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.