CHAPTER XXVI

BARBARA IS ACCUSED OF CRUELTY AND INDISCRETION

The day after this we returned to Alva, bearing with us a request from my Lord Sinclair to his daughter Catherine, that she would come and make her abode with him in the meantime, and in the absence of his eldest son, help him in the management of his estate. This my lady, though greatly touched by the old gentleman’s trust in her, knew was impossible, for indeed her presence was required at Alva for many reasons, and she judged rightly that her first duty was to her husband and his affairs. So far as our own case was concerned things were growing easier, for after representing as strongly as she could, the wrongs she had suffered in the loss of cattle, fowls, and fodder, to those whose influence might be exercised in her favour, my lady was relieved of this burden in the surest way possible. Her brother-in-law, Mr. Haldane of Gleneagles, though strongly against the Rebellion, and keen about all measures for punishing the offenders, yet suffered his family affection to mitigate his severity in the case of Sir John’s family. It was by his means that General Cadogan was prevailed upon to grant a protection to my Lady Erskine to prevent her being plundered any further, and her nephew, Mr. James Haldane, arrived one day from Edinburgh to give notice of the same to Lord Rothes at Stirling Castle. This, as you can imagine, was a vast relief; and as the same privilege was extended to my Lady Jean at Bannockburn, and to Lady Keir, our hearts were set at rest on their account also.

Now I must tell you that some time back, when she first began to have doubts of the wisdom and ultimate success of the Rising, my Lady Erskine had conceived a secret project which, with great good sense, she kept as much as possible to herself and a few friends. Since the Battle of Sheriffmuir the working of the Silver Mine had been given up, on account of the danger of discovery from any of Argyle’s men who then over-ran the hills. But after hearing from Sir John in the beginning of the year, my lady sent one day for Mr. Hamilton, and after pledging him to secrecy, and telling him she believed in his loyalty to her and her house, enough to trust him with an important matter, she divulged her plan for securing the riches of the Mine.

She made him overseer of four miners (though up till now he had but superintended the smelting of the ore), and these he set to work in the mine, which work, being underground and well watched, was kept very private.

As the ore was lifted it was stored in casks, hogsheads, or barrels, which were buried in a vast hole that my lady caused to be dug on the north-west side of the house just by the gate. They had managed in this way to hide some forty tons of ore, when one morning Mr. Hamilton appeared at the house to say that, so far as he could see, the vein they were working had given out, and he wished to know if Lady Erskine advised any further excavation to be made. As this would have entailed a good deal of expense, my lady, after consulting with Mr. Erskine, decided that at present the work should be given up, which she did with the more ease of mind that certain rumours had got abroad of untold riches to be found on Sir John’s estate. The great hole in the broad walk having attracted some attention, she made it known that ’twas only one of Sir John’s mad notions, which was not likely to be of much use, and this according with the country people’s opinion of my guardian’s projects, the gossip soon died down, and we hoped the danger was past. I believe that with the treasure they collected my lady had framed the notion of being able, when the time was ripe, to purchase Sir John’s full pardon from the King, and in this idea Mr. Erskine and Mr. Campbell encouraged her. It was necessary, however, to keep its very existence private, until all danger of the knight’s being attainted was past, seeing that, if his name appeared upon the Black List, his whole estate was forfeit to the Crown. In the event of this happening, my lady then designed to unearth the casks, and by disposing of the contents in a profitable manner, to be able to follow her husband to the Continent, where they might live comfortably with their children for the rest of their lives.

* * * * *

About a week after our return from Dysart, I was walking one morning with little Hal down the glen, where by Heaven’s kind providence I had found my dear Anthony, when Mr. Hamilton met us, and accosted me with his usual cordiality. Now, to tell the truth, I had almost forgotten that I had ever had even a slight interest in this young gentleman; and though when we met we were friendly enough, my heart being fully occupied by the thought of another, it left me very indifferent to strangers. I was therefore surprised when he said rather abruptly,

“I have something of a private nature to say to you, Mistress Barbara; can you not send the child away?”

“What!” cried I, laughing, with no thought of what was coming, “have you a secret to divulge? Run, Hal, and gather some of those pretty anemones for Cousin Barbara.”

“I suppose you have by now,” said Hamilton, “discovered the meaning of my words last summer as to your gaining wisdom about many things.”

“Why, yes,” I answered slowly, thinking of all that I had gained since then, “I fancy we are all a year wiser.”

“And sadder?” said he.

“Ah, no!” I cried, softly, “not sadder.”

“Are you then,” he exclaimed eagerly, “on the other side? Have you seen the folly of that mad attempt; do you realise the character of the man you imagined had come to rule us? Are you relieved at the issue of events? How glad I am, Mistress Barbara, to find you so sensible.”

“Nay, sir,” cried I, quite startled out of my private thoughts; “I protest I do not understand you.”

“Why, mistress,” said he, puzzled in his turn, “if you are not saddened by the failure of the Rising, it must needs be because you think it a lucky providence that it did not succeed. What else can you mean?”

“The Rising! Forgive me, Mr. Hamilton, I was thinking of other things. But how,” said I, “can you possibly imagine that I am not grieved to the heart by the terrible happenings of the past six months, and bitterly disappointed at the departure of the King? Can I know of the sufferings and imprisonment of so many good friends, the deaths, the losses, the anxiety; can I watch my dear lady’s sad face day after day, with the knowledge of the pain she bears in her brave heart, and not be saddened myself? I should indeed be callous beyond belief were such a thing possible!”

“Nay, madam,” he said, “I pray you to believe I had no such thought. I myself am grieved enough for the calamities that have been brought upon the country, both public and private; but I hoped that you did at last see how wrong and mistaken was the Rebellion, and what a miserable dastard is the man whom they sought to put upon the throne of Britain.”

“Stop!” cried I, “I will not hear the King slandered. Misled, mismanaged, he certainly was, but dastard--no!”

“But can you believe he would make a good king?” cried he. “Would not his accession plunge us into all the horrors of Romanism? You cannot deny, madam, that the Chevalier is a Papist at heart.”

“Why, what else would you expect him to be?” cried I. “And Pretender as he is called, he has never pretended to be willing to give up his religion for the sake of a crown, as another might have done. He is honest, and devoted to his Church, as a good man should be; but he is no bigot either, for I have heard from Sir John that he has a very liberal and open mind towards his Protestant subjects, and I do not believe he would ever interfere with their religion were he reigning over us.”

“I must beg leave to differ from you, Mistress Barbara,” replied Hamilton. “I have seen some friends who met the Chevalier in the north, and were bitterly disappointed in him. Did he not refuse to have _Grace_ said at his table by any but his own private chaplain, though there were both Presbyterian and Episcopalian clergymen present?”

“Why,” returned I, “I think little of that. I doubt if his Hanoverian Majesty would tolerate the benediction of a Romish priest at the Royal table, though many of them are his subjects.”

“Certainly he would not!” cried Mr. Hamilton. “’Twould be a monstrous wrong if he did!”

“And if one man is to be upheld for his narrowness, because he acts from a sense of right, why not another?” cried I hotly. “Oh, I have no patience with such prejudice! This cry about Religions is used but to mask other things--politics, social ambition, party strife and personal rancour.”

By this time, walking slowly, with little Hal running backwards and forwards round us, we had reached the garden, which lay bare and orderly in the sunshine, with only a few of the early spring flowers showing themselves in the borders. When I looked at Mr. Hamilton’s face after my last speech, I found he was smiling.

“You are a brave and stout partisan, Mistress Barbara,” said he, “and I should find it difficult to move you. As it is, Providence hath ordained that the present dynasty be established in Britain--”

“For the time being,” murmured I.

“And we must needs bow to that decree,” he went on unheeding. “This, however, was not what I wished to talk of. Will you pardon me for allowing myself to wander so far from the subject at my heart, for indeed it is the chief thought in my life at present, and has been for long.”

“Pray, go on,” said I, somewhat coldly, for I was ruffled by our discussion, and felt now more out of sympathy with my companion than before.

“It is now a year since first I saw you, madam, and I make no secret of the fact that I was more struck by your appearance than by that of anyone I ever met. Since then all I have seen and heard of you confirms my first impressions. You are the most charming woman in the world, madam, and I beg you to be my wife.”

Surprise, chagrin, and anger filled my breast, mingled with a certain shame that I should have permitted this man to go so far. I fear my reply was both pert and rude.

“You must think a vast deal of yourself, sir, if you imagine you are worthy to be the husband of the most charming woman in the world!”

He laughed good-naturedly; he was too dense to notice the disdain in my voice.

“No one on earth is really worthy to hold that position, madam; but I beg you to believe that I shall count myself lucky should you dream of giving it to me.”

“I fear,” said I shortly, “that that is impossible.”

“Why impossible?” he cried, only half understanding. “My family, madam, is as good as yours; my present occupation is not to last for ever. I mean to establish myself well, and gain a position that even you will not disdain to share. Let me go to my lady this evening, Barbara, and get her consent to our union.”

How different--ah, how different was this man’s wooing!

“Pardon me, sir,” I answered, “I cannot be your wife. Oh, will you not understand and leave me in peace!”

I spoke impatiently, for I wanted to be rid of him. He stood before me, his face very white and set.

“Listen, Barbara Stewart,” he said. “There is more depending on your consent than you think. If you reject me thus you will regret it, not so much for your own sake as for some of the friends you love so well. Consider well, my girl, before you decide. You would not care to bring disaster upon this house. After to-day ’twill be too late.”

Angry, but scarcely alarmed, I drew myself up.

“Do you dare to threaten me, sir?” I cried. “What mean you? Or no, I do not care for your meanings; what you have said is enough. If you think Barbara Stewart would marry one who would stoop to injure any human-being of set purpose and design, you know her very little. I am indifferent to your threats, for I do not believe in your power to do much harm.”

In scorn and indignation I turned away, and calling to little Henry I walked towards the house. James Hamilton followed.

“Is it thus you despise an honest man’s love, mistress?” he said hoarsely. “Oh ho, my Lady Disdain, but the day may come when you will wish that you had listened more kindly. You think lightly of my power; you shall see by-and-bye what it can do. Barbara!” he said, and his voice broke as he laid his hand upon my arm. “You will not be so cruel!”

“Sir,” said I, stopping and speaking more gently, “I have answered you, and I would beg you now to leave me. In that you have honoured me by your regard, I thank you. If I have hurt you, I ask your forgiveness; but a woman’s love is not to be won by methods such as yours, and I must own that your speeches this morning have put me greatly out of sympathy with you as a friend.”

I looked in his face, but found it hard to read. There was an expression of regret certainly, mingled with discomfort and doubt; but my woman’s instinct told me well enough that behind this was no wounded heart of despairing lover, and not even his next words moved me to belief.

“Then farewell, mistress,” he said in a low voice; “you have broken my life in two. Henceforth we go separate ways. Heaven grant you tenderness to know how cruelly you have used me!”

Angered again by this accusation, I bowed to him without reply, and walked away towards the house with the child clinging to my hand.

Seated at work next morning in the parlour, we were listening amused to the chatter of the little boys, when Charles gave a great sigh and exclaimed, “How I wish my papa would come home! I do weary to see him.”

“So do I, too!” cried Henry, with a sigh to match his brother’s. “Tell me, mama, how many years is it since my papa went away?”

My lady put down her work to pat the curly head at her knee, and sighed herself, though she laughed at the childish question.

“The months are years to us who love him, are they not, Hal?” she said. “We must pray God to send him back to us very soon.”

“I do,” cried Charles. “Last night I said in my prayers, ‘Please, God, let my papa come home before the trees are green.’ That will be very soon now, mama, will it not?”

Just then came a knock at the door, and one entered to say that Mr. Hamilton waited without, desiring to speak to her ladyship.

“Very well, bid him come in!” said my lady; but on hearing that he had something of a private nature to communicate, she rose with a perturbed look and hurried from the room.

It was half-an-hour before she returned, and when she did so, ’twas with a vexed and ruffled countenance. She dismissed the children abruptly, and standing in front of me, cried,

“Well, Barbara, do you know the mischief you have wrought?”

Trembling and surprised, I dropped my needle and looked at her.

“Madam,” I stammered, “I am sorry; but you know yourself, cousin, that I could not listen to Mr. Hamilton’s proposals.”

“And yet you encouraged him; you led him to believe his suit was not in vain! You drew him on, only to have the triumph of rejecting him. Was this the part of a modest maiden, Barbara?”

Wounded to the quick, and with the tears starting to my eyes, I yet answered her with some spirit.

“If Mr. Hamilton has told you this, madam, he has done me great injustice. A year ago, I own, I wished him to admire me--foolish girl that I was, all new to intercourse with men--and accepted his small attentions with a kind of pleasure. But since our return from Dysart last October, I have never given him a look that he could construe into interest of the faintest sort. I beg you to believe, cousin, that Mr. Hamilton is a man it is not easy to flout. He thinks the whole world has as high an opinion of him as he himself has; and if he has made up his mind to establish himself in any woman’s favour, he would be so firm in the belief of his success that the news of his failure would come as a great shock to his pride.”

I dried my eyes, for as I spoke my anger returned.

“And even if his accusations were true, I take it, madam, that ’tis not the part of a chivalrous gentleman to blame a woman for his own conceited blunder. I have nothing but contempt for the man. I never wish to speak to him again.”

“’Tis not likely that you will,” returned my lady, gloomily; “he leaves Alva to-day.”

“Leaves Alva?” cried I. “But how can he go and abandon his work? How can he leave you alone?”

“’Twill make it very uneasy for me,” she replied; “but there is no more to be said. He is like a man wrong in the head, and was neither to hold nor to bind, as the saying is. I talked till I was tired, but his mind was made up; he could not stay where he might see Mistress Stewart any day. His heart was broken, he repeated, his life spoiled.”

“Pray, madam,” I entreated, “will you forgive me for my share in this new trouble, and say you believe I am not so much to blame! I cannot be happy to lie under such an imputation in your eyes. I regret more than I can say the annoyance it causes you, but I cannot heartily believe that Mr. Hamilton is so greatly afflicted as he pretends. All the time he was talking to me yesterday, I felt that his speech did not ring true; ’twas as if he were working himself into a passion to make an effect.”

While I was speaking I was considering in my mind the wisdom of repeating to my lady the threatening language the man had used; but having no particular belief in it, and not wishing to disturb her unnecessarily, I held my peace. She pondered my last words for some time, and when she spoke again, her voice had lost its coldness.

“Why, Barbara,” she said, “to say truth, I doubted the man myself. He was too violent, he talked too much. At first I was so put about at the prospect of his leaving me that I did not stop to reason, but now that I am calm again, I acknowledge you are right to despise the way James has behaved. So far as the Mine is concerned I can trust him to be silent, and for his work I have no doubt I shall find a successor. There is not much to be done at present in any case, so perhaps after all he will not be missed. Forget about him, child; he has taken himself out of our life in a pet. ’Tis not likely he will enter it again.”

* * * * *

“Ah!” cried Betty when she heard of it, “do you not see now that I was right? Did I not warn you, Barbara, of what he was capable, and tell you to be on your guard with him? Well, thank heaven, he has done no harm, and as my sister says, I do not suppose we shall ever see him again. But, though I never liked the man, I am amazed, I must own, at his ingratitude.”

And so James Hamilton departed from Alva, hiding his treachery under a very flimsy cloak, for, as you know, his love for Barbara was only a blind, and his despair a mere pretence to allow him to escape and work his wicked will.

LETTER VII

I begin to be impatient to hear from my Dear Life. This is the fourth letter I have writ, and I have got but one. If you are well I am very happy, but I have many melancholy dreams about you which is occasioned by anxious concern to have you easy in your mind, and satisfied with your present state, which indeed is a great tryal but such as God in His providence thinks fit to send us, and it is no small mercy in so general a calamity that you are preserved and will have what may make us live comfortably together. I must own it is not easy for me to be at so great a distance from you, nor can I have any prospect yet how soon I can be with you, until some settlements be made in affairs here, which will take a considerable time. I am doing in the meantime what is for your interest.

As for old W.’s work I am obligt to give it up yesterday, until we be in a state of more freedom than we are at present, and people began to suspect that there was something in it more than ordinary that I continued it so long. My counsel determined me in doing so, and they have some projects in vein to secure all. I hope they will not all fail ... it’s lucky for us P.C. is at London, and will be there for a great while. His wife is gone home to lye, and designs to take her two eldest children to London with her against June.

Your mother is here and is very concerned about you, and is very thankful you got so early off. In short, that supports her in all the difficulties that occur, as it does me, for the violence cannot always last, tho’ in the meantime it’s very hard upon those that are in their hands. I am in great fear for J. Paterson, for I am told that base wretch, Jock Muir, says his house was the place of their meeting which makes his friends afraid. I pity my poor sister, and when I think of her I think my own sufferings easy. In short I am not to be pityed for anything but being absent from you, for your friends have a particular regard and concern for me, and Charls omits nothing that can be for your interest, and I believe your sister Nell will make her spouse (Mr. Haldane) do all that’s possible for you att Court, and I hear he is much in favour at present. But that family distinguish themselves in violence at present, tho’ as to your particular (case) I believe they will do all that’s possible. Your nephew, James, was here the other day, and procured a protection for my house and all things I am concerned in, which makes me easy. In the meantime I believe there is some care taken to hinder your being denounct, but I fear it will not doe, but if it could be done it would be an advantage; but be it as it will there shall none of your stockin’ be lost.

If your brother Robin come to Holland with his master, Charls has some thoughts of coming there, and desiring you to meet them if you can do it with safety. Some people here think it would be easy for Robin’s master to procure your pardon, which I think should be done if possible; tho’ you did not return to Britain for some time the interest of your family and the present circumstances of your affairs require it, but when your brothers and you meet you can talk freely of that and other things.

Andrew (Argyle) has lost the command of the troops here, and Mr. Beggar (Cadogan) has got it. I wish Andrew had known it sooner for it’s talkt Beggar had it seven weeks before Andrew left this Country, and yesterday Mr. Beggar went northwards. Perth, Aberdeen, and Inverness are to be fortified. If the common people who are still under arms will now come to surrender they are to be allowed to go home, and I hear some of the Clans have done so. In that case their Heads will doe well to take care of themselves.... Colonel Pary, and Mr. Balfour have given up themselves, my Lord Rollo and several others of like degree, which is very surprising. There came an order to the common prisoners either to choose to stand their tryal or be sold to the plantations. I hear that most have chosen rather to stand their tryal than live slaves. Your fellow-travellers came south and were taken care of. I doubt not you will hear of them soon. All our neighbours are safe. Your boys are well and nothing shall be wanting that’s fit for them; for their education I hop, one way or other, you shall doe it to your own mind.

I am in great grief for Kid (the King) and your freind Mill (Mar), tho’ I think he is the only cause for all my sufferings, but I find he is blamed by all sides. How far it’s just I know not, but I shall never blame him, tho’ in my heart I cannot but think he should not have taken such an affair upon him without positive orders from Kid. However, in the meantime, I could wish for your own sake you wold not be near Kid or Mill, because that may be a hindrance to some projects which we have in view; and since you may doe yourself and family prejudice and can do them no service, it is but common prudence to do so.

I long to hear from my Dearest Life. May you be happy always, and remember the only way to be kind to me is to take care of yourself. I got a proposal from my father to come to keep house to him, and bring my boys with me, or he will come and board with me; but he wants me to manage his estate in his son’s absence, both which proposals I have rejected; and he says he will goe abroad. Where it will end I know not.

Charles salutes you and Betty, and your sons offer their humble duty to you, and I am ever yours, my Dearest Soul.

LETTER VIII

_March 23._

MY DEAREST LIFE,

I received two of your letters this week which were most acceptable, one without a date, and the last of the 16th of March. By both I see all my letters have miscarry’d, which does not a little vex me. You was not eight days out of Britain when I writ first, and this is the fifth I have writ. I have been so lucky to receive three letters from you, which is no small comfort; but by your not receiving mine you have not drawn for 100 pound I desired you to take from your factor, and that you should be straitened is what I am very much afraid of. Pray doe not want what is fit for you, for I hope in God I shall always have (means) to supply you till I be so happy (as) to see you again, which is what I very much long for; and my absence from you is the only suffering I have, but that I ought to submit to with cheerfulness when you are well and out of danger. I must own the thought of your safety has been a great support to mee, and as to other particulars in my own affairs, the grief and concern I had for others made me very easy about them, and hitherto there has nothing happened in my little affairs that could make me uneasy. I am still in my own house and looking carefully to all things, and am so much of your mind, however dark things may look at present, that both this place and the other (Cambuswallace) may be possesst by you and yours, that I have planted trees this season, and made up all the wants in your hedges, and shall not omit to doe everything that can be for your interest.

Mr. R(ose) labours your own farms this year. As to your debts of all kinds all care has been taken, and as I told you before not one can lose a groat by you so you may be easy. My being so much a stranger to your debts makes it a little uneasy, but a little time will put that over. There is not a thing I doe were it never so trifling, but I consult first whether my friend would approve of this; and I daresay you would if you saw my actings approved of, the most part if not all. Your brother has been twice here, and does in every respect act the part of a kind friend, and does not omit the least thing that can be either useful or agreeable to me.

I send you one enclosed from your mother. She is indeed a kind woman, and tho’ she disapproves what you have done, yet she cannot bear to have you blamed and reflected on, and is as cheerful as ever I saw her, for she thinks there will be favour got one way or other, and the family will be preserved. And she hopes this may be a means to make you serious, which I pray God it may, for afflictions are not sent in vain. I pray earnestly that we may all have the right use of them, and that seeing the uncertainty of all human things we may seek what is more lasting.

I am in hops our two good friends att London will not be in danger. My poor sister writes they have few enemies, and if her spouse is banished she will send for her children to goe with him. There is many gentlemen given up themselves, which I wonder much at. I think they have had no encouragement to do so. Your fellow-travellers will be in their own country again by this time, and a great many of your friends. Poor Polmaise is dead. All your servants are well. Some people think the clans can keep out a year, others are afraid of them. There is no accounts yet since Mr. Beggar went north. Your servant, Andrew S----t, came safe here two months agoe; I writ to you of him before, and desired to know if I should send him to you. If anything can be done for you, it is not fit you be with Kid and Mill; and since you cannot serve them, it’s but a reasonable prudence not to give new provocations. P.C. is att London, and will not fail to doe all that can be done, and your sister Nell’s spouse I hear is much in favour. But they are very violent tho’ I doubt not their good-will to you. Your children are well. There shall be nothing wanting that’s fit for them, and as for their education, I hop you shall do that yourself, for if ever I be put from this place, I’ll come and bring them with me; but I must own I do not expect to leave this place, and I rather think you will be allowed to return, for things cannot always continue, as they have been violent long, so the contrary may now be hoped for.

I blame you much that you do not tell me more of Kid, for I have a great concern for him and great pity. As to my health I am rather better than usual. The season is good, and I am much in the fields, sometimes employed in business, and thinking on the unhappy state of many different people at other times, and reflecting on the mercy’s I daily meet with, which are such as I should never forget, for I am not to be pitied for anything but my being absent from you, which if I suffer patiently God may in a little time give me the comfort of being with you again.

I think you should read much; I will recommend Monsieur Paskal’s Thoughts to you, which I doubt not you will like. Wishing my dear soul all manner of happiness, I am in all sincerity, Yours.

Your friend Bess salutes you kindly. Pray be so kind to me (as) to take good care of your self, and write frequently when you see I doe not miss one.

Apri. 4.

LETTER IX

My Dearest Life,

I am uneasy you have never got any of my letters and I am much afraid you are in want of money. I have writ six letters since you left Britain, and in every one of them beg’d (you) to cause your factor to draw upon his correspondent for 100 pound. Pray do not want what is necessare nor be afraid of want, for I hop we shall always have enough. I am told things have a better aspect of late and I am hopfull our friends att London will be safe. As to the fortunes, if things should come to the worst, I hop we shall still have what will give us what is needful for Life. In the meantime I am as easy at home as I can be when absent from you. I must own that is the greatest part of my suffering but I dare not allow myself to think of itt. When I consider how mercifully you have been preserved, and that you have a good country and liberty, the sad state of many good people has hitherto affected me so much, I thought myself happy in comparison. Your friends have been very careful to doe me all manner of kindness, and I am very sure I am to be as little pityed as any in my state. I have had 3 of your letters which gave me great comfort. I wish both of us may be thankful for every degree of mercy we meet with, and submitt with chearfulness to what Providence orders for us.

I was some time perfectly incapable of doeing anything being so much overwhelmed with greif, but saw soon the folly and fault of giving way to it, and am now doing all I can to be usefull to you in your present circumstances. I hope God will bless my indeavors for I shall endeavor to doe the best without anxiety which I have been too long liable to. I shall be glad to hear you are well in your country retreat, and are contented with your present state. Your mother has been here, and writ to you in my last letter. She is both cheerfull and easy. Her concern was great till you was gone, but she has none now, for she does not doubt your family will be preserved and she hopes this will make you good.

I told you in my last old W.’s work was given up; it went off, and we thought it a good opportunity because of impertinent people talking, and both Ch. and P.C. have several projects in vein to secure itt. How or what way things will be no body can yett guess, but if you are preserv’d I fear nothing. For your boys I have not the least concern or fear they will ever want. They are young, and there may be many changes before they are men.

I have planted trees and put all the hedges to rights, and shall not fail to take all manner of care that nothing you have done be lost. I find my Counsel think I have too much land in my own hand, and they incline I should let out in Tenantry the place I do not live at. I must own I think I have more to do than I can well manage, but I fear you will lose all you have laid out, and it will not give so much now to let it as it might do sometime afterwards; but I have no money to lay out on improvements, but I would be glad to have your own opinion. You will laugh at this way of writing, but I have some faint hope you will never be attainted, having ’scapt the first brunt. You will hear many of your friends is gone to Holand, some are yet in this country.

I hear Rob Roy’s house is burnt and his cattle caryed off by a party. He thought fit to wait for them in a wood, and, they talk, has killed a great many. I am sorry for it. I have heard nothing of Mr. Beggar, but nobody doubts but he will have work enough this summer.

Pray write often and oblige me, for all you have writ comes very safe to my hand. I told you before P. C. is att London, and I believe you may have no doubt but he will serve you. I hear his friend, Andrew, is very great at Court and is a great Countryman. I hope God will bless their endeavors.

I am angry you never mention Kid or Mill for I have a great desire to hear of them, but I do not wish you to be with them in case it would stop what your friends is earnest to have done for you here. Your boys are well and want much to see you, and ask me how many years it is since their Papa went away. Dearest Life, wishing you all happiness. Adieu.

Apr. 13.

I am very well in my health.