TELLS OF AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, AND A GLAD SURPRISE FOR BARBARA
We found the household at the Hermitage very dull and dumpish; they
seemed like people who had received a shock from which they had not
yet recovered. My lord spoke little, and looked to my eyes many years
older and feebler than when I saw him last. David Pitcairn came about
the house as usual, making himself useful to the old man, whose younger
sons, being engaged in affairs of their own, could not be much with
him; and Mistress Mary, who was never very healthy, was staying with
her sister at Newbyth.
The only news of interest that reached us, consisted in the reports
from time to time of the safe arrival in France, or Sweden, or Holland,
of this or that fugitive about whom we had been in anxiety. But so
far we had heard nothing of the Marquis of Tynemouth and his friends,
and my mind was divided between fears of the hardships they must be
enduring among the mountains, and hopes that they were already far
away in a safe country. My Lord Huntly had given himself up and made
terms for himself with the Government, but the Earl of Seaforth, whose
name was coupled with his as a traitor to the Cause, had in reality
withdrawn his submission, and was now retired to the Isle of Lewis with
his men.
A few days after our arrival at Dysart there was a great storm of rain,
which lasted so continuously that the last shred of snow disappeared
from the earth. It was in truth the ushering in of the summer, early
though it was, for from that time the weather never went back, but
continued bright, warm and genial, with light winds and occasional
life-giving showers, all through that year. It seemed as if it had
been sent to compensate us for the long and terrible winter, for the
summer of 1716 proved one of the most bounteous seasons within the
memory of man.
While it lasted, however, the rain was dreary enough, and day after
day we looked out upon a grey and sullen sea, shut in by mists and low
hanging clouds from any view of the opposite coast; and night after
night we listened to the rain beating on our window-panes, and thought
of our friends, perhaps in want of shelter, and dreamed pitiful dreams
which haunted us in our waking hours. It was a dreary week at Dysart.
One night after supper, as I went to my chamber to fetch some work, I
was stopped by the sound of low, continuous knocking at the door I have
told you of at the foot of the turret-stair. It brought to my mind that
night when my dear lady recognised her husband’s knock, and ran, in
spite of my terror, to open to him; but so much had passed since then,
that though I was startled, I had no sense of personal fear, knowing
well that none but friends, and generally those in distress, would come
to the house that way. For this reason I did not hesitate, but placing
my taper in a niche of the wall, went hurriedly down the twisted stair,
and paused for a moment at the back of the door. The rain was still
falling though not so heavy, and behind the clouds there was a waning
moon whose light came dimly through the grated window above me. I drew
back the bolt cautiously and lifted the latch. The door was pushed open
from without, and a man entered quickly, shutting it behind him.
“Forgive me, madam!” he whispered, “but there is danger.”
I fell back against the wall, dumbfoundered, for the man was none other
than Anthony Fleming.
For a few moments we gazed at each other in silence, and then without
warning I flung my arms about him and lifted my face to his. He kissed
me like one in a dream.
“You!” I gasped. “You--and _here_! I thought you were over seas. Oh,
thank God you are safe. Last night I dreamed that I found you again,
wounded and nigh to death, and my pillow was wet when I awoke. Whence
came you? You are not ill? Oh, how I have prayed that God would send
you back, and now you are come, out of the mist and rain, straight to
my arms. How good He is--how good! But you--you did not know I loved
you, dear heart; I let you go so coldly. I have longed, oh longed, to
tell you the truth; will you believe it now? I am yours for ever and
ever; no one on earth shall ever come between us.”
And then my breath gave out and the tears came, and I laid my face upon
his breast, trembling and weeping.
As for him he spoke no word; but he held me in his arms, closer and
closer, as if he would keep me there for ever, and I felt his kisses on
my hair, and heard the great throbs of his heart beating against my arm.
At that moment there was no room in all my being for anything but joy
and thankfulness; but sometimes in looking back upon this scene, I have
been troubled and have blushed hotly, as a woman will even in solitude,
remembering my bold and free surrender. Did Mr. Fleming hesitate to
speak, because of it, deeming my conduct perhaps unmaidenly? I have
never dared to ask him, but I trust he has forgotten it long ago.[1]
[1] I have not forgotten it, my sweet wife, nor shall, “while memory
holds her seat.” ’Twas a moment to thank God for, and only a sense of
my own unworthiness kept me silent. A. F.
Whatever it boded I could not bear his silence. I have heard that women
mostly love to voice their emotion, while with men it often renders
them speechless.
“Will you not speak to me, Anthony?” I said. “Will you not say you are
glad to see me?”
I had lifted my face to look at him, and though the light was dim, for
the first and only time in my life I saw tears in my dear love’s eyes.
“Glad, sweetheart?” he murmured, “’tis like getting into Heaven.”
And after that I did not mind the silence. It lasted but a minute,
and then he unclasped my hands, and putting me from him, gazed at me
intently.
“Is my Lady Erskine here?” he said. “Tell me, Barbara, who is with you
in the house?”
I told him, still speaking low, and then asked him what was the danger
he feared.
“Tis not for myself, dear love, though I suppose it extends to us all.
But there is one whose life is infinitely precious, for whom I came
to beg shelter. I know my Lord Sinclair is as safe as he is kind, and
Mistress Betty is well reputed among us for her loyalty. It is--”
“Stop!” I cried. “Do not tell me here. Let us hasten to Betty’s boudoir
that she may hear the news first, whatever they are. Oh, come, I cannot
bear to delay a moment.”
Breathless with excitement and anxiety, I had almost forgotten my
own share in the event, but stopped at the door of Betty’s room to
give my friend a smile and a kindly look. Then I opened the door and
entered hurriedly. Betty was sitting by the fire, and on seeing us
rose quickly. Her face, which at first was fixed in surprise, flushed
suddenly when she recognised her visitor, and she came forward to meet
him with hands outstretched.
“You, Mr. Fleming?” she cried. “How come you here, and whence? We have
been much exercised about your safety, but thought you were gone to
France some days ago. Are you alone?”
“Madam,” said Mr. Fleming, “I am not, and I will tell you in a few
words why I am here. It is the young Marquis of Tinmouth and his uncle
for whom I beg shelter. They are in hiding in a wood about a quarter of
a mile from the house. I am sent to acquaint my Lord Sinclair with the
matter, and if it is safe I am to return at once and tell them.”
Oh, how my dear Betty’s eyes lit up with joy! To think that there was
still a chance for her to show her loyalty, and do some little thing
for the Cause; to receive the King’s young relative and keep him safe,
to plan and further his escape. All this appealed to her keenly and set
her blood a-tingling with pleasure. Bidding us wait where we were she
ran to give her father the news, and when we were alone, I was able to
look at my dear with calmer eyes, and to see, alas! how worn and thin
he had become.
“Worse, far worse, than when you departed from Alva,” cried I.
He laughed a little. “And small wonder, Sweet; when one has spent some
weeks in the mountains, exposed to hunger and cold and wind and rain,
and burdened by the dread of capture, it is not easy to keep flesh on
one’s bones, or preserve a fresh and ruddy countenance.”
“Have you been without proper shelter ever since the departure of the
King?” I asked in amazement.
“Most of the time,” he answered. “We could not get away from Peterhead,
because of a man-of-war which kept watch to prevent us. We went to
Castle Gordon, where we spent a few days, and then with the other lords
withdrew westward. I will not tell you of all our trials, my dearest;
but though our young master bore them all with a very cheerful spirit,
we could see that they were telling on his strength. He is not much
more than a boy, and has never known what hardship and exposure mean.
At last it was decided that he should try to make his way south to
Edinburgh, I being sent as guide; so, travelling by night and hiding by
day, we were directed to this house, whence we hope to get shipped to
France. I knew that if the family were at home we should be taken care
of, but I little guessed the blessed welcome that was waiting here for
me.”
And with that he put his arm again around me, and we stood gazing into
the fire in blissful silence, till Betty’s step was heard returning.
I will leave you to imagine how the old house woke up that night from
its melancholy. Very quickly Mr. Fleming was despatched to bring in
the weary wanderers, and meanwhile rooms were made ready to receive
them, great fires lighted to warm them, and garments brought from every
wardrobe in the house to replace their worn and sodden clothing. A
great supper was quickly prepared, for good-will made all hands work
fast, and in the hearts of men and women alike pity for the fugitives
brought the desire to help and comfort them. It was thought safer to
let them enter by the turret-door; but my lord received them at the
top of the winding stair, and himself conducted the young Marquis to
his chamber, where with the aid of a warm bath and dry clothing, the
young gentleman was able to make himself more comfortable than he had
been, I should imagine, for many weeks past.
When he entered the dining-room with his host, attired in a suit
of purple velvet with ruffles of lace, belonging to one of Betty’s
brothers, we could scarce take our eyes off his face, even in
performing our lowest curtseys, so charmed were we with his gallant
bearing and his modest and pleasant looks. When Betty very prettily
bade him welcome to her father’s house, and said how honoured they
were at the trust reposed in their family, he blushed like the boy he
was, and stammered out that the honour was his alone. He looked at the
well-spread board, the blazing fire, the lighted room, and giving a
little laugh he said, with a slight foreign accent that rendered his
speech very attractive,
“If you could know the contrast, madam, of my surroundings this night
with those of the last few weeks, you would understand very well that
the gratitude is all on my side.”
“What horrors you must have endured, my lord,” cried Betty. “Oh, I
fear you will bear away with you but a bitter remembrance of our
inhospitable country.”
“Nay, madam,” he answered with a graceful gesture, “you have set aside
that possibility for ever. But here,” he went on, “is my good uncle,
Colonel Bulkeley, who has shared my vicissitudes; and I need not
introduce to you our faithful friend, Captain Anthony Fleming, without
whom we should, I fear, have been still longer in reaching this haven
of refuge.”
These gentlemen now entered the room, and it was with great joy that I
noticed the improvement in Mr. Fleming’s looks, who, now that he had
performed his toilette, seemed neither so ill nor so haggard as I had
thought him. Thin he was and worn with his hardships, but the glad look
in his eyes gave him an air of restfulness and satisfaction which had
before been wanting.
Colonel Bulkeley was a tall, stout man with a full, high-coloured face.
’Twas difficult to believe that he had endured the same trials that had
left the younger men so thin and pale. With my foolish woman’s caprice,
I took an instant dislike to the brave Colonel, though he made his bow
to us very low, and addressed Betty in a courteous and gentlemanly way.
Still there was about him an air of dogged superiority, which, coupled
with a somewhat hectoring manner, made him a man of uneasy temper for
other men to deal with. And even that first night as we sat through
supper, I found myself wondering how this person came to be related to
the young Marquis of Tinmouth, than whom it would have been difficult
to find a more sweet-tempered, modest and agreeable young man.
They told us now more particularly of their adventures, taking the
precaution to speak French while the servants were in the room, and
gave us to understand that the country-people, in the districts through
which they had passed, were all well-affected towards the King. Most of
them, it must be owned, blamed the Earl of Mar for their misfortunes,
and for the disastrous ending of our hopes; for they held a firm
belief that King James could have recovered them from the troubles
brought about by the Union, and caused Scotland to enjoy a peace and
prosperity to which she had long been a stranger. The fugitives had
been directed from one house or cottage to another, and the poor folk,
as well as the rich, had, they said, given them ungrudgingly of their
scant provisions, besides sheltering them from observation during the
daylight.
It was with a very thankful heart that Barbara laid her head upon her
pillow that night, but for some time she could not sleep for joy of
thinking of the safety of her friend, and wonder that the same roof
should shelter them both. The rain still beat on the window, but she
heeded it no longer, or only to give a passing thought of pity to any
poor wanderers still abroad; and though she knew that in a day or two
at most the dreaded parting must come again, she put the knowledge away
from her as only the young can do, and hugged her present happiness
close to her heart.
On the following day we held a council as to the best manner of
assisting our friends in their project of leaving Scotland. And though
one would have thought that in the presence of his host, Colonel
Bulkeley should have withheld his own opinion, and paid a graceful
deference to what was proposed, I cannot tell you that it was so.
Several times that gentleman contradicted my lord without apology, and
was for insisting that his plan, namely, to go himself to Burntisland,
and there charter a ship to carry them to France, was the best that
could be thought on. This my lord denied, saying very truly that the
Government was keeping strict watch on all the ports in the Forth, and
in so small a place the risk he ran of being recognised was too great,
and it was a relief to me when Betty very gently, but firmly backed his
opinion.
“You have placed yourselves in our care, sir,” said she with a smile,
“and you must, if you please, leave it to us to get rid of you.”
She spoke so sweetly that no man without rough discourtesy could have
withstood her, and turning to my Lord Tinmouth she went on.
“This, my lord, is our project. To send a trusted messenger to
Edinburgh to acquaint Captain Straton of your lordship’s presence. He
is in communication with all the honest seamen who traffic between this
country and the Continent, and it is to him we must leave the final
arrangements of your departure. The friend we have in view is one who
has already aided the King’s Cause, and who, being often engaged in
ordinary business for my father between this and Edinburgh, can go and
come without suspicion being aroused.”
“Madam,” said the young Marquis, when she had finished, “I am ready to
put myself and my affairs in your hands, knowing well that your loyal
and kindly concern for all the King’s friends will lead you to do the
best you can for us, and I am sure that my uncle,” turning courteously
to Colonel Bulkeley, “will be satisfied with any arrangements that you
make.”
The gallant Colonel was obliged for the moment to acquiesce and we
heard no more of his objections at that time, but later we were told,
both by Captain Straton and David Pitcairn, that he put forward many
difficulties and found much fault even with those who were doing their
best to be serviceable to him.
The trusted messenger of whom Betty spoke was, of course, the faithful
David, who, on arriving at the house the next morning, was informed
of what had taken place, and readily consented to undertake the part
allotted to him. Some days passed, however, before anything could be
settled, for the authorities were very vigilant at that time to prevent
the escape of any rebels, and the Marquis of Tinmouth was a prize
worth capturing. Many projects were brought forward and abandoned, and
several ships’ masters, being interviewed, either declined the job, or
found themselves so closely watched that it was impossible for them to
undertake it.
You may be sure that Barbara, for one, did not chafe at the delay, for
the presence of her lover in the house was like sunshine to her; and
in the peaceful hours they spent together, the young love that was as
yet but a tender plant was nurtured and cultivated between them, till
it grew into the perfect thing that has comforted and beautified their
whole lives. You must not forget that there was in our intercourse
a strain of that pathetic doubt as to the ultimate fruition of our
happiness, which chastened our joy and tinged it with a wild, sweet
pain. We spoke of the future at times with confidence and faith, but
would check ourselves sharply at the thought that it might never be
ours. Still, for the most part, I think that the high spirits and
hopes of youth forbade us to despair, and the shadow of parting for an
indefinite time, while it wrung our hearts with grief, served to draw
us more closely together, and make a grave and steadying back-ground to
our present bliss.
My dear Betty, who was in our confidence and greatly in sympathy with
us both, spent her time in cultivating the acquaintance of my Lord
Tinmouth, who, she assured me, amply fulfilled the expectations she
had entertained of him. His manners were so modest and so charming, his
conversation so sensible and diverting, as to make him a very pleasant
inmate of the house. My Lord Sinclair found him also a companion to
his mind, and was surprised at his knowledge of books, his youthful
judgment, and his attention to business. In fact it would be impossible
to describe the general favour he met with, from old and young of both
sexes, for the qualities of his mind and person.
We four spent many agreeable hours in Betty’s boudoir, while we ladies
bent over our tambour-frames, and the gentlemen entertained us with
an account of their adventures, or descriptions of the life in France
and Holland. My Lord Tinmouth spoke one day, in his frank and boyish
manner, of the match which was being arranged for him with a Spanish
young lady of the highest quality and a great fortune, no less than the
sister of the most noble Duke of Varagua. He told us that he had of
course never seen the young lady, but was informed that she was pretty
and amiable, and a portrait was being painted of her to send him for
his gratification.
Forgetting to whom I spoke, I raised my head sharply from my work.
“And are you satisfied, my lord, to bind yourself for life to a lady
whom you have never seen, and who may prove not at all to your taste?”
“Why yes, madam,” he answered, smiling at me pleasantly: “the friends
who have arranged the marriage are certain to have chosen well, and you
must remember that the same doubt and uncertainty exist for Doña Inez
as for myself. It is possible she may not be pleased with me.”
“I think there is not much danger of that,” said Betty, looking at him
very kindly, “and you forget, Barbara, _autre pays, autre mœurs_; young
ladies in France and Spain are never allowed to choose for themselves
in so weighty a matter as matrimony.”
“Oh,” I sighed, with a look at my Anthony, who was watching me, “but I
think it is by far the best way.”
I saw a flicker of doubt pass over my lord’s young face, and his smile
was a little wistful as he said, “It must be wonderfully pleasant, to
be sure!”
“Ay, but it has its disadvantages, my lord!” cried Betty, briskly.
“Even young people are not always infallible. I prophesy that your
marriage will be a very happy one, and I only wish I could think we
might see you and Doña Inez together one day in Scotland.”
“And I on my part, madam, can promise, that for any friend of yours
who comes to Spain, my house will ever be open and my welcome of the
warmest.”
At last the summons came for our guests to be ready on the morrow,
to go disguised into Edinburgh, and take up their abode in the house
of a faithful servant of Captain Straton. The latter gentleman was
indisposed, which added to the difficulties of the case; and being
in great concern for the safety of the young Marquis (who, by the
way, went by the name of Mr. Barnes), he spent many days and nights
in nervous anxiety, till he could form a plan that would finally and
quietly dispose of him and his friends. Our good David Pitcairn came
and went, untired and undismayed, taking his commands from Betty as
usual, making at the same time his own sagacious suggestions, and
amply repaid for all his trouble by the kindness of her smile, and the
gratitude in her eyes.
The gentlemen were to cross the Firth under cover of the darkness,
and my lord’s own boatmen were to row them over. My dear Anthony and
I had made our adieux in private before the hour of starting, and
nothing remained for us but the last embrace, a choking sigh, a few
whispered words, and, on my part, I fear, some tears that would not
be suppressed. The household, led by Betty, made no secret of their
regret at parting with “Mr. Barnes,” who took leave of his host and
hostess with words of the most courteous gratitude. We felt as sad as
though parting with a long-loved friend, and for his sake even included
Colonel Bulkeley in our affectionate lamentations. It was a still,
moonless night. The three, accompanied by David, crept down the rugged
steps to the water; and as we, watching from above, saw the boat,
propelled by muffled oars in strong accustomed hands, steal out upon
the black water and disappear in the darkness, I know not if Betty’s
sigh or mine were the deepest.
Three days later we hailed the return of David Pitcairn with relief.
He had had orders from Betty to stay with our friends till the last,
and early that morning he had seen them safe on board a Dutch ship,
which sailed from Leith about one or two o’clock, and, as we learned
later, landed them safely in Holland, from which they made their way to
France. He did not forget to tell us that Mr. Straton had fallen under
the spell of young “Mr. Barnes,” even as we did, while his dislike of
poor Colonel Bulkeley appears to have exceeded our own.