I BECOME AWARE THAT SOMETHING IMPORTANT IS AFOOT
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.