Yourself, too, the Jean within that body, with your courage, your pride, your scorn, your temper, your fierce desires, your fiery jealousies, your changing moods. And your pa.s.sion, with its demands, with its surrenders, with its caresses, with its pain. You, Jean Cochrane, as you are and as you shall be, with all my heart and with all my body, with all my loyalty, next to that I give my king, I love you, Jean." He leaned towards her as he spoke, and all the pa.s.sion that was hidden behind his girl face and Court manner--the pa.s.sion that had made him the most daring of soldiers, and was to make him the most successful of leaders--poured from his eyes, from his lips, from his whole self, like a hot stream, enveloping, overwhelming and captivating her. Strong as she was in will and character, she could not speak nor move, but only looked at him, with eyes wide open, from the midst of the wealth of her golden hair.

[Ill.u.s.tration: She could not speak nor move, but only looked at him.

Page 166.]

"Do I not know the sacrifice I am asking if you should consent to be my wife? Jean, I will tell you true: not for my love even and your bonnie self will I lie or palter with my faith. You will have to come to me, I will not go to you; you will have to break with the Covenant, leave your father's house and face your mother's anger, and be denounced by the G.o.dly, up and down the land, because ye married the man of blood and the persecutor of the saints. I will not change, ye understand that? No, not for the warm, soft clasp of your white arms round my neck; no, not though ye tie me with the meshes of your shining hair. I judge that ye will not be a temptress, but I give you warning I am no Sampson, in his weakness to a woman's witchery, when it comes to my faith and my duty. I will love you night and day as a man loveth a woman, but I will do what I am told to do, even though it be against your own people, till the evil days be over. And it may be, Jean, that I shall have to lead a hopeless cause. Ye must be willing to give me to death without a grudge, and send me with a kiss to serve the king.

"Can you do this"--and now his voice sank almost to a whisper, and he stretched his hands towards her--"for the sake of love, for love's sake only, for the sight of my face, for the touch of my lips, for the clasp of my arms, for the service of my heart, for myself? If ye should, I will be a true man to you, Jean, till death us do part. I have not been better than other men, but women have never made me play the fool, and even your own folk, who hate me, will tell you that I have been a clean liver. And now I will never touch or look on any other woman in the way of love save you. If I have to leave your side to serve the king, I will return when the work is done, and all the time I am away my love will be returning to you. If you be not in my empty arms, you shall ever be in my heart; if I win honor or wealth, it will now be for you. If I can shelter you from sorrows and trouble, I will do so with my life, and if I die my last thought, after the cause, will be of you, my lady and my love.

"Jean Cochrane, can you trust yourself to me; will you be the wife of John Graham of Claverhouse?"

They had risen as by an instinct, and were facing one another where the light of the setting sun fell softly upon them through the fretted greenery of the beech tree.

"For life, John Graham, and for death," and as she said "death" he clasped her in his arms. The brown hair mingled with the gold, they looked into one another's eyes, and their lips met in a long, pa.s.sionate kiss, renewed again and again, as if their souls had flowed together. Then she disentangled herself and stood a pace away, and laying her hands upon his shoulders and looking steadfastly at him, she said: "Whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge, thy people shall be my people, and thy G.o.d my G.o.d."

The sooner they were married the better pleased John Graham and Jean Cochrane would be, for life in Paisley Castle could not be a paradise for Jean after that betrothal. Three weeks later Claverhouse rode down one Sat.u.r.day from Edinburgh to Paisley against his marriage day on the following Tuesday. His love for Jean had steadily grown during those days, and now was in a white heat of antic.i.p.ation, for she was no nun, but a woman to stir a man's senses. Yet there were many things to chasten and keep him sober. No sooner was it known that he was to marry Lady Cochrane's daughter and the granddaughter of Lord Ca.s.sillis than his rivals in the high places of Scotland and at Whitehall did their best to injure him, setting abroad stories that he was no longer loyal, and that in future he would play into the hands of the enemy.

His young wife would certainly get round him and shake his integrity, and it would not be wise to trust Claverhouse with secrets of grave affairs. It was prophesied that this amazing and incongruous marriage, the mating of opposites, would only work ruin to his career, and that indeed this was the beginning of the end for Claverhouse. Lady Cochrane, raging like a fiend in Paisley Castle, did not fail, in the interludes of invective against her daughter for disgracing their good name and giving herself into the hands of the cruelest enemy of the kirk, to remind Jean also that she was doing the worst injury to the man she professed to love, and that in the end Claverhouse would be twice d.a.m.ned--for his sin against the Covenanters and for his disloyalty to his own cause. Jean was, of all women, most capable of holding her own even with her masterful mother, and Claverhouse was perfectly confident that neither Lady Cochrane nor her family would be able to shake Jean's fidelity. But there were times, and they were her bitterest hours, when Jean was not sure whether she had not done selfishly and was not going to satisfy her love at the expense of her lover. On his part, he could not help being anxious, for it seemed as if every man of his own party had turned his hand against him. With all his severity, Claverhouse had a just mind, and he offended Queensberry by protesting against the severity of the law; while the Duke of Perth, an unprincipled vagabond, ready to play traitor to either king or religion, hated Claverhouse because he was an honorable man. Claverhouse thought it necessary to write to the Duke of York, explaining the circ.u.mstances of his marriage and a.s.suring him of his continued loyalty, and to the Duke of Hamilton, whose daughter was to be married to young Lord Cochrane, testifying to the integrity of Jean. "For the young lady herself, I shall answer for her. Had she been right principled she would never in despyt of her mother and relations made choyse of a persecutor, as they call me. So, whoever think to misrepresent me on that head will find themselves mistaken; for both the king and the church's interest, dryve as fast as they think fit, they will never see me behind."

Lord Dundonald himself was pleased because the marriage secured Claverhouse's influence, and so were his personal friends, such as Lord Ross, who knew and admired Jean; Claverhouse could not hide from himself, however, that the world judged the marriage an irreparable mistake, and Grimond, so far as he dared--but he had now to be very careful--rubbed salt into the wound. All the omens were against them, and when on the Sunday Claverhouse sat beside his bride in the Abbey church, the people gave them a cold countenance, and as they went up the street true Presbyterians turned their faces from Claverhouse. The marriage service was performed in the gallery of the castle, and the minister officiating was one who had taken the indulgence and was avoided by the stricter people of the kirk. The contract was signed by Lord Dundonald and the old countess with weak and feeble hands, but the bride and bridegroom placed their names with strong and unhesitating characters. Lord Ross stood beside his commanding officer as best man, and young Lord Cochrane was also present, full of good-will and sympathy, for was he not himself about to marry the daughter of the Duke of Hamilton? But neither Dundonald's weakly approval nor the gayety of the young men could lift the shadow that fell within and without, both in the gallery and in the courtyard of the castle, upon the marriage of Claverhouse and Jean Cochrane. News had come two days before that there had been a rising among the Covenanters, and Claverhouse was ordered to pursue them with his cavalry. His regiment was in the district, and while the service was going on in the castle, his horse was saddled in the courtyard, and a guard of troopers were making ready to start. The sound of the champing of bits and the clinking of spurs came up through the quiet summer air and mingled with the prayer of the minister. Lady Cochrane was not supposed to be present, but when the minister asked if anyone could show just cause why this marriage should not be performed, she appeared suddenly from an alcove where she had been sheltered behind the servants. Stepping forward, she said, with an unfaltering voice, vibrant with solemn indignation, "_In the name of G.o.d_ and in my own, I, the mother of Jean Cochrane, forbid this marriage, because she is marrying against my will, and joining herself to the persecutor of G.o.d's people; because she is turning herself against her father's house and forsaking the faith of her father's G.o.d." The minister paused for a moment, for he was a quiet man and stood in awe of Lady Cochrane; he looked anxiously at the bride and bridegroom. "I have made my choice," said Jean, "and I adhere to it with my mind and heart," and Claverhouse, with a smile and bow, bade the minister do his duty. When they were married there was a moment's stillness, during which the bridegroom kissed the bride, and then Lady Cochrane spoke again. "Ye have gone your own way and done your own will, John Graham and Jean Cochrane, and the curse of G.o.d's kirk and of a mother goes with you. The veil is lifted from before my eyes, and I prophesy that neither the bridegroom nor the bride will die in their beds.

There are those here present who will witness one day that I have spoken true."

Claverhouse led his bride to the wing of the castle, where she lived, and from which she could look down on the courtyard. At the door of her room he kissed her again and bade her good-by. "This is what ye have got, Jean, by marrying me," and his smile was dashed with sadness. Two minutes later he rode out from the courtyard of the castle to hunt the people of Lady Cochrane's faith, while her daughter and his bride waved him G.o.d speed from her window.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

ONE FEARLESS MAN

Above the town of Dundee, and built to command the place, stood, at the date of our tale, Dudhope Castle, a good specimen of Scots architecture, which in its severity and strength is, like architecture everywhere, the physical incarnation of national creed and character. The hardness of Dudhope was softened in those days by what was not usual in the case of keeps and other warlike buildings, for Dudhope was set in the midst of sloping fields where cattle browsed, and had also round it rising plantations of wood. Before the castle there was a terrace, and from it one looked down upon the little town, nestling under the shelter of the castle, and across the Firth of Tay to Fifeshire, where so much Scots history had been made. It was to Dudhope Claverhouse brought his bride, after that stormy honeymoon which she had to spend under the shadow of her mother's hot displeasure in Paisley Castle, and he occupied with the weary hunt of Covenanters up and down the West Country. Their wedding day was the 10th of June, but it was not till August that Claverhouse and his wife came home to Dudhope. Since then four years have pa.s.sed, during which the monotony of his duty in hunting Covenanters had been relieved by the office of Provost of Dundee, in which it is said he ruled severely, and the sameness of Jean's life at Dudhope by a visit to the Court of London, where she produced a vast impression, and was said to have been adored in the highest quarter. There were hours when she felt very lonely, although she would not have confessed this, being a woman of invincible spirit and fortified by the courage of her love.

She never knew when her husband would be called away for one of his hunts, and though there were many Loyalist families in Forfarshire, it was not a time for easy social intercourse, and Jean was conscious that the Carnegies and the rest of them of the old Cavalier stock looked askance at her, and suspected the black Covenanting taint in her blood.

Claverhouse, like a faithful gentleman, had done his best to conceal from her the injury which his marriage had done him, but she knew that his cunning and bitter enemy, the Duke of Queensberry, had constantly insinuated into the mind of the Duke of York and various high personages in London that no one who had married Lady Cochrane's daughter could, in the nature of things, be perfectly loyal. It was really for this love that he had lost the post of commander-in-chief in Scotland, to which he was distinctly ent.i.tled, and had experienced the insult of having his name removed from the Scots Council. It might be her imagination, but it seemed as if his fellow officers and other friends, whom she met from time to time, were not at ease with her. She was angry when they refrained from their customary frank expressions about her mother's party, just as she would have been angry if they had said the things they were accustomed to say in her presence. Claverhouse a.s.sured her on those happy days when he was living at Dudhope, and when they could be lovers among the woods there, as they had been in the pleasaunce at Paisley Castle, that he never regretted his choice, and that she was the inspiration of his life. It was pleasant to hear him repeat his love vows, with a pa.s.sion as hot and words as moving as in the days of their courtship, and the very contrast between his unbending severity as a soldier and his grace as a lover made him the more fascinating to a woman who was herself of the lioness breed. All the same, she could not forget that Claverhouse would have done better for himself if he had married into one of the great Scots houses of his own party--and there were few in which he would not have been welcome--and that indeed he could not have done much worse for his future than in marrying her. It was a day of keen rivalry among the Royalists, and a more unprincipled and disreputable gang than the king's Scots ministers could not be found in any land; indeed Claverhouse was the only man of honor amongst them. His battle to hold his own and achieve his legitimate ambition was very hard, and certainly he needed no handicap. Jean Graham was haunted with the reflection that Claverhouse's wife, instead of being a help, was a hindrance to her husband, and that if it were not for the burden of her Covenanting name, he would have climbed easily to the highest place. Nor could she relish the change of att.i.tude of the common people towards her, and the difference in atmosphere between Paisley and Dundee. Once she had been accustomed to receive a respectful, though it might be awkward, salutation from the dour West Country folk, and to know that, though in her heart she was not in sympathy with them, the people in the town, where her mother reigned supreme, felt kindly towards her, as the daughter of that G.o.dly Covenanting lady. In Dundee, where the ordinary people sided with the Presbyterians and only the minority were with the Bishops, men turned away their faces when she pa.s.sed through the place, and the women cried "b.l.o.o.d.y Claverse!" as she pa.s.sed. She knew without any word of abuse that both she and her husband were bitterly hated, because he was judged a persecutor and she a renegade. They were two of the proudest people in Scotland, but although Claverhouse gave no sign that he cared for the people's loathing, she often suspected that he felt it, being a true Scots gentleman, and although Jean pretended to despise Covenanting fanaticism, she would rather have been loved by the folk round her than hated.

While she declared to Graham that her deliverance from her mother's party, with their sermons, their denunciations, their narrowness and that horrible Covenant, had been a pa.s.sage from bondage to liberty, there were times, as she paced the terrace alone and looked out on the gray sea of the east coast, when the contradictory circ.u.mstances of her life beset her and she was troubled. When she was forced to listen to the interminable harangues of hill preachers, sheltering for a night in the castle, and day by day was resisting the domination of her mother, her mind rose in revolt against the Presbyterians and all their ways.

When she was among men who spoke of those hillmen as if they were vermin to be trapped, and as if no one had breeding or honor or intelligence or sincerity except the Cavaliers, she was again goaded into opposition. Jean had made her choice both of her man and of her cause--for they went together--with her eyes open, and she was not a woman to change again, nor to vex herself with vain regrets. It was rather her nature to decide once for all, and then to throw herself without reserve into her cause, and to follow without question her man through good report and ill, through right, and, if need be, wrong. Yet she was a shrewd and high-minded woman, and not one of those fortunate fanatics who can see nothing but good on one side, and nothing but ill on the other. Life had grown intolerable in her mother's house, and Jean had not in her the making of a convinced and thoroughgoing Covenanter, and in going over to the other party, she had, on the whole, fulfilled herself, as well as found a mate of the same proud spirit. But she was honest enough to admit to herself that those Ayrshire peasants were dying for conscience' sake, though she might think it a narrow conscience, and were sincere in their piety, though she might think it an unattractive religion. And she could not shut her eyes to the fact that there was little glory in shooting them down like muirfowl, or that the men of Claverhouse's side were too often drunken and evil-living bravos.

Jean was feeling the situation in its acuteness that evening as she read for the third time a letter which had come from Edinburgh by the hands of Grimond. At the sight of the writing her pulse quickened, and Grimond marked, with jealous displeasure (for that impracticable Scot never trusted Jean), the flush of love upon her cheek and its joy in her eyes. She now drew the letter from her bosom, and this is what she read, but in a different spelling from ours and with some slight differences in construction, all of which have been translated:

SWEETHEART: It is my one trouble when I must leave you, and save when I am engaged on the king's work my every thought is with you, for indeed it appeareth to me that if I loved you with strong desire on the day of our marriage, I love you more soul and body this day. When another woman speaks to me in the daytime, though they say that she is fair, her beauty coming into comparison with your's, is disparaged, beside the sheen of your hair and the richness of your lips, and though she may have a pleasant way with men, as they tell me, she hath no lure for me, as I picture you throw back your head and look at me with eyes that challenge my love. When the night cometh, and the task of the day is done, I hold you in my embrace, the proudest woman in Scotland, and you say again, as on that day in the pleasaunce, "For life, John Graham, and for death."

It has not been easy living for you, Jean, since that marriage-day, when the trumpets were our wedding-bells, and your mother's curse our benediction, and I take thought oftentimes that it has been harder for thee, Sweetheart, than for me. I had the encounters of the field with open enemies and of the Council with false friends, but thou hast had the loneliness of Dudhope, when I was not there to caress you and kiss away your cares. Faithful have you been to the cause, and to me, and I make boast that I have not been unfaithful myself to either, but the sun has not been always shining on our side of the hedge and there have been some chill blasts. Yet they have ever driven us closer into one another's arms, and each coming home, if it has been like the first from the work of war, has been also like it a new marriage-day. Say you is it not true, Sweetheart, we be still bridegroom and bride, and shall be to the end?

When I asked you to be my wife, Jean, I told you that love even for you would not hinder me from doing the king's work, but this matter I have had on hand in Edinburgh has tried me sorely,--though one in the Council would guess at my heart. I have also the fear that it will vex you greatly. Mayhap you have heard, for such news flies fast, that we lighted upon Henry Pollock and a party of his people last week. They were going to some preaching and were taken unawares, and we captured them all, not without blows and blood. Pollock himself fought as ye might expect, like a man without fear, and was wounded. I saw that his cuts were bound up, and that he had meat and drink. We brought him on horseback to Edinburgh, treating him as well as we could, for while I knew what the end would be, and that he sought no other, I do not deny that he is an honest man and I do not forget that he loved you. Yesterday he was tried before the Council, and I gave strong evidence against him. Upon my word it was that he was declared guilty of rebellion against the king's authority, and was condemned to death. None other could I do, Jean, for he that spared so dangerous and stalwart an enemy as Pollock, is himself a traitor, but when the Council were fain to insult him I rebuked them sharply and told them to their face that among them there was no spirit so clean and brave.

This morning he was executed and since there was a fear lest the people who have greatly loved him should attempt to rescue, I was present with two troops of horse. It needeth not me to tell you that he died well, bidding farewell to earth and welcome to heaven in words I cannot forget, tho' they sounded strange to me.

Sweetheart, I will say something boldly in thine ear. I have had little time to think of heaven and little desire for such a place, but I would count myself fortunate if in the hour of death I were as sure of winning there as Henry Pollock. So he died for his side, and I helped him to his death; some day I may die for my side, and his friends will help me to my death. It is a dark day and a troubled nation. Henry Pollock and John Graham have both been thorough. G.o.d is our judge, wha kens but He may accept us baith? But I cannot deny he was a saint, as ye once said of him, and that I shall never be, neither shall you, Jean Graham, my love and my heart's delight

This is sore writing to me, but I would rather ye had it from my hand than from another's, and I fear me ye will hear bitter words in Dundee of what has been done. This is the cup we have to drink and worse things may yet be coming, for I have the misgiving that black danger is at hand and that the king will have to fight for his crown. Before long, if I be not a false prophet, my old general, the Prince of Orange, will do his part to wrest the throne from his own wife's father. If he does the crown will not be taken without one man seeing that other crowns be broken, but I fear me, Jean, I fear greatly. In Scotland the king's chief servants be mostly liars and cowards, seeking every man after his own interest, with the heart of Judas Iscariot, and in London I doubt if they be much better. These be dreary news, and I wish to heaven I had better to send thee. This I can ever give, unless ye answer me that it is yours before, the love of my inmost heart till I am able to give you it in the kiss of my lips, with your arms again flung about me, as on that day. Till our meeting and for evermore, my dearest lady and only Sweetheart first and last, I am your faithful lover and servant,

JOHN GRAHAM.

So it had come to pa.s.s as she had often feared, that Pollock would die by Claverhouse's doing, and now she had not been a woman if her heart were not divided that evening between her lovers, although she had no hesitation either then or in the past about her preference. Jean knew she was not made to be the wife of an ascetic, but never could she forget the look in Pollock's eyes when he told her of his love, nor cease to be proud that he had done her the chief honor a man can render to a woman. She knew then, and she knew better to-day, that she had never loved Pollock, and never indeed could have loved him as a woman loves her husband. But she revered him then, and he would have forever a place in her heart like the niche given to a saint, and she hoped that his prayers for her--for she knew he would intercede for her--would be answered in the highest. Nor could she refrain from the comparison between Pollock and Graham. In some respects they were so like one another, both being men of ancient blood and high tradition, both carrying themselves without shame and without fear, both being fanatics--the one for religion and the other for loyalty--and, it might be, both alike to be martyrs for their faith. And so unlike--the one unworldly, spiritual, and, save in self-defence, gentle and meek; the other charged with high ambition, fond of power, ready for battle, gracious in gay society, pa.s.sionate in love. Who had the better of it in the fight--her debonair husband, with his body-guard of dragoons, striking down and capturing a minister and a handful of shepherds, or that pure soul, who lived preaching and praying, and was willing to die praying and fighting against hopeless odds? She had cast in her lot with the Royalists, but it came over her that in the eternal justice Pollock, dying on the scaffold, was already victor, and Graham, who sent him there, was already the loser. If it had been cruel writing for Claverhouse, it was cruel reading for his wife, and yet, when she had read it over again, the pa.s.sage on Pollock faded away as if it had been spiritualized and no longer existed for the earthly sense. She only lingered over the words of devotion and pa.s.sion, and when she kissed again and again his signature she knew that whether he was to win or to be beaten, whether he was right or wrong, angel or devil--and he was neither--she belonged with her whole desire to Claverhouse.

Claverhouse's letter to his wife was written in May, and by October his gloomy forebodings regarding the king were being verified. During the autumn William of Orange had been preparing to invade England, and it was freely said he would come on the invitation of the English people and as the champion of English liberty. From the beginning of the crisis James was badly advised, and showed neither nerve nor discernment, and among other foolish measures was the withdrawal of the regular troops from Scotland and their concentration at London.

From London James made a feeble campaign in the direction of the west, and Claverhouse, who was in command of the Scots Cavalry, and whose mind was torn between contempt for the feebleness of the military measures and impatience to be at the enemy, wrote to Jean, sending her, as it seemed to be his lot, mixed news of honor and despair.

_For the fair hands of the Viscountess of Dundee, and Lady Graham of Claverhouse._

MY DEAREST LADY: If I have to send ye evil tidings concerning the affairs of the king, which can hardly be worse, let me first acquaint you with the honor His Majesty has bestowed upon me, and which I count the more precious because it bringeth honor to her who is dearer to me than life, and who has suffered much trouble through me. Hitherto our marriage has meant suffering of many kinds for my Sweetheart, though I am fain to believe there has been more consolation in our love, but now it is charged with the King's favor and high dignity in the State. Whatever it be worth for you and me, and however long or short I be left to enjoy it, I have been made a Peer of Scotland by the t.i.tles written above, and what I like best in the matter, is that the peerage has been given--so it runs, and no doubt a woman loves to read such things of her man--for "Many good and eminent services rendered to His Majesty, and his dearest Royal brother, King Charles II, by his right trusty and well-beloved Councilor, Major-General John Graham of Claverhouse; together with his constant loyalty and firm adherence upon all occasions to the true interests of the crown."

Whatever befalls me it pleases me that the king knows I have been loyal and that he is grateful for one faithful servant. So I kiss the hand of my Lady Viscountess and were I at Dudhope I might venture upon her lips, aye, more than once.

When I leave myself and come unto the King I have nothing to tell but what fills me with shame and fear. It was not good policy to call the troops from Scotland, where we could have held the land for the King, but one had not so much regret if we had been allowed to strike a blow against the Usurper. Had there been a heart in my Lord Feversham--it hurts me to reflect on the King--then the army should have made a quick march into the West, gathering round it all the loyal gentlemen, and struck a blow at the Prince before he had established himself in the land. By G.o.d's help we had driven him and his Dutchmen, and the traitors who have flocked to him, into the sea. But it is with a sore heart I tell thee, tho' this had better be kept to thy secret council, that there seemeth to be neither wisdom nor courage amongst us. His Majesty has been living in the Bishop's Palace, and does nothing at the time, when to strike quickly is to strike for ever.

Officers in high place are stealing away like thieves, and others who remain are preaching caution, by which they mean safety for themselves and their goods. "d.a.m.n all caution," say I, to Feversham and the rest of them, "let us into the saddle and forward, let us strike hard and altogether, for the King and our cause!" If we win it will be a speedy end to rebellion and another Sedgemoor; if we are defeated, and I do not despise the Scots Brigade with Hugh MacKay, we shall fall with honor and not be a scorn to coming generations. For myself, were it not for thee, Jean, I should crave no better end than to fall in a last charge for the King and the good cause. As it is, unless G.o.d put some heart into our leaders, the army will melt away like snow upon a d.y.k.e in the springtime, and William will have an open road to London and the throne of England. He may have mair trouble and see some bloodshed before he lays his hand on the auld crown of Scotland. When I may get awa to the North countrie I know not yet, but whether I be in the South, where many are cowards and some are traitors, or in the North, where the clans at least be true, and there be also not a few loyal Lowland Cavaliers, my love is ever with thee, dear heart, and warm upon my breast lies the lock of your golden hair.

Yours till death,

DUNDEE.

G.o.d was not pleased to reenforce the king's advisers, and his cause fell rapidly to pieces. Claverhouse withdrew the Scots Cavalry to the neighborhood of London, and wore out his heart in the effort to put manhood into his party, which was now occupied in looking after their own interests in the inevitable revolution. And again Claverhouse, or, as we should call him, Dundee, wrote to Jean:

DEAREST AND BRAVEST OF WOMEN: Were ye not that, as I know well, I had no heart in me to write this letter, for I have no good thing to tell thee about the cause of the King and it seems to me certain that, for the time at least, England is lost. I am now in London, and the days are far harder for me than when I campaigned with the Usurper, and fought joyfully at Seneffe and Grave. It is ill to contain oneself when a man has to go from one to another of his comrades and ask him for G.o.d's sake and the King's sake to play the man. Then to get nothing but fair and false words, and to see the very officers that hold the King's commission shuffling and lying, with one eye on King James and the other on the Prince of Orange. Had I my way of it I would shoot a dozen of the traitors to encourage the others. But the King is all for peace--peace, forsooth! when his enemies are at the door of the palace. What can one man do against so many, and a King too tolerant and good-natured--G.o.d forgive me, I had almost written too weak? It is not for me to sit in judgment on my Sovereign, but some days ago I gave my mind to Hamilton in his own lodgings, where Balcarres and certain of us met to take council. There were hot words, and no good came of it. Balcarres alone is staunch, and yesterday he went with me to Whitehall and we had our last word for the present with the King. He was gracious unto us, as he has ever been to me when his mind was not poisoned by Queensberry or Perth, and ye might care to know, Jean, what your man, much daring, said to His Majesty: "We have come, Sir, to ask a favor of your Majesty, and that ye will let us do a deed which will waken the land and turn the tide of affairs. Have we your permission to cause the drums to be beat of every regiment in London and the neighbourhood, for if ye so consent there will be twenty thousand men ready to start to-morrow morning. Before to-morrow night the road to London will be barred, and, please G.o.d, before a week is over your throne will be placed beyond danger." For a s.p.a.ce I think he was moved and then the life went out of him, and he sadly shook his head. "It is too late," he said, "too late, and the shedding of blood would be vain." But I saw he was not displeased with us, and he signified his pleasure that we should walk with him in the Mall. Again I dared to entreat him not to leave his capital without a stroke, and in my soul I wondered that he could be so enduring. Had it been your man, Jean, he had been at the Prince's throat before the Dutchman had been twenty-four hours in England. But who am I to reflect upon my King? and I will say it, that he spake words to me I can never forget. "You are brave men,"

said the King, and, though he be a cold man, I saw that he was touched, "and if there had been twenty like you among the officers and n.o.bles, things had not come to this pa.s.s. Ye can do nothing more in England, and for myself I have resolved to go to France, for if I stayed here I would be a prisoner, and there is but a short road between the prison and the graves of Kings. To you," he said to Balcarres, "I leave the charge of civil affairs in Scotland," and, then turning to me, "You, Lord Dundee, who ought before to have had this place, but I was ill-advised, shall be commander of the troops in Scotland. Do for your King what G.o.d gives you to do, and he pledges his word to aid you by all means in his power, and in the day of victory to reward you." We knelt and kissed his hand, and so for the time, heaven grant it be not forever, bade goodbye to our Sovereign. As I walked down the Mall I saw a face I seemed to know, and the man, whoever he was, made a sign that he would speak with me. I turned aside and found to my amazement that the stranger, who was not in uniform, and did not court observation, was Captain Carlton, who served with me in the Prince's army and of whom ye may have heard me speak. A good soldier and a fair-minded gentleman, tho' of another way of thinking from me. After a brief salutation he told me that the Prince was already in London and had taken up his quarters at Zion House.

"Then," said I to him, "it availeth nothing for some of us to remain in London, it were better that we should leave quickly."

"It might or it might not be," he replied, being a man of few and careful words, "but before you go there is a certain person who desires to have a word with you. If it be not too much toil will you lay aside your military dress, and come with me this evening as a private gentleman to Zion House?" Then I knew that he had come from the Prince, and altho' much tossed in my mind as to what was right to do, I consented, and ye will be astonished, Jean, to hear what happened.

There was none present at my audience, and I contented myself with bowing when I entered his presence, for your husband is not made to kiss the hands of one king in the morning and of another in the evening of the same day. The Prince, for so I may justly call him, expected none otherwise, and, according to his custom--I have often spoken of his silence--said at once, "My lord," for he knows everything as is his wont, "it has happened as I prophesied, you are on one side and I am on another, and you have been a faithful servant to your master, as I told him you would be. If it had been in your power, I had not come so easily to this place, for the council you gave to the King has been told to me. All that man can do, ye have done, and now you may, like other officers, take service in the army under my command." Whereupon I told the Prince that our house had never changed sides, and he would excuse me setting the example. He seemed prepared for this answer, and then he said, "You purpose, my lord, to return to Scotland, and I shall not prevent you, but I ask that ye stir not up useless strife and shed blood in vain, for the end is certain." I will not deny, Jean, that I was moved by his words, for he is a strong man, and has men of the same kind with him. So far I went as to say that if duty did not compell me I would not trouble the land. More I could not promise, and I reckon there is not much in that promise, for I will never see the Prince of Orange made King of Scotland with my sword in its sheath. If there be any other way out of it, I have no wish to set every man's hand against his neighbour's in Scotland. He bowed to me and I knew that the audience was over, and when I left Zion House, my heart was sore that my King was not as wise and resolute as this foreign Prince. The second sight has been given to me to-day, and, dear heart, I see the shroud rising till it reaches the face, but whose face I cannot see. What I have to do, I cannot see either, but in a few days I shall be in Edinburgh, with as many of my horse as I can bring. If peace be consistent with honor then ye will see me soon in Dudhope for another honeymoon, but if it is to be war my lot is cast, and, while my hand can hold it, my sword belongs to the King. But my heart, sweet love, is thine till it ceases to beat.

Yours always and altogether,

DUNDEE.

CHAPTER II

THE CRISIS

Early springtime is cruel on the east coast of Scotland, and it was a bitter morning in March when Dundee took another of his many farewells before he left his wife to attend the Convention at Edinburgh. It was only a month since he had come down from London, disheartened for the moment by the treachery of Royalists and the timidity of James, and he had found relief in administrating munic.i.p.al affairs as Provost of Dundee. If it had been possible in consistence with his loyalty to the Jacobite cause, and the commission he had received from James, Dundee would have gladly withdrawn from public life and lived quietly with his wife. He was an ambitious man, and of stirring spirit, but none knew better the weakness of his party, and no one on his side had been more shamefully treated. It had been his lot to leave his bride on their marriage day, and now it would be harder to leave her at a time when every husband desires to be near his wife. But the summons to be present at the Convention had come, and its business was to decide who should be King of Scotland, for though William had succeeded to the throne of England, James still reigned in law over the northern kingdom. Dundee could not be absent at the deposition of his king and the virtual close of the Stuart dynasty. As usual he would be one of a beaten party, or perhaps might stand alone; it was not his friends but his enemies who were calling him to Edinburgh, and the chances were that the hillmen would settle their account with him by a.s.sa.s.sination.

His judgment told him that his presence in Edinburgh would be fruitless, and his heart held him to his home. Yet day after day he put off his going. It was now the thirteenth of March, and to-morrow the Convention would meet, and if he were to go he must go quickly. He had been tossed in mind and troubled in heart, but the instinct of obedience to duty which Graham had obeyed through good report and evil, without reserve, and without scruple, till he had done not only the things he ought to have done, but many things also which he ought not to have done, finally triumphed. He had told Jean that morning that he must leave. His little escort of troopers were saddling their horses, and in half an hour they would be on the road, the dreary, hopeless road it was his fate to be ever travelling. Jean and he were saying their last words before this new adventure, for they both knew that every departure might be the final parting. They were standing at the door, and nothing could be grayer than their outlook. For a haar had come up from the sea, as is common on the east coast, and the cold and dripping mist blotted out the seascape; it hid the town of Dundee, which lay below Dudhope, and enveloped the castle in its cold garments, like a shroud, and chilled Graham and his wife to the very bone.

"Ye will acknowledge, John, that I have never hindered you when the call came." As she spoke Jean took his flowing hair in her hand, and he had never seen her so gentle before, for indeed she could not be called a soft or tender woman.

"Ye told me what would be the way of life for us, and it has been what ye said, and I have not complained. But this day I wish to G.o.d that ye could have stayed, for when my hour comes, and it is not far off, ye ken I will miss you sairly. Other women have their mothers with them in that strait, but for me there is none; naebody but strangers. If ony evil befall thee, John, it will go ill with me, and I have in my keeping the hope of your house. Can ye no bide quietly here with me and let them that have the power do as they will in Edinburgh? No man of your own party has ever thanked you for anything ye did, and if my mother's people do their will by you, I shall surely die and the child with me. And that will be the end of the House of Dundee. Must ye go and leave me?" And now her arm was round him, and with the other hand she caressed his face, while her warm bosom pressed against his cold, hard cuira.s.s.

"Queensberry, for the liar he always was, said ye would be my Delilah, Jean, but that I knew was not in you," said Dundee, smiling sadly and stroking the proud head, which he had never seen bowed before.