CHAPTER XII

TELLS OF THE ONLY OCCASION ON WHICH I MET THE EARL OF MAR

Now I think it will be agreed that an idea which had sprung full-formed into my mind during my silent listening, with regard to the Master’s conduct, was not without weight. It seemed clear to me then, and grew, if possible, clearer in the light of after events, that his hatred and jealousy of the Earl of Mar were the cause of all his strange behaviour. He received the news of his landing, as we have seen, with surprise and scorn, and the first hint of that nobleman as a leader and commander roused his wrath to such a pitch, that from that moment he put little check upon his fury. Had the Duke of Berwick landed in place of the Earl, or had my Lord of Ormond arrived at the head of the expedition, it is my opinion that the Master of Sinclair would have raised no obstacles and seen no difficulties any more than our host of Grange himself. But his hatred of my Lord Mar was of old standing and well known to their friends, and his jealous spirit could not brook the notion of being under orders to the man he despised. From that day, although in obedience to my Lord Sinclair’s commands, he continued in the affair, his heart was not in it. He was thought to be but a lukewarm adherent, and when honour demanded that he should endeavour to hide his misgivings, support his Commander, and do nothing to foster dissensions in the camp, he made himself obnoxious to the Earl and his friends, raising up strife, frustrating plans, and sowing everywhere the seeds of mistrust and insubordination, which quickly sprang up and bore most bitter fruit.

When it became known to him that Mr. Malcome had been charged with a private message from the Earl to Sir John, his jealous rage increased ten-fold, and from that day onward in spite of the knight’s efforts to pacify him, which for his lady’s sake he most generously made, his bearing towards his brother-in-law was marked by scorn and bitterness, which, while it merely provoked Sir John, deeply annoyed my Lord Sinclair and grieved his whole family.

In consequence of my Lord Mar’s message, whatever it may have been, Sir John did not next morning return with us to Dysart, but rode straight to the house of Mr. Bethune of Balfour, to interview the nobleman, and hear from him of his plans. Secret messages were sent to all the _honest_ gentlemen in that part of the country to wait upon his lordship, but it was only by dint of stern commands from his father, and the loving entreaties of Betty herself, that the Master of Sinclair could be persuaded to attend on him. I believe that the Earl, from the first, treated Captain Sinclair with great kindness and deference, making inquiries of him about the state of feeling in the country, asking his advice, and otherwise behaving in a very frank and manly way. This, Sir John told my lady; and that at first the Master attempted to hide his gruffness and to respond in like manner, and Sir John, with his genial, sanguine nature, had great hopes that the rupture between them might be healed. As a further proof of his friendliness, my lord, in going to Dupplin House in Perthshire, the seat of the Lord Kinnoul, decided to come by Dysart in order to spend a few hours at the Hermitage, and pay his respects to my Lord Sinclair.

This was the sole occasion upon which I saw the Earl of Mar, and I make no secret of the fact that his appearance, manners, and courteous behaviour quite won me over to the side of Sir John and my lady, who thought him one of the best and cleverest of men. As I have said before, I have no desire to dig too deep into the causes and motives of any man’s actions. All the world knows of the Earl’s mistakes, because the project he undertook failed; but so closely are we “bound up in the bundle of life,” as the Scripture saith, one with another, that it were impossible either at that time, or now, forty years after, to determine who else were at fault, or how many mistakes and errors went to make up the whole. I suppose, that if the King’s Cause had prospered, and if he were now seated upon the throne of his forefathers instead of living in sad exile, not much would be heard of the incapacity of the Earl of Mar, or the motives, good or bad, which urged him on. Truly, as it saith again in the Book of Proverbs, “The lot is cast into the lap, but the whole disposing thereof is of the Lord.” And to those of you who, ten years back, witnessed the triumph of that brave young Prince as he rode gaily up the High Street of Edinburgh, with strong hopes in his heart of winning back the kingdom for his royal father, and who, later, mourned with him over these same hopes utterly cast down, this assurance from the pages of Holy Writ is the only comfort you could have. For myself, I was at that moment far away with my dear husband in the East Indies, so that only the rumours of Prince Charles Edward’s coming and going reached our ears; but as I heard of his charm, his courage, his successes, and in the next breath of his sufferings, his disappointments, and his failure, my tears fell for pity of the Lost Cause, just as they had done so many years before.

* * * * *

But what must you be thinking of this garrulous old woman, who lets her thoughts so wander from the path and her pen run away with her? I was telling you of the visit of the Earl to the Hermitage, and it all comes back to me very plain and clear. I had heard the Master say that my lord was a humpback, or at least deformed, but though I could perceive that one shoulder was slightly higher than the other, he carried himself with so much grace that it scarce detracted from his appearance. He was dressed very plain to avoid attention, but I thought for all that he looked the great gentleman he was. Upon my being presented to him, he saluted me very kindly on the cheek, as was then the custom, and told me that he knew my Grandpapa very well, saying also in a laughing tone that if I lived up to my name I must needs be happy to see him, and to know the reason of his coming. Upon which I told him that I was very glad and thankful that the King had so good a friend, and at this he looked pleased and made me a low bow. He talked respectfully with my Lord Sinclair of the coming Rising, rallied Mistress Bess gaily on her enthusiasm, and answered very cordially my lady’s enquiries as to the health of his Countess and the welfare of their infant daughter. He took little Henry upon his knee, and calling Charles to his side told him of his friend, Tommy, who, he said, was now considered the bully of Westminster, for to that famous school Lordy Erskine had lately gone.

“I like Tommy,” cried Charles, “he’s a great friend of mine!”

“And I like Tommy too,” lisped Harry, not to be outdone, “he gives me a pick-a-back!”

My lady bade the children not be troublesome, and sent them away to Phemie; but when was a mother’s heart not warmed by small attentions to her children, or how could any woman think ill of a man who thus fondled her little sons? I am sure that if my lady’s faith in the Earl had been in any way dimmed by her brother’s cruel suspicions, it burned bright and steady again after this visit to Dysart.

Before he left us, and his stay was but brief, he drew from his bosom a portrait done in miniature, and, smiling, offered it to each of us in turn. We looked at it in silence. It was the face of the King. A face singularly attractive in its youthful grace, for the high forehead, the long, gentle, hazel eyes, even the lack of power in the full mouth and rounded chin, all helped to give it an air of sweetness which yet had a tinge of sadness in it; and while my heart was filled with a sudden strange yearning, I was not surprised to see tears in Betty’s eyes, as she lifted the miniature to her lips and reverently kissed it.

And so with kind adieux, and hearty wishes for Godspeed in his venture, and gay waving of the hand, my Lord of Mar rode off to join his friends; and we watched him long upon the winding road, with smiles on our lips and prayers in our hearts, little dreaming that not one of us should ever look upon his face again.

Neither Sir John nor the Master of Sinclair was present at this interview, the latter having private affairs at the other side of the county, and my guardian being absent on one of the many secret missions which now occupied all his time. Several times he crossed to Edinburgh, returning the same day, for our agent there, Captain Harry Straton, was by now in the thick of business. On one of these occasions he brought back the discouraging news that the Duke of Ormond, had, on fear of being arrested, fled in haste from England, thus destroying our hopes in that direction; but it was thought that being now in France, he might combine with the King, and that on his return to England, the soldiers, by whom he was greatly beloved, would readily flock to his Standard. Sometimes Sir John was absent from Dysart many days together, being sent with important messages to gentlemen between Edinburgh and the Border, and even as far south as Dumfries and Galloway with despatches to the Earl of Nithsdale, and my Lord Kenmure.

But that part of the business came to an end at last, and one night upon his return we learned the meaning of it all. My Lord Mar was holding a great _Tinchel_ or Hunting of the deer, in his forest of Braemar, on the 26th day of August, and from near and far his _invited guests_ were spurring north to join him. On the eve of departure, Sir John and the Master, though intending to ride together on the morrow, again broke out in dissension. ’Twas at supper, and some of our trusty neighbours were present. The Master, still smarting at the thought of Mar’s supremacy, threw doubts upon his wisdom in calling together so large a gathering which could not be kept private.

“And what need for privacy,” cried Sir John, “when the country is ready to rise at our bidding?”

“With the King still in France,” replied the Master, “Ormond fled from England, Argyle to take command in Scotland, and with six thousand Dutch troops ready to cross the sea to his assistance at a day’s notice, it seems to me that the quieter we make our plans the better.”

“And to me it seems,” returned the other, “that enough time has been wasted, and the sooner the King’s Standard is openly raised, the more secure we shall stand.”

And as all the company, including ourselves, were in agreement with this notion, and everyone weary of the repeated delays, the Master’s arguments were silenced, though I have no doubt his opinion remained the same.

And now so many things crowd into my memory that I despair of setting the half of them down. I must leave it to history to tell you of that great meeting at Braemar, when noblemen and gentlemen from all parts of Scotland, from Caithness to the Border, and from Fife to the Western Isles, assembled to hear what the Earl of Mar had to tell them. What it was you know very well, and his manner of telling it. Also how, after enthusiastically agreeing to join the project--with, I fear, too little forethought or consideration--they dispersed to their homes in order to gather their forces together.

Still the days went slowly by for us, hearing nothing from the north, and little from other sources, for in the absence of our men we saw, designedly, but little of our neighbours, and except for the two Pitcairns, uncle and nephew, had no communication with the outer world.

My lady was growing anxious for news of her husband, and the strained look which I was to see so often in her kind eyes was beginning to show itself. When late one night, as we two were on our way to bed, after the rest of the household had retired, there came a sound of gentle knocking at the small door in the tower past which we must go to reach our rooms. The muffled sound at that hour, in the darkness (for we carried no light) was one to set our hearts beating, and I clutched at my cousin’s arm as we paused to listen. The knocking continued, and without a word my lady turned and began to go down the little flight of steps that led to the door.

“Madam!” I cried softly, “be careful. Shall I call your brother, Mr. Will?”

But my lady did not pause. She looked back at me up the winding stair, and the moonlight from the narrow window fell upon her face; it was white, but she was smiling. I knew that in those days there was no time for foolish fears, and secrets, however they were carried, were not to be trusted to servants. There was nothing for my lady to do, but what she was doing, so I stood in breathless suspense and listened. Surely she would not open without a question to those without.

Down below a bolt was drawn, and the door creaked slightly as it was shoved back. Then I heard a cry, and after that--silence. Trembling with fear and uncertainty I strained my neck to peer down the twisting stairway, holding my skirt up with one hand, and descending slowly step by step. It was not far to go, and suddenly I saw in the patch of moonlight that shone through the open door two figures that looked like one. ’Twas my lady in her husband’s arms. I laughed for very relief and joy, and they both looked up and smiled. My good Sir John was dusty and travel-worn, and his eyes were heavy with fatigue. He had ridden fast and far, and the hand he held out to me trembled, while his voice was weak and husky.

“Didst ever know such a wench as mine, Barbara?” he cried softly. “Here she comes stealing down the turret-stair in the moonlight to open the door to a lover belike, only to discover her husband!” and he laughed below his breath.

“My dearest life!” cried my lady, her face all smiles, “would I not know your knock among a thousand? Come, come, we must close the door and get you something to eat, for you must be well-nigh starving.”

“Drink first, sweetheart!” laughed the knight. “There’s no room in this throat of mine for meat to pass down till some of the dust has been washed out of it.”

Softly he shut and bolted the door, and taking off his riding-boots to carry them in his hand, he stole behind us up the stairs and into the dining-hall on the left. Once there he flung himself into an arm-chair and stretched his weary limbs with a great sigh. In a few minutes we had collected food and wine from the buttery and the pantry, and it was with a feeling of relief, as intense as though the terrible thirst had been my own, that I watched the huge tankard filled and emptied.

“And now, my dearest,” cried my lady, when her lord had demolished half a cold pasty and much bread and cheese, “why come you so late and in secret? What news do you bring? Are they good or bad?”

Sir John’s face was grave. “Mayhap you have heard,” quoth he, “the King of France is dead.”

“The King!”

“Dead?”

“Ay, dead as mutton! And the power in the hands of a Regent, who, I know well enough, whatever my Lord of Mar may say, is not well affected to our cause.”

My lady seated herself beside him.

“Nay, we have heard nothing. No news have come from Edinburgh this sennight. All our friends are from home as you know, and David Pitcairn has thought it well to bide quiet and attend to business.”

“Betty’s business?” cried the knight, and my lady laughed.

“Nay, my dear; Betty’s business would be the King’s, as you very well know, and if he is to be of use to us later, he must not draw suspicion on himself too soon.”

“Right and true!” said Sir John. “He may help us all by-and-bye; David’s a wise lad and can hold his tongue.”

“So we have heard nothing,” continued my lady. “But this death of King Louis is a terrible loss to us. What says the Earl?”

“He insists,” said Sir John, “that the Duke of Orleans is as much in favour of the Restoration as the old King was, and that his death is no loss, but rather a gain to the cause. But I know the Regent better than he, and I hope for no help from him. Indeed, if he do nothing to hinder us, twill be less than I expect of him.”

“And now, Sir John,” I cried, “will you not tell us why you come thus, in such haste and privacy, to tell us what all the world must know in a day or two?”

He laughed and called me a “saucy minx.”

“To say truth, Mistress Barbara, your humble servant is a bit of a coward, and I must own that I stole here to-night under cover of the darkness (though the moon shines cruelly bright for conspirators), because I hoped to avoid my eldest brother-in-law, whose jibes and sneers I can ill brook in my present disturbed state of mind. He left the north some days ago. Is he at home?”

My lady smiled, and fondled his hand like one humouring a child.

“No,” she said, “but he may return to-night, and you will see him most like at breakfast.”

“That will I not,” cried he, “for by breakfast-time I must be far from here. Only a few hours’ sleep, and then up and off again. Come, my lady, this food has made a new man of me; now to bed, for I must be on the road by five o’ the clock, and ’tis now half on midnight.”

A shadow fell over her face.

“And whither now?” she asked. “I had hoped you could remain a few days with us.”

“To Edinburgh,” he cried, “no less! For by the end o’ the week, I trust the Castle and all its supplies will be in my Lord Drummond’s hands.”

My lady was again all eagerness and poured forth question after question as to the time and the method of taking so important a stronghold, but Sir John only kissed her and put her off in his usual light-hearted style, and soon after we crept stealthily up to our rooms.

“I dreamed my papa came and kissed me in the night,” said little Charles to me next morning. “I thought it was true, and told Phemie that Sir John was returned, but when I asked my mama, she laughed and said I must have dreamed it.”