TELLS OF THE GOOD FORTUNE FOR BETTY, AND OF THE EVIL DEEDS OF THE
PARLIAMENT
Towards the end of May my lady, becoming alarmed at the weakness of her
youngest son, determined, though somewhat against her inclination, to
send him and his brother to their grandfather’s house for the benefit
of the sea-air and the change. Not being at liberty just then to leave
Alva, she arranged that the little boys should go in charge of myself
and Phemie, knowing that every care would be taken of them, and that
all love and attention would be shown them to make up to them for her
absence.
It was a great pleasure to me to revisit Dysart, where I had always
met with such kindness; and little Charles, delighted as children are
at the prospect of a change, skipped and shouted on his way to the
carriage with no thought of regret at leaving his mother behind. When
Phemie would have rebuked him for his seeming heartlessness, my lady
merely smiled and bade her pay no heed.
I found my dear Betty looking brighter and happier than I had seen her
for many months, and though I could find no cause in my own knowledge
to account for the change, I must confess I took great pleasure in the
same.
A light broke in upon my denseness, however, when I found that scarce
a day passed without a visit from my Lord Wemyss, who on some pretext
or other generally found opportunity to put himself in Betty’s way.
Sometimes he came to bring her a flower grown in his garden, sometimes
to consult with my lord on this subject or that, sometimes, I used to
think, merely to tell us what a fine day it was; but, whatever the
excuse, he made himself prodigiously agreeable when he came, and though
Betty never suffered me to move from her side during his visits, I
noticed that while she still sharpened her wit against him in playful
scorn, she treated him with more gentleness and kindness than I had
ever seen her use before.
The weather was now most beautiful, and as much as possible we spent
the days out of doors. Charles from the first showed himself perfectly
recovered from his ailment, and very soon little Hal showed signs of
picking up strength; and from watching with languid interest from
Phemie’s arms his brother’s gambols, began to desire to join in them,
and from day to day made rapid progress towards complete recovery.
’Twas a great pleasure to be able to write the good news to Alva, and
my lady promised shortly to come and see for herself the happy change
that had taken place.
One morning, as we sat idly on a bench in the narrow wood above the
water and watched the children at play below us, our constant visitor
joined us, and gave us a kindly good day. The pretty colour rose in
Betty’s cheeks as she made room for him beside us, and my lord, who
seemed as ever in a blithe and pleasant humour, made her a compliment
on the return of her gay spirits and sprightly looks.
“The winter is gone, Mistress Betty, with all its darkness and sadness,
and you are blossoming again like the new summer flowers.”
“The flowers that blossom now knew nothing of the winter,” sighed
Betty, ever ready for an argument; “but we--can we ever forget?”
“Why, yes!” cried my lord, “’tis the noble mind that rises above its
disappointments, and sees in them only the working out of a wisely
guided Destiny.”
“Ah, my lord,” said Betty, “’tis easy for you to talk; but when the
disappointment is our own, it is harder to soothe it with such bare
philosophy.”
For a moment he was silent, for he knew well of what she was thinking.
“And did not I, too, suffer the loss of many hopes this last December?”
he asked gently.
The tears sprang to Betty’s eyes as she turned to him with an impulse
of sympathy.
“Pray, my lord, forgive me! You know how I feel for you there. But it
was to the other subject I thought you referred.”
“I know, I know,” he answered, “but ’tis all one. Neither public nor
private sorrows are we fitted to bear without recourse to ‘such bare
philosophy’ as you call it, madam; but I prefer the name of Christian
resignation.”
Then, turning to me, he said in a lighter tone, “And when, Mistress
Barbara, will it please you to honour my house with a visit? There is
some ancient armour which, if you care for such things, would please
you, and the Castle itself is not without historic interest.”
“Why, my lord,” cried I, greatly delighted with his suggestion, “I
do assure you there is nothing I should more enjoy. Of all things I
wish to see the room where Queen Mary first met my lord Darnley--the
beginning of all her woes.”
“And of many other people’s as well,” said Betty. “Who knows the
difference it would have made to us all had the poor lady married some
man more worthy of her?”
My lord laughed.
“She was a wilful woman, madam, and would have had her way in any case.
But now, when will you bring Mistress Barbara to Wemyss? Will you both
honour me by riding there to-morrow afternoon and drinking a dish of
tea with me?”
To this we readily assented, and after a little further talk my lord
departed.
“It seems, my dear Betty,” said I, when his footsteps had died away,
“that you have forgiven his lordship.”
She turned her face to me with a doubtful smile, “And does it seem to
you, dear Barbara, that his lordship has forgiven me?”
“Why, yes!” said I, laughing, “if you feel the need of forgiveness.”
Nothing could exceed the kindness and courtesy of my Lord Wemyss
next day as he conducted us over his great house, showing everything
that he thought would please us, from the dungeons where the unhappy
prisoners once had languished, to the beautiful portrait of his first
wife painted in miniature. Tea was served to us in the historic chamber
which I had expressed the curiosity to see, and while we were drinking
it, the Earl turned suddenly to me.
“Do you not think it a pity, Mistress Barbara, that a house like this
should be without a mistress?”
“Indeed, my lord, I do,” I responded readily; “but I make no doubt your
lordship could find one without much difficulty.”
“Alas!” said he, but with a twinkle in his eye, “the only one I want
sees fit to raise a barrier around herself, through which I find it
very hard to make myself seen or heard.”
“Can I not help to remove it, my lord?” said I mischievously,
attempting to rise from the couch whereon we sat facing him; but to my
dismay I found my dress clutched firmly by the hand of Betty, who was
looking into her empty tea-cup as if to read her fortune there.
“Can two live together except they be agreed?” she asked in a low voice.
My lord leant forward in his chair and looked at her earnestly. He
seemed in no way embarrassed by my presence, and seeing that Betty
desired my support, I thought it best to remain where I was.
“The cause of disagreement,” he said, “is gone. You accused me once of
triumphing over your distress; that, my dear Betty, I could not do. I
grieved with and for you in every fresh disappointment. But the whole
affair was a blunder, and seeing that it was so, I set my face against
it. My heart is not unloyal to that unfortunate prince, and were it
only a personal matter I should certainly prefer James to George as
a King; but of the Rising I could not approve, and in that it failed
I recognise the hand of a wise Providence. These are the words of an
honest man, madam. Have you aught to object to in them?”
Betty laid her cup and saucer on the table, and turned to look out of
the window, so that I saw nothing but one rosy ear.
“I shall always cherish the hope that he may return,” she said softly.
“Be it so,” replied the Earl; “hope does no one any harm.”
“I shall never pretend loyalty to the Hanoverian,” she cried, turning
her face to us.
“I have no doubt, madam, he will be able to live without it.”
A smile curved her lips; his good humour was imperturbable.
“You think me foolish, frivolous, fickle,” she sighed, “and easily led
away.”
“I think you loyal, and tender, and true!” he answered, “and what can a
man want more?”
With that he glanced at me, and seeing that my dress was now free I
slipped away, and going through an open door and down a passage, found
myself presently in the garden. Here I busied myself among the flowers
till, some time later, hearing Betty’s voice I ran to meet her, and
putting my arms about her whispered, “Was all well?”
To this she replied, “He is to see my father to-morrow,” and my heart
rejoiced, for the look in her eyes was one of peace.
* * * * *
It was indeed a matter for rejoicing to all Betty’s friends, for
my Lord Wemyss was, as you know, a man of sense and honour, very
agreeable, and still remarkably handsome. An express was despatched
by my Lord Sinclair to Alva begging my lady’s attendance, as in all
things he relied upon her judgment and valued her opinions; and I make
no doubt that her wise advice was asked and taken in the important
matter of settlements. That she was as much surprised as pleased at
the news, I saw clearly, for so effectually had Betty hid her feelings
even from this tender friend and sister, that my lady had had no hope
of any alliance so satisfactory for the capricious young madam. Even
now she was inclined to think it merely a matter of convenience and
worldly policy on the part of a woman disappointed in her ambitions,
and feeling at war with Fate.
Arrangements were made for the signing of the settlements, and Mr.
Erskine was summoned from Edinburgh to look after the lady’s interests.
The wedding was to take place in less than three weeks, and the future
Countess very graciously asked me to stand as one of her bridesmaids.
“If only Sir John were here,” she cried, “and my poor brother, I should
be perfectly happy.”
“Were Sir John here,” said my lady smiling, “you would have to bear
some teasing upon various subjects. He would ask you, Bess, what you
meant to do with all your other swains--David Pitcairn for one.”
“I would bear that gladly,” said Betty, “for the pleasure of his good
company; but since he is sure to think my choice a piece of caprice,
you may remind him that I love to be comfortable and lazy, and that at
Wemyss there are plenty of easy-chairs to lounge in, so that I expect
to live very well, whatever my friends may say.”
Her sister looked at her kindly but gravely. Her idea of happiness
did not consist in bodily comfort, and fond of Betty as she was, she
sometimes had doubts of her sincerity.
When the latter left the room, she sighed.
“I trust my poor Bess has some stronger reason for expecting a happy
life than that she gives us, Barbara.”
“Dear madam,” I assured her, yet surprised that she should need the
explanation, “she was but jesting. Betty is, believe me, as much in
love with my Lord Wemyss as I am with my Anthony, and I think has been
for long. ’Twas the affair of the Rising that kept them apart, and
since its failure she has been very sore; but at last her pride is
broken down, and she allows herself to acknowledge the Earl’s goodness
and patience.”
“Why, if that is the case,” cried my lady, “no one can be more heartily
glad than I. Poor Betty has suffered cruelly in this sad year, and she
deserves some happiness as her reward for her faithful services to the
King. I hope she will indeed be comfortable. But what, my dear Barbara,
will become of the other David. ’Tis hard for him, and I know not what
he will do.”
Indeed this question had risen in my own mind often enough, and I
had not been able to supply an answer, for David Pitcairn was one
friend who could not be expected to rejoice at the prospect of Betty’s
marriage. He came and went as usual, faithful, pleasant, and kind; and
however much he suffered, he did not allow it to appear.
Once, upon my lady offering him a word of sympathy, he threw up his
head with a smile.
“Oh, madam,” he said, “it is kind of you to think of me, but my love
for Mistress Betty was not founded on hope. Long ago I realised that
this day must arrive for me, and I am only glad that she has chosen
where she is likely to find happiness.”
My lady regarded him with secret admiration.
“You think she will be happy?”
“I have no doubt of it, madam, since she loves her husband,” he replied.
But brave and unselfish as this good man was, it was not to be expected
he should waste his life in contemplating his lost mistress’s happiness
with another, and much as she valued his friendship, this was the last
thing Betty desired. Before the end of the year, David Pitcairn did
what many another gallant man has done, carried his wounded heart to
the wars, and endeavoured to fill his life with fresh interests and new
ambitions. He got a Commission in the 1st Royal Scots Regiment of Foot,
of which my lady’s brother, James, was at this time Major, and in which
in after years both Charles and little Hal became officers. He lived to
see Betty’s grandson succeed his father as Earl of Sutherland at the
age of fifteen, and died at London only four years ago, beloved and
lamented by a large circle of friends. He never married.
* * * * *
It had not taken me many minutes upon my lady’s arrival at Dysart
to perceive that something far removed from Betty’s marriage was
occupying her thoughts, and though for her sister’s sake she strove to
be cheerful and put away her melancholy, it was impossible not to see
that she was troubled in her mind. At last when the marriage contract
had been drawn up, and all their plans talked over, she broke it to us
that she was in much anxiety about her husband’s affairs. An Act of
Parliament had been passed, which put it out of the King’s power to
grant any portion of the forfeited estates to their unfortunate owners,
so that should Sir John be attainted, a calamity that he had up till
now very narrowly escaped, all their projects of private negotiations
for his pardon must be abandoned. Besides this a Commission had been
appointed to inquire into the particulars of every rebel family’s
goods and chatels; to spy and probe their innermost affairs, with the
power of citing anyone they pleased, whether closest friend or meanest
servant, to appear and give information about the private property of
each of these unfortunate gentlemen. All money got in this way, it was
ordered, must go into the Treasury for the payment of the public debts;
whereas anything owing to individuals by the owners of these same
forfeited estates was to be ignored, and the poor people must suffer
loss through no fault of their own, nor by the intention of their
patrons.
All this was a cause of great grief to poor Lady Erskine for many
reasons. Not only was she keenly disappointed at the shattering of her
hopes of buying her husband’s pardon, but she now lived in terror of
the Commissioners discovering the value of the Silver Mine through some
of those they examined, and this she felt would be the end of all. Then
the thought of any having to suffer through her family was very bitter
to her, and if she lost not only her estate but their secret source
of wealth as well, how was this injustice to be avoided? Above all,
her heart and soul were shaken by constant terrors for her husband’s
safety. Placed as she was at a distance from him, and only too well
aware of his light-hearted disregard of consequences, she longed to
hear he was living anywhere away from the ill-fated King and his
companions, believing this to be the first necessity for his safety.
The uncertainty whether he would consent to this measure preyed upon
her mind day and night, and between her fear of their enemies and her
reluctance to force him against his inclination, her burden seemed at
times like to weigh her to the earth.
“I still hope,” she said to me, “that Sir John may escape being
attainted, seeing that up to the present his name has been kept out of
the Bills; and I know that Mr. Haldane and his brother, and certainly
Patrick Campbell as well, are working in every possible way to prevent
it. But when these Commissioners arrive at Alva, and make enquiries
of all and sundry about this person and that, think you that should
a rumour of the garden” (for so we spoke of the mine) “come to their
ears, and what is to hinder it, seeing it is at the mercy of so many
needy people, they will not find in this an excuse for seizing Sir
John’s possessions and adding them to the list of forfeitures? My heart
is very heavy, Barbara, and at times I feel ready to sink under my
fears.”
I would have given much to be able to comfort her, but could say very
little to restore her confidence. I left her alone to pour out her
heart in a letter to her husband, for faint as this consolation was, it
was still the dearest she possessed.
The next day being the 12th of June we left Dysart for Alva, and before
we returned for the wedding, a still greater calamity had overtaken our
affairs, and our hearts were heavier than ever.
LETTER XV
(Dysart.)
I had the pleasure of hearing from my Dearest Life some days agoe,
but it had been long by the way, which gave me some pain about you;
and tho’ it was but three days writ after what I got last, it was
three weeks longer a coming to my hand. I must own you are most
kind and obliging in writing so frequently, and it is the only real
satisfaction I have at present, for tho’ I endeavor all I can to
make the best of my misfortune, yet at some times I am perfectly
like to sink under it; and the probability of so long and continued
afflictions, and which is most uneasy to me to be absent from you
without having any prospect of having it in my power to come to you,
together with the concern I have for my friends in the Fleet, and
many good people who are suffering; and I find the greatest favour
that’s expected is banishment.
As to your own particular you are not yet attainted, so I hop will
scape this session of Parlyment, but if ever you are attainted all
you could once call your own is irrecoverably lost. There is such
acts of Parlyment passing as people cannot expect to save anything;
nay, even old tailys are in danger, and yours the more (as) it is
not registrate. The King can give no gift to any without any act of
Parlyment, and all goes for the public Debts. And these persons that
are on the Commission have ample power to doe what they please, and
make such narrow inspection in the forfeit estates that they can call
any person they please before them, and take their oaths about the
particulars of every family, and if they doe not appear they can fine
them of a considerable sum.
I once expected your Brother R. and his master was to be at the
Hague, but now it’s believed they are to be att Isla Chapel (Aix
la Chapelle) but this act puts me out of any hop of a gift to him
of your Liberent, and to (have) had a little clause put in favour
of Mr. Nabit (the mine.) You see, my dear Soul, the present state
of affairs, and that all our projects that way is gone. I am told
by some you very narrowly missed being putt in the last Bill of
Attainder, and it’s affirm’d that your not being put in was owing to
P.(atrick) H.(aldane).
If you still remain where you are att present it’s impossible you can
scape being attainted as soon as the Parlyment sits down, whereas
if you were in another place, some of your friends might prevent
your being put in with a better countenance, and if you do not, I am
convinced they will never attempt it. You see by all this that no
other person can be interpos’d; that if Mr. Amond (Sir John) does
not incline to comply to any conditions that would be propos’d, let
him stay abroad and get his money remitted to him; and if either
his Brother R. by his master’s friendship, or any other way, can
be fal’n on to prevent his being attainted be done, until the term
of years mentioned by the Parlyment be expired, which is from this
present time till the year 1719.... I have not any hope now but by
preventing your being attainted if possible, which can never doe if
you persist in your resolution of staying where you are. It’s my
duty to let you know this and desire you may consider seriously what
sad state you will bring your family to, and to beg you may not do
what you may for ever repent. Some regard I think should be had to
me and your children, tho’ for my own particular I had rather suffer
hardships than desire you to do what is against your inclination;
but as a mother I must have regard to them so far as to let you know
my opinion, and if ye doe not follow it, I cannot help it, but shall
endeavour to submit with patience.
I am not a little sensible how far it’s uneasy to break off from so
agreeable a society, and when perhaps duty and inclination both bind
you; but in their present state I see not what any one man can doe,
and the fewer sufferers the better. And every body will not have
that hope or expectation you may have, but if your Brother Robin
doe come to Isla Chapel, it would be a good pretext to visit him.
This is sufficient on this head, and I shall be glad to have your
opinion as frankly and resolutely as I have given my advice.... I
came to my father’s some days agoe about a marriage which will not
be disagreeable to you. Bess is to be C----ess of W----ms, which
is a satisfaction to all her friends. The terms is this day agreed
on, and tho’ they are not what I either could a wisht or expected,
yet my father and other friends after making proposals of altering
found it would not doe, and has gone into what his tutors for the
time advised. She has not far to goe, and in case you should not
understand she has a great many easy chairs in which she may loll.
I goe home to-morrow and return here in a fortnight. You was very
kindly remembered by your new friend and he regrates he has you not
here at this time. You may be sure I am glad of the thing, but I am
in such a continu’d Dump I did not incline to be at the wedding, but
I cannot shun it. C. A. was here to be the Lady’s Lawyer.... Countess
Bess salutes you kindly and wishes you were here, tho’ she shou’d
bear all you could say now as to D. P. I see not what can become of
him.... God help me, for I labour under many difficultys and many
fears. I did not intend to let you know so much, but at some time it
will come out.
As to sending you money it’s agreed ... it’s cheapest from London,
and I hope soon to have effects there to answer your demands. Write
to P. C., who is there and will doe it. He writ to me he should remit
the 50 pound I mentioned in my last, and pray write to him for what
you have occasion, for he will answer you whether the effects be
come to his hands or not, but he cannot miss to have them soon.
I see so many difficultys in sending A. S(hor)t that it cannot doe.
I think I have answered all your questions in yours of the 22 of Ap.
Wishing my Dearest all manner of happyness I am ever,
Yours.
Your mother and sons are well. We drank Mr. Kid’s health yesterday
and all his friends. God preserve you.
June 11.
Back at Alva we were forced to wait with what patience we possessed
to see what would next befal, but a week later my lady wrote again to
Sir John in much the same strain as her former letter, so that you can
see nothing new had occurred so far. Having received one from him,
dated 29th of May, she was now to be deprived of the comfort of hearing
anything of her husband for several weeks, which as you can imagine did
not lessen her fears nor lighten her burden.
LETTER XVI.
My Dearest Life,
Yours of the 29 of May was forwarded by our friend
att London, which you may be sure was most welcome to me since there
can be nothing so agreeable as to hear you are well, and at the same
time to hear of two people whose welfare I am much interested in. I
went airly abroad this morning to visit my labourers, and it was so
hott I began to think how much more it must be so with you. I pray
God you may agree with it.
There is one advantage of being with Kid, that you will live mighty
regular and get no ill examples. I wish from my heart all had the
same thoughts of him you have, but I am not altogether without hope
that will come and justice be done him; tho, as things have been of
late I do not expect to see it. But who would a thought six months
agoe Andrew wold lose his post of being Commander-in-Chief in this
Country, and that Mr. Beggar wold have it. His Master has made him
very bad returns for his fidelity, but I hop he shall use all his
faithful servants after that manner.
I writ to you from my father’s house in relation to the Bill that’s
passing on the forfeitures. My friend writes from London he thinks
all personal Debts in danger. Some only thinks those since the 24 of
June last. I must own it is so horrid I can scarce believe it, but if
it is so it will ruin many, and to think that anybody will lose by
you is really terribly uneasy, particularly C.(harles) A.(reskine).
If it is so I shall do my endeavour to pay all so far as it can goe,
and trust to Providence who has hitherto been bountyful to us, and
I am sure you will agree with me. I was in hops things wold in time
have a more favourable aspect, but it’s impossible human invention
can contrive things worse than all the measures they have taken. I
find by the Ladys att London getting their jointure and daughters
provided, we may expect the same. If any here gets it, I make no
doubt of it, for I happen to be much in the Whig’s favour. I know
nothing I have done to merit it but being silent. In the meantime I
live in peaceable possession of all, haveing Mr. Beggar’s protection,
and by the advice of the above mentioned friend, by degrees I am to
sell all my Stock and prepare for the worst. I must own it was what I
was mighty unwilling to do, but I am now convinct it’s the best way
by much.
As to Mr. Nabit, I am sorry I have not writ so fully as you might
understand. His fame was like to rise high, and at the same time
there was never less ground for it. I make no doubt that going down
would have turn’d to account in time, but that was a certain giving
out of money ... it was thought by all the Counsell the saffest
course, and the only way to make people think it was an idle project
of Mr. Amond’s. How far it will be of use that way I know not, but
so many poor Dogs has it at their mercy it will be wonderful if it
do not break out. I am positive however it was right to give up.
James Hamilton went away three months agoe, for he turn’d wrong in
the head and would not stay.... I told you in my last of my sister
Bess’ marriage, which is to be very soon, and I must goe to it. It’s
to their neighbour W----ms. I hope she will be very happy, and I
take it as a reward for her faithful service to Kid. He is really a
good-humour’d man, but too much upon the easy lay. C. A. is to be at
the weddin’. I showed him your letter in relation to A. S----t, about
his coming but he did not think it proper to send him for the reasons
you mentioned.
As to my second Farm I still keep it, and am putting two lime-kilns
just now on it. I ride there frequently. Perhaps I may set up my
habitation there and farm it myself, but I think if ever I leave this
place I will not stay in Britain. Your children are well and in good
heart. Ha is perfectly recover’d. Your mother is well, and she and I
live easily together, tho’ none can be of more different sentiments;
but she disaproves all the violent measures, and is very concern’d
for you and thankful you are well; but she knows not where you are,
or she would be griev’d. I wish very often to be with you, my Dear
Soul, but as long as I can doe your service here I will never have
a thought of it; and I have saved more than any in my circumstances
has done, and never fail to represent when I am injur’d, which makes
me live easy, when many other good honest people are oppresst. My
paper sinks so much I fear you will have difficulty to read it....
P.(atrick) H.(aldane) is one of the comishioners on the forfeitures.
Buchan and Munroe of Faulds are the Scots. Wishing your good company
and you all manner of real happiness, I am, my Dearest, ever Yours.
As to remitting money, I told you before it’s easyest from London,
and I lay it on my friend entirely who would doe that as well as I
could wish and all things else, for he helps all in distress and it’s
his aim to do good
Dearest Life, Adieu.
June 18. Alva.