Transcriber’s Note
In this transcription, italic text is denoted by _underscores_ while
bold text is denoted by =equal signs=. Small capitals in the original
text have been transcribed as Title Case.
See end of this transcript for details of corrections and other changes.
—————————————— Start of Book ——————————————
BITS FROM BLINKBONNY.
[Illustration: The Artists Bit.]
BITS FROM BLINKBONNY
OR
BELL O’ THE MANSE
_A TALE OF SCOTTISH VILLAGE LIFE BETWEEN_
1841 AND 1851
BY
JOHN STRATHESK
With Six Original Illustrations
TORONTO
WILLIAM BRIGGS, 78 & 80 KING ST. EAST
C. W. COATES, Montreal, Que. S. F. HUESTIS, Halifax, N.S.
————
1885
Entered, according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and eighty-five, by William Briggs,
agent for John Tod, St. Leonard’s, Scotland, in the Office of the
Minister of Agriculture, at Ottawa.
PREFACE.
——◆——
These “Bits from Blinkbonny” were grouped together by the Author to
beguile the tedium of a protracted period of domestic quarantine. They
are not only his first attempt at sustained literary work, but they
were commenced without any concerted plan.
Blinkbonny was selected as a pretty name for a Scottish village,
but the Author himself cannot fix the precise locality; and all the
names he has used are supposititious, excepting those of such public
characters as Dr. Duff, Dr. Guthrie, etc.
Owing to his having adopted the autobiographical form, the Author has
experienced more difficulty in writing the preface than any other part
of the book, as, although most of the incidents are founded on fact,
a good deal of imported matter has been required to form a connected
narrative. He also knows that in bringing together the varieties of
character and incident that an ordinary Scotch village affords, he has
passed “from grave to gay, from lively to severe,” in some instances
with injudicious abruptness, and that there are other defects for which
he needs to apologize; but as even his readers will probably differ as
to where these occur, it is not desirable for him to dwell on them.
The Author is not in any way connected with the Free Church of
Scotland, and at the outset he had no intention of treating so largely
as he has done of the “Disruption” of 1843; if, however, he induces
the rising generation to study the past and the present of that great
movement, neither they nor he will regret the prominence given to it in
this volume.
The illustrations with which the book is embellished are “composition”
sketches; but the Author confidently leaves these to introduce
themselves.
The idiom of the Scottish language—the dear old Doric—has been to the
Author a difficult matter to render, so as to be at once intelligible
to ordinary readers and fairly representative of the everyday mother
tongue of the common people of Scotland. He hopes that he has succeeded
in doing this, as well as in preserving a few of the floating
traditions of the passing generation which are so rapidly being swept
away by the absorbing whirlpool of these bustling times, and that
his readers will follow with kindly interest these homely records
of the various subjects he has tried to portray in these “Bits from
Blinkbonny.”
————————
PREFACE _TO_ THE SECOND EDITION.
The author is delighted to find you so hurriedly called for, that he
has only time to express the hope that you will receive as kindly a
welcome as your precursor has done.
_February 1882._
PREFACE _TO_ THE THIRD EDITION.
The author gladly avails himself of the opportunity _you_ afford him,
to express his gratification at the warm reception which Bell and her
friends at Blinkbonny have met with on both sides of the Atlantic, as
well as to make a few verbal corrections.
“The cleanest corn that e’er was dicht
May ha’e some pyles o’ caff in.”
_July 1882._
CONTENTS.
——◆——
CHAPTER I.
_THE MANSE._
PAGE
The Artist and his Bits—Blinkbonny—The Author and his Relations—The
Good Folks at Greenknowe—The Manse—Once thinking of getting
married—The Interrupted Call—Mr. and Mrs. Barrie—Bell of the
Manse—Wee Nellie—Her Illness, Death, and Grave—“A Butterfly
on a Grave” (_Mrs. Sigourney_), 1
CHAPTER II.
_A QUIET EVENING AT THE MANSE._
Bell’s Sliding Scale—Her Pattens—The Hospitality of the Manse—Be
judeecious—James and his Skates—Mrs. Barrie’s Experiences—Mr.
Barrie’s Illness—The Good Samaritan—A Startling Proposal, 22
CHAPTER III.
_THE MARRIAGE AND THE HOME-COMING._
“The Books”—P.P.C.—Marriage Presents—“The Confession of
Faith”—Toasts—“The Frostit Corn”—“The Country Rockin’”—Auntie
Mattie—“The Farmer’s Ingle”—Peggy Ritchie on the Churchyard—A
Lamb Leg and a Berry Tart—Mathieson’s Heid, 41
CHAPTER IV.
_THE TWO SIDES OF THE CHURCH QUESTION._
Coming Events—Bell and the Seed Potatoes—Her Idea of the
Government—Knowe Park—Spunks—The Town-Clerk of Ephesus—Bell’s
summing up—Daisy—The Eve of Battle—Sir John McLelland’s
Opinions on the “Evangelicals”—Patronage—Preaching
Competitions—Little Gab—Non-Intrusion and Voting, 58
CHAPTER V.
_BLINKBONNY AND THE DISRUPTION._
Bell’s Opinion of Knowe Park—Mr. Barrie’s Return—The Deputation’s
Visit to the Manse—Mr. Barrie’s Statement—Mr. Taylor’s
Views—George Brown on the Crisis—His Covenanting Relics, 85
CHAPTER VI.
_THE DISRUPTION AND BLINKBONNY._
The Meeting in Beltane Hall—The End of the Ten Years’ Conflict—
George Brown’s Exercises—The Bellman’s Difficulty—Sabbath
Services at the Annie Green—“Thae Cath’lics”—The Secession
Church—Mr. Barrie’s Successor—Bell and Smoking—“Hillend” on
Doctors and Ministers—A Man amang Sheep, 99
CHAPTER VII.
_OUT OF THE OLD HOME AND INTO THE NEW._
Leaving the Manse—Dr. Guthrie and the Children—Nellie’s Tibby—Well
settled—Bell’s Experiment with the Hens—Dan Corbett—Braid Nebs
—Babbie’s Mill, 126
CHAPTER VIII.
_BLINKBONNY FREE CHURCH._
The Disruption of 1843—Hardships—Scotch Villages and Church
Matters—The New Church—The Session and Deacons—The Beadle,
Walter Dalgleish—The Precentorship—Psalms and Hymns—Mr.
Barrie’s New Life—Foreign Missions—The Assembly’s Decision—
The Living Child—Saxpence—“Gude Siller gaun oot o’ the
Country”—Reminiscences of Dr. Duff, 154
CHAPTER IX.
_BELL AT HOME IN KNOWE PARK._
The Three Ministers of Blinkbonny—Mr. Walker—The Ten Virgins—The
finest o’ the Wheat—Bell’s Fee—Alloa Yarn—Bell’s Cooking—
Sheep’s-head—Mr. Kirkwood and the Potato-Soup—Dan in the
Kitchen—Mr. Gordon o’ the Granaries and the Smugglers—Dan at
Nellie’s Grave—Mr. Barrie’s Visit to Dan, 177
CHAPTER X.
_INCIDENTS IN BLINKBONNY._
Miss Park on Dan—The Sweep’s dead—Mrs. Gray’s Elegy on her
Husband—The Coffin for naething—The New School-master—The
Roast Beef in the Lobby—The Examination Committee—“Hoo’ to get
there”—George Brown’s Death—Scripture References—Mrs. Barrie
and Mr. Corbett—Dan and the Pictures—Dan’s Bath—His Dream—Dan
at Church—His Visit to Babbie’s Mill—Colonel Gordon’s First
Visit—Sir John McLelland at the Soiree—“The Angel’s Whisper”
(_Samuel Lover_), 205
CHAPTER XI.
_CHANGES AT KNOWE PARK._
The Dorcas Society—The Morisonian Controversy—Colonel Gordon’s
Second Visit—A Real Scotch Dinner—Champagne—Dan an’ the Duke
o’ Gordon—The Smuggler’s Log-book—Colonel Gordon’s Will—Dan’s
Bank—The Call to Edinburgh—No-Popery Agitation—David Tait o’
Blackbrae—The Sow and the Corinthians—Bell woo’d—Mrs. Barrie
breaks the Ice—Bell won—Found out and congratulated, 230
CHAPTER XII.
_ANOTHER MARRIAGE AND HOME-COMING._
The Forms of Procedure—Reception of the News of Bell’s Marriage
by Mr. Taylor, and by Sir John McLelland—“Her Weight in
Gold”—Bell’s Presents—“Hook ma Back”—Mr. Walker’s Violin—Bell’s
Marriage and Home-coming—The Infar Cake—Creeling—Dan, “Burke,”
and the Noisy Convoy—The Vexing Pig—The “Kirkin’,” 259
CHAPTER XIII.
_CONCLUSION._
The Packing at Knowe Park—The Bachelor Umbrella—Nellie’s
Box—Dan and Rosie—Dan on Evangelical Effort—On “The Angel’s
Whisper”—Bell in Edinburgh—Home to Blackbrae—Andrew Taylor’s
Criticisms, 284
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
——◆——
The Artist’s Bit, _Frontispiece_.
Blinkbonny, _Page_ 6
Bell and “Daisy,” ” 70
Babbie’s Mill, ” 152
Dumbarton Castle, ” 197
Bell’s “Hoose o’ her Ain”—Blackbrae, ” 250
BITS FROM BLINKBONNY.
——◆——
CHAPTER I.
THE MANSE AND ITS INMATES.
“But how the subject theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.”—_Burns._
An eminent artist, a member of the Royal Scottish Academy, who,
although well up in the seventies, and feeling many of the infirmities
of advanced age, still continues to enrich the world by as charming
landscapes and crisp sea-pieces as he produced in his younger days,
was showing me some of his sketches from nature, many of them bearing
traces of repeated handling. His face brightened up when a well-thumbed
favourite was lighted on amongst the promiscuous contents of the old
portfolio. With his eye fixed on the sketch, and his hand moving as if
either the pencil or the brush were in it, he told with animation where
he made this sketch or took that “bit.”
_THE ARTIST AND HIS “BITS.”_
“Ah!” said he, “painting is a difficult, a very difficult thing; in
fact, it’s just made up of ‘_bits_’—just bits. A something takes your
eye,—a nook, a clump of trees, often a single tree, a boulder, or
rocks (grand effects of light and shade on rocks)—ay, even the shape
or tinge of a cloud. Well, to work you go, and down with it.—There,”
said he, as he lifted what seemed a mere scrawl on a half-sheet of
old note-paper, “I took that at the Bank door. I was struck with the
effect of the sunlight on water falling over a barrel that a man was
filling in the river, and thought it would make a nice picture. I got
that bit of paper out of the Bank, took off my hat, laid the paper on
it, sketched it off in—oh! less than five minutes, and put it on canvas
next day. There’s another. I did that bit on the leaf of my fishing
pocket-book at Makumrich, near old Gilston Castle. Now there,” said he,
taking up a rough-looking, unfinished sea-scene in oil, “that has been
a very useful bit. I was sketching North Berwick Harbour, when all at
once I was struck with an effect of light and shade on the sea. I was
able to hit it exactly;” and as he said this, he moved his head from
side to side and scanned the picture, saying, “That bit has been of
great use to me, although I have never made a finished picture of it.
The ‘effect,’ the gleam, the tone are as nearly perfect as possible.
Ah,” continued he, laying down the sketch, and turning to his easel, on
which lay a snow scene,—an old thatched cottage, in my opinion quite
finished,—“now there’s lots of bits to work up in that picture.” And
sometimes shaking his brush, and sometimes whirling it in a very small
circle close to the picture, but never touching it, he said, “There—and
there—and perhaps there. Ah! nobody would believe what a labour it is
to make a good picture, with all the _bits_ and _bits_!”
I am but an aspirant in literature, and would never presume to compare
myself with the veteran artist, or think that I could ever arrange my
bits of village gossip and incident with the artistic skill which has
earned for him the order of merit that he has so honourably won and so
worthily wears, but I confess to a desire to present some of the bits
of the everyday social life of Blinkbonny in such a form as to give my
readers an idea of its lights and shadows.
Blinkbonny is more of a village than a town, although it is generally
spoken of by the outside world as a town, owing to its having its small
weekly market and occasional fairs. It lies fully thirty miles inland
from Edinburgh, and is the centre of a good agricultural district, with
a background of moorland and hills. My father was a merchant in it,—a
very general merchant, as he dealt in grain, wool, seeds, groceries,
cloth, hardware, and various other commodities. This may seem a strange
mixture in these days of the division of labour and subdivision of
trades, but such dealers were not uncommon fifty years ago, and they
were frequently men of considerable capital and influence. My elder and
only brother was a partner with my father in the business; and as I
had early expressed a desire to be a minister, I was sent to Edinburgh
to prosecute my studies in that direction, and had completed my fourth
session at college, when the death of my brother rendered it necessary
that I should do all in my power to supply his place.
_THE FOLKS AT GREENKNOWE._
I had been but a few months at home, when my father, whose health had
been failing for some years, became a confirmed invalid. My brother’s
death had not only affected his spirits, but injured his health, and
within little more than a year after this heavy trial the old man was
laid beside his wife and eldest son in the churchyard of Blinkbonny.
My sisters, all of them older than myself, were married, excepting
Maggie; and about a year after my father’s death Maggie became Mrs.
McLauchlan, so that I was left a very young inmate of Bachelor Hall.
When I had time to feel lonely I did so, but the demands of business
kept me thoroughly employed; and although I joined habitually in
the socialities of the neighbourhood, I did not seriously think of
getting married until I was called on to act as bridegroom’s man to
my schoolfellow and college companion, John McNab, now the Reverend
John McNab. He married Mary Stewart of Greenknowe, the daughter of a
small proprietor on the outskirts of our village. Her sister Agnes
was bridesmaid, and we were necessarily brought a good deal into
one another’s society. I had often met her before, and liked her in
a general way, but at her sister’s marriage I came fully under the
influence of her charms. There was something—well, something—I cannot
describe it by any other word than just “something”—that fairly
possessed me. For days afterwards she was in my head, in my dreams, in
my heart. I will not describe our courtship; it was neither long nor
romantic. I wooed and won her, got Mrs. Stewart’s consent, and on New
Year’s Day 1841 we fixed that our marriage should take place in the
last week of January.
Mrs. Stewart felt the cold weather severely, and could not venture to
call at the manse to request Mr. Barrie, our worthy parish minister,
to perform the ceremony. She asked Agnes to go in her stead, but Agnes
could not muster courage to do so—she even felt too shy to write to Mr.
Barrie; so, although it was not exactly according to the strict rules
of etiquette I promised to call on Mr. Barrie next day, and to arrange
the matter with him.
[Illustration: Blinkbonny. (_Page 6_).]
The manse stood on the top of a piece of slightly rising ground, about
a quarter of a mile to the south-west of the village. The situation
was a pleasant one. It commanded on three sides extensive views of a
well-cultivated country, backed by high and picturesque hills; the
village bounded the view on the north-east. Near the manse stood the
neat church, surrounded by the churchyard. There were also a park of
about four acres, a garden covering nearly an acre, and some outhouses,
the whole enclosed by a compact wall.
_THE INTERRUPTED CALL._
I had been on intimate terms with all the inmates of the manse, from
Bell, the only and worthy servant, upwards; but my errand made me
feel rather confused, and instead of the usual off-hand remark to
Bell, varying from, “Weel, Bell, hoo’s a’ wi’ ye?” to comments on the
weather or crops, as suited the season, I bluntly asked if Mr. Barrie
was engaged. There was a flavour of tartness in Bell’s manner as she
replied, “Mr. Barrie’s aye thrang, but he’s aye ready to see onybody
that wants him partic’larly. I’ll speir at _him_ if he’s engaged,”
and she disappeared. Mr. Barrie himself came to the door, shook hands
with me with more than usual heartiness, put a special emphasis on
the _happy_ in wishing me “a happy New Year,” gave my hand a sort
of squeeze, took a long look at me, and with a smirk on his face said,
“Come in, Mr. Martin, come in.” He had not called me “Mr.” before, but
only plain Robert; and from the blithe way in which he showed me into
the “study,” I saw that he knew my position, if not my errand.
Our conversation was at first general, and on my side jerky. I did not
follow up intelligently the subjects he introduced, but was either
silent or rambling on quite irrelevant topics. He made a long pause,
doubtless to induce me to lead, as he evidently saw I was not able to
follow. The not uncommon weakness of Scotchmen, of trying to conceal
strong emotions even on subjects on which they feel very keenly, was
working in me. I was heart-glad at the prospect of my marriage, and
well I might; but I wished to appear very cool, so, as if merely
beginning another subject, I said in a conversational way, “I was once
thinking of getting married.” Scarcely had I finished the sentence,
when Bell announced that Sir John McLelland would like to speak to Mr.
Barrie when he was disengaged. Knowing that Sir John was the largest
landowner in the parish, and the patron of the church, and that he
was taking an active part in a church extension scheme in which Mr.
Barrie was deeply interested, I at once left the “study,” stating that
I would call to-morrow night, and made for Greenknowe, where I was
bantered by both ladies, but especially by Mrs. Stewart, when I told
about “once thinking of getting married.”
Laying the emphasis first on the _once_, then on the _thinking_, then
on both, she said, “Is that all the length you are? You should think
_twice_—second thoughts are often best. Agnes, if you had either called
or written as I wished, we could have had the invitations out to-day;
but perhaps Robert will take the second thought to-night, and until
_he_ quite makes up his mind we must wait with patience.”
_THE NEXT VISIT TO THE MANSE._
Next night found me at the manse door, which Bell “answered.” I was
very frank, but Bell had barely digested last night’s slight, and
before I had finished my salutation to her she said dryly, “It’ll be
the minister ye want the nicht again?” and showed me into the study.
Mr. Barrie, after expressing regret at the sudden breaking up of our
last night’s interview, asked me if the day had been fixed. I told him
that we would prefer the last Tuesday of January, if that date suited
him. He at once said, “I’ll make it suit me;” and after noting it in a
memorandum book, he proceeded, although I had not mentioned the name of
my future wife, to speak very nicely of the good folks at Greenknowe;
of the late Mr. Stewart, who had been one of his elders, and from whom,
in the earlier years of his ministry, he had received much useful
counsel; of Mrs. Stewart’s almost motherly kindness ever since he came
to the parish; of his great esteem for Miss Stewart (my Agnes), and of
her devotion to her father, especially in his long and last illness. He
also spoke of my late father and brother as excellent, very excellent
men, said some things about myself which I will not repeat, and taking
me by the hand, said, “Humanly speaking, your marriage promises to be
in every respect a happy event for all concerned. May God bless you
both, and make you blessings to one another, to all your circle, to the
Church, and to the world.”
I thanked him warmly, and added that I might trouble him by asking his
advice on some matters, and possibly Mrs. Barrie’s; and was proceeding
to bid him good-night, when he said, “Robert, this is an occasion, I
may say a great occasion, and you must take an egg with us. I told Mrs.
Barrie last night that you were ‘once thinking of getting married.’ She
will be delighted to learn that your second thought has got the length
of fixing the day. And, whilst I am in the habit of giving all young
bridegrooms a few quiet hints, I would like you to have a chat with
both of us. You will find Mrs. Barrie’s counsel sound and practical,
so we’ll join her in the parlour;” and suiting the action to the word,
he lifted the lamp, and asking me to follow him, made for the snug
parlour, where he announced me as “a subject of _compound_ interest
now, not simple as before.”
Mrs. Barrie was carefully darning a stocking, which she laid on the
table as I entered, and shaking my hand with great heartiness, she
said, “I need hardly wish _you_ a happy new year, Mr. Martin. You are
as sure to be happy as anybody can be sure of happiness in this world.
I hope you consider yourself a _very_ lucky man?”
I made as nice a reply as I could. Mrs. Barrie repeated her husband’s
“You must take an egg with us;” and laying the half-darned stocking
into her work-basket on the back table, she looked into a cradle that
stood in the cosiest corner of the room, and seeing that all was right
there, she said, “I must see that the other little folks are _happit_
before I sit down,” and left the room. But before I tell of the
evening’s quiet enjoyment in the manse parlour, I will say something
about the inmates of the manse itself.
_THE INMATES OF THE MANSE._
Mr. Barrie was ordained as minister of Blinkbonny in 1830, and early
in 1831 he brought his young wife, till then Mary Gordon, home to
the manse. He was a son of the manse, a son of the minimum stipend;
when half through his preparatory studies he became a son of the
Widows’ Fund. Mrs. Barrie’s parents had been in a very comfortable
worldly position for the first sixteen years of her life, but through
circumstances over which they had no control, and to which she never
referred, their means had been greatly reduced. Her father died when
she was eighteen years of age; her mother survived her father about
four years. She was thus an orphan at twenty-two. She was twenty-five
years of age when she was married, Mr. Barrie being her senior by fully
one year; and whilst she brought to the manse “a good providing,”
she brought little money or “tocher,” as a bride’s marriage portion
is called in Scotland. The income of the minister of Blinkbonny, or,
to use the church phrase, the “stipend,” was paid partly in money
and partly in grain, and averaged about £160 yearly. The furnishing
of the manse and the minister’s library had required and received
careful consideration. Even the providing of live stock for the park,
to commence with, involved an outlay that in the circumstances was
considerable; but by Bell’s indefatigable industry and management,
the cow, the hens, the garden, and even the pig became such important
sources of supply in the household economy, that any description of
the inmates of the manse would be utterly incomplete which did not
make honourable mention of worthy Bell.
Bell had come with Mrs. Barrie as her first servant, and had grown up
as, if not into, a part of the family. She was fully the middle height,
muscular, not stout but well-conditioned, had a good complexion, a
“weel-faured” face, keen, deep-set, dark eyes; and altogether she was
a comely woman. I believe her full name was Isabella Cameron, but she
was only known as Bell, occasionally Mr. Barrie’s Bell; so much so that
when a letter came to the manse, addressed “Miss Cameron,” both Mr.
and Mrs. Barrie had laid it aside, expecting that some stranger would
call for it, and were instructing Bell to return it to the post office
in the evening, should no Miss Cameron cast up, when Bell said, “My
name’s Cameron; it’ll maybe be for me.” It was, much to Mrs. Barrie’s
embarrassment, and told of the death of Bell’s aunt. Bell had few
relations,—none that seemed to care for her, and consequently none that
she kept up intimacy with.
_BELL OF THE MANSE._
She was a year older than Mrs. Barrie. Her first “place” had been in a
small farmhouse, where the manners were very primitive, and the work
was very constant. One of her questions shortly after coming to the
manse was, “Does Mr. Barrie aye take his dinner with his coat on?” a
thing she had not seen before. Mrs. Barrie had a little difficulty in
getting her to understand the _proprieties_, but none in getting her to
do exactly as she was told. Bell felt nothing a bother, took pleasantly
any explanation given as to her mistakes, laughed at them when pointed
out, and with a cheerful “I’ll mind that,” thanked Mrs. Barrie. It
took her some time to learn the distinctive tones of the bells, the
parlour, dining-room, front door, etc.; and for the first week or two,
when a bell was rung, she ran to the nearest room and tried it, then to
another, sometimes to the disturbance of the folks inside; but she soon
came to know them.
It was a sight to see Bell unbuckle her gown,—which when at work she
gathered round her, and fastened in some wonderfully _fast-loose_
way,—shake herself, and stalk off in response, especially to the front
door, to any ring that seemed peremptory.
Sir John McLelland was making his first call after the marriage. He
handed Bell his card, politely asking at the same time if Mr. and Mrs.
Barrie were at home. Bell looked at the card, but it was in German
text, and therefore unintelligible. She looked at Sir John, but that
did not help her; she then turned on her heel,—the swiftest, cleverest
motion of the kind that could be imagined,—walked briskly to Mrs.
Barrie, and said, “There’s a man at the door, a weel-put-on man, and
he asked for you; an’ he gied me a ticket, an’ he’s there yet.”
Mrs. Barrie soon put such mistakes right. She found Bell an apt
scholar, scrupulously clean, sterlingly honest, and always busy,
though not fussy. At first Bell was most at home among the hens, cows,
pigs, and in the garden, but she soon became well up in all household
work. Even the addition of the children one by one never seemed
to tax Bell’s powers heavily. The first two, James and Mary, were
healthy, and in Bell’s homely phrase, “never looked behind them;” but
the third, “Wee Nellie,” had been from her birth “a feeble, delicate
little thing.” When she was about three years old, scarlet fever
attacked the children, beginning with Lewis, the baby. His was a mild
case; so were those of James and Mary, but Nellie’s was a severe one.
Her pulse ran very high, her little body was covered with the bright
scarlet “_rash_,” her throat sorely affected, her breathing laboured
and requiring more effort than the weak constitution could spare. Mrs.
Barrie and Bell were unwearied in their efforts to relieve the poor
sufferer, and gently was she passed from knee to knee in her restless
moods, gently was she laid down again, and coaxed and humoured and
waited on with unspeakably tender care.
_BELL AND WEE NELLIE._
Between Bell and Nellie there had been a special intimacy. She had
called herself “Bell’s bairn;” and as her age and health did not admit
of her joining the other children at play, she was seldom out of the
kitchen, except when Bell wrapped her cosily in a plaid, and carried
her about the parks or garden, where Bell diverted herself quite as
much as the “wee whitefaced girlie,” by humouring her childish whims,
and joining in, if not provoking, her wondering interest. And ever and
anon, as Nellie expressed delight at what Bell said, or did, or pulled,
or showed, Bell would press her warmly to her breast, and croon over
words of endearment about her “wee croodlin’ doo,” “her ain darling
Nellie,” “she was Bell’s bairn,” and tell her that when she was big
she would help Bell to milk “Daisy,” and feed the hens. The cosiest
corner in the kitchen was Nellie’s “housie.” There she would play for
hours, sometimes sitting on her little stool, and chatting with Bell
“like an auld body;” sometimes fondling her black-and-white kitten
Tibby; sometimes putting to sleep her favourite doll “Black Tam,” who,
although he had neither arms nor legs, and his trunk had by long wear
lost the black paint, and appeared as bare timber well time-soiled,
still retained on his head, which had been gouged out to imitate the
woolly hair of the negro, crescent-shaped indents of his original
blackness, and his lips were flecked with streaks of their primitive
crimson; sometimes playing with broken bits of china, drawing Bell’s
attention to those with gold on them as “Nellie’s pennies.” And not
infrequently did Bell take the wee lassie into her kindly lap, and
press her to her kindly bosom, and sing, and sigh as she sung, her
favourite if not only song of the “Bonnie, bonnie banks of Benlomond.”
“_WEARIN’ AWA’._”
It need hardly be recorded that Bell’s agony at Nellie’s illness was
only equalled by that of Mrs. Barrie,—possibly by that of Mr. Barrie,
but only possibly. She had been struck with the hectic flush which
glowed on Nellie’s face, and saw that the fever was sore on her; but
she hoped against hope, until on the seventh day of the illness a
spasmodic movement of the weak body, and a hazy gleam of the weary eye,
revealed to Bell that Nellie’s recovery was hopeless. The thought of
losing her came so suddenly on Bell, that she nearly broke down in the
room; but restraining herself as her eye rested on Mrs. Barrie’s calm
motherly face, intent on anticipating and ministering to the wants of
the sufferer, Bell whispered that she would “see if the bairns were
all right, and be back immediately,” and left the room. She walked
noiselessly through the lobby, at the darkest corner of it gave two
or three great “gulps,” and uttered a bitter “Oh! dear, dear.” This
was what nature demanded; this at least, more if she could have got
it; but this little snatch relieved her pent-up heart, and braced her
for further service. After seeing that the other children were right,
she glided into the sick-room, from which Mr. Barrie, with a remark or
rather a sigh about “too many breaths,” emerged as she entered. She
took the fever-tossed child gently out of Mrs. Barrie’s wearied arms,
and did her best to relieve the difficulty of breathing, so harassing
to the watchers, and so sore on the patient. Gradually the fitful
struggles became less violent; Nellie got quieter, softer, powerless.
She half opened her eyes, then closed them slowly, and said in a faint
voice, with a long _eerie_ tone, “Bell.” Bell, half choking with
grief, bent over her and kept saying, “Yes, ye’re Bell’s bairn, ye’re
Bell’s ain bairn;” but observing her weary, weary face and increasing
softness, she looked wistfully at the invalid, then sympathizingly at
Mrs. Barrie, and, rising softly, laid the wee lamb on Mrs. Barrie’s
lap, slipped noiselessly to Mr. Barrie’s study, and opening the door
very slightly, said, “Please, sir, come ben, or the angels will be
before you!” She got another gulp as she waited to follow him into the
sick-room, and that helped her greatly. The little darling recognised
“papa,”—smiled as she lisped his name,—smiled if possible more sweetly
as she heard her mother’s voice, in quivering accents, saying, “My ain
wee wee Nellie!” and sighed audibly, “Mamma’s wee-wee,”—she then closed
her eyes, and in the act of raising her tiny hand to her throat, it
fell powerless, and Wee Nellie was Wee Nellie no more, or rather, as
Bell said, Wee Nellie for ever.
“_THE LAND O’ THE LEAL._”
Her delicate health and consequent helplessness, as also her
gentleness, had endeared her to Mr. Barrie. When all was over, he
muttered, “She was a pleasant child, lovely and beautiful in her life;”
and added in a firmer voice, “It is well with the child, it is well.”
Bell lifted the little body from its mother’s lap, and laid it gently
on the bed. Her tears were streaming, but she had got the first bitter
pang over, and putting her arm on, or rather round, Mrs. Barrie’s
shoulder, she said, “Come away, mem, for a little; I’ll put all right.”
Mrs. Barrie obeyed mechanically, and was persuaded by Bell to lie down
in bed. There wearied nature asserted her prerogative, and she slept
soundly for a considerable time. When she returned to the sick-room,
all traces of illness, in the shape of couches, baths, phials, and
confusion, were away; the old crumb-cloth which had been put down to
preserve the carpet was exchanged for a clean linen drugget; the fire
was out, the fire-place filled with fir-tops; the window was open, and
the blind drawn down; here and there about the room were little muslin
bags filled with lavender-seed; and on the mantelpiece, which, when she
left, was covered with tumblers and cans and glasses of medical stuff,
overlapped with paper, or having spoons in them to the hazard of their
balance, stood three tumblers filled with bunches of lavender; and on
the bed lay all that remained of Nellie, “dressed and laid out,” her
little body making all the more appearance that the snow-white bedcover
was tightly laid over it. On her face lay a muslin handkerchief, kept
down by a bag of lavender on either side.
As Mrs. Barrie approached the bed, Bell walked to the other side of
it, and slowly folded down the face-cloth. All traces of suffering and
weariness had vanished; the face was that of a child smiling in sleep.
“Bell,” said Mrs. Barrie, “she’s beautiful” (she had never said that
before of her or of any of her children), “beautiful,—and she’s home.
Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” Bell tried to speak. She got the
length of faltering out, “For ever with the Lord,” when Mrs. Barrie
stooped down to kiss her “lost lamb.” Bell rather quickly folded the
face-cloth over the mouth, saying, “On the cheek or the broo, mem, no’
on the mooth.” Although Mrs. Barrie’s frame shook as her lips touched
the cold brow, she pressed them on it lingeringly, and as she raised
herself she said, “I will go to her, she cannot return to me.” Then,
looking round the room, she said, “Bell, O Bell! I can never repay, and
I will _never_ forget, your kindness at this time.” She would have said
more, but Bell broke down, and Mrs. Barrie broke down, and both were
considerably better when the pent-up flood of sorrow found relief.
“_THE BUTTERFLY ON A GRAVE._”
In the churchyard of Blinkbonny stands a little marble slab, only a few
inches above the ground bearing the following inscription:—
HELEN BARRIE
DIED 18TH MAY 1838, AGED 3 YEARS.
————
WITH CHRIST ... FAR BETTER.
The spot had no more constant visitor than Bell. The flowers that in
their seasons grew round it were planted by her hand, and tended by
her with constant care; the only difference being that in weeding
or trimming _it_ there was not the quick, bustling energy which she
exercised in the garden, but a reverent slowness unusual for her. She
never put her foot on the sod under which Nellie lay; and although for
the first few visits she sighed mournfully as she read the inscription
(and she read it aloud to herself at every visit), it was not long
before her face lightened as she uttered the last two words, and she
would add in a cheerful confirmatory tone, as if Nellie herself had
repeated the epitaph, “Yes, Nellie; yes, Bell’s bairn, far better; far,
far better.”
————
“A butterfly bask’d on a baby’s grave,
Where a lily had chanced to grow;
‘Why art thou here with thy gaudy dye,
When she of the blue and sparkling eye
Must sleep in the churchyard low?’
Then it lightly soared through the sunny air,
And spoke from its shining track:
‘I was a worm till I won my wings,
And she whom thou mourn’st, like a seraph sings;
Wouldst thou call the blessed one back?’”
_Mrs. Sigourney._