This ebook was created in honour of
Distributed Proofreaders’ 25th Anniversary.
[Illustration:
_From an Oil Painting._
JOHN ERSKINE OF ALVA.]
THE
SILVER GLEN
A Story of the Rebellion of 1715
_AS TOLD BY BARBARA, LADY FLEMING, IN THE
YEAR 1755; AT THE REQUEST OF HER
KINSMAN, SIR HENRY ERSKINE._
BY
BESSIE DILL
AUTHOR OF
“MY LADY NAN,” “THE FINAL GOAL,” ETC., ETC.
LONDON
DIGBY, LONG & CO.
18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C.
1909
To
MRS. ERSKINE-MURRAY AND HER FAMILY
This Book is affectionately
Dedicated
B. D.
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION. Telling of some old Letters, and the origin of the
writing of this Book 7
CHAPTER I. Shows how Barbara Stewart left school 12
” II. How Barbara came home to Rosyth for the last time 18
” III. Of my new Guardian, and the beginning of all her
kindness 24
” IV. I go to Alva, and become a member of a very
charming household 30
” V. I hear of the Silver Glen for the first time 37
” VI. Introduces several characters who are all more or
less interesting 43
” VII. I become aware that something important is afoot 55
” VIII. I go to Dysart and there learn some Scottish History 64
” IX. We meet one morning a very courtly gentleman, and
have news of the King’s coming 73
” X. Back at Alva we become still more involved in
affairs 82
” XI. Sir John prepares for action. Barbara goes out to
dine, and hears many strange things 90
” XII. Tells of the only occasion upon which I met the Earl
of Mar, also of how my Lady Erskine stole down the
turret-stairs in answer to a knock 99
” XIII. Shows how a woman’s actions are ofttimes
misunderstood, and how Betty signalled to a
passenger in a boat 108
” XIV. Tells how Mistress Betty had a brilliant notion,
and how it was carried out 116
” XV. In which Betty and Barbara behave very foolishly,
and the latter is introduced to Mr. Anthony Fleming 125
” XVI. Tells of various matters to be found in the
History-books, and of a romantic tale which is not 136
” XVII. Shows how we are swept into the stream of events 149
” XVIII. Tells of a dark hour, and of a great awakening 160
” XIX. Shows how the Cause suffers many reverses; and how
Mr. Anthony Fleming says “Thank you!” 171
” XX. Mr. Fleming rides away from Alva; The King lands,
and Sir John returns to Scotland not quite in the
manner he intended 181
” XXI. Tells of the coming of the King to Perth, and what
ensued thereafter 189
” XXII. How we hear tidings that make our hearts ache, and
ill prepare us for the great surprise 197
” XXIII. Tells of further sad doings, and of the beauty and
burden of the Spring 208
” XXIV. My Lady hears from Sir John, and I pay my third
visit to Dysart 217
” XXV. Tells of an unexpected meeting and a glad surprise
for Barbara 226
” XXVI. Barbara is accused of cruelty and indiscretion 238
” XXVII. Shows how slowly the time passes when the heart is
heavy 254
” XXVIII. Tells of the good fortune for Betty and of the
evil deeds of the Parliament 268
” XXIX. The Calamity falls, and my Lady attends her
sister’s wedding in very low spirits 282
” XXX. The affair of the Mine in the Mountain is much
discussed in London, but with no comforting results 292
” XXXI. The matter is still further delayed, but our
anxieties continue 300
” XXXII. Shows something of the trials and perplexities of
our good Sir John over the business 308
” XXXIII. The story ends in peace and sunshine, and I take
leave of my kind readers 314
PREFACE
The Letters of Lady Erskine of Alva which appear in this tale are at
once its chief interest and the origin of its being; for my desire
in writing “The Silver Glen” is to make known to a wider circle the
vivid story of which they are the outcome. My conviction that they
would prove as attractive to others as to myself induced the late Mr.
Erskine-Murray, among whose family-papers they are preserved, to give
me his kind permission to use them.
To weave a romance around the names of persons who have really lived,
and whose descendants are still in existence, is a liberty which calls
for an apology on the part of the author. With the exception of Barbara
Stewart, Anthony Fleming and the younger David Pitcairn none of the
principal characters in the following story are wholly fictitious; but
I trust, that as I have kept very closely to facts, no serious cause
of offence can be found. Most of the incidents described are matters
of history, and the narrative is purposely told in a plain and simple
manner, as much as possible in keeping with the tone of the Letters.
Among the books from which I have obtained information, and in some
cases, borrowed freely, I may mention Professor Terry’s useful and
interesting volume, _The Chevalier de St. George and the Jacobite
Movements_; _The Memoirs of the Master of Sinclair_; Rae’s _History of
the Rebellion_ (1718); _Scotland and Scotsmen of the 18th Century_, by
Ramsay of Ochtertyre; and the _Calendar of the Stuart Papers belonging
to His Majesty at Windsor Castle_ (Vol. II. and III.) In the Eighth
Report of the Historical Manuscripts Commission also, there are
numerous details on the subject of Sir John Erskine’s Silver Mines.
In view of the new light recently thrown upon the Character of James
(The Old Pretender), a fact very clearly brought out by Mr. Andrew Lang
in his _History of Scotland_ (Vol IV.) it is particularly interesting
to note the remark of Lady Erskine in Letter XVI.: “There is one
advantage,” she writes to her husband, “of being with Kid (_i.e._,
James), that you will live mighty regular and get no ill examples.”
My warmest thanks are due, in the first place, to the late Mr.
Erskine-Murray for his kind permission to use these Letters; I should
also like to record my gratitude to Miss Johnstone of Alva, to the Rev.
Robert Paul, F.R.S.A., Dollar, N.B., and to the Rev. A. Thomson Grant,
Chaplain at Wemyss Castle, who have all in different ways assisted me,
as well as to the Faculty of Advocates at Edinburgh for their courtesy
in allowing me to read in their Library. Except for the punctuation,
and the omission of a sentence occasionally where the meaning is
obscure, Lady Erskine’s Letters are reproduced as they were written.
B. D.
_NOVELS BY BESSIE DILL_
MY LADY NAN
“A daintily written eighteenth century romance. The story is thoroughly
entertaining.”--_Daily Express._
“A charming tale.”--_The Times._
“A very pretty tale, written with a light and powerful touch.”--_The
Guardian._
“Written with a dainty efficiency which is very attractive. A charming
tale.”--_Liverpool Courier._
THE FINAL GOAL
“As fascinating a romance as one could lay hands on, and will enhance
the reputation of the writer. There is a genuine literary ring about
the whole book. It is a book to read and enjoy.”--_The Scotsman._
“An altogether delightful story.”--_Liverpool Daily Courier._
THE LORDS OF LIFE
“An excellent and well written book. ‘Van,’ the charming Scottish
heroine, with that unfortunate possession, ‘a temperament,’ who leaves
her northern home at the Manse, for Anglo-Indian life, is more than
usually interesting.”--_Pall Mall Gazette._
“The story of a governess’s life, artistically told, and with a
fidelity to nature which makes it appear as if a slab out of the living
world had been set before us, we were watching the actions and reading
the thoughts of the people of it. The story is told with a tragic
passion which reminds one of Jane Eyre.”--_Sheffield Daily Telegraph._
“A grand story, the charm of the book is in the development of
character, the refining of the gold of a girl’s joyful innocence in the
fire of experience.”--_Leeds Mercury._
THE STORY OF BELL
“The story is simply and touchingly told, and retains the reader’s
sympathy and interest to the end.”--_Pall Mall Gazette._
“The story is a masterpiece ... a story with a great and noble purpose,
which we cannot read without feeling all the better.”--_Christian
Journal._
THE SILVER GLEN
INTRODUCTION
A few days ago, as I sat in my pleasant parlour looking out on one of
the fairest prospects in this our fair land of England, my cousin, Sir
Henry Erskine, who hath been spending some days at our house, entered
the room with his quick soldier-like step, and came to a halt, as he
would say, at my side.
“See here, cousin!” he cried, holding out to me a packet of papers,
“there is something here that will interest you. These letters were
given me by my Uncle Charles, my Lord Tinwald, t’other day when I was
visiting at Alva House, and I have but just looked into them. They were
written, I find, by my mother of blessed memory to Sir John, while he
was abroad in exile for his misdeeds, as one may say now, in the year
1716.”
I caught at the papers with a cry, half of delight and half of tender
sorrow, for if Henry’s voice had softened as he mentioned his mother’s
name, ’twas no more than her due, who was ever the wisest and most
loving of parents; and if to him, the thought of her represented all
that is sweetest and best in womanhood--as one may suppose, seeing he
hath not yet crowned perfection by taking unto himself a wife--to me
it did no less, being as I was the object of her most tender care and
kindness at a time in my life when I sorely needed both.
The sight of those thin broad sheets, covered with the fine clear
writing which had once been so familiar to me, brought the tears to
my eyes. Sure they were well worn, those ancient letters, having been
borne in Sir John’s wallet, no doubt, for many a weary month, and since
lain by in some desk or chest at Alva House for safety; and at the
sight of the seal on the back, so carefully broken that the wax still
retained on many of the sheets its perfect imprint, a vision of my
dear lady folding and sealing with trembling haste one of these same
precious letters, came so clear to my mind, that almost I thought I
heard her voice calling to me as in the days of old.
“See, Henry,” I said softly, pointing to the seal, “how well I remember
the ring she ever used. Too large for her slender hand, she wore it
on a long gold chain around her neck. Your father, Sir John, had used
it when writing to her before they were wed, and, sweet woman that
she was, she would never have any other for the letters that passed
between them. ‘For, Barbara,’ said she to me once, and I can still see
her smile, ‘the legend is so true, that ’twould be folly to take to
another.’”
Together we bent over the faded wax, and Henry laid his lips upon it
gently. There has ever been a spirit of poetry and chivalry in this
stalwart soldier, whom as a little child I had so often held upon my
knee.
“A heart embossed, and round it the words, ‘_Vous y regnez seul_.’
True, indeed!” said he with a smile; “Sir John reigned there alone,
and even her children were in her heart but little subjects to their
rightful king.”
“Sure, my dear, you lost nothing by that,” I cried, “for happier
children, or a kindlier home I never did see. The love that filled my
lady’s heart was a bounteous fire that brightened and warmed all who
approached her. Sweet soul! I thank God still for having known and
loved her.”
Saying this I turned my eyes again upon the letters in my hands, and so
potent was the spell of the first few words I read, that my mind leapt
back across a gulf of forty years, and left my body sitting blind and
deaf in the chair in my sunny English parlour.
A sudden laugh from Sir Henry brought my wits home again.
“Cousin Barbara,” he cried, “I have been speaking to you for some
minutes and not one word have you heard of my discourse. Nay, dear
cousin, do not apologise. The love you bore my mother hath ever been a
tie between her children and yourself, and I know well that your tender
heart is filled with regretful memories at sight of these letters writ
by her hand.”
“She was indeed the dearest woman-friend I ever had,” said I. “Alas!
too early lost.”
“And for that very reason,” said he, “I made my bold request, which,
as you did not hear it, I must needs repeat. Will you not, for the
love you bore those that are passed away, and a little for the love
of us who remain, write out for our instruction and profit, your
recollections of that troublous time, with something also of your own
romance, and the strange story of the Silver Glen which I have so often
heard from you as a boy?”
My gaze went past him out of the window, across miles of green pasture
and softly waving foliage to the silver shining of the Severn beyond.
Far, far away the hills of Wales rose into the sky, the day being clear
and bright. Close to the house the flowers were blooming very sweet
and fragrant, for the month was June, and in the shrubbery behind the
garden, the blackbirds and thrushes sang their best.
“Of course, if you should think it too great a labour--” Sir Henry
broke in upon my musings, but I held up my hand to stop him.
“Nay, cousin,” I cried, “’twould be what is called ‘a labour of love’
surely. I was but thinking how little fit I am to be the chronicler of
those exciting times. I will not be so mock-modest as to pretend to
consider myself unfit in the matter of appreciating your dear mother’s
character and conduct, for few had the opportunities to know and esteem
her that I had. But I am truly no historian, and the tale will be
written from my own point of view, which needs must be a narrow one.
I have, I believe, upstairs hidden away in the corner of some ancient
chest, a diary of that same year writ in a girlish hand. By help of
this, and by reading, since you permit it, these sacred letters, I
promise you I will do my best endeavour to give you a true and full
account of the events that took place in your home, and among your
family, when you were an innocent small boy of four or five years old.
But consider a little how long a time has passed. My youth with all its
fears and follies, its joys and sorrows, is far away. I have wandered
back and forth upon the earth, knowing many changes and living in
distant lands, for a wife, as you know, must ever be ready to follow
her husband; and if now in the evening of my life I can sit placidly
at this sunny window looking out upon the Severn Sea, and know that my
dear and kind spouse is no further away than in the next room, or in
the garden, or at the home-farm, I thank God very humbly in my heart,
Who has brought me to this peaceful place by a way that I knew not,
and little expected to find. Dear Henry, I am but a garrulous old
woman, and what I want to say is, that if my memory of those distant
days is grown a little dim, and certain things are gone from my mind
never to return, I must pray you to forgive me, and put it down, not to
foolishness, but to old age.”
Whereupon Sir Henry rallied me upon my fears, and laughed at me for
calling myself old, who am scarce more than a dozen years his senior,
and kissing my hand in the gallant way he has, he left me sitting by
the window with these old letters in my lap.
And suddenly, after a long silence, a single mavis burst into song,
and trilled and throbbed so exquisite a melody that I held my breath
to listen. For there were many years of my life in which I did not
hear that lovely music, and now a mavis never sings in the long sweet
twilight but my thoughts fly out to my lost dear, Catherine, Lady
Erskine (for a reason that I hope to tell you by-and-bye), and it
seemed strange that when my mind was so full of her, the bird that I
always think of as hers should start to make music beside me. But I
have often noticed in my changeful life, the little happenings that
link our minds with the past and the future, with facts on earth and
aspirations in Heaven, with human hopes and divine longings, so that
the scent of a flower, or a child’s laugh, or a glorious sunset, or a
sudden happiness, may lift our hearts, before we know it, right into
the presence of God.
All letters it seems to me must in a greater or less degree be the
exponents of the writer’s mind. Of some, indeed, we might say that they
mirror very clearly the character and disposition of their authors,
and more especially when exchanged between two close and loving
friends without fear of outside criticism, or any thought of possible
publicity. Most truly is this the case in the letters before me. So
intimate and natural they are that I almost shrink from exposing them
to the eyes of strangers, however kind and sympathetic these may be;
and yet they can but excite the warmest affection and admiration in all
minds, being the outpourings of a loyal, loving and courageous heart.
They were written in haste oftentimes, in doubt and fear and terrible
anxiety, but not once does the brave spirit falter nor the love in them
grow cold or dim.
Now it is true that, as I said to Sir Henry, my view of those far-off
events of my girlhood, besides having grown somewhat dim, must be but
a narrow one, for I lived as it were in the midst of the story, and
could not know at the time many facts and results that were afterwards
made plain to all. To such as may care to read my simple narrative,
which, if plain and unstudied, is yet true and I think not wanting in
interest, I must say at once that my sole reason in undertaking the
task is my desire to make more widely known among her descendants,
namely, my dear God-daughter, Barbara; her niece, Christian, poor
Charles’s little girl, and Sir Henry, who will I hope marry and have
a family of his own, as well as to my own dear daughter and her
children--the character of the sweet and noble woman who was the friend
of my youth.
I therefore make no apology for leaving to the writers of history many
details of that unhappy time; only so far as it touched upon the lives
and happiness of those I loved does it concern me. And so, with no more
than a humble regret that my skill is not more worthy of my theme, I
take up my pen to begin this story of the so-called Rebellion in the
year seventeen hundred and fifteen.
CHAPTER I
SHOWS HOW BARBARA STEWART LEFT SCHOOL
’Twas in the early hours of a dark December morning in the year 1714
that I was awakened suddenly by the cautious opening of the chamber
door, and saw with blinking eyes the bare room where I slept with three
of my school companions. The wavering flicker of a candle carried by
a cautious hand showed me the night-capped heads upon their pillows,
the bare walls, the uncarpeted floor, the staring, black, uncurtained
window, and, the sight arousing no interest in my mind, I closed my
eyes against the intruding light. Little Miss Gordon, the youngest girl
in the school, who slept in the bed with me, raised a protesting arm
across her face, and called out in accents sleepy and petulant, “Oh,
Betsy, take that horrid light away. ’Tis not morning yet, I am but just
fallen asleep!”
Now it has always been my custom to awake up instantly with all my
senses on the alert. I say it not to boast, though the faculty hath
served me well once or twice in my life, for some are born so, just
as others are drowsy-heads from the cradle to the grave; but this
being my habit, I had seen with the first opening of my eyes that
it was not Betsy, the maid, who had entered our room, but no less a
personage than Mistress Marget Lindsay, the younger of the two sisters
who kept a boarding-school for young ladies in Paterson’s Court, off
the Lawnmarket in Edinburgh. Now, Mistress Marget, besides being the
younger of our school-mistresses, was the one least feared by their
pupils; I had almost said the best loved, but in those days (I know not
if it be so still), anything so gentle as love scarce entered into the
training of young ladies at school. That she had a kind heart, however,
I have been sure ever since that dark, winter morn, as, shading the
candle with her hand, she came quickly to my bed-side and bent down to
discover if I were still asleep.
“Miss Stewart, my dear--Barbara. Are you awake?” she cried softly.
I sat up in bed and untied my cap-strings, the better to hear what she
had to say.
“I am awake, madam; what is it you want of me? Sure, ’tis not time yet
for me to be at my exercises!” said I, a little alarmed at the gravity
of her face.
She shook her head and sat down beside me on the bed.
“No, no, child; do not be alarmed! And yet I fear I have news that will
disquiet you. A man-servant has come from Rosyth to take you home. You
must rise at once and attire yourself for the journey.”
“A man-servant?” I repeated, obediently putting one foot out of bed.
“Old Robert, belike. Oh, Mistress Marget!” I cried, stopping suddenly,
“pray tell me at once what is wrong.”
With the truest kindness the good woman did not attempt to turn my
thoughts aside from their fear. She answered immediately and without
circumlocution.
“Your grandfather, Miss Stewart, has met with an accident, and ’tis
feared he cannot live. He would see you, dear bairn, before he dies.”
There may be some who think this stern announcement to a young maid
of sixteen somewhat wanting in tenderness and compassion. They may
consider that to hint at a possible calamity, mentioning a severe
illness or the like, but holding out hopes of a speedy recovery, would
have been the kinder way. If so, I cannot agree with them. The progress
of “preparing the mind” of any poor creature to receive a blow hath
always seemed to me both cruel and useless. In many cases, the more
sudden the shock, the more strongly is the mind braced to bear it for
the moment; and so it was in my own case. I leapt from my bed and began
hurriedly to put on my clothes.
“My grandpapa dying, and asking for me? Oh, Mistress Marget, I must
hasten; I pray you, assist me with this lace. Will you not kindly tie
these strings? Hath Robert brought the carriage? Ah no! the snow is
too deep. I am to ride pillion? Yes, I must wear my thickest shawl and
hood. Oh, do not hinder me, dear madam, I must be going now; I cannot
keep Robert waiting another moment.”
“My dear Miss Stewart,” said my mistress, quietly detaining me while
she tied a thick veil over my face, and searched for scarf and mits,
“Robert is in the kitchen being warmed and fed. The good creature was
almost lifeless from the cold. And do you think, my dear girl, that
my sister would suffer you to leave her house at this hour fasting?
There is no speed in such senseless haste as you know, and while I
admire your courage and fortitude, and the eagerness you exhibit to do
your grandfather’s behest, I must counsel you, my dear, to remember
that patience is one of the highest virtues a woman can possess, and
self-control is another.”
Tears rose in my eyes, not so much at the rebuke as in rebellion
against it; for Barbara Stewart was ever hot and hasty in those young
days, and indeed hath scarce yet learned to exercise the virtues
extolled by good Mistress Marget in all the years that she hath lived.
But chafe as I would at the delay, I was forced to go into the parlour,
where the elder sister Lindsay, hastily attired, and with a shawl over
her night-cap, waited for me in the candle-light with hot chocolate and
buttered oatcake.
I think the strangeness of that morning scene, and the unwonted
consideration with which I was treated, took my mind a little from the
gravity of the situation. I know that it was not till I was mounted
behind Robert, and clinging to the broad belt he wore as we paced along
the stony street, that it entered into my head to ask him for news of
my poor grandpapa. It was then that I heard how, in riding not many
days before, his horse had slipped upon a piece of ice, and had thrown
the poor gentleman with such violence that an old wound, got near
twenty years before at the siege of Namur, had opened, and inflammation
having set in, the doctor now gave little hope of his recovery.
“I’m thinkin’, mem, the Colonel’s juist waitin’ tae bid ye gude-bye,”
said honest Robert very sadly.
The news made me grave and sober enough--sorrowful, too, and fearful,
for my good grandpapa had been indulgent beyond the common, and,
besides him, I knew of no other relative that I possessed in the world.
My father, his only son, had been one of Webb’s most gallant officers,
and had married in Flanders, after the Peace of Ryswick, Mademoiselle
Jeanne de St. Pierre, the orphan niece of the French admiral of that
name; for, as you know, love and peace grew and flourished between
private individuals of the rival nations even while their countries
were at daggers drawn. My mother, besides possessing wit and beauty,
had a small fortune of her own, and she and my dear father lived very
happily together, sometimes in Brussels, in Paris, or in London. But
he, dying of fever, induced by wounds which he received at the taking
of Liège in 1702, left his young widow and little daughter to the care
of Colonel Stewart of Rosyth House in the county of Fife. My mother,
fragile and broken-hearted, survived his death little more than a year.
Thus, before I had reached my sixth birthday, was I bereft of both my
parents.
Brought up with care and kindness in my grandpapa’s commodious house on
the shore of the Forth, I had been sent at the age of thirteen to the
Seminary for Young Ladies of Good Family, kept by the sisters Lindsay,
and had just completed my third year in that select and fashionable
school.
Such in brief was the story of my life down to that dismal winter
morning which found me riding behind Robert Guthrie, my grandfather’s
old servant, along the bare road that leads from Edinburgh to the
Queen’s Ferry. Very bleak and cold it was, for the sun was not yet
risen, and a chill wind blew right in our faces out of the north-west.
The ground was covered with snow, and, though at another time I might
have noticed with pleasure the purity of its whiteness in contrast to
the grey sky and the black waters of the Firth (for all my life I have
had open eyes and heart to the beauties of the earth) this day my
mind was too full of anxious cares to allow me any such consolation. I
was cold and cheerless enough with the nine miles ride when we reached
the Hawse Inn, where we alighted to wait for the ferry-boat to take
us across to the coast of Fife, and the good landlady bustled out
with a cup of hot spiced claret to take the chill out of my bones, as
she said. She brought me in to the warm fireside, and with many kind
commiserating words she sought, in the fulness of her heart, to lighten
my gloom. She had heard from Robert Guthrie how Colonel Stewart lay at
the point of death, and, in her motherly way, she pitied the poor girl
who was so soon to be left alone in the world. I thanked her with what
courage I could muster, but when she saw that I could scarce restrain
the trembling of my lips, she very wisely left me to myself and busied
herself about her household tasks.
Almost at the moment when we stepped on board the ferry-boat, the sun,
which was now some way above the horizon though wrapped in clouds,
struggled forth from the enveloping mists, and in a very short time
changed the aspect of the landscape from dismal gloom to sparkling
radiance.
Before we were half-way across the Frith I was so far roused from my
abstraction to note this change, and whether it was that, the day being
a sort of landmark between the old life and the new, all impressions
received then upon my mind retained a peculiar distinctness, I know
not; but this I know, that though I have made the same crossing many
scores of times since, whenever I think of the passage of the Forth, I
see it as I saw it that winter morning. The noble river flowing between
its ever widening shores sparkled in the early light, reflecting on its
bosom the blue of the sky, broken here and there by little white waves
that seemed to laugh to each other as they raced out to sea. The grey
stone houses of the little town we had just left, with their red-tiled
roofs, looked picturesque, all huddled down together to the water’s
edge. Westward as I gazed, the tall thin masts of vessels moored at
Charlestown and Borrowstownness, stood up slender and distinct in the
clear air; and far away as a dream-like background the peaks of the
majestic mountains, Ben Lomond, Ben Ledi, Ben Muich Dhui, their summits
crowned with gleaming snow, towered towards the pale blue sky. Near at
hand, the fishing craft putting out from either coast, shot up their
sails to catch the freshening breeze, and over all the sea-gulls flew
restlessly, or dived into the water with wild, musical cries, their
white wings gleaming in the sunlight.
For a moment I forgot my grief in the freshness and beauty of the
morning, and turned for a sympathetic word from my companion, but at
sight of his face I refrained. The old man was standing not far from
where I sat, one hand upon the bridle of his horse, his head drooping,
and his dim blue eyes fixed on vacancy. His kindly, weather-beaten face
was very sorrowful, and I knew that he was looking far back into the
past, when he and his beloved master had been young, for Robert had
followed my grandfather to the wars, and they had been through many
hardships and shared some triumphs together. Into my light and girlish
mind came the thought that here was a grief ten times greater than my
own, and in presence of it I felt strangely small and insignificant.
Sandy, the horse, too used to the ferry-boat to be disturbed by the
crossing, seemed to divine his old friend’s trouble in the curious way
dumb animals have, for he rubbed his soft cheek against the groom’s
shoulder with an affectionate, caressing motion.
My heart went out to the old man in his sorrow, and when two slow tears
welled out of his eyes and rolled down his wrinkled face, I started up,
impulsive as I too often was, and ran to his side to comfort him.
“Dinna greet, Robbie!” I cried, though softly, that the boatmen should
not hear. “Dinna greet! I canna bear to see ye. You and me’ll aye be
friends!”
He turned and smiled at my words, and I thought the smile was sadder
than the tears.
“Eh, my bonnie wee leddie!” he said, as if I had been still but a
bairn, “it’s Robbie has got a sair heart the day.”