CHAPTER XIX

SHOWS HOW THE CAUSE SUFFERS MANY REVERSES

My dear Lady Erskine was so wrapt in the perusal of her brother’s letter that she neither noticed my delay in quitting the bedroom, nor my agitation when I joined her. For a moment it seemed to me that the overwhelming emotion I had experienced must have left its mark upon my face, that my eyes would betray it, and my lips tremble forth their confession, without her saying one word. But the next instant it came to me, as a woman, that the sweet and agitating secret was not mine own, that indeed ’twas so vague and impalpable I scarce had the right to regard its existence, and with the marvellous self-control that comes to our sex in such crises, I closed the door behind me and slowly followed my lady to her room.

The letter from the Master told us little that we had not already heard, except that it gave us the names of many friends who were taken prisoners to Stirling. Lord Strathallan among others, and his brother, Mr. Thomas Drummond, Colonel Walkinshaw, the Laird of Barafield, and Mr. Murray, younger, of Auchtertyre. He found time to lament in touching words the sad death of young Lord Strathmore, than whom a truer gentleman, or a braver soldier, never bore a sword. I give his words as he wrote them--

“On our left the brave young Strathmore was killed. I can’t help wishing he had kept his promise to me to honour me with being under my command, and joyning my squadron. When he found all turning their backs, he seized the Colours, and persuaded fourteen, or some such number, to stand by him for some time, which drew upon him the enemie’s fire by which he was wounded; and going off was taken and murdered by a dragoon--a mill-stone crushing a brilliant. He was the young man of all I ever saw who approached the nearest to perfection, and had a just contempt of all the little lyes and selfish tricks so necessary to some and so common among us.”

He told us also that Mr. Irvine of Drum, “a young gentleman of good hopes, was ill wounded.” On the other side, my Lord Islay, the Duke’s brother, was sore hurt; and the Earl of Forfar was so badly wounded, that although he was taken prisoner by Mar, they could not carry him to Perth, but sent him back to Stirling, where alas! he died next day.

The Master we learned in a later letter (and I beg you will forgive me if I confuse the information got at different times), toiled and moiled for hours with the cannon, wishing rather to bury them than to leave them a gift to the enemy; but eventually he was obliged to abandon most of them on the highroad to Ardoch, though some he did get to Perth. He lost his way in the darkness, and rode about the moor half the night, being indebted at last to the kindness of a gentleman, met by accident, who carried him to Urchell where he had a few hours’ sleep.

Lord Panmure, of whose staunch courage I can never say enough, was, as I told you, taken prisoner, but being grievously wounded, was left in the hut of some peasants, where the good souls tended him kindly. He was but slightly guarded, and was soon rescued by his brother, Mr. Harry Maule, and taken to a safe place till he was a little recovered, when he rejoined the army at Perth.

Indeed and indeed we had grounds enough for mourning, for not only were we grieved by all this loss and suffering, but our hearts were heavy because we knew not if the sacrifice was to bring its own reward; in other words, we had begun to fear that success was not to crown our efforts.

“It is not, Barbara,” said my lady to me, “that I think the Cause unworthy, but it may be that God in His infinite wisdom has ordained that it shall not prosper.”

And in how many minds this bitter doubt was growing up it would be difficult to tell, for except in the privacy of our own closets, no loyal tongue would give it voice.

But all this time my lady had no word from Sir John, and this, as you may imagine, did not ease her burden. Our patient, too, was causing her great anxiety, and for many days had been so ill that, by Mr. Peck’s orders, no one but himself and one of the women appointed as nurse, was allowed to enter his chamber.

The secretary went about with a troubled face, and for a little time we feared the worst.

What this meant to me I cannot tell you; but in those days I first learned the meaning of patience, not the meek and lifeless resignation of the placid mind, but the discipline of soul which forces an outward quiet, while the spirit within consumes itself in an agony of waiting. Ah! how many times in her life has Barbara had to endure the same fear, anxiety, and helpless longing; but at that time her heart was fierce and wild, and her nature all unused to pain. I had grasped my inheritance of happiness, only to have it wrenched from my hand. I had stood and gazed into Heaven, and the door had been shut in my face. What wonder that I struggled with indignation and surprise against this blow of Fate, and that many secret tears bedewed my pillow?

It was a merciful relief to find very soon my hands and thoughts so occupied that my private troubles must be pushed and hidden out of sight. You must not imagine that Mr. Fleming was our only patient, for in all the great houses round the scene of the battle, kind hearts were moved to set up hospitals for the wounded, and you will readily believe that Alva was not behind the rest in this work of mercy. The men were mostly of the rank and file, for the officers were made prisoners; and though on both sides there was much leniency and courtesy shown, it was not to be expected in a conflict of this sort that gentlemen of influence could be trusted in the houses of their friends and sympathisers. A few of the worst cases Lady Erskine caused to be brought into the house, but for the most part the men were provided with accommodation in the barns and out-houses; and being sturdy fellows, not used to lying soft, nor to delicate fare, they very quickly responded to the kindness of their rescuers, and were speedily healed of their wounds. One or two died, to our great sorrow, especially when, as in the case of two of the Highlanders, who had no English and could not make known to us more than their names, we were unable to learn their wishes or bear any message to their friends.

I must not forget to tell you that outside our little world affairs had not been prospering. You will remember that after the battle the Earl of Mar drew off slowly to Perth, resting his exhausted army by the way, and taking three or four days to perform the journey. But, ere they reached the town, tidings were brought to the Earl of Seaforth that Inverness had fallen to my Lord the Earl of Sutherland, and he with General Gordon hurried north to prevent the victorious Earl from coming south to threaten Perth. Another bitter disappointment followed, for on Saturday the 19th day of November, my Lord Mar, having reached the town, received there a despatch from Brigadier Mackintosh at Preston in Lancashire, stating how they had taken that town, and hoped on the morrow to march to Manchester. The Earl of Mar gave orders for what proved to be premature rejoicings, for he set the bells a-ringing; and next day, being Sunday, was made the occasion of a public thanksgiving. But alas! in the midst of their jubilation another messenger arrived from the same quarter with very sorry tidings to tell, namely: the surrender of Preston to General Wills, and the complete collapse of the rising in the north of England. Many of our bravest and most important leaders were thus taken prisoners and carried to London, among them the brave old Mackintosh, Lords Kenmure and Nithsdale, Lord Nairn and the Earl of Wintoun, also of Englishmen, the young and popular Earl of Derwentwater, my Lord Widdington, and Mr. Thomas Forster, a gentleman of Northumberland. I leave you to imagine the effect of this dismal news upon the already disaffected army at Perth. It did not take long for the tidings to spread, though to us it was first conveyed in a letter from the Master of Sinclair to his sister. Following hard upon this disaster came rumours of the approach of English regiments from across the border, and of the arrival of the Dutch troops on our shores, and although these last did not come upon us for some weeks yet, the fear of their invasion filled our hearts with terror.

In the midst of all this woe and trouble I can still recall two happy events which, oddly enough, fell upon the same day, the 5th of December, being just three weeks after the Battle of Sheriffmuir. Very early in the morning, my lady, coming to the door to give some order, descried in the wan light the figure of a man hurrying along the broad walk which gave upon the highroad. He was dressed in the rough garb of a common sailor, but his face when he came nearer was clean and intelligent, and he doffed his hat with a certain courtesy of manner not quite in keeping with the dress.

My lady eyed him keenly, and demanded what she could do for him. He replied by taking a packet from his breast and holding it out before her eyes, but he did not utter a word. It was a letter addressed to herself, and in her husband’s writing. Most gladly did she seize it from him, asking eagerly how he had come by it, and a dozen other questions in a breath; but the man merely smiled and bowed, making signs as though he were dumb. Whether this was so or not, we were never able to discover, but all the time he was at Alva (and you may be sure he was well-fed and well-paid ere he left), he never spoke, nor made the least attempt at communicating with any. He departed as silently and mysteriously as he came, and we never, to my knowledge, heard of him again.

Howbeit he had brought light and gladness into my lady’s heart and relief to the whole household, so that we were better attuned for the hearing of further good news in the assurance of Mr. Peck that Captain Fleming was now convalescent, and might receive visits from the inmates of the house. My lady, it is true, had seen him once or twice during the past week; but now she called me, and bidding me take Charles as companion, sent me into the sick-room with a cup of coffee for the invalid.

Now you must know that ever since we had been escorted home by Mr. Fleming and his troopers, our little lads had talked incessantly of “Captain Anthony”--how brave he was, how tall; what a great horse he rode, and how kind he looked when he smiled. Since our adventure in the glen, Charles had enacted the interesting scene many times in his play, he, himself, being the wounded soldier, and little Hal taking now the part of Cha, running breathless down the dark road, now of Barbara, ministering to the unconscious man alone. It was with feelings, therefore, of great and awe-struck delight that the boy put his hand in mine as I stood before the door of the bed-room, and at my bidding knocked. Upon our entering, I was relieved to find the gentleman up and sitting in a chair by the hearth. His face was pale and thin, for the fever had been high; but his eyes were clear and bright, and he held out his hand with a smile.

“Forgive me, Mistress Barbara,” he cried, “that I cannot rise to greet you; and accept my best thanks for the kindness of your visit.”

Charles walked up to him and shook him gravely by the hand.

“I am pleased to see you, sir,” he said in his old-fashioned way, “and Cousin Barbara and I are very glad that we found you in the glen.”

“Hush, Charles!” cried I. “Remember your mama said you were not to talk too much.”

“This is not ‘too much,’ Barbe,” returned the boy, “and you know we _are_ glad!”

“Pardon me, madam,” said Mr. Fleming, when he had, at my bidding, drunk the coffee. “It will amuse me greatly and do me no harm if you permit your little cousin to explain himself. I imagined that I was found by some of my Lady Erskine’s men, sent out to look for stragglers in the hills.”

I could only smile and give my permission, begging him at the same time to make all allowances for the childish narrator. I seated myself a little way off, and hoped that the child would say nothing I should regret; but at the same time I was not averse to the idea that my friend should know to whom, in all probability, he owed his life.

“You see, sir,” said Charles, standing by the chair, and putting his little hand on Mr. Fleming’s knee, “my mama had sent my Cousin Barbara with some comforts to a poor woman in the glen, and I was sent with her as her protector. There was nothing, truly, to protect her from, but there might have been, you know! And I was of some use too--of a great deal of use, wasn’t I, Barbe? For ’twas I that saw you first, sir, under the bush.”

“Yes, indeed,” I said, “your sharp little eyes descried Mr. Fleming before mine did.”

“Then Cousin Barbe went and looked at you, and at first she thought you were dead, but I knew you weren’t for I saw you breathing. And then she said would I be frighted to run back to the house alone for help, and I said ‘no;’ but I was, you know, a good deal frighted--’specially when the pig grunted, and I thought ’twas a Highlander after me! But I runned very fast, and got to the house all safe.”

He stopped for breath, and his listener patted him on the head.

“Bravo, little comrade! That is the true courage, to be a good deal frighted but still to go on. And what of Mistress Barbara left alone?”

“Oh,” said Charles, “I think Barbara was frighted too, for you wouldn’t wake up; and it was very cold and dark, and she took off her plaid and put it over you, and ran all the way back to the hut for brandy, and made you, _made_ you take some, and rubbed your hands, and--”

“Come, that will do, my lad!” I exclaimed, my cheeks very hot, my heart beating quick, for my friend had turned to look at me, and there was that in his eyes which I found it not easy to meet.

“Nay!” cried Charles, carried away by his own tale, “I have but one thing more to say. Do you know, Captain Anthony, she did all that, and you never--even--said ‘Thank you!’”

At that we both laughed heartily till the boy, not comprehending, began to look uncomfortable, and Mr. Fleming, taking his hand, said seriously.

“You must forgive me, Charles, as I can only hope your cousin does. But to make up for my rudeness, I mean to go on thanking her all my life--if she will let me!”

The last words were uttered in a lower tone, and his eyes were again fixed on my face. Charles ran off to the window, some noise outside attracting him, and I took the opportunity to say as carelessly as I might,

“You make too much, sir, of a trivial kindness, which any woman would have performed for a wounded man.”

“No doubt, madam,” he answered gravely, leaning forward in his chair, “but that cannot lessen my gratitude, for my life is incomparably sweet and precious to me now. You gave it back to me, and were it not too early in our acquaintance, I would say I herewith offer it to you--nay, listen, madam! Ever since that first morning when I saw you, with your sweet face pale with terror, and your eyes appealing to any chivalry that was left in man, my one thought, outside my duty as a soldier, has been to be worthy to care for and protect you all through life, so that if my faithful love could shield you, you should never suffer fear or pain again.”

I made no answer and my eyes were hid. “This, I know, is not the time to talk of such things,” he went on, “neither do I expect a prize so exquisite to fall into my hand at the first touch. Grant me but time, madam, to prove my honesty in the words of the motto of our house, ‘_Let deed show_,’ and if Heaven be so kind as to preserve me in future dangers, give me leave to come to you again.”

Did ever maid listen to such perfect wooing! Ah! Barbara, happy Barbara, did not that hour atone for all your pain? Even as I write, an old and faded woman, my heart gives a throb of bliss when I think of it. How good God is, how tender and loving, when He grants us, all undeserving as we are, our heart’s desire!

I said not a word in answer, but rose and went to him and gave him both my hands. As he seized them and pressed them to his lips, a footstep sounded in the passage, and the next moment Mr. Peck entered, telling us in his kindly nervous way that he thought his patient would be the better of a rest.

“Ah! Mr. Peck,” cried my dear Anthony gaily, “their visit has done me more good than all your medicines, though but for your kind and constant care, good friend, I should never have been able to profit by it.”

Charles now came forward and looked at him inquisitively.

“Are you going to be well very soon, Captain Anthony?” he said.

“I hope so, little comrade,” was the reply. “You know there is much work to be done still for the King.”

“Ay,” said Charles, “but I shall be sorry when you go away. My papa, Sir John, says in his letter that the King is coming to Scotland in a few days.”

“God grant he be not too late!” groaned Mr. Peck, but we did not heed him, and taking a kindly leave of our friend we left the room.

Four days later, my lady had the pleasure of another letter from Sir John, and wrote to him the following in reply. And here I may say that the fears she had expressed to me about their correspondence were justified, for this tender but cautious epistle missed Sir John at this time, and lay for two months at St. Germains, where he found it on the 15th of February on his second visit to France.

LETTER III

“MY DEAREST LIFE,

I received yours of the 20th and another of the 29th of Nov., which were both most acceptable, but they had both been long by the way, for it was the 5 of Dec. before I received the first. You are much mistaken in thinking I was displeas’d with you for leaveing this country. I doe assure you I thought it a lucky providence, and, tho I was in fear from not hearing from you, yett it was easy to bear in comparison of what terror I must have had if you had been in the danger some other of our freinds have been in. I suppose you know all our difficultys from better hands long ere now, and by that you may guess the torment and fear and terrible horror I must be in for you and many others. If I had known your adress I had writ to you three weeks ago and beg’d of you to stay where you was till you saw how things would be. I writ to your Brother in hopes he would learn itt from some att Edinr., but he told me he could not, and you was soon expected, and I was so far from wishing you soon back, I was afraid to hear of your return. I pray God send a happy end to all, for I am just where I was and my hops are still very faint, that person you mention in yours not being come yett. Your children are very well, and all your other friends. I doe not wish to hear you are returned, but when you doe, pray God you may be saffe, which is the earnest wish of her who is intirely Yours.

Dec. 10.

I am better than could be expected, all things considered. If you can have any reasonable pretence to stay, doe not come by any means. Mr. Peck gives you his most humble service, so does Aunt B. and I.”