CHAPTER II

HOW BARBARA CAME TO ROSYTH FOR THE LAST TIME

Rosyth House stood (for alas! it stands no longer, having been burned to the ground in the year 1727, on the very day that his present Gracious Majesty came to the throne), on the high ground above the Forth, about a mile and a half from the landing place at the North Ferry. A quarter of a mile further west, the ancient castle of the same name stands on a promontory stretching out into the sea, so near the water that at high tide it is wholly surrounded and cut off from the shore, except for an artificial stone causeway connecting it with the mainland.

My grandfather, who was a distant cousin of the Laird of Rosyth, had got leave, upon retiring from active service, to build a house upon his land; but the latter, having some years before I was born disposed of his estate to a gentleman of the name of Drummond, it was understood that Colonel Stewart had only a life-rent of the same, his heirs being to receive a fair sum of money in lieu thereof at his death. This arrangement, though little to his liking at the time, grieved him less after the death of his son, my father, and although he could not feel the loving pride in keeping up the place that a man expends upon his own, still the cultivation of his grounds and garden had been a source of pleasure and solace to him in the latter years of his life. The house was comfortable and commodious, and sheltered from the winds, so that the shrubs and trees he had taken pains to plant had well grown up around it; and from the windows there was at all times a fair view of the waters of the Frith with the ships passing up and down, and beyond them the low green coast of the Lothians.

Beautiful or plain, it was the only home I had ever known, and for that reason very dear to me; and as we rounded the bend of the road that skirts St. Margaret’s Hope, and the familiar landmarks came into view, the tears rushed to my eyes and ran down my cheeks, as I thought that in a few short days it would shelter me no more. The half-formed fears of extreme youth are perhaps harder to endure than our later forebodings, being intensified by the sharpness of imagination and the uncertainty of ignorance as well. With my outward senses I took in all the beauty of the morning: the blue sky and the dancing waves, the sparkle of the snow so dazzling in its country purity, and the wild glad cries of the sea-gulls never still; but my heart was cold and very heavy, because for the first time in my life I feared the future with the dull aching fear that I suppose only a helpless woman can ever know.

At the door of Rosyth House, Robert dismounted stiffly and lifted me to the ground. The noise of Sandy’s hoofs could not have been heard on the snow-covered approach, but my feet had scarce touched the threshold when the door was pulled quickly open and I found myself in the arms of my kind old nurse.

“What news, woman?” cried Robert Guthrie, hoarsely before I could speak, for Phemie was his wife, though many years his junior, and had been, as long as I could remember, the prop and stay of our household. She looked at him over my shoulder, and shook her head sadly.

“Oh, wheesht, my bairn, wheesht!” she crooned above my head, for I had burst out crying, and she drew me into the lobby and softly shut the door. “There, there,” she went on tenderly, “I’ll no’ stop ye; just greet yer fill, and syne ye’ll feel a’ the better for’t.”

As she spoke she led me into the parlour where was a bright fire burning, very pleasant to the chilled little traveller, and a basin of her own famous chicken-broth was steaming on the table. And very soon, warmed, fed and comforted by the excellent creature, I felt the deadly weight at my heart lighten, and the future, in spite of its impending bereavement, did not appear altogether hopeless. So wonderful is the power of human sympathy, and the touch of a warm, kindly hand upon our own.

Upstairs in his chamber Colonel Stewart lay dying, and thither Phemie conducted me as soon as she considered me capable of bearing myself with dignity and self-control.

“Be a woman, my dear lamb, for yer gran’pa’s sake!” she whispered, as she led me to his door. “The Colonel’s far through, his time is gey short.”

The room was bare and empty for the bed-chamber of the master of the house, but the old soldier had ever treated himself with a certain austerity bred of early days of hardship in the field; and his wife, my grandmother, being long dead, there had been none to interfere with his love of simple things. His bed had neither tester nor hangings, and there was no carpet on the floor nor curtains at the window. One of the shutters was partially closed to soften the glare from the snow, but the winter sunshine brightened the room and showed me the face of my grandfather on the pillow, very white and worn, and with closed eyes. He opened them as we approached, and smiled as his glance fell on me.

“Ah, Barbara, my child!” he cried, and my heart gave a hard throb at the weak tones of his voice. “You have come, I am glad you are here. ’Tis a cold journey from Embro’ in the winter-time. Has the bairn had her noon-chin?” he enquired of Phemie, for he was ever kindly and courteous, and wondrous thoughtful about small things, unusually so for a man, as I now know. On being assured that I was neither cold nor hungry, he motioned me to sit by him, and signified to Phemie that he wished to be alone with me.

“Go you and see to the comfort of your gudeman, and tell him I thank him for bringing the wee leddy home in time.”

When she was gone, “My dear Barbara,” said he, “this is as unexpected as most of the blows of Fate, but as Fate is only another name for the Hand of God, it behoves us to bow to its dictates. I hope I know how to die as a soldier and a Christian should, but ’tis hard to leave a woman-bairn alone in the world.”

The thin, tired voice with which my dear grandpapa spoke touched my heart with sorrow even more than the words he said. I laid my hand on his, so brown and wrinkled, and turned away my face that he might not see my tears.

After a pause he went on.

“You are, my dear girl, the only child of two only children, and I myself had neither brother nor sister. Your relatives are therefore few and distant. There are in France some cousins of your late dear mother, but seeing I know them not, I have no mind to send you so far seeking a home. Dost remember thy mother, dear bairn?”

I nodded doubtfully.

“I have mind of her face,” I said, “and how soft and white her hands were--much softer than my good Phemie’s, I always thought,--and I mind the way she kissed me and held me in her arms.”

Colonel Stewart sighed.

“Poor bairn, you were but a babe when she died. A great loss, Barbara! Your mother was a notable woman. But I’m wondering if you have any mind of a friend of hers--the Honourable Catherine Sinclair, to wit, from Dysart, that used to come a great deal about Rosyth at that time?”

I peered far back into my childish memories, and then I smiled.

“Was she a lady in a blue gown?” I cried, “with a string of pearls round her neck? She was very merry and kind, and talked French with my mother. She told me to call her Cousin Katie.”

“Very like, very like,” said my grandfather, “though I cannot swear to the colour of her gown. But she was a blithe, happy creature, and very fond of your mother, Barbara.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is to her that I look to befriend you, child, when I am gone. Your father and she were cousins in the fourth degree through their mothers, and her father, my Lord Sinclair, for old friendship’s sake, may be willing to give you a home at the Hermitage at Dysart, for so his house is called, until you are of an age to choose your own place of abode.”

Here he stopped again and pointed feebly to a bottle of cordial that stood with a glass upon the table. I hastened to pour some out and held it to his lips, trembling inwardly lest he should faint from weakness, or die with me alone in the room. My fears, however, were not realised, for after a few minutes’ silence he spoke again.

“The year after your dear mother died, Catherine Sinclair was wedded to Sir John Erskine of Alva, a gentleman of old and noble family, greatly respected in the country. His mother was Mistress Christian Dundas of Arniston, a clever and pious woman who is still living. Though the younger Lady Alva has not been here since her marriage, I have met her at her father’s house, where she comes frequently to stay, and have been greatly attracted by her kindliness and good sense. There are some wild tales abroad about her husband, Sir John, but though he is impulsive and reckless in certain directions, I take him to be as honest and kind-hearted as he is witty and pleasant in company.”

Again he paused to gather strength, and I watched a sunbeam that had strayed to the wide fire-place, and seemed to play at fighting with the flames that flickered somewhat feebly round the half-charred log. I took no interest in sunbeam or fire at the time, and yet it all comes back to me as if I had seen it but yesterday.

“Your fortune, Barbara,” said my grandfather, so suddenly that I started, “is not small. You are no penniless lass, thank God! and your affairs are safe in the hands of my good friends and lawyers, Messrs Carmichael & Dymock, Writers to the Signet in Embro’. Two days back I writ a letter to my Lady Erskine at the Hermitage, where I believe her now to be, giving her all particulars and information concerning my affairs. Her brother-in-law, Charles Erskine, a shrewd lawyer, will assist her in any difficulty, and I have appointed these two your guardians until the time you shall come of age, or marry.”

“Yes, sir,” I murmured, as the low voice ceased; and as if he had come to an end of all that was in his mind, he turned his head aside and fell into a light slumber.

During the night the inflammation and fever increased, and towards evening of the next day he died. His last look and words were for his faithful comrade and servant. He had been lying unconscious for some hours, or so it seemed, and we had thought that he would pass without a sign, but suddenly he opened his eyes and fixed them on Robert Guthrie standing at the foot of his bed.

“It’s marching orders I’ve got, Rob,” he said, in a stronger voice than could have been expected, “and I maun leave you behind. But you’ll follow, my man, as soon as you’re able.”

And Robbie, speechless with grief, brought his hand to the salute, and standing thus motionless he watched his old master die.