CHAPTER X

WE BECOME STILL MORE INVOLVED IN AFFAIRS

My Lady Erskine was by this time mighty anxious to be back at Alva, not only for the sake of her children, from whom she could never bear to be long parted, but also because she was in expectation soon to be welcoming home Sir John from London. Yielding to the request of Betty, that I should be left at Dysart still some weeks, she took her leave of us, intending first to visit her sister; Margaret, my Lady Baird, in her home at Newbyth, and also to pass some days with the family of Sir Peter Wedderburn at Gosford House. I think I cannot do better than transcribe here two of the letters which she wrote to her husband on her return home. They are full of domestic concerns, and of but little interest to a stranger, but they are loving and dutiful as my lady herself ever was, and show in some degree the cheerful, diligent spirit she commonly displayed.

[Illustration:

_From an Oil Painting._

LADY ERSKINE OF ALVA.]

LETTER I.

“MY DEAREST,

I cannot omitt writting every post tho’ I have but little to say, except tell you thatt I begin now to be mighty impatient to have you home. All the members of Parlyment that I know I think is come already, and yett there is no word of your leaveing London. Doe nott think I blame you in saying so for I make no doubt of your coming as soon as ye can. Ye had need of a good coachman if ye travell with four horse wanting a postilion. Your folks are busy att the walks, butt since I came home, I find itt convenient to have seven carts going and eighteen men, and will continue that number if possible till itt’s ended. There is such a deepness of earth thatt itt is no easy work.

I told you in my last I was going to Stirling. Your uncle looks very well. He is surprised at your stay and longs to see you. I presst Lady Jean and Lordy Areskine to come to Alva some days, and the Colonel, butt they seemed to be so uncertain of their setting out for London, they could not leave Stirling. You desire to know what the Col. says about Meg’s marriage. He told me he wisht her all happyness, and he thought Sir Wm. had been very lucky, and he wondered my lord did not ask better terms. Sir Wm. said to me he was sure you wold not goe close by his door, and not come in, and they design to intercept you at Gosford if they can. Butt if I am to meet you at Edinr. if ye please so to order itt, I will do itt att Gosford, but if ye can come straight to Alva, I do not incline to stir from itt. Your sons are perfectly well and are my only comrads now. Dearest life, adieu.”

ALVA, _June 13_.

In the next letter, as you will see, there is a veiled allusion to the project on which all our thoughts were fixed, and the uncertainty of which had already caused its partisans much uneasiness. It is impossible now to imagine what little breath of dissension had blown between my lady and her kind brother, Mr. Charles Erskine, but sure I am that the words set down in some mood of passing vexation were never meant to be preserved or remembered. How often and how eagerly my lady turned to Mr. Erskine for help and advice in the sad days when she was “so unhappy as to want” her husband, and how willingly and kindly he spent himself in service for her and hers, you will see presently in her later letters.

LETTER II.

“MY DEAREST LIFE,

I did not writ last post in hope I wold gett one from you forbidding mee to writ, but I got one of a different nature telling me ye was just goeing to my Lord Mar’s country house, which made me very thoughtful some hours after; that ye seem’d to have no guess when ye wold take your journey. I regrate your uneasyness of being obliged to wait so long upon what it seems is very uncertain, and I begin now to fear will hardly be worth your while. I doe now wish you at home att anyrate.

The black cattell is giving a great price here just now. The man that brought your stots was here yesterday inquiring if ye was for any this year. They held so well out att Aikenside last year he made no doubt ye wold take more. I know not what number ye wold incline to, so lett me know as soon as ye can. I am in uncertainty whether to buy cows for killing, and we’ll be sure to buy them dear att the end of the year if we want them. My being so undetermined will make things of that kind mighty uneasy to me, butt I cannott help itt.

Your brother Charles has now been a fortnight in Edinr., and tho’ I writ to him to send mee your letter he wold not doe itt, nor any reason for not doeing itt. I could hardly believe Charles wold have been so indifferent of mee for I am sure I never gave him any reason; but when he behaves after that manner comeing from you, I see what I might expect if ever I were so unhappy (as) to want you, which I hope in God will never bee.

I am afraid all the sheep mercats will be over before I gett any account from you whether ye are to buy or not. The sheep is dear this year, they talk. I have sent your Gelding this day to Perth Fair, and bid them take ten Guineys for him before they bring him home. I was advised to doe so by people that understand horse, and had seen him at Edinr. He never look’t so well as he does att this moment, butt there is no help, part with him ye must, for he will never bee of use.

I send you a letter from Gleneaglis. I am glad to hear from my sister. She has a letter from your Brother Robin.

I am still fighting with John Harley and Mr Rose, to keep folks at the walks, butt I no sooner turn my back, or has anybody here I am oblig’d to wait on, butt something is done in opposition. The narrow walk has all the earth laid thatt itt wants, and the brode walk is pretty well advanc’d, butt the earth that was on the walks will not serve to make them up at the other end. Your turnip seed is come, and I will write to Monzie and get my directions how to use it. Dearest life, adieu. Your sons are well. Yours.”

ALVA, _June 25_.

As I read the clear faint writing I can see her sitting in the room at Alva at her own scrutoire, the sweet scents and sounds of summer coming in at the open windows, and a smile on her face while writing, as she thinks how soon might she be seeing the knight’s stalwart form and kindly face, and listening to the voice she loved. Alas! almost before the summer flowers were dead my lady had ceased to smile, and for many and many a weary month all thoughts of her husband were mingled with anxiety, grief, and dread.

It was about the middle of July when Sir John came home, and although his wife received him with her wonted tender welcome, and the little boys made his appearance the occasion of much joyful outcry, it was evident from the first that his mind was preoccupied, and he scarce gave his usual genial attention to home matters. For some days he was busy and hurried in his movements, riding often from home, and when in the house, being closeted with Mr. Peck, his secretary. The neighbours came and went even more than before, but now it was only the men who rode hastily to the door, spent a private hour with Sir John in his own room, and rode away again with scarce more than a civil word to my lady and myself. There was no merry-making when they met, no pledging each other with jest and laughter, no toasts called for. If they took a stirrup-cup at parting, twas drunk for the most part in silence, while a meaning glance passed from eye to eye, that in some way stirred my girlish heart to deep excitement. I was left much to myself and to the children in those days, for my lady went about with a serious face, attending on her lord, upon whom I saw her cast many a wistful look, but refusing to answer my questions when I would have asked her what was toward.

At last one evening--I remember it well--we were seated at supper in the long twilight, when the sound of a galloping steed arrested our attention. The day had been sultry, and doors and windows stood open. Sir John laid down the knife with which he was carving and rose to his feet, looking across the table at his wife. My lady, with her eyes upon his face, turned pale though she uttered no word, and I, Barbara, forgetful of ceremony, and moved by the strange thrill that seemed to touch us all, ran to the window and leaned out. A man upon a smoking horse before the door was wiping his heated face with a napkin, and Andrew Short, Sir John’s faithful attendant, had just reached his side and was calling out for news. Too breathless to speak, the messenger drew from his breast a packet, and rolled, rather than dismounted, from his beast, which stood with panting sides and fore-legs outstretched, the picture of exhaustion. A stableman ran up and led him slowly away, and the rider, still staggering and breathing hard, came up the steps leaning on Andrew’s arm, the papers grasped in his hand.

“’Tis a messenger, Sir John,” I cried, for all this had passed in a few moments. “He enters the house with Andrew; he bears a packet, doubtless for you.”

The knight strode from the room and met the man in the hall who, seeing the master of the house, dropped upon one knee, and holding out the packet, muttered in a thick, hoarse voice--“From my Lord, the Earl of Mar, to the hands of Sir John Erskine of Alva. God save the King!”

With this strange address delivered, ’twas evident that the poor man felt his task was accomplished, for he incontinently fell forward in a heap upon the floor, and lay in a kind of stupor.

Having ascertained that the good fellow suffered from nothing but want of sleep, he having posted from London with the utmost speed, taking scarce any rest on the way, Sir John bade Andrew see to him, and calling upon Mr. Peck to follow him, he went into his room and shut and locked the door. I wrung my hands with impatience, for I would have given a good deal at that moment to be able to see through the walls, and as I turned I found my lady standing near. Her eyes also were fixed upon the closed door, and were full of a strange, unhappy light that set my heart aching. I went to her and laid my arm round her waist.

“Dear madam!” I cried, “what is’t you fear? Will you not tell Barbara, who longs to comfort you?”

“Ah, little Barbara,” she answered, smiling sadly, “thou hast the will, but not the power to ease my heart. Something tells me that this,” and she glanced again at that baffling door, “is the beginning of sorrows, for whether we lose or win, my dear, there will be many tears shed and many hearts broken.”

“Oh, cousin!” I cried eagerly, “could I but see the despatch what would I not give! Do you not wish to be in Mr. Peck’s place, reading those all-important papers?”

“Nay, my dear,” she said, quietly, “you must exercise patience as I do. The letter, whatever it contains is in cipher, and some time must pass before Sir John can get at its meaning. Mr. Peck and he may be closeted there till midnight, and after all, Barbara, there may be nothing that can be told to you or me.”

“The King was landed, madam, I feel sure of it, and my Lord Mar is joining him at once. Oh, will he come to Alva, think you? I do so long to see him. If he visits with the Earl at Alloa he may indeed come here also. I wonder greatly what he is like, cousin?” I cried,

“If you believe Sir John’s report, child, you will perhaps find the King different from your expectations of him. I will tell you what I have gathered. He is well favoured in face and figure, of staid and quiet demeanour, unselfish, gentle, and reasonable, but neither affable nor merry. That he is conscientious and kind-hearted I am convinced, but his life has been too full of misfortune for him ever to have accomplished his desires. He is a devoted and affectionate son, we know, and adored his young sister, the Princess Louisa--a gay and charming creature, whose death three years since he sorely mourned. With good councillors to aid him he will make a wise and tolerant Ruler, of that I have no doubt, and I pray God he be not led away by ill advice.”

We went into the parlour and sat down together in the dim light. The business-room, or study, where Sir John was, being next to us, we could hear a faint murmur of voices through the wall, and gradually all other sounds in the house ceased. My lady went on talking of the King in low tones, sometimes answering my questions, or telling me little anecdotes which she had heard and fondly remembered; for her husband being often in France, had met his Majesty more than once, besides hearing much concerning him from those who were continually about him. She spoke of his melancholy childhood, cast away in a foreign land; his elderly father, the poor exiled King, resigned to his fate and in ill-health; his mother, the Queen, devoted and patient, but perhaps not always wise; he, himself, now snubbed and restricted, now flattered and exalted, his hopes of restoration now raised to the highest pitch, and again laid low in the dust. Would it be strange, she asked, if the young man were indeterminate, timid, and depressed? For physical courage he certainly did not lack, as she reminded me how he charged repeatedly with his Cavalry in the battle of Malplaquet; and had it been left to his judgment, she thought the expedition under Admiral Forbin, in the year 1708, would not have been the failure it became.

“I know it for a fact,” said my lady, “that his Majesty begged to be landed in Fife, in Aberdeen, anywhere, with but one attendant, as he would trust himself alone, he said, to the Scottish people; but he was not listened to. And yet I firmly believe that, had he come among us then in any guise, the country would have risen as one man, would have crowned him at Scone, and within a week he would have been dwelling as undisputed King in the Palace of Holyrood.”

“That is what will happen now,” I cried eagerly. “Surely, oh surely, madam, this time he will succeed!”

“Alas, Barbara, who can tell? It seems to me that in our party, for ten faithful men who have the King’s cause at heart, there are fifty to be found who care nothing for it, whose only thought is for power, or ease, or personal gain. They quarrel among themselves, they have jealousies that make their tempers childish; no man can trust his neighbour, and how can he then trust his country? If there were real love for the much wronged Prince away there in France in each Scottish heart, were it but the size of a grain of mustard-seed, sure that love would bind the whole nation together, and make it so strong that we could rise in a great army and chase the Hanoverian out of England.”

I made no reply, but I remembered her words afterwards, and have often considered them since, and in considering them have wondered; for many of the best and bravest in Scotland and England have thought as my lady did, and yet, good and true as they were and are, God has seen fit to give them no victory, but only disaster upon disaster, bringing to nought their loyal designs, and furthering the cause of those whom they distrusted.

When we had sat for perhaps ten minutes silent, scarce seeing each other in the dusk, for it must have been close on ten of the clock, we heard the door of the business-room open, and next moment Sir John appeared in the room. My lady, who had started up, ran forward with a little cry, and he caught her in his arms.

“Tell me, my life, what news?” she cried.

“What, sweetheart, art not in bed?” he answered. “And all alone?” for me he did not see. Then he bent his head and whispered in her ear. She gave an exclamation, half-amazed, half-triumphant; but a moment after I heard a sob, and saw her lay her face upon his breast.

So I stole away unheeded, and went to bed and to sleep with my curiosity still unsatisfied.