TELLS OF THE ONLY OCCASION ON WHICH I MET THE EARL OF MAR
Now I think it will be agreed that an idea which had sprung full-formed
into my mind during my silent listening, with regard to the Master’s
conduct, was not without weight. It seemed clear to me then, and grew,
if possible, clearer in the light of after events, that his hatred
and jealousy of the Earl of Mar were the cause of all his strange
behaviour. He received the news of his landing, as we have seen, with
surprise and scorn, and the first hint of that nobleman as a leader
and commander roused his wrath to such a pitch, that from that moment
he put little check upon his fury. Had the Duke of Berwick landed in
place of the Earl, or had my Lord of Ormond arrived at the head of the
expedition, it is my opinion that the Master of Sinclair would have
raised no obstacles and seen no difficulties any more than our host of
Grange himself. But his hatred of my Lord Mar was of old standing and
well known to their friends, and his jealous spirit could not brook the
notion of being under orders to the man he despised. From that day,
although in obedience to my Lord Sinclair’s commands, he continued
in the affair, his heart was not in it. He was thought to be but a
lukewarm adherent, and when honour demanded that he should endeavour to
hide his misgivings, support his Commander, and do nothing to foster
dissensions in the camp, he made himself obnoxious to the Earl and his
friends, raising up strife, frustrating plans, and sowing everywhere
the seeds of mistrust and insubordination, which quickly sprang up and
bore most bitter fruit.
When it became known to him that Mr. Malcome had been charged with a
private message from the Earl to Sir John, his jealous rage increased
ten-fold, and from that day onward in spite of the knight’s efforts
to pacify him, which for his lady’s sake he most generously made, his
bearing towards his brother-in-law was marked by scorn and bitterness,
which, while it merely provoked Sir John, deeply annoyed my Lord
Sinclair and grieved his whole family.
In consequence of my Lord Mar’s message, whatever it may have been,
Sir John did not next morning return with us to Dysart, but rode
straight to the house of Mr. Bethune of Balfour, to interview the
nobleman, and hear from him of his plans. Secret messages were sent
to all the _honest_ gentlemen in that part of the country to wait
upon his lordship, but it was only by dint of stern commands from his
father, and the loving entreaties of Betty herself, that the Master
of Sinclair could be persuaded to attend on him. I believe that the
Earl, from the first, treated Captain Sinclair with great kindness and
deference, making inquiries of him about the state of feeling in the
country, asking his advice, and otherwise behaving in a very frank
and manly way. This, Sir John told my lady; and that at first the
Master attempted to hide his gruffness and to respond in like manner,
and Sir John, with his genial, sanguine nature, had great hopes that
the rupture between them might be healed. As a further proof of his
friendliness, my lord, in going to Dupplin House in Perthshire, the
seat of the Lord Kinnoul, decided to come by Dysart in order to spend a
few hours at the Hermitage, and pay his respects to my Lord Sinclair.
This was the sole occasion upon which I saw the Earl of Mar, and I
make no secret of the fact that his appearance, manners, and courteous
behaviour quite won me over to the side of Sir John and my lady, who
thought him one of the best and cleverest of men. As I have said
before, I have no desire to dig too deep into the causes and motives of
any man’s actions. All the world knows of the Earl’s mistakes, because
the project he undertook failed; but so closely are we “bound up in the
bundle of life,” as the Scripture saith, one with another, that it were
impossible either at that time, or now, forty years after, to determine
who else were at fault, or how many mistakes and errors went to make
up the whole. I suppose, that if the King’s Cause had prospered, and
if he were now seated upon the throne of his forefathers instead of
living in sad exile, not much would be heard of the incapacity of the
Earl of Mar, or the motives, good or bad, which urged him on. Truly, as
it saith again in the Book of Proverbs, “The lot is cast into the lap,
but the whole disposing thereof is of the Lord.” And to those of you
who, ten years back, witnessed the triumph of that brave young Prince
as he rode gaily up the High Street of Edinburgh, with strong hopes in
his heart of winning back the kingdom for his royal father, and who,
later, mourned with him over these same hopes utterly cast down, this
assurance from the pages of Holy Writ is the only comfort you could
have. For myself, I was at that moment far away with my dear husband in
the East Indies, so that only the rumours of Prince Charles Edward’s
coming and going reached our ears; but as I heard of his charm, his
courage, his successes, and in the next breath of his sufferings, his
disappointments, and his failure, my tears fell for pity of the Lost
Cause, just as they had done so many years before.
* * * * *
But what must you be thinking of this garrulous old woman, who lets
her thoughts so wander from the path and her pen run away with her?
I was telling you of the visit of the Earl to the Hermitage, and it
all comes back to me very plain and clear. I had heard the Master say
that my lord was a humpback, or at least deformed, but though I could
perceive that one shoulder was slightly higher than the other, he
carried himself with so much grace that it scarce detracted from his
appearance. He was dressed very plain to avoid attention, but I thought
for all that he looked the great gentleman he was. Upon my being
presented to him, he saluted me very kindly on the cheek, as was then
the custom, and told me that he knew my Grandpapa very well, saying
also in a laughing tone that if I lived up to my name I must needs be
happy to see him, and to know the reason of his coming. Upon which I
told him that I was very glad and thankful that the King had so good
a friend, and at this he looked pleased and made me a low bow. He
talked respectfully with my Lord Sinclair of the coming Rising, rallied
Mistress Bess gaily on her enthusiasm, and answered very cordially my
lady’s enquiries as to the health of his Countess and the welfare of
their infant daughter. He took little Henry upon his knee, and calling
Charles to his side told him of his friend, Tommy, who, he said, was
now considered the bully of Westminster, for to that famous school
Lordy Erskine had lately gone.
“I like Tommy,” cried Charles, “he’s a great friend of mine!”
“And I like Tommy too,” lisped Harry, not to be outdone, “he gives me a
pick-a-back!”
My lady bade the children not be troublesome, and sent them away to
Phemie; but when was a mother’s heart not warmed by small attentions
to her children, or how could any woman think ill of a man who thus
fondled her little sons? I am sure that if my lady’s faith in the Earl
had been in any way dimmed by her brother’s cruel suspicions, it burned
bright and steady again after this visit to Dysart.
Before he left us, and his stay was but brief, he drew from his bosom a
portrait done in miniature, and, smiling, offered it to each of us in
turn. We looked at it in silence. It was the face of the King. A face
singularly attractive in its youthful grace, for the high forehead, the
long, gentle, hazel eyes, even the lack of power in the full mouth and
rounded chin, all helped to give it an air of sweetness which yet had
a tinge of sadness in it; and while my heart was filled with a sudden
strange yearning, I was not surprised to see tears in Betty’s eyes, as
she lifted the miniature to her lips and reverently kissed it.
And so with kind adieux, and hearty wishes for Godspeed in his venture,
and gay waving of the hand, my Lord of Mar rode off to join his
friends; and we watched him long upon the winding road, with smiles on
our lips and prayers in our hearts, little dreaming that not one of us
should ever look upon his face again.
Neither Sir John nor the Master of Sinclair was present at this
interview, the latter having private affairs at the other side of the
county, and my guardian being absent on one of the many secret missions
which now occupied all his time. Several times he crossed to Edinburgh,
returning the same day, for our agent there, Captain Harry Straton, was
by now in the thick of business. On one of these occasions he brought
back the discouraging news that the Duke of Ormond, had, on fear of
being arrested, fled in haste from England, thus destroying our hopes
in that direction; but it was thought that being now in France, he
might combine with the King, and that on his return to England, the
soldiers, by whom he was greatly beloved, would readily flock to his
Standard. Sometimes Sir John was absent from Dysart many days together,
being sent with important messages to gentlemen between Edinburgh
and the Border, and even as far south as Dumfries and Galloway with
despatches to the Earl of Nithsdale, and my Lord Kenmure.
But that part of the business came to an end at last, and one night
upon his return we learned the meaning of it all. My Lord Mar was
holding a great _Tinchel_ or Hunting of the deer, in his forest of
Braemar, on the 26th day of August, and from near and far his _invited
guests_ were spurring north to join him. On the eve of departure, Sir
John and the Master, though intending to ride together on the morrow,
again broke out in dissension. ’Twas at supper, and some of our trusty
neighbours were present. The Master, still smarting at the thought of
Mar’s supremacy, threw doubts upon his wisdom in calling together so
large a gathering which could not be kept private.
“And what need for privacy,” cried Sir John, “when the country is ready
to rise at our bidding?”
“With the King still in France,” replied the Master, “Ormond fled from
England, Argyle to take command in Scotland, and with six thousand
Dutch troops ready to cross the sea to his assistance at a day’s
notice, it seems to me that the quieter we make our plans the better.”
“And to me it seems,” returned the other, “that enough time has been
wasted, and the sooner the King’s Standard is openly raised, the more
secure we shall stand.”
And as all the company, including ourselves, were in agreement with
this notion, and everyone weary of the repeated delays, the Master’s
arguments were silenced, though I have no doubt his opinion remained
the same.
And now so many things crowd into my memory that I despair of setting
the half of them down. I must leave it to history to tell you of that
great meeting at Braemar, when noblemen and gentlemen from all parts of
Scotland, from Caithness to the Border, and from Fife to the Western
Isles, assembled to hear what the Earl of Mar had to tell them. What it
was you know very well, and his manner of telling it. Also how, after
enthusiastically agreeing to join the project--with, I fear, too little
forethought or consideration--they dispersed to their homes in order to
gather their forces together.
Still the days went slowly by for us, hearing nothing from the north,
and little from other sources, for in the absence of our men we saw,
designedly, but little of our neighbours, and except for the two
Pitcairns, uncle and nephew, had no communication with the outer world.
My lady was growing anxious for news of her husband, and the strained
look which I was to see so often in her kind eyes was beginning to show
itself. When late one night, as we two were on our way to bed, after
the rest of the household had retired, there came a sound of gentle
knocking at the small door in the tower past which we must go to reach
our rooms. The muffled sound at that hour, in the darkness (for we
carried no light) was one to set our hearts beating, and I clutched at
my cousin’s arm as we paused to listen. The knocking continued, and
without a word my lady turned and began to go down the little flight of
steps that led to the door.
“Madam!” I cried softly, “be careful. Shall I call your brother, Mr.
Will?”
But my lady did not pause. She looked back at me up the winding stair,
and the moonlight from the narrow window fell upon her face; it was
white, but she was smiling. I knew that in those days there was no time
for foolish fears, and secrets, however they were carried, were not to
be trusted to servants. There was nothing for my lady to do, but what
she was doing, so I stood in breathless suspense and listened. Surely
she would not open without a question to those without.
Down below a bolt was drawn, and the door creaked slightly as it was
shoved back. Then I heard a cry, and after that--silence. Trembling
with fear and uncertainty I strained my neck to peer down the twisting
stairway, holding my skirt up with one hand, and descending slowly
step by step. It was not far to go, and suddenly I saw in the patch of
moonlight that shone through the open door two figures that looked like
one. ’Twas my lady in her husband’s arms. I laughed for very relief and
joy, and they both looked up and smiled. My good Sir John was dusty and
travel-worn, and his eyes were heavy with fatigue. He had ridden fast
and far, and the hand he held out to me trembled, while his voice was
weak and husky.
“Didst ever know such a wench as mine, Barbara?” he cried softly. “Here
she comes stealing down the turret-stair in the moonlight to open the
door to a lover belike, only to discover her husband!” and he laughed
below his breath.
“My dearest life!” cried my lady, her face all smiles, “would I not
know your knock among a thousand? Come, come, we must close the door
and get you something to eat, for you must be well-nigh starving.”
“Drink first, sweetheart!” laughed the knight. “There’s no room in this
throat of mine for meat to pass down till some of the dust has been
washed out of it.”
Softly he shut and bolted the door, and taking off his riding-boots to
carry them in his hand, he stole behind us up the stairs and into the
dining-hall on the left. Once there he flung himself into an arm-chair
and stretched his weary limbs with a great sigh. In a few minutes we
had collected food and wine from the buttery and the pantry, and it was
with a feeling of relief, as intense as though the terrible thirst had
been my own, that I watched the huge tankard filled and emptied.
“And now, my dearest,” cried my lady, when her lord had demolished half
a cold pasty and much bread and cheese, “why come you so late and in
secret? What news do you bring? Are they good or bad?”
Sir John’s face was grave. “Mayhap you have heard,” quoth he, “the King
of France is dead.”
“The King!”
“Dead?”
“Ay, dead as mutton! And the power in the hands of a Regent, who, I
know well enough, whatever my Lord of Mar may say, is not well affected
to our cause.”
My lady seated herself beside him.
“Nay, we have heard nothing. No news have come from Edinburgh this
sennight. All our friends are from home as you know, and David Pitcairn
has thought it well to bide quiet and attend to business.”
“Betty’s business?” cried the knight, and my lady laughed.
“Nay, my dear; Betty’s business would be the King’s, as you very well
know, and if he is to be of use to us later, he must not draw suspicion
on himself too soon.”
“Right and true!” said Sir John. “He may help us all by-and-bye;
David’s a wise lad and can hold his tongue.”
“So we have heard nothing,” continued my lady. “But this death of King
Louis is a terrible loss to us. What says the Earl?”
“He insists,” said Sir John, “that the Duke of Orleans is as much in
favour of the Restoration as the old King was, and that his death is no
loss, but rather a gain to the cause. But I know the Regent better than
he, and I hope for no help from him. Indeed, if he do nothing to hinder
us, twill be less than I expect of him.”
“And now, Sir John,” I cried, “will you not tell us why you come thus,
in such haste and privacy, to tell us what all the world must know in a
day or two?”
He laughed and called me a “saucy minx.”
“To say truth, Mistress Barbara, your humble servant is a bit of a
coward, and I must own that I stole here to-night under cover of the
darkness (though the moon shines cruelly bright for conspirators),
because I hoped to avoid my eldest brother-in-law, whose jibes and
sneers I can ill brook in my present disturbed state of mind. He left
the north some days ago. Is he at home?”
My lady smiled, and fondled his hand like one humouring a child.
“No,” she said, “but he may return to-night, and you will see him most
like at breakfast.”
“That will I not,” cried he, “for by breakfast-time I must be far from
here. Only a few hours’ sleep, and then up and off again. Come, my
lady, this food has made a new man of me; now to bed, for I must be on
the road by five o’ the clock, and ’tis now half on midnight.”
A shadow fell over her face.
“And whither now?” she asked. “I had hoped you could remain a few days
with us.”
“To Edinburgh,” he cried, “no less! For by the end o’ the week, I trust
the Castle and all its supplies will be in my Lord Drummond’s hands.”
My lady was again all eagerness and poured forth question after
question as to the time and the method of taking so important a
stronghold, but Sir John only kissed her and put her off in his usual
light-hearted style, and soon after we crept stealthily up to our rooms.
“I dreamed my papa came and kissed me in the night,” said little
Charles to me next morning. “I thought it was true, and told Phemie
that Sir John was returned, but when I asked my mama, she laughed and
said I must have dreamed it.”