The Silver Glen

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.