Chapter Fifteen.
Annie’s news.
Dull and sad was the first meal at the Ruthvens’ the next morning. Lady Carse could eat nothing, having cried herself ill, and being in feverish expectation still of some news—she did not know what. Mr Ruthven found fault with the children so indefatigably, that they gulped down their porridge and slipped out under Helsa’s arm as she opened the door, and away to the next house, where the voice of scolding was never heard. The pastor next began wondering whether Rollo was still playing the watchman in the harbour—tired and hungry; and he was proceeding to wonder how a clever lad like Rollo could let himself be made such a fool of by his mother, when Helsa cut short the soliloquy by telling that Rollo was at home. He had come up just now with the steward.
“The steward,” cried Lady Carse, springing to her feet. “I knew it! I see it all!” And she wrung her hands.
“What is it? my dear love, my precious friend,—what is the matter? Compose yourself!” said Mrs Ruthven, soothingly.
But the lady would not hear of being soothed. It was plain now that the distant vessel, the boat, the sailors, were sent by her friends. If Mr Ruthven had only been quick enough to let them know who she was, she should by this time have been safe. How could they suppose that she was Lady Carse, dressed as she was, agitated as she was! A word from Mr Ruthven, the least readiness on his part, would have saved her. And now, here was the steward come to baffle all. Sir Alexander Macdonald had had eyes for her deliverers, though her nearest friends had none. Annie was her best friend after all. It was Annie’s ball of thread, no doubt, that had roused her friends, and made them send this vessel; and Annie alone had shown any sense last night.
Mr Ruthven did not understand or approve of very sudden conversions; and this was really a sudden conversion, after pointing at the widow Fleming in church yesterday. He ought to state too that he did not approve of pointing at individuals in church. He should be sorry that his children should learn the habit; and—
“You would?” interrupted Lady Carse. “Then take care I do not point at her next sabbath as the only friend I have on this island.”
“My dear creature!” said Mrs Ruthven, “pray do not say such severe things: you will break my heart. You do the greatest injustice to our affection. Only let me show you! If this wicked steward prevents your escape now, I will get away somehow, and tell your story to all the world; and they shall send another vessel for you; and I will come with it, and take you away. I will indeed.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” said Lady Carse.
“Nonsense, my dear,” said the pastor.
Lady Carse laughed at this accord. Mrs Ruthven cried.
“If you get away,” said Lady Carse, more gently, “you may be sure you will not leave me behind.”
“It is all nonsense, the whole of it, about this vessel and the steward,” Mr Ruthven pronounced. “The steward comes, as usual, for the feather-rent.”
“It is not the season for the feather-rent,” declared Lady Carse.
“The steward comes when it suits his convenience,” decided the pastor; “the season is a matter of but secondary regard.”
“You are mistaken,” said the lady. “I have lived here longer than you; and I know that he comes at the regular seasons, and at no other time.”
“Oh, here are the children,” observed Mrs Ruthven, hoping to break up the party. “My dears, don’t leave the room; I want you to stay beside me. There now, you may each carry your own porridge-bowl into the kitchen, and then you may come back for papa’s and mine.”
Mr Ruthven stalked out into the garden, to find fault with his cabbages, if they were not growing dutifully. Lady Carse stood by the window, fretted at the thick seamy glass which prevented her seeing anything clearly. Mrs Ruthven sat down to sew.
“Mamma,” said Adam, presently, “what is a Pretender?”
“A what, my dear?—a Pretender? I really scarcely know. That is a question that you should ask your papa. A Pretender?”
“No, no, Adam. It is Adventurer. That was what the steward said. I know it, because that is the name of one of papa’s books. I will show it you.”
“I know that,” said Adam. “But Widow Fleming called it Pretender, too.”
“What’s that?” cried Lady Carse, turning hastily from the window. “What are you talking about?”
The children looked at each other, as they usually did when somebody must answer the lady. “What are you talking about?”
“The steward says the Pretender has come: and we do not know what that means.”
“The Pretender come!” cried Mrs Ruthven, letting fall her work. “What shall we do for news? Run, my dears, and ask Widow Fleming all about it. I can’t leave Lady Carse, you see.”
The children declared they dared not go. Widow Fleming was busy; and she had sent them away. “Then go and tell your father. Ask him to come in.” Mr Ruthven was shocked into his usual manners when he saw Lady Carse unable to stand or speak. His assurances that he did not believe her in any personal danger, if the report were ever so true, were thrown away. Her consternation was about a different aspect of the matter. She at once concluded that the cause of the Stuarts would be triumphant. She saw in imagination all her enemies victorious—her husband and Lord Lovat successful in all their plottings, high in power and glory; while she, who could have given timely intimation of their schemes—she who could have saved the throne and kingdom—was confined to this island like an eagle in a cage. For some time she sat paralysed by her emotions; then she rose and went in silence to Annie’s dwelling. The steward was just departing, and he seemed in the more haste for the lady’s appearance; but Annie stopped him—gravely desired him to remain while she told the lady what it concerned her to know. She then said, “I learn from the steward, madam, that it is known throughout Edinburgh that you are still in life, and that you are confined to some out-of-the-way place, though, the steward believes, the real place is not known.”
“It is not known,” the steward declared; “and it is anything but kind of you, in my opinion, Mrs Fleming, to delude Lady Carse with any hope of escape. Her escape is, and will always be, impossible.”
“I think it my business,” said Annie, “to inform the lady of whatever I hear of her affairs. I think she ought to have the comfort of knowing that her friends are alarmed: and I am sure I have no right to conceal it from her.”
The steward walked away, while the lady stood lost in reverie. One set of ideas had driven out the other. She had forgotten all about the Jacobite news, and she stood staring with wide open eyes, as the vision of her escape and triumph once more intoxicated her imagination.
Annie gently drew her attention to the facts, telling her that it was clear that the ball of thread had done its duty well. The alarm had begun with Mr Hope, the advocate. He had demanded that the coffin supposed to contain the remains of Lady Carse should be taken up and searched. When he appeared likely to obtain his demand, Lord Carse had avoided the scandal of the proceeding by acknowledging that it had been a sham funeral. Annie believed that now the lady had only to wait as patiently as she could, in the reasonable hope that her friends would not rest until they had rescued her.
At this moment Lady Carse’s quick sense was caught by Adam’s pulling the widow’s gown and asking in a whisper, “What is a Pretender?” and by Annie’s soft reply, “Hush, my dear!”
“Hush! do you say?” exclaimed Lady Carse, with a start. “What do you mean by saying ‘hush’? Is the Pretender come? Answer me. Has the Pretender landed in Scotland?”
“He has not landed, madam. He is in yonder vessel. You had a great deliverance, madam, in not being taken away by his boat last night.”
“Deliverance! There is no deliverance for me,” said the lady. “Every hope is dashed. There is no kindness in holding out new hopes to me. My enemies will not let me stay here now my friends know where to find me. I shall be carried to Saint Kilda, or some other horrible place; or, if they have not time to take care of me while they are setting up their new king, they will murder me. Oh, I shall never live to see Edinburgh again: and my husband and Lovat will be lording it there, and laughing at me and my vain struggles during all these years, while I lie helpless in my grave, or tossing like a weed in these cruel seas. If God will but grant my prayer, and let me haunt them! Stop, stop: do not go away.”
“I must, madam, if you talk so.”
“Stop. I want to know about this Pretender. Why did you not tell us sooner? Why not the moment you knew?”
“I considered it was the steward’s business to tell what he thought proper: but I have no objection to give all the particulars. I know he whom they call Prince Charlie is in yonder vessel, which carries eighteen guns. It cannot hold many soldiers; and Sir Alexander does not believe that he will be joined by any from his islands. He is thought to have a good many officers with him—”
“How many?”
“Some say twenty; some say forty. It is pretty sure that Glengarry will join him—”
“Glengarry! Then all is lost.”
“Sir Alexander thinks not. He and Macleod have written to the Lord President, that not a man from these islands will join.”
“They have written to Duncan Forbes! Now, if they were wise, they would send me to him— You need not look so surprised. He is a friend of mine; and glad enough he would be at this moment to know what I could tell him of the Edinburgh Jacobites. Where is the Lord President at this time?”
“In the north, I think, preparing against the rising.”
“Ay; at his own place near Inverness. If I could but get a letter to him— Perhaps he knows already that I am not dead. If I could see Sir Alexander! Oh! there are so many ways opening, if I had but the least help from anybody to use the opportunity! Sir Alexander ought to know that I am a loyal subject of King George; and that my enemies are not.”
“True,” said Annie. “I will endeavour to speak to the steward again before he sails, and tell him that.”
“I will speak to him, myself. Ah! I see your unwillingness; but I have learnt—it would be strange if I had not—to trust nobody with my business. With Prince Charlie so near, there is no saying who is a Jacobite, and who is not. I will see the steward myself.”
Annie knew that this would fail; and so it did. The steward’s dispositions were not improved by the lady’s method of pleading. He told her that Sir Alexander’s loyalty to King George had nothing to do with his pledge
that Lord Carse should never more be troubled by her. He had pledged his honour that she should cause no more disturbance, and no political difficulties would make him forfeit his word. The steward grew dogged during the interview.
Did her friends in Edinburgh know that she was alive? she demanded. “Perhaps so.”
Did they know where she was? “Perhaps so.”
Then, should she be carried somewhere else? “Perhaps so.”
To some wretched, outlandish place, further in the ocean? “Perhaps so.”
Would they murder her rather than yield her up? “Perhaps so.”
The steward’s heart smote him as he said this, but he forgave himself on the plea that the vixen brought it all upon herself. So, when she asked the further question—
“Is there any chance for the Pretender?—any danger that he may succeed?” the answer still was “Perhaps so.”
Mr Ruthven, who was prowling about in search of news, heard these last words, and they produced a great effect upon him.