The west room is in no respect changed, though three years have passed
since we saw it last. In the middle of the room stands a great open
chest, already half full of carefully packed dresses. This square flat
parcel, sewed up in a linen cover, which Katie Stewart holds in her arms
as if she could with all her heart throw it out of the window, instead
of depositing it reverently in the chest, is Lady Anne’s embroidery; and
Lady Anne herself is collecting stray silks and needle-books into a
great satin bag. They are preparing for a journey.
Lady Anne Erskine is twenty—very tall, very erect, and with a most
exceptionable carriage. From her placid quiet brow the hair is combed
up, leaving not so much as one curl to shelter or shadow a cheek which
is very soft and pale indeed, but which no one could call beautiful, or
even comely. On her thin arms she wears long black gloves which do not
quite reach the elbow, but leave a part of the arm visible under the
lace ruffles which terminate her sleeves; and her dress is of dark
rustling silk, rich and heavy, though not so spotless and youthful as it
once was. Her little apron is black, and frilled with lace; and from its
pocket peeps the corner of a bright silken huswife; for Lady Anne is no
less industrious now than when she was a girl.
Ah, saucy Katie Stewart! Eighteen years old, and still no change in you!
No gloves on the round arms which clasp that covered-up embroidery—no
huswife, but a printed broadsheet ballad, the floating light literature
of the place and time, in the pocket of _your_ apron—no propriety in
your free rebel shoulders. And people say there is not such another pair
of merry eyes in sight of Kellie Law.
The golden hair is imprisoned now, but not so closely as Lady Anne’s,
for some little curls steal lovingly down at the side, and the fashion
of combing it up clears the open white forehead, which, in itself, is
not very high, but just in proportion to the other features of the face.
Only a little taller is the round active figure—a very little. No one is
quite sensible, indeed, that Katie has made any advance in stature at
all, except herself; and even herself scarcely hopes, now in the
maturity of eighteen, to attain another half inch.
But the little girlish spirit has been growing in those quiet years. It
was Spring with her, when Katie saw the tears of Anne Erskine for her
threatened removal, and her eyes were opened then in some degree to an
appreciation of her beautiful lot. How it was that people loved her,
followed her with watchful, solicitous affection—_her_, simple little
Katie Stewart—the consciousness brought a strange thrill into her heart.
One may grow vain with much admiration, but much love teaches humility.
She wondered at it in her secret heart—smiled over it with tears—and it
softened and curbed her, indulged and wilful though she was.
But all this time, in supreme contempt Katie held the rural homage which
began to be paid to her. Simple and playful as a child in Kellie, Katie
at home, when a young farmer, or sailor, or prosperous country
tradesman, or all of them together, as happened not unfrequently, hung
shyly about the fire in the Anstruther Milton, to which the family had
now removed, watching for opportunities to recommend themselves, was as
stately and dignified as any Lady Erskine of them all. For Katie had
made up her mind. Still, “a grand gentleman,” handsome, courtly, and
accomplished, with titles and honours, wealth and birth, wandered about,
a gleaming splendid shadow, through the castles she built every day. To
gain _some_ rich and noble wooer, of whatever kind proved attainable,
was by no means Katie’s ambition. It was a superb imagination, which
walked by her side in her dreams, naturally clothed with the grandeur
which was his due; for Katie’s mind was not very greatly developed
yet—her graver powers—and the purple of nobility and rank draped her
grand figure with natural simplicity—a guileless ideal.
“Is Lady Betty’s house a grand place, Lady Anne?” asked Katie, as she
placed the embroidery in the chest.
“It’s in the High Street,” said Lady Anne, with some pride; “not far
from the Parliament House, Katie; but it’s not like Kellie, you know;
and you that have never been in a town, may think it close, and not like
a noble house to be in a street; but the High Street and the Canongate
are grand streets; and the house is very fine too—only Betty is alone.”
“Is Lord Colville no at home, Lady Anne?” asked Katie.
“Lord Colville’s at the sea—he’s always at the sea—and it’s dreary for
Betty to be left alone; but when she sees us, Katie, she’ll think she’s
at Kellie again.”
“And would she be glad to think that, I wonder?” said Katie, half under
her breath.
But Lady Anne did not answer, for the good Lady Anne was making no
speculations at the moment about happiness in the abstract, and so did
not properly apprehend the question of her little friend.
The sound of a loud step hastening up stairs startled them. Onward it
came thumping through the gallery, and a breathless voice bore it
company, singing after a very strange fashion. Voice and step were both
undoubtedly Bauby Rodger’s, and the gallery creaked under the one, and
the song came forth in gasps from the other, making itself articulate in
a stormy gust as she approached the door.
“Oh handsome Charlie Stuart!
Oh charming Charlie Stuart!
There’s no a lad in a’ the land
That’s half sae sweet as thou art!”
“Bauby!” exclaimed Lady Anne with dignity, as her giant handmaiden threw
open the door—“Bauby, you have forgotten yourself. Is that a way to
enter a room where I am?”
“Your pardon, my lady—I beg your pardon—I canna help it. Eh, Lady Anne!
Eh, Miss Katie! ‘Little wat ye wha’s coming; prince and lord and a’s
coming.’ There’s ane in the court—ane frae the North, wi’ the news of a’
the victories!”
Lady Anne’s face flushed a little. “Who is it?—what is it, Bauby?”
“It’s the Prince just, blessin’s on his bonnie face!—they say he’s the
gallantest gentleman that ever was seen—making a’ the road frae the
Hielands just ae great conquish. The man says there’s thousands o’ the
clans after him—a grand army, beginning wi’ the regular sodgers in their
uniform, and ending wi’ the braw tartans—or ending wi’ the clouds mair
like, for what twa e’en could see the end of them marching, and them
thousands aboon thousands; and white cockauds on ilka bonnet of them.
Eh, my leddy! I could greet—I could dance—I could sing—
‘An somebody were come again,
Than somebody maun cross the main,
And ilka man shall hae his ain,
Carle an the King come!’”
“Hush, Bauby, hush,” said Lady Anne, drawing herself up with a
consciousness of indecorum; but her pale cheek flushed, and her face
grew animated. She could not pretend to indifference.
“Ye had best get a sword and a gun, and a white cockade yoursel. You’re
big enough, Bauby,” said the anti-Jacobite Katie; “for your grand
Chevalier will need a’ his friends yet. Maybe if you’re no feared, but
keep up with a’ thae wild Hielandmen, he’ll make you a knight, Bauby.”
“Katie, you forget who’s beside you,” said Lady Anne.
“Oh! ne’er mind me, my lady; I’m used to argue wi’ her; but if I did
fecht for the Chevalier—ay, ye may ca’ him sae!—was it no your ain very
sel, Katie Stewart, that tellt me, nae later than yestreen, that
chivalry meant the auld grand knights that fought for the distressed
lang syne? And if I _did_ fecht for the Prince, what should ail me? And
if it was the will of Providence to make me strong and muckle, and you
bonnie and wee, whase blame was that? The Chevalier! Ay, and blessings
on him!—for isna he just in the way of the auld chivalry—and isna he
gaun to deliver the distressed?”
“The way the King did in the persecuting times—him that shot them down
like beasts, because they liket the kirk,” said Katie.
“Eh, ye little Whig! that I should say sae! But I have nae call to stand
up for the auld kings—they’ve gaen to their place, and rendered their
account; but this bonnie lad—for a bonnie lad he is, though he’s born a
prince, and will dee a great king, as it’s my hope and desire—has nae
blame of thae ill deeds. He’s come for his ain kingdom, and justice, and
the rights of the nation, ‘and ilka man shall hae his ain.’”
“But wha’s wronged, Bauby?” asked the unbeliever.
“Wha’s wronged? Isna the nation wronged wi’ a bit German duke pitten
down in the big seat of our native king? Isna a’body wronged that has to
suffer that? And isna he coming with his white cockade to set a’thing
right again?”
“Bauby, you forget we’re to leave Kellie at twelve,” said Lady Anne,
interrupting this conclusive logic, “and the things are not all ready.
We’ll hear the true news about the Prince in Edinburgh.”
“We’ll see him, bless him! for he’s marching on Edinburgh, driving a’
thae cowards before him like a wheen sheep,” said Bauby, triumphantly.
“I couldna keep the guid news to mysel, my lady; but now I maun awa.”
And Bauby hastened from the room, letting her voice rise as she went
through the gallery, enough to convey to Katie’s ear her wish—
“To see guid corn upon the rigs,
And banishment to a’ the Whigs.”
After this interruption, the packing went on busily, and for a
considerable time in silence. It was the memorable year of Scottish
romance—the “forty-five;” and there were few hearts on either side which
could keep their usual pace of beating when the news of the wild
invasion was told. But like all other times of great events and
excitement, the ordinary platitudes of life ran on with wonderfully
little change—ran on, and wove themselves about those marvels; so that
this journey to Edinburgh, even in Lady Anne Erskine’s eyes, at present
bulked as largely, and looked as important, as the threatened
revolution; and to little Katie Stewart, her new gown and mantle were
greater events than the advent of the Chevalier.
“Are you no feared to go to Edinburgh, Lady Anne, and the Chevalier and
a’ his men coming?” asked Katie at length.
Katie’s own eyes sparkled at the idea, for the excitement of being in
danger was a more delightful thing than she had ever ventured to
anticipate before.
“Afraid? He is the true Prince, whether he wins or fails,” said Lady
Anne; “and no lady need fear where a Stuart reigns. It’s his right he
comes for. I pray Heaven give the Prince his right.”
Katie looked up with some astonishment. Very few things thus moved the
placid Lady Anne.
“It would only be after many a man was killed,” said Katie; “and if the
King in London comes from Germany, this Chevalier comes from France; and
his forefathers were ill men, Lady Anne.”
“Katie Stewart,” said Lady Anne, hastily, “it’s ignorance you’re
speaking. I will not hear it. I’ll hear nothing said against the right.
The Prince comes of the true royal blood. He is the son of many good
kings; and if they were not all good, that is not his fault. My fathers
served his. I will hear nothing said against the Prince’s right.”
Little Katie looked up wonderingly into her friend’s face, and then
turned away to conclude her packing. But, quite unconvinced as she was
of the claims and rights of the royal adventurer, his young opponent
said no more about Prince Charles.