CHAPTER VIII

I GO TO DYSART

Far as I have travelled and beautiful as are the countries I have seen, the fairest pictures that hang in the galleries of my memory are pictures of bonnie Scotland. To me it seems that in those far-off days of which I write the sunshine was brighter, the air more limpid, the shadows bluer, and the trees of a softer green than any I have seen in later years. But well my foolish heart knows ’tis but the glamour of distance, that enhanceth all beauty, lingering round the scenes of my youth, and the magic strength of early impressions that keeps them ever fresh in my mind.

And yet it would be hard to deny that the prospect seen from the coast of Fife, looking southward, is one of the fairest of its kind in the world. How blue and sparkling was the water of the Frith on that May morning, as my lady and I approached the little town of Dysart; how white the foam of joyous wavelets that broke upon the rocks! Far away the great Bass and Berwick Law rose like twin fortresses side by side, and against the opposite coast the white sails of ships and small boats shone in the sunlight. Westward, where the slender masts of the shipping rose thickest, the town of Leith was hidden in its own blue smoke, but behind it the Lion kept watch over Edinburgh Castle, and the Pentlands melted faintly into the soft summer sky. Our road had followed the coast for some miles, and it had pressed heavy on my heart to come so near to my own dear home, and yet to pass it by. My kind cousin had known very well what was in my mind, and had laid her hand on mine with a mute pressure of sympathy at sight of grey Rosyth, with the ripples breaking round its feet. But the beauty of the day forbade me to be sad, and as we reached the Hermitage, I broke out into cries of delight and admiration which pleased my lady well.

Mistress Betty and her youngest sister, Mary, were waiting at the door to welcome us, and we were immediately shown into the presence of my Lord Sinclair, whose stately demeanour impressed, while his kindness of manner delighted me. His greeting of his daughter, Catherine, was all that a tender father’s could be, and her joy at seeing him again was as little restrained as if she had been still but a child. While she settled herself beside him for such converse as was most agreeable to them both, Betty and her sister bore me off between them, the former full of questions that awaited no answers, the latter, who was a delicate, gentle girl, silent and smiling and willing to be friendly.

“We are a large family, my little Barbara,” cried the former, “and I trust that you have plenty of spirit to face it. Fortunately it is not here in full force at present, as Jamie is with his regiment abroad, and Matthew still at school; Grizel and Meg, as you know, are in homes of their own, so there remain only my eldest brother, John, Will, Harry and little Nannie here. Still, when we are met round the family-board, we make a goodly show; and as we are not silent people, it sometimes requires my lord’s sternest frown to quell the tempest of noise.”

Later in the day, I met for the first time, that strange, and to me incomprehensible gentleman, your uncle, the Master of Sinclair. As his not too happy life came to a close some five years ago, he leaving no children to cherish his memory, I count myself free to make my comments upon his character, as otherwise I could not have done. It was difficult to believe when I looked upon this heavy, sullen-browed man, that he was the son of my handsome and courtly host, and brother to the sunny-faced ladies whom I loved. To me he ever appeared the one sour fruit upon a sweet and wholesome tree; and though seeing him in the bosom of his family, where his deference to my lord and his affection for his sisters predisposed me in his favour, there was about him, in his looks and in his words, such a scarce-veiled bitterness that I wondered at times they did not check him for it.

My dear Elizabeth, I soon discovered, had a prodigious admiration for her brother, and took every occasion to extol or excuse him even to me, of whom as an insignificant girl he took but little notice, leaving me therefore the more at leisure to observe him.

“The Master hath not been one of Fortune’s favourites, Barbara,” she told me one afternoon, as we sat on the rocks below the house and watched the sea-gulls wheeling about after their evening meal. “My father, proud of his learning, for indeed he is passing clever, and a scholar of no mean degree, was opposed to his going into the army--a thing upon which my brother had set his heart. He set out for the Continent with scarce any money, and many and great were the hardships he endured. But a soldier he would be, and by degrees he won the friendship and esteem of his Grace, the Duke of Marlborough, so that when sorely slandered and in danger of his life, he stood his friend; and through him also was gained the favour of the Queen, who, by granting my brother his pardon, showed very plainly that she considered him not in fault.”

Now I had heard from Aunt Betty Erskine the doubtful story of the Master’s quarrel with Captain Schaw and his brother, of the trial by Court Martial of Captain Sinclair, of his escape out of camp after being sentenced to death--an escape assisted, as most people surmised, by the great duke himself--of his terrible night ride through the forest to the sea-coast and safety, and of his arrival at the Hermitage, where he had some difficulty in convincing his father, the most honourable of men, of the integrity of his conduct. All this is a matter of history, and, I thereby betray no secrets. But as the ancient lady who recounted these things to me, had added many caustic remarks of her own as to the bullying, quarrelsome nature of the Master, and the probability of his having been wholly in the wrong, I found it difficult to answer Betty with the enthusiastic agreement she seemed to expect.

“Do you not admire my brother, Barbara?” she cried, looking sharply at my embarrassed face. “What have you in your mind against him, child?” she asked hastily, as I strove to find an answer.

“I am displeased with him to-day,” I answered, with a childish petulance wholly feigned to cover my deceit, “because I heard him speak of my dear Sir John as--as an intolerable fool!”

Betty laughed and sighed a little.

“Oh, Barbara,” she said then, “one of the strangest things in the world is the amount of enmity that exists between those who might so easily be friends. My brother was abroad when Catherine was married to Sir John, and I think he resented finding him coming and going as a son of the house, when he returned _under a cloud_ as it were. That is the only reason I can think of in the beginning. He was also bitterly against the Union which Sir John supported, and now when more than half the country is anxious for its repeal, and my brother-in-law of Alva is strong for the Restoration which should bring it about, the Master, as you can understand, hath many a jibe ready to fling at those ‘waverers’ as he calls them. It grieves me much that they are not better friends, for Catherine, of course, supports her husband and is not best pleased at my brother’s attitude.”

“Your family is strong for the King?” I questioned, not wishing to discuss the Master further.

“Oh, my dear,” cried Betty, clasping her hands, “that is another matter of dissension that hurts me to the very heart. You know that my lord was the only man of the Scottish nation who had courage to protest against the title of King William to the throne, and when none would listen to him he rose and left the Assembly. The matter goes very deep with him. For myself, I am willing to lay down my life almost for King James, and my sisters, Grizel and Catherine, are also of my mind. Of my brother James I cannot speak. He is Major in the Royal Scots Regiment of Foot and is a brave and able soldier, but I pray he may never have to use his gifts in fighting against the King. Will and Harry will do as my father bids them, and John is already deep in preparations among our neighbours. But many of those we know and love the best are bitterly opposed to our schemes, and we are obliged to be very secret regarding them.”

“Your great-grandfather, I have heard, suffered imprisonment for King Charles,” I said.

“Indeed he did; being taken at the Battle of Worcester, he was kept a prisoner for nine long years. But I rejoice to think the brave old man lived to see the Royal House restored and to rejoice in the King’s favour, who graciously made mention more than once of his gratitude to my lord.”

“Ah!” cried I, “to suffer for those we love but binds the ties of affection closer. My dear Lady said this to me t’other day, but I scarce understood her words. ’Tis in the blood of your family to fight for the rightful King, and doubtless had my dear grandpapa lived I should have known more about it than I do now.”

“He deemed you too young, child, to discuss such matters with you, but I know that he was one of the gentlemen, who, along with my father and many other noblemen, signed the memorial to the King of France, brought over to Scotland by one Captain Hooke, in the year 1707; and I have heard him tell how often and how longingly he had scanned the Frith from the windows of his house, hoping that early some summer morning he should see the King’s ships with sails full-set come boldly up the river to anchor in Leith harbour.”

“And why came they not?” I asked, my heart beating at the tones of her voice, and the thought of my dear grandfather’s eagerness disappointed.

“Alas! they came indeed, but after long delay. First ’twas promised for the month of August, and our hopes were very high, but the summer and the autumn passed, and we had to bear our anxieties in patience through the winter, which was hard. Letters were written by one and another of the loyal lords and gentlemen asking the meaning of the delay, and begging the King for God’s sake to come speedily; but little satisfaction did they get. At last, in the Spring, the French King ordered the expedition to sail from Dunkirk, but even then there arose confusion and many difficulties, owing, it was said, to dissensions between the ministers of War and Marine. The expedition was under command of the Comte de Forbin, an Admiral of skill and discretion, and into his careful charge the young King was delivered with all ceremony by the King of France. But if his own story is to be believed, and he hath spoken often with my brother of Alva on the matter, he had no great faith in his mission, nor in the sincerity of those who pretended to further it.”

“What mean you by that, madam?” I asked.

“Listen, my dear, and you shall hear. I suppose it is difficult for you, Barbara, to understand my heat and interest in this subject, but you have not been through it all as I was; you did not see and feel the fears and hopes, the sickening anxieties, the impatience and despair, and finally the wild and joyful exultation, when we heard that at last our young King was about to land on Scottish shores. My lord was kept supplied with the latest news by our good friend, Mr. Straton, in Edinburgh, who still works faithfully for the Cause, and you may be sure that, had the King landed, as was expected, close to our doors, my father would have been one of the first to welcome him. And to think that he actually came almost in sight of them, only to be snatched away again by a cruel fate!”

“I can but dimly remember,” I cried, “the French ships in the Forth, and the firing of the guns, and how Phemie told me one morning that the King was come to his own. But I heeded it little at the time, being much taken up with a new puppy that Robert Guthrie had brought for me the day before, and after that it slipped from my mind and nothing occurred to bring it back again. I think shame now to be so ignorant and indifferent.”

“Nay,” said Betty, “you were but a child, and Colonel Stewart was a discreet man. Indeed we were so much wounded and disappointed in our hearts that we spoke but little on the subject for years.”

“But tell me more of the expedition, I beg, and why it failed and disappointed everybody,” said I.

“Well, they set sail from France, in spite of stormy weather, and by God’s good Providence they eluded the English Fleet which was cruising about on the watch for them, and sailing before a favourable wind they overreached their mark, for instead of making the entrance of the Frith, they found themselves on the fourth day off the coast of Scotland opposite to Montrose. They immediately put about and endeavoured to enter the river, but meeting with contrary wind and tide, they were obliged to anchor out yonder, Barbara, near the Isle of May. In the meantime, as soon as the Fleet had been pronounced ready to sail, the King had dispatched from France a trusty messenger in the person of Mr. Charles Fleming, brother to the Earl of Wigton, to prepare us for his arrival. He landed in Aberdeenshire at the house of the Earl of Errol, who, upon receiving the King’s instructions, instantly sent off a messenger to our good neighbour, Mr. Malcolm of Grange, who was to have a boat and pilots ready to go on board the first vessel that should give the signal--five shots was what had been agreed upon--after entering the Frith. This indeed we did, but before any use could be made of his directions, the sound of the firing of cannon came from the South, and Sir George Byng with the English ships of war was upon them. Admiral Forbin, with his precious charge on board, thought only of saving him and the treasure, and with some difficulty he escaped capture, returning to Dunkirk with the loss of but one vessel, the _Salisbury_, which after three hours’ engagement with the English, struck her colours.”

“And what happened then?” cried I, eagerly.

“Ah! then we fell into great depression. Many noblemen and gentlemen who had mounted their horses so gaily to ride to Edinburgh to receive the King, turned their faces sadly home again. From universal joy the town passed to distraction. Consternation reigned in many hearts, for none knew what the Government might do in revenge. As a matter of fact, many of these gentlemen, my dear father among them, were clapped into prison, and there remained for some weary months. But I believe they felt that less than the humiliation of their Cause and the disappointment of all their hopes, for these had risen very high, and our hearts had been full of exultation.”

We sat for some time watching the fair evening light settle down over the scene. The sun was setting far away behind the Highland hills, but the soft reflections tinged the opposite coast, and veiled the distance in a golden mist. The sea-birds were still crying up and down in front of us; the sound of the waves had grown fainter with the out-going tide.

The lovely picture pleased only my outward eye to-night, for I was thinking deeply of the tale out of the past that I had just heard from my companion. Some tone in her voice, more earnest than her wont, proved to me without doubt how deeply she had been stirred at the remembrance; and I knew that this pure loyalty was in her heart’s blood, and that her love for the exiled King would leave her only with life.

“But, Betty,” I ventured at last, very softly lest I should disturb her brooding thoughts, “why did they not land the King at Montrose when there were no English ships in pursuit? Would it not have been better to come ashore anywhere, seeing the county was expecting them and only too glad to welcome them? I think Mr. de Forbin was a very foolish person.”

Betty laughed heartily, and turned an approving glance upon me.

“Why, little Barbara, you are asking the very questions that our disappointed lords and gentlemen asked themselves and others, and to which no answers have ever been given. The conclusion the wisest of them--my father being among them--came to was this: that King Louis had no mind at that time to allow the King to land in Scotland, but if the attempt raised an insurrection in this country, and recalled the Duke of Marlborough and some of his army from fighting against the French, it would serve Louis pretty well. It did not even do that, as you have seen; it only served to pain and humiliate some loyal and faithful people.”

“I fear King Louis is not a friend to trust to,” cried I, with youthful impulsiveness.

“Oh, do not say that now, child,” cried Betty, “lest it be an omen of evil. It is to his help and succour we are looking at this present moment, when we are again on the tip-toe of expectation. Ah! Barbara, if it fails this time I think our hearts will break. None but God can tell what countless prayers are rising from thousands of hearts in Scotland every day, that the rightful King may be restored, and our land be at peace, and prosper as it has never done before. But alas! will the prayers avail us anything? We prayed earnestly enough seven years ago, but our petitions were not answered then.”

“Perhaps the answer is but long delayed,” cried I, “and is now close at hand. The King is seven years older and seven years wiser; King George cannot be called our rightful sovereign, whatever Queen Anne may have been. Oh, indeed, the time seems more propitious now than ever, and I hope, I hope, Betty, that I may see something of the struggle. How excited I feel! You have filled me with enthusiasm and loyalty for King James.”

“Hush! child,” said Betty rising, for it was time to go home, “’tis no matter for excitement, but very sober thoughts and much prudence are needed. As for me, I wish the Restoration might be made without the struggle at all. Sometimes I long to be a man, to scheme, and plan, and fight for the Cause; but even a woman can do something that may not be altogether despised.”

When we had climbed the rocky path that led from the shore to the grounds round the house, she turned and looked away across the Frith, and kissed her hand towards the south with a pretty gesture.

“Come quickly, my King!” she cried, softly. “Come quickly, and be wise! There are no hearts in all the world so true as Scottish hearts, no memories so faithful to the past, no love so tender! Come soon, my King, and prove them!”

And though she spoke the words with a little laugh, I saw that there were tears in her eyes.