In Lady Colville’s great drawing-room a gay party had assembled. It was
very shortly after the Prestonpans victory, and the invading party were
flushed with high hopes. Something of the ancient romance softened and
refined the very manners of the time. By a sudden revulsion those
high-spirited noble people had leaped forth from the prosaic modern life
to the glowing, brilliant, eventful days of old—as great a change almost
as if the warlike barons and earls of their family galleries had stepped
out into visible life again. Here is one young gallant, rich in lace and
embroidery, describing to a knot of earnest, eager listeners the recent
battle. But for this the youth had vegetated on his own acres, a slow,
respectable squire—he is a knight now, errant on an enterprise as daring
and adventurous as ever engaged a Sir Lancelot or Sir Tristram. The
young life, indeed, hangs in the balance—the nation’s warfare is
involved; but the dangers which surround and hem them about only
brighten those youthful eyes, and make their hearts beat the quicker.
All things are possible—the impossible they behold before them a thing
accomplished; and the magician exercises over them a power like
witchcraft;—their whole thoughts turn upon him—their speech is full of
Prince Charles.
Graver are the older people—the men who risk families, households,
established rank—and whose mature minds can realise the full risk
involved. Men attainted in “the fifteen,” who remember how it went with
them then—men whom trustful retainers follow, and on whose heads lies
this vast responsibility of life and death. On some faces among them are
dark immovable clouds—on some the desperate calmness of hearts strung to
any or every loss; and few forget, even in those brief triumphant
festivities, that their lives are in their hands.
In one of those deep window-seats, half hidden by the curtain, Katie
Stewart sits at her embroidery frame. If she never worked with a will
before, she does it now; for the little rural belle is fluttered and
excited by the presence and unusual conversation of the brilliant
company round her. The embroidery frame just suffices to mark that Katie
_is_ Katie, and not a noble Erskine, for Lady Anne has made it very
difficult to recognise the distinction by means of the dress. Katie’s,
it is true, is plainer than her friend’s;—she has no jewels—wears no
white rose; but as much pains have been bestowed on her toilette as on
that of any lady in the room; and Lady Anne sits very near the window,
lest Katie should think herself neglected. There is little fear—for here
he stands, the grand gentleman, at Katie Stewart’s side!
Deep in those massy walls is the recess of the window, and the window
itself is not large, and has a frame of strong broad bars, such as might
almost resist a siege. The seat is cushioned and draped with velvet, and
the heavy crimson curtain throws a flush upon Katie’s face. Quickly move
the round arms, gloved with delicate black lace, which does not hide
their whiteness; and, escaping from this cover, the little fingers wind
themselves among those bright silks, now resting a moment on the
canvass, as Katie lifts her eyes to listen to something not quite close
at hand which strikes her ear—now impatiently beating on the frame as
she droops her head, and cannot choose but hear something very close at
hand which touches her heart.
A grand gentleman!—Manlike and gallant the young comely face which, high
up there, on the other side of those heavy crimson draperies, bends
towards her with smiles and winning looks, and words low-spoken—brave
the gay heart which beats under his rich uniform—noble the blood that
warms it. A veritable Sir Alexander, not far from the noble house of Mar
in descent, and near them in friendship; a brave, poor baronet, young,
hopeful, and enthusiastic, already in eager joyous fancies beholding his
Prince upon the British throne, himself on the way to fortune. At first
only for a hasty moment, now and then, can he linger by Katie’s window;
but the moments grow longer and longer, and now he stands still beside
her, silently watching this bud grow upon the canvass—silently following
the motion of those hands. Little Katie dare not look up for the eyes
that rest on her—eyes which are not bold either, but have a certain
shyness in them; and as her eyelids droop over her flushed cheeks, she
thinks of the hero of her dreams, and asks herself, with innocent wonder
thrilling through her heart, if this is he?
The ladies talk beside her, as Katie cannot talk; shrewdly, simply,
within herself, she judges what they say—forms other conclusions—pursues
quite another style of reasoning—but says nothing; and Sir Alexander
leans his high brow on the crimson curtain, and disregards them all for
her.
Leaves them all to watch this bud—to establish a supervision, under
which Katie at length begins to feel uneasy, over these idling hands of
hers. Look him in the face, little Katie Stewart, and see if those are
the eyes you saw in your dreams.
But just now she cannot look him in the face. In a strange enchanted
mist she reclines in her window-seat, and dallies with her work. Words
float in upon her half-dreaming sense, fragments of conversation which
she will remember at another time; attitudes, looks, of which she is
scarcely aware now, but which will rise on her memory hereafter, when
the remembered sunshine of those days begins to trace out the frescoes
on the wall. But now the hours float away as the pageant passed through
that crowded High Street yesterday. She is scarcely conscious of their
progress as they go, but will gaze after them when they are gone.
“And you have no white rose?” said the young cavalier.
He speaks low. Strange that he should speak low, when among so many
conversations other talkers have to raise their voices—low as Philip
Landale used to speak to Isabell.
“No,” said Katie.
He bends down further—speaks in a still more subdued tone; while Katie’s
fingers play with the silken thread, and she stoops over her frame so
closely that he cannot see her face.
“Is it possible that in Kellie one should have lived disloyal? But that
is not the greatest marvel. To be young, and fair, and generous—is it
not the same as to be a friend of the Prince? But your heart is with the
white rose, though you do not wear it on your breast?”
“No.” Look up, little Katie—up with honest eyes, that he may be
convinced. “No; his forefathers were ill men; and many a man will die
first, if Prince Charles be ever King.”
“Katie, Katie!” said the warning voice of Lady Anne, who has caught the
last words of this rebellious speech. And again the mist steals over her
in her corner; and as the light wanes and passes away from the evening
skies, she only dimly sees the bending figure beside her, only vaguely
receives into her dreaming mind the low words he says. It is all a
dream—the beautiful dim hours depart—the brilliant groups disperse and
go away; and, leaning out alone from that oriel window, Katie Stewart
looks forth upon the night.
Now and then passes some late reveller—now and then drowsily paces past
a veteran of the City Guard. The street is dark on this side, lying in
deep shadow; but the harvest moon throws its full light on the opposite
pavement, and the solitary unfrequent figures move along, flooded in the
silver radiance, which seems to take substance and tangibility from
them, and to bear them along, floating, gliding, as the soft waters of
the Firth bore the sloop across the ferry. But here comes a quick
footstep of authority, echoing through the silent street—a rustling
Highland Chief, with a dark henchman, like a shadow at his hand; and
that—what is that lingering figure looking up to the light in Lady Anne
Erskine’s window, as he slowly wends his way downward to the Palace?
Little Katie’s heart—she had brought it out here to still it—leaps
again; for this is the same form which haunts her fancy; and again the
wonder thrills through her strangely, if thus she has come in sight of
her fate.
Draw your silken mantle closer round you, Katie Stewart; put back the
golden curls which this soft breath of night stirs on your cheek, and
lean your brow upon your hand which leans upon the sculptured stone.
Slowly he passes in the moonlight, looking up at the light which may be
yours—which is not yours, little watcher, whom in the gloom he cannot
see; let your eyes wander after him, as now the full moonbeams fill up
the vacant space where a minute since his gallant figure stood. Yes, it
is true; your sunny face shines before his eyes—your soft voice is
speaking visionary words to that good simple heart of his; and strange
delight is in the thrill of wonder which moves you to ask yourself the
question—Is this the hero?
But now the sleep of youth falls on you when your head touches the
pillow. No, simple Katie, no; when the hero comes, you will not
speculate—will not ask yourself questions; but now it vexes you that
your first thoughts in the waking morrow are not of this stranger, and
neither has he been in your dreams.
For dreams are perverse—honest—and will not be persuaded into the
service of this wandering fancy. Spring up, Katie Stewart, thankfully
out of those soft, deep, dreamless slumbers, into the glorious morning
air, which fills the street between those lofty houses like some golden
fluid in an antique well;—spring up joyously to the fresh lifetime of
undiscovered hours which lie in this new day. Grieve not that only
tardily, slowly, the remembrance of the last night’s gallant returns to
your untroubled mind; soon enough will come this fate of yours, which
yet has neither darkened nor brightened your happy skies of youth. Up
with your free thoughts, Katie, and bide your time!
A visitor of quite a different class appeared in Lady Colville’s
drawing-room that day. It was the Honourable Andrew, whose magnificent
manners had awakened Katie’s admiration at his brother’s marriage. Not a
youth, but a mature man, this Colville was heir to the lordship; for the
good Lady Betty had no children; and while the elder brother spent his
prime in the toils of his profession, fighting and enduring upon the
sea, the younger indolently dwelt at home, acquiring, by right of a
natural inclination towards the beautiful, the character of a refined
and elegant patron of the arts. Such art as there was within his reach,
he did patronise a little; but his love of the beautiful was by no means
the elevating sentiment which we generally conclude it to be. He liked
to have fine shapes and colours ministering to his gratification—liked
to appropriate and collect around himself, his divinity, the delicate
works of genius—liked to have the world observe how fine his eye was,
and how correct his taste; and, lounging in his sister-in-law’s
drawing-room, surveyed the dark portraits on the walls, and the tall
erect Lady Anne in the corner, with the same supercilious polished
smile.
Lady Betty sits in a great chair, in a rich dress of black silk, with a
lace cap over her tower of elaborate hair. She is just entering the
autumnal years; placid, gentle, full of the sunshine of kindness has
been her tranquil summer, and it has mellowed and brightened her very
face. Less harsh than in her youth are those pale lines—softened,
rounded by that kind hand of Time, which deals with her gently, she uses
him so well.
The Honourable Andrew, with his keen eyes, does not fail to notice this,
and now he begins to compliment his sister on her benign looks; but Lady
Anne is not old enough to be benign, and her movements become
constrained and awkward—her voice harsh and unmanageable, in presence of
the critic. He scans her pale face as if it were a picture—listens when
she speaks like one who endures some uncouth sounds—is a Whig. Lady Anne
could almost find it in her heart, gentle though that heart be, to hate
this supercilious Andrew Colville.
Loop up this heavy drapery—Katie Stewart is not aware of any one looking
at her. Her fingers, threaded through these curls, support her cheek—her
shoulders are carelessly curved—her other ungloved arm leans upon the
frame of her embroidery, and her graceful little head bends forward,
looking out with absorbed unconscious eyes. Now there comes a wakening
to the dreamy face, a start to the still figure. What is it? Only some
one passing below, who lifts his bonnet from his bright young forehead,
and bows as he passes. Perhaps the bow is for Lady Anne, faintly visible
at another window. Lady Anne thinks so, and quietly returns it as a
matter of course; but not so thinks Katie Stewart.
The Honourable Andrew Colville changes his seat: it is to bring himself
into a better light for observing that picture in the window, which,
with a critic’s delight, he notes and outlines. But Katie all the while
is quite unconscious, and now takes two or three meditative stitches,
and now leans on the frame, idly musing, without a thought that any one
sees or looks at her. By and by Mr Colville rises, to stand by the
crimson curtain where Sir Alexander stood on the previous night, and
Katie at last becomes conscious of a look of admiration very different
from the shy glances of the youthful knight. But Mr Colville is full
thirty: the little belle has a kind of compassionate forbearance with
him, and is neither angry nor fluttered. She has but indifferent cause
to be flattered, it is true, for the Honourable Andrew admires her just
as he admires the magnificent lace which droops over his thin white
hands; but still he is one of the _cognoscenti_, and bestows his notice
only on the beautiful.
And he talks to her, pleased with the shrewd answers which she sometimes
gives; and Katie has to rein in her wandering thoughts, and feels guilty
when she finds herself inattentive to this grandest of grand gentlemen;
while Lady Betty, looking over at them anxiously from her great chair,
thinks that little Katie’s head will be turned.
It is in a fair way; for when Mr Colville, smiling his sweetest smile to
her, has bowed himself out, and Katie goes up-stairs to change her dress
preparatory to a drive in Lady Betty’s great coach, Bauby approaches her
mysteriously with a little cluster of white rosebuds in her hand.
“Muckle fash it has ta’en to get them at this time o’ the year, Miss
Katie, ye may depend,” said the oracular Bauby; “and ye ken best yoursel
wha they’re frae.”
The white rose—the badge of rebellion! But the little Whig puts it
happily in her breast, and, when Bauby leaves her, laughs aloud in
wonderment and pleasure; but, alas! only as she laughed, not very long
ago, at this new black mantle or these cambric ruffles; for you are only
a new plaything, gallant Sir Alexander, with some novelty and excitement
about you. You are not the hero.