SIR JOHN PREPARES FOR ACTION, AND BARBARA HEARS MANY STRANGE THINGS
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.