I GO TO DYSART
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.