CHAPTER XXIII
TELLS OF FURTHER SAD DOINGS, AND OF THE BEAUTY AND BURDEN OF THE SPRING
The relief of pouring out her heart to her husband was, as my dear lady once told me, very great, and I think it a real mercy that she could not foresee how long her letters were to be of reaching him. That they eventually did so, their presence before me is proof; but many of them are endorsed as having been received many weeks, nay, months, after they were written. My lady was so anxious to set Sir John’s mind at rest about herself and their children, so troubled on the score of money for his sake, and so uncertain as to what his next movements might be, that you can picture to yourselves her distress at not hearing either from or of him week after week. In spite of her care in seeking to provide him with money, Sir John seems at first to have been in straits for want of it, and it will interest you to know that among these papers there is a letter from the Queen’s Private Secretary, Mr. Dicconson, endorsed--“Came with the bill of 600 livres,” which I shall copy here.
St. Germain Mar. ye. 6. 1716. Sir,
I am ordered by the Queen to send you a small bill presuming you may be at present want of a little money, which her Majesty is troubled her circumstances will not permit her to make more considerable, but hopes she may be better able hereafter and that this might be a present supply. I beg you will please to do me the justice to believe that I am with all imaginable sincerity and esteem,
Your most humble and most obedient servant, (Signed) W. Dicconson.
I remember that when my lady heard of this thoughtful kindness on the part of her Majesty, who out of her poverty endeavoured to help all who were suffering through their loyalty to her son, she could not refrain from shedding tears.
But this information came to Alva many weeks later. In the meantime, we hoped for letters from day to day, and had pain and anxiety enough in hearing of the many calamities that every hour came to our knowledge. Our hearts were wrung by the news of the sentence pronounced against Lords Kenmure, Derwentwater, Nithisdale and others; and eagerly did we await the result of the many petitions presented to the King for their reprieve. How we prayed in private, and spoke in public about them and the heart-broken wives, Ladys Kenmure, Derwentwater, and Nithisdale, who, braving the King’s displeasure, and in the case of the last, his determined wrath, in order to beg for mercy for their beloved husbands, made every effort to save them from death. How bitterly we wept on hearing of the executions that took place on Tower Hill one dreary day in the end of February. But no tears were of any avail; only the memory of two brave and innocent men lived long in the hearts of Scots and English alike. My Lord Kenmure died professing his loyalty to King James; and the young Earl of Derwentwater, much loved and long lamented, gave to the Sheriff on the scaffold a paper containing his dying profession of innocence. Part of this paper I copied in my little diary, and here I reproduce it for those who never saw it.
“Wherefore if in this affair I have acted rashly it ought not to affect the innocent; I intended to wrong nobody, but to serve my King and Country, and that without self-interest, hoping by the example I gave to have induced others to do their duty. And God, who sees the secrets of my heart, knows I speak truth.... I die a Roman Catholic.... I freely forgive such as reported false things of me; and I hope to be forgiven the trespasses of my youth by the Father of Infinite Mercy into Whose hand I commit my soul.
(Signed) JAS. DERWENTWATER.”
Such brave, gentle, innocently touching words! Do you wonder that they dared not bring the poor, headless body openly from London to the north, but had it carried thither by night, bringing him home by stealth to his weeping and distracted people, who believed that the wrath of Heaven would surely fall upon the doers of this awful deed. It was said that the Duke of Argyle, travelling to London, met the mournful procession on its way, and was so struck by the grief and despair of the people that he represented to the Government the unwisdom of their act, and thereby helped to turn their hearts to clemency.
It was with a shock of relief and joy that we heard immediately after this of the escape of my Lord Nithisdale out of prison. Long years afterwards I was told the whole story of his brave wife’s devotion: how she made the journey from Scotland to London mostly on horseback, the snow, which often reached to her horse’s girths, having stopped the Stagecoach, and even the Common Post, south of York. In spite of this she arrived safe and sound at London, only to find that no one to whom she applied could give her any hope, and that even the doors of her husband’s prison were closed against her, unless she consented to share his confinement. This, for reasons of her own, she refused to do, but by bribing the guards she contrived to see him several times and confided to him her plans. When she presented her petition to the King, the latter refused so much as to look at her, but treated her in a way not much to his honour or credit. However, on the very eve of the execution, as you know, she contrived by the help of her maid (a faithful woman) to dress my lord in female clothes, and bring him out of the prison under the very eyes of the guard. It happened that the coach of the Venetian Ambassador was to go that night to Dover to meet his brother, who was arriving as his guest in England. Lord Nithisdale, attired in the Ambassador’s livery, joined the retinue, and by help of friends at Dover hired a boat which landed him safe at Calais. His lady’s brave work was not yet finished, for she journeyed back to Scotland, accompanied by her maid and one servant, lying at all the smallest inns, and braving many hardships till she reached home. Before going to London, she had, with the help of the gardener, buried all the family papers; and knowing that search would soon be made, she contrived to secure every valuable document, and take them with her to Traquair, where her sister, the Countess, promised to preserve them. She then returned home, saw all her neighbours, and invited the magistrates to come and make the search for themselves; but next day before day-break she was off again to London as before. This conduct made the King so angry, that he said my Lady Nithisdale gave him more trouble and anxiety than any woman in all Europe. For a fortnight she lay concealed in London, and then escaped to France, where she joined her lord.
These details, as you know, I only learned long after; but the happy fact of Lord Nithisdale’s escape, and the action of his heroic wife, were common talk among us at the time. My dear lady envied the latter her chance of doing and suffering for her husband, as what wife in like circumstances would not; for sure the harder part is to sit still and do nothing, with one’s heart alive for action.
About this time came a letter from the dowager Lady Alva, offering a visit to her dear daughter-in-law, Catherine, which offer went exceedingly against my lady’s inclination. Not that she did not love her mother-in-law--and at another time would have welcomed her gladly to the house--but just now, with their political views so at variance from each other, she did not see how they could meet and talk with any show of cordiality and agreement. She could not bear, she said, to hear Sir John blamed, and she foresaw the dowager mourning over her son’s Rebellion, and drawing dark pictures of the future for herself and her little lads. At the same time she was resolved not to fail in duty to her husband’s mother, especially as by keeping friendly with her she might incline the favour of those in authority, for old Lady Alva was a determined Whig, and no shadow of doubt had ever touched her family.
My lady’s brothers-in-law, Mr. Charles Erskine and Mr. Patrick Campbell of Monzie, were constant in their care and interest for all her concerns, and as she said herself, she was supported on all sides by the kindest of friends. To say truth, her bitterest trouble was the absence of her husband, and the uncertainty of the measures to be taken by Government against the Rebels. Then, too, she was sick at heart for the sufferings of others: the imprisonment of her uncle, Colonel Erskine; the grief of her sister Grizel, whose husband, Mr. Paterson, was also in exile; of Lady Kippendavie, Lady Keir, and many others; not forgetting poor Lady Jean, my Lord Mar’s sister, who besides her sorrow at her brother’s failure, was suffering from the like bereavement. No news came from the Master of Sinclair, but I think my lady’s heart was so turned against him by his conduct at Perth that she did not greatly care what became of him, though poor Betty spoke of him constantly with much affection and regret.
And so the sad days went forward, and February wore to an end, and still my lady and poor Barbara had no word of cheer to lighten their hearts. The following letter is almost a repetition of the last, but I give it in its place, as to me it seems like my lady’s voice, alive and speaking.
LETTER V
My Dearest Life,
I have good reason to hop you arriv’d safe, since I hear all the three ships that went off at that time landed safely; but I am surprised you do not fall upon some way to let me hear from you. I cannot express my impatience to have a particular account where you are and where you intend to make your abode. I writ to you the 13th of this month; I hop it has come to your hand before this time. I told you in it to take 100 pound from Mr. Gordon and cause him to draw upon his correspondent in Edinr. for the money. I shall doe all that’s possible to get more again you want it. I am very easy as to my own particular or my boys; very sober things will serve us, and if you be well and easy in your mind and have what is necessare, I ought to be very thankfull. I must confess I have not minded my own misfortune. The miserys of others ha’s so much affected me, and the concern I am in for my poor Uncle and Mr. P. and many others does so afflict me, I can think on nothing else, and whatever way I turn my thoughts I have nothing but dismall prospects before me. God Almighty support all of us under so bitter a calamity and give us the right use of it. We ought to submit with patience and trust in the mercy of Him who hath smitten us, and if we turn to Him as we ought, He will heal us in his own good time.
I expect your mother here next week. You may imagine there will be no harmony in our conversation; but I am resolv’d to make the best I can of all things, and shal omit nothing that can be for your interest however uneasy it may be to myself, in hops when the best is made of your affairs the present circumstances can allow, we may have something to live (on) together in some retir’d place, till kind providence give a turn to bring us to our own; and if that never happen, when we come to dye it will be all the same whether we have liv’d in plenty or in more straitning circumstances.
I think if things continue as they are I would leave Britain with a desire never to see it again. I am sometimes afraid you go to Moscoe without acquainting me; let me beg of you as you regard my life doe not think of it, at least for some time, and if after that you think it convenient I will go very chearfully with you to any corner of the earth; so I beg of you resolve to do nothing of that nature rashly, nor must you do it without acquainting me, and get my consent before you doe it. This I beg’d in my last, and I hope (for) your complyance if you either wish or expect ever to see me again.
Your man, Andrew, came here some days ago, very well. I regrated he was not with you, but if you please to let me know if you desire to have him, I’ll endeavour to find some opportunity of sending him, and in the meantime I shall imploy him here. Charles and P. C. will do all in their power for manageing your affairs after the best manner, butt I fear there can be little done by any, because all is done by the folks who desire nothing so much as the utter ruin of this country, and it will be a general measure. All your friends will be at their country-seats, so if you write it must not be either to Charles or P. C. My sister, Betty, is here and gives you her kind service, as does poor Aunt Betty, who is in great affliction. Wishing my dear all manner of happyness.
I am in all sincerity, yours.
Fe. 26.
The friends you left together are all dispers’d; there is none Prisoners but Mephon (Methvine) and some others who gave up themselves. Your boys are very well.
At last the snow began to melt under the bright spring sun, and a soft wind blowing from the south-west brought a gentle rain upon its wings, which hastened the thawing of the hard ground. After a winter of such length and severity, it was indeed a glad thing to behold the earth, (wondrous green and fresh) pushing aside her wintry mantle and laying bare her bosom to the sky. Small things began to force their way through the surface of the ground, tender buds showed upon the trees, and after the long silence the birds in garden and glen took up their music, and sang the gladsome Life-March of the Spring.
I walked one afternoon with my dear lady alone under the bare branches, and tried to beguile her from her sad thoughts by talk of the opening season which, last year, she had told me she so loved; but her face was pale and worn, and she answered me absently, though with her wonted gentleness. I knew her very spirit was weary, and I had no word of comfort to give her. Presently we sat down upon a wooden bench which the westering sun made warm with his beams, and tired of my own listless efforts at cheerfulness, I fell into a wistful silence. All at once a mavis on a branch behind us broke into song so sweet and thrilling that my lady clasped my arm to hold me still. Sudden and clear and short was his lay, and then after a slight pause he sang it over again. In the silence and the sunlight, with the cool scent of the damp earth in our nostrils, the bird’s singing seemed like the voice of the spirit of gladness bidding us take joy in the renewal of life. But strange to say it was not joy but pain that wrung my heart-strings, and my dear lady laid her head upon my shoulder and wept.
“Oh, Barbara,” she sighed at last, “that bird and his song, that last year I listened to so gladly, how it pierces my heart with its sweetness, and only makes my sadness and loneliness more grievous. It raises in me such a longing for the sight of my dear husband’s face, that I feel at times the pain of it will kill me! How is it possible to live with a heart so heavy? The burden of it is sometimes greater than I can bear.”
“I know, I know,” I murmured; for her words did so fully express my feelings that they seemed to come from my own heart, and indeed I thought that I felt and suffered even as she did, knowing little, in my ignorance, of the difference between us. For, as the tiny mountain-burn that tinkles down the glen is to the broad, full, swiftly-flowing river, so is the love of a maid for her untried lover to the love of a wife for her husband, the father of her children. Something of this thought must have come to my lady’s mind, for she turned to me very kindly.
“Poor little Barbara! I am sure you think you do; and I fear you must have found me selfish and hard, in that I have spoken no word to you of Mr. Fleming, but I deemed it best, my dear, to keep silent, hoping you were learning to forget, or at least that you did not grieve too much.”
“Oh, cousin!” I cried, the barriers of my reserve breaking down before her sympathy. “He is ever in my thoughts. How could I forget? All day I think of him, and at night I dream such dreary dreams. If I could know where he is, or what has become of him, what would I not give? And I let him go so coldly, madam; he does not even know that I love him.”
“Why, as to that, my dear,” cried my lady, cheerfully, now bent upon comforting me, “I do not think you need have any concern. Words are not everything, Barbara, and I am sure you did not flout him.”
“Oh, madam,” I cried, “do you think I was too bold? I would not have him regard me too lightly, either.”
My lady laughed. “Well, child, you are hard to please, and I must leave Mr. Fleming to tell you his opinion of you himself. I would we could have news of him again,” she sighed, “we know nothing since his return to Perth.”
“Do you think, cousin, that he also will be in danger of ‘the vengeance?’” I asked timidly, for by this name we commonly spoke of the dreaded retribution.
“I cannot say, my dear; but I hope as he is young, and has taken no prominent part, they will not make an example of him. His kinsman, the Earl of Wigton, is in Edinburgh Castle; but his father, as you know, is a rich and respected London merchant, who has probably friends at Court. I have asked my brother, Charles, to find out if possible what has become of him, but no news have reached him as yet.”
I rose and turned my face away to hide my quivering lips.
“It is hard to bear!” I cried.
“My dearest,” she answered, “it _is_ hard; and I want to tell you how greatly I admire you for your brave silence, hiding your own grief lest you should burden me the more. I cannot thank you enough for all you have done, and been, to me and mine at this time, but if ever I have a daughter, Barbara, I shall name her after you.”
With that she kissed me very kindly (though I knew of no reason for her gratitude), but almost immediately she broke out weeping again.
“Oh, hark to my promises,” she sobbed, “foolish woman that I am! To talk of future children when I know not whether I be not already a widow--God forgive me! I scarce knew what I was saying.”
And then I took to comforting her in turn (but you know she kept her promise three years later, when my dear god-daughter was born). Her second breakdown was so violent and so unusual, that at first I was alarmed for her health, but by-and-bye she quieted herself, and even smiled as she dried her eyes.
“Just for this once, Barbara, I have let myself weep my fill, and now I feel the lighter for it. ’Twas the mavis set me going, and I suppose it is not the first time that a bird’s song has caused a full heart to overflow.”
I never forgot the words, nor the scene; and that is the reason why always in my mind I connect the mavis’ singing with my dear Lady Erskine and her troubles, as I told you at the beginning of this story.