CHAPTER III

OF MY NEW GUARDIAN, AND HER KINDNESS

The snow was very deep and still falling on the day of my grandfather’s funeral, and many of his friends and neighbours who would willingly have honoured Colonel Stewart by following him to the grave, were unable to win through the drifts to Inverkeithing. Had the roads been more passable they would, Phemie told me, have thought little of riding twenty, thirty, or even fifty miles to foregather at Rosyth House, partly out of friendship for the dead man no doubt, but also because such meetings are a means of seeing friends and hearing news in a quiet and not over populous neighbourhood.

For the honour of the house, our good Phemie saw to it that the board was well-spread in the dining-room, and that roast and boiled meats in plenty, and the best of my poor grandpapa’s cellar, were set forth before the hungry mourners. But out of pity for the orphan girl, whom they knew to be alone in the house, the gentlemen were wondrous considerate, and neither sat long over their meat, nor indulged freely in wine-drinking. The names of some of these kindly men, as retailed to me by Phemie, are still clear in my memory. There were Mr. Moubray of Culcarnie, or Cockairney as it is now called; Sir John Henderson of Fordell; and the Earl of Moray from Donibristle Castle. Sir Alexander Bruce, he that was now Earl of Kincardine, came from Broomhall; and Sir Robert Blackwood, that not long before had purchased the estate of Pitreavie, rode with him to show respect to the old Colonel’s memory.

I was sitting in an upper chamber, disconsolate enough, and growing rather weary of the murmur of voices below, when I heard what seemed to be the bustle of an arrival at the front door.

“Some late comer,” I was thinking, with girlish bitterness, “just in time to join the feast,” when my door opened, and I heard a pleasant voice say softly, “Nay, I thank you, I would see the young lady alone,” and rising from my seat I was confronted by a lady still wrapped in her travelling cloak, who came forward quickly, pushing back the hood from her face.

“My poor Barbara,” cried she, “to think that a girl should be alone on such a day as this! I would have given twenty pound to have been with you earlier, my bairn, but I will explain the delay by-and-bye. Didst think thyself forsaken by all kind friends, my little Barbara, as well ye might?”

Then putting her hands on my shoulders, and holding me from her, she smiled.

“Nay! not little Barbara now, but tall Barbara, bonny Barbara, winsome Barbara. Even with so sad a face you mind me of your mother, child, but never, oh never, will you be as beautiful as she.”

Without speaking I drew her to the settle by the fire. I knew very well who she was--my lady in the blue gown, with the merry voice and the kind smile, the “Cousin Katie” of my childhood, my new guardian, Lady Erskine. And then she fell to talking of my loss, and praised my dear grandpapa for a kindly and courteous gentleman, a brave and honourable soldier, a man of wisdom and intellect, polished and mellowed by contact with the world. I know not now all she said of him, but when she ended, I felt that it was a proud thing to be the granddaughter of such a man, even although he had borne no high-sounding title, nor held any great position as the world counts greatness.

After a thoughtful silence between us, she took my hand in hers and smiled brightly.

“And now for my explanation and apology, Barbara. I was indeed expected at the Hermitage a sennight since, as Colonel Stewart had heard, but alas! what should befall but that my youngest son should be ailing--no serious sickness, thank God! but one of those childish bouts of heats and chills, when the little head is heavy and the active limbs grow weak, and the poor bairn lacks nothing but to lie in its minnie’s lap. I fear you will blame me, Barbara; I am held by my own sisters to be a weak and foolish mother in that I let my children see how much I love them. Alack! I cannot hinder my love from having its way, and when a bairn is sick, and weak, and helpless, what better place can be found for it than its mother’s arms?

“Ah, I see you agree with me, my dear, I have nothing to fear from your censure. Well, my little Harry held me in Alva with his tiny hands, though had I known the truth of what was happening here, I own I would have tried to break away a little sooner. I arrived at Dysart only last night, found your poor grandpapa’s letter awaiting me there, and learned the sad news that he was to be buried to-day. All my brothers are from home, and my lord is an old man unfit to venture out in such a storm; otherwise, my dear, some of my family would have been present at the funeral. But when I thought of you, poor child, alone and friendless in your sorrow, I could not wait another day before I came to you.”

“Indeed, cousin,” I said, “I am most grateful and glad to see you. But I know not how your horses had power to drag you through the drifts. Did not the wheels stick often?”

“I did not come on wheels, my dear, or I should never have reached you.”

“What, did you ride then?” I cried, astonished.

“No, no, I sat in my coach and kept as warm among my wraps as possible.”

Then, seeing my perplexity, she added,

“Have you never heard how in colder countries than Scotland the people ride about in winter in sleighs, that glide over the surface of the snow without making any deep ruts as wheels would? You must know that my husband’s youngest brother, Dr. Robert Erskine, is private physician to that great man, Peter, the Czar of all the Russias, and lives with him in Moscow, the capital of his kingdom. Well, when brother Robin writes about the sleighing and the comfort and convenience of it, and how smoothly they rush along, Sir John, my husband, claps his hand to his forehead and cries out, ‘Just the thing for Scotland! we’ll try it when the first snow comes!’ Oh, Barbara!” cried my lady with sparkling eyes, “there never was such a man as mine for trying new inventions, they are verily the delight of his life. So he writes to Russia for instructions as to the method, and gets a drawing from his brother how it’s done, and then when next the snow lies deep, off come the wheels of our lightest coach, and ’tis placed on runners and becomes a sleigh.”

“And now, my dear Barbara,” said my lady, after I had asked many eager questions and received most kind replies, “now we must talk business. How old are you, my dear?”

“I shall be seventeen, madam, in February.”

“Why, you are a woman grown. Too old to go back to school, eh?”

“Oh, madame!” I cried, “if only I need not return!”

“Ah! you have not much love for the blackboard and the ruler; or is it the virginal and tambour-stitch that you are weary of?”

“Nay, cousin, I love my lessons, and my dear grandpapa was, as you know, a learned gentleman. We read many books together that Mistress Lindsay and her sister, I am sure, never saw. He made me study French and talk it with him all my life, that I might not forget my mother’s tongue. The sisters Lindsay could teach me no more of that than I knew. I like to play on the virginal and sing, and my satin-piece and sampler were the best in the school. I can walk a minuet and sweep a curtsey with the best, and--and--in fact, madam, I know not what more they can teach me!”

To this conceited speech, my lady replied with a smile and the quiet remark,

“You had a more fortunate up-bringing than many country maids, my dear. Never forget what you owe to your good grandfather’s care. But still, I think,” she continued, “though not quite for the reasons you give, that you have been long enough at school, and now as to the question of a home.”

“My grandpapa thought,” I ventured timidly, “that perhaps my Lord Sinclair, your father----”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “he writ me of that in his letter. But the Hermitage is not the home I should choose for you. My lord is old, and my sisters are often away from home. You would scarce be happy at the Hermitage, Barbara; do you think you could be happy with me?”

“With you, madam?” I cried.

“At Alva,” she replied. “There are the two little boys, you know, Charles and Henry--very good-humoured children, though I, their mother, say it. They keep us stirring I can tell you, and dear little companions they are. Charles is not yet six years old, he is called after his paternal grandfather; little Henry, my father’s namechild, is just turned four. There was another, Barbara----”

She paused, and her eyes took that deep, still look that I have seen in the eyes of other mothers of dead children.

“Little Jamie, my bonnie baby! God only lent him to us for a few months, not quite a year, then He took him back again. Ah, Barbara, to see your baby lying dead--that makes a wound in a mother’s heart that the good God himself cannot wholly heal; indeed, I think He knows better than to try. But let us not speak of these sad things. Do you think you could live happy with us at Alva?”

“Oh, very gladly indeed, madam,” I cried. “But Sir John--he has not been asked. He knows nothing as yet of my dear grandfather’s death.”

“My dear,” said Lady Erskine, and the light in her face made even me, a young girl, wonder, “Sir John is my husband, and master in his own house truly, but he is still my lover, my best friend, my kindest companion, and no wish that I express doth he ever gainsay. Whether it be that I never wish for anything that could displease him I know not, but I am very sure that I have only to tell him the truth about you, and to say that I desire you to live with us, for him to receive you at Alva with the warmest, most fatherly of welcomes. His brother, Charles, is, as you know, appointed your other guardian, and it is meet and right you should share our home.”

And so, in short, it was arranged, and more besides, for before she left Rosyth that day, my Lady Erskine had talked with Robert and Phemie, and prayed them in her gracious way, to accompany me to Alva House.

“If Robert will take charge of the stables,” she said, “he will be doing Sir John a kindness, and find enough to occupy his time; and as for you, my good Phemie, I ask nothing better than to install you as head of my nursery, where you may keep an eye on my turbulent little lads, and watch over your own young lady as well.”

Not all of her kind intentions were carried out, however, for alas! old Robert had contracted so grievous a chill standing bare-headed in the snow-storm by Colonel Stewart’s grave, that a mighty inflammation of the lungs set in, and before ten days were past the good old man was laid at the feet of his beloved master.

“I kent weel hoo it wad be!” said Phemie sadly, yet with a certain pride in her tones. “Robbie was aye that set upon the maister, he just couldna bide wantin’ him!”