The Silver Glen

You will notice, I have no doubt, a great sameness in these interesting letters, and frequent repetitions of the sentiments and facts they contain. The reason of this, as you will readily understand, was the fear my lady had that Sir John might not receive them, so that she felt compelled to inform him of whatever interested them most in every epistle she penned. It would be easy to curtail them, giving you only extracts, and so save you the tedium of reading the same things so often; but in reproducing them as they were writ I feel that I am only doing justice to my dear lady’s memory, for by this means alone can you, her descendants, realise the weariness of her life, the flagging of her hopefulness, the constant burden that weighed on her mind during those long, monotonous weeks. Her spirits, as you will see, varied, as a woman’s are apt to do with her varying moods. Some days she would be full of cheerfulness, saying that an end to all our troubles must soon be coming, and busying herself with her affairs as if her beloved husband were returning to Alva the very next week; at other times she would be heavy and sad, moving about the house in silence, and only by a great effort making answer to those who conversed with her. The news of Sir John’s safety and freedom did indeed lift a weight from her heart, and for some days she even laughed and sang as she made herself busy in her usual way; but this lightness could not long be maintained, and the prospect of seeing her husband grew more and more uncertain.

Our fears for the good old Colonel and his son, still prisoners in the Fleet, were now allayed as nothing could be found against them, and there seemed to be every hope that after a time they would be released. Mr. Patrick Campbell, our kind and constant friend, had means of seeing them frequently, and kept my lady informed of their welfare.

The news of the escape of the brave old Brigadier Mackintosh and several of his friends from Newgate, which reached us some time in May, was hailed with triumph, not unmixed with amusement, when we learned that this sturdy veteran had knocked down his gaoler with his fists; and after disarming the sentinel, they opened the gates and let themselves out into the streets, afterwards escaping (save one or two who were unluckily recaptured) to France. Some weeks later occurred the escape of Colonel Walkinshaw of Barafield from the Castle of Stirling, which we learned enraged the Earl of Rothes very much. But these things are matters of history, you will say, and enter not into our story.

And all this time it may be asked where was Sir John and how was he faring?

Excellently well, if we may believe the hints given us in the few extracts of letters from him which I have seen, and the scraps of news about him, confided to me at the time by my lady, and entered in my little day-book.

You will see that his faithful wife believes that he is living quietly and privately, with no thought of further entangling himself in the King’s affairs; but she constantly urges him to leave the neighbourhood of his Majesty and the Earl of Mar, in order to prove to the authorities at home that he truly repents him of his misdeeds, and is therefore a fit subject for the clemency of King George. And all the time if we had but known it, Sir John was busily engaged in furthering his master’s interests by every means in his power, although I am certain he did not contemplate bringing disaster upon his wife and family.

In the beginning of April, he, accompanied by his brother-in-law, left Paris by water-coach for a town called Auxerre, which was finally reached in a covered cart. From there, as it was quite out of the way of diligences or even ordinary post-road, they hired horses to ride to Beaune, a small village in a wine-growing district from which was obtained the excellent vin de Pomar, or Beaune, which is still famed among the wines of Burgundy. In one of his letters Sir John tells my lady how he drinks her health daily, though abstemiously, in this cheap and pleasant beverage; he also gives an amusing account of Mr. Paterson’s difficulties with the French language, the latter being almost a stranger to its use.

After about three weeks in this place, Sir John, upon the King’s summoning him, repaired to Avignon where his Majesty held his meagre court, and from then onwards through the summer his time seems to have been occupied with political affairs. This, as you are aware, he kept from my lady’s knowledge, but rumours reached her from time to time through other sources, which greatly disturbed her and kept her in a state of constant anxiety.

“What,” she said to me once, “is the use of all our endeavours to obtain Sir John’s pardon, and prevent his being attainted, if he continues to mix himself up in the affairs of the poor King? I cannot see that one man’s help, or the want of it, can make much difference at the present juncture; and I am convinced that if my husband were free to confide his private affairs to his Majesty, he would be told to consider his family interests rather than continue any longer in this employment.”

“Perhaps the story of Sir John’s being sent to Spain is false,” said I, to comfort her.

“Oh, ’tis very like!” she answered, “people must always be talking. But it shows us, Barbara, what I have ever felt, the strong difference between men and women. Were my dear life to express the lightest wish regarding my conduct, would I not hasten to do it, no matter how cross it might be to my inclination? But not all my pleadings, I fear, will have any effect on Sir John to make him alter his present way of living.”

“Ah, madam!” I cried, eager as ever for my guardian’s justification, “’tis a hard thing to be torn by divided duties, especially when affection bears a part in each. But I do fervently believe our good Sir John will decide to give up the King, if this is the only alternative, rather than bring you and your children to misery.”

“Would to God he would hesitate no longer!” she cried. “He may make up his mind too late, and end by falling between two stools, as the saying is.”

“There is still,” she went on after a while, “the hope of help from his brother, Robin, who is very great with his master. I think ’twould be easy for him to move the Czar to ask for Sir John’s pardon; but this, as you know, would not alter the inclination of the Parliament if they were determined to have him attainted, and my fear is, that believing him still a servant of King James, they may hasten to do it. I pray God to have us all in his keeping, and order everything for our good; but my heart at times is very heavy, Barbara, and the waiting is long.”

It was about this time that the little boys fell ill with the chincough, or whooping-cough, and though at first it seemed they were both to get pretty easy off, the trouble increased, and little Hal especially was brought very low. Fortunately the weather was mild and almost summer-like, though but the beginning of May, so that there was every chance for the children in that particular, and with Phemie’s care and skill to depend on, my lady did not allow herself to be unduly agitated about them. Still she was an anxious and tender parent, and the sight of her youngest child, with white face and heavy eyes, oppressed and spent after a fit of the cough, caused her many a pang, I trow, for to have anything serious happen to her precious little sons in the absence of their father, would have well-nigh broken her heart.

Early in this month Betty was obliged to go back to Dysart, intending as she said to return very shortly, but this, as events turned out, she was unable to do. Old Lady Alva was still with us, as kind and pleasant a dame as it would be possible to find. Her cheerful, placid spirit was of the greatest benefit to her daughter at this time, and though she interfered in nothing that was being done, she was ever ready to give her help and advice when asked.

As for Barbara, she had been made happy by receiving a letter from her friend, Mr. Fleming, who was safely arrived in France, and was now staying with some good friends of his father’s in Paris. He had great hopes, he said, of getting his pardon, through his parent’s friends in the Government, and was already contemplating falling in with his father’s suggestion that he should get him employment in the service of the East India Company. As this would entail his leaving Britain and living in a distant land for the most part of his life, he thought it proper to advertise me of his prospects, and get my mind on the matter.

Glad and relieved as I was to know him safe and well, this news, as you can imagine, threw me into some agitation, for it implied the readjustment and arranging of my whole life, and my woman’s heart trembled at the notion. There is surely nothing in life so wonderful nor so beautiful, if we regard it rightly, as the simple trust displayed by a young maid in giving up herself to the sole care of the man she loves, forsaking all other to cleave to him, leaving friends and home and childhood’s scenes to accompany him to any corner of the globe, the future all unknown, alone, but for him, in the whole world. And yet I suppose that ever since Rebecca, trusting only to hearsay, came willingly to Isaac, it has been the way of women, and ordered by God; and men too often, I fear, regard it as a natural proceeding, and the faith that it implies no more than their due.

However that may be, I did not feel it would be right to attempt to dissuade Mr. Fleming from falling in with his father’s wishes; for nothing was nearer to my heart, as you may guess, than the desire to stand well in the eyes of my Anthony’s parents, so that they might find nothing of which to disapprove in their dear son’s choice. He begged my permission and that of Lady Erskine, to make them acquainted with our mutual love, so that, upon his obtaining his pardon, our betrothal might at once be made public.

To this, my lady, after consulting with Mr. Erskine (who was again at Alva), gave her consent, but added that in the event of Mr. Fleming’s going to the Indies, she must beg, for the sake of my youth, that he should not insist upon my accompanying him. In three or four years’ time, she said, I would be of age, and being older, more fit to hold my own against the extremities of the Eastern climate; Mr. Fleming also would be accustomed to the country, and more fit to make me comfortable in my new life when I went out to him.

I cannot say that Barbara, young, impulsive and not too patient, at once agreed to her kind friend’s proposals. Indeed it took some days of consideration and counsel to bring her to reason, and some nights of sleepless anxiety and not a few tears, before she could bring herself to face the prospect with equanimity. The sorrow of parting, the long absence from each other, the distance that would separate us, and the dangers and risks of the long voyage—all these combined to make a burden that was not easy to carry. But of this I said very little in my reply to my lover, knowing that his own heart would understand it too well. I only stipulated very strongly that I should see him once more, and talk over everything with himself, before his departure from Britain.

And so with hopes and fears the days were intermingled, and the summer was at hand, and the trees were growing green, but there was no word yet of Sir John’s coming home.