CHAPTER I. Shows how Barbara Stewart left school 12
” II. How Barbara came home to Rosyth for the last time 18
” III. Of my new Guardian, and the beginning of all her kindness 24
” IV. I go to Alva, and become a member of a very charming household 30
” V. I hear of the Silver Glen for the first time 37
” VI. Introduces several characters who are all more or less interesting 43
” VII. I become aware that something important is afoot 55
” VIII. I go to Dysart and there learn some Scottish History 64
” IX. We meet one morning a very courtly gentleman, and have news of the King’s coming 73
” X. Back at Alva we become still more involved in affairs 82
” XI. Sir John prepares for action. Barbara goes out to dine, and hears many strange things 90
” XII. Tells of the only occasion upon which I met the Earl of Mar, also of how my Lady Erskine stole down the turret-stairs in answer to a knock 99
” XIII. Shows how a woman’s actions are ofttimes misunderstood, and how Betty signalled to a passenger in a boat 108
” XIV. Tells how Mistress Betty had a brilliant notion, and how it was carried out 116
” XV. In which Betty and Barbara behave very foolishly, and the latter is introduced to Mr. Anthony Fleming 125
” XVI. Tells of various matters to be found in the History-books, and of a romantic tale which is not 136
” XVII. Shows how we are swept into the stream of events 149
” XVIII. Tells of a dark hour, and of a great awakening 160
” XIX. Shows how the Cause suffers many reverses; and how Mr. Anthony Fleming says “Thank you!” 171
” XX. Mr. Fleming rides away from Alva; The King lands, and Sir John returns to Scotland not quite in the manner he intended 181
” XXI. Tells of the coming of the King to Perth, and what ensued thereafter 189
” XXII. How we hear tidings that make our hearts ache, and ill prepare us for the great surprise 197
” XXIII. Tells of further sad doings, and of the beauty and burden of the Spring 208
” XXIV. My Lady hears from Sir John, and I pay my third visit to Dysart 217
” XXV. Tells of an unexpected meeting and a glad surprise for Barbara 226
” XXVI. Barbara is accused of cruelty and indiscretion 238
” XXVII. Shows how slowly the time passes when the heart is heavy 254
” XXVIII. Tells of the good fortune for Betty and of the evil deeds of the Parliament 268
” XXIX. The Calamity falls, and my Lady attends her sister’s wedding in very low spirits 282
” XXX. The affair of the Mine in the Mountain is much discussed in London, but with no comforting results 292
” XXXI. The matter is still further delayed, but our anxieties continue 300
” XXXII. Shows something of the trials and perplexities of our good Sir John over the business 308
” XXXIII. The story ends in peace and sunshine, and I take leave of my kind readers 314
PREFACE
The Letters of Lady Erskine of Alva which appear in this tale are at once its chief interest and the origin of its being; for my desire in writing “The Silver Glen” is to make known to a wider circle the vivid story of which they are the outcome. My conviction that they would prove as attractive to others as to myself induced the late Mr. Erskine-Murray, among whose family-papers they are preserved, to give me his kind permission to use them.
To weave a romance around the names of persons who have really lived, and whose descendants are still in existence, is a liberty which calls for an apology on the part of the author. With the exception of Barbara Stewart, Anthony Fleming and the younger David Pitcairn none of the principal characters in the following story are wholly fictitious; but I trust, that as I have kept very closely to facts, no serious cause of offence can be found. Most of the incidents described are matters of history, and the narrative is purposely told in a plain and simple manner, as much as possible in keeping with the tone of the Letters.
Among the books from which I have obtained information, and in some cases, borrowed freely, I may mention Professor Terry’s useful and interesting volume, _The Chevalier de St. George and the Jacobite Movements_; _The Memoirs of the Master of Sinclair_; Rae’s _History of the Rebellion_ (1718); _Scotland and Scotsmen of the 18th Century_, by Ramsay of Ochtertyre; and the _Calendar of the Stuart Papers belonging to His Majesty at Windsor Castle_ (Vol. II. and III.) In the Eighth Report of the Historical Manuscripts Commission also, there are numerous details on the subject of Sir John Erskine’s Silver Mines.
In view of the new light recently thrown upon the Character of James (The Old Pretender), a fact very clearly brought out by Mr. Andrew Lang in his _History of Scotland_ (Vol IV.) it is particularly interesting to note the remark of Lady Erskine in Letter XVI.: “There is one advantage,” she writes to her husband, “of being with Kid (_i.e._, James), that you will live mighty regular and get no ill examples.”
My warmest thanks are due, in the first place, to the late Mr. Erskine-Murray for his kind permission to use these Letters; I should also like to record my gratitude to Miss Johnstone of Alva, to the Rev. Robert Paul, F.R.S.A., Dollar, N.B., and to the Rev. A. Thomson Grant, Chaplain at Wemyss Castle, who have all in different ways assisted me, as well as to the Faculty of Advocates at Edinburgh for their courtesy in allowing me to read in their Library. Except for the punctuation, and the omission of a sentence occasionally where the meaning is obscure, Lady Erskine’s Letters are reproduced as they were written.
B. D.
_NOVELS BY BESSIE DILL_
MY LADY NAN
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THE FINAL GOAL
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THE LORDS OF LIFE
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“The story of a governess’s life, artistically told, and with a fidelity to nature which makes it appear as if a slab out of the living world had been set before us, we were watching the actions and reading the thoughts of the people of it. The story is told with a tragic passion which reminds one of Jane Eyre.”--_Sheffield Daily Telegraph._
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THE STORY OF BELL
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THE SILVER GLEN
INTRODUCTION
A few days ago, as I sat in my pleasant parlour looking out on one of the fairest prospects in this our fair land of England, my cousin, Sir Henry Erskine, who hath been spending some days at our house, entered the room with his quick soldier-like step, and came to a halt, as he would say, at my side.
“See here, cousin!” he cried, holding out to me a packet of papers, “there is something here that will interest you. These letters were given me by my Uncle Charles, my Lord Tinwald, t’other day when I was visiting at Alva House, and I have but just looked into them. They were written, I find, by my mother of blessed memory to Sir John, while he was abroad in exile for his misdeeds, as one may say now, in the year 1716.”
I caught at the papers with a cry, half of delight and half of tender sorrow, for if Henry’s voice had softened as he mentioned his mother’s name, ’twas no more than her due, who was ever the wisest and most loving of parents; and if to him, the thought of her represented all that is sweetest and best in womanhood--as one may suppose, seeing he hath not yet crowned perfection by taking unto himself a wife--to me it did no less, being as I was the object of her most tender care and kindness at a time in my life when I sorely needed both.
The sight of those thin broad sheets, covered with the fine clear writing which had once been so familiar to me, brought the tears to my eyes. Sure they were well worn, those ancient letters, having been borne in Sir John’s wallet, no doubt, for many a weary month, and since lain by in some desk or chest at Alva House for safety; and at the sight of the seal on the back, so carefully broken that the wax still retained on many of the sheets its perfect imprint, a vision of my dear lady folding and sealing with trembling haste one of these same precious letters, came so clear to my mind, that almost I thought I heard her voice calling to me as in the days of old.
“See, Henry,” I said softly, pointing to the seal, “how well I remember the ring she ever used. Too large for her slender hand, she wore it on a long gold chain around her neck. Your father, Sir John, had used it when writing to her before they were wed, and, sweet woman that she was, she would never have any other for the letters that passed between them. ‘For, Barbara,’ said she to me once, and I can still see her smile, ‘the legend is so true, that ’twould be folly to take to another.’”
Together we bent over the faded wax, and Henry laid his lips upon it gently. There has ever been a spirit of poetry and chivalry in this stalwart soldier, whom as a little child I had so often held upon my knee.
“A heart embossed, and round it the words, ‘_Vous y regnez seul_.’ True, indeed!” said he with a smile; “Sir John reigned there alone, and even her children were in her heart but little subjects to their rightful king.”
“Sure, my dear, you lost nothing by that,” I cried, “for happier children, or a kindlier home I never did see. The love that filled my lady’s heart was a bounteous fire that brightened and warmed all who approached her. Sweet soul! I thank God still for having known and loved her.”
Saying this I turned my eyes again upon the letters in my hands, and so potent was the spell of the first few words I read, that my mind leapt back across a gulf of forty years, and left my body sitting blind and deaf in the chair in my sunny English parlour.
A sudden laugh from Sir Henry brought my wits home again.
“Cousin Barbara,” he cried, “I have been speaking to you for some minutes and not one word have you heard of my discourse. Nay, dear cousin, do not apologise. The love you bore my mother hath ever been a tie between her children and yourself, and I know well that your tender heart is filled with regretful memories at sight of these letters writ by her hand.”
“She was indeed the dearest woman-friend I ever had,” said I. “Alas! too early lost.”
“And for that very reason,” said he, “I made my bold request, which, as you did not hear it, I must needs repeat. Will you not, for the love you bore those that are passed away, and a little for the love of us who remain, write out for our instruction and profit, your recollections of that troublous time, with something also of your own romance, and the strange story of the Silver Glen which I have so often heard from you as a boy?”
My gaze went past him out of the window, across miles of green pasture and softly waving foliage to the silver shining of the Severn beyond. Far, far away the hills of Wales rose into the sky, the day being clear and bright. Close to the house the flowers were blooming very sweet and fragrant, for the month was June, and in the shrubbery behind the garden, the blackbirds and thrushes sang their best.
“Of course, if you should think it too great a labour--” Sir Henry broke in upon my musings, but I held up my hand to stop him.
“Nay, cousin,” I cried, “’twould be what is called ‘a labour of love’ surely. I was but thinking how little fit I am to be the chronicler of those exciting times. I will not be so mock-modest as to pretend to consider myself unfit in the matter of appreciating your dear mother’s character and conduct, for few had the opportunities to know and esteem her that I had. But I am truly no historian, and the tale will be written from my own point of view, which needs must be a narrow one. I have, I believe, upstairs hidden away in the corner of some ancient chest, a diary of that same year writ in a girlish hand. By help of this, and by reading, since you permit it, these sacred letters, I promise you I will do my best endeavour to give you a true and full account of the events that took place in your home, and among your family, when you were an innocent small boy of four or five years old. But consider a little how long a time has passed. My youth with all its fears and follies, its joys and sorrows, is far away. I have wandered back and forth upon the earth, knowing many changes and living in distant lands, for a wife, as you know, must ever be ready to follow her husband; and if now in the evening of my life I can sit placidly at this sunny window looking out upon the Severn Sea, and know that my dear and kind spouse is no further away than in the next room, or in the garden, or at the home-farm, I thank God very humbly in my heart, Who has brought me to this peaceful place by a way that I knew not, and little expected to find. Dear Henry, I am but a garrulous old woman, and what I want to say is, that if my memory of those distant days is grown a little dim, and certain things are gone from my mind never to return, I must pray you to forgive me, and put it down, not to foolishness, but to old age.”
Whereupon Sir Henry rallied me upon my fears, and laughed at me for calling myself old, who am scarce more than a dozen years his senior, and kissing my hand in the gallant way he has, he left me sitting by the window with these old letters in my lap.
And suddenly, after a long silence, a single mavis burst into song, and trilled and throbbed so exquisite a melody that I held my breath to listen. For there were many years of my life in which I did not hear that lovely music, and now a mavis never sings in the long sweet twilight but my thoughts fly out to my lost dear, Catherine, Lady Erskine (for a reason that I hope to tell you by-and-bye), and it seemed strange that when my mind was so full of her, the bird that I always think of as hers should start to make music beside me. But I have often noticed in my changeful life, the little happenings that link our minds with the past and the future, with facts on earth and aspirations in Heaven, with human hopes and divine longings, so that the scent of a flower, or a child’s laugh, or a glorious sunset, or a sudden happiness, may lift our hearts, before we know it, right into the presence of God.
All letters it seems to me must in a greater or less degree be the exponents of the writer’s mind. Of some, indeed, we might say that they mirror very clearly the character and disposition of their authors, and more especially when exchanged between two close and loving friends without fear of outside criticism, or any thought of possible publicity. Most truly is this the case in the letters before me. So intimate and natural they are that I almost shrink from exposing them to the eyes of strangers, however kind and sympathetic these may be; and yet they can but excite the warmest affection and admiration in all minds, being the outpourings of a loyal, loving and courageous heart. They were written in haste oftentimes, in doubt and fear and terrible anxiety, but not once does the brave spirit falter nor the love in them grow cold or dim.
Now it is true that, as I said to Sir Henry, my view of those far-off events of my girlhood, besides having grown somewhat dim, must be but a narrow one, for I lived as it were in the midst of the story, and could not know at the time many facts and results that were afterwards made plain to all. To such as may care to read my simple narrative, which, if plain and unstudied, is yet true and I think not wanting in interest, I must say at once that my sole reason in undertaking the task is my desire to make more widely known among her descendants, namely, my dear God-daughter, Barbara; her niece, Christian, poor Charles’s little girl, and Sir Henry, who will I hope marry and have a family of his own, as well as to my own dear daughter and her children--the character of the sweet and noble woman who was the friend of my youth.
I therefore make no apology for leaving to the writers of history many details of that unhappy time; only so far as it touched upon the lives and happiness of those I loved does it concern me. And so, with no more than a humble regret that my skill is not more worthy of my theme, I take up my pen to begin this story of the so-called Rebellion in the year seventeen hundred and fifteen.