"It means that it is difficult for them, Andrew. In difficult times. Henry is a marked man also, you'll mind. He was imprisoned. Not that he had done anything but be your brother and send you moneys. But that was enough. I tried to get him released; but I am a watched man myself, with little influence. It was only the Carnegies who got him out. When he returned to Saltoun, it was to find Dumbarton's steward lording it in the Hall, his people managing the estate and farms. Henry was shown the door."
Tight-lipped Andrew nodded.
"He came here for a while. Then went to stay with the Carnegies at Pitarrow in the Mearns. Sir David and Southesk know the Douglases - Dumbarton is second son to the old Marquis of Douglas. They worked on him, Dumbarton, to at least let Henry return to Saltoun. Said that he knew the property better than any hireling. And could get most out of it
-
for Dumbarton! So that he could at least keep the place in fair order for the day that you won it back. Dumbarton is a soldier
—he is, or was, commander-in-chief in Scotland - with no knowledge nor care of farming and lands. He was not satisfied that he was being well-served by his steward and the others. He did allow Henry to return, but not with any authority. Only to advise and keep an eye on the steward. Not to stay in the Hall. He let him have your small dower-house at West Saltoun. So there they roost, he and his Margaret. Doing what they can to keep the estate together - although the revenues all go to Dumbarton."
"I see - yes, I see it all. The Carnegies have been . . . very good."
"Oh, yes. Sir David is one of the shrewdest lawyers in the land. He and Southesk have friends and influence in the highest quarters. Although not of the King's party."
"And Margaret has been so good, so patient and helpful. To Henry, and in your interests, Andrew," the other Margaret put in. "She is a dear."
Their guest cleared his throat. "I shall not fail to thank her," he said. "This man, the Earl of Dumbarton? I know nothing of him, save that he was awarded my forfeited estates. Why? Why him? What sort of man is he? You say he commands the army
here. So Claverhouse - the Lord Viscount Dundee - serves under him?"
"Yes. As I say, he is a soldier only. And an able one, I am told. He learned his trade in the foreign wars. As did Graham. A younger son, as the Lord George Douglas, he inherited no lands or fortune, so made his own way. King Charles thought much of him. Created him Earl of Dumbarton, for his services in the Dutch war - when Graham was fighting on the other side! King James brought him back to Scotland and appointed him commanding General. He it was who brought Argyll to ruin. But he had no lands, onl
y the title. Saltoun was confis
cated and given to him. That is all I know. I have never met the man. Otherwise I have heard no particular ill of him - unlike his lieutenant, Graham."
"He will not hold Saltoun much longer, will he, Andrew?" his hostess asked. "Now that King James seems to have fallen?"
"That I do not know. Indeed I know little or nothing of the situation here in Scotland now. In England, all hangs in the balance. I think that William will win the day. There. For James is hated. But here? How is William esteemed? How strong is James's grip? Or, at least, that of his supporters?"
"It is hard to tell," Johnnie admitted. "On the face of it, all is as it was. James is still King of Scots and his minions hold all power and positions. But they are uneasy, no doubt of that. They draw in their horns somewhat. They are mainly Catholics, of course - or pretended Catholics!
Whilst
the people are staunchly Protestant. The people are for William, I think. He is half-Stewart, after all, and married to a Stewart."
"Yes, the people. But unhappily, it is not the people who make the decisions, but their betters! Men like yourself and myself, Johnnie - God forgive us! The nobility and gentry, man - what say they?"
"Damned little,
Andrew.
In this pass. Keeping their eyes and ears open and their mouths shut, for the most part. Waiting to see how the cat jumps!"
"Aye - the leaders of the nation! Must it always be so ? But -if the English accept William as King, will
they?
A Dutchman?"
"I do not know. Would you? You, who have suggested before now that the crowns might be separated again?"
"That was a threat. When the King was behaving tyrannically from London. I still say that it may be necessary, and right. But not to keep James Stewart on our throne. If so be it that the new monarch will rule as the King of Scots should, in and through Parliament, preserving our ancient liberties, then there is little harm in him being King in England, too."
"And your William will do so?"
"William must be shown that only so can he be King of Scots."
"You will tell him so?"
"I have already told him so. And it will be my endeavour to see that the Scots Parliament tells him so also, in no uncertain voice."
"Aye - so Scotland has its old Andrew Fletcher back again! And not before time. For there is much amiss, much to be done. Not only in Parliament House. But you will have to take your time, Andrew. To watch your step. Go cautiously at first. You could still be arrested and executed without trial. For you are tried already, in absence, and found guilty of treason. Whether they would dare to do it, I do not know. But they might, man, they might, for you could be a thorn in their flesh."
"I will watch, never fear. I have learned how to survive, in these last years. Is the country quiet, or is there much unrest?"
"Quiet! Lord, Dand - you ask that? The land is in a constant commotion. It is all but mob-rule in many parts. This shire of Haddington is not so bad. We are douce folk here. But elsewhere, in the West, in especial, it is bad, bad."
"You mean persecution still?"
"No, no. Rabbling. That is what they are calling it. The mobs hounding out the bishops' men, the King's Curates as they are called now, the ministers who took up episcopacy, on King Charles's orders. They are a sorry lot, on the whole, as you know - but they scarcely deserve this."
"You mean that the churchmen are being attacked again? The clergy. In their persons?"
"Just that. Worse than ever before. Up and down the land they are being turned out of their manses, dragged through the streets, assaulted, some even slain. I heard that as many as two hundred had been violently driven from their livings, their wives and bairns made game of, by the mobs. Even the bishops themselves have gone into hiding."
"But surely this is not tolerated? I have no love for the bishops and their minions, who have cost Scotland dear. But this is no way to deal with them. Is the law not protecting them? The sheriffs and officers? Their own kind . . . ?"
"I told you, our present masters are lying very low. Besides, being in the main Catholics, they are not greatly concerned. They do not love Episcopalians either. To them, it is but one Protestant party savaging another, I suppose. And remember, your friend Claverhouse, who
is
an Episcopalian, is out of the country with his army — the troops who could have protected these curates."
"And what of his chief, this Dumbarton?"
"A Catholic, they say. He would be, for his mother was a daughter of old Huntly."
"Dear God - and this is Scotland! Like a rudderless ship in a storm! Is there nobody left in the land to grasp the helm? No spirit surviving in this ancient nation? Have we become a race of serfs, cowards and toadies?"
"Not that, Andrew - never that, surely. But
...
we require a lead. It is leadership we lack. Our natural leaders seem to have died out. Many, to be sure have been executed, or driven into exile. As were you. But you, at least, have come back!"
"Yes, yes - we have a leader,
one
leader again!" Margaret exclaimed, in a rush, eyes shining. "Grandfather always said that
you.
were the hope for the future. Johnnie too, of course — but you in especial. I mind him saying it in this very room, before your first election. But - oh, Andrew, you will be careful? Promise that you will be careful!"
"Sakes, lass, it sounds as though there were sufficient of careful men in Scotland, as it is! But do not look on me as one of Scotland's leaders, see you. I have neither the stature nor the station and standing. But I will do what I can. Oh, yes -1 will do what I can, God aiding me!"
"In my small way, I will aid you too, Dand!" Lord Belhaven said.
* *
Andrew delayed his arrival at Saltoun, next day, until evening, as he had done at Beil, and for the same reason - so that here, where he was known by all, he might slip in unnoticed.
There were two Saltoun villages, East and West, about a mile apart, with the Hall in its demesne-land another mile north of both. The East or Kirkton of Saltoun, climbed a gentle slope of one of the foothill ridges, its parish church a landmark; but West or Milton of Saltoun lay hidden in a valley, sheltered amongst old trees, with the Birns Water splashing though the midst. Here were the two mills, the tannery, brewery and other necessary estate utilities. The dower-house stood in its own triangle of land near the western of the two bridges which spanned the river. It was a modest-enough house, compared with the great castellated pile of the Hall, grown out of an earlier miller's house - indeed the original mill-buildings and wheel were still incorporated in the stableyard - improved and extended for the use of the lairdly family's dowagers, unmarried daughters and suchlike dependents. Andrew rode into the dark yard, tethered his horse to a post and, schooling himself and his emotions, went to rasp the tirling-pin at the back door.
Leezie Duncan, Margaret's former personal maid, opened almost immediately. "Losh, you're early, Maister!" she exclaimed, in her strong Mearns accent. "I heard you ride in. It's right dirty night to ride frae Embro in this . . ." Suddenly she stopped, to peer into the outer darkness. "Guidsakes! It's, it's . . . it's no' himsel'? It's - losh, it's the laird!"
"None other, Leezie. Back from my travels. It is good to see you. Is your mistress here? I gather that my brother is not?"
"Aye, sir - or no, sir. Och, sir - here's a right joy! She's ben the hoose. Sakes, but she'll be fair whummled to see you! Here — gie's your wet cloakie and come awa' ben. Eh, but you're looking fine, Laird, for a' that!"
He followed the exclamatory abigail through to the front of the house, to be all but propelled into a pleasant firelit and lamplit room.
"See wha we've gotten here, Mistress Meg!" Leezie cried, with a son of triumph, and stood in the doorway, arms folded over ample bosom.
Margaret was sitting in a wing-chair by the fire, a book in her hand. Eyes widening at what she saw she rose slowly to her feet. She was lovelier even than he had remembered her, now in her twenty-ninth year, still slender but with a superb figure, all woman now, girlhood past.
The man, staring, swallowed, shook his head and found no single word to say.
Behind him there was a kind of whinnied laugh which ended in a choke, and then the door clicked shut.
"Andrew! Oh, Andrew, my dear it is
you!
Andrew — at last! At last!" Book falling unheeded to the floor, she came running to him, to throw herself into his outstretched arms.
Hungrily he embraced and kissed her, her hair, brow, eyes, lips - and it was their first kissing. She did not repel him; indeed she kissed him back, twice, then buried her head against his chest, clutching at him, with something between strangled sobs and laughter.
So they stood holding each other, for long moments - and the stir of her emotion within his arms was no help to a hot-blooded man who, whatever the appearances, was seeking to restrain himself. They did not actually speak, whatever sounds they made.
At length, abruptly, she drew back - but not so far back that she could not still grip both his hands and so held him there, searching his face and features in the mellow light as though for confirmation of something, something vitally important. Presumably she found it, for she nodded, two or three times, even though she sighed as she did so.
"Margaret!" he said, and again, "Margaret!" lingering over the syllables. He did not require to say more, just then.
Again she nodded, as though he had enunciated the whole truth of the matter and no more need be said. But for good measure she added, "Andrew!" again, and led him over to the fireside, hands still in his.
"So long," he got out hoarsely. "So very long. To wait. So hard. The waiting. And now . . . and now . . . !"
"Yes," she said. "I know."
"You are beautiful. And true. And kind. Always you were that. A joy and a warmth, at the very heart of me. An anchor, in all the storms. That kept me secure. But now . . . !"
"But now I am your brother's wife!" she said, levelly, since one of them had to say it.