MY LADY HEARS FROM SIR JOHN, AND I PAY MY THIRD VISIT TO DYSART
I have given you so much of woe and weeping that I begin to fear you
must be weary of so dismal a tale, and I am quite glad to tell you now
of a little lull in the tempest, and of a gleam of sunshine that shot
through the clouds. It was a very little thing that caused it truly;
nothing more important than a letter which arrived from Sir John at
last, but it brought the colour back to my lady’s cheek, and the light
to her eyes for a time.
The whole household was gladdened by the news of his safety, for he was
at Paris awaiting the bidding of the King to attend him at Avignon, in
good health and spirits; and, though chagrined at the sudden ending
of all their endeavours, was hopeful that at some future time their
efforts should be crowned with success.
I have here a small fragment of the journal which he kept on his voyage
from Scotland, of which I will give you the first extract, and the last.
“Journal from the 2nd Feb., 1716.
Montrose.
2nd “Att night received my orders for going to france with
dispatches to the Queen, the Regent, and E. Bolingbroke from
the King, and to the last also from the D. of Mar.
9th “By 11 at night I gott to St. Germains. the Queen was not well
and laid to sleep. I delivered my letters and other commissions
to the Queen, who, about 12 o’clock, ordered me to goe
immediately to Paris and look after E. Bolingbroke.”
Of his further movements at that particular time no record has been
kept. The letter to his wife was like himself, frank and cheerful,
hopeful and kind; with regrets for the sorrows and misfortunes of
others, but no word of grudging or bitterness about his own lost
labours. Even the servants imbibed courage from hearing of it, and the
kind neighbours who asked discreet questions of my lady scarce needed a
reply after looking at her face.
To add to our comfort, Mr. Charles Erskine, who was again expected at
Alva, being prevented coming for some days, wrote to my lady telling
her of news he had got from the north of those whom my lady calls in
her letters to her husband his “fellow-travellers.” These were my Lord
Tinworth, the Duke of Berwick’s son, with his uncle, Colonel Bulkeley,
my Lord Talbot and my Lord Edward Drummond; and as my lady had been
exceedingly anxious on the score of the first-named, whom Sir John had
praised much as a fine, modest, and engaging youth, we were relieved,
though somewhat disturbed, to learn what was become of him. A company
of gentlemen, including the above, and amongst whom were the Marquis of
Tullibardine, Earls of Marischall, Southesk and Linlithgow, Viscounts
Kilsyth, Kingston and Dundee, Lords Pitsligo, Rollo and Burleigh,
having gone to Peterhead in hopes of finding a ship, were obliged to
return owing to the presence of a man-of-war near at hand. They had
then made their way westward towards the other coast, where ships were
expected to take them off to France, and at present, it was supposed,
were in hiding among the mountains. “Among the names,” wrote Mr.
Erskine, “of the junior officers who accompanied them I find that of
your late guest, for whom you were enquiring, Mr. Anthony Fleming.”
So the worst part of our anxiety was passed. Sir John and my dear Mr.
Fleming lived; and although months must pass before we could think of
seeing them, or perhaps hearing aught of them, it was no longer agony
to name them in our prayers, and ask God to protect them from further
danger.
My lady answered the welcome letter in a much more cheerful strain than
before.
LETTER VI
March 12.
Yours of the date 20 of Fe. was most acceptable to me. I delayed
answering my Dearest Life some days, expecting Charls here, that I
might learn a little from him what were people’s opinions as to our
present state ... but now I blame myself for delaying, and tho’ I
still expect Charls I have no longer patience. I hop by the letters
I have writ you will be easy as to me and your boys. I must own the
miserys of others has so much affected me that I did not think on my
own misfortune in such a manner as I wold at another time, and being
absent from you is what affects me most; but since God has been so
mercyfull to me in preserving your Life and giving you freedom and
liberty to enjoy yourself in a good country, and at the same time
affords what is needfull both for you and your family, I would be
very unworthy to complain. Let things come to the worst, I make no
doubt of getting a suitable allyment ... and there can nobody lose
a groat by you, so you may be easy on that score. Your servants are
all here, very well, which occasions me a greater family than is
convenient; but justice and gratitude obliges me to itt, and it’s
what I know you wold approve.... I have not heard of your drawing for
100 pound as I have twice desir’d you. I can tell you there is a fund
for 200 more, so there is no need for you to straiten yourself or
denye yourself what is either convenient or proper for you. I think
you are in the right to go to a cheap place, but I could wish you had
some of your neighbours and friends, who by this time are in the same
country with you; it would make the time pass more agreeably.
There is no Prisoners yet except such as have given themselves up,
and I am in no pain about them. I have converst with some of your
neighbours since they were disperst; but there never were people so
much confounded nor in such despair as they were in when they knew of
the departure of these people, and all blame your friend, and think
they might have done the same thing, and done it with a better Grace.
All the Lords went to the Highlands, and the clans design to
defend themselves. I hear the forces are now ordered to go to the
Highlands. Many went to Orkney, and there ha’s taken ship. Your
fellow-travellers and others, of which number there were 70, went to
Peterhead, and could not get away, were obligt to return and join
with the clans. They will be exposed to hardships, but in such a case
there is no help.... You tell me you have something in your head that
could make us live easy, but it is not fit to write.... Well, I do
not doubt but we shall again live happy together, and in the meantime
I shall do all in my power for your interest, and shall denye myself
the pleasure of seeing you till my being here can be no longer of
use. I shall always prefer your interest to pleasing myself. Let me
know if you want A. S--t sent to you.... I forgot to tell you P.
C. is gone for London eight days agoe. There are some people here
afraid of a war breaking out with France, and in that case I wish
you had money remitted before that happened. I shall be uneasy for
not hearing from you, and in fear you should be sent messages to
Britain, which I beg of you, for God’s sake, as you regard my quiet
and life, not to undertake. I take Charls’ advice and P. C.’s in all
your concerns, and they are both in as great concern for you and
the interest of your family as it’s possible for you to imagine. I
believe all your other friends will do what’s in their power when
there is occasion. Let things come to the worst, I have no doubt but
we shall have a reasonable competence for us and our children without
being obligt to anybody. Ye know I always look to the dark side of
the cloud, and when I say so there is good grounds for believing it.
For some time past the singing of the mavis increast my grief, but
now I am come to take some pleasure in the fields, and to bless God
you have the same liberty and priviledge which is a great comfort
to me. I begin now to put things to rights about your Hedges and
Ditches, and shall take care to keep all right while I am here; and
if it should so happen I must leave it, I hope it will fall in a
friend’s hand. Mr. R.(ose) labours your own farm, so, in spite of
all, that will afford somewhat to my subsistance.
I am better now than I used to be when all things were more to my
mind. I mean as to my health; and since you express such concern
for me, and think my health for your interest, I shall doe what’s
reasonable to preserve it. Your children are well. Your mother will
be here this week.... May my Dearest be as happy as I wish him.
God grant him the right use of all his troubles, patience, and
submission, and preserve him from all evil.
Yours, Dear Life, Adieu.
On the back of this letter I find a post-scriptum in Betty’s
hand-writing; ’tis writ in the vein she used so often in speaking to
Sir John--half serious, half flippant and wholly affectionate, for she
too, was in better spirits since the arrival of my guardian’s letter.
“Dear Sir John,
Of all things I believe you least want my good
wishes; however, to please myself I offer them, and that with all the
sincerity and fervour, inclination and gratitude can oblige me to.
I thank God all my friends is not alike unlucky. I am in great fear
about them, if the divisions amongst the great people don’t do them
service. I pray God for a good meeting. In the meantime
I am, my Dr. Sir J.
Your most faithful
Female Counciler.
B.”
I remember very well the day upon which the dreaded advent of the
Dowager Lady Alva was expected. The snow was melted on the low-lying
land, though it still lay on the hills, where however it was
disappearing fast; and my lady came in her own travelling-coach from
Edinburgh, having crossed the Forth at the Queen’s Ferry. I must own
that I stood somewhat in awe of the stately dame, whom I had seen but
seldom, and perhaps the anxiety of my dear lady communicated itself to
me. As for Betty, who was a particular favourite of the dowager, she
expressed no concern; but she told me after how unhappy she had felt on
her sister’s account.
At last a servant ran to tell us that the coach was approaching the
house, and my lady, taking her boys one in each hand, went to the door
and stood upon the threshold to welcome her with all honour. Aunt
Betty, Betty Sinclair, and Barbara stood just behind, and the chief
servants were grouped in the background, for nothing must be omitted
of respect and observance in the reception of Sir John’s mother. When
the carriage drew up, the men-servants having descended from the rumble
and opened the door, little Charles at his mama’s bidding ran forward,
and placing himself in front of the step begged his grandmother to lean
upon his support in her descent. This the old lady very good naturedly
did, and by the aid of her woman who rode with her, seemed to throw all
her weight on the child’s shoulder, which pleased him very much. As she
approached the door, my lady stepped forward and kissing her cheek,
bade her kindly welcome to Alva.
Whatever may have been Lady Erskine’s fears and doubts she hid them
under a simple, natural manner, and it was not till the dowager was
seated in the parlour, with Harry on a footstool at her feet, and
Charles holding her mittened hand, that my lady ventured to say, and
then her voice trembled a little,
“I would rather, madam, as you know, that Sir John were here to welcome
you himself, but in his absence you must let my little sons take his
place.”
“Indeed, my dear daughter,” said the old lady cheerfully, “I am aware
that my son cannot be in two places at once, and as he has chosen to
absent himself from Alva, I must e’en make the best of it; in the
meantime you and the little lads will do very well.”
Surprised and relieved my lady smiled.
“It is good of you, madam, to come to us just now. Many would think it
right to avoid the house of a Rebel.”
“My dear Catherine,” said the dowager gravely, “my son is my son,
and whatever he does he will never be less to me. I think it right,
however, to say before my grandchildren, my sister Elizabeth, and your
young friends, that I consider Sir John has acted wrongly, and I pray
God he may be led to see the error of his ways; but for all that, I
have no doubt but he is honest, and as he has been unfortunate, it ill
becomes us to triumph. I do not wish to hear where he is, but I trust
you have good news of him, my dear.”
And so this dreaded meeting was over, and old Lady Alva by her
kindliness and good sense set everyone at their ease. She would not
listen to Aunt Betty’s complaints and mournings, nor did she allow her
to prognosticate evil, as had been her depressing habit of late. The
house increased in cheerfulness because of her presence, and my dear
lady had in her a firm supporter through all her troubles.
This being so, it was proposed that Betty should return to Dysart
for a time taking me with her, as my lady was anxious to have news
of her father. The old lord was grieving sorely over the downfall of
his hopes; and the exile of his son, which, it was feared, might be
permanent, added to his anxieties and cares. The state of Scotland was
indeed to be deplored. From Stirling to Inverness there was nothing but
desolation, for it was as if a marauding army had swept it bare. “The
Dutch,” as one gentleman wrote, “have not left a chair, or a stool, nor
a barrel, nor a bottle, _enfin_ nothing undestroyed, and the English
troops very little more merciful.” General Cadogan had been ordered
north to the Highlands to hunt for the Rebel Lords, and to bring the
clans into subjection; but before going he sent out invitations to the
ladies of Edinburgh to a Ball. Oh, how my poor Betty raged and stormed
when she heard of this outrage, for so she considered it! “How,” she
cried, “could women think of dancing when half the country was mourning
in desolation?” They might rejoice that the Rising had failed, but to
dance and play over its grave was a heartless and monstrous thing to
do, and she longed to go straight to the General and give him her mind
on the subject. She called him Nero from that day forward, and never
could she hear him mentioned without some bitter word.
The Duke of Argyle, “having gloriously finished the most laborious and
hard campaign that ever was known” (so the prints had it) had set out
for London, leaving Cadogan in command, but we did not know (nor he
either, poor gentleman) that he was actually deprived of his post as
Commander-in-Chief in favour of his subordinate; and even we, against
whom he had fought, regretted this step, for his Grace had proved
himself a very generous and tender enemy; and from all we could gather,
his humiliation came through the jealousy of his rival, the Duke of
Marlborough, in whom, as you know, we never put any great trust.
It was in the coach on our road to Dysart that Betty spoke out to me
of her terrible grief and disappointment. I had found her very unlike
herself during this visit to Alva, silent and melancholy, but knowing
what ample reason she had for low spirits, I had passed it without
comment. It was when she caught sight of the ships in the Forth that
she began to speak.
“Oh, Barbara!” she sighed, “to think how high our hopes were when last
I passed this way, and now it is all at an end. My heart is nearly
broken!”
I had no words to comfort her, I could only listen.
“Do you remember last May how confident we were? What gay visions
danced before our eyes! How we believed in those who have since proved
so frail and feeble, and scorned those who spoke of dangers and defeat,
and were bitterly angry if any hinted at failure! Why has God dragged
us through such humiliation; what has been gained? Why did He let us
attempt this thing if He meant only to overthrow us in the end? It is
cruel--cruel, I say. I would not so have treated those who trusted me!”
“Why, Bess, my dear, your words are wild!” I cried, but she went on
unheeding.
“And oh, that poor unhappy King, how my heart bleeds for him! He
is innocent, but he will be blamed; honest, but they will call him
a traitor; kind-hearted, but they will remember him as a monster;
courageous, but he is already branded as a coward. No man was ever
so bamboozled, so entangled, so misguided. And Barbara,” she added,
darkly, “I know who led him astray. I know whom we have to thank for
the humiliation, the anger, the bitter grief and suffering; and tho’ I
will name no names, in my heart I feel that my poor brother was right,
though he too is a sufferer in spite of his wisdom.”
I knew very well what she meant, and told her I agreed with her, though
it was hard, I said, to believe that all our trouble had come from
_one_ man’s mismanagement.
“Ay,” she answered doubtfully, “I catch your meaning, and perhaps the
causes are numerous and far-reaching, but I keep my opinion of one
man’s worth, and I could name a dozen who could have brought the affair
to a more successful issue.”
“Think you, Betty,” I asked, “that your brother, the Master, will be
attainted, and poor Sir John, and Mr. Paterson and Lady Jean’s husband?
I am in great grief for them.”
“No one can tell yet what will be done,” she said, “but if it is so, I
feel if I should like to leave Britain, and never see or speak to one
of my Whig neighbours again. I used to like my Lord Rothes very well,
but I love the old Colonel, and cannot bear to think of him in the
Fleet, while my lord is Governor of Stirling Castle.”
“What says my Lord Wemyss?” I ventured. “Have you seen him since the
departure of the King?”
“No,” cried Betty, very proudly. “He writ me a letter full of
gratitude, thanking me in very kind words, I must own, for my care of
his poor young son--oh, Barbara, I did so grieve to see him die! But
’twas just after the King’s landing and my mind was fixed upon him.
_Afterwards_ my lord wrote again asking if he could be of help to us in
our misfortune, which so riled me (for my heart was very sore) that I
answered him with hot and bitter words.”
“Oh, Betty!” I cried, “I am sure he meant it kindly.”
“Very likely,” she replied, “but there are times when even kindness is
unkind. Let us not talk of my Lord Wemyss; there are other subjects
more agreeable.”