CHAPTER XXVIII

TELLS OF THE GOOD FORTUNE FOR BETTY, AND OF THE EVIL DEEDS OF THE PARLIAMENT

Towards the end of May my lady, becoming alarmed at the weakness of her youngest son, determined, though somewhat against her inclination, to send him and his brother to their grandfather’s house for the benefit of the sea-air and the change. Not being at liberty just then to leave Alva, she arranged that the little boys should go in charge of myself and Phemie, knowing that every care would be taken of them, and that all love and attention would be shown them to make up to them for her absence.

It was a great pleasure to me to revisit Dysart, where I had always met with such kindness; and little Charles, delighted as children are at the prospect of a change, skipped and shouted on his way to the carriage with no thought of regret at leaving his mother behind. When Phemie would have rebuked him for his seeming heartlessness, my lady merely smiled and bade her pay no heed.

I found my dear Betty looking brighter and happier than I had seen her for many months, and though I could find no cause in my own knowledge to account for the change, I must confess I took great pleasure in the same.

A light broke in upon my denseness, however, when I found that scarce a day passed without a visit from my Lord Wemyss, who on some pretext or other generally found opportunity to put himself in Betty’s way. Sometimes he came to bring her a flower grown in his garden, sometimes to consult with my lord on this subject or that, sometimes, I used to think, merely to tell us what a fine day it was; but, whatever the excuse, he made himself prodigiously agreeable when he came, and though Betty never suffered me to move from her side during his visits, I noticed that while she still sharpened her wit against him in playful scorn, she treated him with more gentleness and kindness than I had ever seen her use before.

The weather was now most beautiful, and as much as possible we spent the days out of doors. Charles from the first showed himself perfectly recovered from his ailment, and very soon little Hal showed signs of picking up strength; and from watching with languid interest from Phemie’s arms his brother’s gambols, began to desire to join in them, and from day to day made rapid progress towards complete recovery. ’Twas a great pleasure to be able to write the good news to Alva, and my lady promised shortly to come and see for herself the happy change that had taken place.

One morning, as we sat idly on a bench in the narrow wood above the water and watched the children at play below us, our constant visitor joined us, and gave us a kindly good day. The pretty colour rose in Betty’s cheeks as she made room for him beside us, and my lord, who seemed as ever in a blithe and pleasant humour, made her a compliment on the return of her gay spirits and sprightly looks.

“The winter is gone, Mistress Betty, with all its darkness and sadness, and you are blossoming again like the new summer flowers.”

“The flowers that blossom now knew nothing of the winter,” sighed Betty, ever ready for an argument; “but we--can we ever forget?”

“Why, yes!” cried my lord, “’tis the noble mind that rises above its disappointments, and sees in them only the working out of a wisely guided Destiny.”

“Ah, my lord,” said Betty, “’tis easy for you to talk; but when the disappointment is our own, it is harder to soothe it with such bare philosophy.”

For a moment he was silent, for he knew well of what she was thinking.

“And did not I, too, suffer the loss of many hopes this last December?” he asked gently.

The tears sprang to Betty’s eyes as she turned to him with an impulse of sympathy.

“Pray, my lord, forgive me! You know how I feel for you there. But it was to the other subject I thought you referred.”

“I know, I know,” he answered, “but ’tis all one. Neither public nor private sorrows are we fitted to bear without recourse to ‘such bare philosophy’ as you call it, madam; but I prefer the name of Christian resignation.”

Then, turning to me, he said in a lighter tone, “And when, Mistress Barbara, will it please you to honour my house with a visit? There is some ancient armour which, if you care for such things, would please you, and the Castle itself is not without historic interest.”

“Why, my lord,” cried I, greatly delighted with his suggestion, “I do assure you there is nothing I should more enjoy. Of all things I wish to see the room where Queen Mary first met my lord Darnley--the beginning of all her woes.”

“And of many other people’s as well,” said Betty. “Who knows the difference it would have made to us all had the poor lady married some man more worthy of her?”

My lord laughed.

“She was a wilful woman, madam, and would have had her way in any case. But now, when will you bring Mistress Barbara to Wemyss? Will you both honour me by riding there to-morrow afternoon and drinking a dish of tea with me?”

To this we readily assented, and after a little further talk my lord departed.

“It seems, my dear Betty,” said I, when his footsteps had died away, “that you have forgiven his lordship.”

She turned her face to me with a doubtful smile, “And does it seem to you, dear Barbara, that his lordship has forgiven me?”

“Why, yes!” said I, laughing, “if you feel the need of forgiveness.”

Nothing could exceed the kindness and courtesy of my Lord Wemyss next day as he conducted us over his great house, showing everything that he thought would please us, from the dungeons where the unhappy prisoners once had languished, to the beautiful portrait of his first wife painted in miniature. Tea was served to us in the historic chamber which I had expressed the curiosity to see, and while we were drinking it, the Earl turned suddenly to me.

“Do you not think it a pity, Mistress Barbara, that a house like this should be without a mistress?”

“Indeed, my lord, I do,” I responded readily; “but I make no doubt your lordship could find one without much difficulty.”

“Alas!” said he, but with a twinkle in his eye, “the only one I want sees fit to raise a barrier around herself, through which I find it very hard to make myself seen or heard.”

“Can I not help to remove it, my lord?” said I mischievously, attempting to rise from the couch whereon we sat facing him; but to my dismay I found my dress clutched firmly by the hand of Betty, who was looking into her empty tea-cup as if to read her fortune there.

“Can two live together except they be agreed?” she asked in a low voice.

My lord leant forward in his chair and looked at her earnestly. He seemed in no way embarrassed by my presence, and seeing that Betty desired my support, I thought it best to remain where I was.

“The cause of disagreement,” he said, “is gone. You accused me once of triumphing over your distress; that, my dear Betty, I could not do. I grieved with and for you in every fresh disappointment. But the whole affair was a blunder, and seeing that it was so, I set my face against it. My heart is not unloyal to that unfortunate prince, and were it only a personal matter I should certainly prefer James to George as a King; but of the Rising I could not approve, and in that it failed I recognise the hand of a wise Providence. These are the words of an honest man, madam. Have you aught to object to in them?”

Betty laid her cup and saucer on the table, and turned to look out of the window, so that I saw nothing but one rosy ear.

“I shall always cherish the hope that he may return,” she said softly.

“Be it so,” replied the Earl; “hope does no one any harm.”

“I shall never pretend loyalty to the Hanoverian,” she cried, turning her face to us.

“I have no doubt, madam, he will be able to live without it.”

A smile curved her lips; his good humour was imperturbable.

“You think me foolish, frivolous, fickle,” she sighed, “and easily led away.”

“I think you loyal, and tender, and true!” he answered, “and what can a man want more?”

With that he glanced at me, and seeing that my dress was now free I slipped away, and going through an open door and down a passage, found myself presently in the garden. Here I busied myself among the flowers till, some time later, hearing Betty’s voice I ran to meet her, and putting my arms about her whispered, “Was all well?”

To this she replied, “He is to see my father to-morrow,” and my heart rejoiced, for the look in her eyes was one of peace.

* * * * *

It was indeed a matter for rejoicing to all Betty’s friends, for my Lord Wemyss was, as you know, a man of sense and honour, very agreeable, and still remarkably handsome. An express was despatched by my Lord Sinclair to Alva begging my lady’s attendance, as in all things he relied upon her judgment and valued her opinions; and I make no doubt that her wise advice was asked and taken in the important matter of settlements. That she was as much surprised as pleased at the news, I saw clearly, for so effectually had Betty hid her feelings even from this tender friend and sister, that my lady had had no hope of any alliance so satisfactory for the capricious young madam. Even now she was inclined to think it merely a matter of convenience and worldly policy on the part of a woman disappointed in her ambitions, and feeling at war with Fate.

Arrangements were made for the signing of the settlements, and Mr. Erskine was summoned from Edinburgh to look after the lady’s interests. The wedding was to take place in less than three weeks, and the future Countess very graciously asked me to stand as one of her bridesmaids.

“If only Sir John were here,” she cried, “and my poor brother, I should be perfectly happy.”

“Were Sir John here,” said my lady smiling, “you would have to bear some teasing upon various subjects. He would ask you, Bess, what you meant to do with all your other swains--David Pitcairn for one.”

“I would bear that gladly,” said Betty, “for the pleasure of his good company; but since he is sure to think my choice a piece of caprice, you may remind him that I love to be comfortable and lazy, and that at Wemyss there are plenty of easy-chairs to lounge in, so that I expect to live very well, whatever my friends may say.”

Her sister looked at her kindly but gravely. Her idea of happiness did not consist in bodily comfort, and fond of Betty as she was, she sometimes had doubts of her sincerity.

When the latter left the room, she sighed.

“I trust my poor Bess has some stronger reason for expecting a happy life than that she gives us, Barbara.”

“Dear madam,” I assured her, yet surprised that she should need the explanation, “she was but jesting. Betty is, believe me, as much in love with my Lord Wemyss as I am with my Anthony, and I think has been for long. ’Twas the affair of the Rising that kept them apart, and since its failure she has been very sore; but at last her pride is broken down, and she allows herself to acknowledge the Earl’s goodness and patience.”

“Why, if that is the case,” cried my lady, “no one can be more heartily glad than I. Poor Betty has suffered cruelly in this sad year, and she deserves some happiness as her reward for her faithful services to the King. I hope she will indeed be comfortable. But what, my dear Barbara, will become of the other David. ’Tis hard for him, and I know not what he will do.”

Indeed this question had risen in my own mind often enough, and I had not been able to supply an answer, for David Pitcairn was one friend who could not be expected to rejoice at the prospect of Betty’s marriage. He came and went as usual, faithful, pleasant, and kind; and however much he suffered, he did not allow it to appear.

Once, upon my lady offering him a word of sympathy, he threw up his head with a smile.

“Oh, madam,” he said, “it is kind of you to think of me, but my love for Mistress Betty was not founded on hope. Long ago I realised that this day must arrive for me, and I am only glad that she has chosen where she is likely to find happiness.”

My lady regarded him with secret admiration.

“You think she will be happy?”

“I have no doubt of it, madam, since she loves her husband,” he replied.

But brave and unselfish as this good man was, it was not to be expected he should waste his life in contemplating his lost mistress’s happiness with another, and much as she valued his friendship, this was the last thing Betty desired. Before the end of the year, David Pitcairn did what many another gallant man has done, carried his wounded heart to the wars, and endeavoured to fill his life with fresh interests and new ambitions. He got a Commission in the 1st Royal Scots Regiment of Foot, of which my lady’s brother, James, was at this time Major, and in which in after years both Charles and little Hal became officers. He lived to see Betty’s grandson succeed his father as Earl of Sutherland at the age of fifteen, and died at London only four years ago, beloved and lamented by a large circle of friends. He never married.

* * * * *

It had not taken me many minutes upon my lady’s arrival at Dysart to perceive that something far removed from Betty’s marriage was occupying her thoughts, and though for her sister’s sake she strove to be cheerful and put away her melancholy, it was impossible not to see that she was troubled in her mind. At last when the marriage contract had been drawn up, and all their plans talked over, she broke it to us that she was in much anxiety about her husband’s affairs. An Act of Parliament had been passed, which put it out of the King’s power to grant any portion of the forfeited estates to their unfortunate owners, so that should Sir John be attainted, a calamity that he had up till now very narrowly escaped, all their projects of private negotiations for his pardon must be abandoned. Besides this a Commission had been appointed to inquire into the particulars of every rebel family’s goods and chatels; to spy and probe their innermost affairs, with the power of citing anyone they pleased, whether closest friend or meanest servant, to appear and give information about the private property of each of these unfortunate gentlemen. All money got in this way, it was ordered, must go into the Treasury for the payment of the public debts; whereas anything owing to individuals by the owners of these same forfeited estates was to be ignored, and the poor people must suffer loss through no fault of their own, nor by the intention of their patrons.

All this was a cause of great grief to poor Lady Erskine for many reasons. Not only was she keenly disappointed at the shattering of her hopes of buying her husband’s pardon, but she now lived in terror of the Commissioners discovering the value of the Silver Mine through some of those they examined, and this she felt would be the end of all. Then the thought of any having to suffer through her family was very bitter to her, and if she lost not only her estate but their secret source of wealth as well, how was this injustice to be avoided? Above all, her heart and soul were shaken by constant terrors for her husband’s safety. Placed as she was at a distance from him, and only too well aware of his light-hearted disregard of consequences, she longed to hear he was living anywhere away from the ill-fated King and his companions, believing this to be the first necessity for his safety. The uncertainty whether he would consent to this measure preyed upon her mind day and night, and between her fear of their enemies and her reluctance to force him against his inclination, her burden seemed at times like to weigh her to the earth.

“I still hope,” she said to me, “that Sir John may escape being attainted, seeing that up to the present his name has been kept out of the Bills; and I know that Mr. Haldane and his brother, and certainly Patrick Campbell as well, are working in every possible way to prevent it. But when these Commissioners arrive at Alva, and make enquiries of all and sundry about this person and that, think you that should a rumour of the garden” (for so we spoke of the mine) “come to their ears, and what is to hinder it, seeing it is at the mercy of so many needy people, they will not find in this an excuse for seizing Sir John’s possessions and adding them to the list of forfeitures? My heart is very heavy, Barbara, and at times I feel ready to sink under my fears.”

I would have given much to be able to comfort her, but could say very little to restore her confidence. I left her alone to pour out her heart in a letter to her husband, for faint as this consolation was, it was still the dearest she possessed.

The next day being the 12th of June we left Dysart for Alva, and before we returned for the wedding, a still greater calamity had overtaken our affairs, and our hearts were heavier than ever.

LETTER XV

(Dysart.)

I had the pleasure of hearing from my Dearest Life some days agoe, but it had been long by the way, which gave me some pain about you; and tho’ it was but three days writ after what I got last, it was three weeks longer a coming to my hand. I must own you are most kind and obliging in writing so frequently, and it is the only real satisfaction I have at present, for tho’ I endeavor all I can to make the best of my misfortune, yet at some times I am perfectly like to sink under it; and the probability of so long and continued afflictions, and which is most uneasy to me to be absent from you without having any prospect of having it in my power to come to you, together with the concern I have for my friends in the Fleet, and many good people who are suffering; and I find the greatest favour that’s expected is banishment.

As to your own particular you are not yet attainted, so I hop will scape this session of Parlyment, but if ever you are attainted all you could once call your own is irrecoverably lost. There is such acts of Parlyment passing as people cannot expect to save anything; nay, even old tailys are in danger, and yours the more (as) it is not registrate. The King can give no gift to any without any act of Parlyment, and all goes for the public Debts. And these persons that are on the Commission have ample power to doe what they please, and make such narrow inspection in the forfeit estates that they can call any person they please before them, and take their oaths about the particulars of every family, and if they doe not appear they can fine them of a considerable sum.

I once expected your Brother R. and his master was to be at the Hague, but now it’s believed they are to be att Isla Chapel (Aix la Chapelle) but this act puts me out of any hop of a gift to him of your Liberent, and to (have) had a little clause put in favour of Mr. Nabit (the mine.) You see, my dear Soul, the present state of affairs, and that all our projects that way is gone. I am told by some you very narrowly missed being putt in the last Bill of Attainder, and it’s affirm’d that your not being put in was owing to P.(atrick) H.(aldane).

If you still remain where you are att present it’s impossible you can scape being attainted as soon as the Parlyment sits down, whereas if you were in another place, some of your friends might prevent your being put in with a better countenance, and if you do not, I am convinced they will never attempt it. You see by all this that no other person can be interpos’d; that if Mr. Amond (Sir John) does not incline to comply to any conditions that would be propos’d, let him stay abroad and get his money remitted to him; and if either his Brother R. by his master’s friendship, or any other way, can be fal’n on to prevent his being attainted be done, until the term of years mentioned by the Parlyment be expired, which is from this present time till the year 1719.... I have not any hope now but by preventing your being attainted if possible, which can never doe if you persist in your resolution of staying where you are. It’s my duty to let you know this and desire you may consider seriously what sad state you will bring your family to, and to beg you may not do what you may for ever repent. Some regard I think should be had to me and your children, tho’ for my own particular I had rather suffer hardships than desire you to do what is against your inclination; but as a mother I must have regard to them so far as to let you know my opinion, and if ye doe not follow it, I cannot help it, but shall endeavour to submit with patience.

I am not a little sensible how far it’s uneasy to break off from so agreeable a society, and when perhaps duty and inclination both bind you; but in their present state I see not what any one man can doe, and the fewer sufferers the better. And every body will not have that hope or expectation you may have, but if your Brother Robin doe come to Isla Chapel, it would be a good pretext to visit him. This is sufficient on this head, and I shall be glad to have your opinion as frankly and resolutely as I have given my advice.... I came to my father’s some days agoe about a marriage which will not be disagreeable to you. Bess is to be C----ess of W----ms, which is a satisfaction to all her friends. The terms is this day agreed on, and tho’ they are not what I either could a wisht or expected, yet my father and other friends after making proposals of altering found it would not doe, and has gone into what his tutors for the time advised. She has not far to goe, and in case you should not understand she has a great many easy chairs in which she may loll. I goe home to-morrow and return here in a fortnight. You was very kindly remembered by your new friend and he regrates he has you not here at this time. You may be sure I am glad of the thing, but I am in such a continu’d Dump I did not incline to be at the wedding, but I cannot shun it. C. A. was here to be the Lady’s Lawyer.... Countess Bess salutes you kindly and wishes you were here, tho’ she shou’d bear all you could say now as to D. P. I see not what can become of him.... God help me, for I labour under many difficultys and many fears. I did not intend to let you know so much, but at some time it will come out.

As to sending you money it’s agreed ... it’s cheapest from London, and I hope soon to have effects there to answer your demands. Write to P. C., who is there and will doe it. He writ to me he should remit the 50 pound I mentioned in my last, and pray write to him for what you have occasion, for he will answer you whether the effects be come to his hands or not, but he cannot miss to have them soon.

I see so many difficultys in sending A. S(hor)t that it cannot doe. I think I have answered all your questions in yours of the 22 of Ap. Wishing my Dearest all manner of happyness I am ever,

Yours.

Your mother and sons are well. We drank Mr. Kid’s health yesterday and all his friends. God preserve you.

June 11.

Back at Alva we were forced to wait with what patience we possessed to see what would next befal, but a week later my lady wrote again to Sir John in much the same strain as her former letter, so that you can see nothing new had occurred so far. Having received one from him, dated 29th of May, she was now to be deprived of the comfort of hearing anything of her husband for several weeks, which as you can imagine did not lessen her fears nor lighten her burden.

LETTER XVI.

My Dearest Life,

Yours of the 29 of May was forwarded by our friend att London, which you may be sure was most welcome to me since there can be nothing so agreeable as to hear you are well, and at the same time to hear of two people whose welfare I am much interested in. I went airly abroad this morning to visit my labourers, and it was so hott I began to think how much more it must be so with you. I pray God you may agree with it.

There is one advantage of being with Kid, that you will live mighty regular and get no ill examples. I wish from my heart all had the same thoughts of him you have, but I am not altogether without hope that will come and justice be done him; tho, as things have been of late I do not expect to see it. But who would a thought six months agoe Andrew wold lose his post of being Commander-in-Chief in this Country, and that Mr. Beggar wold have it. His Master has made him very bad returns for his fidelity, but I hop he shall use all his faithful servants after that manner.

I writ to you from my father’s house in relation to the Bill that’s passing on the forfeitures. My friend writes from London he thinks all personal Debts in danger. Some only thinks those since the 24 of June last. I must own it is so horrid I can scarce believe it, but if it is so it will ruin many, and to think that anybody will lose by you is really terribly uneasy, particularly C.(harles) A.(reskine). If it is so I shall do my endeavour to pay all so far as it can goe, and trust to Providence who has hitherto been bountyful to us, and I am sure you will agree with me. I was in hops things wold in time have a more favourable aspect, but it’s impossible human invention can contrive things worse than all the measures they have taken. I find by the Ladys att London getting their jointure and daughters provided, we may expect the same. If any here gets it, I make no doubt of it, for I happen to be much in the Whig’s favour. I know nothing I have done to merit it but being silent. In the meantime I live in peaceable possession of all, haveing Mr. Beggar’s protection, and by the advice of the above mentioned friend, by degrees I am to sell all my Stock and prepare for the worst. I must own it was what I was mighty unwilling to do, but I am now convinct it’s the best way by much.

As to Mr. Nabit, I am sorry I have not writ so fully as you might understand. His fame was like to rise high, and at the same time there was never less ground for it. I make no doubt that going down would have turn’d to account in time, but that was a certain giving out of money ... it was thought by all the Counsell the saffest course, and the only way to make people think it was an idle project of Mr. Amond’s. How far it will be of use that way I know not, but so many poor Dogs has it at their mercy it will be wonderful if it do not break out. I am positive however it was right to give up. James Hamilton went away three months agoe, for he turn’d wrong in the head and would not stay.... I told you in my last of my sister Bess’ marriage, which is to be very soon, and I must goe to it. It’s to their neighbour W----ms. I hope she will be very happy, and I take it as a reward for her faithful service to Kid. He is really a good-humour’d man, but too much upon the easy lay. C. A. is to be at the weddin’. I showed him your letter in relation to A. S----t, about his coming but he did not think it proper to send him for the reasons you mentioned.

As to my second Farm I still keep it, and am putting two lime-kilns just now on it. I ride there frequently. Perhaps I may set up my habitation there and farm it myself, but I think if ever I leave this place I will not stay in Britain. Your children are well and in good heart. Ha is perfectly recover’d. Your mother is well, and she and I live easily together, tho’ none can be of more different sentiments; but she disaproves all the violent measures, and is very concern’d for you and thankful you are well; but she knows not where you are, or she would be griev’d. I wish very often to be with you, my Dear Soul, but as long as I can doe your service here I will never have a thought of it; and I have saved more than any in my circumstances has done, and never fail to represent when I am injur’d, which makes me live easy, when many other good honest people are oppresst. My paper sinks so much I fear you will have difficulty to read it.... P.(atrick) H.(aldane) is one of the comishioners on the forfeitures. Buchan and Munroe of Faulds are the Scots. Wishing your good company and you all manner of real happiness, I am, my Dearest, ever Yours.

As to remitting money, I told you before it’s easyest from London, and I lay it on my friend entirely who would doe that as well as I could wish and all things else, for he helps all in distress and it’s his aim to do good

Dearest Life, Adieu.

June 18. Alva.