Graham of Claverhouse.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 2, 11 January 1908, Page 17

Graham of Claverhouse.

By

IAN MACLAREN.

BOOK 111.

CHAPTER 111. THE LAST BLOW. IT is said that those stories are best liked which present a hero and sing his achievements from beginning to end. And the more faultless and brilliant the hero, the better goes the tale, and the louder the applause. Certainly John Graham is the central figure in this history, and so rich is the colour of the man and so intense his vitality, that other personages among whom he moves become pale and uninteresting. They had, if one takes the long result, a larger share in affairs, and their hand stretches across the centuries, but there was not in them that charm of humanity which captivates the heart. One must study the work of William of Orange if he is to understand the history of his nation, but one would not go round the corner to meet him. Cla'verhouse, if one faces the facts and sweeps away the glamour, was only a dashing cavalry officer, who happened to win an insignificant battle by obvious local tactics, and yet there are few men whom one would prefer to meet. One would make a long journey to eatch a sight of Claverhouse riding down the street, as one today is caught by the fascination of his portrait. But the reader has already discovered that Graham can hardly be called a hero by any of the ordinary tests except beauty of personal appearance. He was not an ignorant man, as certain persons have concluded from the varied and picturesque habits of his spelling, but his friends cannot claim that he was endowed with rieh intellectual gifts, He had sense enough to condemn the wilder excesses of his colleagues in the government of the day, but he had not force enough to replace their foolishness by a wiser policy. Had his powers been more commanding, or indeed if he had had any talent for constructive action, with his unwavering integrity and masterful determination, he might have ousted Lauderdale and saved Scotland for King James. But accomplished intriguers and trained politicians were always too much for Claverhouse, and held him as a lithe wild animal is caught in the meshes of a net. Wild partisans, to whom every man is either white as snow or black as pitch, have gone mad over Graham, making him out, according to their craze, either an angel or a devil, and forgetting that most men are half and between. But it must be also said that those who hold John Graham to have been a Jacobite saint are the more delirious in their minds, and hysterical in their writing, for they will not hear that he ever did anything less than the best, or that the men be persecuted had any right upon their side. He is from first to last a perfect paladin of romance whom everyone is bound to praise. Then artists rush in and not only make fine trade of his good looks, but lend his beauty to the clansmen who fought at Killiecrankie, till the curtain falls upon “Bonnie Dundee” being carried to his grave by picturesque and broken-hearted Highlanders dressed in the costly panoply of the Inverness Gathering, and with faces of the style of George MacDonald or Lord Leighton.

W natever Glaverhouse was, and this story at least suggests that he was brave and honourable, he was in no sense a saint, and would have been the last to claim this high degree. It is open to question whether he deserved to be called a good man, for he was ambitious of power and, perhaps for public ends, of wealth; he had no small measure of pride and jealousy in him; he was headstrong and unmanageable, and for his own side he was unrelenting and cruel. There are things he would not have done to advance his cause, as, for instance, tell lies, or stain his honour, but he never would have dreamed of showing mercy to his opponent. Nor did he ever try to enter into his mind or understand what the other man was feeling. It is sometimes judged enough for a hero that he succeed without being clever or good, but neither did Graham pass this doubtful and dangerous test. Eor when you clear away the romance which heroic poetry and excited prose have flung around him. you were an optimist if you did not see his life was one long failure as w r ell as a disappointment and a sorrow. He did bravely with the Prince of Orange, and yet somehow he missed promotion; he was the best officer the government had in Scotland, and yet it was only in the last resort he became, eommander-in-ehief. He was the only honest man among a gang of rascals in the Scots council, and yet he was once dismissed from it: he was entitled to substantial rewards, and yet he had to make degrading appeals to obtain his due. He was loyal to foolishness, yet he was represented to the Court as a man who eould not be trusted. He had only two love affairs; the first brought him the reputation of mercenary aims, and the second almost ruined h's life. He embarked on a contest which was hopeless from the beginning, and died at the close, of a futile victory. Except winning the heart of Jean Cochrane, he failed in everything which he attempted. With the exception of his wife be was betrayed on every hand, while a multitude hated him with all their strength and thirsted for his blood. If Jean were not true to him there would not be one star in the dark sky of Claverhouse’s life. But this irredeemable and final disaster is surely incredible. Dundee, fooled as he had been both by bis master and by his friends till ho was alone and forsaken. was bound to put his whole trust in his wife. Had she not made the lastsacrifices for him and through dark days stood bravely by his side? Their private life had not always run smoothly, for if in one way they were well mated, because both were of the eagle breed, in another way they were ill-suited, because they were so like. John Graham and Jean Cochrane both came of proud houses which loved to rule, and were not accustomed to yield, they both had iron and determined wills they shared the dubious gift of a lofty temper and fiery affections. Thev were set upon their own ways, and so they had clashed many a time in plan and deed; hot words had passed between them, and thev had been days without speech. But below the tumult of contending wills, and behind

the flash of fiery hearts, they were bound together by the passion of their first love, which had grown and deepened, and by that respect which strong and honourable people have for one another. They could rage, but each knew that the other could not lie; they could be most unreasonable, but each knew that the other could never descend to dishonour, so their quarrels had always one ending, and seemed, after they were over, to draw them closer together and to feed their love. One could not think of them as timid and gentle creatures billing and cooing their affection ; one rather imagined the lion and his lioness, whose very love was fierce and perilous. No power from without could separate these two nor make them quail. Alone and united Dundee and his wife eould stand undismayed and selfsufficient, with all Scotland against them. Nothing could ever break their bond except dishonour. But if one should charge the other with that foulest crime, then the end had come, beside which death would be welcome. Where life is a comedy one writes with gaiety not untouched by contempt; where life is a tragedy one writes with tears not unredeemed by pride. But one shrinks when the tragedy deepens into black night, and is terrified when strong passions, falling on an evil day, work their hot wills, with no restraining or favourable fate. There are people whose life is a primrose path along which they dance and prattle, whose emotions are a pose, whose thoughts are an echo, whose trials are a graceful luxury; there are others whose way lies through dark ravines and beside raging torrents, over whose head the black clouds are ever lowering, and whom any moment the lightning may strike. This was their destiny. Upon their marriage day one saw the way that tin se two would have to go , and it was inevitable that they should drink their cup to the dregs. The blame of what happened must be laid at Graham’s door, and in his last hours he took it altogether to himself: but since it has to be written about, and he showed so badly, let us make from the first the best excuse we can for him, and try to appreciate his state of mind. It was a brave event and a taking scene when he set up the standard of King James above Dundee, and he left to raise the North Country with a flush of hope. It soon passed away and settled down into dreary determination, as he made his toilsome journey with a handful of followers by Aboyne and Huntly, till he landed in Inverness. The Gordons had sent him a reinforcement, and certain of the chiefs had promised their support, but the only aid the Highlanders had given was of dubious value and very disappointing issue. The MacDonalds had hastened to Inverness by way of meeting Dundee, and then had seized the opportunity to plunder their old enemies, the Mackintoshes, and to extract a comfortable ransom out of Inverness. This was not his idea of war, and Dundee scolded Keppoch. who commanded the MacDonalds. most vigorously. Keppoch immediately returned homeward to his fastnesses with the accumulated spoil, partly because his fine, sensitive Highland

nature was hurt by Dundee’s plain speech and partly because, whatever happened, it was wise to secure what they had got. It is no reflection on Dundee’s manhood that he was cast down during those days at Inverness, for a ten times more buoyant man would have lost heart. His life was a romantic drama, and it seemed as if the Fates had constructed it for the stage, for now, after the lapse of years, Mac Kay, his old rival in Holland, reappears, and they resume the duel, which this time is to be until death. While Dundee was struggling in Edinburgh to save the throne for James, Mac Kay was on his way with regiments of the Scots Brigade to make sure of Scotland for William. A few days after Dundee left Edinburgh Mac Kay arrived, and now, as Dundee rode northward in hot haste, Mac Kay was on his track. Both were eager for a meeting, but the bitterness of it for Dundee was that he dared not run the risk. With all his appeals and all his riding, he had only a handful of mounted men, and the elans had not risen. It seemed as if his enterprise were futile, and that Scotland would not lift a hand for King Janies. He might be a commander-in-chief, but he was a commander of nobody; he might raise a standard, but it was only a vain show. It did not matter where he went or what he did; he was not a general, but a fugitive, a man to be neglected, and his following a handful of bandits. The rising was a thing to laugh at, and the report was current in the capital that he had absconded with one or two servants. This pretty description of his campaign had not reached his ears, but the humiliation of his situation burned into his proud heart. Much as he would have liked to meet Mac Kay, there remained for him no alternative but flight. Flight was the only word which could describe his journey, and as he planned his course on the morrow, how he would ride to Invergarry, and then return on his course, and then make his way to Cluny, he started to his feet and paced the room in a fury of anger. What better was he than a hare with the hounds after him, running for his life, and doubling in his track, fleeing here and dodging there, a cowering, timid, panting animal of the chase? “Damnation!” and Dundee flung himself out of the room, and paced up and down the side of the river. There was a dim light upon the running water, and his thoughts turned to the West Country, to the streams he had often crossed and along whose bed he had sometimes ridden, as he hunted for his Covenanting prey. The Fates were just, for now the Whigs were the hunters and he was the hunted. He began to understand what it was to be ever on the alert for the approach of the enemy, to escape at the first sign of danger, to cross hills in full flight, and to be listening for the sound of the pursuer. As yet he had not to hide, but before many days were over ho also may be skulking in moss-hags, and concealing himself in caves, and disguising himself in peasant’s garments, he, John Graham of Claverhouse, and my Viscount of Dundee. The tables had turned with a vengeance, and the day of the godly had come. The hillmen would laugh

when they heard of it, and the Conventicles would rejoice together. Mac Kay would he sitting in his quarters at Elgin that night making his plans also, hut not for flight, and hardly for fighting. When officers arrest an outlaw, it is not called a battle any more than when hounds run a fox to his lair. Mackay would be arranging how to trap him, anticipating his ways of escape, and stopping all the earths, so that say, tomorrow, he might be quietly taken. It would not be a surrender; it would be a capture, and he would be sent to Edinburgh in charge of half a dozen English dragoons, and tried at Edinburgh, and condemned for treason against King William—King William. They would execute him without mercy, and be only doing to him what he had done to the Whigs, and just as he had kept guard at Pollock’s execution, that new Cameronian Regiment, of which there was much talk, would keep guard at his. There would be little cause for precaution; no one need fear a rescue, for the hillmen would be there in thousands with the other Whigs, to feast their eyes upon his shame, and cheer his death. He could not complain, for it would happen to him as it had to many of them, and what he had sown that would he reap. Would Mac Kay be laughing that night at Elgin, with his officers, and crying in his Puritanic cant, “Aha, aha, how is the enemy fallen and the mighty cast down! Where now is the boasting of his pride, where now is the persecutor of the saints’” No. far worse, Mac Kay would give orders in his cold, immovable manner, and treat the matter as of no account, as one who had never .expected anything else from the beginning, and was only amazed at his opponent’s madness. That was the inner bitterness of it all: they had taken their sides 15 years ago; McKay had chosen wisely, and he had chosen foolishly, as the world would say. The conflict had been inevitable, and it was quite as inevitable that his would be the losing side. William saw what was coming afar off. so d'id Mac Kay; and it has all come to pass, year by year, act by act, and now Mackay was to give the last stroke. They had won, and they had been sure all the time they were going to win, and they would win with hardly an effort. He did not repent of his loyalty, and he would not have done otherwise if he had had the choice over again. But their foresight, and their patience, and their capacity, and their thoroughness, and the madness of his own people, and their feebleness, and their cowardice, and their helplessness, infuriated him. “Curse Mac Kay and his master, and the whole crew of cold-blooded Whigs! But it is I and mine which are cursed.” “Amen to the malediction on the Usurper and all his servants; it’s weel deserved, and may it sune be fulfilled, full measure and rinnin’ over, but for ony sake dinna curse yersel’, my lord, for it’s blessings ye’ve earned as a faithful servant o’ your king.” And Dundee turned round to find his faithful servant had arrived from home, and had sought him out on the riverside. “You took me by surprise, Jock, and startled me, for I knew not that any man was near. I thought that you of all men were at Dudhope, where I left you to protect Lady Dundee and the young lord. Is aught wrong,” cried Dundee anxiously, “my wife and child, are they both well? Speak quickly.” For even then Dundee saw that Grimond was hesitating, and looked like a man who had to speak carefully. “Do not tell me that Mac Kay has ordered the castle to be seized, and that the dragoons have insulted my family; this were an outrage on the laws of war. If they have done this thing I will avenge it before many days pass. Is that the news you bring?” And Dundee gripped his servant’s shoulder and shook him with such violence that Grimond, a strongly built fellow, was almost thrown from his feet. “Be quiet, Maister John, for I canna help callin’ ye that, and dinna work yoursel’ into a frenzy, for this is no like your ain sei’. Na, na, Dudhope is safe, and no a single dragoon, leastways a soldier, has been near it since ye left; whatever other mischief he may do, Colonel Divingstone, him that commands the cavalry ye ken, at Dundee, will no see ony harm come to my Lady Dundee. Have no fear on that concern, my lord.” “You havena come for nought, Grimond, and I’m not expecting that ye have much good to tell. Good tidings do not come my way in these days. Is the lad well?” said Dundee anxiously, “for in him is all my hope.”

“It’s a gude hope then, my lord, for the bairn is juist bye-ordinary. I could see him growing every day, and never a complaint from his mouth except when he wants his food. God be thankit there’s nothing wrong wi’ him, and it does my heart good to see that he is a rael Graham, a branch o’ the old tree; long may it stand in Scotland, and wide may its branches spread. If it be the will of Providence I would like to live till my auld een saw Lord Graham of Claverhouse, for that I’m supposing is his title, riding on the right hand of the Viscount of Dundee. And I would be a’ the better pleased if it was over the necks of the Whigs. My lord, ye will never be ashamed of your son.” Ve have said nothing of Lady Dundee’s health, surely she isna ill or anything befallen her. It was hard, Jock, for a man to leave his wife but a few weeks after his son was born. Yet she recovered quickly as becometh a strong and healthy woman, and when I left her she was. in good heart and was content that I should go. There is nothing wrong with Lady Dundee, Jock?” “Ye may set yir mind at rest aboot her ladyship, Maister John. She’s stronger than I’ve ever seen her, and I can say no more than that, nor have I ever marked her more active, baith by nicht and day. and in spite o’ her lord being so far awa and in sic peril, ye would never think she had an anxious thought. It’s amazin’ an’ . . . very encouragin’ to see her ladyship sae content an’ . . . occupied. Ye need have nae concern aboot her bodily condeetion. an’ of course that’s a great matter.” Dundee was so relieved to hear that his wife and child were well, and that Dudhope was safe, that he did not for the moment catch with the dubious tone of Grimond’s references to Lady Dundee, and indeed it struck no unaccustomed note. Grimond had all the virtues of a family retainer—utter forgetfulness of self, and absolute devotion to his master’s house, as well as a passionate, doglike affection for Dundee. But he had the defects of his qualities. It seems the inevitable disability of this faithfulness, that this kind of servant is jealous of any newcomer into the family, suspicious of the stranger’s ways, over-sen-sitive to the family interests, and ready at any moment to fight for the family’s cause. Grimond had done his best to prevent his master’s marriage with Jean Cochrane, and had never concealed his conviction that it was an act of madness; he had never been more than decently civil to his mistress, and there never had been any love lost between them. If she had been a smaller woman, Jean would have had him dismissed from her husband’s side, but being what she was herself, proud and thoroughgoing, she respected him for his very prejudices, and his dislike of her she counted unto him for righteousness. Jean had made no effort to conciliate Grimond. for he was not the kind of watchdog to be won from his allegiance by a tempting morsel. She laughed with her husband over his watchfulness, and often said, “Ye may trust me anywhere, John, if ye leave Grimond in charge. If I wanted to do wrong, I should not be able.” “Ye would be wise, Jean,” Graham would reply, “to keep your eye on Grimond if ye are minded to play a prank, for his bite is as quick as his bark.” They laughed together over this jest, for they trusted each other utterly, as they had good reason to do, but the day was at hand when that laughter was to be bitter in the mouth. “Ye are like a cross-grained tyke which snarls at its master’s best friend through faithfulness to him. Ye never liked your mistress from the beginning, because ye thought she would not be loyal, but, man, ye know better now,” said Dundee kindly, “and it’s time ye were giving her a share o’ the love ye’ve always given me.” “Never!” cried Grimond hotly. “And I canna bear that ye should treat this maitter as a jest. Many a faithful dog has been scolded —aye, and maybe struck, by his maister when he had quicker ears than the foolish man, and was giving warning of danger. “Ye think me, my lord, a silly and cankered auld haveril, and that my head is full of prejudices and fancies. Would to God that I were wrong. If I were, I would go down on my knees to her ladyship and ask her pardon and serve her like a. dog all the days of my life; but, waes me, I’m ower richt. When my lady is loyal to you I’ll be loyal to

her, but no an hour sooner, say ye as ye like, laugh ye as ye will. But my lady is false, and ye are deceived in your own home.” “Do you know what you are saying, Grimond, and to whom you are speaking? We have carried this jest too far, and it is my blame, but ye may not again speak this way of your mistress in my presence. I know you mean nothing by it, and it is all your love of me and dislike of Covenanters that makes you jealous; but never again. Grimond, remember, or else, old servant though you be, you leave me that hour. It’s a madness with you; ye must learn to control it,” said Dundee sternly. “It’s nae madness, my lord,” answered Grimond doggedly, “and has naethin’ to do with mv ladv being a Cochrane. Maybe I would rather she had been a Graham or a Carnegie, but that was na<* business o’ mine. Even if I didna like her. it’s no for a serving-man to complain o’ his mistress. I ken when to speak and when to hold my tongue, but these are things I canna see and forbear. My lord, it’s time you were at Dudhope. for the sake o’ your honour.” “Grimond,” said Dundee, and his words were as morsels of ice, “if it were anv other man who spoke of my wife and dishonour in the same breath I would kill him where he stood; but ye are the oldest and faithfullest follower of our house. For the work ye have done and the risks ye have run I pardon you so far as to hear any excuse ye have to make for yourself; but make it plain and make it quick, for ye know I am not a man to be trifled with.” “I will speak plainly, my lord, though they be the hardest words I have ever had to say. I ken the risk. It is not the first time I have taken my life in my hand for the Grahams and their good name. My suspicions were aroused by that little besom Kirsty, when I saw her ane day cornin’ oot from the quarters of Colonel Livingstone, wha commands the dragoons at Dundee. I kent she could be doing nae good there, for she’s as full o’ mischief as an egg is full o’ meat. So I wheeped up by the near road and met her coming up to the castle. When she saw me she hid a letter in her breast, and. question her as I like, I could get nothing from her but impudence. But it was plain to me that communication was passing between someone in Dudhope and the commander o’ William’s soldiers.” “ Go on,” said Dundee, quietly. “ Putting two and two together, my lord, I watched in the orchard below the castle that nicht and the next, and on the next, when it was dark, a man muffled in a cloak came up the road from the town and waited below the apple trees, near where I was lying in the hollow among the grass. After a while a woman in a plaid so that ye couldna see her face came down from the direction of the castle. They drew away among the trees, so that I could only see that they were there, but eouldna hear what they were saying. After a while, colloguing together, they parted, and I jaloused who the two were, but that nicht I could not be certain.” “ Go on,” said Dundee, “ till you have finished.” “ Three nichts later they met again, and I crept a little nearer, and the moon coming out for a minute I saw their faces. It was her ladyship and Colonel Livingstone. She was pleading wi’ him, and he was half yielding, half consenting. Her voice was so low I couldna catch her words, but I heard him say, ‘ God knows ye have my heart; but my honour, my honour.’ ‘I will be content wi’ your heart,’ I heard her answer. ‘ When will you be ready ? For if Dundee hear of it he will ride south night and day, tho’ the whole English army be in his road! ’ “ ‘ For eight days,’ said Livingstone, ‘ I am engaged on duty and can do nothing, on the ninth I am at your service for ever.’ Then I saw him kiss her hand, and they parted. Within an hour I was riding north. Ye may shoot me if you please, but 1 have cleared my conscience.” Dundee’s face was as white as death, and his eyes glittered as when the light shines on steel. Twice he laid his hand upon his pistol, and twice withdrew it. “If an angel from heaven told me that Lady Dundee was untrue I would not believe him, and you, you I take to be rather a devil from hell. Said Livingstone eight days? And two are passed. I was proposing to go south for other ends, and now I shall not fail to be there before that appointment. B’’* ’t. may be, Grimond, I shall have to kill you.”

CHAPTER IV. THOU ALSO FALSE. Dundee was a man of many trials, and one on whom fortune seldom smiled; but the most cruel days of his life were the ride from Inverness by the Pass of 'forryarrack to Blair Athole, and from Blair Athole by Perth to Dundee. He I ?arned then, as many men have done in (limes of their distress, the horror of the Inight time and the blessing of the light. Had his mind not been affected by the Universal treachery of the time, and the disappointments he had met on every side, till it seemed that every man except himself was hunting after his own interest, and no one, high or low, could be ‘rusted, he had from the beginning treated Grimond’s story with contempt and nade it a subject of jest. He would no nore have doubted Jean’s honour than (that of his mother He would have mown that Grimond never lied, and that he did not often drink, but he also would have been sure that even if it was Jean who met Livingstone,that there was some good explanation, and he never would lave allowed his thoughts to dwell upon the matter. If Jean had been told that Graham had been seen with a lady of he Court at Whitehall, she would have corned to question him, and indeed she (bad often laughed at the snares certain frail beauties of that day had laid for lim in London. For she knew him, and be also knew her. But he was sorely tried in spirit and driven half crazy by •the disloyalty of his friends, and it is in those circumstances of morbid, unhealthy feeling that the seeds of suspicion find a root and grow, as the microbes settle upon susceptible and disordered rgans of the body. As it was, he was divided in his mind, and it was the alternation of dark and fright moods which made his agony. Spring had only reached the Highlands hs he rode southwards, but its first touches had made everything winsome and beautiful. While patches of snow (lingered on the higher hills, and glittered

in the sunlight, the grass in the hollows between the heather was putting on the first greenness of the season, and the heather was sprouting bravely; the burns were full-bodied with the melting snow from the higher levels and rushing with a pleasant noise to join the river. As he came down from the bare uplands at Dalnaspidal into the sheltered glen at Blair Castle, the trees made an arch of the most delicate emerald oyer his head, for the buds were beginning to open, and the wind blew gently upon his face. The sight of habitations as he came nearer to the Lowlands, the sound of the horses’ feet upon the road, the gaiety of his band of troopers, the children playing before their humble cottages, the exhilarating air, and the hope of the season when winter was gone, told upon his heart and reinforced him. The despair of the night before, when he tossed to and fro upon a wretched bed or paced up and down before the farmhouse door, imagining everything that was horrible, passed away as a nightmare. Was there ever such madness as that he, John Graham, should be doubting his wife, Jean Cochrane, whom he had won from the midst of his enemies, and who had left her mother and her mother’s house to be his bride? How brave she had been, how self-sacrificing, how uncomplaining, how proud in heart and high in spirit; she had given up the whole world for him; she was the bravest and purest of ladies. That his wife of those years of storm and the mother a few weeks ago of his child should forget her vows and her love, and condescend to a base intrigue; that she should meet a lover in the orchard where they often used to walk, where the blossom would now be opening on the trees, that Livingstone, whom he knew and counted in a sense a friend, though he held King William’s commission now, and had not stood by the right side, should take the opportunity of his absence to seduce his wife! It was a hideous and incredible idea, some mad mistake which could be easily explained. Dundee, throwing off his black and brooding burden of thought, would touch his horse with the spur and gallop for a milo in gayety of heart and then ride on his way, singing some Cavalier song, till Grimond, who kept away from his master those days and rode among the troopers, would shake his head, and say to himself, “God grant he be not fey” (possessed). Dundee would continue in high spirits till the evening shadows began to fall, and then the other shadow would lengthen across his soul. The night before he met his wife he spent in Glamis Castle, and the grim, austere beauty of that ancient house affected his imagination. Up its winding stairs with their bare, stern walls men had gone in their armour, through the thickness of the outer walls secret stairs connected mysterious chambers one with another. Strange deeds had been done in those low-roofed rooms with their dark carved furniture, and there were secret places in the eastle where ghosts of the past had their habitation. Weird figures were said to flit through the castle at night, restless spirits which revisited the scene of former tragedies and crimes, and the room in which Graham slept was known to be haunted. Alas! he needed no troubled ancestor of the Strathmore house to visit him, for his own thoughts were sufficient torment, and through the brief summer night and then through the dawning light of the morning he threshed the question which gnawed his heart. Evil suggestions and suspicious remembrances of the past, which would have fled before the sunlight, surrounded him and looked out at him from the shadow with gibbering faces. Had he not been told that Jean laid traps for him in Paisley that she might secure the safety of her lover Pollock, and also of her kinsman, Sir John Cochrane? Had she not often spoken warmly of that Covenanting minister and expressed her bitter regret that her husband had compassed Pollock’s death? She had tried to keep him from attending the Convention, and of late days had often suggested that he had better be at peace and not stir up the country. After all, you can take out of the life what is bred in the bone? — and Jean Cochrane was of a Covenanting stock, and her mother a very harridan of bigotry. Might there not have been some sense in the fear of his friends that he would no longer be loyal to the good eause, and was Jock Grimond’s grudge against his marriage mere stupidity and jealousy? Everyone was securing his safety and adjusting himself to the new regime; there was hardly a Lowland gentleman who had irretrievably pledged himself to King James, and as for chiefs,

they would fight for their own hand as they had always done, and could only be counted on for one tiling, and that was securing plunder. Was not he alone, and would not he soon be either on the scaffold or an exile? The Whigs would soon be reigning in their glory over Scotland, and it would be well with everyone that had their password. If he were out of the way, would there not be a strong temptation for her to make terms with her family and buy security by loyalty to their side? No doubt she was a strong woman, but, after all, she was only a woman, and was she able to stand alone and live forsaken at Glenogilvie, with friends neither among Cavaliers nor Covenanters? Could he blame her if she separated herself from a ruined cause and a discredited husband, for would she not be only doing what soldiers and courtiers had done what everybody except himself was doing? Why should she, a young woman with life before her tie herself up with a hopeless cause, and one who might be called commander-in-chief of James’s army, but who had nothing to show for it but a handful of reckless troopers and a few hundred Highland thieves, a man whom all sensible people would be regarding as a mad adventurer? Would it not be a stroke of wisdom —the Whigs were a cunning crew, and he recalled that Lord Dundonafd was an adroit schemer—to buy the future for herself and her child by selling him and returning to her fold allegiance? There was enough reality" in this ghost to give it, as it were, a bodily shape, and Graham, who had been flinging himself about, struck out with his fist as if at flesh and blood. “Damn you, begone, begone!” For a while he lay quietly and made as though he would have slept. Then the ghosts began to gather around his bed again as if the Covenanters he had imusrdered had come the (other world and were having their day of vengeance. It must have been Jean who met Livingstone in the orchard, and it must have been an assignation. There was no woman in Dudhope had her height and carriage, and the vision of her proud face that he had loved so well brought scalding tears to his eyes. For what purpose had she met Livingstone, if not to arrange some base surrender, if not to give information about him so that Mac Kay might find him more easily ? Was it worse than that, if worse could be when all was black us hell?- Livingstone had known her for years; it had been evident that he admired her; he was an attractive man of his kind. Nothing more was likely in that day, when unlawful love was not u shame, but a boast, than that he hau been making his suit to Lady Dundee. Her husband was away, likely never to return; she was a young and handsome woman, and Livingstone had time upon his hands at Dundee. A month ago he had sworn that the virtue of his wife was unassailable as that of the Blessed Virgin; he would have sworn it two days ago as he rode through Kifliecrankie; but now, with the brooding darkness round him and its awful shapes peopling the room, he was not sure of anything that was good and true. Had he not lived at Court, had he not known the great ladies, had not they tried to seduce him, and flung themselves at his head? Was not Jean a woman like the rest, and why should his wife be faithful when every other woman of rank was an adulteress? This, then, was the end of it all, and he had suffered the last stroke of treachery, and the last stain of dishonour. How he had been befooled and bewitched; what an actress she had been, with a manner that would have deceived the wisest! What a stupid, blundering fool he had been! There are times, the black straits of life, when a man must either pray or curse. If he be a saint he will pray, but Dundee was not a saint, so he rose from his bed, and sweeping away the evil shapes from before him with his right arm, and then with his left, as one makes his road through high-standing corn that closes in behind him, he raged from side to side of the room in which the day was faintly breaking, (while unaccustomed oaths, poured from his mouth. One thing only remained for him, and at the thought peace began to come. He had planned weeks ago to visit Dundee again and give the chance to Livingstone’s dragoons to join him, for he had reason to believe that they were not unalterably loyal. He wae on his way to Dundee now, and to-morrow he would be there, but he eared little what the dra-

goons would do; he had other folk to deal with. If he found he had been betrayed at home, and by her who had lain on his breast, and by a man whom he had counted his friend, they should know the vengeance of the Grahams. “ Both of them —both of them to hell, and then my work is done and I shall go to see them! ” It was characteristic of the man that though he had no assistance from Grimond in the morning—for Jock dared not go near him—Dundee appeared in perfect order, even more carefully dressed than usual; but as he rode from the door of Glamis Castle through the beautiful domain of park and wood, Grimond was aghast at his pinched and drawn face and the gleam in his eye. “ May the Lord hue mercy, but 1 doot sairly that he is aff his head, and that there will be wild work at Dudhope.” And while Grimond had all the imperturbable self-satisfaction and unshaken dourness of the Lowland Scot, and never on any occasion acknowledged that he could be wrong or changed his way, he almost wished that he had left this affair alone and had not meddled between liis master and his master’s wife. It was again a fair and sunny day, when the freshness of spring was feeling the first touch of summer, as Dundee and his men rode up the pass through the hills from Strathmore to Dundee. There were times when Graham would have breathed his horse at the highest point, from which you are able to look down upon the sea, and drunk in the pure, invigorating air, and gazed at the distant stretches of the ocean. But he had no time to lose that day; he had work to do without delay. With all his delirium—and Graham’s brain was hot, and every nerve tingling—he retained the instincts of a soldier, and just because he was so suspicious of his reception he took the more elaborate precautions. Before he entered’ the pass his scouts made sure that he would not be ambuscaded, for it might be that his approach was known, and that Livingstone, taking him at a disadvantage in the narrow way, by one happy stroke would complete his triumph. As he came near Dundee, he sent out a party to reconnoitre, while, he remained with his troop to watch events. When the sound of firing was heard he knew that the garrison was on the alert, and that the town could only be taken by assault. The soldiers came galloping back witli several wounded men, having left one dead. Livingstone was for the moment safe in his fastness, and it was evident that the dragoons were not in a mind to desert their colours. By this time it would be known to Dudhope, that he was near, and the sooner he arrived the more chance of finding his wife. It was possible that Livingstone had garrisoned Dudhope, and that if he rode forward alone he might be snared. But this risk he would take in the heat of his mind, and summoning Grimond with a stern gesture to his side, and ordering the soldiers to follow at a slight interval and’ to surround the eastle, he galloped forward to the door. The place appeared to be deserted, but at last, in answer to his knocking, as he beat on the door with the hilt of his sword, it was opened by an old woman who seemed the only servant left, and who was driven speechless by her master’s unexpected appearance and his wild

expression. For, although John Graf mm had been a stern as well as just and kind master, and although he bad often beeu angry, and was never to be trifled with, no one had ever seen him before other than cool and calm, smooth-spoken and master of himself. "What means it, Janet, or whatever be your name, that the door was barred and 1 kept standing outside my own house? What were ye doing, and who is within the walls? Speak out, and quickly, or 1 will make you do it at your pain. Have the dragoons beeu here, and are there any bid in this place? Is my Lady Dundee in the castle, and if so, where is she?” And then, when the panic-stricken woman could not find intelligible words before the unwonted fury of her master, he pushed her aside and, rushing up the stair, tore open the door of the familiar room where Jean and he usually sat —to find that she was not there nor anywhere else in the eastle, that his wife and the child were gone. With this confirmation of his worst fears, his fever left him suddenly, and he came to himself, so far as the action of his mind and the passion of his manner were concerned. (Sending for Janet, he expressed his regret, with more than his usual courtesy, that he had spoken roughly to her and for the moment had frightened her. Something, he said, had vexed him, but now she must not be afraid, but must tell him some things that he wished to know. Had everything being going well at Dudhope since he left, and had her ladyship and my little lord been in good health? That was excellent. He hoped that the dragoons had not been troublesome or come about the castle? They had not? Well, that was satisfactory. Their commander, Colonel Livingstone, perhaps had called to pay his respects to Lady Dundee, and render any kindness he could? No, never been seen at the castle? That was strange. Her ladyship—where had she gone, for she did not appear to be in the castle, nor her maid nor the other servants? Where were they all? Had hen ladyship taken refuge in Dundee for safety in those troubled times? And as his master asked this question with studied calmness and the gentlest of accents, Grimond shuddered, for this was the heart of the matter, and there was murder in the answer. Not to Dundee—where then? To Glenogilvie, only last night in great haste, as if afraid of someone or something happening. Of whom, of what? But Janet did not know, and could only say that Lady Dundee and the household had formed a sudden plan and departed at nightfall for the old home of the Grahams. Whereat Dundee smiled, and, crossing to a window and looking down upon the town, said to himself: “A cunning trap. 1 was to be taken at Dundee, when in my hot haste, and thinking I had an easy capture, 1 rushed the town without precautions, as I might have done. While in quiet Glensaving mercy, as rardnhtoßaw ofiisou m ogilvie. my lady waited for his triumphant coming, victor and lover. It was a saving mercy, as her people would say, that our scouts drew their fire and brought out the situation. They might have baited the trap at Dudhope hail they been cleverer, and I been taken in my home with her by my side—but that would have been dangerous. Now it is left for me to see whether the town could be rushed, and

1 have the last joy of one good stroke at Colonel Livingstone. But if that be beyond my reach, as 1 fear it may, then haste me to Glenogilvie.” During the day Graham hung about the outskirts of the town, searching for some weak spot where he could make a successful entrance with his troopers. Before evening he was driven to the conclusion that an assault could only mean defeat and likely his own death, and he wished to live at least for another day. So when the sun was setting he rode away from Dudhope, and on the crest of the hill that overhangs Dundee, he turned him in his saddle and looked down on the castle from which he had ruled the town, and where he had spent many glad days with Jean. The shadows of evening were now gathering, and when he reached the home of his boyhood in secluded Glenogilvie the night had fallen It was contrary to his pride to practise any tactics in liis own country, and they rode boldly to the door from which he had gone out and in so often in earlier, happier days. They had been keeping watch, he noticed, for lights shifted in the rooms as they came near, ami almost as soon as he had crossed the threshold his wife came out from her room to greet him. He marked in that instant that, though she was startled to sec him, and had not looked for him so soon, she showed no sign of confusion or of guilt. Against his will he admired the courage of her carriage ami her dignity in what he judged a critical hour of her life. It was not their way to rush into one another’s arms, though there burned in them the hottest and fiercest passion of love. In the presence of others they never gave themselves away, but carried themselves with a stately grace. “We heard you were on your way, my lord,” she simply said, “but 1 did not expect so quick a meeting. Have ye come from the north or from Perth? A messenger went to Lord Perth’s house with news of the happenings at Dundee, but doubtless he missed you.” She gave him her hand, over which he bent, and which he seemed to kiss, but did not. “We left Perth two days ago,” he replied, with a cold, clear voice, which did not quite hide the underlying emotion, “ and we have this day paid our visit to Dundee —to get a chill welcome and find Dudhope empty. It was a pity that we missed the messenger, Lady Dundee, who doubtless sought for us diligently, for if we had known where you were when we left Glamis this morning, it had been easy—aye, and in keeping with my mind—to turn aside and visit Glenogilvie.” They were still standing in the hall, and Jean had begun to realise that Dundee was changed, and that behind this cold courtesy some fire was burning. When they were alone she would, in other circumstances, have east herself in the proud surrender of a strong woman’s love into his arms, and he would have kissed her hair, her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her chin, and, last, her mouth; but at the sight of his eyes she stood apart, and, straightening herself. Jean said: “ What is the meaning of this look, John, ana what ails you? le seem as if ye had suffered some cruel blow. Has aught gone wrong with you? Ye have come back in hot haste.” “ Yes, my Lady Dundee, something wrong with me, and maybe worse with you. I have come quicker than I intended, and have had a somewhat cold reception at Dundee, but I grant you that was not your blame, you had doubtless prepared a warmer. Livingstone was the laggard.” “Y’ou are angry, John, and I now understand the cause. It was not my blame, for what woman could do 1 did, and maybe more than becometh your wife, to win him over. He almost consented, and I declare to you that Livingstone is with us. I could have sworn two days ago that the regiment would have joined us and been waiting for you. But that determined Whig, Captain Balfour, discovered the plot, and I had a message yesterday afternoon that it was hopeless. So for fear of arrest 1 hurried to Glenogilvie, and tried to intercept your coming. Blame not me, for 1 could do no more —and what mean you by calling ine ever by my title and not by my name, after our parting for so long and dangerous a time?” “ You are right, Jean Cochrane, and I will do you this justice, ye eould not do more than meet him in the orchard and in the dark of the night. Yes, ye were both seen, and word was brought me to the north by a faithful messenger—l judge the only true heart left. That

was fine doing and fine pleading when he confessed that you hau won nis heart, but his honour was hindering him. le cannot deny the words, they are graven on my heart like tire, and are burning it to tue core, You, my wife, and whom 1 made my Lady Dundee, as it you had been a lowborn country lass.” "lou are unjust, my lord, shamefully and cruelly unjust. It was not a pleasant thing for me to do, and 1 hated myself in the stooping to do it; but there was no other way lor it, since he dared not come m the daylight, and 1 dared not go to him. blow 1 wish to God 1 had never troubled myself and never lilted my little finger to accomplish this thing lor the cause, since spies have been going and coming between Dudhope and the north. What 1 did, 1 did for you and King James, and if 1 hau succeeded ye would have praised me, and said that a woman’s wiles had won a regiment of horse. But because 1 have tailed ye fling my poor effort in my face, and make me angry with myself that t ever tried to serve you—you who stand here reproaching me for my condescension. ‘■Well acted, my lady, and a very cunnino tale So it was to serve me ye crept out at night disguised, and it was to win his heart for King James that ye spoke so tenderly? 1 never expected the day would come when John Graham of Claverhouse would call down blessings—aye, the richest benediction of heaven upon a Covenanter; but 1 pray God to bless Captain Balfour with all things that he desires in this world and in that which is to come. Because, though he knew not what he was doing, and might have served his own cause better by lettini' things run their course, he saved, at least in the eyes of the world, my honour, and averted the public shame of a treacherous wanton.” As the words fell slowly and quietly from his lips, like drops of vitriol, Jean s face reflected the rapid succession of emotions in her heart. She was startled as one not grasping the meaning of his words; she was horrified as their shameful charge emerged; she was .stricken to the heart as the man she had loved from out of all the world called her by the vilest of all names a woman can hear. Then, being no gentle and timid young wife who could be crushed by a savage and unexpected blow, and find her relief in a flood of tears, but a proud and determined woman, with the blood of two ancient houses in her veins, after the briefest pause she struck back at Dundee, carrying herself at her full height, throwing back her head with an attituue of scorn, her face pale because intenst feeling had called the blood back to the heart, and her eyes blazing with fury, as when the forked lightning bursts from the cloud and shatters a house or strikes a living person dead. And it was like her that she spoke almost as quietly as Graham, neither shrinking nor trembling. “ This, then, is the cause of your strange carriage, Lord Dundee, which 1 noted on your coming, and tried to explain in a simple and honourable way, for I had no key to your mind, and have not known you for what you are till this night. So that was the base thing you have been imagining in your heart as you rode through the North Country, and that was the spur that drove you home with such haste—to guard your honour as a husband, and to put to shame an adulterous wife? Pardon me, if I was slow in catching your meaning; the charge has taken me somewhat by surprise.” And already, before her face, Dundee began to weaken and to shrink for the first time in his life. “ And you are the man whom I, Jean Cochrane, have loved alone of all men in the world, and for whose love I forsook my mother and my house, and became a stranger in the land! You are the husband whom I trusted utterly, for whom I was willing to make the last sacrifice of life, of whom I boasted in my heart, in whom I placed all my joy! I knew you were a bigot for your cause; I knew you were cruel in the doing of your work; I knew you had a merciless ambition ; I knew you had an unmanageable pride; I have not lain in your arms nor lived by your side, I have not heard you speak nor seen you act, without understanding how obstinate is the temper of your mind, and how fiery is your heart. For those faults I did not love you less, and of them I did not complain, for they were my own also. That you were incapable of trusting, that you could suspect your wife of dishonour, that you would be moved by the report of a spy, a baseborn

peasant man, that you could offer the last gross, unpardonable insult to z - irtuous women, is what 1 never could have even imagined. The Covenanters called you by many evil names, and 1 did not believe them. I believe every one of them now—they did not tell half the truth. They called you persecutor and murderer, they forgot to call you what I now do. As when one strikes a cur with a whip, so to your fair, false face I call you a liar and coward. Peace till I be done, and then you may kill me, for it were better I should not live, and if 1 had the sword of one of my kinsfolk 1 would kill you where you stand. God in heaven, what an accusation! A wife of five years, and a mother of only a few weeks, that she should sin with an honourable man who is her friend and her husband’s friend! Did Livingstone say, according to that dastard hiding in the wood, that his heart was with us? That was with our cause, and not with me. Did he say honour hindered him? That was not honour towards you, it was honour towards his colours. But honour is a strange word in your ears now, my lord. I have never thought of Livingstone more than any other man who has a good name anti has never betrayed a trust. This night my heart is favourable to him, for 1 saw him in an agony about his honour, and I judge if he were a woman's husband, and she was such a woman as I am before God this day, he would rather die than insult her.” “Ye wished for some weapon wherewith to take a coward’s life. Here is my sword, Jean, and here is my heart. I would not be sorry to die, anil I would rather take the last stroke from you than from my enemies. It is not worth while to live, for I have no friend, and soon shall have no possessions. My cause is forlorn, and my name, is a byward, and now, by my own doing, I have lost my only love Strike just here, and my blood will be an atonement to thee for my sin, and generations unborn will bless the hand which slew Claverhouse. "Ye hesitate for a moment” —for she was holding the sword by the hilt, and her face was still clouded with gloom, although the fire was dying down. “Then 1 will use that moment, not to ask your pardon, for I judge you are not a woman to forgive —and neither should I be in your place—but to explain. I shall not speak of my love for you, for that now ye will not believe, nor of my shame in having received those evil thoughts for a moment into my heart. I have never known the bitterness of shame before, but 1 would fain tell how it happened, that the remembrance of me be less black after we have parted forever Had I been in my natural state it had been impossible for me to doubt thee, Jean, and if I had seen thee sin before mine eyes, I would have thought it was another. But my mind has been distraught through weariness of the body on the long rides, and nights without sleep as I lay a-planning, and the desertion of friends in whom I trusted, and the refusals of men of whom I expecetd loyalty, and the ‘ humiliating helplessness before William’s general, my old rival Mac Kay T was almost mad. In the nighttime, I think, I was mad altogether. But 1 had always one comfort, like a single star shining in a dark sky, and that was the faithfulness of my wife. When a cloud obscured that solitary light, then a frenzy passed into my blood. I ceased to reason, and according to the measure of my love was my foolish, groundless hate.” “Take back your sword, Dundee, for I am not now minded to use it. Five minutes ago it had been dangerous to give it me. If ye fall, it shall be by another hand than your wife’s, and in another place than your home. We have said words to one another this night which neither of us will lightly pardon, for we are not of the pardoning kind. Ido not feel as I did: my anger has turned into sorrow; the idol of my idolatry is broken—my fair model of chivalry—and now I can only gather together the pieces. Even while I hated you I was loving you—this is the contradiction of a woman’s heart—and I knew that love of me had made you mad. Whatever happens, I will always remember that you loved me, but my dream has vanished —for ever.” They' spent next day walking quietly in the glen, and the following morning he left for his last campaign. They said farewell alone, but after he was in the saddle Ladv Dundee lifted up the child for him to kiss—which was to die before the year was out. He turned as they were riding down the road and waved his plumed hat to his wife, where she

stood, still holding the child in her arms. And that was the last Jean Cochrane saw of Claverhouse.

(To be continued.)