CHAPTER XXV

TELLS OF AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, AND A GLAD SURPRISE FOR BARBARA

We found the household at the Hermitage very dull and dumpish; they seemed like people who had received a shock from which they had not yet recovered. My lord spoke little, and looked to my eyes many years older and feebler than when I saw him last. David Pitcairn came about the house as usual, making himself useful to the old man, whose younger sons, being engaged in affairs of their own, could not be much with him; and Mistress Mary, who was never very healthy, was staying with her sister at Newbyth.

The only news of interest that reached us, consisted in the reports from time to time of the safe arrival in France, or Sweden, or Holland, of this or that fugitive about whom we had been in anxiety. But so far we had heard nothing of the Marquis of Tynemouth and his friends, and my mind was divided between fears of the hardships they must be enduring among the mountains, and hopes that they were already far away in a safe country. My Lord Huntly had given himself up and made terms for himself with the Government, but the Earl of Seaforth, whose name was coupled with his as a traitor to the Cause, had in reality withdrawn his submission, and was now retired to the Isle of Lewis with his men.

A few days after our arrival at Dysart there was a great storm of rain, which lasted so continuously that the last shred of snow disappeared from the earth. It was in truth the ushering in of the summer, early though it was, for from that time the weather never went back, but continued bright, warm and genial, with light winds and occasional life-giving showers, all through that year. It seemed as if it had been sent to compensate us for the long and terrible winter, for the summer of 1716 proved one of the most bounteous seasons within the memory of man.

While it lasted, however, the rain was dreary enough, and day after day we looked out upon a grey and sullen sea, shut in by mists and low hanging clouds from any view of the opposite coast; and night after night we listened to the rain beating on our window-panes, and thought of our friends, perhaps in want of shelter, and dreamed pitiful dreams which haunted us in our waking hours. It was a dreary week at Dysart.

One night after supper, as I went to my chamber to fetch some work, I was stopped by the sound of low, continuous knocking at the door I have told you of at the foot of the turret-stair. It brought to my mind that night when my dear lady recognised her husband’s knock, and ran, in spite of my terror, to open to him; but so much had passed since then, that though I was startled, I had no sense of personal fear, knowing well that none but friends, and generally those in distress, would come to the house that way. For this reason I did not hesitate, but placing my taper in a niche of the wall, went hurriedly down the twisted stair, and paused for a moment at the back of the door. The rain was still falling though not so heavy, and behind the clouds there was a waning moon whose light came dimly through the grated window above me. I drew back the bolt cautiously and lifted the latch. The door was pushed open from without, and a man entered quickly, shutting it behind him.

“Forgive me, madam!” he whispered, “but there is danger.”

I fell back against the wall, dumbfoundered, for the man was none other than Anthony Fleming.

For a few moments we gazed at each other in silence, and then without warning I flung my arms about him and lifted my face to his. He kissed me like one in a dream.

“You!” I gasped. “You--and _here_! I thought you were over seas. Oh, thank God you are safe. Last night I dreamed that I found you again, wounded and nigh to death, and my pillow was wet when I awoke. Whence came you? You are not ill? Oh, how I have prayed that God would send you back, and now you are come, out of the mist and rain, straight to my arms. How good He is--how good! But you--you did not know I loved you, dear heart; I let you go so coldly. I have longed, oh longed, to tell you the truth; will you believe it now? I am yours for ever and ever; no one on earth shall ever come between us.”

And then my breath gave out and the tears came, and I laid my face upon his breast, trembling and weeping.

As for him he spoke no word; but he held me in his arms, closer and closer, as if he would keep me there for ever, and I felt his kisses on my hair, and heard the great throbs of his heart beating against my arm.

At that moment there was no room in all my being for anything but joy and thankfulness; but sometimes in looking back upon this scene, I have been troubled and have blushed hotly, as a woman will even in solitude, remembering my bold and free surrender. Did Mr. Fleming hesitate to speak, because of it, deeming my conduct perhaps unmaidenly? I have never dared to ask him, but I trust he has forgotten it long ago.[1]

[1] I have not forgotten it, my sweet wife, nor shall, “while memory holds her seat.” ’Twas a moment to thank God for, and only a sense of my own unworthiness kept me silent. A. F.

Whatever it boded I could not bear his silence. I have heard that women mostly love to voice their emotion, while with men it often renders them speechless.

“Will you not speak to me, Anthony?” I said. “Will you not say you are glad to see me?”

I had lifted my face to look at him, and though the light was dim, for the first and only time in my life I saw tears in my dear love’s eyes.

“Glad, sweetheart?” he murmured, “’tis like getting into Heaven.”

And after that I did not mind the silence. It lasted but a minute, and then he unclasped my hands, and putting me from him, gazed at me intently.

“Is my Lady Erskine here?” he said. “Tell me, Barbara, who is with you in the house?”

I told him, still speaking low, and then asked him what was the danger he feared.

“Tis not for myself, dear love, though I suppose it extends to us all. But there is one whose life is infinitely precious, for whom I came to beg shelter. I know my Lord Sinclair is as safe as he is kind, and Mistress Betty is well reputed among us for her loyalty. It is--”

“Stop!” I cried. “Do not tell me here. Let us hasten to Betty’s boudoir that she may hear the news first, whatever they are. Oh, come, I cannot bear to delay a moment.”

Breathless with excitement and anxiety, I had almost forgotten my own share in the event, but stopped at the door of Betty’s room to give my friend a smile and a kindly look. Then I opened the door and entered hurriedly. Betty was sitting by the fire, and on seeing us rose quickly. Her face, which at first was fixed in surprise, flushed suddenly when she recognised her visitor, and she came forward to meet him with hands outstretched.

“You, Mr. Fleming?” she cried. “How come you here, and whence? We have been much exercised about your safety, but thought you were gone to France some days ago. Are you alone?”

“Madam,” said Mr. Fleming, “I am not, and I will tell you in a few words why I am here. It is the young Marquis of Tinmouth and his uncle for whom I beg shelter. They are in hiding in a wood about a quarter of a mile from the house. I am sent to acquaint my Lord Sinclair with the matter, and if it is safe I am to return at once and tell them.”

Oh, how my dear Betty’s eyes lit up with joy! To think that there was still a chance for her to show her loyalty, and do some little thing for the Cause; to receive the King’s young relative and keep him safe, to plan and further his escape. All this appealed to her keenly and set her blood a-tingling with pleasure. Bidding us wait where we were she ran to give her father the news, and when we were alone, I was able to look at my dear with calmer eyes, and to see, alas! how worn and thin he had become.

“Worse, far worse, than when you departed from Alva,” cried I.

He laughed a little. “And small wonder, Sweet; when one has spent some weeks in the mountains, exposed to hunger and cold and wind and rain, and burdened by the dread of capture, it is not easy to keep flesh on one’s bones, or preserve a fresh and ruddy countenance.”

“Have you been without proper shelter ever since the departure of the King?” I asked in amazement.

“Most of the time,” he answered. “We could not get away from Peterhead, because of a man-of-war which kept watch to prevent us. We went to Castle Gordon, where we spent a few days, and then with the other lords withdrew westward. I will not tell you of all our trials, my dearest; but though our young master bore them all with a very cheerful spirit, we could see that they were telling on his strength. He is not much more than a boy, and has never known what hardship and exposure mean. At last it was decided that he should try to make his way south to Edinburgh, I being sent as guide; so, travelling by night and hiding by day, we were directed to this house, whence we hope to get shipped to France. I knew that if the family were at home we should be taken care of, but I little guessed the blessed welcome that was waiting here for me.”

And with that he put his arm again around me, and we stood gazing into the fire in blissful silence, till Betty’s step was heard returning.

I will leave you to imagine how the old house woke up that night from its melancholy. Very quickly Mr. Fleming was despatched to bring in the weary wanderers, and meanwhile rooms were made ready to receive them, great fires lighted to warm them, and garments brought from every wardrobe in the house to replace their worn and sodden clothing. A great supper was quickly prepared, for good-will made all hands work fast, and in the hearts of men and women alike pity for the fugitives brought the desire to help and comfort them. It was thought safer to let them enter by the turret-door; but my lord received them at the top of the winding stair, and himself conducted the young Marquis to his chamber, where with the aid of a warm bath and dry clothing, the young gentleman was able to make himself more comfortable than he had been, I should imagine, for many weeks past.

When he entered the dining-room with his host, attired in a suit of purple velvet with ruffles of lace, belonging to one of Betty’s brothers, we could scarce take our eyes off his face, even in performing our lowest curtseys, so charmed were we with his gallant bearing and his modest and pleasant looks. When Betty very prettily bade him welcome to her father’s house, and said how honoured they were at the trust reposed in their family, he blushed like the boy he was, and stammered out that the honour was his alone. He looked at the well-spread board, the blazing fire, the lighted room, and giving a little laugh he said, with a slight foreign accent that rendered his speech very attractive,

“If you could know the contrast, madam, of my surroundings this night with those of the last few weeks, you would understand very well that the gratitude is all on my side.”

“What horrors you must have endured, my lord,” cried Betty. “Oh, I fear you will bear away with you but a bitter remembrance of our inhospitable country.”

“Nay, madam,” he answered with a graceful gesture, “you have set aside that possibility for ever. But here,” he went on, “is my good uncle, Colonel Bulkeley, who has shared my vicissitudes; and I need not introduce to you our faithful friend, Captain Anthony Fleming, without whom we should, I fear, have been still longer in reaching this haven of refuge.”

These gentlemen now entered the room, and it was with great joy that I noticed the improvement in Mr. Fleming’s looks, who, now that he had performed his toilette, seemed neither so ill nor so haggard as I had thought him. Thin he was and worn with his hardships, but the glad look in his eyes gave him an air of restfulness and satisfaction which had before been wanting.

Colonel Bulkeley was a tall, stout man with a full, high-coloured face. ’Twas difficult to believe that he had endured the same trials that had left the younger men so thin and pale. With my foolish woman’s caprice, I took an instant dislike to the brave Colonel, though he made his bow to us very low, and addressed Betty in a courteous and gentlemanly way. Still there was about him an air of dogged superiority, which, coupled with a somewhat hectoring manner, made him a man of uneasy temper for other men to deal with. And even that first night as we sat through supper, I found myself wondering how this person came to be related to the young Marquis of Tinmouth, than whom it would have been difficult to find a more sweet-tempered, modest and agreeable young man.

They told us now more particularly of their adventures, taking the precaution to speak French while the servants were in the room, and gave us to understand that the country-people, in the districts through which they had passed, were all well-affected towards the King. Most of them, it must be owned, blamed the Earl of Mar for their misfortunes, and for the disastrous ending of our hopes; for they held a firm belief that King James could have recovered them from the troubles brought about by the Union, and caused Scotland to enjoy a peace and prosperity to which she had long been a stranger. The fugitives had been directed from one house or cottage to another, and the poor folk, as well as the rich, had, they said, given them ungrudgingly of their scant provisions, besides sheltering them from observation during the daylight.

It was with a very thankful heart that Barbara laid her head upon her pillow that night, but for some time she could not sleep for joy of thinking of the safety of her friend, and wonder that the same roof should shelter them both. The rain still beat on the window, but she heeded it no longer, or only to give a passing thought of pity to any poor wanderers still abroad; and though she knew that in a day or two at most the dreaded parting must come again, she put the knowledge away from her as only the young can do, and hugged her present happiness close to her heart.

On the following day we held a council as to the best manner of assisting our friends in their project of leaving Scotland. And though one would have thought that in the presence of his host, Colonel Bulkeley should have withheld his own opinion, and paid a graceful deference to what was proposed, I cannot tell you that it was so. Several times that gentleman contradicted my lord without apology, and was for insisting that his plan, namely, to go himself to Burntisland, and there charter a ship to carry them to France, was the best that could be thought on. This my lord denied, saying very truly that the Government was keeping strict watch on all the ports in the Forth, and in so small a place the risk he ran of being recognised was too great, and it was a relief to me when Betty very gently, but firmly backed his opinion.

“You have placed yourselves in our care, sir,” said she with a smile, “and you must, if you please, leave it to us to get rid of you.”

She spoke so sweetly that no man without rough discourtesy could have withstood her, and turning to my Lord Tinmouth she went on.

“This, my lord, is our project. To send a trusted messenger to Edinburgh to acquaint Captain Straton of your lordship’s presence. He is in communication with all the honest seamen who traffic between this country and the Continent, and it is to him we must leave the final arrangements of your departure. The friend we have in view is one who has already aided the King’s Cause, and who, being often engaged in ordinary business for my father between this and Edinburgh, can go and come without suspicion being aroused.”

“Madam,” said the young Marquis, when she had finished, “I am ready to put myself and my affairs in your hands, knowing well that your loyal and kindly concern for all the King’s friends will lead you to do the best you can for us, and I am sure that my uncle,” turning courteously to Colonel Bulkeley, “will be satisfied with any arrangements that you make.”

The gallant Colonel was obliged for the moment to acquiesce and we heard no more of his objections at that time, but later we were told, both by Captain Straton and David Pitcairn, that he put forward many difficulties and found much fault even with those who were doing their best to be serviceable to him.

The trusted messenger of whom Betty spoke was, of course, the faithful David, who, on arriving at the house the next morning, was informed of what had taken place, and readily consented to undertake the part allotted to him. Some days passed, however, before anything could be settled, for the authorities were very vigilant at that time to prevent the escape of any rebels, and the Marquis of Tinmouth was a prize worth capturing. Many projects were brought forward and abandoned, and several ships’ masters, being interviewed, either declined the job, or found themselves so closely watched that it was impossible for them to undertake it.

You may be sure that Barbara, for one, did not chafe at the delay, for the presence of her lover in the house was like sunshine to her; and in the peaceful hours they spent together, the young love that was as yet but a tender plant was nurtured and cultivated between them, till it grew into the perfect thing that has comforted and beautified their whole lives. You must not forget that there was in our intercourse a strain of that pathetic doubt as to the ultimate fruition of our happiness, which chastened our joy and tinged it with a wild, sweet pain. We spoke of the future at times with confidence and faith, but would check ourselves sharply at the thought that it might never be ours. Still, for the most part, I think that the high spirits and hopes of youth forbade us to despair, and the shadow of parting for an indefinite time, while it wrung our hearts with grief, served to draw us more closely together, and make a grave and steadying back-ground to our present bliss.

My dear Betty, who was in our confidence and greatly in sympathy with us both, spent her time in cultivating the acquaintance of my Lord Tinmouth, who, she assured me, amply fulfilled the expectations she had entertained of him. His manners were so modest and so charming, his conversation so sensible and diverting, as to make him a very pleasant inmate of the house. My Lord Sinclair found him also a companion to his mind, and was surprised at his knowledge of books, his youthful judgment, and his attention to business. In fact it would be impossible to describe the general favour he met with, from old and young of both sexes, for the qualities of his mind and person.

We four spent many agreeable hours in Betty’s boudoir, while we ladies bent over our tambour-frames, and the gentlemen entertained us with an account of their adventures, or descriptions of the life in France and Holland. My Lord Tinmouth spoke one day, in his frank and boyish manner, of the match which was being arranged for him with a Spanish young lady of the highest quality and a great fortune, no less than the sister of the most noble Duke of Varagua. He told us that he had of course never seen the young lady, but was informed that she was pretty and amiable, and a portrait was being painted of her to send him for his gratification.

Forgetting to whom I spoke, I raised my head sharply from my work.

“And are you satisfied, my lord, to bind yourself for life to a lady whom you have never seen, and who may prove not at all to your taste?”

“Why yes, madam,” he answered, smiling at me pleasantly: “the friends who have arranged the marriage are certain to have chosen well, and you must remember that the same doubt and uncertainty exist for Doña Inez as for myself. It is possible she may not be pleased with me.”

“I think there is not much danger of that,” said Betty, looking at him very kindly, “and you forget, Barbara, _autre pays, autre mœurs_; young ladies in France and Spain are never allowed to choose for themselves in so weighty a matter as matrimony.”

“Oh,” I sighed, with a look at my Anthony, who was watching me, “but I think it is by far the best way.”

I saw a flicker of doubt pass over my lord’s young face, and his smile was a little wistful as he said, “It must be wonderfully pleasant, to be sure!”

“Ay, but it has its disadvantages, my lord!” cried Betty, briskly. “Even young people are not always infallible. I prophesy that your marriage will be a very happy one, and I only wish I could think we might see you and Doña Inez together one day in Scotland.”

“And I on my part, madam, can promise, that for any friend of yours who comes to Spain, my house will ever be open and my welcome of the warmest.”

At last the summons came for our guests to be ready on the morrow, to go disguised into Edinburgh, and take up their abode in the house of a faithful servant of Captain Straton. The latter gentleman was indisposed, which added to the difficulties of the case; and being in great concern for the safety of the young Marquis (who, by the way, went by the name of Mr. Barnes), he spent many days and nights in nervous anxiety, till he could form a plan that would finally and quietly dispose of him and his friends. Our good David Pitcairn came and went, untired and undismayed, taking his commands from Betty as usual, making at the same time his own sagacious suggestions, and amply repaid for all his trouble by the kindness of her smile, and the gratitude in her eyes.

The gentlemen were to cross the Firth under cover of the darkness, and my lord’s own boatmen were to row them over. My dear Anthony and I had made our adieux in private before the hour of starting, and nothing remained for us but the last embrace, a choking sigh, a few whispered words, and, on my part, I fear, some tears that would not be suppressed. The household, led by Betty, made no secret of their regret at parting with “Mr. Barnes,” who took leave of his host and hostess with words of the most courteous gratitude. We felt as sad as though parting with a long-loved friend, and for his sake even included Colonel Bulkeley in our affectionate lamentations. It was a still, moonless night. The three, accompanied by David, crept down the rugged steps to the water; and as we, watching from above, saw the boat, propelled by muffled oars in strong accustomed hands, steal out upon the black water and disappear in the darkness, I know not if Betty’s sigh or mine were the deepest.

Three days later we hailed the return of David Pitcairn with relief. He had had orders from Betty to stay with our friends till the last, and early that morning he had seen them safe on board a Dutch ship, which sailed from Leith about one or two o’clock, and, as we learned later, landed them safely in Holland, from which they made their way to France. He did not forget to tell us that Mr. Straton had fallen under the spell of young “Mr. Barnes,” even as we did, while his dislike of poor Colonel Bulkeley appears to have exceeded our own.