THE CALAMITY FALLS; AND MY LADY ATTENDS HER SISTER’S WEDDING IN VERY
LOW SPIRITS
The sweet June days went slowly past, and we, occupied in various
ways, rejoiced in the hot bright weather and the growing beauty of the
country. The garden was fair with flowers, and all the wide domain
lay fresh and well-ordered under a cloudless sky. To be sure the
faint cool breezes of morning, laden with the scent of growing and
blossoming things, the hot, still noons, the tranquil evenings and the
clear, tender twilights, stirred in my heart a longing so great as to
be almost pain, that the one without whom my life would for ever be
incomplete, should enjoy their beauty with me; and looking into the
face of my dear Lady Erskine in those days and noting the wistfulness
in her eyes, I felt that she shared my unrest. For the summer days
brought no fresh news from France for either of us, and it was hard to
be cheerful, with that great impenetrable silence closing us in.
“He will write to me for his birthday, be sure,” said my lady. “I have
never known him fail to send a few lines on that day when it happens
that we have been parted. Were I sure of his welfare and safety,
I should be easy at not hearing from him; but though he is a kind
and tender husband, Barbara, he is a man of great energy and almost
reckless courage, and you know I have many dark dreams of the dangers
into which he may be thrusting himself on behalf of the beloved Cause.”
“It is the waiting that is so hard to bear, madam,” said I, sadly, “and
the lack of news. To write to one who is far off and to receive no
reply, is like knocking at a closed door behind which is nothing but a
silence that terrifies the heart.”
“Poor child!” said she, kindly, “you are young to suffer such pain. But
do not forget that all our ways are ordered by a wise Providence, and
if we bear our trials with patience, they will surely turn to blessings
when the time of probation is past. I can see before me a long and
happy life for my dear Barbara, who for all her courage and sweetness
deserves an ample reward.”
“Oh, madam!” cried I, “you are too good to say so. I constantly remind
myself how light is my trial compared with yours; but after all it does
not comfort me much to know that my dearest friend is sadder than I.”
“Truly,” she answered, “my burden must needs be the heavier, for the
thought of the children’s loss is added to my own, were anything to
happen to their father. And since I think there is no fear of death
or dishonour for Anthony Fleming, a little further patience and brave
hopefulness are all that are needed to support you, my dear. As for Sir
John, God help us! for I know not what is to happen next.”
It was truly with more pain for her than for myself that I saw each
post arrive bringing no packet from France, and though Mr. Campbell
wrote frequently, and gave my lady all the news that was going in
London, the longed-for letter failed to arrive, and fear was added to
anxiety.
The morning of Sir John’s 41st birthday dawned as fair and as full of
promise as all that had gone before. A few white clouds in the sky only
made the blue more deep and perfect, a light breeze from the south blew
across the fields between us and the river, the distant mountains were
veiled in silver mist that by-and-bye the sun would disperse; it was
impossible to feel wholly sad on such a summer day.
We walked in the garden, the Dowager leaning on her daughter’s arm,
the children running races and shouting in pure glee. I had plucked
a large cabbage-leaf, and having gathered a number of the first ripe
strawberries to fill it, I brought them to my lady for her approval.
“Why,” she cried, “this is good luck! The first strawberries to be
gathered on Sir John’s birthday, that is what we have always desired.
Come, children, and taste them; they are your Papa’s favourite fruit.”
Seating themselves on a garden-bench the ladies proceeded to feed the
children, who, nothing loth, devoured the luscious berries with smiles
of pleasure.
“Oh,” cried Charles, at last, “how I wish Sir John were here to taste
them! Do you remember, mama, I used to think my papa would be home
before the trees were green, and now the roses are here, and the
strawberries are ripe. Oh, why doesn’t the King send him back?”
“Courage, my grandson,” said the old lady, cheerfully, “let us hope he
will be here at the time of the Barley Harvest.”
“Or before the leaves are off the trees,” cried I.
“Or at least before the snow comes,” sighed my lady.
“Then he will be here for _my_ birthday!” cried little Hal
triumphantly, his beautiful eyes alight with joy; and his mother kissed
the eager face uplifted to her, and murmured, “God grant it!”
At that moment we heard the distant sound of a horse galloping towards
the house, and instantly our interest quickened, for the pace spoke of
haste, and in those days haste meant news of importance.
“’Tis an express!” cried I, with a wild but foolish hope that it
brought tidings of my lover.
“’Tis a letter from Sir John!” cried my lady. “He has remembered--he
must have directed Patrick Campbell to express it from London being
anxious I should receive it this day.”
Her colour rose and her eyes sparkled. She went hurriedly from us
to secure the precious missive without delay, looking back over her
shoulder with a joyous smile! Alas! it was many weeks before I saw her
look so happy again.
“God bless her, and grant the news be good!” said the dowager, as she
took my arm and followed slowly. “My son’s wife is indeed a lovable
woman, Barbara.”
“Why, madam,” cried I, “there is not a thought in her heart that is
not good and sweet. How glad I am the letter has come to-day!”
Before ten minutes were passed, I retracted my eager words, for by that
time my dear lady, and with her the whole household, were plunged in
the most distracting grief.
Having followed her to the house we arrived in time to see her standing
in the hall, eagerly tearing open the letter which had just been put
into her hand, the little boys clinging to her skirts, and waiting for
the tit-bits of news she often doled out to them from their father’s
letters.
As we entered she gave a loud cry, and crushing the letter in her hand,
she raised her face and gazed at us for an instant with a look so wild
and terrified that it made my heart stand still. The next moment she
turned and went into the parlour, where we found her seated by her
scrutoire, looking the picture of despair.
Sick with anxiety I dropped the old lady’s arm and ran to embrace
her, begging her in the tenderest way to let us know the cause of her
misery. Old Lady Alva, though trembling in every limb, carefully shut
the door, and managed to reach a seat near her daughter-in-law, into
which she sank, pale and breathless.
With her usual thought for others, my lady, seeing how much she was
moved, put out a shaking hand towards her and said, though her lips
were white and stiff, “Sir John is safe, madam, so far as I know. This
letter is not from France.”
“Can you let us know the cause of your agitation, my daughter?” said
the old lady, gently. “Thank God my son is not concerned! But if you
are at liberty to divulge the tidings you have received I shall be
further gratified.”
“Indeed, madam,” sighed my lady, “I see no reason why they should be
kept secret. They are, alas! but too widely known. Oh, woe is me! that
I should have been so grossly deceived by that villain. Ah, Barbara,
would that we had never trusted him!”
“Whom do you mean, cousin?” cried I, still too frighted to think
clearly. “Who has betrayed us?”
“Who, but that base wretch, James Hamilton, whom I trusted with all the
knowledge and information about the Mine that I had myself. Did I not
make him overseer in my latest transactions, and did he not know I was
trusting him with the most precious things in life--my husband’s safety
and honour? Oh, that such baseness should exist, and in a man, too,
with good blood in his veins!”
“Why, what hath he done?” cried I trembling.
“Listen, my dear, and you shall hear,” said my lady, taking up the
letter in her lap, and smoothing it out. “‘I am bound to tell you some
news,’ says Mr. Campbell, ‘which I know will greatly disturb you, and
which in an unexpected way bids fair to upset our plans. You will be
surprised to hear that there is lately come from Scotland, one, James
Hamilton, who, though I have not yet seen him, I take to be the same
who was lately employed by Sir John in his _garden_. This fellow,
through cupidity, or desire of fame, I imagine, though I take it he
is acting a very treacherous part, brought with him to London some
specimens of ore; and having made inquiries as to the best method of
proceeding, and fearing I presume to employ his friends in such a
matter, went straight to my Lord Mayor, and there made an affidavit of
what he knew about the Mine. I am credibly informed that he made no
secret of anything. He spoke frankly of his position at Alva, saying
that he was at first employed only in smelting the ore, but he saw it
brought up from the mine in great abundance, and he believes there are
still several rich veins unexplored. He further said that after Sir
John went out in the Rebellion, he was employed by his lady in digging
out as much ore as possible, stowing it in old barrels, etc., and
burying it within the grounds of the house--the very spot is located.
In fact there is nothing wanting in his tale, and the reason he gives
for this disclosure is, forsooth, that he knew it must come out when
the Commissioners came down to Alva, and he believed it right that
His Majesty’s Ministers should have previous knowledge, and be able
to deal with so important a business as it deserves. You will see now
that all our plans have been knocked on the head, and other strings
must be pulled in order to work the affair in a suitable manner. I beg
of you not to let yourself be too downcast, for I do not yet despond
of arranging some settlement, which, with Sir John’s consent must work
to his and your advantage. I have written to him and trust he will be
brought to see the matter in the same light as myself. In the meantime,
you, my dear lady, will, I know, have many qualms of doubt, but of one
thing you may be certain, that both I and all your friends will do our
best to extricate our good Sir John from the difficulties into which,
through no fault of his own, nor of yours, he has fallen.’”
My lady dropped the letter, and for some minutes we sat staring at each
other in blank dismay. A thought struck me sharply.
“Oh, cousin,” I cried, “I believe I am to blame in not telling you of
Mr. Hamilton’s threats that day before he left, but they seemed to me
so idle I thought them not worth repeating. Perhaps--oh, perhaps if you
had known them, you might have foreseen this calamity.”
“Tell us now, child, what he said,” exclaimed the dowager.
“Why, madam, his words were wild. He asked me very abruptly to be his
wife, and upon my informing him that such a thing was impossible, he
spoke in a violent way: said I would regret it for ever if I did not
give my consent. More was depending upon it than I thought, but not
so much on my own account as for the sake of the friends I loved. Oh,
madam, do you think he would have abandoned his wicked scheme had I
accepted him?”
My lady was thinking deeply.
“’Tis just possible,” she replied, “if, as I take it, he was actuated
by a desire for gain. Had he been sure of you and your fortune,
Barbara, he might have foregone his wicked betrayal of us.”
“Oh!” cried I, the tears pouring down, “would to God I could have given
him my fortune, if it would have saved him from this terrible crime.
But how could anyone foresee such villainy, or dream of such an end as
this?”
For a time I wept, unrestrained, fearing that in her heart my dear
lady was blaming me for helping to bring about this disaster, but after
a few minutes she bade me kindly to dry my tears.
“Comfort yourself, my dear girl,” she said, “I do not believe you are
so much to blame as you think. James Hamilton must have nursed his
deceit for many months, and worked well in secret to carry out his
wicked scheme. His frenzy about you three months ago was, I feel sure,
worked up to give him the excuse he desired of leaving Alva; for once
Satan had entered his heart to make him play the part of Judas, no
influence could have softened him, no love restrained him. Alas! alas!
to think how Sir John trusted him, and now he is ready to betray his
master, as the other Judas did, for paltry silver.”
And with that the full tide of her fear and anguish swelled in her
heart, and she bowed her head upon her hands and wept.
Over this terrible event we talked long and earnestly, but little
satisfaction could be gained. The future was all uncertain, for what
the Parliament would decide to do was still unknown, and though we
suggested to each other various ways out of the difficulty, not one
seemed wholly satisfactory. As we were due at Dysart that week for the
wedding, my lady looked forward to meeting Mr. Erskine and taking his
counsel on the matter. But I must own that the gaiety of the occasion,
which ought to have been without stint, was greatly dimmed by the
heavy anxiety we carried about in our breasts. Try as we would to be
light-hearted and careless, “Mr. Nabit’s affair,” as my lady calls it,
was the uppermost thought in our minds, and the treachery of Hamilton
cast a cloud over all our pleasure.
My lady, being much occupied, sent me with the children and Phemie to
Dysart a couple of days in advance, she herself arriving with Aunt
Betty on the very morning of the wedding-day. My dear Betty made a
beautiful and happy bride, and my Lord Wemyss with his handsome person
and pleasant manners won great favour from all her friends.
I was somewhat surprised to see David Pitcairn among the guests (his
Reverend uncle performing the ceremony), his grave courtesy as genuine
as ever, his kind eyes following Betty just as of yore. I think he
had steeled himself to this last encounter as a kind of sacrificial
farewell, for the very next day he left Dysart, and though he returned
there from time to time, I, for one, never saw him again.
A few days after the wedding the Earl and Countess invited us all to
Wemyss, where we spent a week very happily, for it was impossible not
to be affected by company so merry and good-humoured. On the night
before we left we were sitting at supper, the servants having left the
room, and stories were told and toasts drunk with much gaiety, for as
it was but a family party there was little reserve required.
My lord stood up with a full glass, and gave “The King!”
The young Countess rose to her feet, her face flushed, her eyes
sparkling. There was a crystal water-jug before her on the table, and
with a graceful movement she passed her glass above it.
“Ay, the King!” she cried, “with all my heart--God bless him!”
With a little laugh my lady followed her example, and I, nothing loth,
did likewise. The Earl looked amused but disapproving.
“What, ladies, treason at my table? Tut, tut, this will never do.”
“My lord,” said Betty, smiling at him very sweetly, “in the brightest
moment of our hopes last year, I would not drink confusion to the
King’s enemies because you, my lord, were one of them. You would not
have me less loyal now to the unfortunate Prince over the water, who is
far from being the enemy of any of us?”
“Why, Betty,” replied my lord, “as to that you must please yourself.
I wish the poor man no ill, so ’tis no harm to drink his very good
health. But you must forgive me, madam, if I say I cannot but rejoice
at his failure, for had he succeeded in his design, your adorable head
would have been so turned that you would never have looked my way
again.”
And then in quieter tones he gave the toast of “Absent Friends,” and
smiles died away and the light laughter was hushed, for there was not a
soul in the room that night that was not yearning over loved ones far
away.
LETTER XVII
(Wemyss.)
MY DEAREST LIFE,
I delay’d writing in hops to have heard from you,
butt it is more than a month since I had that pleasure, and it was
just when you was 41, so you may judge what a pain it is to me. Now
that our London friend can convey our letters, it surprises me there
is none. I pray God you may be well.
I had a letter from our friend at London, and he tells me he has writ
to you of the discovery James H. has made of Mr. Nabit’s affair. It
has griev’d me very much, and it is no small satisfaction that it
has not failed by any neglect of mine, but he certainly designed to
commit the villainy and went away with that veiu, for nothing I could
do could make him stay. God in his wise providence has order’d it,
and I must submit, but it is a great tryal. I have done already what
was fit to do upon such ane exigence, and my friend will doe all in
his power at London, but what will be the end of it God knows! I
am not altogether without hope, tho’ I must own my grounds are but
small. I dare not write so plainly to you of it as I incline, lest it
should mis-carry and doe ane injury on that particular, but I think
it a lucky providence it went off, and I hope it shall never come on
till it do it (with) the right owner. God in wise providence thinks
fit to try us many different ways. I pray God make us both have the
right use of them, and seeing the vanity and emptiness of all things
in this world, we may seek what is more lasting and durable.
Bess was married Wednesday last, and after I had order’d my unlucky
affair the best I could, I came to my father’s that morning. Now I
am at her own house, where I could have been merry and blithe, but
now melancholy prevails so much that I cannot express it. And yet
I cannot help thinking this cannot last; but at another time I am
ready to despair, and my being absent from you without any prospect
of meeting is the bitterest part of all. But I ought to be resigned
in that and every other particular, and wait the Lord’s time with
patience.
Your boys are well and my health is better now than it used to be,
tho’ my toyl has been great and my mind much disturbed. The earl and
his wife salutes you and wishes often for you here, and remembers
with great respect your good company.
I cannot frame a notion now but everything will be unlucky, but that
is a fault. Aunt Betty is here and is in great concern for all that
may affect you. Hope the best and trust in God, for what he sends
is certainly best for us. Dearest Life, let me hear from you, and
endeavor to make your misfortuns as easy as possible. I can say no
more just now but that I hope the person who comes shall never see
far in Mr. Nabit, but you shall know. Write to our friend at London
when you want money, for that is the only way I can supply you.
Melancholy increases when I either write or speak on this subject, so
I’ll end. Wishing you all patient submission and intire trust in God,
who is able and ready to help us if we be not wanting to ourselves.
May (He) ever preserve you and send you His blessing is the earnest
wish of her who is ever
Yours.
July 8.