TELLS OF FURTHER SAD DOINGS, AND OF THE BEAUTY AND BURDEN OF THE SPRING
The relief of pouring out her heart to her husband was, as my dear
lady once told me, very great, and I think it a real mercy that she
could not foresee how long her letters were to be of reaching him. That
they eventually did so, their presence before me is proof; but many
of them are endorsed as having been received many weeks, nay, months,
after they were written. My lady was so anxious to set Sir John’s mind
at rest about herself and their children, so troubled on the score of
money for his sake, and so uncertain as to what his next movements
might be, that you can picture to yourselves her distress at not
hearing either from or of him week after week. In spite of her care in
seeking to provide him with money, Sir John seems at first to have been
in straits for want of it, and it will interest you to know that among
these papers there is a letter from the Queen’s Private Secretary, Mr.
Dicconson, endorsed--“Came with the bill of 600 livres,” which I shall
copy here.
St. Germain
Mar. ye. 6. 1716.
Sir,
I am ordered by the Queen to send you a small bill presuming you
may be at present want of a little money, which her Majesty is
troubled her circumstances will not permit her to make more
considerable, but hopes she may be better able hereafter and that
this might be a present supply. I beg you will please to do me the
justice to believe that I am with all imaginable sincerity and esteem,
Your most humble and most obedient servant,
(Signed) W. Dicconson.
I remember that when my lady heard of this thoughtful kindness on the
part of her Majesty, who out of her poverty endeavoured to help all who
were suffering through their loyalty to her son, she could not refrain
from shedding tears.
But this information came to Alva many weeks later. In the meantime, we
hoped for letters from day to day, and had pain and anxiety enough in
hearing of the many calamities that every hour came to our knowledge.
Our hearts were wrung by the news of the sentence pronounced against
Lords Kenmure, Derwentwater, Nithisdale and others; and eagerly did we
await the result of the many petitions presented to the King for their
reprieve. How we prayed in private, and spoke in public about them and
the heart-broken wives, Ladys Kenmure, Derwentwater, and Nithisdale,
who, braving the King’s displeasure, and in the case of the last, his
determined wrath, in order to beg for mercy for their beloved husbands,
made every effort to save them from death. How bitterly we wept on
hearing of the executions that took place on Tower Hill one dreary
day in the end of February. But no tears were of any avail; only the
memory of two brave and innocent men lived long in the hearts of Scots
and English alike. My Lord Kenmure died professing his loyalty to
King James; and the young Earl of Derwentwater, much loved and long
lamented, gave to the Sheriff on the scaffold a paper containing his
dying profession of innocence. Part of this paper I copied in my little
diary, and here I reproduce it for those who never saw it.
“Wherefore if in this affair I have acted rashly it ought not to
affect the innocent; I intended to wrong nobody, but to serve my
King and Country, and that without self-interest, hoping by the
example I gave to have induced others to do their duty. And God, who
sees the secrets of my heart, knows I speak truth.... I die a Roman
Catholic.... I freely forgive such as reported false things of me;
and I hope to be forgiven the trespasses of my youth by the Father of
Infinite Mercy into Whose hand I commit my soul.
(Signed) JAS. DERWENTWATER.”
Such brave, gentle, innocently touching words! Do you wonder that
they dared not bring the poor, headless body openly from London to
the north, but had it carried thither by night, bringing him home
by stealth to his weeping and distracted people, who believed that
the wrath of Heaven would surely fall upon the doers of this awful
deed. It was said that the Duke of Argyle, travelling to London, met
the mournful procession on its way, and was so struck by the grief
and despair of the people that he represented to the Government the
unwisdom of their act, and thereby helped to turn their hearts to
clemency.
It was with a shock of relief and joy that we heard immediately after
this of the escape of my Lord Nithisdale out of prison. Long years
afterwards I was told the whole story of his brave wife’s devotion:
how she made the journey from Scotland to London mostly on horseback,
the snow, which often reached to her horse’s girths, having stopped
the Stagecoach, and even the Common Post, south of York. In spite of
this she arrived safe and sound at London, only to find that no one to
whom she applied could give her any hope, and that even the doors of
her husband’s prison were closed against her, unless she consented to
share his confinement. This, for reasons of her own, she refused to
do, but by bribing the guards she contrived to see him several times
and confided to him her plans. When she presented her petition to the
King, the latter refused so much as to look at her, but treated her
in a way not much to his honour or credit. However, on the very eve
of the execution, as you know, she contrived by the help of her maid
(a faithful woman) to dress my lord in female clothes, and bring him
out of the prison under the very eyes of the guard. It happened that
the coach of the Venetian Ambassador was to go that night to Dover
to meet his brother, who was arriving as his guest in England. Lord
Nithisdale, attired in the Ambassador’s livery, joined the retinue,
and by help of friends at Dover hired a boat which landed him safe at
Calais. His lady’s brave work was not yet finished, for she journeyed
back to Scotland, accompanied by her maid and one servant, lying at all
the smallest inns, and braving many hardships till she reached home.
Before going to London, she had, with the help of the gardener, buried
all the family papers; and knowing that search would soon be made,
she contrived to secure every valuable document, and take them with
her to Traquair, where her sister, the Countess, promised to preserve
them. She then returned home, saw all her neighbours, and invited the
magistrates to come and make the search for themselves; but next day
before day-break she was off again to London as before. This conduct
made the King so angry, that he said my Lady Nithisdale gave him more
trouble and anxiety than any woman in all Europe. For a fortnight she
lay concealed in London, and then escaped to France, where she joined
her lord.
These details, as you know, I only learned long after; but the happy
fact of Lord Nithisdale’s escape, and the action of his heroic wife,
were common talk among us at the time. My dear lady envied the latter
her chance of doing and suffering for her husband, as what wife in like
circumstances would not; for sure the harder part is to sit still and
do nothing, with one’s heart alive for action.
About this time came a letter from the dowager Lady Alva, offering
a visit to her dear daughter-in-law, Catherine, which offer went
exceedingly against my lady’s inclination. Not that she did not love
her mother-in-law--and at another time would have welcomed her gladly
to the house--but just now, with their political views so at variance
from each other, she did not see how they could meet and talk with any
show of cordiality and agreement. She could not bear, she said, to hear
Sir John blamed, and she foresaw the dowager mourning over her son’s
Rebellion, and drawing dark pictures of the future for herself and her
little lads. At the same time she was resolved not to fail in duty to
her husband’s mother, especially as by keeping friendly with her she
might incline the favour of those in authority, for old Lady Alva was a
determined Whig, and no shadow of doubt had ever touched her family.
My lady’s brothers-in-law, Mr. Charles Erskine and Mr. Patrick
Campbell of Monzie, were constant in their care and interest for all
her concerns, and as she said herself, she was supported on all sides
by the kindest of friends. To say truth, her bitterest trouble was the
absence of her husband, and the uncertainty of the measures to be taken
by Government against the Rebels. Then, too, she was sick at heart
for the sufferings of others: the imprisonment of her uncle, Colonel
Erskine; the grief of her sister Grizel, whose husband, Mr. Paterson,
was also in exile; of Lady Kippendavie, Lady Keir, and many others; not
forgetting poor Lady Jean, my Lord Mar’s sister, who besides her sorrow
at her brother’s failure, was suffering from the like bereavement. No
news came from the Master of Sinclair, but I think my lady’s heart was
so turned against him by his conduct at Perth that she did not greatly
care what became of him, though poor Betty spoke of him constantly with
much affection and regret.
And so the sad days went forward, and February wore to an end, and
still my lady and poor Barbara had no word of cheer to lighten their
hearts. The following letter is almost a repetition of the last, but I
give it in its place, as to me it seems like my lady’s voice, alive and
speaking.
LETTER V
My Dearest Life,
I have good reason to hop you arriv’d safe, since
I hear all the three ships that went off at that time landed safely;
but I am surprised you do not fall upon some way to let me hear from
you. I cannot express my impatience to have a particular account
where you are and where you intend to make your abode. I writ to you
the 13th of this month; I hop it has come to your hand before this
time. I told you in it to take 100 pound from Mr. Gordon and cause
him to draw upon his correspondent in Edinr. for the money. I shall
doe all that’s possible to get more again you want it. I am very easy
as to my own particular or my boys; very sober things will serve us,
and if you be well and easy in your mind and have what is necessare,
I ought to be very thankfull. I must confess I have not minded my own
misfortune. The miserys of others ha’s so much affected me, and the
concern I am in for my poor Uncle and Mr. P. and many others does so
afflict me, I can think on nothing else, and whatever way I turn my
thoughts I have nothing but dismall prospects before me. God Almighty
support all of us under so bitter a calamity and give us the right
use of it. We ought to submit with patience and trust in the mercy of
Him who hath smitten us, and if we turn to Him as we ought, He will
heal us in his own good time.
I expect your mother here next week. You may imagine there will be
no harmony in our conversation; but I am resolv’d to make the best
I can of all things, and shal omit nothing that can be for your
interest however uneasy it may be to myself, in hops when the best
is made of your affairs the present circumstances can allow, we may
have something to live (on) together in some retir’d place, till kind
providence give a turn to bring us to our own; and if that never
happen, when we come to dye it will be all the same whether we have
liv’d in plenty or in more straitning circumstances.
I think if things continue as they are I would leave Britain with a
desire never to see it again. I am sometimes afraid you go to Moscoe
without acquainting me; let me beg of you as you regard my life doe
not think of it, at least for some time, and if after that you think
it convenient I will go very chearfully with you to any corner of the
earth; so I beg of you resolve to do nothing of that nature rashly,
nor must you do it without acquainting me, and get my consent before
you doe it. This I beg’d in my last, and I hope (for) your complyance
if you either wish or expect ever to see me again.
Your man, Andrew, came here some days ago, very well. I regrated he
was not with you, but if you please to let me know if you desire to
have him, I’ll endeavour to find some opportunity of sending him, and
in the meantime I shall imploy him here. Charles and P. C. will do
all in their power for manageing your affairs after the best manner,
butt I fear there can be little done by any, because all is done
by the folks who desire nothing so much as the utter ruin of this
country, and it will be a general measure. All your friends will be
at their country-seats, so if you write it must not be either to
Charles or P. C. My sister, Betty, is here and gives you her kind
service, as does poor Aunt Betty, who is in great affliction. Wishing
my dear all manner of happyness.
I am in all sincerity,
yours.
Fe. 26.
The friends you left together are all dispers’d; there is none
Prisoners but Mephon (Methvine) and some others who gave up
themselves. Your boys are very well.
At last the snow began to melt under the bright spring sun, and a
soft wind blowing from the south-west brought a gentle rain upon its
wings, which hastened the thawing of the hard ground. After a winter
of such length and severity, it was indeed a glad thing to behold the
earth, (wondrous green and fresh) pushing aside her wintry mantle and
laying bare her bosom to the sky. Small things began to force their way
through the surface of the ground, tender buds showed upon the trees,
and after the long silence the birds in garden and glen took up their
music, and sang the gladsome Life-March of the Spring.
I walked one afternoon with my dear lady alone under the bare branches,
and tried to beguile her from her sad thoughts by talk of the opening
season which, last year, she had told me she so loved; but her face
was pale and worn, and she answered me absently, though with her
wonted gentleness. I knew her very spirit was weary, and I had no word
of comfort to give her. Presently we sat down upon a wooden bench
which the westering sun made warm with his beams, and tired of my own
listless efforts at cheerfulness, I fell into a wistful silence. All
at once a mavis on a branch behind us broke into song so sweet and
thrilling that my lady clasped my arm to hold me still. Sudden and
clear and short was his lay, and then after a slight pause he sang it
over again. In the silence and the sunlight, with the cool scent of the
damp earth in our nostrils, the bird’s singing seemed like the voice of
the spirit of gladness bidding us take joy in the renewal of life. But
strange to say it was not joy but pain that wrung my heart-strings, and
my dear lady laid her head upon my shoulder and wept.
“Oh, Barbara,” she sighed at last, “that bird and his song, that
last year I listened to so gladly, how it pierces my heart with its
sweetness, and only makes my sadness and loneliness more grievous. It
raises in me such a longing for the sight of my dear husband’s face,
that I feel at times the pain of it will kill me! How is it possible to
live with a heart so heavy? The burden of it is sometimes greater than
I can bear.”
“I know, I know,” I murmured; for her words did so fully express my
feelings that they seemed to come from my own heart, and indeed I
thought that I felt and suffered even as she did, knowing little, in my
ignorance, of the difference between us. For, as the tiny mountain-burn
that tinkles down the glen is to the broad, full, swiftly-flowing
river, so is the love of a maid for her untried lover to the love of
a wife for her husband, the father of her children. Something of this
thought must have come to my lady’s mind, for she turned to me very
kindly.
“Poor little Barbara! I am sure you think you do; and I fear you must
have found me selfish and hard, in that I have spoken no word to you of
Mr. Fleming, but I deemed it best, my dear, to keep silent, hoping you
were learning to forget, or at least that you did not grieve too much.”
“Oh, cousin!” I cried, the barriers of my reserve breaking down before
her sympathy. “He is ever in my thoughts. How could I forget? All day I
think of him, and at night I dream such dreary dreams. If I could know
where he is, or what has become of him, what would I not give? And I
let him go so coldly, madam; he does not even know that I love him.”
“Why, as to that, my dear,” cried my lady, cheerfully, now bent upon
comforting me, “I do not think you need have any concern. Words are not
everything, Barbara, and I am sure you did not flout him.”
“Oh, madam,” I cried, “do you think I was too bold? I would not have
him regard me too lightly, either.”
My lady laughed. “Well, child, you are hard to please, and I must leave
Mr. Fleming to tell you his opinion of you himself. I would we could
have news of him again,” she sighed, “we know nothing since his return
to Perth.”
“Do you think, cousin, that he also will be in danger of ‘the
vengeance?’” I asked timidly, for by this name we commonly spoke of the
dreaded retribution.
“I cannot say, my dear; but I hope as he is young, and has taken no
prominent part, they will not make an example of him. His kinsman, the
Earl of Wigton, is in Edinburgh Castle; but his father, as you know,
is a rich and respected London merchant, who has probably friends at
Court. I have asked my brother, Charles, to find out if possible what
has become of him, but no news have reached him as yet.”
I rose and turned my face away to hide my quivering lips.
“It is hard to bear!” I cried.
“My dearest,” she answered, “it _is_ hard; and I want to tell you how
greatly I admire you for your brave silence, hiding your own grief lest
you should burden me the more. I cannot thank you enough for all you
have done, and been, to me and mine at this time, but if ever I have a
daughter, Barbara, I shall name her after you.”
With that she kissed me very kindly (though I knew of no reason for her
gratitude), but almost immediately she broke out weeping again.
“Oh, hark to my promises,” she sobbed, “foolish woman that I am! To
talk of future children when I know not whether I be not already a
widow--God forgive me! I scarce knew what I was saying.”
And then I took to comforting her in turn (but you know she kept her
promise three years later, when my dear god-daughter was born). Her
second breakdown was so violent and so unusual, that at first I was
alarmed for her health, but by-and-bye she quieted herself, and even
smiled as she dried her eyes.
“Just for this once, Barbara, I have let myself weep my fill, and now
I feel the lighter for it. ’Twas the mavis set me going, and I suppose
it is not the first time that a bird’s song has caused a full heart to
overflow.”
I never forgot the words, nor the scene; and that is the reason why
always in my mind I connect the mavis’ singing with my dear Lady
Erskine and her troubles, as I told you at the beginning of this story.