“she looked in at the little gate as I was passing through the court.  She called and I went to her, when she told me she was come to wait on the Duke with her children.  I proposed to open the gate and carry in her Ladyship; but she said she would not go in till I acquainted his Grace.”

The Duke, however, after consulting with his minion Stockbrigg, who still ruled the castle and its lord alike, sent word that he refused to see his sister; and the broken-hearted woman walked sadly away.  To a letter in which she begged “to speak but a few moments to your Grace, and if I don’t, to your own conviction, clear up my injured innocence, inflict what punishment you please upon me,” he returned no answer.

Trouble now began to fall thickly on Lady Jean.  Her delicate child, Sholto, died after a brief illness.  She was distracted with grief, and cried out in her deep distress:  “O Sholto!  Sholto! my son Sholto! if I could but have died for you!” This last blow of fate seems to have completely crushed her.  A few months later, she gave up her gallant and hopeless struggle, but only with her life.  Calling her remaining son to her bedside she said, with streaming eyes:  “May God bless you, my dear son; and, above all, make you a worthy and honest man; for riches, I despise them.  Take a sword, and you may one day become as great a hero as some of your ancestors.”  Then, but a few moments before drawing her last breath, she said to those around her:  “As one who is soon to appear in the presence of Almighty God, to whom I must answer, I declare that the two children were born of my body.”  Thus passed “beyond these voices” a woman, who, whatever her faults, carried a brave heart through sorrows and trials which might well have crushed the proudest spirit.

Lady Jean’s death probably did more to advance her son’s cause than all her scheming and courage during life.  Influential friends flocked to the motherless boy, whose misfortunes made such an appeal to sympathy and protection.  His father succeeded to the family baronetcy and became a man of some substance.  His uncle, the Duke, took to wife, at sixty-two, his cousin, “Peggy Douglas, of Mains,” a lady of strong character who had long vowed that “she would be Duchess of Douglas or never marry”; and in Duchess “Peggy” Archibald found his most stalwart champion, who gave her husband no peace until the Duke, after long vacillation, and many maudlin moods, in which he would consign the “brat” to perdition one day and shed tears over his pathetic plight the next, was won over to her side.  To such good purpose did the Duchess use her influence that when her husband the Duke died, in 1761, Colonel (now Sir John) Stewart was able to write to his elder son by his first marriage: 

     “DEAR JACK,—­I have not had time till now to acquaint you
     of the Duke of Douglas’s death, and that he has left your
     brother Archie his whole estate.”