CHAPTER XXII

HOW WE HEAR TIDINGS THAT MAKE OUR HEARTS ACHE, AND ILL PREPARE US FOR THE GREAT SURPRISE

The short afternoon was closing in. The snow was falling steadily and soft, for there was no wind and the frost still held. We sat at work in the hall, being gathered there for warmth, for in this hard winter when so many poor were abroad, my lady thought shame to burn coal freely, choosing rather to give it away to her poorer neighbours, who, you may be sure, blessed her for the thought. She had bidden us bring our work and sit by her as she span, for she knew how restless and unhappy we were, and hoped perhaps to ease her own burdened heart by friendly and intimate talk.

We had that day had news which moved my lady sadly. For General Cadogan, who shortly before had arrived at Stirling, having been sent from the Court in London to urge the Duke of Argyle to immediate action, had brought with him an order to deprive Colonel Erskine of the Command of the Castle, and to send him, together with his son, John, under a Guard to London, where he was to be lodged in the Fleet prison. The thought of the poor old gentleman being made to suffer the hardships of the long journey in this cruel winter weather, was very bitter to us all, and to be obliged to sit helpless and do nothing but talk, was, as Betty cried impatiently, the worst of it.

“I am convinced,” my lady said, again and again, “that nothing can be found against them save their relationship to Sir John, and my Lord Mar’s friendship for the Colonel, and that, as you know, has lasted many years and is quite unconnected with this affair. ’Twould be unreasonable indeed to think it.”

“Oh, sister,” cried Betty vehemently, “do you think those fools have any reason? If they had, would they not know that it is _they_ who are in the wrong, and stop all this cruel opposition? But for poor Colonel Erskine I agree with all you say, and I must own I hope the good gentleman may be treated with all the care and respect he deserves.”

“’Tis done to spite the Earl of Mar,” said my lady, “you may be sure. The Governorship has been in his family for hundreds of years, and my uncle holds it for him as his Lieutenant. I am not so blind as not to see they are in the right to make a change at such a time, but ’tis neither kind nor just to send a harmless old man to prison at such a distance, in weather like this.”

“Who will take his place, madam, think you?” asked I.

“’Tis an open secret that the Government will offer it to Lord Rothes,” said Betty. “That has long been talked in Fife.”

“Well,” said my lady, “he is a humane and generous enemy; we have little to fear from him. If only they had confined the Colonel in Blackness or Edinburgh Castle, and saved him the horrors of that long journey to London.”

And again the tears came to her eyes, for there was a tender friendship between these two, and my lady would have guarded the old man with a daughter’s care.

There was nothing to say to comfort her, and we sat silent, weaving our sad thoughts into our work as women will, for each of us had, as you know, our private weight of woe. My own heart was away with the King’s army, wondering and pondering over the welfare of one of his least important officers; poor Betty, I knew, was following her brother in his ignominious flight, and my dear lady, besides her other troubles, had ever the fear for Sir John’s safety upon her mind.

It was while we were sitting thus, wrapped in gloom, that a messenger arrived with news for my lady. With a sigh she bade him enter, fearing that, like Job, she was about to hear of disaster upon disaster. And so, indeed, it proved. This man was come to tell us how his Grace of Argyle had set the country people to work, to the number of about two thousand, to clear the roads of the snow, so as to make it possible for his army to march to Perth; and scarcely was he finished speaking when there arrived one of our neighbours, Mr. Abercrombie of Tullibody I think it was, who broke to us the awful news of the burning of the villages. I will not shock you now by describing the way in which the deed was done, for officers, I suppose, are not wholly responsible for the actions of the soldiery, and sure I am that those who gave the order had no thought of thieving, or plundering from the poor people, whom they believed themselves obliged to render homeless; but neither was it necessary to take them by surprise at four o’clock in the morning, and turn them out of their beds in scant attire in the bitter cold. Long before Mr. Abercrombie, himself much moved, had come to an end of his recital, we sat horrified and with streaming eyes around him, seeing as he spoke the women with their infants, the feeble old men, the tottering children, hungry and naked, driven ruthlessly through the snow.

“And who dare issue an order so monstrous?” cried Betty at last, being ever the first to find her tongue. “Who among our people could invent so diabolical a measure?”

“Ah, madam,” said our guest sadly, “all is fair in war ’tis said, and if we can embarrass the enemy we think little of the means taken to do so. The order was signed by the Chevalier himself, as was necessary, he being at the head of his army.”

“I’ll not believe it!” cried Betty. “He is a humane and gentle prince. I’ll never believe he understood what he wished them to do.”

“Why, Bess, my dear,” said my lady, “’twas sure not by his good will ’twas done; but can you not see that if his General Officers advised it, the King must put his name to the order?”

“Ay, sister,” wailed Betty, “and can _you_ not see the folly of it, even apart from the cruelty? I say that they have betrayed their King. Who will believe in the reluctance of his Majesty? Who will ever know anything of it? Whatever happens now, this deed that has been done in his name will cling to the memory of the people. Whenever he is mentioned their hearts will burn within them at the thought of it. Never, never will they do him justice, but will remember him only as the cause of their misery and ruin for ever.”

My lady bowed her head sadly, and I wept the more, for Betty’s burning words fell upon our ears like a solemn prophecy, and we knew that her words were true. ’Twas indeed a miserable and mistaken act, long, long to be rued among us.

“I hear,” said Mr. Abercrombie, “that the barony of Dalreoch, belonging to Mr. Haldane of Gleneagles, is utterly destroyed; straw and corn and fodder being heaped around the houses and then set alight, and the servants and farm people having barely escaped with their lives. They looked to find horses and cattle for their use, but those have long ago been carried off.”

“I am sorry for my sister,” said my lady, “but they suffer only with the rest; and she at least has the comfort of knowing that her husband is on the safe side of the fence. We are told, sir, that the Duke is pushing on towards Perth. Is it known in that town of his approach?”

“Oh, without doubt,” replied our visitor, “and for some time they have been occupied fortifying the place; but I have private information, madam, that ’tis likely the army may retire to Aberdeen, rather than stay to be besieged in Perth. And after all this may be the safer method to draw Argyle further from his base.”

“Why, indeed, I am glad to hear this,” cried my lady, (for since the departure of her brother from Perth, we had heard but little news from that quarter); “they will fight him further north, and for one thing they will be nearer the sea, so that the troops when they arrive from France may be able to join them without delay.”

I thought that Mr. Abercrombie looked dubious at the mention of troops, but he did not discourage my lady, and after some more talk, which I am bound to say he endeavoured to lead into a more cheerful channel, he went away.

But it was impossible to hide from ourselves, and from each other, that our hopes were very faint indeed and our fears greatly increased. We could talk and think of little save those poor, starving, suffering folk in the Stewarty of Strathearn, and many were the plans arranged by Lady Erskine to send them help of food and clothing, tho’ the poor about her own doors were numerous and necessitous enough.

Meantime the enemy, having once begun to act, seemed bent on losing no more time. The great fall of snow, which was everywhere two or three feet deep, was followed by another hard frost, and the roads were thus rendered extremely difficult. But the Duke, urged on by his orders from Court, was only waiting for the arrival of some regiments from Glasgow, and artillery from Berwick and Edinburgh. The storm having delayed a train of artillery from England under Colonel Borgard, it arrived in the Roads of Leith late one Saturday afternoon, and marching with all possible speed to Stirling, reached that place in time to join the main army in its march northwards. Once again upon a Sunday could be seen the dark stream of horse, foot, and artillery winding slowly along the snowy road, and though the Duke went no further that day than to Dunblane, a detachment was sent forward to the Castle of Braco, which however they found deserted. And still we had to sit and nurse our fears in patience, and for a whole long week we suffered the martyrdom that women in all ages of the world have suffered, that of sitting at home and waiting.

All sorts of rumours continued to fly about, and friendly neighbours came to discuss whatever they heard. There had been a battle--the King’s army was stricken--nay, the French troops had arrived in time and Argyle had had the worst of it. There had been no fight, but half the Highland chiefs had surrendered and asked for protection, indeed they had delivered the King’s person to his Grace of Argyle who was bringing him in triumph to Edinburgh; or again the King had been crowned at Scone, and upon hearing of it the greater number of Argyle’s soldiers, excepting always the Dutch troops, had deserted to the enemy. These and other wild stories were afloat, to be listened to, frowned at, laughed over, and, for the most part, rejected, but nothing so wild and improbable as the truth ever entered our heads.

It was not until Tuesday, the 7th of February, that the final blow came, and again it was Mr. Abercrombie that brought the news. The King’s army had evacuated Perth, it is true, and under General Gordon had retired upon Aberdeen; but the King, accompanied by the Earl of Mar, and one or two other noblemen, had embarked at Montrose three days before, and were now well on their way back to France.

It was impossible to palliate or disguise the bitter fact, and our informant blurted it out in the shortest and plainest words. What terror we were in, what surprise and disappointment, what shame and chagrin we suffered, I will leave you to imagine. By degrees we learnt that there had been no council held by the General Officers before taking this step, that only a few intimates of my Lord Mar knew of it, and that the rest were full of rage and indignation, considering that they had been betrayed and abandoned to the enemy. That the King had been persuaded it was the best and wisest thing he could do, believing that with his removal the Rising would collapse, the army disperse, and the country become quiet, we could not of course have any doubt. But when all was said and done, the vengeance of the Government was still to be reckoned with, and he had left them to face it alone. It was not by my lady nor her sister that any censure was passed upon their beloved King, nor did they voice their opinion of my Lord Mar in any way to blame him. But those outside the house were not so discreet, and indeed it added to our pain to hear the free comments that were made upon the affair.

In the meantime, where was Sir John; what had become of the Master of Sinclair, whose wisdom and foresight Betty now extolled to the skies; and what, oh, what of Barbara’s lover, too insignificant to all but herself to be worthy of mention in the general reports? I can tell you there were three sorrowful women at Alva in those days, and the saddest of all perhaps was my Lady Erskine, who went about with folded lips and fear-haunted eyes, forcing herself to her daily tasks, as she told me after, “with a thousand pins and needles in her heart.”

By degrees we heard fresh tidings: how General Gordon had abandoned Aberdeen, after occupying it for only two days; how the army, upon deciding that each man must shift for himself, had dispersed in various directions, promising however to come together again upon word received from the King; how many of the officers and noblemen had embarked in ships for France and Sweden; and how others, less fortunate, were hiding in the mountain-districts of the Highlands, expecting, as was natural, to be hunted by the Government troops, and waiting till they also could find ships to bear them to the Continent. But all this time not a word of our good Sir John. We watched my lady’s face grow whiter and more worn, and longed in our helplessness to comfort her.

“Why, oh why, does he not contrive to send word to her?” cried Betty, the tears in her eyes. “He cannot be dead. I defy them to keep him prisoner; and if he be anywhere in Scotland he could surely have sent a messenger of some sort to Alva. But men are all alike, thoughtless and selfish, and have little care for the unfortunate woman at home once they have left them.”

I forgave the bitterness of her tone knowing how her heart yearned after her eldest brother, for no news had been received for long, and her words applied equally to him. But the very next day relief came.

We had but just finished dinner when a noise in the lobby attracted our attention, and Charles rising and running to the door called out: “’Tis Andrew! Oh, mama, Andrew Short is returned. And why did you not bring my papa home again, Andrew? Where is he?”

Trembling and agitated we rose to greet him, for Andrew had been with Sir John, and we dreaded what his tidings might be. A sore-stricken and weary man was he that entered the room; so woe-begone his countenance, so shame-faced his mien that I for one feared the very worst. “Andrew, where is Sir John?” cried my lady, running up to him, and looking in his face with such haggard anxiety in her eyes as touched the good fellow to the heart.

“Sir John is safe, my leddy!” he said quickly, in a hoarse voice, “or ye never wad hae seen me here. But does yer leddyship ken whaur the King is, an’ his freend, the Earl o’ Mar?”

“Alas, yes! my good Andrew, and our hearts are heavy enough at the knowledge, and all it means to Scotland. But you are spent and hungry, and though you must satisfy me about Sir John, we will wait till you are warmed and fed before you give us further news. You have a letter for me, belike?”

She looked at him eagerly, and her face fell when he shook his head.

“Na, my leddy, nae letter. Sir John wadna trust a written line; but I was tae tell ye he sailed for France on the second day of this month, that was twa days _afore_ the ither folk took their leave, ye ken, mem. And landed safe he is, I mak’ nae doot, by this time.”

My lady sank down upon a chair, and covered her face with her hands for a little space.

“Thank God!” she said at length, “he is at least beyond danger. But can you not tell me more, Andrew? Who sent him away, and for what purpose?”

“My leddy,” said the man, “I canna tell ye mair than Sir John tellt me, and that was that he had orders tae sail for France from Montrose on the Thursday nicht, wi’ despatches, he said, tae the Queen; that I was tae bide whaur I was for twa days, and then tae come hame as fast but as secret as I could manage it, and bring his love and kind respects tae yer leddyship, and tell ye he was gane awa’ tae France.”

And though we questioned him closely he had no more to tell us of the matter. After he had been sent away to rest and be fed, my lady looked at us uneasily.

“I must send an express to Charles Erskine this very night,” she said, “to give him news of his brother. But why has Sir John sent me no instructions as to what he wishes me to do?”

“Indeed, sister,” said Betty, “it surprises me that Sir John did not acquaint you with his plans when you saw him at Dysart. It is impossible he did not know something of what was to happen, for he was ever in the confidence of my Lord Mar. Why did he not prepare you for this?”

“God knows,” said my lady, in sad perplexity, gazing out of the window at the snow-clad world; “and He alone knows what will happen to us now.”

“Perhaps if Sir John knew anything he was bound to secrecy,” cried I, who could not bear to hear my kind guardian blamed even by those who loved him. “But tell me, dear madam, what is’t you fear?”

“Vengeance, Barbara,” she answered, with sombre earnestness, “the vengeance of the reigning house. Sir John is no longer a trusted agent of the rightful King, he is a Rebel, an Outlaw, an Exile; and who knows whether he may not be attainted, and all his estates forfeited to the Crown?”

“What’s forfeited, mama?” cried little Charles. “Oh, I do want my papa to come home,” and at that my lady caught the boy to her breast, and broke into a fit of wild weeping, pouring out her anguish, poor soul, to us who wept with her, all the more freely that she had hitherto kept her feelings so well under control.

But the express was sent that afternoon to Edinburgh, and the very next evening Mr. Erskine was with us. Kind and calm and cheerful, it is impossible to exaggerate the helpful influence he exercised upon us. He combated my lady’s fears, telling her that though it was impossible to know yet what parliament might or might not decide, he had great hopes that, as the Rebellion had not gone far, they would not act with extreme rigour. Again, he said, although Sir John had shown himself active in the Cause, he had many friends upon the other side, all of them in good odour with the Government; and everything that could be said or done in Sir John’s favour, to create a feeling of confidence, would, he knew, be willingly carried out. In the meantime he thought there was nothing to do but to wait quietly and see what should transpire. His one anxiety seemed to be that his brother, Sir John, in his impulsive way, might decide at once to settle abroad and desire his wife to come to him with their children, and this he thought would be unwise, as it would mean abandoning his estate to whoever might be ready to seize it. Patience and silence were the two things he recommended, besides promising my lady all the help in his power whenever she should desire it. The letter of the thirteenth of February was written while Mr. Erskine was in the house with us, and in it you will see that my dear lady had schooled herself to write quietly and moderately. The very day before she wrote, poor Betty had been somewhat comforted by receiving a letter from her brother, who wrote to her on the eve of his sailing for France.

He had, after many hardships, got as far north as Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands, and from thence to Stromness, where, with several others, he seized a ship with a French pilot on board and set sail for Calais. Her mind was therefore at rest about his person, though like my lady she dreaded on his account the impending _vengeance_ which had all the horrors of the unknown.

LETTER IV

MY DEAREST LIFE,

It was no small satisfaction to me in the present state of affairs to hear you was gone. It is what I shall bless God for while I live. Your servant’s return was the first account I had; tho’ my grief was unexpressable the thoughts of your safety did mitigate it very much. It was impossible but you did foresee what wold happen when I was with you, and if you did, you were much to blame not (to) tell me your thoughts of itt, and what methods should be taken for your private affairs. Charles is here just now and most kindly offers to doe all in his power, as I doubt not all your other friends will; but he expected I wold have had a method from you. Whether you did not imagin so suden an end, or would not give mee a sore heart befor the time, I know not.

Now let me beg of you, as you regard me and your children, not to have any uneasy thoughts about us. I am not afraid of want of sober bread for them and myself; but as I told you the thoughts of your being in pinches is very Bitter, and the prospect I must have of being absent from you for some time, and perhaps for ever, is what imploys my thoughts night and day. But why should I complain of what God in his wise providence has ordered as a just punishment for the abuse of many mercys. Let us then, my Dearest, submit with patience, and trust in that mercyful Father who has hitherto preserv’d you from so imminent dangers, that He will, in His own good time, give us a comfortable meeting, and to live as becomes the children of affliction, in endeavouring to set our hearts above the world and the vanitys thereof.

I am most impatient to hear from you, and if ye knew what a relief it wold be to have a letter, you wold (have) writ the moment you landed. The person mine is directed to wold find a way to send one to me. I was heartily sorry you was not better provided with money, but if you please to take 100 pound from Mr. Gordon, and make him draw on his correspondent at Edinr., I shall endeavour to have it ready on some day’s sight. I am to beg (you) earnestly to let me know what resolution you have taken as to the place of your abode, and not to be sudden in resolving, but to let me know what you intend, and I hop as you regard my quiet you will not doe anything till you have my consent. I must see what shape things will take here, before I can frame a resolution of seeing you.... There was a great consternation amongst your freinds att the departure of two great men that followed you, and I find the not acquainting them with it is thought hard. I hear they keep still together, but that cannot doe long, God help them! You are lucky in your misfortune that you have kind freinds that are both willing and capable to serve you, and I am hopeful by their means to be in a better state than many others, which is great deal more than we deserve.

Now let me again beg of you to writ freely to me, and tell me every uneasy thought you have, and make youself as easy as possible, and put in practice the virtue of resignation which you have so often talkt of to me. The more frequently you writ I will be the easyer. Your children are well, but poor B. is in great affliction for her brother and talks of leaveing me. Charls and all freinds here salute you, and I am, my Dearest, Life, Yours,

Fe. 13.

I must say Charls makes all the kind offers to me that you can imagine.