

I could only smile and give my permission, begging him at the same time to make all allowances for the childish narrator. I seated myself a little way off, and hoped that the child would say nothing I should regret; but at the same time I was not averse to the idea that my friend should know to whom, in all probability, he owed his life.

“You see, sir,” said Charles, standing by the chair, and putting his little hand on Mr. Fleming’s knee, “my mama had sent my Cousin Barbara with some comforts to a poor woman in the glen, and I was sent with her as her protector. There was nothing, truly, to protect her from, but there might have been, you know! And I was of some use too—of a great deal of use, wasn’t I, Barbe? For ’twas I that saw you first, sir, under the bush.”

“Yes, indeed,” I said, “your sharp little eyes descried Mr. Fleming before mine did.”

“Then Cousin Barbe went and looked at you, and at first she thought you were dead, but I knew you weren’t for I saw you breathing. And then she said would I be frighted to run back to the house alone for help, and I said ‘no;’ but I was, you know, a good deal frighted—’specially when the pig grunted, and I thought ’twas a Highlander after me! But I runned very fast, and got to the house all safe.”

He stopped for breath, and his listener patted him on the head.

“Bravo, little comrade! That is the true courage, to be a good deal frighted but still to go on. And what of Mistress Barbara left alone?”

“Oh,” said Charles, “I think Barbara was frighted too, for you wouldn’t wake up; and it was very cold and dark, and she took off her plaid and put it over you, and ran all the way back to the hut for brandy, and made you, made you take some, and rubbed your hands, and—”

“Come, that will do, my lad!” I exclaimed, my cheeks very hot, my heart beating quick, for my friend had turned to look at me, and there was that in his eyes which I found it not easy to meet.

“Nay!” cried Charles, carried away by his own tale, “I have but one thing more to say. Do you know, Captain Anthony, she did all that, and you never—even—said ‘Thank you!’”

At that we both laughed heartily till the boy, not comprehending, began to look uncomfortable, and Mr. Fleming, taking his hand, said seriously.

“You must forgive me, Charles, as I can only hope your cousin does. But to make up for my rudeness, I mean to go on thanking her all my life—if she will let me!”

The last words were uttered in a lower tone, and his eyes were again fixed on my face. Charles ran off to the window, some noise outside attracting him, and I took the opportunity to say as carelessly as I might,

“You make too much, sir, of a trivial kindness, which any woman would have performed for a wounded man.”

“No doubt, madam,” he answered gravely, leaning forward in his chair, “but that cannot lessen my gratitude, for my life is incomparably sweet and precious to me now. You gave it back to me, and were it not too early in our acquaintance, I would say I herewith offer it to you—nay, listen, madam! Ever since that first morning when I saw you, with your sweet face pale with terror, and your eyes appealing to any chivalry that was left in man, my one thought, outside my duty as a soldier, has been to be worthy to care for and protect you all through life, so that if my faithful love could shield you, you should never suffer fear or pain again.”

I made no answer and my eyes were hid. “This, I know, is not the time to talk of such things,” he went on, “neither do I expect a prize so exquisite to fall into my hand at the first touch. Grant me but time, madam, to prove my honesty in the words of the motto of our house, ‘Let deed show,’ and if Heaven be so kind as to preserve me in future dangers, give me leave to come to you again.”

Did ever maid listen to such perfect wooing! Ah! Barbara, happy Barbara, did not that hour atone for all your pain? Even as I write, an old and faded woman, my heart gives a throb of bliss when I think of it. How good God is, how tender and loving, when He grants us, all undeserving as we are, our heart’s desire!

I said not a word in answer, but rose and went to him and gave him both my hands. As he seized them and pressed them to his lips, a footstep sounded in the passage, and the next moment Mr. Peck entered, telling us in his kindly nervous way that he thought his patient would be the better of a rest.

“Ah! Mr. Peck,” cried my dear Anthony gaily, “their visit has done me more good than all your medicines, though but for your kind and constant care, good friend, I should never have been able to profit by it.”

Charles now came forward and looked at him inquisitively.

“Are you going to be well very soon, Captain Anthony?” he said.

“I hope so, little comrade,” was the reply. “You know there is much work to be done still for the King.”

“Ay,” said Charles, “but I shall be sorry when you go away. My papa, Sir John, says in his letter that the King is coming to Scotland in a few days.”

“God grant he be not too late!” groaned Mr. Peck, but we did not heed him, and taking a kindly leave of our friend we left the room.

Four days later, my lady had the pleasure of another letter from Sir John, and wrote to him the following in reply. And here I may say that the fears she had expressed to me about their correspondence were justified, for this tender but cautious epistle missed Sir John at this time, and lay for two months at St. Germains, where he found it on the 15th of February on his second visit to France.

“My Dearest Life,

I received yours of the 20th and another of the 29th of Nov., which were both most acceptable, but they had both been long by the way, for it was the 5 of Dec. before I received the first. You are much mistaken in thinking I was displeas’d with you for leaveing this country. I doe assure you I thought it a lucky providence, and, tho I was in fear from not hearing from you, yett it was easy to bear in comparison of what terror I must have had if you had been in the danger some other of our freinds have been in. I suppose you know all our difficultys from better hands long ere now, and by that you may guess the torment and fear and terrible horror I must be in for you and many others. If I had known your adress I had writ to you three weeks ago and beg’d of you to stay where you was till you saw how things would be. I writ to your Brother in hopes he would learn itt from some att Edinr., but he told me he could not, and you was soon expected, and I was so far from wishing you soon back, I was afraid to hear of your return. I pray God send a happy end to all, for I am just where I was and my hops are still very faint, that person you mention in yours not being come yett. Your children are very well, and all your other friends. I doe not wish to hear you are returned, but when you doe, pray God you may be saffe, which is the earnest wish of her who is intirely

Yours.

Dec. 10.

I am better than could be expected, all things considered. If you can have any reasonable pretence to stay, doe not come by any means. Mr. Peck gives you his most humble service, so does Aunt B. and I.”

CHAPTER XX

On the evening of the day upon which we had visited Captain Anthony, Mr. Peck, with an anxious face, sought my Lady Erskine (but this unknown to me), and told her that he was troubled about his patient as the fever was again high, and perceiving, as he thought, that there was something on his mind to disturb him, his kind attendant had offered to bring my lady to him in order that he might confide in her.

Going at once to his chamber, my lady begged to know if she could help him, upon which Mr. Fleming, as he told me after, with many misgivings and humble requests for forgiveness, made confession of what had passed between us that afternoon.

He told her how from the first hour he saw Barbara Stewart her image had remained in his mind, although he had never dreamed of betraying his feelings thus early in their friendship. But gladdened by her dear presence, touched and surprised on learning of all she had done for him in the glen, perhaps a little weakened by his illness, he had allowed himself to speak.

“Scarcely had she left the room, madam,” he said, “when my heart misgave me sorely, for it seemed to me I had abused your hospitality, and taken advantage of Mistress Barbara’s innocence and youth; but I fear I repent too late. Tell me if in any way I can repair my indiscretion.”

My lady sat silent some time and then asked, “And what said Barbara?”

“Madam,” he cried earnestly, “she said not a word. But she put her little soft hands in mine, and looked at me out of her dark eyes with a look so deep and tender that for some moments I lost myself in the bliss of it, and forgot that she remained silent.”

My lady sighed and smiled together.

“Ah, dear heart!” she cried, “how well I remember!” And although he knew not what she meant, I know she was thinking of her own young days and the moment when Sir John first told her that he loved her.

After a little she went on.

“I am grieved that this should have happened at such a time. In a few days at most you must leave us, and what is before you, who can tell? My mind misgives me when I try to read the future, for after all, Mr. Fleming, wounds and death are not the only evils we have to fear. Barbara is so young—if you could have waited a while. However, there is no sense in crying over spilt milk, as the saying is, and what is done is done. Can I trust you, sir, to leave it where it is? I love the child as dearly as if she were my own sister,” (so my dear lady was kind enough to say) “and you may trust me to be tender with her; but it is not fitting there should be any formal contract between you. There is much to be considered, and the times are uncertain. You will not, therefore, see Mistress Stewart again except in my presence, but you take with you my fervent wishes for your health and happiness and a glad return.”

Whatever Mr. Fleming’s desires might have been, he was forced to acknowledge my lady’s authority and bow to her decision in the matter. Nay, he could not but approve of the wisdom of her words, and the kindness of her interest in the motherless girl he loved. So, greatly comforted, and relieved of the burden of guilt that had oppressed him, he fell into a sound sleep, and awaked upon the morrow much refreshed and strengthened.

To me, still lost in the wonder of my golden dream, and feeling strangely detached from the things of earth, my lady’s words were few. She touched lightly upon her knowledge of the position, and bade me not fear to confide in her, either now or at a future time, for, whatever happened, her love and sympathy were with me.

“But,” she added, “you are scarce more than a child, Barbara, and know not your powers and capacity. You may be greatly taken with our friend, to whom I am also much attracted; but time alone will prove the strength of your attachment, and I will not have you tied and bound by the whim of a passing mood, engendered by the most romantic circumstances, to what you might regret for your whole life.”

With that she kissed me and sent me about some household task; but during the next few days I saw little of Captain Anthony, and that only with others in the room.

By the end of the week he pronounced himself fit for travel, and late one evening he presented himself before us, booted and spurred and ready for the road. The children, who had grown to love their hero dearly, were much distressed to lose him, and little Hal broke down and cried, clinging to his hand on one side and to mine on the other. My lady, with kindly tact, busied herself at the far end of the room, and but for the child we were alone.

“A token, Mistress Barbara,” whispered my lover imploringly. “Give me something of your own to keep by me—not as a remembrance, for that I shall not need, but as a pledge that you will be glad to see me returned.”

I tore a knot of red ribbon from my dress and pressed it into his hand, which closed upon mine as he took it. The tears were very near my eyes, and I longed to shed them openly like little Harry. But time pressed, and my lady came forward to bid our guest farewell.

“God keep you, my beloved!” he murmured.

“And keep you too—for me!” I whispered back with trembling lips; and any woman who has seen the man she loved ride out to war, will understand what my thoughts were as I said it.

A few minutes later we were all assembled at the door. Charles stood outside in the frosty night, holding the stirrup, and struggling manfully with his grief which he judged it childish to show. Mr. Peck was giving a last look to the horse, which a few days back he had purchased for the traveller. My lady handed him a packet to bear to her brother, the Master, and pressed him again and again to be careful of his health. I stood with little Hal in my arms, and watched the scene as in a dream. Allan, the shepherd, who was to run by his side and show him the short cuts through the hills, now came forward, saying that it was time to start; and the next thing I remember is the sight of Captain Anthony in the saddle, his hat in his hand, a smile on his face, and a look in his eyes that I never forgot. A moment after he rode out of the court-yard, and the darkness swallowed him up.

I take blame to myself that I have writ so much about my private affairs, which cannot be of the same interest to you as to myself, but you must of your kindness forgive me, for it would truly have been impossible for me to tell the story of that sorrowful winter, without some particulars of this portion of my own history.

After our guest’s departure the days grew darker and darker, for the tidings that came to us seemed to crush our hopes rather than raise them up. My lady wrote to Betty, bidding her come if possible to Alva to spend Christmas with us, but she sent back word that she was occupied at the sick-bed of her young friend, David, eldest son to their neighbour, the Earl of Wemyss, for the hapless youth was ill of a fever, and his father was absent in London. A few days later came the news of the young gentleman’s death, over which my lady grieved with heart-felt sorrow, for, from a charming child, he had grown into a bright and promising lad, and his early death at the age of sixteen was deplored by all who knew him.

Very ill news came also from Perth, and no comfort was to be had from France. The big men in the Earl of Mar’s army were so busy quarrelling among themselves, that they seemed to have lost sight altogether of the Cause that had brought them together; and not the least of the trouble, to my lady’s mind, lay in the fact that the Master of Sinclair was at the head and front of the dissensions. Indeed she was sick at heart when she heard of her brother’s conduct, for you may be sure that rumour did not fail to make the worst of it. It has always seemed to me that the Master, a man of strong character, and doubtless with an attractiveness of his own, might have influenced his friends to better issues, but instead of attempting the rôle of peace-maker, he did everything in his power to stir up strife. So many of the Fife gentlemen joined him, among them Sir James Kinloch, Sir Robert Gordon, Major Balfour, Mr. Ogilvie, and Mr. Smith of Methven, that they formed themselves into what was called the “Grumbling Club,” of which the Master of Sinclair was President. Their business was to find fault with everything that was done by my Lord Mar, to discourage the troops, to foretell disaster, and even privately, it was said, to open negotiations with the Duke of Argyle, with a view to capitulation. This last failed, for the letter written by the Master to the Duke was intercepted and brought to the Earl of Mar—an incident which, you may be sure, did not increase the love and confidence between these two. But later on, when the grumbling and the clamour grew louder, they went to their leader, and boldly demanded that he should carry out their design. This my lord, having news of the King’s coming, refused to do, and bade the grumblers have patience among themselves for a little longer. Indeed, I believe the poor gentleman was at his wit’s end what to do, not having the strength or capacity necessary to control his turbulent company.

So ill did the Master behave that my Lord Sinclair, his father, having wind of the matter, writ him a very sharp letter, chiding him for his conduct and demanding an explanation; and when his son departed from Perth, in answer to this summons, ’tis said the grumbling ceased, but immediately upon his return it broke out again worse than ever. It appears that when at home he took solemn leave of his friends, making no secret of the fact that he expected nothing but defeat, and had no expectation of returning in triumph to Dysart.

The Marquis of Huntly, who had never been very eager for the Cause, was “led by the nose” by this singular man, and seemed only too ready to enter into all his schemes. And although the Master told us proudly that Dr. Abercrombie, who had just returned from France, had brought him a personal message from the Queen, in which she thanked him for his services in seizing the ship at Burntisland, and promised that when she and her family could, she would not forget to show him favour, his heart remained untouched, and he made up his mind, coldly and deliberately, to desert the Cause. Granted that he believed it hopeless, that he disapproved the methods of his superiors, that he had come to the conclusion that the whole affair was a sad mistake, still his behaviour could not but alienate all loyal and honest men.

The Duke of Argyle in the meantime, though the state of the roads kept him inactive at Stirling, for there was a prodigious deal of snow on the ground, did not altogether neglect his opportunities; for to our great distress we learned that he had bombarded and occupied Burntisland, and some of the Dutch troops having arrived he very soon had all the seaports of Fife in his hands. As most of the coal-pits lie in that district this was a serious loss, and added to the hardships of an already rigorous winter. The foreign soldiers over-ran the place, and food grew scarcer and dearer. Further north it was even worse; in the counties of Perth and Inverness, it was said, where the frost had stopped the working of the mills, there was scarcely a grain of meal to be had.

In the midst of all this misery it is not to be supposed that we could eat our Christmas Goose with merry hearts, but sometime in the beginning of January a packet arrived for my lady, which in spite of everything could not fail to cheer us. It had been brought to Leith by ship, and sent forward by a safe hand, so that it had not been long delayed upon the road. It was a letter from her husband telling her that the King had sailed for Scotland at last.

There had been many difficulties and hindrances placed in his way both by friends and enemies, the former being fearful for his safety, the latter desiring to intercept him. But after much delay, and being exposed to many hardships, he being obliged to travel the open roads on horse-back, and even to disguise himself in some of the towns, his Majesty embarked at Dunkirk in a small ship with a few attendants, and must by this time, Sir John opined, have landed in Scotland. For himself he was waiting at Calais, detained by stress of weather, and by fear of the English men-of-war, which filled the channel. He had, he said, on board, much precious material, including “two valuable young men,” and he designed to land upon the east coast somewhat north of the Forth to avoid the risk of cruisers in the Firth. He prayed my lady, if she could by any means find it convenient, to meet him at Dysart, where he said, it would be easier for him to come than to Alva, and she would be well advised to leave home immediately upon receiving his letter, as he hoped his arrival should not be much behind it.

He went on to say that the winter, which he heard was severe in Scotland, was equally so on the Continent. In country places in France and in the north of Spain, the wolves and bears, made bold by hunger, were prowling round the villages and towns, and some of the poor peasants had died of starvation, being unable to come through the snow to the market-towns for food. He ended by saluting his household kindly each by name, and sending merry messages to his little sons.

Now all again was bustle and excitement in the house, for waiting and uncertainty are the hardest things on earth to bear, and the hopeful tone of Sir John’s letter, as well as the good news it contained, seemed to put a different complexion on our affairs. Now it was possible to hold up our heads, to look forward, to plan, to be joyful, and as, for my lady, any disaster were easier to bear than separation from her husband, she made ready with all haste to go to her father’s house as he had ordered. It was not so pleasant to me to be left behind with Aunt Betty and the children, but as my lady made no proposal of carrying me with her, I must needs make the best of the situation. I begged of her to be very prompt and regular in writing to inform us of anything that took place, and promising on my part to keep her informed of all that happened with us, we bade her adieu, and watched her depart, accompanied by the faithful Andrew, with very mingled feelings.

Before we had any news from Dysart, however, we heard through another source some very dismal tidings, which threw Aunt Betty into a state of great affliction, and brought my own spirits pretty low. Sir John, we heard, had indeed arrived on Scottish shores, but in a most untoward manner, for his ship had been wrecked not far from Dundee, and all the treasure and arms he was bringing were lost in the sea. Further, the messenger was not certain whether Sir John and his crew were alive or dead, and the consternation into which we were thrown for some hours was very great. Next day, however, came letters from my lady which went far to mitigate our grief. Sir John and all his companions were safe, and though much of the ammunition had been destroyed, for the ship was broke to pieces, the gold which he was bringing was safe. It was still in the hulk which lay on the sandbank where she stranded, and they had great hopes, if they could avoid the vigilance of the enemy, of getting all off.

Sir John’s fellow-travellers, the “two valuable young men” he had mentioned, turned out to be the Marquis of Tynemouth (or Tinmouth), son to the Duke of Berwick, and therefore nephew to the King, and my Lord Talbot, an Irish peer. “The former,” wrote my lady, “is said by Sir John to be a very worthy young gentleman, and will recommend himself to all persons of merit.” As for herself, she was so thankful to Providence for preserving her husband’s life, that she had scarce time to mourn over his disaster, which nevertheless was a serious one. She told us that the King had arrived at Peterhead some weeks back, but promised to gather all news of the proceedings in the north from Sir John, and bring it home to Alva, whither she designed returning as soon after meeting with her husband as possible. Betty, she told us, had been very dumpish and melancholy all winter, being in great trouble and anxiety about the King’s affairs, and much exercised over the behaviour of her brother. She was now more cheerful, however, and would accompany her sister to Alva on her return, which she did some days later, when we welcomed them both, you may be sure, with great delight.

CHAPTER XXI

It will be well for me now to give you shortly some account of the proceedings at Perth, which I learned from Mr. Fleming’s own lips some time after, though it would, I know, be easy for you to gather the facts from the history-books written about that period. And because I fear I am becoming tedious in my narrative, I will pass over many details and give you the bare outline of what took place, in order to carry on the story of my dear friends at Alva in a way that you will understand.

When Captain Anthony Fleming, upon his return to Perth, sought out the Master of Sinclair in order to deliver to him my lady’s letter, and give him news of the family, he found to his dismay that he was gone. Seaforth, as we know, had hurried north after Sheriffmuir, and, as was the custom of the Highlanders after a battle, many of them had returned home. Now my Lord of Huntly was gone to save his estates from the Earl of Sutherland, and to get back the town of Inverness, so it was said; but we know that nobleman had decided to play his cards another way, for he made a truce with my Lord Sutherland, and later sent in his submission to Argyle, asking for pardon or protection from the Government. The Master of Sinclair, shortly after he left, had followed him, saying as his excuse that “having given so much umbrage to certain people in Perth, he could be of no more use to the Cause, which now was not only desperate, but sunk.” And so he deserted the foundering ship, thinking most of his own danger and the necessity of saving his precious skin. Mr. Fleming, like all other loyal gentlemen, had his own opinion of such conduct, but though bitterly disappointed in the man who had ever been friendly to him, and to whom he felt he owed so much, he refrained from commenting upon it till long years after.

In the midst of so much that was discouraging, an express one day arrived with the joyful news that the King was at hand, for a ship had appeared in the offing about the Height of Montrose, which had made the signals, viz., the raising and lowering of a white flag on the topmasthead, and, being answered from the shore, had passed on northwards. At once the Earl of Mar began his preparations for going to receive his Majesty, and great joy ran through the entire community from the highest officers to the common soldiers, for all were weary of the delay, and looked forward to large reinforcements, and a speedy meeting with the enemy. A few days later a young gentleman, Lieutenant Cameron by name, who had accompanied the King from France, rode into Perth with the acceptable tidings that our long-looked for Sovereign had landed at Peterhead, and was awaiting an interview with the Earl of Mar and his companions. By great good fortune my lord commanded Mr. Fleming to ride with him in the capacity of Captain of his Guard of Horse, and the same day he, with my Lord Marischal, General Hamilton, and about thirty other gentlemen of quality, set out to go and attend him. The King, having lodged one night at Peterhead, and another at Newburgh House, had passed incognito through Aberdeen, and was now at Fetteresso, the principal seat of my Lord Marischal, and thither the party from Perth hastened, full of ardour and loyalty. I will give you Mr. Fleming’s own words as to his impressions upon first beholding his Majesty.

“After having received the Earls of Mar and Marischal and the other noblemen within the castle, and conversed with them for some time, his Majesty expressed a desire to inspect the soldiers of the guard, who were drawn up in front of the house. You may imagine that, on being hurriedly prepared for this honour by General Hamilton, we sat our horses in great excitement, only restrained by discipline. For my own part my heart beat high in my bosom, and all the loyal and chivalrous sentiments that had been nurtured in my mind from childhood rose up to welcome my rightful and much injured King. When he appeared at the door, looking pale and young and very weary, there came into my throat something that caught my breath—a spasm of love and yearning that the sight of no other man on earth could possibly bring—and at the moment when I brought my sword to the salute I knew I would gladly lay down my life for King James. A few minutes after I heard the voice of my Lord Mar loudly proclaiming him at the gate of the house, and, following my impulse, I waved my sword above my head, and shouted with all my strength, ‘God save the King!’—a shout in which both my soldiers and all others present willingly joined. His Majesty bowed, and a faint smile came to his lips, but oddly enough, and quite beyond my own volition, I found myself, as I watched him, repeating some dreary words, ‘A stranger in a strange land!’ He did not look glad to be among us; there was no response in his eyes to the welcome we gave him. He came to his own, and though they received him joyfully, it was as though he knew them not.”

Was this, I have often wondered, the reason of it all—of the disappointment, the disillusion, the tragedy of his coming? My heart aches still to think of it. He was worn out with hardships and anxiety (those who knew what his life had been for the last three months know that), the weather was bitterly cold, his country—our country—lay in the inhospitable grasp of winter, and he had a price set upon his head. He felt ill in body, for on the next day he was taken with an aguish distemper which kept him from moving for several days, and uneasy in mind, for already he had doubts of the wisdom of his undertaking. We know that he was not born “under a dancing star” as Mr. Shakespeare’s “Beatrice” hath it, and for that reason much is to be forgiven him; but oh! we in Scotland need to be melted by a merry smile, or a kindly word, or a genial manner, or we may be taken by storm by something more forcible than these; but let our coldness be met by coldness, our shyness by a greater shyness, or our enthusiasm by indifference, then the icy crust that covers our fire grows harder and harder, and the dour pride that oft makes the Scot a trouble to himself, as well as to others, forbids the breaking down of the barrier for ever. He lacked something, our poor King, that vital something which his uncle, King Charles II., and, as I understand, his son Prince Charles Edward (neither of them so just or so virtuous as himself), possessed to the full—the power to draw all hearts to him, to persuade the reluctant, to confirm the wavering, to inspire the doubtful with confidence—the personal human charm, without which no leader of men can achieve great things.

Upon the recovery of his Majesty, he and his attendants came south by slow degrees to Brechin, to Kinnaird, to Glamis, and then to Dundee. At this place he was received with great enthusiasm by the populace, and sat for about an hour on horseback in the market-place, while the eager people flocked to kiss his hand. From Dundee he went to Fingask, the seat of Sir David Threipland, where he lay that Saturday night, and next day being Sunday he arrived at Scone, within two miles of Perth.

Now, if the joy had been great at the news of the safe arrival of the King, with whom you must remember it was supposed were thousands of troops and much treasure, the disappointment and chagrin on learning that he came almost alone were great in proportion. And when it was discovered that neither he nor the Earl of Mar were moving actively in the matter of defending the town, or taking steps to meet the enemy, much discontent arose, and the whole place was in a state of dissatisfaction. My Lord Mar attempted to pacify them by spreading a fresh report of help coming from France; the presence of the young Lord Tinmouth, the Duke of Berwick’s son, was pointed to as a proof that the Regent was now inclined to the Cause; General Hamilton was again in Paris urging our necessity, and the Duke of Argyle’s men were wavering and deserting, it was said, day by day. The weather and the state of the roads were also given as a reason for inaction, and there was much talk of the coming Coronation at Scone. But all this availed little, and when it transpired on the arrival of one of our spies from Stirling, that Argyle was reconnoitring the roads, and making preparations for having them cleared of the snow, with a view to laying siege to Perth, the excitement rose to fever-heat while the dissatisfaction gave place to joy. Was it conceivable that they should remain, they said, to be slaughtered like badgers in their holes without making a fight for it? No, it was impossible; they could remain no longer inactive, and at once preparations were begun for defending the town, planting guns, digging trenches, throwing up breast-works and the like, which gave the impatient people something to occupy their thoughts, though, as you know, the work was quite ineffectual, for the town would have been very easily taken had the Government troops advanced upon it.

And now comes one of the saddest incidents in all this sad history; an instance of the cruelty of war upon the innocent, who must often suffer, though guiltless of either crime or provocation. I know not in whose brain the unhappy thought first had birth, and indeed, as Sir Anthony now tells me, the idea itself, from a strategic point of view, was not altogether a mistake. But to us it came as a shock so grievous that for a long time we could scarce bear to talk of it, and in that way, perhaps, we did both the thought and the action injustice.

Upon a second attempt of the Duke of Argyle to view the roads from Dunblane to Auchterarder, which he made accompanied by General Cadogan, who we heard had been sent down from London for the very purpose of hastening the Duke’s movements, the leaders at Perth became so alarmed, having thought themselves secure while the severe weather lasted, that an order was given out, signed alas! by the King, for the burning of the villages of Auchterarder, Crieff, Blackford, Dunning and Muthill, with all corn and forage which could not be carried off, so as to lay waste the country between Stirling and Perth, in order to embarrass the Government troops.

Now to my mind, and to many others at the time, this cruel order was resultant of nothing but misery to those who had no right to suffer, for although it gave to Argyle’s men the inconvenience and discomfort of camping for two nights on the bare ground, it neither detained them in their progress, nor disordered their arrangements, seeing that on so short a march ’twas possible to carry both forage and vivers with them. We know that the King was most reluctant to sign the order, and that two days after he writ a letter to the Duke, begging him to employ a certain sum of money to be paid out of his own scant treasury, for compensating the unfortunate people so harshly deprived of their homes. The letter was, I am told, suppressed, but of the King’s regret and of his kind intentions I have never entertained the slightest doubt. Indeed, the Earl of Mar let it be widely known that his Majesty wished it given out, that if any of the poor folk pleased to come to Perth, they should be maintained and all care taken of them. Howbeit the deed was done, and many a long day would pass ere the memory of it should die away.

And now in Perth the Council sat all night deliberating what should be done, and messengers were posting constantly between that place and Scone, for the great men could not come to an agreement. On one side was the military party, who, knowing the minds of the soldiers on the matter, were all for fighting and that at once. On the other side were the Earl of Mar and some of his friends, who said they were not willing thus to risk the safety of the King. It was suggested to the latter that the King’s presence was not necessary in a battle, and that if he were placed in security, his faithful adherents would prove their loyalty by fighting for him to the death. They were ready, they said, to die for him; but not to turn their backs like scoundrels and poltroons without striking a blow for him who had come so far to trust his person and his fortunes in their hands. Words ran high, and some of the Highlanders ruffled the great men in the open streets, and told them in plain terms that they were betraying the King rather than helping him. One who was thus accosted, a friend of my Lord Mar’s, stopped to answer them, and Mr. Fleming heard this conversation pass between them.

“Why, what would you have us do?” said the gentleman. “Do!” says the other. “What did you call us to arms for? Was it to run away? What did the King come hither for? Was it to see his people butchered by the hangman, and not strike a stroke for their lives? Let us die like men and not like dogs!” “What can we do?” cries the nobleman to these brave words. “Let us,” says the Highlander, “have a council of war, and let all the General Officers speak their minds freely, the King himself being present, and if it be agreed there not to fight, we must submit.”

Some went further than this, for one bold chief threatened them, that the loyal clans would take the King from them, and then if he were willing to die like a Prince he should find that there were ten thousand gentlemen in Scotland who were not afraid to die with him.

As some said one thing and some another, the tumult and disorder increased, till at last some of the wiser among the officers quieted the soldiers by assuring them there would be a council held that night, that the King begged them as his good friends to abide by what was then decided, as he was resolved himself to do: either to put it to the hazard and take his fate with them, or if otherwise advised to abide by that.

Accordingly, the Grand Council met, and much was said on this side and much on that, but from what I was told by Mr. Fleming, it seemed that all the talk was only for show, for the meeting was adjourned without any decision having been come to. Next morning, however, a select number having been called together, the Earl of Mar confided to them in secret, that owing to many circumstances which he considered it inconvenient to divulge, he found it advisable not only to beat a retreat from Perth, but to put an end to their design for the time being. ’Twas whispered, he said, that there were traitors in the camp, men of high standing, who were already conspiring to seize upon the person of the King and deliver him up to the Duke of Argyle. It was almost incredible, said the Earl, that such a thing could be; but with a free pardon and £100,000, even an honest Scotsman might be tempted. Finally, as the Duke was now within a few miles of Perth, it was absolutely necessary that we should evacuate the town.

After this, said my informant, there was nothing more left but to acquiesce in the decision, though by many it was done with a very bad grace. That the King himself was sorely grieved, I make no doubt, and it was with a heavy heart, I trow, that he consented to leave Scone, and to follow his army across the Tay. That river being frozen hard they were able, horse and foot, to pass over as if upon dry land, and quickly as they had acted they were but just in time, for, expresses having carried the news of the retreat to the enemy, a body of dragoons entered the town the very next day. To the majority of our officers no further instructions had been issued than that the army was to retire upon Aberdeen, so that what followed after came upon them as a cruel surprise, and by many of them, I feel sure, ’twas never either understood or forgiven.

And now, if you please, I must leave Head-quarters, and return to Alva to let you know how things were going there.

CHAPTER XXII — LETTER IV

The short afternoon was closing in. The snow was falling steadily and soft, for there was no wind and the frost still held. We sat at work in the hall, being gathered there for warmth, for in this hard winter when so many poor were abroad, my lady thought shame to burn coal freely, choosing rather to give it away to her poorer neighbours, who, you may be sure, blessed her for the thought. She had bidden us bring our work and sit by her as she span, for she knew how restless and unhappy we were, and hoped perhaps to ease her own burdened heart by friendly and intimate talk.

We had that day had news which moved my lady sadly. For General Cadogan, who shortly before had arrived at Stirling, having been sent from the Court in London to urge the Duke of Argyle to immediate action, had brought with him an order to deprive Colonel Erskine of the Command of the Castle, and to send him, together with his son, John, under a Guard to London, where he was to be lodged in the Fleet prison. The thought of the poor old gentleman being made to suffer the hardships of the long journey in this cruel winter weather, was very bitter to us all, and to be obliged to sit helpless and do nothing but talk, was, as Betty cried impatiently, the worst of it.

“I am convinced,” my lady said, again and again, “that nothing can be found against them save their relationship to Sir John, and my Lord Mar’s friendship for the Colonel, and that, as you know, has lasted many years and is quite unconnected with this affair. ’Twould be unreasonable indeed to think it.”

“Oh, sister,” cried Betty vehemently, “do you think those fools have any reason? If they had, would they not know that it is they who are in the wrong, and stop all this cruel opposition? But for poor Colonel Erskine I agree with all you say, and I must own I hope the good gentleman may be treated with all the care and respect he deserves.”

“’Tis done to spite the Earl of Mar,” said my lady, “you may be sure. The Governorship has been in his family for hundreds of years, and my uncle holds it for him as his Lieutenant. I am not so blind as not to see they are in the right to make a change at such a time, but ’tis neither kind nor just to send a harmless old man to prison at such a distance, in weather like this.”

“Who will take his place, madam, think you?” asked I.

“’Tis an open secret that the Government will offer it to Lord Rothes,” said Betty. “That has long been talked in Fife.”

“Well,” said my lady, “he is a humane and generous enemy; we have little to fear from him. If only they had confined the Colonel in Blackness or Edinburgh Castle, and saved him the horrors of that long journey to London.”

And again the tears came to her eyes, for there was a tender friendship between these two, and my lady would have guarded the old man with a daughter’s care.

There was nothing to say to comfort her, and we sat silent, weaving our sad thoughts into our work as women will, for each of us had, as you know, our private weight of woe. My own heart was away with the King’s army, wondering and pondering over the welfare of one of his least important officers; poor Betty, I knew, was following her brother in his ignominious flight, and my dear lady, besides her other troubles, had ever the fear for Sir John’s safety upon her mind.

It was while we were sitting thus, wrapped in gloom, that a messenger arrived with news for my lady. With a sigh she bade him enter, fearing that, like Job, she was about to hear of disaster upon disaster. And so, indeed, it proved. This man was come to tell us how his Grace of Argyle had set the country people to work, to the number of about two thousand, to clear the roads of the snow, so as to make it possible for his army to march to Perth; and scarcely was he finished speaking when there arrived one of our neighbours, Mr. Abercrombie of Tullibody I think it was, who broke to us the awful news of the burning of the villages. I will not shock you now by describing the way in which the deed was done, for officers, I suppose, are not wholly responsible for the actions of the soldiery, and sure I am that those who gave the order had no thought of thieving, or plundering from the poor people, whom they believed themselves obliged to render homeless; but neither was it necessary to take them by surprise at four o’clock in the morning, and turn them out of their beds in scant attire in the bitter cold. Long before Mr. Abercrombie, himself much moved, had come to an end of his recital, we sat horrified and with streaming eyes around him, seeing as he spoke the women with their infants, the feeble old men, the tottering children, hungry and naked, driven ruthlessly through the snow.

“And who dare issue an order so monstrous?” cried Betty at last, being ever the first to find her tongue. “Who among our people could invent so diabolical a measure?”

“Ah, madam,” said our guest sadly, “all is fair in war ’tis said, and if we can embarrass the enemy we think little of the means taken to do so. The order was signed by the Chevalier himself, as was necessary, he being at the head of his army.”

“I’ll not believe it!” cried Betty. “He is a humane and gentle prince. I’ll never believe he understood what he wished them to do.”

“Why, Bess, my dear,” said my lady, “’twas sure not by his good will ’twas done; but can you not see that if his General Officers advised it, the King must put his name to the order?”

“Ay, sister,” wailed Betty, “and can you not see the folly of it, even apart from the cruelty? I say that they have betrayed their King. Who will believe in the reluctance of his Majesty? Who will ever know anything of it? Whatever happens now, this deed that has been done in his name will cling to the memory of the people. Whenever he is mentioned their hearts will burn within them at the thought of it. Never, never will they do him justice, but will remember him only as the cause of their misery and ruin for ever.”

My lady bowed her head sadly, and I wept the more, for Betty’s burning words fell upon our ears like a solemn prophecy, and we knew that her words were true. ’Twas indeed a miserable and mistaken act, long, long to be rued among us.

“I hear,” said Mr. Abercrombie, “that the barony of Dalreoch, belonging to Mr. Haldane of Gleneagles, is utterly destroyed; straw and corn and fodder being heaped around the houses and then set alight, and the servants and farm people having barely escaped with their lives. They looked to find horses and cattle for their use, but those have long ago been carried off.”

“I am sorry for my sister,” said my lady, “but they suffer only with the rest; and she at least has the comfort of knowing that her husband is on the safe side of the fence. We are told, sir, that the Duke is pushing on towards Perth. Is it known in that town of his approach?”

“Oh, without doubt,” replied our visitor, “and for some time they have been occupied fortifying the place; but I have private information, madam, that ’tis likely the army may retire to Aberdeen, rather than stay to be besieged in Perth. And after all this may be the safer method to draw Argyle further from his base.”

“Why, indeed, I am glad to hear this,” cried my lady, (for since the departure of her brother from Perth, we had heard but little news from that quarter); “they will fight him further north, and for one thing they will be nearer the sea, so that the troops when they arrive from France may be able to join them without delay.”

I thought that Mr. Abercrombie looked dubious at the mention of troops, but he did not discourage my lady, and after some more talk, which I am bound to say he endeavoured to lead into a more cheerful channel, he went away.

But it was impossible to hide from ourselves, and from each other, that our hopes were very faint indeed and our fears greatly increased. We could talk and think of little save those poor, starving, suffering folk in the Stewarty of Strathearn, and many were the plans arranged by Lady Erskine to send them help of food and clothing, tho’ the poor about her own doors were numerous and necessitous enough.

Meantime the enemy, having once begun to act, seemed bent on losing no more time. The great fall of snow, which was everywhere two or three feet deep, was followed by another hard frost, and the roads were thus rendered extremely difficult. But the Duke, urged on by his orders from Court, was only waiting for the arrival of some regiments from Glasgow, and artillery from Berwick and Edinburgh. The storm having delayed a train of artillery from England under Colonel Borgard, it arrived in the Roads of Leith late one Saturday afternoon, and marching with all possible speed to Stirling, reached that place in time to join the main army in its march northwards. Once again upon a Sunday could be seen the dark stream of horse, foot, and artillery winding slowly along the snowy road, and though the Duke went no further that day than to Dunblane, a detachment was sent forward to the Castle of Braco, which however they found deserted. And still we had to sit and nurse our fears in patience, and for a whole long week we suffered the martyrdom that women in all ages of the world have suffered, that of sitting at home and waiting.

All sorts of rumours continued to fly about, and friendly neighbours came to discuss whatever they heard. There had been a battle—the King’s army was stricken—nay, the French troops had arrived in time and Argyle had had the worst of it. There had been no fight, but half the Highland chiefs had surrendered and asked for protection, indeed they had delivered the King’s person to his Grace of Argyle who was bringing him in triumph to Edinburgh; or again the King had been crowned at Scone, and upon hearing of it the greater number of Argyle’s soldiers, excepting always the Dutch troops, had deserted to the enemy. These and other wild stories were afloat, to be listened to, frowned at, laughed over, and, for the most part, rejected, but nothing so wild and improbable as the truth ever entered our heads.

It was not until Tuesday, the 7th of February, that the final blow came, and again it was Mr. Abercrombie that brought the news. The King’s army had evacuated Perth, it is true, and under General Gordon had retired upon Aberdeen; but the King, accompanied by the Earl of Mar, and one or two other noblemen, had embarked at Montrose three days before, and were now well on their way back to France.

It was impossible to palliate or disguise the bitter fact, and our informant blurted it out in the shortest and plainest words. What terror we were in, what surprise and disappointment, what shame and chagrin we suffered, I will leave you to imagine. By degrees we learnt that there had been no council held by the General Officers before taking this step, that only a few intimates of my Lord Mar knew of it, and that the rest were full of rage and indignation, considering that they had been betrayed and abandoned to the enemy. That the King had been persuaded it was the best and wisest thing he could do, believing that with his removal the Rising would collapse, the army disperse, and the country become quiet, we could not of course have any doubt. But when all was said and done, the vengeance of the Government was still to be reckoned with, and he had left them to face it alone. It was not by my lady nor her sister that any censure was passed upon their beloved King, nor did they voice their opinion of my Lord Mar in any way to blame him. But those outside the house were not so discreet, and indeed it added to our pain to hear the free comments that were made upon the affair.

In the meantime, where was Sir John; what had become of the Master of Sinclair, whose wisdom and foresight Betty now extolled to the skies; and what, oh, what of Barbara’s lover, too insignificant to all but herself to be worthy of mention in the general reports? I can tell you there were three sorrowful women at Alva in those days, and the saddest of all perhaps was my Lady Erskine, who went about with folded lips and fear-haunted eyes, forcing herself to her daily tasks, as she told me after, “with a thousand pins and needles in her heart.”

By degrees we heard fresh tidings: how General Gordon had abandoned Aberdeen, after occupying it for only two days; how the army, upon deciding that each man must shift for himself, had dispersed in various directions, promising however to come together again upon word received from the King; how many of the officers and noblemen had embarked in ships for France and Sweden; and how others, less fortunate, were hiding in the mountain-districts of the Highlands, expecting, as was natural, to be hunted by the Government troops, and waiting till they also could find ships to bear them to the Continent. But all this time not a word of our good Sir John. We watched my lady’s face grow whiter and more worn, and longed in our helplessness to comfort her.

“Why, oh why, does he not contrive to send word to her?” cried Betty, the tears in her eyes. “He cannot be dead. I defy them to keep him prisoner; and if he be anywhere in Scotland he could surely have sent a messenger of some sort to Alva. But men are all alike, thoughtless and selfish, and have little care for the unfortunate woman at home once they have left them.”

I forgave the bitterness of her tone knowing how her heart yearned after her eldest brother, for no news had been received for long, and her words applied equally to him. But the very next day relief came.

We had but just finished dinner when a noise in the lobby attracted our attention, and Charles rising and running to the door called out: “’Tis Andrew! Oh, mama, Andrew Short is returned. And why did you not bring my papa home again, Andrew? Where is he?”

Trembling and agitated we rose to greet him, for Andrew had been with Sir John, and we dreaded what his tidings might be. A sore-stricken and weary man was he that entered the room; so woe-begone his countenance, so shame-faced his mien that I for one feared the very worst. “Andrew, where is Sir John?” cried my lady, running up to him, and looking in his face with such haggard anxiety in her eyes as touched the good fellow to the heart.

“Sir John is safe, my leddy!” he said quickly, in a hoarse voice, “or ye never wad hae seen me here. But does yer leddyship ken whaur the King is, an’ his freend, the Earl o’ Mar?”

“Alas, yes! my good Andrew, and our hearts are heavy enough at the knowledge, and all it means to Scotland. But you are spent and hungry, and though you must satisfy me about Sir John, we will wait till you are warmed and fed before you give us further news. You have a letter for me, belike?”

She looked at him eagerly, and her face fell when he shook his head.

“Na, my leddy, nae letter. Sir John wadna trust a written line; but I was tae tell ye he sailed for France on the second day of this month, that was twa days afore the ither folk took their leave, ye ken, mem. And landed safe he is, I mak’ nae doot, by this time.”

My lady sank down upon a chair, and covered her face with her hands for a little space.

“Thank God!” she said at length, “he is at least beyond danger. But can you not tell me more, Andrew? Who sent him away, and for what purpose?”

“My leddy,” said the man, “I canna tell ye mair than Sir John tellt me, and that was that he had orders tae sail for France from Montrose on the Thursday nicht, wi’ despatches, he said, tae the Queen; that I was tae bide whaur I was for twa days, and then tae come hame as fast but as secret as I could manage it, and bring his love and kind respects tae yer leddyship, and tell ye he was gane awa’ tae France.”

And though we questioned him closely he had no more to tell us of the matter. After he had been sent away to rest and be fed, my lady looked at us uneasily.

“I must send an express to Charles Erskine this very night,” she said, “to give him news of his brother. But why has Sir John sent me no instructions as to what he wishes me to do?”

“Indeed, sister,” said Betty, “it surprises me that Sir John did not acquaint you with his plans when you saw him at Dysart. It is impossible he did not know something of what was to happen, for he was ever in the confidence of my Lord Mar. Why did he not prepare you for this?”

“God knows,” said my lady, in sad perplexity, gazing out of the window at the snow-clad world; “and He alone knows what will happen to us now.”

“Perhaps if Sir John knew anything he was bound to secrecy,” cried I, who could not bear to hear my kind guardian blamed even by those who loved him. “But tell me, dear madam, what is’t you fear?”

“Vengeance, Barbara,” she answered, with sombre earnestness, “the vengeance of the reigning house. Sir John is no longer a trusted agent of the rightful King, he is a Rebel, an Outlaw, an Exile; and who knows whether he may not be attainted, and all his estates forfeited to the Crown?”

“What’s forfeited, mama?” cried little Charles. “Oh, I do want my papa to come home,” and at that my lady caught the boy to her breast, and broke into a fit of wild weeping, pouring out her anguish, poor soul, to us who wept with her, all the more freely that she had hitherto kept her feelings so well under control.

But the express was sent that afternoon to Edinburgh, and the very next evening Mr. Erskine was with us. Kind and calm and cheerful, it is impossible to exaggerate the helpful influence he exercised upon us. He combated my lady’s fears, telling her that though it was impossible to know yet what parliament might or might not decide, he had great hopes that, as the Rebellion had not gone far, they would not act with extreme rigour. Again, he said, although Sir John had shown himself active in the Cause, he had many friends upon the other side, all of them in good odour with the Government; and everything that could be said or done in Sir John’s favour, to create a feeling of confidence, would, he knew, be willingly carried out. In the meantime he thought there was nothing to do but to wait quietly and see what should transpire. His one anxiety seemed to be that his brother, Sir John, in his impulsive way, might decide at once to settle abroad and desire his wife to come to him with their children, and this he thought would be unwise, as it would mean abandoning his estate to whoever might be ready to seize it. Patience and silence were the two things he recommended, besides promising my lady all the help in his power whenever she should desire it. The letter of the thirteenth of February was written while Mr. Erskine was in the house with us, and in it you will see that my dear lady had schooled herself to write quietly and moderately. The very day before she wrote, poor Betty had been somewhat comforted by receiving a letter from her brother, who wrote to her on the eve of his sailing for France.

He had, after many hardships, got as far north as Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands, and from thence to Stromness, where, with several others, he seized a ship with a French pilot on board and set sail for Calais. Her mind was therefore at rest about his person, though like my lady she dreaded on his account the impending vengeance which had all the horrors of the unknown.

My Dearest Life,

It was no small satisfaction to me in the present state of affairs to hear you was gone. It is what I shall bless God for while I live. Your servant’s return was the first account I had; tho’ my grief was unexpressable the thoughts of your safety did mitigate it very much. It was impossible but you did foresee what wold happen when I was with you, and if you did, you were much to blame not (to) tell me your thoughts of itt, and what methods should be taken for your private affairs. Charles is here just now and most kindly offers to doe all in his power, as I doubt not all your other friends will; but he expected I wold have had a method from you. Whether you did not imagin so suden an end, or would not give mee a sore heart befor the time, I know not.

Now let me beg of you, as you regard me and your children, not to have any uneasy thoughts about us. I am not afraid of want of sober bread for them and myself; but as I told you the thoughts of your being in pinches is very Bitter, and the prospect I must have of being absent from you for some time, and perhaps for ever, is what imploys my thoughts night and day. But why should I complain of what God in his wise providence has ordered as a just punishment for the abuse of many mercys. Let us then, my Dearest, submit with patience, and trust in that mercyful Father who has hitherto preserv’d you from so imminent dangers, that He will, in His own good time, give us a comfortable meeting, and to live as becomes the children of affliction, in endeavouring to set our hearts above the world and the vanitys thereof.

I am most impatient to hear from you, and if ye knew what a relief it wold be to have a letter, you wold (have) writ the moment you landed. The person mine is directed to wold find a way to send one to me. I was heartily sorry you was not better provided with money, but if you please to take 100 pound from Mr. Gordon, and make him draw on his correspondent at Edinr., I shall endeavour to have it ready on some day’s sight. I am to beg (you) earnestly to let me know what resolution you have taken as to the place of your abode, and not to be sudden in resolving, but to let me know what you intend, and I hop as you regard my quiet you will not doe anything till you have my consent. I must see what shape things will take here, before I can frame a resolution of seeing you.... There was a great consternation amongst your freinds att the departure of two great men that followed you, and I find the not acquainting them with it is thought hard. I hear they keep still together, but that cannot doe long, God help them! You are lucky in your misfortune that you have kind freinds that are both willing and capable to serve you, and I am hopeful by their means to be in a better state than many others, which is great deal more than we deserve.

Now let me again beg of you to writ freely to me, and tell me every uneasy thought you have, and make youself as easy as possible, and put in practice the virtue of resignation which you have so often talkt of to me. The more frequently you writ I will be the easyer. Your children are well, but poor B. is in great affliction for her brother and talks of leaveing me. Charls and all freinds here salute you, and I am, my Dearest, Life,

Yours,

Fe. 13.

I must say Charls makes all the kind offers to me that you can imagine.

CHAPTER XXIII — LETTER V

The relief of pouring out her heart to her husband was, as my dear lady once told me, very great, and I think it a real mercy that she could not foresee how long her letters were to be of reaching him. That they eventually did so, their presence before me is proof; but many of them are endorsed as having been received many weeks, nay, months, after they were written. My lady was so anxious to set Sir John’s mind at rest about herself and their children, so troubled on the score of money for his sake, and so uncertain as to what his next movements might be, that you can picture to yourselves her distress at not hearing either from or of him week after week. In spite of her care in seeking to provide him with money, Sir John seems at first to have been in straits for want of it, and it will interest you to know that among these papers there is a letter from the Queen’s Private Secretary, Mr. Dicconson, endorsed—“Came with the bill of 600 livres,” which I shall copy here.

St. Germain
Mar. ye. 6. 1716.

Sir,

I am ordered by the Queen to send you a small bill presuming you may be at present want of a little money, which her Majesty is troubled her circumstances will not permit her to make more considerable, but hopes she may be better able hereafter and that this might be a present supply. I beg you will please to do me the justice to believe that I am with all imaginable sincerity and esteem,

Your most humble and most obedient servant,

(Signed) W. Dicconson.

I remember that when my lady heard of this thoughtful kindness on the part of her Majesty, who out of her poverty endeavoured to help all who were suffering through their loyalty to her son, she could not refrain from shedding tears.

But this information came to Alva many weeks later. In the meantime, we hoped for letters from day to day, and had pain and anxiety enough in hearing of the many calamities that every hour came to our knowledge. Our hearts were wrung by the news of the sentence pronounced against Lords Kenmure, Derwentwater, Nithisdale and others; and eagerly did we await the result of the many petitions presented to the King for their reprieve. How we prayed in private, and spoke in public about them and the heart-broken wives, Ladys Kenmure, Derwentwater, and Nithisdale, who, braving the King’s displeasure, and in the case of the last, his determined wrath, in order to beg for mercy for their beloved husbands, made every effort to save them from death. How bitterly we wept on hearing of the executions that took place on Tower Hill one dreary day in the end of February. But no tears were of any avail; only the memory of two brave and innocent men lived long in the hearts of Scots and English alike. My Lord Kenmure died professing his loyalty to King James; and the young Earl of Derwentwater, much loved and long lamented, gave to the Sheriff on the scaffold a paper containing his dying profession of innocence. Part of this paper I copied in my little diary, and here I reproduce it for those who never saw it.

“Wherefore if in this affair I have acted rashly it ought not to affect the innocent; I intended to wrong nobody, but to serve my King and Country, and that without self-interest, hoping by the example I gave to have induced others to do their duty. And God, who sees the secrets of my heart, knows I speak truth.... I die a Roman Catholic.... I freely forgive such as reported false things of me; and I hope to be forgiven the trespasses of my youth by the Father of Infinite Mercy into Whose hand I commit my soul.

(Signed) Jas. Derwentwater.”

Such brave, gentle, innocently touching words! Do you wonder that they dared not bring the poor, headless body openly from London to the north, but had it carried thither by night, bringing him home by stealth to his weeping and distracted people, who believed that the wrath of Heaven would surely fall upon the doers of this awful deed. It was said that the Duke of Argyle, travelling to London, met the mournful procession on its way, and was so struck by the grief and despair of the people that he represented to the Government the unwisdom of their act, and thereby helped to turn their hearts to clemency.

It was with a shock of relief and joy that we heard immediately after this of the escape of my Lord Nithisdale out of prison. Long years afterwards I was told the whole story of his brave wife’s devotion: how she made the journey from Scotland to London mostly on horseback, the snow, which often reached to her horse’s girths, having stopped the Stagecoach, and even the Common Post, south of York. In spite of this she arrived safe and sound at London, only to find that no one to whom she applied could give her any hope, and that even the doors of her husband’s prison were closed against her, unless she consented to share his confinement. This, for reasons of her own, she refused to do, but by bribing the guards she contrived to see him several times and confided to him her plans. When she presented her petition to the King, the latter refused so much as to look at her, but treated her in a way not much to his honour or credit. However, on the very eve of the execution, as you know, she contrived by the help of her maid (a faithful woman) to dress my lord in female clothes, and bring him out of the prison under the very eyes of the guard. It happened that the coach of the Venetian Ambassador was to go that night to Dover to meet his brother, who was arriving as his guest in England. Lord Nithisdale, attired in the Ambassador’s livery, joined the retinue, and by help of friends at Dover hired a boat which landed him safe at Calais. His lady’s brave work was not yet finished, for she journeyed back to Scotland, accompanied by her maid and one servant, lying at all the smallest inns, and braving many hardships till she reached home. Before going to London, she had, with the help of the gardener, buried all the family papers; and knowing that search would soon be made, she contrived to secure every valuable document, and take them with her to Traquair, where her sister, the Countess, promised to preserve them. She then returned home, saw all her neighbours, and invited the magistrates to come and make the search for themselves; but next day before day-break she was off again to London as before. This conduct made the King so angry, that he said my Lady Nithisdale gave him more trouble and anxiety than any woman in all Europe. For a fortnight she lay concealed in London, and then escaped to France, where she joined her lord.

These details, as you know, I only learned long after; but the happy fact of Lord Nithisdale’s escape, and the action of his heroic wife, were common talk among us at the time. My dear lady envied the latter her chance of doing and suffering for her husband, as what wife in like circumstances would not; for sure the harder part is to sit still and do nothing, with one’s heart alive for action.

About this time came a letter from the dowager Lady Alva, offering a visit to her dear daughter-in-law, Catherine, which offer went exceedingly against my lady’s inclination. Not that she did not love her mother-in-law—and at another time would have welcomed her gladly to the house—but just now, with their political views so at variance from each other, she did not see how they could meet and talk with any show of cordiality and agreement. She could not bear, she said, to hear Sir John blamed, and she foresaw the dowager mourning over her son’s Rebellion, and drawing dark pictures of the future for herself and her little lads. At the same time she was resolved not to fail in duty to her husband’s mother, especially as by keeping friendly with her she might incline the favour of those in authority, for old Lady Alva was a determined Whig, and no shadow of doubt had ever touched her family.

My lady’s brothers-in-law, Mr. Charles Erskine and Mr. Patrick Campbell of Monzie, were constant in their care and interest for all her concerns, and as she said herself, she was supported on all sides by the kindest of friends. To say truth, her bitterest trouble was the absence of her husband, and the uncertainty of the measures to be taken by Government against the Rebels. Then, too, she was sick at heart for the sufferings of others: the imprisonment of her uncle, Colonel Erskine; the grief of her sister Grizel, whose husband, Mr. Paterson, was also in exile; of Lady Kippendavie, Lady Keir, and many others; not forgetting poor Lady Jean, my Lord Mar’s sister, who besides her sorrow at her brother’s failure, was suffering from the like bereavement. No news came from the Master of Sinclair, but I think my lady’s heart was so turned against him by his conduct at Perth that she did not greatly care what became of him, though poor Betty spoke of him constantly with much affection and regret.

And so the sad days went forward, and February wore to an end, and still my lady and poor Barbara had no word of cheer to lighten their hearts. The following letter is almost a repetition of the last, but I give it in its place, as to me it seems like my lady’s voice, alive and speaking.

My Dearest Life,

I have good reason to hop you arriv’d safe, since I hear all the three ships that went off at that time landed safely; but I am surprised you do not fall upon some way to let me hear from you. I cannot express my impatience to have a particular account where you are and where you intend to make your abode. I writ to you the 13th of this month; I hop it has come to your hand before this time. I told you in it to take 100 pound from Mr. Gordon and cause him to draw upon his correspondent in Edinr. for the money. I shall doe all that’s possible to get more again you want it. I am very easy as to my own particular or my boys; very sober things will serve us, and if you be well and easy in your mind and have what is necessare, I ought to be very thankfull. I must confess I have not minded my own misfortune. The miserys of others ha’s so much affected me, and the concern I am in for my poor Uncle and Mr. P. and many others does so afflict me, I can think on nothing else, and whatever way I turn my thoughts I have nothing but dismall prospects before me. God Almighty support all of us under so bitter a calamity and give us the right use of it. We ought to submit with patience and trust in the mercy of Him who hath smitten us, and if we turn to Him as we ought, He will heal us in his own good time.

I expect your mother here next week. You may imagine there will be no harmony in our conversation; but I am resolv’d to make the best I can of all things, and shal omit nothing that can be for your interest however uneasy it may be to myself, in hops when the best is made of your affairs the present circumstances can allow, we may have something to live (on) together in some retir’d place, till kind providence give a turn to bring us to our own; and if that never happen, when we come to dye it will be all the same whether we have liv’d in plenty or in more straitning circumstances.

I think if things continue as they are I would leave Britain with a desire never to see it again. I am sometimes afraid you go to Moscoe without acquainting me; let me beg of you as you regard my life doe not think of it, at least for some time, and if after that you think it convenient I will go very chearfully with you to any corner of the earth; so I beg of you resolve to do nothing of that nature rashly, nor must you do it without acquainting me, and get my consent before you doe it. This I beg’d in my last, and I hope (for) your complyance if you either wish or expect ever to see me again.

Your man, Andrew, came here some days ago, very well. I regrated he was not with you, but if you please to let me know if you desire to have him, I’ll endeavour to find some opportunity of sending him, and in the meantime I shall imploy him here. Charles and P. C. will do all in their power for manageing your affairs after the best manner, butt I fear there can be little done by any, because all is done by the folks who desire nothing so much as the utter ruin of this country, and it will be a general measure. All your friends will be at their country-seats, so if you write it must not be either to Charles or P. C. My sister, Betty, is here and gives you her kind service, as does poor Aunt Betty, who is in great affliction. Wishing my dear all manner of happyness.

I am in all sincerity,

yours.

Fe. 26.

The friends you left together are all dispers’d; there is none Prisoners but Mephon (Methvine) and some others who gave up themselves. Your boys are very well.

At last the snow began to melt under the bright spring sun, and a soft wind blowing from the south-west brought a gentle rain upon its wings, which hastened the thawing of the hard ground. After a winter of such length and severity, it was indeed a glad thing to behold the earth, (wondrous green and fresh) pushing aside her wintry mantle and laying bare her bosom to the sky. Small things began to force their way through the surface of the ground, tender buds showed upon the trees, and after the long silence the birds in garden and glen took up their music, and sang the gladsome Life-March of the Spring.

I walked one afternoon with my dear lady alone under the bare branches, and tried to beguile her from her sad thoughts by talk of the opening season which, last year, she had told me she so loved; but her face was pale and worn, and she answered me absently, though with her wonted gentleness. I knew her very spirit was weary, and I had no word of comfort to give her. Presently we sat down upon a wooden bench which the westering sun made warm with his beams, and tired of my own listless efforts at cheerfulness, I fell into a wistful silence. All at once a mavis on a branch behind us broke into song so sweet and thrilling that my lady clasped my arm to hold me still. Sudden and clear and short was his lay, and then after a slight pause he sang it over again. In the silence and the sunlight, with the cool scent of the damp earth in our nostrils, the bird’s singing seemed like the voice of the spirit of gladness bidding us take joy in the renewal of life. But strange to say it was not joy but pain that wrung my heart-strings, and my dear lady laid her head upon my shoulder and wept.

“Oh, Barbara,” she sighed at last, “that bird and his song, that last year I listened to so gladly, how it pierces my heart with its sweetness, and only makes my sadness and loneliness more grievous. It raises in me such a longing for the sight of my dear husband’s face, that I feel at times the pain of it will kill me! How is it possible to live with a heart so heavy? The burden of it is sometimes greater than I can bear.”

“I know, I know,” I murmured; for her words did so fully express my feelings that they seemed to come from my own heart, and indeed I thought that I felt and suffered even as she did, knowing little, in my ignorance, of the difference between us. For, as the tiny mountain-burn that tinkles down the glen is to the broad, full, swiftly-flowing river, so is the love of a maid for her untried lover to the love of a wife for her husband, the father of her children. Something of this thought must have come to my lady’s mind, for she turned to me very kindly.

“Poor little Barbara! I am sure you think you do; and I fear you must have found me selfish and hard, in that I have spoken no word to you of Mr. Fleming, but I deemed it best, my dear, to keep silent, hoping you were learning to forget, or at least that you did not grieve too much.”

“Oh, cousin!” I cried, the barriers of my reserve breaking down before her sympathy. “He is ever in my thoughts. How could I forget? All day I think of him, and at night I dream such dreary dreams. If I could know where he is, or what has become of him, what would I not give? And I let him go so coldly, madam; he does not even know that I love him.”

“Why, as to that, my dear,” cried my lady, cheerfully, now bent upon comforting me, “I do not think you need have any concern. Words are not everything, Barbara, and I am sure you did not flout him.”

“Oh, madam,” I cried, “do you think I was too bold? I would not have him regard me too lightly, either.”

My lady laughed. “Well, child, you are hard to please, and I must leave Mr. Fleming to tell you his opinion of you himself. I would we could have news of him again,” she sighed, “we know nothing since his return to Perth.”

“Do you think, cousin, that he also will be in danger of ‘the vengeance?’” I asked timidly, for by this name we commonly spoke of the dreaded retribution.

“I cannot say, my dear; but I hope as he is young, and has taken no prominent part, they will not make an example of him. His kinsman, the Earl of Wigton, is in Edinburgh Castle; but his father, as you know, is a rich and respected London merchant, who has probably friends at Court. I have asked my brother, Charles, to find out if possible what has become of him, but no news have reached him as yet.”

I rose and turned my face away to hide my quivering lips.

“It is hard to bear!” I cried.

“My dearest,” she answered, “it is hard; and I want to tell you how greatly I admire you for your brave silence, hiding your own grief lest you should burden me the more. I cannot thank you enough for all you have done, and been, to me and mine at this time, but if ever I have a daughter, Barbara, I shall name her after you.”

With that she kissed me very kindly (though I knew of no reason for her gratitude), but almost immediately she broke out weeping again.

“Oh, hark to my promises,” she sobbed, “foolish woman that I am! To talk of future children when I know not whether I be not already a widow—God forgive me! I scarce knew what I was saying.”

And then I took to comforting her in turn (but you know she kept her promise three years later, when my dear god-daughter was born). Her second breakdown was so violent and so unusual, that at first I was alarmed for her health, but by-and-bye she quieted herself, and even smiled as she dried her eyes.

“Just for this once, Barbara, I have let myself weep my fill, and now I feel the lighter for it. ’Twas the mavis set me going, and I suppose it is not the first time that a bird’s song has caused a full heart to overflow.”

I never forgot the words, nor the scene; and that is the reason why always in my mind I connect the mavis’ singing with my dear Lady Erskine and her troubles, as I told you at the beginning of this story.

CHAPTER XXIV — LETTER VI

I have given you so much of woe and weeping that I begin to fear you must be weary of so dismal a tale, and I am quite glad to tell you now of a little lull in the tempest, and of a gleam of sunshine that shot through the clouds. It was a very little thing that caused it truly; nothing more important than a letter which arrived from Sir John at last, but it brought the colour back to my lady’s cheek, and the light to her eyes for a time.

The whole household was gladdened by the news of his safety, for he was at Paris awaiting the bidding of the King to attend him at Avignon, in good health and spirits; and, though chagrined at the sudden ending of all their endeavours, was hopeful that at some future time their efforts should be crowned with success.

I have here a small fragment of the journal which he kept on his voyage from Scotland, of which I will give you the first extract, and the last.

“Journal from the 2nd Feb., 1716.

Montrose.

2nd “Att night received my orders for going to france with dispatches to the Queen, the Regent, and E. Bolingbroke from the King, and to the last also from the D. of Mar.

9th “By 11 at night I gott to St. Germains. the Queen was not well and laid to sleep. I delivered my letters and other commissions to the Queen, who, about 12 o’clock, ordered me to goe immediately to Paris and look after E. Bolingbroke.”

Of his further movements at that particular time no record has been kept. The letter to his wife was like himself, frank and cheerful, hopeful and kind; with regrets for the sorrows and misfortunes of others, but no word of grudging or bitterness about his own lost labours. Even the servants imbibed courage from hearing of it, and the kind neighbours who asked discreet questions of my lady scarce needed a reply after looking at her face.

To add to our comfort, Mr. Charles Erskine, who was again expected at Alva, being prevented coming for some days, wrote to my lady telling her of news he had got from the north of those whom my lady calls in her letters to her husband his “fellow-travellers.” These were my Lord Tinworth, the Duke of Berwick’s son, with his uncle, Colonel Bulkeley, my Lord Talbot and my Lord Edward Drummond; and as my lady had been exceedingly anxious on the score of the first-named, whom Sir John had praised much as a fine, modest, and engaging youth, we were relieved, though somewhat disturbed, to learn what was become of him. A company of gentlemen, including the above, and amongst whom were the Marquis of Tullibardine, Earls of Marischall, Southesk and Linlithgow, Viscounts Kilsyth, Kingston and Dundee, Lords Pitsligo, Rollo and Burleigh, having gone to Peterhead in hopes of finding a ship, were obliged to return owing to the presence of a man-of-war near at hand. They had then made their way westward towards the other coast, where ships were expected to take them off to France, and at present, it was supposed, were in hiding among the mountains. “Among the names,” wrote Mr. Erskine, “of the junior officers who accompanied them I find that of your late guest, for whom you were enquiring, Mr. Anthony Fleming.”

So the worst part of our anxiety was passed. Sir John and my dear Mr. Fleming lived; and although months must pass before we could think of seeing them, or perhaps hearing aught of them, it was no longer agony to name them in our prayers, and ask God to protect them from further danger.

My lady answered the welcome letter in a much more cheerful strain than before.

March 12.

Yours of the date 20 of Fe. was most acceptable to me. I delayed answering my Dearest Life some days, expecting Charls here, that I might learn a little from him what were people’s opinions as to our present state ... but now I blame myself for delaying, and tho’ I still expect Charls I have no longer patience. I hop by the letters I have writ you will be easy as to me and your boys. I must own the miserys of others has so much affected me that I did not think on my own misfortune in such a manner as I wold at another time, and being absent from you is what affects me most; but since God has been so mercyfull to me in preserving your Life and giving you freedom and liberty to enjoy yourself in a good country, and at the same time affords what is needfull both for you and your family, I would be very unworthy to complain. Let things come to the worst, I make no doubt of getting a suitable allyment ... and there can nobody lose a groat by you, so you may be easy on that score. Your servants are all here, very well, which occasions me a greater family than is convenient; but justice and gratitude obliges me to itt, and it’s what I know you wold approve.... I have not heard of your drawing for 100 pound as I have twice desir’d you. I can tell you there is a fund for 200 more, so there is no need for you to straiten yourself or denye yourself what is either convenient or proper for you. I think you are in the right to go to a cheap place, but I could wish you had some of your neighbours and friends, who by this time are in the same country with you; it would make the time pass more agreeably.

There is no Prisoners yet except such as have given themselves up, and I am in no pain about them. I have converst with some of your neighbours since they were disperst; but there never were people so much confounded nor in such despair as they were in when they knew of the departure of these people, and all blame your friend, and think they might have done the same thing, and done it with a better Grace.

All the Lords went to the Highlands, and the clans design to defend themselves. I hear the forces are now ordered to go to the Highlands. Many went to Orkney, and there ha’s taken ship. Your fellow-travellers and others, of which number there were 70, went to Peterhead, and could not get away, were obligt to return and join with the clans. They will be exposed to hardships, but in such a case there is no help.... You tell me you have something in your head that could make us live easy, but it is not fit to write.... Well, I do not doubt but we shall again live happy together, and in the meantime I shall do all in my power for your interest, and shall denye myself the pleasure of seeing you till my being here can be no longer of use. I shall always prefer your interest to pleasing myself. Let me know if you want A. S—t sent to you.... I forgot to tell you P. C. is gone for London eight days agoe. There are some people here afraid of a war breaking out with France, and in that case I wish you had money remitted before that happened. I shall be uneasy for not hearing from you, and in fear you should be sent messages to Britain, which I beg of you, for God’s sake, as you regard my quiet and life, not to undertake. I take Charls’ advice and P. C.’s in all your concerns, and they are both in as great concern for you and the interest of your family as it’s possible for you to imagine. I believe all your other friends will do what’s in their power when there is occasion. Let things come to the worst, I have no doubt but we shall have a reasonable competence for us and our children without being obligt to anybody. Ye know I always look to the dark side of the cloud, and when I say so there is good grounds for believing it.

For some time past the singing of the mavis increast my grief, but now I am come to take some pleasure in the fields, and to bless God you have the same liberty and priviledge which is a great comfort to me. I begin now to put things to rights about your Hedges and Ditches, and shall take care to keep all right while I am here; and if it should so happen I must leave it, I hope it will fall in a friend’s hand. Mr. R.(ose) labours your own farm, so, in spite of all, that will afford somewhat to my subsistance.

I am better now than I used to be when all things were more to my mind. I mean as to my health; and since you express such concern for me, and think my health for your interest, I shall doe what’s reasonable to preserve it. Your children are well. Your mother will be here this week.... May my Dearest be as happy as I wish him. God grant him the right use of all his troubles, patience, and submission, and preserve him from all evil.

Yours, Dear Life, Adieu.

On the back of this letter I find a post-scriptum in Betty’s hand-writing; ’tis writ in the vein she used so often in speaking to Sir John—half serious, half flippant and wholly affectionate, for she too, was in better spirits since the arrival of my guardian’s letter.

“Dear Sir John,

Of all things I believe you least want my good wishes; however, to please myself I offer them, and that with all the sincerity and fervour, inclination and gratitude can oblige me to. I thank God all my friends is not alike unlucky. I am in great fear about them, if the divisions amongst the great people don’t do them service. I pray God for a good meeting. In the meantime

I am, my Dr. Sir J.

Your most faithful

Female Counciler.

B.”

I remember very well the day upon which the dreaded advent of the Dowager Lady Alva was expected. The snow was melted on the low-lying land, though it still lay on the hills, where however it was disappearing fast; and my lady came in her own travelling-coach from Edinburgh, having crossed the Forth at the Queen’s Ferry. I must own that I stood somewhat in awe of the stately dame, whom I had seen but seldom, and perhaps the anxiety of my dear lady communicated itself to me. As for Betty, who was a particular favourite of the dowager, she expressed no concern; but she told me after how unhappy she had felt on her sister’s account.

At last a servant ran to tell us that the coach was approaching the house, and my lady, taking her boys one in each hand, went to the door and stood upon the threshold to welcome her with all honour. Aunt Betty, Betty Sinclair, and Barbara stood just behind, and the chief servants were grouped in the background, for nothing must be omitted of respect and observance in the reception of Sir John’s mother. When the carriage drew up, the men-servants having descended from the rumble and opened the door, little Charles at his mama’s bidding ran forward, and placing himself in front of the step begged his grandmother to lean upon his support in her descent. This the old lady very good naturedly did, and by the aid of her woman who rode with her, seemed to throw all her weight on the child’s shoulder, which pleased him very much. As she approached the door, my lady stepped forward and kissing her cheek, bade her kindly welcome to Alva.

Whatever may have been Lady Erskine’s fears and doubts she hid them under a simple, natural manner, and it was not till the dowager was seated in the parlour, with Harry on a footstool at her feet, and Charles holding her mittened hand, that my lady ventured to say, and then her voice trembled a little,

“I would rather, madam, as you know, that Sir John were here to welcome you himself, but in his absence you must let my little sons take his place.”

“Indeed, my dear daughter,” said the old lady cheerfully, “I am aware that my son cannot be in two places at once, and as he has chosen to absent himself from Alva, I must e’en make the best of it; in the meantime you and the little lads will do very well.”

Surprised and relieved my lady smiled.

“It is good of you, madam, to come to us just now. Many would think it right to avoid the house of a Rebel.”

“My dear Catherine,” said the dowager gravely, “my son is my son, and whatever he does he will never be less to me. I think it right, however, to say before my grandchildren, my sister Elizabeth, and your young friends, that I consider Sir John has acted wrongly, and I pray God he may be led to see the error of his ways; but for all that, I have no doubt but he is honest, and as he has been unfortunate, it ill becomes us to triumph. I do not wish to hear where he is, but I trust you have good news of him, my dear.”

And so this dreaded meeting was over, and old Lady Alva by her kindliness and good sense set everyone at their ease. She would not listen to Aunt Betty’s complaints and mournings, nor did she allow her to prognosticate evil, as had been her depressing habit of late. The house increased in cheerfulness because of her presence, and my dear lady had in her a firm supporter through all her troubles.

This being so, it was proposed that Betty should return to Dysart for a time taking me with her, as my lady was anxious to have news of her father. The old lord was grieving sorely over the downfall of his hopes; and the exile of his son, which, it was feared, might be permanent, added to his anxieties and cares. The state of Scotland was indeed to be deplored. From Stirling to Inverness there was nothing but desolation, for it was as if a marauding army had swept it bare. “The Dutch,” as one gentleman wrote, “have not left a chair, or a stool, nor a barrel, nor a bottle, enfin nothing undestroyed, and the English troops very little more merciful.” General Cadogan had been ordered north to the Highlands to hunt for the Rebel Lords, and to bring the clans into subjection; but before going he sent out invitations to the ladies of Edinburgh to a Ball. Oh, how my poor Betty raged and stormed when she heard of this outrage, for so she considered it! “How,” she cried, “could women think of dancing when half the country was mourning in desolation?” They might rejoice that the Rising had failed, but to dance and play over its grave was a heartless and monstrous thing to do, and she longed to go straight to the General and give him her mind on the subject. She called him Nero from that day forward, and never could she hear him mentioned without some bitter word.

The Duke of Argyle, “having gloriously finished the most laborious and hard campaign that ever was known” (so the prints had it) had set out for London, leaving Cadogan in command, but we did not know (nor he either, poor gentleman) that he was actually deprived of his post as Commander-in-Chief in favour of his subordinate; and even we, against whom he had fought, regretted this step, for his Grace had proved himself a very generous and tender enemy; and from all we could gather, his humiliation came through the jealousy of his rival, the Duke of Marlborough, in whom, as you know, we never put any great trust.

It was in the coach on our road to Dysart that Betty spoke out to me of her terrible grief and disappointment. I had found her very unlike herself during this visit to Alva, silent and melancholy, but knowing what ample reason she had for low spirits, I had passed it without comment. It was when she caught sight of the ships in the Forth that she began to speak.

“Oh, Barbara!” she sighed, “to think how high our hopes were when last I passed this way, and now it is all at an end. My heart is nearly broken!”

I had no words to comfort her, I could only listen.

“Do you remember last May how confident we were? What gay visions danced before our eyes! How we believed in those who have since proved so frail and feeble, and scorned those who spoke of dangers and defeat, and were bitterly angry if any hinted at failure! Why has God dragged us through such humiliation; what has been gained? Why did He let us attempt this thing if He meant only to overthrow us in the end? It is cruel—cruel, I say. I would not so have treated those who trusted me!”

“Why, Bess, my dear, your words are wild!” I cried, but she went on unheeding.

“And oh, that poor unhappy King, how my heart bleeds for him! He is innocent, but he will be blamed; honest, but they will call him a traitor; kind-hearted, but they will remember him as a monster; courageous, but he is already branded as a coward. No man was ever so bamboozled, so entangled, so misguided. And Barbara,” she added, darkly, “I know who led him astray. I know whom we have to thank for the humiliation, the anger, the bitter grief and suffering; and tho’ I will name no names, in my heart I feel that my poor brother was right, though he too is a sufferer in spite of his wisdom.”

I knew very well what she meant, and told her I agreed with her, though it was hard, I said, to believe that all our trouble had come from one man’s mismanagement.

“Ay,” she answered doubtfully, “I catch your meaning, and perhaps the causes are numerous and far-reaching, but I keep my opinion of one man’s worth, and I could name a dozen who could have brought the affair to a more successful issue.”

“Think you, Betty,” I asked, “that your brother, the Master, will be attainted, and poor Sir John, and Mr. Paterson and Lady Jean’s husband? I am in great grief for them.”

“No one can tell yet what will be done,” she said, “but if it is so, I feel if I should like to leave Britain, and never see or speak to one of my Whig neighbours again. I used to like my Lord Rothes very well, but I love the old Colonel, and cannot bear to think of him in the Fleet, while my lord is Governor of Stirling Castle.”

“What says my Lord Wemyss?” I ventured. “Have you seen him since the departure of the King?”

“No,” cried Betty, very proudly. “He writ me a letter full of gratitude, thanking me in very kind words, I must own, for my care of his poor young son—oh, Barbara, I did so grieve to see him die! But ’twas just after the King’s landing and my mind was fixed upon him. Afterwards my lord wrote again asking if he could be of help to us in our misfortune, which so riled me (for my heart was very sore) that I answered him with hot and bitter words.”

“Oh, Betty!” I cried, “I am sure he meant it kindly.”

“Very likely,” she replied, “but there are times when even kindness is unkind. Let us not talk of my Lord Wemyss; there are other subjects more agreeable.”

CHAPTER XXV

We found the household at the Hermitage very dull and dumpish; they seemed like people who had received a shock from which they had not yet recovered. My lord spoke little, and looked to my eyes many years older and feebler than when I saw him last. David Pitcairn came about the house as usual, making himself useful to the old man, whose younger sons, being engaged in affairs of their own, could not be much with him; and Mistress Mary, who was never very healthy, was staying with her sister at Newbyth.

The only news of interest that reached us, consisted in the reports from time to time of the safe arrival in France, or Sweden, or Holland, of this or that fugitive about whom we had been in anxiety. But so far we had heard nothing of the Marquis of Tynemouth and his friends, and my mind was divided between fears of the hardships they must be enduring among the mountains, and hopes that they were already far away in a safe country. My Lord Huntly had given himself up and made terms for himself with the Government, but the Earl of Seaforth, whose name was coupled with his as a traitor to the Cause, had in reality withdrawn his submission, and was now retired to the Isle of Lewis with his men.

A few days after our arrival at Dysart there was a great storm of rain, which lasted so continuously that the last shred of snow disappeared from the earth. It was in truth the ushering in of the summer, early though it was, for from that time the weather never went back, but continued bright, warm and genial, with light winds and occasional life-giving showers, all through that year. It seemed as if it had been sent to compensate us for the long and terrible winter, for the summer of 1716 proved one of the most bounteous seasons within the memory of man.

While it lasted, however, the rain was dreary enough, and day after day we looked out upon a grey and sullen sea, shut in by mists and low hanging clouds from any view of the opposite coast; and night after night we listened to the rain beating on our window-panes, and thought of our friends, perhaps in want of shelter, and dreamed pitiful dreams which haunted us in our waking hours. It was a dreary week at Dysart.

One night after supper, as I went to my chamber to fetch some work, I was stopped by the sound of low, continuous knocking at the door I have told you of at the foot of the turret-stair. It brought to my mind that night when my dear lady recognised her husband’s knock, and ran, in spite of my terror, to open to him; but so much had passed since then, that though I was startled, I had no sense of personal fear, knowing well that none but friends, and generally those in distress, would come to the house that way. For this reason I did not hesitate, but placing my taper in a niche of the wall, went hurriedly down the twisted stair, and paused for a moment at the back of the door. The rain was still falling though not so heavy, and behind the clouds there was a waning moon whose light came dimly through the grated window above me. I drew back the bolt cautiously and lifted the latch. The door was pushed open from without, and a man entered quickly, shutting it behind him.

“Forgive me, madam!” he whispered, “but there is danger.”

I fell back against the wall, dumbfoundered, for the man was none other than Anthony Fleming.

For a few moments we gazed at each other in silence, and then without warning I flung my arms about him and lifted my face to his. He kissed me like one in a dream.

“You!” I gasped. “You—and here! I thought you were over seas. Oh, thank God you are safe. Last night I dreamed that I found you again, wounded and nigh to death, and my pillow was wet when I awoke. Whence came you? You are not ill? Oh, how I have prayed that God would send you back, and now you are come, out of the mist and rain, straight to my arms. How good He is—how good! But you—you did not know I loved you, dear heart; I let you go so coldly. I have longed, oh longed, to tell you the truth; will you believe it now? I am yours for ever and ever; no one on earth shall ever come between us.”

And then my breath gave out and the tears came, and I laid my face upon his breast, trembling and weeping.

As for him he spoke no word; but he held me in his arms, closer and closer, as if he would keep me there for ever, and I felt his kisses on my hair, and heard the great throbs of his heart beating against my arm.

At that moment there was no room in all my being for anything but joy and thankfulness; but sometimes in looking back upon this scene, I have been troubled and have blushed hotly, as a woman will even in solitude, remembering my bold and free surrender. Did Mr. Fleming hesitate to speak, because of it, deeming my conduct perhaps unmaidenly? I have never dared to ask him, but I trust he has forgotten it long ago.⁠[1]

Whatever it boded I could not bear his silence. I have heard that women mostly love to voice their emotion, while with men it often renders them speechless.

“Will you not speak to me, Anthony?” I said. “Will you not say you are glad to see me?”

I had lifted my face to look at him, and though the light was dim, for the first and only time in my life I saw tears in my dear love’s eyes.

“Glad, sweetheart?” he murmured, “’tis like getting into Heaven.”

And after that I did not mind the silence. It lasted but a minute, and then he unclasped my hands, and putting me from him, gazed at me intently.

“Is my Lady Erskine here?” he said. “Tell me, Barbara, who is with you in the house?”

I told him, still speaking low, and then asked him what was the danger he feared.

“Tis not for myself, dear love, though I suppose it extends to us all. But there is one whose life is infinitely precious, for whom I came to beg shelter. I know my Lord Sinclair is as safe as he is kind, and Mistress Betty is well reputed among us for her loyalty. It is—”

“Stop!” I cried. “Do not tell me here. Let us hasten to Betty’s boudoir that she may hear the news first, whatever they are. Oh, come, I cannot bear to delay a moment.”

Breathless with excitement and anxiety, I had almost forgotten my own share in the event, but stopped at the door of Betty’s room to give my friend a smile and a kindly look. Then I opened the door and entered hurriedly. Betty was sitting by the fire, and on seeing us rose quickly. Her face, which at first was fixed in surprise, flushed suddenly when she recognised her visitor, and she came forward to meet him with hands outstretched.

“You, Mr. Fleming?” she cried. “How come you here, and whence? We have been much exercised about your safety, but thought you were gone to France some days ago. Are you alone?”

“Madam,” said Mr. Fleming, “I am not, and I will tell you in a few words why I am here. It is the young Marquis of Tinmouth and his uncle for whom I beg shelter. They are in hiding in a wood about a quarter of a mile from the house. I am sent to acquaint my Lord Sinclair with the matter, and if it is safe I am to return at once and tell them.”

Oh, how my dear Betty’s eyes lit up with joy! To think that there was still a chance for her to show her loyalty, and do some little thing for the Cause; to receive the King’s young relative and keep him safe, to plan and further his escape. All this appealed to her keenly and set her blood a-tingling with pleasure. Bidding us wait where we were she ran to give her father the news, and when we were alone, I was able to look at my dear with calmer eyes, and to see, alas! how worn and thin he had become.

“Worse, far worse, than when you departed from Alva,” cried I.

He laughed a little. “And small wonder, Sweet; when one has spent some weeks in the mountains, exposed to hunger and cold and wind and rain, and burdened by the dread of capture, it is not easy to keep flesh on one’s bones, or preserve a fresh and ruddy countenance.”

“Have you been without proper shelter ever since the departure of the King?” I asked in amazement.

“Most of the time,” he answered. “We could not get away from Peterhead, because of a man-of-war which kept watch to prevent us. We went to Castle Gordon, where we spent a few days, and then with the other lords withdrew westward. I will not tell you of all our trials, my dearest; but though our young master bore them all with a very cheerful spirit, we could see that they were telling on his strength. He is not much more than a boy, and has never known what hardship and exposure mean. At last it was decided that he should try to make his way south to Edinburgh, I being sent as guide; so, travelling by night and hiding by day, we were directed to this house, whence we hope to get shipped to France. I knew that if the family were at home we should be taken care of, but I little guessed the blessed welcome that was waiting here for me.”

And with that he put his arm again around me, and we stood gazing into the fire in blissful silence, till Betty’s step was heard returning.

I will leave you to imagine how the old house woke up that night from its melancholy. Very quickly Mr. Fleming was despatched to bring in the weary wanderers, and meanwhile rooms were made ready to receive them, great fires lighted to warm them, and garments brought from every wardrobe in the house to replace their worn and sodden clothing. A great supper was quickly prepared, for good-will made all hands work fast, and in the hearts of men and women alike pity for the fugitives brought the desire to help and comfort them. It was thought safer to let them enter by the turret-door; but my lord received them at the top of the winding stair, and himself conducted the young Marquis to his chamber, where with the aid of a warm bath and dry clothing, the young gentleman was able to make himself more comfortable than he had been, I should imagine, for many weeks past.

When he entered the dining-room with his host, attired in a suit of purple velvet with ruffles of lace, belonging to one of Betty’s brothers, we could scarce take our eyes off his face, even in performing our lowest curtseys, so charmed were we with his gallant bearing and his modest and pleasant looks. When Betty very prettily bade him welcome to her father’s house, and said how honoured they were at the trust reposed in their family, he blushed like the boy he was, and stammered out that the honour was his alone. He looked at the well-spread board, the blazing fire, the lighted room, and giving a little laugh he said, with a slight foreign accent that rendered his speech very attractive,

“If you could know the contrast, madam, of my surroundings this night with those of the last few weeks, you would understand very well that the gratitude is all on my side.”

“What horrors you must have endured, my lord,” cried Betty. “Oh, I fear you will bear away with you but a bitter remembrance of our inhospitable country.”

“Nay, madam,” he answered with a graceful gesture, “you have set aside that possibility for ever. But here,” he went on, “is my good uncle, Colonel Bulkeley, who has shared my vicissitudes; and I need not introduce to you our faithful friend, Captain Anthony Fleming, without whom we should, I fear, have been still longer in reaching this haven of refuge.”

These gentlemen now entered the room, and it was with great joy that I noticed the improvement in Mr. Fleming’s looks, who, now that he had performed his toilette, seemed neither so ill nor so haggard as I had thought him. Thin he was and worn with his hardships, but the glad look in his eyes gave him an air of restfulness and satisfaction which had before been wanting.

Colonel Bulkeley was a tall, stout man with a full, high-coloured face. ’Twas difficult to believe that he had endured the same trials that had left the younger men so thin and pale. With my foolish woman’s caprice, I took an instant dislike to the brave Colonel, though he made his bow to us very low, and addressed Betty in a courteous and gentlemanly way. Still there was about him an air of dogged superiority, which, coupled with a somewhat hectoring manner, made him a man of uneasy temper for other men to deal with. And even that first night as we sat through supper, I found myself wondering how this person came to be related to the young Marquis of Tinmouth, than whom it would have been difficult to find a more sweet-tempered, modest and agreeable young man.

They told us now more particularly of their adventures, taking the precaution to speak French while the servants were in the room, and gave us to understand that the country-people, in the districts through which they had passed, were all well-affected towards the King. Most of them, it must be owned, blamed the Earl of Mar for their misfortunes, and for the disastrous ending of our hopes; for they held a firm belief that King James could have recovered them from the troubles brought about by the Union, and caused Scotland to enjoy a peace and prosperity to which she had long been a stranger. The fugitives had been directed from one house or cottage to another, and the poor folk, as well as the rich, had, they said, given them ungrudgingly of their scant provisions, besides sheltering them from observation during the daylight.

It was with a very thankful heart that Barbara laid her head upon her pillow that night, but for some time she could not sleep for joy of thinking of the safety of her friend, and wonder that the same roof should shelter them both. The rain still beat on the window, but she heeded it no longer, or only to give a passing thought of pity to any poor wanderers still abroad; and though she knew that in a day or two at most the dreaded parting must come again, she put the knowledge away from her as only the young can do, and hugged her present happiness close to her heart.

On the following day we held a council as to the best manner of assisting our friends in their project of leaving Scotland. And though one would have thought that in the presence of his host, Colonel Bulkeley should have withheld his own opinion, and paid a graceful deference to what was proposed, I cannot tell you that it was so. Several times that gentleman contradicted my lord without apology, and was for insisting that his plan, namely, to go himself to Burntisland, and there charter a ship to carry them to France, was the best that could be thought on. This my lord denied, saying very truly that the Government was keeping strict watch on all the ports in the Forth, and in so small a place the risk he ran of being recognised was too great, and it was a relief to me when Betty very gently, but firmly backed his opinion.

“You have placed yourselves in our care, sir,” said she with a smile, “and you must, if you please, leave it to us to get rid of you.”

She spoke so sweetly that no man without rough discourtesy could have withstood her, and turning to my Lord Tinmouth she went on.

“This, my lord, is our project. To send a trusted messenger to Edinburgh to acquaint Captain Straton of your lordship’s presence. He is in communication with all the honest seamen who traffic between this country and the Continent, and it is to him we must leave the final arrangements of your departure. The friend we have in view is one who has already aided the King’s Cause, and who, being often engaged in ordinary business for my father between this and Edinburgh, can go and come without suspicion being aroused.”

“Madam,” said the young Marquis, when she had finished, “I am ready to put myself and my affairs in your hands, knowing well that your loyal and kindly concern for all the King’s friends will lead you to do the best you can for us, and I am sure that my uncle,” turning courteously to Colonel Bulkeley, “will be satisfied with any arrangements that you make.”

The gallant Colonel was obliged for the moment to acquiesce and we heard no more of his objections at that time, but later we were told, both by Captain Straton and David Pitcairn, that he put forward many difficulties and found much fault even with those who were doing their best to be serviceable to him.

The trusted messenger of whom Betty spoke was, of course, the faithful David, who, on arriving at the house the next morning, was informed of what had taken place, and readily consented to undertake the part allotted to him. Some days passed, however, before anything could be settled, for the authorities were very vigilant at that time to prevent the escape of any rebels, and the Marquis of Tinmouth was a prize worth capturing. Many projects were brought forward and abandoned, and several ships’ masters, being interviewed, either declined the job, or found themselves so closely watched that it was impossible for them to undertake it.

You may be sure that Barbara, for one, did not chafe at the delay, for the presence of her lover in the house was like sunshine to her; and in the peaceful hours they spent together, the young love that was as yet but a tender plant was nurtured and cultivated between them, till it grew into the perfect thing that has comforted and beautified their whole lives. You must not forget that there was in our intercourse a strain of that pathetic doubt as to the ultimate fruition of our happiness, which chastened our joy and tinged it with a wild, sweet pain. We spoke of the future at times with confidence and faith, but would check ourselves sharply at the thought that it might never be ours. Still, for the most part, I think that the high spirits and hopes of youth forbade us to despair, and the shadow of parting for an indefinite time, while it wrung our hearts with grief, served to draw us more closely together, and make a grave and steadying back-ground to our present bliss.

My dear Betty, who was in our confidence and greatly in sympathy with us both, spent her time in cultivating the acquaintance of my Lord Tinmouth, who, she assured me, amply fulfilled the expectations she had entertained of him. His manners were so modest and so charming, his conversation so sensible and diverting, as to make him a very pleasant inmate of the house. My Lord Sinclair found him also a companion to his mind, and was surprised at his knowledge of books, his youthful judgment, and his attention to business. In fact it would be impossible to describe the general favour he met with, from old and young of both sexes, for the qualities of his mind and person.

We four spent many agreeable hours in Betty’s boudoir, while we ladies bent over our tambour-frames, and the gentlemen entertained us with an account of their adventures, or descriptions of the life in France and Holland. My Lord Tinmouth spoke one day, in his frank and boyish manner, of the match which was being arranged for him with a Spanish young lady of the highest quality and a great fortune, no less than the sister of the most noble Duke of Varagua. He told us that he had of course never seen the young lady, but was informed that she was pretty and amiable, and a portrait was being painted of her to send him for his gratification.

Forgetting to whom I spoke, I raised my head sharply from my work.

“And are you satisfied, my lord, to bind yourself for life to a lady whom you have never seen, and who may prove not at all to your taste?”

“Why yes, madam,” he answered, smiling at me pleasantly: “the friends who have arranged the marriage are certain to have chosen well, and you must remember that the same doubt and uncertainty exist for Doña Inez as for myself. It is possible she may not be pleased with me.”

“I think there is not much danger of that,” said Betty, looking at him very kindly, “and you forget, Barbara, autre pays, autre mœurs; young ladies in France and Spain are never allowed to choose for themselves in so weighty a matter as matrimony.”

“Oh,” I sighed, with a look at my Anthony, who was watching me, “but I think it is by far the best way.”

I saw a flicker of doubt pass over my lord’s young face, and his smile was a little wistful as he said, “It must be wonderfully pleasant, to be sure!”

“Ay, but it has its disadvantages, my lord!” cried Betty, briskly. “Even young people are not always infallible. I prophesy that your marriage will be a very happy one, and I only wish I could think we might see you and Doña Inez together one day in Scotland.”

“And I on my part, madam, can promise, that for any friend of yours who comes to Spain, my house will ever be open and my welcome of the warmest.”

At last the summons came for our guests to be ready on the morrow, to go disguised into Edinburgh, and take up their abode in the house of a faithful servant of Captain Straton. The latter gentleman was indisposed, which added to the difficulties of the case; and being in great concern for the safety of the young Marquis (who, by the way, went by the name of Mr. Barnes), he spent many days and nights in nervous anxiety, till he could form a plan that would finally and quietly dispose of him and his friends. Our good David Pitcairn came and went, untired and undismayed, taking his commands from Betty as usual, making at the same time his own sagacious suggestions, and amply repaid for all his trouble by the kindness of her smile, and the gratitude in her eyes.

The gentlemen were to cross the Firth under cover of the darkness, and my lord’s own boatmen were to row them over. My dear Anthony and I had made our adieux in private before the hour of starting, and nothing remained for us but the last embrace, a choking sigh, a few whispered words, and, on my part, I fear, some tears that would not be suppressed. The household, led by Betty, made no secret of their regret at parting with “Mr. Barnes,” who took leave of his host and hostess with words of the most courteous gratitude. We felt as sad as though parting with a long-loved friend, and for his sake even included Colonel Bulkeley in our affectionate lamentations. It was a still, moonless night. The three, accompanied by David, crept down the rugged steps to the water; and as we, watching from above, saw the boat, propelled by muffled oars in strong accustomed hands, steal out upon the black water and disappear in the darkness, I know not if Betty’s sigh or mine were the deepest.

Three days later we hailed the return of David Pitcairn with relief. He had had orders from Betty to stay with our friends till the last, and early that morning he had seen them safe on board a Dutch ship, which sailed from Leith about one or two o’clock, and, as we learned later, landed them safely in Holland, from which they made their way to France. He did not forget to tell us that Mr. Straton had fallen under the spell of young “Mr. Barnes,” even as we did, while his dislike of poor Colonel Bulkeley appears to have exceeded our own.

CHAPTER XXVI — LETTER VII — LETTER VIII — LETTER IX

The day after this we returned to Alva, bearing with us a request from my Lord Sinclair to his daughter Catherine, that she would come and make her abode with him in the meantime, and in the absence of his eldest son, help him in the management of his estate. This my lady, though greatly touched by the old gentleman’s trust in her, knew was impossible, for indeed her presence was required at Alva for many reasons, and she judged rightly that her first duty was to her husband and his affairs. So far as our own case was concerned things were growing easier, for after representing as strongly as she could, the wrongs she had suffered in the loss of cattle, fowls, and fodder, to those whose influence might be exercised in her favour, my lady was relieved of this burden in the surest way possible. Her brother-in-law, Mr. Haldane of Gleneagles, though strongly against the Rebellion, and keen about all measures for punishing the offenders, yet suffered his family affection to mitigate his severity in the case of Sir John’s family. It was by his means that General Cadogan was prevailed upon to grant a protection to my Lady Erskine to prevent her being plundered any further, and her nephew, Mr. James Haldane, arrived one day from Edinburgh to give notice of the same to Lord Rothes at Stirling Castle. This, as you can imagine, was a vast relief; and as the same privilege was extended to my Lady Jean at Bannockburn, and to Lady Keir, our hearts were set at rest on their account also.

Now I must tell you that some time back, when she first began to have doubts of the wisdom and ultimate success of the Rising, my Lady Erskine had conceived a secret project which, with great good sense, she kept as much as possible to herself and a few friends. Since the Battle of Sheriffmuir the working of the Silver Mine had been given up, on account of the danger of discovery from any of Argyle’s men who then over-ran the hills. But after hearing from Sir John in the beginning of the year, my lady sent one day for Mr. Hamilton, and after pledging him to secrecy, and telling him she believed in his loyalty to her and her house, enough to trust him with an important matter, she divulged her plan for securing the riches of the Mine.

She made him overseer of four miners (though up till now he had but superintended the smelting of the ore), and these he set to work in the mine, which work, being underground and well watched, was kept very private.

As the ore was lifted it was stored in casks, hogsheads, or barrels, which were buried in a vast hole that my lady caused to be dug on the north-west side of the house just by the gate. They had managed in this way to hide some forty tons of ore, when one morning Mr. Hamilton appeared at the house to say that, so far as he could see, the vein they were working had given out, and he wished to know if Lady Erskine advised any further excavation to be made. As this would have entailed a good deal of expense, my lady, after consulting with Mr. Erskine, decided that at present the work should be given up, which she did with the more ease of mind that certain rumours had got abroad of untold riches to be found on Sir John’s estate. The great hole in the broad walk having attracted some attention, she made it known that ’twas only one of Sir John’s mad notions, which was not likely to be of much use, and this according with the country people’s opinion of my guardian’s projects, the gossip soon died down, and we hoped the danger was past. I believe that with the treasure they collected my lady had framed the notion of being able, when the time was ripe, to purchase Sir John’s full pardon from the King, and in this idea Mr. Erskine and Mr. Campbell encouraged her. It was necessary, however, to keep its very existence private, until all danger of the knight’s being attainted was past, seeing that, if his name appeared upon the Black List, his whole estate was forfeit to the Crown. In the event of this happening, my lady then designed to unearth the casks, and by disposing of the contents in a profitable manner, to be able to follow her husband to the Continent, where they might live comfortably with their children for the rest of their lives.

About a week after our return from Dysart, I was walking one morning with little Hal down the glen, where by Heaven’s kind providence I had found my dear Anthony, when Mr. Hamilton met us, and accosted me with his usual cordiality. Now, to tell the truth, I had almost forgotten that I had ever had even a slight interest in this young gentleman; and though when we met we were friendly enough, my heart being fully occupied by the thought of another, it left me very indifferent to strangers. I was therefore surprised when he said rather abruptly,

“I have something of a private nature to say to you, Mistress Barbara; can you not send the child away?”

“What!” cried I, laughing, with no thought of what was coming, “have you a secret to divulge? Run, Hal, and gather some of those pretty anemones for Cousin Barbara.”

“I suppose you have by now,” said Hamilton, “discovered the meaning of my words last summer as to your gaining wisdom about many things.”

“Why, yes,” I answered slowly, thinking of all that I had gained since then, “I fancy we are all a year wiser.”

“And sadder?” said he.

“Ah, no!” I cried, softly, “not sadder.”

“Are you then,” he exclaimed eagerly, “on the other side? Have you seen the folly of that mad attempt; do you realise the character of the man you imagined had come to rule us? Are you relieved at the issue of events? How glad I am, Mistress Barbara, to find you so sensible.”

“Nay, sir,” cried I, quite startled out of my private thoughts; “I protest I do not understand you.”

“Why, mistress,” said he, puzzled in his turn, “if you are not saddened by the failure of the Rising, it must needs be because you think it a lucky providence that it did not succeed. What else can you mean?”

“The Rising! Forgive me, Mr. Hamilton, I was thinking of other things. But how,” said I, “can you possibly imagine that I am not grieved to the heart by the terrible happenings of the past six months, and bitterly disappointed at the departure of the King? Can I know of the sufferings and imprisonment of so many good friends, the deaths, the losses, the anxiety; can I watch my dear lady’s sad face day after day, with the knowledge of the pain she bears in her brave heart, and not be saddened myself? I should indeed be callous beyond belief were such a thing possible!”

“Nay, madam,” he said, “I pray you to believe I had no such thought. I myself am grieved enough for the calamities that have been brought upon the country, both public and private; but I hoped that you did at last see how wrong and mistaken was the Rebellion, and what a miserable dastard is the man whom they sought to put upon the throne of Britain.”

“Stop!” cried I, “I will not hear the King slandered. Misled, mismanaged, he certainly was, but dastard—no!”

“But can you believe he would make a good king?” cried he. “Would not his accession plunge us into all the horrors of Romanism? You cannot deny, madam, that the Chevalier is a Papist at heart.”

“Why, what else would you expect him to be?” cried I. “And Pretender as he is called, he has never pretended to be willing to give up his religion for the sake of a crown, as another might have done. He is honest, and devoted to his Church, as a good man should be; but he is no bigot either, for I have heard from Sir John that he has a very liberal and open mind towards his Protestant subjects, and I do not believe he would ever interfere with their religion were he reigning over us.”

“I must beg leave to differ from you, Mistress Barbara,” replied Hamilton. “I have seen some friends who met the Chevalier in the north, and were bitterly disappointed in him. Did he not refuse to have Grace said at his table by any but his own private chaplain, though there were both Presbyterian and Episcopalian clergymen present?”

“Why,” returned I, “I think little of that. I doubt if his Hanoverian Majesty would tolerate the benediction of a Romish priest at the Royal table, though many of them are his subjects.”

“Certainly he would not!” cried Mr. Hamilton. “’Twould be a monstrous wrong if he did!”

“And if one man is to be upheld for his narrowness, because he acts from a sense of right, why not another?” cried I hotly. “Oh, I have no patience with such prejudice! This cry about Religions is used but to mask other things—politics, social ambition, party strife and personal rancour.”

By this time, walking slowly, with little Hal running backwards and forwards round us, we had reached the garden, which lay bare and orderly in the sunshine, with only a few of the early spring flowers showing themselves in the borders. When I looked at Mr. Hamilton’s face after my last speech, I found he was smiling.

“You are a brave and stout partisan, Mistress Barbara,” said he, “and I should find it difficult to move you. As it is, Providence hath ordained that the present dynasty be established in Britain—”

“For the time being,” murmured I.

“And we must needs bow to that decree,” he went on unheeding. “This, however, was not what I wished to talk of. Will you pardon me for allowing myself to wander so far from the subject at my heart, for indeed it is the chief thought in my life at present, and has been for long.”

“Pray, go on,” said I, somewhat coldly, for I was ruffled by our discussion, and felt now more out of sympathy with my companion than before.

“It is now a year since first I saw you, madam, and I make no secret of the fact that I was more struck by your appearance than by that of anyone I ever met. Since then all I have seen and heard of you confirms my first impressions. You are the most charming woman in the world, madam, and I beg you to be my wife.”

Surprise, chagrin, and anger filled my breast, mingled with a certain shame that I should have permitted this man to go so far. I fear my reply was both pert and rude.

“You must think a vast deal of yourself, sir, if you imagine you are worthy to be the husband of the most charming woman in the world!”

He laughed good-naturedly; he was too dense to notice the disdain in my voice.

“No one on earth is really worthy to hold that position, madam; but I beg you to believe that I shall count myself lucky should you dream of giving it to me.”

“I fear,” said I shortly, “that that is impossible.”

“Why impossible?” he cried, only half understanding. “My family, madam, is as good as yours; my present occupation is not to last for ever. I mean to establish myself well, and gain a position that even you will not disdain to share. Let me go to my lady this evening, Barbara, and get her consent to our union.”

How different—ah, how different was this man’s wooing!

“Pardon me, sir,” I answered, “I cannot be your wife. Oh, will you not understand and leave me in peace!”

I spoke impatiently, for I wanted to be rid of him. He stood before me, his face very white and set.

“Listen, Barbara Stewart,” he said. “There is more depending on your consent than you think. If you reject me thus you will regret it, not so much for your own sake as for some of the friends you love so well. Consider well, my girl, before you decide. You would not care to bring disaster upon this house. After to-day ’twill be too late.”

Angry, but scarcely alarmed, I drew myself up.

“Do you dare to threaten me, sir?” I cried. “What mean you? Or no, I do not care for your meanings; what you have said is enough. If you think Barbara Stewart would marry one who would stoop to injure any human-being of set purpose and design, you know her very little. I am indifferent to your threats, for I do not believe in your power to do much harm.”

In scorn and indignation I turned away, and calling to little Henry I walked towards the house. James Hamilton followed.

“Is it thus you despise an honest man’s love, mistress?” he said hoarsely. “Oh ho, my Lady Disdain, but the day may come when you will wish that you had listened more kindly. You think lightly of my power; you shall see by-and-bye what it can do. Barbara!” he said, and his voice broke as he laid his hand upon my arm. “You will not be so cruel!”

“Sir,” said I, stopping and speaking more gently, “I have answered you, and I would beg you now to leave me. In that you have honoured me by your regard, I thank you. If I have hurt you, I ask your forgiveness; but a woman’s love is not to be won by methods such as yours, and I must own that your speeches this morning have put me greatly out of sympathy with you as a friend.”

I looked in his face, but found it hard to read. There was an expression of regret certainly, mingled with discomfort and doubt; but my woman’s instinct told me well enough that behind this was no wounded heart of despairing lover, and not even his next words moved me to belief.

“Then farewell, mistress,” he said in a low voice; “you have broken my life in two. Henceforth we go separate ways. Heaven grant you tenderness to know how cruelly you have used me!”

Angered again by this accusation, I bowed to him without reply, and walked away towards the house with the child clinging to my hand.

Seated at work next morning in the parlour, we were listening amused to the chatter of the little boys, when Charles gave a great sigh and exclaimed, “How I wish my papa would come home! I do weary to see him.”

“So do I, too!” cried Henry, with a sigh to match his brother’s. “Tell me, mama, how many years is it since my papa went away?”

My lady put down her work to pat the curly head at her knee, and sighed herself, though she laughed at the childish question.

“The months are years to us who love him, are they not, Hal?” she said. “We must pray God to send him back to us very soon.”

“I do,” cried Charles. “Last night I said in my prayers, ‘Please, God, let my papa come home before the trees are green.’ That will be very soon now, mama, will it not?”

Just then came a knock at the door, and one entered to say that Mr. Hamilton waited without, desiring to speak to her ladyship.

“Very well, bid him come in!” said my lady; but on hearing that he had something of a private nature to communicate, she rose with a perturbed look and hurried from the room.

It was half-an-hour before she returned, and when she did so, ’twas with a vexed and ruffled countenance. She dismissed the children abruptly, and standing in front of me, cried,

“Well, Barbara, do you know the mischief you have wrought?”

Trembling and surprised, I dropped my needle and looked at her.

“Madam,” I stammered, “I am sorry; but you know yourself, cousin, that I could not listen to Mr. Hamilton’s proposals.”

“And yet you encouraged him; you led him to believe his suit was not in vain! You drew him on, only to have the triumph of rejecting him. Was this the part of a modest maiden, Barbara?”

Wounded to the quick, and with the tears starting to my eyes, I yet answered her with some spirit.

“If Mr. Hamilton has told you this, madam, he has done me great injustice. A year ago, I own, I wished him to admire me—foolish girl that I was, all new to intercourse with men—and accepted his small attentions with a kind of pleasure. But since our return from Dysart last October, I have never given him a look that he could construe into interest of the faintest sort. I beg you to believe, cousin, that Mr. Hamilton is a man it is not easy to flout. He thinks the whole world has as high an opinion of him as he himself has; and if he has made up his mind to establish himself in any woman’s favour, he would be so firm in the belief of his success that the news of his failure would come as a great shock to his pride.”

I dried my eyes, for as I spoke my anger returned.

“And even if his accusations were true, I take it, madam, that ’tis not the part of a chivalrous gentleman to blame a woman for his own conceited blunder. I have nothing but contempt for the man. I never wish to speak to him again.”

“’Tis not likely that you will,” returned my lady, gloomily; “he leaves Alva to-day.”

“Leaves Alva?” cried I. “But how can he go and abandon his work? How can he leave you alone?”

“’Twill make it very uneasy for me,” she replied; “but there is no more to be said. He is like a man wrong in the head, and was neither to hold nor to bind, as the saying is. I talked till I was tired, but his mind was made up; he could not stay where he might see Mistress Stewart any day. His heart was broken, he repeated, his life spoiled.”

“Pray, madam,” I entreated, “will you forgive me for my share in this new trouble, and say you believe I am not so much to blame! I cannot be happy to lie under such an imputation in your eyes. I regret more than I can say the annoyance it causes you, but I cannot heartily believe that Mr. Hamilton is so greatly afflicted as he pretends. All the time he was talking to me yesterday, I felt that his speech did not ring true; ’twas as if he were working himself into a passion to make an effect.”

While I was speaking I was considering in my mind the wisdom of repeating to my lady the threatening language the man had used; but having no particular belief in it, and not wishing to disturb her unnecessarily, I held my peace. She pondered my last words for some time, and when she spoke again, her voice had lost its coldness.

“Why, Barbara,” she said, “to say truth, I doubted the man myself. He was too violent, he talked too much. At first I was so put about at the prospect of his leaving me that I did not stop to reason, but now that I am calm again, I acknowledge you are right to despise the way James has behaved. So far as the Mine is concerned I can trust him to be silent, and for his work I have no doubt I shall find a successor. There is not much to be done at present in any case, so perhaps after all he will not be missed. Forget about him, child; he has taken himself out of our life in a pet. ’Tis not likely he will enter it again.”

“Ah!” cried Betty when she heard of it, “do you not see now that I was right? Did I not warn you, Barbara, of what he was capable, and tell you to be on your guard with him? Well, thank heaven, he has done no harm, and as my sister says, I do not suppose we shall ever see him again. But, though I never liked the man, I am amazed, I must own, at his ingratitude.”

And so James Hamilton departed from Alva, hiding his treachery under a very flimsy cloak, for, as you know, his love for Barbara was only a blind, and his despair a mere pretence to allow him to escape and work his wicked will.

I begin to be impatient to hear from my Dear Life. This is the fourth letter I have writ, and I have got but one. If you are well I am very happy, but I have many melancholy dreams about you which is occasioned by anxious concern to have you easy in your mind, and satisfied with your present state, which indeed is a great tryal but such as God in His providence thinks fit to send us, and it is no small mercy in so general a calamity that you are preserved and will have what may make us live comfortably together. I must own it is not easy for me to be at so great a distance from you, nor can I have any prospect yet how soon I can be with you, until some settlements be made in affairs here, which will take a considerable time. I am doing in the meantime what is for your interest.

As for old W.’s work I am obligt to give it up yesterday, until we be in a state of more freedom than we are at present, and people began to suspect that there was something in it more than ordinary that I continued it so long. My counsel determined me in doing so, and they have some projects in vein to secure all. I hope they will not all fail ... it’s lucky for us P.C. is at London, and will be there for a great while. His wife is gone home to lye, and designs to take her two eldest children to London with her against June.

Your mother is here and is very concerned about you, and is very thankful you got so early off. In short, that supports her in all the difficulties that occur, as it does me, for the violence cannot always last, tho’ in the meantime it’s very hard upon those that are in their hands. I am in great fear for J. Paterson, for I am told that base wretch, Jock Muir, says his house was the place of their meeting which makes his friends afraid. I pity my poor sister, and when I think of her I think my own sufferings easy. In short I am not to be pityed for anything but being absent from you, for your friends have a particular regard and concern for me, and Charls omits nothing that can be for your interest, and I believe your sister Nell will make her spouse (Mr. Haldane) do all that’s possible for you att Court, and I hear he is much in favour at present. But that family distinguish themselves in violence at present, tho’ as to your particular (case) I believe they will do all that’s possible. Your nephew, James, was here the other day, and procured a protection for my house and all things I am concerned in, which makes me easy. In the meantime I believe there is some care taken to hinder your being denounct, but I fear it will not doe, but if it could be done it would be an advantage; but be it as it will there shall none of your stockin’ be lost.

If your brother Robin come to Holland with his master, Charls has some thoughts of coming there, and desiring you to meet them if you can do it with safety. Some people here think it would be easy for Robin’s master to procure your pardon, which I think should be done if possible; tho’ you did not return to Britain for some time the interest of your family and the present circumstances of your affairs require it, but when your brothers and you meet you can talk freely of that and other things.

Andrew (Argyle) has lost the command of the troops here, and Mr. Beggar (Cadogan) has got it. I wish Andrew had known it sooner for it’s talkt Beggar had it seven weeks before Andrew left this Country, and yesterday Mr. Beggar went northwards. Perth, Aberdeen, and Inverness are to be fortified. If the common people who are still under arms will now come to surrender they are to be allowed to go home, and I hear some of the Clans have done so. In that case their Heads will doe well to take care of themselves.... Colonel Pary, and Mr. Balfour have given up themselves, my Lord Rollo and several others of like degree, which is very surprising. There came an order to the common prisoners either to choose to stand their tryal or be sold to the plantations. I hear that most have chosen rather to stand their tryal than live slaves. Your fellow-travellers came south and were taken care of. I doubt not you will hear of them soon. All our neighbours are safe. Your boys are well and nothing shall be wanting that’s fit for them; for their education I hop, one way or other, you shall doe it to your own mind.

I am in great grief for Kid (the King) and your freind Mill (Mar), tho’ I think he is the only cause for all my sufferings, but I find he is blamed by all sides. How far it’s just I know not, but I shall never blame him, tho’ in my heart I cannot but think he should not have taken such an affair upon him without positive orders from Kid. However, in the meantime, I could wish for your own sake you wold not be near Kid or Mill, because that may be a hindrance to some projects which we have in view; and since you may doe yourself and family prejudice and can do them no service, it is but common prudence to do so.

I long to hear from my Dearest Life. May you be happy always, and remember the only way to be kind to me is to take care of yourself. I got a proposal from my father to come to keep house to him, and bring my boys with me, or he will come and board with me; but he wants me to manage his estate in his son’s absence, both which proposals I have rejected; and he says he will goe abroad. Where it will end I know not.

Charles salutes you and Betty, and your sons offer their humble duty to you, and

I am ever yours,

my Dearest Soul.

March 23.

My Dearest Life,

I received two of your letters this week which were most acceptable, one without a date, and the last of the 16th of March. By both I see all my letters have miscarry’d, which does not a little vex me. You was not eight days out of Britain when I writ first, and this is the fifth I have writ. I have been so lucky to receive three letters from you, which is no small comfort; but by your not receiving mine you have not drawn for 100 pound I desired you to take from your factor, and that you should be straitened is what I am very much afraid of. Pray doe not want what is fit for you, for I hope in God I shall always have (means) to supply you till I be so happy (as) to see you again, which is what I very much long for; and my absence from you is the only suffering I have, but that I ought to submit to with cheerfulness when you are well and out of danger. I must own the thought of your safety has been a great support to mee, and as to other particulars in my own affairs, the grief and concern I had for others made me very easy about them, and hitherto there has nothing happened in my little affairs that could make me uneasy. I am still in my own house and looking carefully to all things, and am so much of your mind, however dark things may look at present, that both this place and the other (Cambuswallace) may be possesst by you and yours, that I have planted trees this season, and made up all the wants in your hedges, and shall not omit to doe everything that can be for your interest.

Mr. R(ose) labours your own farms this year. As to your debts of all kinds all care has been taken, and as I told you before not one can lose a groat by you so you may be easy. My being so much a stranger to your debts makes it a little uneasy, but a little time will put that over. There is not a thing I doe were it never so trifling, but I consult first whether my friend would approve of this; and I daresay you would if you saw my actings approved of, the most part if not all. Your brother has been twice here, and does in every respect act the part of a kind friend, and does not omit the least thing that can be either useful or agreeable to me.

I send you one enclosed from your mother. She is indeed a kind woman, and tho’ she disapproves what you have done, yet she cannot bear to have you blamed and reflected on, and is as cheerful as ever I saw her, for she thinks there will be favour got one way or other, and the family will be preserved. And she hopes this may be a means to make you serious, which I pray God it may, for afflictions are not sent in vain. I pray earnestly that we may all have the right use of them, and that seeing the uncertainty of all human things we may seek what is more lasting.

I am in hops our two good friends att London will not be in danger. My poor sister writes they have few enemies, and if her spouse is banished she will send for her children to goe with him. There is many gentlemen given up themselves, which I wonder much at. I think they have had no encouragement to do so. Your fellow-travellers will be in their own country again by this time, and a great many of your friends. Poor Polmaise is dead. All your servants are well. Some people think the clans can keep out a year, others are afraid of them. There is no accounts yet since Mr. Beggar went north. Your servant, Andrew S——t, came safe here two months agoe; I writ to you of him before, and desired to know if I should send him to you. If anything can be done for you, it is not fit you be with Kid and Mill; and since you cannot serve them, it’s but a reasonable prudence not to give new provocations. P.C. is att London, and will not fail to doe all that can be done, and your sister Nell’s spouse I hear is much in favour. But they are very violent tho’ I doubt not their good-will to you. Your children are well. There shall be nothing wanting that’s fit for them, and as for their education, I hop you shall do that yourself, for if ever I be put from this place, I’ll come and bring them with me; but I must own I do not expect to leave this place, and I rather think you will be allowed to return, for things cannot always continue, as they have been violent long, so the contrary may now be hoped for.

I blame you much that you do not tell me more of Kid, for I have a great concern for him and great pity. As to my health I am rather better than usual. The season is good, and I am much in the fields, sometimes employed in business, and thinking on the unhappy state of many different people at other times, and reflecting on the mercy’s I daily meet with, which are such as I should never forget, for I am not to be pitied for anything but my being absent from you, which if I suffer patiently God may in a little time give me the comfort of being with you again.

I think you should read much; I will recommend Monsieur Paskal’s Thoughts to you, which I doubt not you will like. Wishing my dear soul all manner of happiness, I am in all sincerity,

Yours.

Your friend Bess salutes you kindly. Pray be so kind to me (as) to take good care of your self, and write frequently when you see I doe not miss one.

Apri. 4.

My Dearest Life,

I am uneasy you have never got any of my letters and I am much afraid you are in want of money. I have writ six letters since you left Britain, and in every one of them beg’d (you) to cause your factor to draw upon his correspondent for 100 pound. Pray do not want what is necessare nor be afraid of want, for I hop we shall always have enough. I am told things have a better aspect of late and I am hopfull our friends att London will be safe. As to the fortunes, if things should come to the worst, I hop we shall still have what will give us what is needful for Life. In the meantime I am as easy at home as I can be when absent from you. I must own that is the greatest part of my suffering but I dare not allow myself to think of itt. When I consider how mercifully you have been preserved, and that you have a good country and liberty, the sad state of many good people has hitherto affected me so much, I thought myself happy in comparison. Your friends have been very careful to doe me all manner of kindness, and I am very sure I am to be as little pityed as any in my state. I have had 3 of your letters which gave me great comfort. I wish both of us may be thankful for every degree of mercy we meet with, and submitt with chearfulness to what Providence orders for us.

I was some time perfectly incapable of doeing anything being so much overwhelmed with greif, but saw soon the folly and fault of giving way to it, and am now doing all I can to be usefull to you in your present circumstances. I hope God will bless my indeavors for I shall endeavor to doe the best without anxiety which I have been too long liable to. I shall be glad to hear you are well in your country retreat, and are contented with your present state. Your mother has been here, and writ to you in my last letter. She is both cheerfull and easy. Her concern was great till you was gone, but she has none now, for she does not doubt your family will be preserved and she hopes this will make you good.

I told you in my last old W.’s work was given up; it went off, and we thought it a good opportunity because of impertinent people talking, and both Ch. and P.C. have several projects in vein to secure itt. How or what way things will be no body can yett guess, but if you are preserv’d I fear nothing. For your boys I have not the least concern or fear they will ever want. They are young, and there may be many changes before they are men.

I have planted trees and put all the hedges to rights, and shall not fail to take all manner of care that nothing you have done be lost. I find my Counsel think I have too much land in my own hand, and they incline I should let out in Tenantry the place I do not live at. I must own I think I have more to do than I can well manage, but I fear you will lose all you have laid out, and it will not give so much now to let it as it might do sometime afterwards; but I have no money to lay out on improvements, but I would be glad to have your own opinion. You will laugh at this way of writing, but I have some faint hope you will never be attainted, having ’scapt the first brunt. You will hear many of your friends is gone to Holand, some are yet in this country.

I hear Rob Roy’s house is burnt and his cattle caryed off by a party. He thought fit to wait for them in a wood, and, they talk, has killed a great many. I am sorry for it. I have heard nothing of Mr. Beggar, but nobody doubts but he will have work enough this summer.

Pray write often and oblige me, for all you have writ comes very safe to my hand. I told you before P. C. is att London, and I believe you may have no doubt but he will serve you. I hear his friend, Andrew, is very great at Court and is a great Countryman. I hope God will bless their endeavors.

I am angry you never mention Kid or Mill for I have a great desire to hear of them, but I do not wish you to be with them in case it would stop what your friends is earnest to have done for you here. Your boys are well and want much to see you, and ask me how many years it is since their Papa went away. Dearest Life, wishing you all happiness.

Adieu.

Apr. 13.

I am very well in my health.

CHAPTER XXVII — LETTER X — LETTER XI — LETTER XII. — LETTER XIII — LETTER XIV

You will notice, I have no doubt, a great sameness in these interesting letters, and frequent repetitions of the sentiments and facts they contain. The reason of this, as you will readily understand, was the fear my lady had that Sir John might not receive them, so that she felt compelled to inform him of whatever interested them most in every epistle she penned. It would be easy to curtail them, giving you only extracts, and so save you the tedium of reading the same things so often; but in reproducing them as they were writ I feel that I am only doing justice to my dear lady’s memory, for by this means alone can you, her descendants, realise the weariness of her life, the flagging of her hopefulness, the constant burden that weighed on her mind during those long, monotonous weeks. Her spirits, as you will see, varied, as a woman’s are apt to do with her varying moods. Some days she would be full of cheerfulness, saying that an end to all our troubles must soon be coming, and busying herself with her affairs as if her beloved husband were returning to Alva the very next week; at other times she would be heavy and sad, moving about the house in silence, and only by a great effort making answer to those who conversed with her. The news of Sir John’s safety and freedom did indeed lift a weight from her heart, and for some days she even laughed and sang as she made herself busy in her usual way; but this lightness could not long be maintained, and the prospect of seeing her husband grew more and more uncertain.

Our fears for the good old Colonel and his son, still prisoners in the Fleet, were now allayed as nothing could be found against them, and there seemed to be every hope that after a time they would be released. Mr. Patrick Campbell, our kind and constant friend, had means of seeing them frequently, and kept my lady informed of their welfare.

The news of the escape of the brave old Brigadier Mackintosh and several of his friends from Newgate, which reached us some time in May, was hailed with triumph, not unmixed with amusement, when we learned that this sturdy veteran had knocked down his gaoler with his fists; and after disarming the sentinel, they opened the gates and let themselves out into the streets, afterwards escaping (save one or two who were unluckily recaptured) to France. Some weeks later occurred the escape of Colonel Walkinshaw of Barafield from the Castle of Stirling, which we learned enraged the Earl of Rothes very much. But these things are matters of history, you will say, and enter not into our story.

And all this time it may be asked where was Sir John and how was he faring?

Excellently well, if we may believe the hints given us in the few extracts of letters from him which I have seen, and the scraps of news about him, confided to me at the time by my lady, and entered in my little day-book.

You will see that his faithful wife believes that he is living quietly and privately, with no thought of further entangling himself in the King’s affairs; but she constantly urges him to leave the neighbourhood of his Majesty and the Earl of Mar, in order to prove to the authorities at home that he truly repents him of his misdeeds, and is therefore a fit subject for the clemency of King George. And all the time if we had but known it, Sir John was busily engaged in furthering his master’s interests by every means in his power, although I am certain he did not contemplate bringing disaster upon his wife and family.

In the beginning of April, he, accompanied by his brother-in-law, left Paris by water-coach for a town called Auxerre, which was finally reached in a covered cart. From there, as it was quite out of the way of diligences or even ordinary post-road, they hired horses to ride to Beaune, a small village in a wine-growing district from which was obtained the excellent vin de Pomar, or Beaune, which is still famed among the wines of Burgundy. In one of his letters Sir John tells my lady how he drinks her health daily, though abstemiously, in this cheap and pleasant beverage; he also gives an amusing account of Mr. Paterson’s difficulties with the French language, the latter being almost a stranger to its use.

After about three weeks in this place, Sir John, upon the King’s summoning him, repaired to Avignon where his Majesty held his meagre court, and from then onwards through the summer his time seems to have been occupied with political affairs. This, as you are aware, he kept from my lady’s knowledge, but rumours reached her from time to time through other sources, which greatly disturbed her and kept her in a state of constant anxiety.

“What,” she said to me once, “is the use of all our endeavours to obtain Sir John’s pardon, and prevent his being attainted, if he continues to mix himself up in the affairs of the poor King? I cannot see that one man’s help, or the want of it, can make much difference at the present juncture; and I am convinced that if my husband were free to confide his private affairs to his Majesty, he would be told to consider his family interests rather than continue any longer in this employment.”

“Perhaps the story of Sir John’s being sent to Spain is false,” said I, to comfort her.

“Oh, ’tis very like!” she answered, “people must always be talking. But it shows us, Barbara, what I have ever felt, the strong difference between men and women. Were my dear life to express the lightest wish regarding my conduct, would I not hasten to do it, no matter how cross it might be to my inclination? But not all my pleadings, I fear, will have any effect on Sir John to make him alter his present way of living.”

“Ah, madam!” I cried, eager as ever for my guardian’s justification, “’tis a hard thing to be torn by divided duties, especially when affection bears a part in each. But I do fervently believe our good Sir John will decide to give up the King, if this is the only alternative, rather than bring you and your children to misery.”

“Would to God he would hesitate no longer!” she cried. “He may make up his mind too late, and end by falling between two stools, as the saying is.”

“There is still,” she went on after a while, “the hope of help from his brother, Robin, who is very great with his master. I think ’twould be easy for him to move the Czar to ask for Sir John’s pardon; but this, as you know, would not alter the inclination of the Parliament if they were determined to have him attainted, and my fear is, that believing him still a servant of King James, they may hasten to do it. I pray God to have us all in his keeping, and order everything for our good; but my heart at times is very heavy, Barbara, and the waiting is long.”

It was about this time that the little boys fell ill with the chincough, or whooping-cough, and though at first it seemed they were both to get pretty easy off, the trouble increased, and little Hal especially was brought very low. Fortunately the weather was mild and almost summer-like, though but the beginning of May, so that there was every chance for the children in that particular, and with Phemie’s care and skill to depend on, my lady did not allow herself to be unduly agitated about them. Still she was an anxious and tender parent, and the sight of her youngest child, with white face and heavy eyes, oppressed and spent after a fit of the cough, caused her many a pang, I trow, for to have anything serious happen to her precious little sons in the absence of their father, would have well-nigh broken her heart.

Early in this month Betty was obliged to go back to Dysart, intending as she said to return very shortly, but this, as events turned out, she was unable to do. Old Lady Alva was still with us, as kind and pleasant a dame as it would be possible to find. Her cheerful, placid spirit was of the greatest benefit to her daughter at this time, and though she interfered in nothing that was being done, she was ever ready to give her help and advice when asked.

As for Barbara, she had been made happy by receiving a letter from her friend, Mr. Fleming, who was safely arrived in France, and was now staying with some good friends of his father’s in Paris. He had great hopes, he said, of getting his pardon, through his parent’s friends in the Government, and was already contemplating falling in with his father’s suggestion that he should get him employment in the service of the East India Company. As this would entail his leaving Britain and living in a distant land for the most part of his life, he thought it proper to advertise me of his prospects, and get my mind on the matter.

Glad and relieved as I was to know him safe and well, this news, as you can imagine, threw me into some agitation, for it implied the readjustment and arranging of my whole life, and my woman’s heart trembled at the notion. There is surely nothing in life so wonderful nor so beautiful, if we regard it rightly, as the simple trust displayed by a young maid in giving up herself to the sole care of the man she loves, forsaking all other to cleave to him, leaving friends and home and childhood’s scenes to accompany him to any corner of the globe, the future all unknown, alone, but for him, in the whole world. And yet I suppose that ever since Rebecca, trusting only to hearsay, came willingly to Isaac, it has been the way of women, and ordered by God; and men too often, I fear, regard it as a natural proceeding, and the faith that it implies no more than their due.

However that may be, I did not feel it would be right to attempt to dissuade Mr. Fleming from falling in with his father’s wishes; for nothing was nearer to my heart, as you may guess, than the desire to stand well in the eyes of my Anthony’s parents, so that they might find nothing of which to disapprove in their dear son’s choice. He begged my permission and that of Lady Erskine, to make them acquainted with our mutual love, so that, upon his obtaining his pardon, our betrothal might at once be made public.

To this, my lady, after consulting with Mr. Erskine (who was again at Alva), gave her consent, but added that in the event of Mr. Fleming’s going to the Indies, she must beg, for the sake of my youth, that he should not insist upon my accompanying him. In three or four years’ time, she said, I would be of age, and being older, more fit to hold my own against the extremities of the Eastern climate; Mr. Fleming also would be accustomed to the country, and more fit to make me comfortable in my new life when I went out to him.

I cannot say that Barbara, young, impulsive and not too patient, at once agreed to her kind friend’s proposals. Indeed it took some days of consideration and counsel to bring her to reason, and some nights of sleepless anxiety and not a few tears, before she could bring herself to face the prospect with equanimity. The sorrow of parting, the long absence from each other, the distance that would separate us, and the dangers and risks of the long voyage—all these combined to make a burden that was not easy to carry. But of this I said very little in my reply to my lover, knowing that his own heart would understand it too well. I only stipulated very strongly that I should see him once more, and talk over everything with himself, before his departure from Britain.

And so with hopes and fears the days were intermingled, and the summer was at hand, and the trees were growing green, but there was no word yet of Sir John’s coming home.

I think it very hard I can never hear my Dearest Life has got any of my letters, tho’ this is the seventh I have writ, and in every one desired you to draw a bill for 100 pounds. Your not doeing it makes me conclude you have never got one, and since you left Paris I have never heard from you at all. I must own my hearing from you so seldom is a great uneasiness and occasions me many fears, tho’ I must own I should trust to the kind providence of God who has hitherto wonderfully preserved you. All things as to the settling the affairs of this unhappy country are still undetermined, and our own countrymen cannot agree about it, which is our misfortune. What will be the issue God knows, but we are not without fears of hard usage, nor altogether without hop that in time they may relent and use us more Christianly.

I hear of our friends att London frequently. I am hopful they are in no danger as to their lives, and it’s generally talkt there will not be much more blood taken. In the meantime I am living very easyily at home managing as formerly, but have enough to do to keep all right, and have great difficulty in getting up the rents, tho’ care must be taken to pay the annual rents and prevent diligencies being done. I am very lucky in two friends which take much of the burden off me, and all is done that can be in the present circumstances. I am easy in everything in comparison to the anxious care and concern I have about your person, and the different thoughts you will have upon not hearing what state I am in.

Your boys has had the chincoch but are better. The season here has been extraordinary, for since the breaking of the storm there has not been an ill day; the fields are much frequented by me, and how to manage my ground to the best advantage is much my study. I shall not fail to observe as much as possible all you have done in both places....

Some of your friends are so unjust (as) to blame me for your going out, and the reason they give for it is I should have acquainted the Government with your design. But since I am innocent and never did anything but what was my duty with regard to you, I must let them be saying and bear that with other things. I cannot frame a notion to myself what state we will be in, but in the general I have no fears of want, and I am sure nobody will lose by you. These things I have good ground to believe, let things come to the worst; but the longer things are of being settled the longer I shall be deprived of the happyness of seeing you, for my being here is absolutely necessare till we see the utmost and procure something by help of friends for me and my children if they do go to the Height of Rigour.

I have no other work in hand without doors but plowing, this two months past, for some impertinent folks was like to be uneasy, and P. C. is at London who has several schemes in vein; whether any will succeed at this present juncture I cannot guess, but Providence will preserve you and all your concerns, I hop, in spite of all your enemies. All your friends here are well, some blaming you and others pitying you, but all your near relations will do for you what lyes in their power. Your sister Ca. has a son call’d after her father; I am going to see her this week. I am very impatient to hear from you. The three letters you writ before you left Paris came safe to my hand, but I have had none since. My health is pretty good considering how many difficult things I have to disturb me, but if you be preserved I hop to get over all other difficulties in time.

As to the clans they are all coming in and giving up their arms. There is none of your neighbourhood given up themselves.

Betty salutes you, and I am Dear, Soul, in all sincerity, May 1st.

Yours.

It is but three day since I wrote to my Dearest Life, but haveing had the pleasure of one from you last night of 15 of Ap., new stile, by another hand, I am resolved to lett no opportunity slip, hoping that some one of my letters may come to your hand. This is the eighth I have writ, and tho’ by your last you tell me you had not heard from me, I am hopful they are not all mis-carryed, but by your leaving Paris they are longer a-coming to your hand. It is no small satisfaction to me that you are well and at freedom, and the thoughts of it support me under every other difficulty. Tho’ I must own the common misfortune has been so greivous that I cannot express it, and then every particular person that I ever knew or heard of makes deep impression upon me, so that I was not capable of having a right thought. But after some time I found I could not live after that way, and made myself incapable to serve you. I resolv’d to imploy myself in doing in your affairs what was fit in the present juncture, and as the old saying is, indeavour to make the best of an ill bargain. But I have been many days without speaking, except when business obligt me to it.

I told you in my last our friends att London are well, and we are not afraid of their lives being in danger. What will come of all the misfortunate people God knows, but many have foolishily given up themselves and Glengary among the rest, who is now at Perth. It’s talkt they are all to be tryed. I am still at home managing after the old manner but with many difficultys, being perfectly a stranger to your debts, and every frikish body arresting the rents, and one difficulty no sooner off but another occurs; but I doubt not to get over all these, and in time, which it’s probable I will have now, if the Parlyment rise soon as it’s expected, without any more bills of attainder, to get this year’s rent. Your farms are plowed and the last of the Barley sow’d this day. I may ask you when you was so soon done. There has been no other work without doors for two months past, because upon many reasons it was inconvenient. I have planted trees here, and if things go tolerably easy I intend to plant both here and in the other place in the latter season. I tell you all this that you may not think I despair of your having peaceable possession of your own, tho’ I cannot yet see by what means. We hear of an interview of many crown’d heads, and some people think your pardon may be easily obtained by your Brother, the Dr., and his master’s means, but if ever you obtain it that way, your abode must be in another place. Ch. has some thoughts of going over to see his Brother, and wold appoint you to meet him if ye could do it with safety. I must own if it be practicable for your friends to obtain a pardon, you should accept of it, however cross it may be to your own inclination. Consider your children and me, and prevent the utter ruin of your family. And I daresay neither Kid nor Mill will think it wrong for you, since you cannot serve them in your present circumstances, to doe what is so material for your interest.

Your boys have been very ill of the chincoch but are better. I hope they will get over it very soon.... I expect to see Ch. soon here. P. C. is at London, and your sister, Nell, is gone to the Bath. All your friends are well. The uncertainty of my letters coming to your hand makes me say less than I incline. Pray draw for money when you please, but it seems you are in no want, for you never mention it. Wishing you, my Life, all manner of happyness, I am in all sincerity

May 4th.

Yours.

I received one from my Dearest Life of the 17 Ap. which was most acceptable. I am sorry you should be in such pain and uneasyness by your not hearing from me, and I should never forgive myself if I had occasioned it by my neglect, but I assure myself you will not think me capable of omitting anything than can contribute to your quiet. This is the tenth letter I have writ and all different hands, in hops some wold be so lucky (as) to come your length. I have had the pleasure of getting all yours, which I reckon no small mercy. I have told you in all my letters to be easy about me and your children; wee have what is necessare for us, and I have good ground to think will always have; let things come to the worst we will have enough and what we ought to be content with, in so general a calamity. My greatest suffering is being absent from you; but when I think upon the danger and imprisonment of many others, some of (them) my good friends, I dare not complain. I must own your being at freedom and out of the hands of your enemies, has supported me under the many difficultys, and if you are well and easy in your mind, I shall endeavour to submit chearfully to whatever God in his providence shall order; and very often the fears of what may happen is greater than the suffering itself, as I doubt not is the case with the most part of the distrest people at this time. The delay and the uncertainty occasions the most dreadful apprehensions their fancy can suggest. Tho’ at other times I was too ready to put the dark side of the cloud to my view, yet I think it’s impossible things can long continue in so violent a way. I doe very much regret the suffering of Kid and your freind, and of all the rest in generall; but God in his wise providence has ordered it, and his visible hand in disappointing all our hops should make us wait his time with patience, and indeavour to make the best use of so great afflictions, which is most justly sent us as a punishment for our many faults and abuses of many mercys; and if this thought would make us live better lives, it’s very probable our time of suffering might be shortened.

I am still at home managing after the old manner, have labour’d both your farms, and getting in rents, tho’ with great difficulty. There is nothing omitted that can be done for your interest, and I am very lucky in two freinds who do all for me that’s in their power.

You are not yet attainted, and I hop will not be this session of Parlyment; but I am afraid if you continue in that place where you are now it will make them more violent, and tho’ your being in another place will not be so agreeable to you, yet I persuade myself you will cross your own inclination since you can do your friends no service, and may ruin your family. I doe not let anybody know where you are because I have some hop, with the help of Dr. Robin, your brother, and his master, to get your pardon, that you may be allowed to come home and live quietly. I believe the first thoughts of this kind will be very disagreeable to you; but consider mee and your children and every particular circumstance, and then I am sure you must be of my mind. This is the opinion of those friends that did not condemn your going out, and have your interest as much at heart as their own. I wold not wish you to doe a mean or dishonorable thing, and I am sure were it fit to be free with Kid and Mill in every particular they wold desire you to accept, if ever that pardon could be obtained by your freinds. Pray, write freely to me your opinion in this particular, for I have greater fears you will not accept than that itt will not be obtain’d, and if you are positive against itt I will never attempt itt. I heard from London you was gone a message to Spain, but they must always be talking.

I am doeing no work without doors just now. All our plowing is over some weeks agoe, and our work is all laid aside except such as is in and about the House. I have planted trees this season, and design to plant them in the latter season.

Your children are just such as you wold wish them, very good-humor’d. I am getting one to teach them. They have both the chincoch, but I hop the worst is over. My friend, Bess, has left me. Your mother is here just now; she is very concern’d about you, but has no such fears for the family as I have seen her have for a trifle.

I cannot yet have any vein how or what way I am to doe; but if once things were settled, if you doe not get home, I will certainly come to you and bring my young folks with me, which will not doe so well as that I mention in the other side. In the meantime, hope the best, take good care of yourself, and let me hear frequently from you.

I writ in all my letters to make your factor draw for money on his correspondent at Edinr. for your use. I hop I shall have to supply you what you have use for. As to your servants, they have all been here since you left the country, and Andrew came safe, so you need not be uneasy. As to your debts of all kinds, due care is taken that no body lose by you, and nobody can lose a grott. I wish everybody had the same mitigations of their sufferings that I have; but the hearing of the necessities of others, and not being in a condition to help them, touches me very sensibly, which makes me wish I could be far from hearing itt. Wishing you all manner of happyness, I am, my Dearest, in all sincerity,

Yours.

May 14.

I received yours of the 26th of Ap., which my Dearest Life may imagine was most acceptable to know you had once got some of my letters, and that you was easy in your mind upon that score, which you have all the reason in the world to be. You was much to blame that (you) did not mention money in any of your former letters, because if I had known the maner of sending money, you had got it long ere now. Having some money att London, I have ordered your Bill of 50 pounds that you have drawn to be pay’d there, and shall write to my freind there to remitt the other 50 after the best and cheapest manner. For all the money I could raise here out of your estate, and otherways by the help of friends, will not satisfy uneasy Debtors for annual rents and principal sums to prevent diligences being done, and itt is done in such maner that the money laid out that way will stand good upon the worst event that can happen. But if you will please to let me know what sum you incline to have soon, it shall be had as far as either your freinds or my credit can goe. In a little time we hop to have your affairs put in a clear way, which, so soon as it is done, you shall know, and shall be dispos’d of by your order, or as you think most proper. Ch. A(reskine) is here just now, and is thinking and laying out himself on every way that seems most for your interest; and it’s his opinion, and it seems to him the only way to make your affairs easy, to abstract yourself from your freinds for some time, by which means you may scape the fury and rage of the folks in present power; for you’ll not doubt but they have good intelligence who are with, or makes their abode with——. Nor is it impossible in a little time you may be at more freedom, with less harm to your family, not being yet attainted, which gives us a Breathing to put things in a better way. Your remaining at a certain place will no doubt hasten a sentence which will put us out of all capacity of medling with anything that belongs to you, but by indirect and not so successful methods. So as you regard your own interest and my quiet I expect your complyance in this matter; and if it were not absolute necessity, you may be assured I wold not ask you to cross your own inclination in anything, and much less in taking you from company that must be agreeable to you in a strange country.

If you have got the rest of my letters you will know that Mr. Nabit does not imploy old W. or any of his profession at present, because it was likely to prove uneasy.... It is yet impossible to tell what money Mr. Nabit will be worth; his reputation among the common sort is so high that nobody credits it.... Your youngest boy is brought very low with the chincoch which fears me, but I hope with tender care ... he will get the better of it, for ye know I am easily alarm’d. Nothing shall be wanting, and I hope in God the children shall be preserved while they are under my care, and will give us all a happy meeting which is the thing in the world I most earnestly wish.... Your mother is here. She writ you some time agoe, and till she knows that is come to your hand she will not write again. I am pretty much imploy’d, which keeps me from thinking so much as my temper and present state does incline me ... I heard from London last Post. There can be no evidence got against our two friends that is in the Fleet, which is no small mercy. Bess is at home, but will return here. Be sure to write freely your mind as it comes in your head of anything you would have done, and you will always find those two friends I formerly mentioned and myself devoted to serve you in every respect.

I am, Dr. Life, in all sincerity

Yours.

May 20.

It is three weeks now since I heard from my Dearest Life and I begin to be very impatient. I expect to hear from you every fortnight, and when I doe not I am apt to fancy you are either gone some message, or are not well, for all your friends in the Government has had you gone to Sweden; and if I had not heard from your self I should have been too ready to believe it. Your friend P. C. writ to me from London. He was not a little uneasy he had not heard from you, by which I reckon he has writ to you. I writ three posts ago to desire him to remit the other 50 pound I mentioned in my last, and did incline to send more, but as I told you at this term all had enough to doe. But I doubt not in a little time to have more money at London for the effects are gone from this, and it will be cheaper to send it from thence; and P. C. being to stay there for a long time, when you think fit write to him and he will be sure to answer you, for I doubt not he has let you know how to direct him.

I have hitherto been pretty lucky in my little affairs, and in a little time we will give you a good account of them, if they let me alone from Bills of Attainder. I wold be glad to know your opinion whether it’s proper for your Brother R. to cause his master interpose with the present powers now when they are to have an interview, or in what manner he should doe it; whether to ask a gift of your Life-Rent, and a little article put in to secure all to yourself, tho’ you did not come home for some time, for I fear you wold not incline; but whether you do or not you will live the better (if) your estate be secured. I am sure so far you will be of my mind, and if this Act of Parlyment pass and you be attainted, no body can be sure of anything; and it excluded the payment of all debts since the 24 of June last, so that both for your own sake and others, if so fair an opportunity offer it should not be neglected, and if it be agreeable to you, and you signify your opinion to Charles, he will go over to Holland on purpose. This I have often heard him say. I have writ to you on this subject before, so, as soon as you can, let me have your opinion.

Your nephew, James Haldane, is to be resident at that court where your Brother R. is so great. Your mother is still here, and tho’ we are of very different sentiments, we live in good friendship and easy. Your boys are now perfectly recovered, which is no small mercy to me, and if my Dearest is well and easy in his mind, I have more than I deserve. Our friends are still in the Fleet, and there can be no evidence got against them.

I must confess when I walk abroad and remember all your different projects, and how pleased I have been to find you in some of these walks, I cannot help being uneasy till I think you are at liberty and well, and luckyer as to other circumstances than the most part of people, then I blame myself for unthankfulness. Your old freind Barafeild made his escape out of the Castle of Stirlin last week, which enrag’d the new Governor very much. I shall be obligt to see my father this week; but I cannot persuade myself to visit these great folks, tho’ it certainly is fit for me to keep in with all, and they profess great friendship for me and regret for your family, tho’ none for yourself. I can at some times be a politician, so at present I think interest will prevail with me to keep in with all.... Be so kind to write frequently, for it’s impossible to express my anxiety about you. Dearest Life, I am ever

June 4. 1716.

Yours.

I am healthyer than you or anybody could expect.

CHAPTER XXVIII — LETTER XV — LETTER XVI.

Towards the end of May my lady, becoming alarmed at the weakness of her youngest son, determined, though somewhat against her inclination, to send him and his brother to their grandfather’s house for the benefit of the sea-air and the change. Not being at liberty just then to leave Alva, she arranged that the little boys should go in charge of myself and Phemie, knowing that every care would be taken of them, and that all love and attention would be shown them to make up to them for her absence.

It was a great pleasure to me to revisit Dysart, where I had always met with such kindness; and little Charles, delighted as children are at the prospect of a change, skipped and shouted on his way to the carriage with no thought of regret at leaving his mother behind. When Phemie would have rebuked him for his seeming heartlessness, my lady merely smiled and bade her pay no heed.

I found my dear Betty looking brighter and happier than I had seen her for many months, and though I could find no cause in my own knowledge to account for the change, I must confess I took great pleasure in the same.

A light broke in upon my denseness, however, when I found that scarce a day passed without a visit from my Lord Wemyss, who on some pretext or other generally found opportunity to put himself in Betty’s way. Sometimes he came to bring her a flower grown in his garden, sometimes to consult with my lord on this subject or that, sometimes, I used to think, merely to tell us what a fine day it was; but, whatever the excuse, he made himself prodigiously agreeable when he came, and though Betty never suffered me to move from her side during his visits, I noticed that while she still sharpened her wit against him in playful scorn, she treated him with more gentleness and kindness than I had ever seen her use before.

The weather was now most beautiful, and as much as possible we spent the days out of doors. Charles from the first showed himself perfectly recovered from his ailment, and very soon little Hal showed signs of picking up strength; and from watching with languid interest from Phemie’s arms his brother’s gambols, began to desire to join in them, and from day to day made rapid progress towards complete recovery. ’Twas a great pleasure to be able to write the good news to Alva, and my lady promised shortly to come and see for herself the happy change that had taken place.

One morning, as we sat idly on a bench in the narrow wood above the water and watched the children at play below us, our constant visitor joined us, and gave us a kindly good day. The pretty colour rose in Betty’s cheeks as she made room for him beside us, and my lord, who seemed as ever in a blithe and pleasant humour, made her a compliment on the return of her gay spirits and sprightly looks.

“The winter is gone, Mistress Betty, with all its darkness and sadness, and you are blossoming again like the new summer flowers.”

“The flowers that blossom now knew nothing of the winter,” sighed Betty, ever ready for an argument; “but we—can we ever forget?”

“Why, yes!” cried my lord, “’tis the noble mind that rises above its disappointments, and sees in them only the working out of a wisely guided Destiny.”

“Ah, my lord,” said Betty, “’tis easy for you to talk; but when the disappointment is our own, it is harder to soothe it with such bare philosophy.”

For a moment he was silent, for he knew well of what she was thinking.

“And did not I, too, suffer the loss of many hopes this last December?” he asked gently.

The tears sprang to Betty’s eyes as she turned to him with an impulse of sympathy.

“Pray, my lord, forgive me! You know how I feel for you there. But it was to the other subject I thought you referred.”

“I know, I know,” he answered, “but ’tis all one. Neither public nor private sorrows are we fitted to bear without recourse to ‘such bare philosophy’ as you call it, madam; but I prefer the name of Christian resignation.”

Then, turning to me, he said in a lighter tone, “And when, Mistress Barbara, will it please you to honour my house with a visit? There is some ancient armour which, if you care for such things, would please you, and the Castle itself is not without historic interest.”

“Why, my lord,” cried I, greatly delighted with his suggestion, “I do assure you there is nothing I should more enjoy. Of all things I wish to see the room where Queen Mary first met my lord Darnley—the beginning of all her woes.”

“And of many other people’s as well,” said Betty. “Who knows the difference it would have made to us all had the poor lady married some man more worthy of her?”

My lord laughed.

“She was a wilful woman, madam, and would have had her way in any case. But now, when will you bring Mistress Barbara to Wemyss? Will you both honour me by riding there to-morrow afternoon and drinking a dish of tea with me?”

To this we readily assented, and after a little further talk my lord departed.

“It seems, my dear Betty,” said I, when his footsteps had died away, “that you have forgiven his lordship.”

She turned her face to me with a doubtful smile, “And does it seem to you, dear Barbara, that his lordship has forgiven me?”

“Why, yes!” said I, laughing, “if you feel the need of forgiveness.”

Nothing could exceed the kindness and courtesy of my Lord Wemyss next day as he conducted us over his great house, showing everything that he thought would please us, from the dungeons where the unhappy prisoners once had languished, to the beautiful portrait of his first wife painted in miniature. Tea was served to us in the historic chamber which I had expressed the curiosity to see, and while we were drinking it, the Earl turned suddenly to me.

“Do you not think it a pity, Mistress Barbara, that a house like this should be without a mistress?”

“Indeed, my lord, I do,” I responded readily; “but I make no doubt your lordship could find one without much difficulty.”

“Alas!” said he, but with a twinkle in his eye, “the only one I want sees fit to raise a barrier around herself, through which I find it very hard to make myself seen or heard.”

“Can I not help to remove it, my lord?” said I mischievously, attempting to rise from the couch whereon we sat facing him; but to my dismay I found my dress clutched firmly by the hand of Betty, who was looking into her empty tea-cup as if to read her fortune there.

“Can two live together except they be agreed?” she asked in a low voice.

My lord leant forward in his chair and looked at her earnestly. He seemed in no way embarrassed by my presence, and seeing that Betty desired my support, I thought it best to remain where I was.

“The cause of disagreement,” he said, “is gone. You accused me once of triumphing over your distress; that, my dear Betty, I could not do. I grieved with and for you in every fresh disappointment. But the whole affair was a blunder, and seeing that it was so, I set my face against it. My heart is not unloyal to that unfortunate prince, and were it only a personal matter I should certainly prefer James to George as a King; but of the Rising I could not approve, and in that it failed I recognise the hand of a wise Providence. These are the words of an honest man, madam. Have you aught to object to in them?”

Betty laid her cup and saucer on the table, and turned to look out of the window, so that I saw nothing but one rosy ear.

“I shall always cherish the hope that he may return,” she said softly.

“Be it so,” replied the Earl; “hope does no one any harm.”

“I shall never pretend loyalty to the Hanoverian,” she cried, turning her face to us.

“I have no doubt, madam, he will be able to live without it.”

A smile curved her lips; his good humour was imperturbable.

“You think me foolish, frivolous, fickle,” she sighed, “and easily led away.”

“I think you loyal, and tender, and true!” he answered, “and what can a man want more?”

With that he glanced at me, and seeing that my dress was now free I slipped away, and going through an open door and down a passage, found myself presently in the garden. Here I busied myself among the flowers till, some time later, hearing Betty’s voice I ran to meet her, and putting my arms about her whispered, “Was all well?”

To this she replied, “He is to see my father to-morrow,” and my heart rejoiced, for the look in her eyes was one of peace.

It was indeed a matter for rejoicing to all Betty’s friends, for my Lord Wemyss was, as you know, a man of sense and honour, very agreeable, and still remarkably handsome. An express was despatched by my Lord Sinclair to Alva begging my lady’s attendance, as in all things he relied upon her judgment and valued her opinions; and I make no doubt that her wise advice was asked and taken in the important matter of settlements. That she was as much surprised as pleased at the news, I saw clearly, for so effectually had Betty hid her feelings even from this tender friend and sister, that my lady had had no hope of any alliance so satisfactory for the capricious young madam. Even now she was inclined to think it merely a matter of convenience and worldly policy on the part of a woman disappointed in her ambitions, and feeling at war with Fate.

Arrangements were made for the signing of the settlements, and Mr. Erskine was summoned from Edinburgh to look after the lady’s interests. The wedding was to take place in less than three weeks, and the future Countess very graciously asked me to stand as one of her bridesmaids.

“If only Sir John were here,” she cried, “and my poor brother, I should be perfectly happy.”

“Were Sir John here,” said my lady smiling, “you would have to bear some teasing upon various subjects. He would ask you, Bess, what you meant to do with all your other swains—David Pitcairn for one.”

“I would bear that gladly,” said Betty, “for the pleasure of his good company; but since he is sure to think my choice a piece of caprice, you may remind him that I love to be comfortable and lazy, and that at Wemyss there are plenty of easy-chairs to lounge in, so that I expect to live very well, whatever my friends may say.”

Her sister looked at her kindly but gravely. Her idea of happiness did not consist in bodily comfort, and fond of Betty as she was, she sometimes had doubts of her sincerity.

When the latter left the room, she sighed.

“I trust my poor Bess has some stronger reason for expecting a happy life than that she gives us, Barbara.”

“Dear madam,” I assured her, yet surprised that she should need the explanation, “she was but jesting. Betty is, believe me, as much in love with my Lord Wemyss as I am with my Anthony, and I think has been for long. ’Twas the affair of the Rising that kept them apart, and since its failure she has been very sore; but at last her pride is broken down, and she allows herself to acknowledge the Earl’s goodness and patience.”

“Why, if that is the case,” cried my lady, “no one can be more heartily glad than I. Poor Betty has suffered cruelly in this sad year, and she deserves some happiness as her reward for her faithful services to the King. I hope she will indeed be comfortable. But what, my dear Barbara, will become of the other David. ’Tis hard for him, and I know not what he will do.”

Indeed this question had risen in my own mind often enough, and I had not been able to supply an answer, for David Pitcairn was one friend who could not be expected to rejoice at the prospect of Betty’s marriage. He came and went as usual, faithful, pleasant, and kind; and however much he suffered, he did not allow it to appear.

Once, upon my lady offering him a word of sympathy, he threw up his head with a smile.

“Oh, madam,” he said, “it is kind of you to think of me, but my love for Mistress Betty was not founded on hope. Long ago I realised that this day must arrive for me, and I am only glad that she has chosen where she is likely to find happiness.”

My lady regarded him with secret admiration.

“You think she will be happy?”

“I have no doubt of it, madam, since she loves her husband,” he replied.

But brave and unselfish as this good man was, it was not to be expected he should waste his life in contemplating his lost mistress’s happiness with another, and much as she valued his friendship, this was the last thing Betty desired. Before the end of the year, David Pitcairn did what many another gallant man has done, carried his wounded heart to the wars, and endeavoured to fill his life with fresh interests and new ambitions. He got a Commission in the 1st Royal Scots Regiment of Foot, of which my lady’s brother, James, was at this time Major, and in which in after years both Charles and little Hal became officers. He lived to see Betty’s grandson succeed his father as Earl of Sutherland at the age of fifteen, and died at London only four years ago, beloved and lamented by a large circle of friends. He never married.

It had not taken me many minutes upon my lady’s arrival at Dysart to perceive that something far removed from Betty’s marriage was occupying her thoughts, and though for her sister’s sake she strove to be cheerful and put away her melancholy, it was impossible not to see that she was troubled in her mind. At last when the marriage contract had been drawn up, and all their plans talked over, she broke it to us that she was in much anxiety about her husband’s affairs. An Act of Parliament had been passed, which put it out of the King’s power to grant any portion of the forfeited estates to their unfortunate owners, so that should Sir John be attainted, a calamity that he had up till now very narrowly escaped, all their projects of private negotiations for his pardon must be abandoned. Besides this a Commission had been appointed to inquire into the particulars of every rebel family’s goods and chatels; to spy and probe their innermost affairs, with the power of citing anyone they pleased, whether closest friend or meanest servant, to appear and give information about the private property of each of these unfortunate gentlemen. All money got in this way, it was ordered, must go into the Treasury for the payment of the public debts; whereas anything owing to individuals by the owners of these same forfeited estates was to be ignored, and the poor people must suffer loss through no fault of their own, nor by the intention of their patrons.

All this was a cause of great grief to poor Lady Erskine for many reasons. Not only was she keenly disappointed at the shattering of her hopes of buying her husband’s pardon, but she now lived in terror of the Commissioners discovering the value of the Silver Mine through some of those they examined, and this she felt would be the end of all. Then the thought of any having to suffer through her family was very bitter to her, and if she lost not only her estate but their secret source of wealth as well, how was this injustice to be avoided? Above all, her heart and soul were shaken by constant terrors for her husband’s safety. Placed as she was at a distance from him, and only too well aware of his light-hearted disregard of consequences, she longed to hear he was living anywhere away from the ill-fated King and his companions, believing this to be the first necessity for his safety. The uncertainty whether he would consent to this measure preyed upon her mind day and night, and between her fear of their enemies and her reluctance to force him against his inclination, her burden seemed at times like to weigh her to the earth.

“I still hope,” she said to me, “that Sir John may escape being attainted, seeing that up to the present his name has been kept out of the Bills; and I know that Mr. Haldane and his brother, and certainly Patrick Campbell as well, are working in every possible way to prevent it. But when these Commissioners arrive at Alva, and make enquiries of all and sundry about this person and that, think you that should a rumour of the garden” (for so we spoke of the mine) “come to their ears, and what is to hinder it, seeing it is at the mercy of so many needy people, they will not find in this an excuse for seizing Sir John’s possessions and adding them to the list of forfeitures? My heart is very heavy, Barbara, and at times I feel ready to sink under my fears.”

I would have given much to be able to comfort her, but could say very little to restore her confidence. I left her alone to pour out her heart in a letter to her husband, for faint as this consolation was, it was still the dearest she possessed.

The next day being the 12th of June we left Dysart for Alva, and before we returned for the wedding, a still greater calamity had overtaken our affairs, and our hearts were heavier than ever.

(Dysart.)

I had the pleasure of hearing from my Dearest Life some days agoe, but it had been long by the way, which gave me some pain about you; and tho’ it was but three days writ after what I got last, it was three weeks longer a coming to my hand. I must own you are most kind and obliging in writing so frequently, and it is the only real satisfaction I have at present, for tho’ I endeavor all I can to make the best of my misfortune, yet at some times I am perfectly like to sink under it; and the probability of so long and continued afflictions, and which is most uneasy to me to be absent from you without having any prospect of having it in my power to come to you, together with the concern I have for my friends in the Fleet, and many good people who are suffering; and I find the greatest favour that’s expected is banishment.

As to your own particular you are not yet attainted, so I hop will scape this session of Parlyment, but if ever you are attainted all you could once call your own is irrecoverably lost. There is such acts of Parlyment passing as people cannot expect to save anything; nay, even old tailys are in danger, and yours the more (as) it is not registrate. The King can give no gift to any without any act of Parlyment, and all goes for the public Debts. And these persons that are on the Commission have ample power to doe what they please, and make such narrow inspection in the forfeit estates that they can call any person they please before them, and take their oaths about the particulars of every family, and if they doe not appear they can fine them of a considerable sum.

I once expected your Brother R. and his master was to be at the Hague, but now it’s believed they are to be att Isla Chapel (Aix la Chapelle) but this act puts me out of any hop of a gift to him of your Liberent, and to (have) had a little clause put in favour of Mr. Nabit (the mine.) You see, my dear Soul, the present state of affairs, and that all our projects that way is gone. I am told by some you very narrowly missed being putt in the last Bill of Attainder, and it’s affirm’d that your not being put in was owing to P.(atrick) H.(aldane).

If you still remain where you are att present it’s impossible you can scape being attainted as soon as the Parlyment sits down, whereas if you were in another place, some of your friends might prevent your being put in with a better countenance, and if you do not, I am convinced they will never attempt it. You see by all this that no other person can be interpos’d; that if Mr. Amond (Sir John) does not incline to comply to any conditions that would be propos’d, let him stay abroad and get his money remitted to him; and if either his Brother R. by his master’s friendship, or any other way, can be fal’n on to prevent his being attainted be done, until the term of years mentioned by the Parlyment be expired, which is from this present time till the year 1719.... I have not any hope now but by preventing your being attainted if possible, which can never doe if you persist in your resolution of staying where you are. It’s my duty to let you know this and desire you may consider seriously what sad state you will bring your family to, and to beg you may not do what you may for ever repent. Some regard I think should be had to me and your children, tho’ for my own particular I had rather suffer hardships than desire you to do what is against your inclination; but as a mother I must have regard to them so far as to let you know my opinion, and if ye doe not follow it, I cannot help it, but shall endeavour to submit with patience.

I am not a little sensible how far it’s uneasy to break off from so agreeable a society, and when perhaps duty and inclination both bind you; but in their present state I see not what any one man can doe, and the fewer sufferers the better. And every body will not have that hope or expectation you may have, but if your Brother Robin doe come to Isla Chapel, it would be a good pretext to visit him. This is sufficient on this head, and I shall be glad to have your opinion as frankly and resolutely as I have given my advice.... I came to my father’s some days agoe about a marriage which will not be disagreeable to you. Bess is to be C——ess of W——ms, which is a satisfaction to all her friends. The terms is this day agreed on, and tho’ they are not what I either could a wisht or expected, yet my father and other friends after making proposals of altering found it would not doe, and has gone into what his tutors for the time advised. She has not far to goe, and in case you should not understand she has a great many easy chairs in which she may loll. I goe home to-morrow and return here in a fortnight. You was very kindly remembered by your new friend and he regrates he has you not here at this time. You may be sure I am glad of the thing, but I am in such a continu’d Dump I did not incline to be at the wedding, but I cannot shun it. C. A. was here to be the Lady’s Lawyer.... Countess Bess salutes you kindly and wishes you were here, tho’ she shou’d bear all you could say now as to D. P. I see not what can become of him.... God help me, for I labour under many difficultys and many fears. I did not intend to let you know so much, but at some time it will come out.

As to sending you money it’s agreed ... it’s cheapest from London, and I hope soon to have effects there to answer your demands. Write to P. C., who is there and will doe it. He writ to me he should remit the 50 pound I mentioned in my last, and pray write to him for what you have occasion, for he will answer you whether the effects be come to his hands or not, but he cannot miss to have them soon.

I see so many difficultys in sending A. S(hor)t that it cannot doe. I think I have answered all your questions in yours of the 22 of Ap. Wishing my Dearest all manner of happyness I am ever,

Yours.

Your mother and sons are well. We drank Mr. Kid’s health yesterday and all his friends. God preserve you.

June 11.

Back at Alva we were forced to wait with what patience we possessed to see what would next befal, but a week later my lady wrote again to Sir John in much the same strain as her former letter, so that you can see nothing new had occurred so far. Having received one from him, dated 29th of May, she was now to be deprived of the comfort of hearing anything of her husband for several weeks, which as you can imagine did not lessen her fears nor lighten her burden.

My Dearest Life,

Yours of the 29 of May was forwarded by our friend att London, which you may be sure was most welcome to me since there can be nothing so agreeable as to hear you are well, and at the same time to hear of two people whose welfare I am much interested in. I went airly abroad this morning to visit my labourers, and it was so hott I began to think how much more it must be so with you. I pray God you may agree with it.

There is one advantage of being with Kid, that you will live mighty regular and get no ill examples. I wish from my heart all had the same thoughts of him you have, but I am not altogether without hope that will come and justice be done him; tho, as things have been of late I do not expect to see it. But who would a thought six months agoe Andrew wold lose his post of being Commander-in-Chief in this Country, and that Mr. Beggar wold have it. His Master has made him very bad returns for his fidelity, but I hop he shall use all his faithful servants after that manner.

I writ to you from my father’s house in relation to the Bill that’s passing on the forfeitures. My friend writes from London he thinks all personal Debts in danger. Some only thinks those since the 24 of June last. I must own it is so horrid I can scarce believe it, but if it is so it will ruin many, and to think that anybody will lose by you is really terribly uneasy, particularly C.(harles) A.(reskine). If it is so I shall do my endeavour to pay all so far as it can goe, and trust to Providence who has hitherto been bountyful to us, and I am sure you will agree with me. I was in hops things wold in time have a more favourable aspect, but it’s impossible human invention can contrive things worse than all the measures they have taken. I find by the Ladys att London getting their jointure and daughters provided, we may expect the same. If any here gets it, I make no doubt of it, for I happen to be much in the Whig’s favour. I know nothing I have done to merit it but being silent. In the meantime I live in peaceable possession of all, haveing Mr. Beggar’s protection, and by the advice of the above mentioned friend, by degrees I am to sell all my Stock and prepare for the worst. I must own it was what I was mighty unwilling to do, but I am now convinct it’s the best way by much.

As to Mr. Nabit, I am sorry I have not writ so fully as you might understand. His fame was like to rise high, and at the same time there was never less ground for it. I make no doubt that going down would have turn’d to account in time, but that was a certain giving out of money ... it was thought by all the Counsell the saffest course, and the only way to make people think it was an idle project of Mr. Amond’s. How far it will be of use that way I know not, but so many poor Dogs has it at their mercy it will be wonderful if it do not break out. I am positive however it was right to give up. James Hamilton went away three months agoe, for he turn’d wrong in the head and would not stay.... I told you in my last of my sister Bess’ marriage, which is to be very soon, and I must goe to it. It’s to their neighbour W——ms. I hope she will be very happy, and I take it as a reward for her faithful service to Kid. He is really a good-humour’d man, but too much upon the easy lay. C. A. is to be at the weddin’. I showed him your letter in relation to A. S——t, about his coming but he did not think it proper to send him for the reasons you mentioned.

As to my second Farm I still keep it, and am putting two lime-kilns just now on it. I ride there frequently. Perhaps I may set up my habitation there and farm it myself, but I think if ever I leave this place I will not stay in Britain. Your children are well and in good heart. Ha is perfectly recover’d. Your mother is well, and she and I live easily together, tho’ none can be of more different sentiments; but she disaproves all the violent measures, and is very concern’d for you and thankful you are well; but she knows not where you are, or she would be griev’d. I wish very often to be with you, my Dear Soul, but as long as I can doe your service here I will never have a thought of it; and I have saved more than any in my circumstances has done, and never fail to represent when I am injur’d, which makes me live easy, when many other good honest people are oppresst. My paper sinks so much I fear you will have difficulty to read it.... P.(atrick) H.(aldane) is one of the comishioners on the forfeitures. Buchan and Munroe of Faulds are the Scots. Wishing your good company and you all manner of real happiness, I am, my Dearest, ever Yours.

As to remitting money, I told you before it’s easyest from London, and I lay it on my friend entirely who would doe that as well as I could wish and all things else, for he helps all in distress and it’s his aim to do good

Dearest Life, Adieu.

June 18. Alva.

CHAPTER XXIX — LETTER XVII

The sweet June days went slowly past, and we, occupied in various ways, rejoiced in the hot bright weather and the growing beauty of the country. The garden was fair with flowers, and all the wide domain lay fresh and well-ordered under a cloudless sky. To be sure the faint cool breezes of morning, laden with the scent of growing and blossoming things, the hot, still noons, the tranquil evenings and the clear, tender twilights, stirred in my heart a longing so great as to be almost pain, that the one without whom my life would for ever be incomplete, should enjoy their beauty with me; and looking into the face of my dear Lady Erskine in those days and noting the wistfulness in her eyes, I felt that she shared my unrest. For the summer days brought no fresh news from France for either of us, and it was hard to be cheerful, with that great impenetrable silence closing us in.

“He will write to me for his birthday, be sure,” said my lady. “I have never known him fail to send a few lines on that day when it happens that we have been parted. Were I sure of his welfare and safety, I should be easy at not hearing from him; but though he is a kind and tender husband, Barbara, he is a man of great energy and almost reckless courage, and you know I have many dark dreams of the dangers into which he may be thrusting himself on behalf of the beloved Cause.”

“It is the waiting that is so hard to bear, madam,” said I, sadly, “and the lack of news. To write to one who is far off and to receive no reply, is like knocking at a closed door behind which is nothing but a silence that terrifies the heart.”

“Poor child!” said she, kindly, “you are young to suffer such pain. But do not forget that all our ways are ordered by a wise Providence, and if we bear our trials with patience, they will surely turn to blessings when the time of probation is past. I can see before me a long and happy life for my dear Barbara, who for all her courage and sweetness deserves an ample reward.”

“Oh, madam!” cried I, “you are too good to say so. I constantly remind myself how light is my trial compared with yours; but after all it does not comfort me much to know that my dearest friend is sadder than I.”

“Truly,” she answered, “my burden must needs be the heavier, for the thought of the children’s loss is added to my own, were anything to happen to their father. And since I think there is no fear of death or dishonour for Anthony Fleming, a little further patience and brave hopefulness are all that are needed to support you, my dear. As for Sir John, God help us! for I know not what is to happen next.”

It was truly with more pain for her than for myself that I saw each post arrive bringing no packet from France, and though Mr. Campbell wrote frequently, and gave my lady all the news that was going in London, the longed-for letter failed to arrive, and fear was added to anxiety.

The morning of Sir John’s 41st birthday dawned as fair and as full of promise as all that had gone before. A few white clouds in the sky only made the blue more deep and perfect, a light breeze from the south blew across the fields between us and the river, the distant mountains were veiled in silver mist that by-and-bye the sun would disperse; it was impossible to feel wholly sad on such a summer day.

We walked in the garden, the Dowager leaning on her daughter’s arm, the children running races and shouting in pure glee. I had plucked a large cabbage-leaf, and having gathered a number of the first ripe strawberries to fill it, I brought them to my lady for her approval.

“Why,” she cried, “this is good luck! The first strawberries to be gathered on Sir John’s birthday, that is what we have always desired. Come, children, and taste them; they are your Papa’s favourite fruit.”

Seating themselves on a garden-bench the ladies proceeded to feed the children, who, nothing loth, devoured the luscious berries with smiles of pleasure.

“Oh,” cried Charles, at last, “how I wish Sir John were here to taste them! Do you remember, mama, I used to think my papa would be home before the trees were green, and now the roses are here, and the strawberries are ripe. Oh, why doesn’t the King send him back?”

“Courage, my grandson,” said the old lady, cheerfully, “let us hope he will be here at the time of the Barley Harvest.”

“Or before the leaves are off the trees,” cried I.

“Or at least before the snow comes,” sighed my lady.

“Then he will be here for my birthday!” cried little Hal triumphantly, his beautiful eyes alight with joy; and his mother kissed the eager face uplifted to her, and murmured, “God grant it!”

At that moment we heard the distant sound of a horse galloping towards the house, and instantly our interest quickened, for the pace spoke of haste, and in those days haste meant news of importance.

“’Tis an express!” cried I, with a wild but foolish hope that it brought tidings of my lover.

“’Tis a letter from Sir John!” cried my lady. “He has remembered—he must have directed Patrick Campbell to express it from London being anxious I should receive it this day.”

Her colour rose and her eyes sparkled. She went hurriedly from us to secure the precious missive without delay, looking back over her shoulder with a joyous smile! Alas! it was many weeks before I saw her look so happy again.

“God bless her, and grant the news be good!” said the dowager, as she took my arm and followed slowly. “My son’s wife is indeed a lovable woman, Barbara.”

“Why, madam,” cried I, “there is not a thought in her heart that is not good and sweet. How glad I am the letter has come to-day!”

Before ten minutes were passed, I retracted my eager words, for by that time my dear lady, and with her the whole household, were plunged in the most distracting grief.

Having followed her to the house we arrived in time to see her standing in the hall, eagerly tearing open the letter which had just been put into her hand, the little boys clinging to her skirts, and waiting for the tit-bits of news she often doled out to them from their father’s letters.

As we entered she gave a loud cry, and crushing the letter in her hand, she raised her face and gazed at us for an instant with a look so wild and terrified that it made my heart stand still. The next moment she turned and went into the parlour, where we found her seated by her scrutoire, looking the picture of despair.

Sick with anxiety I dropped the old lady’s arm and ran to embrace her, begging her in the tenderest way to let us know the cause of her misery. Old Lady Alva, though trembling in every limb, carefully shut the door, and managed to reach a seat near her daughter-in-law, into which she sank, pale and breathless.

With her usual thought for others, my lady, seeing how much she was moved, put out a shaking hand towards her and said, though her lips were white and stiff, “Sir John is safe, madam, so far as I know. This letter is not from France.”

“Can you let us know the cause of your agitation, my daughter?” said the old lady, gently. “Thank God my son is not concerned! But if you are at liberty to divulge the tidings you have received I shall be further gratified.”

“Indeed, madam,” sighed my lady, “I see no reason why they should be kept secret. They are, alas! but too widely known. Oh, woe is me! that I should have been so grossly deceived by that villain. Ah, Barbara, would that we had never trusted him!”

“Whom do you mean, cousin?” cried I, still too frighted to think clearly. “Who has betrayed us?”

“Who, but that base wretch, James Hamilton, whom I trusted with all the knowledge and information about the Mine that I had myself. Did I not make him overseer in my latest transactions, and did he not know I was trusting him with the most precious things in life—my husband’s safety and honour? Oh, that such baseness should exist, and in a man, too, with good blood in his veins!”

“Why, what hath he done?” cried I trembling.

“Listen, my dear, and you shall hear,” said my lady, taking up the letter in her lap, and smoothing it out. “‘I am bound to tell you some news,’ says Mr. Campbell, ‘which I know will greatly disturb you, and which in an unexpected way bids fair to upset our plans. You will be surprised to hear that there is lately come from Scotland, one, James Hamilton, who, though I have not yet seen him, I take to be the same who was lately employed by Sir John in his garden. This fellow, through cupidity, or desire of fame, I imagine, though I take it he is acting a very treacherous part, brought with him to London some specimens of ore; and having made inquiries as to the best method of proceeding, and fearing I presume to employ his friends in such a matter, went straight to my Lord Mayor, and there made an affidavit of what he knew about the Mine. I am credibly informed that he made no secret of anything. He spoke frankly of his position at Alva, saying that he was at first employed only in smelting the ore, but he saw it brought up from the mine in great abundance, and he believes there are still several rich veins unexplored. He further said that after Sir John went out in the Rebellion, he was employed by his lady in digging out as much ore as possible, stowing it in old barrels, etc., and burying it within the grounds of the house—the very spot is located. In fact there is nothing wanting in his tale, and the reason he gives for this disclosure is, forsooth, that he knew it must come out when the Commissioners came down to Alva, and he believed it right that His Majesty’s Ministers should have previous knowledge, and be able to deal with so important a business as it deserves. You will see now that all our plans have been knocked on the head, and other strings must be pulled in order to work the affair in a suitable manner. I beg of you not to let yourself be too downcast, for I do not yet despond of arranging some settlement, which, with Sir John’s consent must work to his and your advantage. I have written to him and trust he will be brought to see the matter in the same light as myself. In the meantime, you, my dear lady, will, I know, have many qualms of doubt, but of one thing you may be certain, that both I and all your friends will do our best to extricate our good Sir John from the difficulties into which, through no fault of his own, nor of yours, he has fallen.’”

My lady dropped the letter, and for some minutes we sat staring at each other in blank dismay. A thought struck me sharply.

“Oh, cousin,” I cried, “I believe I am to blame in not telling you of Mr. Hamilton’s threats that day before he left, but they seemed to me so idle I thought them not worth repeating. Perhaps—oh, perhaps if you had known them, you might have foreseen this calamity.”

“Tell us now, child, what he said,” exclaimed the dowager.

“Why, madam, his words were wild. He asked me very abruptly to be his wife, and upon my informing him that such a thing was impossible, he spoke in a violent way: said I would regret it for ever if I did not give my consent. More was depending upon it than I thought, but not so much on my own account as for the sake of the friends I loved. Oh, madam, do you think he would have abandoned his wicked scheme had I accepted him?”

My lady was thinking deeply.

“’Tis just possible,” she replied, “if, as I take it, he was actuated by a desire for gain. Had he been sure of you and your fortune, Barbara, he might have foregone his wicked betrayal of us.”

“Oh!” cried I, the tears pouring down, “would to God I could have given him my fortune, if it would have saved him from this terrible crime. But how could anyone foresee such villainy, or dream of such an end as this?”

For a time I wept, unrestrained, fearing that in her heart my dear lady was blaming me for helping to bring about this disaster, but after a few minutes she bade me kindly to dry my tears.

“Comfort yourself, my dear girl,” she said, “I do not believe you are so much to blame as you think. James Hamilton must have nursed his deceit for many months, and worked well in secret to carry out his wicked scheme. His frenzy about you three months ago was, I feel sure, worked up to give him the excuse he desired of leaving Alva; for once Satan had entered his heart to make him play the part of Judas, no influence could have softened him, no love restrained him. Alas! alas! to think how Sir John trusted him, and now he is ready to betray his master, as the other Judas did, for paltry silver.”

And with that the full tide of her fear and anguish swelled in her heart, and she bowed her head upon her hands and wept.

Over this terrible event we talked long and earnestly, but little satisfaction could be gained. The future was all uncertain, for what the Parliament would decide to do was still unknown, and though we suggested to each other various ways out of the difficulty, not one seemed wholly satisfactory. As we were due at Dysart that week for the wedding, my lady looked forward to meeting Mr. Erskine and taking his counsel on the matter. But I must own that the gaiety of the occasion, which ought to have been without stint, was greatly dimmed by the heavy anxiety we carried about in our breasts. Try as we would to be light-hearted and careless, “Mr. Nabit’s affair,” as my lady calls it, was the uppermost thought in our minds, and the treachery of Hamilton cast a cloud over all our pleasure.

My lady, being much occupied, sent me with the children and Phemie to Dysart a couple of days in advance, she herself arriving with Aunt Betty on the very morning of the wedding-day. My dear Betty made a beautiful and happy bride, and my Lord Wemyss with his handsome person and pleasant manners won great favour from all her friends.

I was somewhat surprised to see David Pitcairn among the guests (his Reverend uncle performing the ceremony), his grave courtesy as genuine as ever, his kind eyes following Betty just as of yore. I think he had steeled himself to this last encounter as a kind of sacrificial farewell, for the very next day he left Dysart, and though he returned there from time to time, I, for one, never saw him again.

A few days after the wedding the Earl and Countess invited us all to Wemyss, where we spent a week very happily, for it was impossible not to be affected by company so merry and good-humoured. On the night before we left we were sitting at supper, the servants having left the room, and stories were told and toasts drunk with much gaiety, for as it was but a family party there was little reserve required.

My lord stood up with a full glass, and gave “The King!”

The young Countess rose to her feet, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling. There was a crystal water-jug before her on the table, and with a graceful movement she passed her glass above it.

“Ay, the King!” she cried, “with all my heart—God bless him!”

With a little laugh my lady followed her example, and I, nothing loth, did likewise. The Earl looked amused but disapproving.

“What, ladies, treason at my table? Tut, tut, this will never do.”

“My lord,” said Betty, smiling at him very sweetly, “in the brightest moment of our hopes last year, I would not drink confusion to the King’s enemies because you, my lord, were one of them. You would not have me less loyal now to the unfortunate Prince over the water, who is far from being the enemy of any of us?”

“Why, Betty,” replied my lord, “as to that you must please yourself. I wish the poor man no ill, so ’tis no harm to drink his very good health. But you must forgive me, madam, if I say I cannot but rejoice at his failure, for had he succeeded in his design, your adorable head would have been so turned that you would never have looked my way again.”

And then in quieter tones he gave the toast of “Absent Friends,” and smiles died away and the light laughter was hushed, for there was not a soul in the room that night that was not yearning over loved ones far away.

(Wemyss.)

My Dearest Life,

I delay’d writing in hops to have heard from you, butt it is more than a month since I had that pleasure, and it was just when you was 41, so you may judge what a pain it is to me. Now that our London friend can convey our letters, it surprises me there is none. I pray God you may be well.

I had a letter from our friend at London, and he tells me he has writ to you of the discovery James H. has made of Mr. Nabit’s affair. It has griev’d me very much, and it is no small satisfaction that it has not failed by any neglect of mine, but he certainly designed to commit the villainy and went away with that veiu, for nothing I could do could make him stay. God in his wise providence has order’d it, and I must submit, but it is a great tryal. I have done already what was fit to do upon such ane exigence, and my friend will doe all in his power at London, but what will be the end of it God knows! I am not altogether without hope, tho’ I must own my grounds are but small. I dare not write so plainly to you of it as I incline, lest it should mis-carry and doe ane injury on that particular, but I think it a lucky providence it went off, and I hope it shall never come on till it do it (with) the right owner. God in wise providence thinks fit to try us many different ways. I pray God make us both have the right use of them, and seeing the vanity and emptiness of all things in this world, we may seek what is more lasting and durable.

Bess was married Wednesday last, and after I had order’d my unlucky affair the best I could, I came to my father’s that morning. Now I am at her own house, where I could have been merry and blithe, but now melancholy prevails so much that I cannot express it. And yet I cannot help thinking this cannot last; but at another time I am ready to despair, and my being absent from you without any prospect of meeting is the bitterest part of all. But I ought to be resigned in that and every other particular, and wait the Lord’s time with patience.

Your boys are well and my health is better now than it used to be, tho’ my toyl has been great and my mind much disturbed. The earl and his wife salutes you and wishes often for you here, and remembers with great respect your good company.

I cannot frame a notion now but everything will be unlucky, but that is a fault. Aunt Betty is here and is in great concern for all that may affect you. Hope the best and trust in God, for what he sends is certainly best for us. Dearest Life, let me hear from you, and endeavor to make your misfortuns as easy as possible. I can say no more just now but that I hope the person who comes shall never see far in Mr. Nabit, but you shall know. Write to our friend at London when you want money, for that is the only way I can supply you. Melancholy increases when I either write or speak on this subject, so I’ll end. Wishing you all patient submission and intire trust in God, who is able and ready to help us if we be not wanting to ourselves. May (He) ever preserve you and send you His blessing is the earnest wish of her who is ever

Yours.

July 8.

CHAPTER XXX — LETTER XVIII

I have now to tell you of a period of great heaviness and anxiety to all those concerned in Sir John’s affairs. Many a time in after days have I heard my dear lady say, that these three months which followed our return from Dysart were the longest and darkest of all that weary year.

The danger of my kind guardian’s ruin now seemed tenfold more imminent, for public attention having been brought to bear upon his affairs and himself placed in a position too prominent to be secure, it was impossible to know what would next befall. At first we at Alva scarcely realised how much was being made of the affair at London, but as the days went on, bringing my lady many letters from Mr. Campbell describing the development of events, it was soon made clear that the matter was considered a very serious one indeed. Mr. Charles Erskine was much with us, and many a long and serious talk my lady had with him. Sir Harry Stirling of Ardoch, who was also in her confidence, frequently added his counsel to these discussions, and being a sensible and energetic man, greatly in favour with Sir John, his presence gave my lady courage, and helped a little to ease her burden.

The story of the “Silver Mine in the Mountain,” as it was called, had excited a huge interest among the authorities, for you may be sure that not only were the reports of its wealth exaggerated, but it was seriously affirmed that the whole range of the Ochils was teeming with precious metals, and it only needed a skilled engineer of mines to discover the treasure. As, by an old Scots Act of 1592, a tenth part of all ore found in Scotland belonged by right to the Crown, there was some reason in the eagerness of the Government to learn the truth of the matter, and the affair was mentioned in the House of Commons, discussed in the Cabinet, and indeed brought before King George himself by my Lord Townshend, the Secretary of State.

The King, who had had some knowledge of mining in his native country, where silver was found to some extent, was monstrously interested in the news, and demanded that my Lord Townshend should bring him an exact report, first of the value of the ore, and secondly of the extent and richness of the veins yet to be worked. The ore having been submitted to Sir Isaac Newton, the Master of the Mint, he sent in a report to my lord, which though satisfactory in its way, only served to inflame their greedy desires, for Sir Isaac affirmed that “the ore was exceeding rich, a pound weight avoirdupois holding 4/2 in silver;” moreover he added that the silver was of the purest quality, holding neither gold nor copper.

As to a knowledge of the mines themselves, my Lord Townshend informed the King that he had no means of gaining this without sending someone into Scotland to examine the locality, and as Sir John was not yet attainted, and the property still in the hands of his lady, that, said my lord, would be a doubtful proceeding. Upon this his Majesty asked if there were no other way of getting the information, whereupon it was proposed to send for Mr. Haldane of Gleneagles, who, being connected with Sir John’s family, and at the same time much in favour at Court, would be a likely person to supply them with what they needed.

The result of this combination was that one morning my lady received an express from Mr. Haldane, which, when she had perused it, threw her into the utmost consternation. Indeed her rage and grief were like to make a breach between them for good, for he wrote to her in a way which, instead of furthering his ends, helped to frustrate them altogether. I am willing to believe that this gentleman meant nothing but kindness to Sir John, and was indeed rather proud of his part in the affair, thinking he was serving the family in the best manner possible; but he and my lady did not see the thing in the same light. He told her that the King had graciously commanded him to write to her instead of sending down officers to ask her questions; that it was therefore absolutely necessary she should inform him of all particulars connected with the mine, its probable extent, what they had got out of it, and particularly what knowledge she had of any acts connected with its possession, with which Sir John may have acquainted her. His Majesty, he said, was inclined to clemency, and were her reports satisfactory he had promised to sign a pardon permitting Sir John to return to Scotland and resume occupation of his estates, provided the mines were worked openly, and a proper share of the precious metal confirmed to the Crown. This Mr. Haldane considered a fair and merciful concession, and he advised my lady to keep nothing back but to rely on his Majesty’s generosity; for if she failed to comply with his demands in every particular, the King would cause Sir John’s name to be put in the next bill of attainder, and my lady and her family would be treated with the height of rigour.

Now you can well understand that to a person of my lady’s spirit such a letter would but act as an incentive to defiance. I can remember to this day how proudly she drew herself up, her eyes flashing and the ready colour rising to her cheek.

“Is it to be imagined,” she cried, “that I shall comply with such a demand as that? If Sir John is not yet attainted he is a free man, and an honest gentleman, with full right to do what he will with his own. No creature on earth, be he King or Prime Minister, has any title to call him to account for any part of his possessions; no, nor any right to peer and pry into his affairs. Let them send their officers, vile wretches, to make enquiries, I care not, but ’tis little they will get out of me! Comply, indeed! As soon would I give up my house to the first comer and beg my bread, with a child in each hand, from door to door!”

“What will you tell him?” I asked.

“I shall tell him, Barbara, nothing but the truth, you may be sure of that. But it will not be all the truth,” she added, with a laugh that betrayed her bitterness. “Do they deserve open dealings from me? Is it not a fine thing to write to a woman behind her husband’s back, ordering her to betray his interests without a word to or from himself? Oh, I shall never forgive Gleneagles for this! I could not have believed him capable of such treachery. I am certain his good wife, my sister Nell, can know nothing of it; but how can I ever be friendly again with her spouse?”

“Will you consult Mr. Erskine,” I said, “before you write?”

My lady remained for some time gazing thoughtfully on the ground.

“I think,” she said at length, “it will be wiser to write at once having consulted no one. Who knows what dangers lurk for those who befriend us as well as for ourselves? If Charles were here, or Harry Stirling, I would talk the matter over with them, but I cannot conceive that anything they might say would alter my mind, and if the King is angry it were better not to involve my friends.”

“Oh, dear madam,” cried I, in childish fear. “You will not say aught to anger the King?”

“Why, Barbara, as to that we must take our chance, but I fear my reply will scarce appear conciliatory to him and his friends. I shall say that ’tis true Sir John has found silver on his estate (that fact can no longer be concealed), but to no great amount; indeed the vein he was working hath already given out, and I am in doubt whether any more will be found. I shall say that I can give him no information of any kind, that I know nothing of acts or treaties, but that I should esteem it a truly unfriendly action if any were sent down here to investigate matters in the absence of Sir John. I will remind him that my husband is not yet attainted, and in the meantime I have full control of all his property and estates, so that no steps can be taken without my consent.”

Some such reply as this was forthwith written and despatched that day, my lady still burning with indignation and full of wrath. But I think she repented her haste and heat—though not her decision—when, a few days later, she heard from Mr. Campbell. Her letter, he told her, had greatly enraged the others, and Mr. Haldane, acting always in the King’s interest, agreed with my Lord Townshend that nothing now remained but to make out the order of inquiry and send a Commission from the Government to Scotland without delay. To ease my lady’s mind on this score, Mr. Campbell assured her that he had in his mind something which would delay this scheme, hoping, indeed, to prevent it altogether.

Sick at heart as my lady was, and torn with fears of all kinds, she yet believed so strongly in Mr. Campbell’s good sense and kindness that his promises comforted her not a little, and enabled her to bear with some semblance of patience the uncertainty and delay of the next few weeks. Mr. Erskine, as I said, came frequently from Edinburgh to see her, and nothing could exceed his kindness and diligence on her behalf.

She was now busily employed in removing from their hiding-place near the house the barrels and casks of ore, and bestowing them safely in a spot, of which none but herself, and Mr. Erskine, and the men employed had any knowledge. As the strictest secrecy was to be preserved, the work was done during the night, and great ingenuity must have been used, for not a creature ever discovered nor attempted to divulge the matter.

On our asking what means Mr. Campbell was employing to delay the sending of the Commission, Mr. Erskine told us that by the advice of Sir David Dalrymple, the Lord Advocate, he had brought to their notice the old Scots law which enacted that minerals found on any man’s estate were not to be included in confiscated property; so that, even supposing Sir John were attainted, the Government would have no more interest in his mines than a small share in the profits. This consideration made them pause, for they were determined to get the most out of it that they could, and yet were reluctant about ignoring the law in a way that would probably enrage all Scotland. However, the delay was precious to our interests, and when one day Mr. Erskine informed my lady that he had decided to go to Holland next month to meet with his brother, Dr. Erskine, and learn what could be done for Sir John by the influence of the Czar, her heart was greatly lightened and hope again asserted itself.

Mr. Erskine was to go first to his country house, Tinwald, in Dumfriesshire, and from there to London, that he might consult with Mr. Campbell before setting out for the Hague. As it turned out, this step was the best he could have taken, for, as you will see later, he also was instrumental in delaying the Commission, although, owing to the zealousness of Mr. Haldane, and some others, to serve the King, it was found impossible to dispose of it altogether.

Not having had any word of Sir John for nigh two months, my lady was getting very downcast as to what had become of him, and her fears were not lessened by reading in the papers that my Lord Duffus had been arrested at Hamburg, and was now in prison. Thoughts of her husband’s danger haunted her night and day, and we were all greatly relieved when one evening towards the end of July two letters reached her from Sir John, which set her immediate fears to rest. More than anything else was she thankful to hear that her husband was no longer in the company of the exiled King, though if she could have known the business he was then employed in, I warrant she would have thought she had room enough for fears.

In her reply to those letters you will see that her method of expressing herself is more cautious than usual, for she takes the name of Mrs. Amond for herself and Mr. Ashton for Sir John, while Mr. Campbell is Duncan, Mr. Erskine, Key, and Mr. Haldane, Humphray.

July 29.

Dearest Creature,

It’s impossible to express the trouble and uneasyness Mrs. Amond has been in since the last misfortune, which you know of long ere now both from Duncan and her; and to add to her trouble she had not heard from Mr. Ashton for two months, for yours of the 3 and another of the 12 of July only came to her hand last night. I can assure you, both were most acceptable and gave her that quiet of mind which she had not felt of a long time. Duncan told me in his last letter he was to writ to you, and he will inform you better of that unlucky affair and how it now stands than I can doe. But he has acted a winderful part, and has been so far successful to delay it till Mr. Ashton be on a surer footing.... Who knows but it may turn to Mr. Ashton’s advantage, and in the meantime I hop you will soon get a good account of all ... which, if rightly managed, will be of use. Key and Mrs. Amond has both been in pain how to manage everything that could occasion the appearing of what they were earnest to hide as long as Humphray had anything to do in the country. At such a time it’s impossible to think all will succeed as we wold have it; but with Duncan’s diligence we got more time for all than could have been expected, and if it had not been for Duncan, Mr. Ashton wold a been undone by one who has the same relation to Mr. Ashton that Duncan has, but he acted the contrary part and pusht Mr. Ashton’s ruin, and said it was to serve him and his family. How will Mrs. Amond live with that man that has used her best friend so ill? To be just to his wife, she thought it really was as he said; but his actings in that particular has made him odious, and yet I intend to be in good friendship with him, more for his ill than his good.

Key goes to his Country-house this week and intends to go from thence to the Carse (Holland) by way of Airth (London) that he may talk with Duncan, and then go and find Peter (Dr. Erskine) by whose help only we are to expect something done. Mr. Ashton is doubtful if it will doe. No body can say it will or it will not, but as things now are, it seems absolutely necessare to try; and had Mr. Ashton been attainted and the misfortun to follow, there could a been no retrieving; and if Peter doe not secure it before Humphray return, we will be in a very hard state. But there has been so many different turns of providence in that affair, Mrs. Amond has hopes yet, tho’ when she reflects how many difficulties (there are) and perhaps that of Mr. Ashton’s not being willing to agree to terms that may be askt, she fears the worst. But her greatest concern is for Mr. Ashton, and she begs if you do come to the Carse to meet Key or Peter that you may take care not to come where you may be in danger, because the Prints bears that Lord D.(uffus) was taken at Hamburg, and she had rather all want to Pot before Mr. Ashton’s person were in the least danger. It certainly was a right measure for Key to go and see Peter, and the more that a near friend was sent to Peter’s master with a view to prepossess Peter with an ill opinion of Ashton, Key, Duncan and all the rest, that so they might play their own game; and when they hear of Key’s going it will put that family (the Haldanes) mad. Certain it is Humphray has made Peter great offers if he will get his master to agree to what he desires.

I doubt not Duncan will supply you with money, for he is the only person that can do it just now, and he has the effect, so write to him freely.

Mrs. Amond was afraid you had been displeased with her for asking you to leave your society. It was a hardship on her to ask you; but when she thought how much was at stake, and the opportunity lost could never be recalled except Kid had better success, she thought it right to lay it before you; and your being content to yield to your friends and her, makes her both wish and hop it may be done in the manner you wold have it, and she will never wish you to doe anything that may reflect on you or occasion you uneasyness.

If you saw what different affairs Mrs. Amond has every day you wold see it’s impossible for her to leave this place, and indeed, as things now are, she cannot leave it a day; so she has not the least thought of coming tho’ she inclines it very much, but she could not doe it without partly blaming herself, and all the world wold do the same. And as she has always preferr’d Mr. Ashton’s interest to her own satisfaction, she intends to continue in her duty till providence sends her a happy opportunity of seeing that person who is so much the object of her thoughts, and for whom she thinks she can never doe enough; and it’s her satisfaction that, barring the vilainy of that creature (Hamilton) which was no way her fault, all her matters had been as well as could have been expected at such a time. Mr. Ashton’s boys are well.

Dearest Life,

Adieu.

I writ to Duncan last week to send you money that you might not be obligt to wait for it in case you intended to leave the place. May God preserve you and direct you in every particular, and for God’s sake beware of coming where you may be in danger.

CHAPTER XXXI — LETTER XIX

“How often did I say to you in the old days, Barbara, that I had dark misgivings about the Silver Mine?” said my lady one day, resting her head upon her hand and looking weary and discouraged. “I knew not what it meant, but ever have I had the presentiment that it would be the cause of great misfortune, and behold it is come true!”

It was now the middle of August, and the negotiations in London had advanced considerably, but in no very satisfactory manner for Sir John. The post had just arrived, and I had found my Lady Erskine deep in her letters, from which she very obligingly read me some extracts. The situation certainly gave rise to much anxiety. In spite of Sir David Dalrymple’s verdict, the Ministers had been advised by their own lawyers to ignore the Scottish law of mines as to confiscature, so that our hopes in that direction were undermined; and as each party, King, Ministers, and Commons worked secretly in the matter, it seemed that much time would be lost before any decision could be come to.

“Dear madam,” cried I, in response to my lady’s remarks, “does not Mr. Campbell still have hope that it may turn to Sir John’s benefit? He has not lost heart, and why should we? He is determined to fight for it, and with the help of Mr. Erskine and Doctor Robin, may we not hope that something will be done?”

“My heart is very heavy,” she sighed, “and oh, the time is long—long! If I had but the assurance, Barbara, that my dear life would be restored to me safe and sound, I would almost consent to give them the information they desire, and let them do their worst. The absence of Sir John is still the bitterest part of all.”

“Courage, dear cousin!” I whispered, kneeling down beside her and encircling her with my arms, for the look in her eyes smote my heart, and I knew that I had no real comfort to give her. “Be patient a little longer and brave, madam, I pray.”

“The many difficulties that lie in our path keep recurring to my mind,” she said, rousing herself a little, “and I go over them to myself again and again. We know now that, in spite of all Mr. Campbell’s care, the Scots law of mines is to go for naught. The Government is eagerly anxious to make Sir John an outlaw, and lay hands on all his belongings. They are determined to send down the commission to see what is in the matter, and thereby we incur great danger; ‘for,’ says Patrick Campbell, ‘if they find nothing where they imagine mountains of silver, they will be very angry, and say there is no reason why Sir John should get his pardon, seeing he has nothing to give in return; if, on the other hand, they stumble on something of value, scruples will at once be raised—why should it not all be seized and made use of in payment of the public debts? The ministers fear the clamour of the House of Commons in these days, and there are signs that my Lord Townshend is not so secure as he thinks.’ You see, Barbara, Sir John is ‘between the devil and the deep sea,’ as the saying is, and nothing is less certain now than his pardon.”

I held my peace, depressed beyond measure by what I had heard.

“On the other hand,” she went on, “there are other difficulties which arise in my mind, knowing my dear husband as I do. Suppose the Prince of Wales prevails with his father to grant the remission, and the latter makes conditions too hard for Sir John to accept, what then? We are in a worse hole than before. Were they to insist upon his taking the oath of allegiance to King George, and renouncing all interest in his rightful King; or worse still, were they to question him in the hope of his turning spy, I am perfectly certain that Sir John would refuse to accept anything at their hands, and prefer rather to live and die an exile.”

“And you would rather that he did so, madam,” cried I.

“Oh, without doubt, my dear, I would. I could not ask him to stain his honour, however much I should benefit. But can you wonder, child, that my heart is sore, thinking of all that may lie before us? Sir John is not a very young man, and my boys are ever in my thoughts.”

And with that she left me, going upstairs as I suspected to her praying-closet, where she was wont to seek comfort and help in all her troubles.

I will now tell you briefly of what took place at London, without waiting to describe the way in which each item of news reached us. The summer was nearly over, and it was fully a year since the beginning of that unlucky affair, which had brought nothing but loss and woe to so many. The unfortunate prisoners still lay in their dungeons, and from time to time we heard sorrowful tales of sickness and deaths among them. It had been decided, in a quite illegal way, that the Scots prisoners were to be tried at Carlisle in the autumn, chiefly, as we all knew, because no Scots jury could be trusted to condemn them; and this action greatly increased the rage and discontent against the Government, for all parties throughout the country acknowledged its injustice. Many blameless people were suffering privation, and bereavement, and bitter loss, and the state of our poor country was truly to be deplored. One piece of comfort my lady had, for old Colonel Erskine and his son, though still in the Fleet were, owing to the kindness of their friends, in good heart and fair health. Great hopes were held out of their final delivery (which indeed took place a couple of months later), seeing that nothing could be found against them.

We were made anxious about this time by hearing that our little favourite, Lordy Erskine, was laid down with the small-pox, from which both his stepmother and her little daughter were suffering. He was indeed a most attractive child, and it was with great relief that we heard in good time of his complete recovery. And here I think I must tell you of Tommy’s spirited reply to General Stanhope, which, though you may have forgotten it, was much quoted at the time among his friends. When the Secretary one day, some weeks before the Earl of Mar left Scotland, was visiting Westminster School, his eye lighted on my young lord, and, being struck by his charming appearance, he inquired whose son he was. On being told, he went up to the boy, and asked him some questions as to how his studies were progressing. Tommy replied modestly, “Indifferently well.” Whereupon Mr. Stanhope, with what I must confess was very questionable taste, hoped that whatever my Lord Erskine learned at school, he would learn not to be a Rebel like his father. At that Tommy put his hands on his sides, and looking the General steadily in the face, said boldly, “Let me remind you, sir, that it is not yet decided who are the Rebels!”

As his aunt, Lady Jean, remarked when telling us the story, the Government might deprive him of his estates, but they could not rob him of his good sense and ready wit.

The “Process of Outlawry” against Sir John was suddenly checked by the consideration that, although the Commissioners were sent to Alva, they might easily fail in their quest without the assistance of the owner. Mr. Campbell had taken care to enlarge upon Sir John’s wide and intimate knowledge of mining affairs, and indeed at that time he was one of the few gentlemen in Britain who had made the subject a matter of study. Having worked the coal upon his estate, and discovered the Silver Mine for himself, it was given out that he knew more of the geological conditions of the Ochil Range than any man living, and it occurred to Lord Townshend that to quarrel with the man that possessed such valuable knowledge was not the wisest policy; in fact, it might be compared to the folly of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. He therefore, after consulting with the Prince of Wales—the King himself having gone over to Hanover on a holiday—sent for Mr. Campbell, and after some preliminaries, suggested that the best thing for all concerned was to persuade Sir John to return to Scotland to conduct the business himself. Mr. Campbell, always anxious to gain time, and to make things sure before committing his friends, said he would be obliged to lay the matter before Mr. Erskine, whom he was expecting immediately to visit him at London. My lord thereupon begged that Mr. Erskine be persuaded to call upon him on his arrival, to which proposition Mr. Campbell, nothing loth, agreed.

My lady, in the midst of her anxiety, was amused to learn that when Mr. Erskine was introduced to the Secretary that gentleman asked him point blank what information he could give about his brother’s Mine. But the future Lord Justice Clerk was too good a lawyer to fall into so simple a trap. He answered very firmly that, as he understood the disclosure of that affair was to be made the condition of some favour shown to Sir John, until he was assured of the extent and certainty of the benefit, he must beg to be excused from giving them any information. This reply, which was only what might have been expected, threw the Minister back to where he had been; so after much consultation and discussion, it was at last agreed that the Prince of Wales should grant a protection to Sir John for his return to Britain, at the same time writing to the King in Hanover for a warrant for his pardon, which would be delivered to him, signed and sealed, upon his presenting himself to Lord Townshend. Mr. Erskine and Mr. Campbell were at great pains to have the conditions made as plain as possible, for, they affirmed, it would be useless to expect Sir John to take oaths, or to give information against his inclination. A promise was then made that full discovery of the Mine was all that would be required of him, and my Lord Townshend suggested that a letter to this effect be intrusted to Sir Harry Stirling, and that he should set out forthwith to find his uncle and lay the matter before him.

We were all now able to breathe a little more freely, though our anxieties were by no means at an end. For close upon this came the news, that in spite of the promises of the Prince and the Minister, the Commissioners were still to be sent to spy out the land, and by no means would they be delayed until Sir John could send a reply. This excess of zeal was attributed to Haldane of Gleneagles, and as you can imagine, it did not tend to increase my lady’s love for that gentleman. However, backed by his friends in the House of Commons, Gleneagles was like to win his way, which prospect filled us with fear and trouble, as there was no saying what the result would be, should the Commissioners reach Alva before Sir John landed at London, and had his pardon in his hand.

Sir Isaac Newton was now approached, it being suggested that he should himself head the party of inquiry, and make investigation of the mines. But fortunately as it turned out, this wise and learned man raised objections to this scheme, affirming that as he was not skilled in such matters he would be of little use, and suggesting rather that someone bred up to that kind of work be sent instead of him. He spoke of the King’s Silver Mines in Hanover, and gave it as his opinion that an expert from that country should be chosen. This meeting with general approval, an express was despatched abroad to summon one, Dr. Justus Brandshagen, who was said to be a skilled engineer of mines.

This news enraged my Lady Erskine to such a degree that she could not contain her wrath, and as I was equally angry, we stormed together for several minutes till our feelings were somewhat relieved.

“And who,” she cried with fine scorn, pointing to Mr. Campbell’s letter, “who do you suppose is appointed guide and assistant to this German miner? Who, but our good friend and late trusty servant, Mr. James Hamilton!”

“Oh, madam,” cried I aghast, “’tis little short of an outrage! How will that man ever be able to look at you again? How dare he show his face within twenty miles of Alva? This indeed might be called adding insult to injury. I, for one, will never speak to him again.”

“Alas! Barbara,” said my lady, with tears of anger in her eyes, “’tis but the fulfilment of all his hopes, the clear result of all his scheming. For money he betrayed us, for money he will return, and I doubt not he will be able to brazen it out, and even to justify his conduct in the eyes of some people.”

An urgent letter was that day despatched to Mr. Erskine, begging him as he valued my lady’s friendship and his brother’s welfare, to lose no time in setting out for Holland, and having found Sir John (for we had not yet heard of his meeting with Sir Harry Stirling) to urge him with all the fervour and eloquence in his power to make no delay, but return at once to England, and secure the favour promised to him. How short a time lay before him none could tell, but it would be a monstrous wrong, now that the longed-for boon lay so near his grasp, to let it fail them through any lack of care. Should Sir John refuse to listen to reason, there was still the help of Doctor Robin and his master to fall back upon. “But oh,” she wrote, “do all you can to persuade him (and it’s you that have the golden tongue) to listen to our wishes in the matter.”

A speedy reply was returned to her, saying that Mr. Erskine was on the eve of starting for the Hague, and assuring her that she might have full confidence in his endeavours, seeing that in this, his wishes jumped with her own. It showed the more devotion to his brother’s case, that Mr. Erskine had left his young wife at Tinwald in a delicate condition, and indeed she was brought to bed of her eldest son, while her husband was still abroad.

Nothing now was to be done but to await results, and all our minds were occupied by the question as to which should arrive first: Sir John in London to claim his pardon, or the Commissioners at Alva to make their investigations.

In this matter I have always believed that Providence interfered in our behalf, and my lady, I know, agreed with me, for as we learned afterwards, when Dr. Brandshagen (how we hated the poor man’s name, though no blame attached to him,) was at last ready to set out for Scotland, having been delayed at London waiting for money and instructions, at first it took him five days to find a ship that would carry him and his effects to Leith, and when he sailed on the 20th of September, he encountered such tempestuous weather, that he was three weeks and two days on the way. Twice were they overtaken by storms, in which they lost a mast each time, and thrice were they driven upon sand-banks, so that it was not till the 15th of October that he arrived in Edinburgh, where he had a conference with the Earl of Lauderdale, John Haldane of Gleneagles, and a friend of the latter, Mr. Drummond. But by that time, I am glad to say, it was too late for the mischief they were meditating, as I shall show you in the next chapter.

My lady wrote frequently to her husband during those trying weeks, but most if not all of her letters miscarried, for the last remaining one in the packet is a hasty fragment which I give you here. Short as it is, it serves to show you the state of the poor lady’s mind at this time, her one thought being the consent of Sir John to the terms proposed, and her fear that it would not be given in time.

Dr. Sr.

Amond bids me tell you she had yours of the 25th of August, but she regretes Ashton has not yet met with Sr. Harry S—g. He is yet in quest of him, and she hops you will both accept of the proffers that’s made, and soon let your friends know that you doe so. There is people soon to be sent down in quest, and if it were possible you could be here, it’s more in your power to manage with respect to the Garden than any other mortall.... I shall writ all to Duncan and Key, who will be more fit to advise you, for they seem not to be out of hope of getting the pardon expected as soon as your answer comes. The friends here say otherwise, and think H—y is gone to diswade you. There must be no delay in the case as you regard your interest, but be directed in the way and manner by Key and Duncan. God preserve and direct you.

Our friends in the Fleet, I have good reason to think, will be safe, but those here seem to have bitter things before them.... I am sorry you have not got all my letters, but Ashton’s is a great consolation in the midst of different troubles. Your children are well.

Dearest Creatur, let us have your answer soon, for these creatures will be down in eight or ten days, and what I shall doe, God knows! I am in great hast at present, but shall be more full next post.

So Dear, Adieu.

CHAPTER XXXII

In the meantime Sir John himself had been passing through various anxieties of his own, though I can only give you a very brief account of his doings from the notes in my little diary, and the remembrance of his own conversation. It was not till long afterwards that I realised how much greater cause we should have had to tremble had we known more of the brave knight’s movements during these months of summer. I have told you how my lady’s heart was lightened by learning that he had at last taken his departure from Avignon. No doubt, dear soul, she regarded it as the tardy result of her wifely prayers and counsels. But had she known of the packet he bore with him, which, if discovered by the agents of King George, would have put an end to all hope of pardon for ever, what terrors she would have suffered, what anguish of anxiety she would have endured; and with good reason—for the King had entrusted to Sir John a letter to the King of Sweden, begging for his help in a new endeavour to recover his birthright.

The news of the Forfeited Estates Bill, which had been passed, was a great blow to Sir John, for the thought that others should suffer through him was intolerable to his kind and honest heart, and he fully agreed with my lady’s dictum, that anything she could save out of the estate must go to the paying of private debts even to the last sixpence. When the news of the treacherous discovery of his Mine reached him, he was further distressed, realising all that it meant for him. As Mr. Campbell, in writing of this, had warned him that it might be necessary for some of his friends to go and consult with him as to a method of procedure, he, after confiding his troubles to his friend, the Earl of Mar, and receiving kind permission from the King, decided to go to Hamburg where he should be within easy reach of the Hague, and also in the way of meeting his brother, the doctor, who with his master, the Czar, was expected shortly in these parts.

He accordingly set out from Avignon about the middle of July, going first to Brussels and then to Amsterdam, but upon finding there letters from home of the greatest importance, he hurried to Lubeck, where, after waiting some days, he was rejoiced to welcome his nephew, Sir Harry Stirling, who laid before him my Lord Townshend’s proposals, and explained the situation of things at home. Thinking that having got such lenient conditions there was no great press in making up his mind on the matter, Sir John, having written an account of it to my Lord Mar, proceeded on his errand to Hamburg, where he found that General Hamilton, with whom he was ordered to consult on the King’s affairs, was not in that place, and indeed was at too great a distance to communicate with him. He met instead the agent of the Swedish King, Colonel Sparre, and accepting his offer to bring him to Sweden under cover of his own passport, he went with him to Travemunde, only to find it in possession of a small Russian garrison, which was nevertheless strong enough to bar the way to suspected travellers, Russia and Sweden being at enmity at that time. He was for some days weather-bound in a small town on the Elbe about forty miles from Hamburg, which he described as a “miserable nasty hole, where the inhabitants did nothing but drink bad beer, smoke bad tobacco, and chatter in a tongue which he could not understand.” Cut off from all letters, and chafing at the delay, he fell into a fit of depression, he told us after, that bordered on despair. But the weather clearing at last, he made his way back to Hamburg, where he found a letter from my Lord Mar, bidding him give up the notion of going to Sweden at this time.

As he had learned from Colonel Sparre that though the King of Sweden was favourable to King James, many of his statesmen were not, and that according to Sparre’s opinion it was not a good time to approach him on the subject, Sir John felt less regret in giving up the mission than he otherwise might have done. He remained some days longer at Hamburg, in hopes of hearing from Mar in reply to his letter about his private business, and when it reached him he was pleased to find it contained a very kind and gracious message from the King, to the effect that his Majesty was glad to hear of the probability of Sir John’s success in his own affairs, and said that now he could do nothing in what was intrusted to him, that was to be his chief concern. These generous words, as you will imagine, warmed the heart of Sir John, for he was in a strait between two strong desires, namely: the furtherance of the King’s success, and the welfare of his own family; or to put it in my Lord Mar’s words, he was “in a nice situation ’twixt honour on the one side and interest on the other.”

He went on to say, “The world is malicious enough always to put the worst construction on things, so a man who values his reputation ought to think well in such a case, and do what he really thinks right.”

It cost Sir John no little pain to give up, here and now, all thought of helping in the Cause to which he was so much devoted; for he knew very well that once returned to Scotland he would be carefully watched, and only in covert and secret ways could his assistance again be given. It was a trial also to his pride to think how he might be pointed at as a turn-coat and a renegade, who took the King’s favours and rejoiced in his confidence, only to throw him over and desert him in the end. To a man of honour the situation was indeed extremely difficult, and when it is remembered that Sir John had besides a warm and affectionate heart towards the King, it is easy to imagine how he was torn in two, at the thought of thus parting from his friends.

However, his calmer judgment told him there was but one thing to be done, and that the happiness of those depending on him must be his first care. To make up in some degree for his desertion from active service on the King’s behalf, he had written to his brother, the doctor, hoping to enlist him in the Cause, and begging him to do his utmost to gain the Czar’s help and interest in the same. Through Sir Harry Stirling he received full confirmation of his hopes, for Dr. Robin wrote that he and his master heartily wished King George at the Devil, and the latter regretted that he was too far away to be able to send him there. The Czar was also anxious and willing to assist Sir John in his own affairs, if Mr. Campbell’s proposals were likely to fail, a promise which accorded well with Sir John’s inclinations, for he felt it would be easier to accept a ton of assistance from the Czar of Russia, than one ounce of favour from the Elector of Hanover.

He had by this time made his way, after being much delayed by storms, to Amsterdam, which he reached on the 29th of September, and here, a few days later, Mr. Erskine found him. Sir John’s delight at meeting with his brother was much dashed by the latter’s assurance that his departure for England, with scarce a day’s delay, was the only course open to him if he wished to benefit by the efforts of his friends on his behalf. It was in vain he pleaded his master’s needs, his own desire to meet with Doctor Erskine, and the necessity of at least waiting for returns to his letters from my Lord Mar. He had not heard from Avignon now for five weeks, and he was at heart somewhat uneasy as to the reason of the silence. The Earl might have some cause for displeasure, thinking that after all Sir John should not prefer his own advantage to the King’s, or his letters anent the business with the Czar might have miscarried, and all his work would go for naught.

To none of this would Mr. Erskine listen. He informed Sir John that it would be now almost a race between himself and the Commissioners who were on their way to Alva, if indeed not already there. Should they reach the mine before Sir John had secured his pardon, they might decide to put such conditions on the latter that it would never be accepted. Mr. Erskine offered to stay for a time in Holland, and as far as in him lay, to take his brother’s place. He would see or correspond with Sir Harry and the doctor, and all communications with Avignon might be carried on through him as if he were Sir John himself. In another way he reminded him, he might really be benefiting the King’s cause by his immediate departure. If he refused, after receiving the offer of such easy terms, to return home at once, my Lord Townshend might suspect that there was something stirring in the King’s affairs to keep him on the Continent, and would cause his agents to be more vigilant among them, which at the present juncture would not be convenient. But if so trusted a friend of the Earl of Mar were permitted to leave the party, it would seem to suggest that matters were not in a good way, and their hopes of present success very low.

In fact the “golden tongue” did its work, and so eloquently did it speak that at length Sir John was convinced of his brother’s wisdom, and agreed to all that he proposed. Immediately upon this he wrote two letters to the Earl of Mar with full explanations of his plans and his difficulties, his hopes and fears, but unfortunately these letters were delayed in the transit, as the earl’s to himself had been, and there followed some weeks of pain and distrust between the friends. On the 8th of October, Sir John, “with a very heavy heart,” set sail for England, and the news being carried to Avignon, without the true explanation of his departure, the company there were plunged in wrath and dismay, and even for a few days entertained doubts of their late companion’s honesty. A letter from Mr. Erskine to my Lord Mar a little later cleared up the mystery and restored tranquillity to their minds, but the stories followed Sir John to England, and it grieved him not a little to have suspicion thrown upon his loyalty, by those who should have known him better.

It was, to be sure, a surprising thing for friends and foes alike to see Sir John Erskine, whom all supposed to be in exile, and in high danger of being attainted, walking openly in the streets of London, in company with this or that member of the Government. Courteous, genial and debonnaire as ever, he did not look like a proscribed outlaw, still less like a deserter turned spy, and many were the stories invented and circulated before the real truth of the matter leaked out. When it became known, I think there were few who did not rejoice and wonder, for the story of the Silver Glen was like a fairy-tale, and I suppose that Sir John was the only man in Britain who had been bribed to accept his Remission from King George.

The interview with my Lord Townshend was entirely satisfactory. No oaths were exacted, no questions asked. The pardon was duly signed, sealed, and delivered on the 22nd day of October, and on the 27th Sir John set out post for Scotland, with relief in his heart, and “a broad seal in his pocket.”

CHAPTER XXXIII — Transcriber’s Notes

I will leave you to imagine the joy and thankfulness at Alva when the news of Sir John’s arrival at London reached us, for no words of mine can express it; and when it was known that the pardon was an accomplished fact, and that the good knight was on his way home, the happy excitement rose to the highest pitch.

What joy it was to see my lady’s altered mien, to hear the thrill in her voice and watch the smiles trembling round her mouth! The little boys were wild with delight at the prospect of seeing again their much-loved father; and there was not a neighbour nor a tenant on the place, who did not rejoice in the good news and sympathise with our happiness.

Mr. Patrick Campbell was to accompany Sir John on his journey from London, and his wife came over from Monzie to meet them both. Old Lady Alva was with us, and also Aunt Betty, while at my lady’s invitation my Lord and Lady Wemyss arrived to join in the general welcome. How gay we were, how busy with preparations, how full of thankfulness and relief! Although the year was near November, it seemed to me as if we were bidding good-bye to the darkness of winter and preparing to welcome the summer; and Nature kindly did nothing to discourage me in the thought, for the sun shone warm and bright, and though the trees were casting their leaves they were not yet bare, and the gold and ruddy tints, softened by silver mists and purple shadows, still made the landscape lovely. Nothing was wanting to complete my satisfaction but the presence of my lover, and once or twice, I must own, my heart cried out in the midst of my happiness, “Would that he too were coming!”

According to his agreement it was necessary for Sir John to stop in Edinburgh for an interview with Dr. Brandshagen, whose letters of instruction were that he should wait for the knight to show him his mines himself. By someone’s good management, I suppose, there had been a convenient delay in supplying the German with funds, so that he was obliged to remain where he was till he received them; but Sir John, having expressed his readiness with all courtesy to carry out his part of the bargain at any moment, there was nothing now left for him to do but to hasten homewards, whither his heart, I doubt not, had already flown.

He had been so thoughtful as to send an express to my lady from Edinburgh to prepare her for his arrival, and the next afternoon we were all assembled with beating hearts to listen for the farthest sound of horse’s feet.

“My papa will be here in plenty of time for my birthday,” cried little Hal, as he ceased his jumping about the room and climbed into my lap. “I am a luckier boy than Charles. Does Sir John know that I am grown so big, Cousin Barbe?”

I could scarce listen to the child’s chatter nor answer it, but when Charles put his hand upon my shoulder, and whispered, “How I wish he were bringing Captain Anthony!” I turned and kissed him on the cheek, with a sudden pain in my heart.

At last—at last we heard them coming—the galloping growing nearer and nearer, the shouts of the country-folk assembled along the road becoming louder and more distinct.

“Hurrah! hurrah!” “Long life to Sir John!” “Glad to see ye hame again!” “Welcome, welcome!” we could indeed distinguish the words for we were now standing at the door, my lady with a son in each hand, her mother-in-law beside her, we others pressing round, and the servants just behind. The tears were running down the old lady’s cheeks, and Aunt Betty was sobbing loudly, her kerchief to her eyes; but I looked at my lady’s quiet face, and though it was pale, I was struck by the lovely light that shone there. “Sure,” thought I, “no husband returning home was ever greeted by a sweeter, truer wife!”

And then the cavalcade swept into sight, and we caught our breath, and a low sound that was neither laugh nor cry, but partook of both, broke from the lips of all.

Sir John rode first, his head bared in the sunshine, his face alight with joy, and our eyes were fixed upon him. Almost before he reached the door he checked his horse, and dismounting quickly, turned with hands outstretched. It was as if he saw one face alone in all that crowd, as if he cared for the welcome of but one voice. His mother uttered his name in loving, trembling tones; his boys ran forward gleefully to clasp his knees; but he did not speak nor heed them till, without a word, my lady staggered to his arms and was clasped in a long embrace.

And then, I knew not why, the unbidden tears came to my eyes, and turning away to hide them, I encountered a sudden shock. Was I dreaming? Oh, what did it mean, and how had it happened? Or were my eyes playing me false? I dashed the tears away and looked again. And there close at my side, his face aglow with feeling, his eyes dim with their mighty love, stood my dear Anthony, so tall and brave and strong and full of joy, that, in spite of the publicity, I followed my lady’s example and threw myself into his arms.

I emerged from them to be greeted with sympathetic laughter and a shower of questions. “Where did he come from?” “Did you know, Barbara; were you expecting him?” “Why did you not tell us?” But dazed with my surprise and happiness, I could only look from him to them and back again.

Sir John came to my rescue with a great kind laugh that did me good to hear.

“No, no, I can answer for it. Barbara knew nothing of this. But when I met the young gentleman at York a night or two ago, and he confided to me that he was on his way to my house, I very naturally asked him to join my party and go along with us, thinking I should be none the less welcome here for bringing him in my train.”

You will know then that Barbara’s cup of happiness was full to the brim, and when my dear lady said, out before them all,

“It wanted only this to make the day perfect; none but myself know how good, how brave and patient our Barbara has been. I think she is being rewarded for all her unselfish love to me!”

Well, when she spoke thus, my cup overflowed.

It was indeed a perfect day, an earnest of others as perfect to follow! How strangely pleasant it was at dinner to see Sir John again in his place, his hospitable smile showing us all what pleasure the meeting gave him. How sweet to see my lady’s tremulous happiness, and the almost wistful way she hung upon her husband’s words. Old Lady Alva sat near him and Betty upon the other side; Mr. Campbell and his wife were together, “for,” said he, “we have been so many weeks separate that we are as good as lovers again.” My Anthony sat at my lady’s left hand, (my Lord Wemyss being on her right), and Barbara by his side. The little boys were admitted to the banquet to their vast delight, and even poor Aunt Betty’s face was wreathed in smiles. It would indeed have been difficult to find a happier party in all Scotland.

When dessert was on the table and the servants gone, Sir John brought out of his pocket the immediate cause of our peace and contentment.

You have all seen it—the great document with the portrait of King George in the left-hand corner, and the “broad seal” attached—the Remission, or Pardon, without which we could never have welcomed Sir John to his home, nor indeed enjoyed any real happiness. With what awe and interest we gazed upon it, as we listened to Mr. Campbell’s story of the wonderful part he had played in procuring it. Each point in the narrative was fraught with thrilling meaning to us, who through all those weary months had waited in uncertainty for this happy consummation. How we smiled and sighed as we recalled our hopes and fears, and thanked God in our hearts that all such anxiety was laid to rest at last.

When the conversation had again become general my Anthony turned to me, and whispered,

“I also bear in my pocket a document which means nearly as much to me as that other to Sir John;” and under cover of the table he presently slipped into my lap a letter addressed to me in an unknown hand. I need scarcely tell you that I apprehended its purport as soon as I saw it, and smiled my silent agreement. It was as I surmised, from Mr. Fleming’s parents, welcoming me with warm approval as the future wife of their dear son, and agreeing very kindly to leave all arrangements for our marriage in the hands of my guardians, Sir John and Lady Erskine. My Anthony’s pardon had been easy to arrange, his father having many friends at court. But he was under oath never to take up arms against King George as long as he lived, for which reason, he told me, laughing, it was a mercy that most of his life would be passed away from Britain, so that he was not likely to be tempted in that way again.

I remember telling him how glad I was that my husband was to be a civilian, making his living peacefully by the pen instead of the sword, so that I should not be obliged to go in fear of my life every time there was a war. How little did I then think that after thirty years he should again become a soldier, and win for himself honour and a Title, fighting in the service of the East India Company against Governor Dupliex in the Carnatic. Still stranger would it have been to know that his being wounded and disabled in these same wars should contribute to my peace of mind, but so it was, for the misfortune put an end to his soldiering, and brought us back to England, thus proving itself a blessing in disguise.

And now, my dears, the story I set out to tell you is done. Like all human histories it is a mingling of joy and sorrow, of laughter and tears, and perhaps, looking at the hidden heart of things, the tears predominate. But it were not wise to end a tale like this upon a tragic note. God veils in mercy the future from our eyes, else were it not possible properly to enjoy His many blessings; and so I am glad to leave my dear Lady Erskine at this bright and peaceful season of her life, to see her as I love best to remember her, standing in the sunshine, the haunting fear gone from her eyes, and the sweet light of loving welcome transfiguring her face.

For more than three months I have been living in the past, seeing the friends of my girlhood, and listening to the tones of their voices. At times I have raised my eyes from the paper before me, dazed and bewildered to find myself alone—an old woman with my life behind me, and so many of those dear ones gone. Now the Summer is over, the Autumn days are drawing in; no longer does the mavis sing in the garden, and as I write these lines, a moaning wind arises and whirls the leaves across the darkening lawn. But far overhead in the pale sky the stars are coming out; they speak to my heart of Heavenly Consolation, and as I thank God that I am not left desolate, I hear my dear Sir Anthony’s step outside upon the stair.

And so, my dears, adieu.

The End

POPULAR NOVELS BY MAY WYNNE

Author of “Henry of Navarre,” “A Maid of Brittany,” &c.

In Crown 8vo, Cloth gilt. Price 6s. each

A KING’S TRAGEDY

BY

MAY WYNNE

Author of “Henry of Navarre,” &c.

“Miss May Wynne has enhanced her reputation, already firmly established by a splendidly-written romance, founded upon Scottish history relating to the fifteenth century. The troublous times after the return of James I. of Scotland to his throne from captivity in England are interestingly dealt with. The local colouring is graphically given and the internecine troubles between the Highland Clans, their modes of warfare and the horribly vindictive spirit in which their raids and forays were carried out are related in a manner which is faithfully true to both history and tradition. The loves and adventures of Sir Alan Kennedy and his brother David are made the medium through which the interest of the reader is centred and retained through a most charming book.”

Liverpool Daily Post.

THE GOAL

By the Author of “Henry of Navarre,” &c.

The STANDARD says—

“‘The Goal’ with its pleasant studies of village friendships, its sincere love of beautiful country sights and scenes, its delicate portraiture and its characters will win many true and warm admirers.... The scene between two children and the gossipy old maid is in its way quite a triumph. Miss Wynne’s sketches of girls are done with great charity, sweetness and charm.”

LONDON:

DIGBY, LONG & Co., 18, Bouverie St., Fleet St., E.C.