MR. FLEMING RIDES AWAY FROM ALVA. THE KING LANDS, AND SIR JOHN RETURNS
TO SCOTLAND NOT QUITE IN THE MANNER HE INTENDED
On the evening of the day upon which we had visited Captain Anthony,
Mr. Peck, with an anxious face, sought my Lady Erskine (but this
unknown to me), and told her that he was troubled about his patient as
the fever was again high, and perceiving, as he thought, that there was
something on his mind to disturb him, his kind attendant had offered to
bring my lady to him in order that he might confide in her.
Going at once to his chamber, my lady begged to know if she could help
him, upon which Mr. Fleming, as he told me after, with many misgivings
and humble requests for forgiveness, made confession of what had passed
between us that afternoon.
He told her how from the first hour he saw Barbara Stewart her image
had remained in his mind, although he had never dreamed of betraying
his feelings thus early in their friendship. But gladdened by her dear
presence, touched and surprised on learning of all she had done for him
in the glen, perhaps a little weakened by his illness, he had allowed
himself to speak.
“Scarcely had she left the room, madam,” he said, “when my heart
misgave me sorely, for it seemed to me I had abused your hospitality,
and taken advantage of Mistress Barbara’s innocence and youth; but
I fear I repent too late. Tell me if in any way I can repair my
indiscretion.”
My lady sat silent some time and then asked, “And what said Barbara?”
“Madam,” he cried earnestly, “she said not a word. But she put her
little soft hands in mine, and looked at me out of her dark eyes with
a look so deep and tender that for some moments I lost myself in the
bliss of it, and forgot that she remained silent.”
My lady sighed and smiled together.
“Ah, dear heart!” she cried, “how well I remember!” And although he
knew not what she meant, I know she was thinking of her own young days
and the moment when Sir John first told her that he loved her.
After a little she went on.
“I am grieved that this should have happened at such a time. In a few
days at most you must leave us, and what is before you, who can tell?
My mind misgives me when I try to read the future, for after all, Mr.
Fleming, wounds and death are not the only evils we have to fear.
Barbara is so young--if you could have waited a while. However, there
is no sense in crying over spilt milk, as the saying is, and what is
done is done. Can I trust you, sir, to leave it where it is? I love
the child as dearly as if she were my own sister,” (so my dear lady
was kind enough to say) “and you may trust me to be tender with her;
but it is not fitting there should be any formal contract between you.
There is much to be considered, and the times are uncertain. You will
not, therefore, see Mistress Stewart again except in my presence, but
you take with you my fervent wishes for your health and happiness and a
glad return.”
Whatever Mr. Fleming’s desires might have been, he was forced to
acknowledge my lady’s authority and bow to her decision in the matter.
Nay, he could not but approve of the wisdom of her words, and the
kindness of her interest in the motherless girl he loved. So, greatly
comforted, and relieved of the burden of guilt that had oppressed him,
he fell into a sound sleep, and awaked upon the morrow much refreshed
and strengthened.
To me, still lost in the wonder of my golden dream, and feeling
strangely detached from the things of earth, my lady’s words were few.
She touched lightly upon her knowledge of the position, and bade me not
fear to confide in her, either now or at a future time, for, whatever
happened, her love and sympathy were with me.
“But,” she added, “you are scarce more than a child, Barbara, and
know not your powers and capacity. You may be greatly taken with our
friend, to whom I am also much attracted; but time alone will prove
the strength of your attachment, and I will not have you tied and
bound by the whim of a passing mood, engendered by the most romantic
circumstances, to what you might regret for your whole life.”
With that she kissed me and sent me about some household task; but
during the next few days I saw little of Captain Anthony, and that only
with others in the room.
By the end of the week he pronounced himself fit for travel, and late
one evening he presented himself before us, booted and spurred and
ready for the road. The children, who had grown to love their hero
dearly, were much distressed to lose him, and little Hal broke down and
cried, clinging to his hand on one side and to mine on the other. My
lady, with kindly tact, busied herself at the far end of the room, and
but for the child we were alone.
“A token, Mistress Barbara,” whispered my lover imploringly. “Give me
something of your own to keep by me--not as a remembrance, for that
I shall not need, but as a pledge that you will be glad to see me
returned.”
I tore a knot of red ribbon from my dress and pressed it into his hand,
which closed upon mine as he took it. The tears were very near my eyes,
and I longed to shed them openly like little Harry. But time pressed,
and my lady came forward to bid our guest farewell.
“God keep you, my beloved!” he murmured.
“And keep you too--for me!” I whispered back with trembling lips;
and any woman who has seen the man she loved ride out to war, will
understand what my thoughts were as I said it.
A few minutes later we were all assembled at the door. Charles stood
outside in the frosty night, holding the stirrup, and struggling
manfully with his grief which he judged it childish to show. Mr. Peck
was giving a last look to the horse, which a few days back he had
purchased for the traveller. My lady handed him a packet to bear to
her brother, the Master, and pressed him again and again to be careful
of his health. I stood with little Hal in my arms, and watched the
scene as in a dream. Allan, the shepherd, who was to run by his side
and show him the short cuts through the hills, now came forward, saying
that it was time to start; and the next thing I remember is the sight
of Captain Anthony in the saddle, his hat in his hand, a smile on his
face, and a look in his eyes that I never forgot. A moment after he
rode out of the court-yard, and the darkness swallowed him up.
* * * * *
I take blame to myself that I have writ so much about my private
affairs, which cannot be of the same interest to you as to myself, but
you must of your kindness forgive me, for it would truly have been
impossible for me to tell the story of that sorrowful winter, without
some particulars of this portion of my own history.
After our guest’s departure the days grew darker and darker, for the
tidings that came to us seemed to crush our hopes rather than raise
them up. My lady wrote to Betty, bidding her come if possible to
Alva to spend Christmas with us, but she sent back word that she was
occupied at the sick-bed of her young friend, David, eldest son to
their neighbour, the Earl of Wemyss, for the hapless youth was ill of
a fever, and his father was absent in London. A few days later came
the news of the young gentleman’s death, over which my lady grieved
with heart-felt sorrow, for, from a charming child, he had grown into a
bright and promising lad, and his early death at the age of sixteen was
deplored by all who knew him.
Very ill news came also from Perth, and no comfort was to be had from
France. The big men in the Earl of Mar’s army were so busy quarrelling
among themselves, that they seemed to have lost sight altogether
of the Cause that had brought them together; and not the least of
the trouble, to my lady’s mind, lay in the fact that the Master of
Sinclair was at the head and front of the dissensions. Indeed she was
sick at heart when she heard of her brother’s conduct, for you may be
sure that rumour did not fail to make the worst of it. It has always
seemed to me that the Master, a man of strong character, and doubtless
with an attractiveness of his own, might have influenced his friends
to better issues, but instead of attempting the rôle of peace-maker,
he did everything in his power to stir up strife. So many of the
Fife gentlemen joined him, among them Sir James Kinloch, Sir Robert
Gordon, Major Balfour, Mr. Ogilvie, and Mr. Smith of Methven, that
they formed themselves into what was called the “Grumbling Club,” of
which the Master of Sinclair was President. Their business was to find
fault with everything that was done by my Lord Mar, to discourage the
troops, to foretell disaster, and even privately, it was said, to open
negotiations with the Duke of Argyle, with a view to capitulation.
This last failed, for the letter written by the Master to the Duke was
intercepted and brought to the Earl of Mar--an incident which, you may
be sure, did not increase the love and confidence between these two.
But later on, when the grumbling and the clamour grew louder, they went
to their leader, and boldly demanded that he should carry out their
design. This my lord, having news of the King’s coming, refused to do,
and bade the grumblers have patience among themselves for a little
longer. Indeed, I believe the poor gentleman was at his wit’s end what
to do, not having the strength or capacity necessary to control his
turbulent company.
So ill did the Master behave that my Lord Sinclair, his father, having
wind of the matter, writ him a very sharp letter, chiding him for his
conduct and demanding an explanation; and when his son departed from
Perth, in answer to this summons, ’tis said the grumbling ceased, but
immediately upon his return it broke out again worse than ever. It
appears that when at home he took solemn leave of his friends, making
no secret of the fact that he expected nothing but defeat, and had no
expectation of returning in triumph to Dysart.
The Marquis of Huntly, who had never been very eager for the Cause,
was “led by the nose” by this singular man, and seemed only too
ready to enter into all his schemes. And although the Master told us
proudly that Dr. Abercrombie, who had just returned from France, had
brought him a personal message from the Queen, in which she thanked
him for his services in seizing the ship at Burntisland, and promised
that when she and her family could, she would not forget to show him
favour, his heart remained untouched, and he made up his mind, coldly
and deliberately, to desert the Cause. Granted that he believed it
hopeless, that he disapproved the methods of his superiors, that he had
come to the conclusion that the whole affair was a sad mistake, still
his behaviour could not but alienate all loyal and honest men.
The Duke of Argyle in the meantime, though the state of the roads
kept him inactive at Stirling, for there was a prodigious deal of
snow on the ground, did not altogether neglect his opportunities; for
to our great distress we learned that he had bombarded and occupied
Burntisland, and some of the Dutch troops having arrived he very soon
had all the seaports of Fife in his hands. As most of the coal-pits lie
in that district this was a serious loss, and added to the hardships of
an already rigorous winter. The foreign soldiers over-ran the place,
and food grew scarcer and dearer. Further north it was even worse; in
the counties of Perth and Inverness, it was said, where the frost had
stopped the working of the mills, there was scarcely a grain of meal to
be had.
In the midst of all this misery it is not to be supposed that we
could eat our Christmas Goose with merry hearts, but sometime in the
beginning of January a packet arrived for my lady, which in spite of
everything could not fail to cheer us. It had been brought to Leith by
ship, and sent forward by a safe hand, so that it had not been long
delayed upon the road. It was a letter from her husband telling her
that the King had sailed for Scotland at last.
There had been many difficulties and hindrances placed in his way
both by friends and enemies, the former being fearful for his safety,
the latter desiring to intercept him. But after much delay, and being
exposed to many hardships, he being obliged to travel the open roads
on horse-back, and even to disguise himself in some of the towns, his
Majesty embarked at Dunkirk in a small ship with a few attendants,
and must by this time, Sir John opined, have landed in Scotland. For
himself he was waiting at Calais, detained by stress of weather, and by
fear of the English men-of-war, which filled the channel. He had, he
said, on board, much precious material, including “two valuable young
men,” and he designed to land upon the east coast somewhat north of the
Forth to avoid the risk of cruisers in the Firth. He prayed my lady, if
she could by any means find it convenient, to meet him at Dysart, where
he said, it would be easier for him to come than to Alva, and she would
be well advised to leave home immediately upon receiving his letter, as
he hoped his arrival should not be much behind it.
He went on to say that the winter, which he heard was severe in
Scotland, was equally so on the Continent. In country places in France
and in the north of Spain, the wolves and bears, made bold by hunger,
were prowling round the villages and towns, and some of the poor
peasants had died of starvation, being unable to come through the snow
to the market-towns for food. He ended by saluting his household kindly
each by name, and sending merry messages to his little sons.
Now all again was bustle and excitement in the house, for waiting and
uncertainty are the hardest things on earth to bear, and the hopeful
tone of Sir John’s letter, as well as the good news it contained,
seemed to put a different complexion on our affairs. Now it was
possible to hold up our heads, to look forward, to plan, to be joyful,
and as, for my lady, any disaster were easier to bear than separation
from her husband, she made ready with all haste to go to her father’s
house as he had ordered. It was not so pleasant to me to be left behind
with Aunt Betty and the children, but as my lady made no proposal of
carrying me with her, I must needs make the best of the situation. I
begged of her to be very prompt and regular in writing to inform us of
anything that took place, and promising on my part to keep her informed
of all that happened with us, we bade her adieu, and watched her
depart, accompanied by the faithful Andrew, with very mingled feelings.
Before we had any news from Dysart, however, we heard through another
source some very dismal tidings, which threw Aunt Betty into a state of
great affliction, and brought my own spirits pretty low. Sir John, we
heard, had indeed arrived on Scottish shores, but in a most untoward
manner, for his ship had been wrecked not far from Dundee, and all the
treasure and arms he was bringing were lost in the sea. Further, the
messenger was not certain whether Sir John and his crew were alive or
dead, and the consternation into which we were thrown for some hours
was very great. Next day, however, came letters from my lady which went
far to mitigate our grief. Sir John and all his companions were safe,
and though much of the ammunition had been destroyed, for the ship was
broke to pieces, the gold which he was bringing was safe. It was still
in the hulk which lay on the sandbank where she stranded, and they had
great hopes, if they could avoid the vigilance of the enemy, of getting
all off.
Sir John’s fellow-travellers, the “two valuable young men” he had
mentioned, turned out to be the Marquis of Tynemouth (or Tinmouth),
son to the Duke of Berwick, and therefore nephew to the King, and my
Lord Talbot, an Irish peer. “The former,” wrote my lady, “is said
by Sir John to be a very worthy young gentleman, and will recommend
himself to all persons of merit.” As for herself, she was so thankful
to Providence for preserving her husband’s life, that she had scarce
time to mourn over his disaster, which nevertheless was a serious one.
She told us that the King had arrived at Peterhead some weeks back, but
promised to gather all news of the proceedings in the north from Sir
John, and bring it home to Alva, whither she designed returning as soon
after meeting with her husband as possible. Betty, she told us, had
been very dumpish and melancholy all winter, being in great trouble and
anxiety about the King’s affairs, and much exercised over the behaviour
of her brother. She was now more cheerful, however, and would accompany
her sister to Alva on her return, which she did some days later, when
we welcomed them both, you may be sure, with great delight.