A QUIET EVENING AT THE MANSE.
“Thrift made them easy for the coming day,
Religion took the fear of death away;
A cheerful spirit still ensured content,
And love smiled round them wheresoe’er they went.”
_Crabbe._
I need hardly tell that between Mrs. Barrie and Bell the relationship
of mistress and servant was more than cordial, more than intimate,—I
can find no better word to express it than perfect. To say that Bell
knew her place is a term much too bald; she filled it, fulfilled it,
_full_-filled it. She was devoted to the family’s interest; her heart
and mind were in her work; she had a clear head, a strong arm, a blithe
happy manner, and an uncommonly large stock of common sense.
_BELL’S SLIDING SCALE._
She had a ready “knack” of dividing the articles under her care, by a
_sliding_ scale of her own, so as to put all to the best use: she laid
aside some for the dining-room on “company” days, and even at a sudden
call she was seldom found unprepared; some for the parlour, to suit
old and young (for there was no formal nursery in the manse,—Bell’s
room, “off” the kitchen, was best entitled to the name, although
competing claims might have been put forward by the kitchen itself,
the parlour, and even the study); some for the kitchen, but _that_ had
not a high place in her scale; a good deal for the poor,—plain, handy,
and given in good time and with discernment. Of one thing she was very
careful, and that was, that if any food seemed likely to spoil, it was
given away _before_ it went wrong; if any clothing, it was given clean,
and although often well patched, it was fit for immediate use. There
was a corner in the kitchen pantry with a stock of comforts, and even
luxuries, for cases of sickness, old age, or special need. The dumb
animals were studied with thoughtful care, and they repaid it well.
Everything that could be used was used regularly and methodically.
_THE BUSY BEE._
Bell’s dress varied with her work. In the morning she “sorted” the
live stock, clad in what an artist would have called a grotesque or
picturesque costume, according to the season. In winter her upper
garment was an old overcoat of Mr. Barrie’s—a “Spencer;” in summer it
was a loose-fitting jacket of striped cotton, lilac and white; her
linsey-woolsey petticoat was of the right length for such work, and
all were shaken or brushed or beaten daily. She put on her cotton
“morning wrapper,” of blue with small white spots, just before she
“set” the breakfast, and got “redd up” for the day in time to serve
up the dinner. While she had her set times for her regular work, and
“turned her hand” smartly to anything more pressing, she observed no
“Factory Act” restrictions as to her hours of labour. Very early in
the morning the clank of Bell’s “pattens”[1] was heard as she attended
to her home farm, and till far on in the evening she was working away
anxiously and cheerfully. Her rest was a change of work on week-days.
On the Sabbath afternoon she took what seemed likest a rest, viz. a
walk round the whole premises, leisurely, observant, inquisitive,
noticing everything, and mentally noting a good deal for next week’s
attention; varied by an occasional “saunter” into the gardens of
the neighbours for purposes of observation, comparison, insight, or
exchange.
[1] Pattens were a primitive form of what are now known as
overshoes, although “undershoe” defines the patten more
correctly. The upper part was made of wood, like the frame of
an ice-skate, but broader,—not unlike the frame of an oval
horse-brush; and it was put on by pushing the foot firmly into
overstraps made of leather or “girth cloth,” in the same way as
a horse-brush is fixed on a groom’s hand. The under part was an
oval-shaped ring of thin iron, measuring about six inches long,
four inches broad, and one inch deep. There being no fastening
at the back, the heel of the wearer’s shoe made a “slip-shod”
noise on the wooden sole, which, added to the clanking of the
iron soles, especially on any pavement or causeway, produced
a double-beat “clatterin’ clatter.” To the inexperienced they
were as difficult to walk with as skates are; they kept the
foot about two inches from the ground, and were taken off
before entering the house by merely withdrawing the foot. They
not only kept the feet dry, but a “clean hoose.”
Her respect for Mr. and Mrs. Barrie was profound: they were the
handsomest couple in the parish, and many parishes might have been gone
over before a more comely, gentle, ladylike, person than Mrs. Barrie
could be met with. Bell said, “They were, if that was possible, better
than they were bonnie;” and when Mrs. Barrie told Bell, as she often
did, to rest and take things more leisurely, Bell would say, “I like
to work, mem, I like it; I canna be idle.” Mrs. Barrie’s remonstrances
were firmer on extra occasions, such as a “heavy washing,” but Bell’s
answer was, “It was naething, naething at a’; and didna we get a grand
day for drying the claes?”—or at the “Spring cleanin’,” when her answer
was, “It’s best to get all the confusion past and by wi’t. It was a
nice thing a fresh, clean hoose;—’deed, mem, it astonishes me to see
hoo much cleanin’ every place needs, although it’s no very bad like
before you begin.”
I may be dwelling too long on Bell, and it is not at all unlikely that
she may become the heroine of my story, or rather the central figure
round which the “bits” are grouped. If so, I could not wish a better,
although Bell herself had no idea that she was such a good servant,
or that she did more than her bare duty; she oftener felt she had not
done as well as she wished. She was far too sensible and busy a woman
to think much about herself; and should she read this, she would be
the first to say “she wished she had done better,—he hasna tell’d my
fau’ts.” Worthy, kindly, honest Bell!
“_GIVEN TO HOSPITALITY._”
Mrs. Barrie’s housekeeping was the admiration, to many it was the
miracle, of the parish and district. She was a good manager, and with
such a helpmate as Bell, she made her income do wonders. To the poor,
the manse was always open for judicious help; the hospitality of the
dining-room and parlour was substantial and becoming. This was all the
more astonishing from the fact that Mrs. Barrie was “such a delightful
creature,” “such a charming person,” “quite a lady,” “a model
minister’s wife,” “so accomplished,” “so amiable,” “so frank,” “so
nice,” “so attractive” (these are actual epithets used by her friends),
that the number of visitors, many of whom were easily persuaded to
become guests, was larger than was desirable, and the consequent calls
on the larder and pantry were heavy. Indeed, this was a subject of
frequent remark among those who enjoyed the hospitality of the manse,
all wondering how _ever_ she could manage, and many “beseeching” Mrs.
Barrie not to trouble herself about _them_, as they only wished a
quiet chat, although the length of many of their visits made them more
like visitations; Mrs. A. and Mrs. B. suggesting that Mrs. C. and Mrs.
D. might be more considerate, whilst Mrs. C. and Mrs. D. were surprised
at the audacious manner in which Mrs. A. and Mrs. B. thrust themselves
on Mr. and Mrs. Barrie. It was really difficult to withstand the
attractions of the manse, and Mr. and Mrs. Barrie, more particularly
Mrs. Barrie, was made a social martyr because she was so good, and
kind, and true.
It never occurred to Mrs. Barrie that her good nature and good
housekeeping were inconsiderately drawn upon by many who should have
known better. She liked to see, and to contribute to, the enjoyment of
others, preferred being active to being passive in this matter, and was
“given to hospitality” from the genuine sweetness of her nature; and
while the sigh of weariness often escaped her lips at the close of some
of the nice “sociables,” which had been prolonged so as to interfere
with domestic and other duties, she never murmured; although she and
Bell had often to encroach on the hours of rest or sleep in order to
keep everything forward, and as they would like it.
Mr. Barrie’s broadcloth was invariably fresh-looking, and his linen
faultless. Mrs. Barrie was at all times becomingly dressed, and in the
afternoons quite “the lady, aye sae genty.” The boys and girls were
comfortably and neatly clad every day, specially so on Sabbath days,
and theirs was a happy home.
Before I began to describe the inmates of the manse, I mentioned that
Mrs. Barrie said, on leaving the parlour, she was going to see if
the “bairns were happit.” She seldom spoke Scotch, but when she did,
it was with quaint emphasis and special sweetness. There was no real
need for Mrs. Barrie having any anxiety on this subject of “happing,”
as Bell was always on the alert; but Mrs. Barrie’s motherly heart
could not rest until she had seen, and kissed in their beds, her “wee
croodlin’ doos.” She went first to see Bell about the supper; then to
Bell’s room, where Mary and Flora were fast asleep; then to her own
room, where Lewis was sleeping soundly, but James wide awake, scheming
in his little head whether he could not make a pair of skates, and
wishing that Bell would come up, as her “pattens” seemed the likeliest
raw material to make them of, and he had seen an old pair in the byre.
Mrs. Barrie heard his story, and said they would never do; but that Mr.
Martin was in the parlour, and she would ask him the price of a pair,
if he would sleep like a good boy; and kissing both, and “tucking” them
in, she returned to the parlour.
_BE “JUDEECIOUS.”_
During her absence, Mr. Barrie spoke to me in quite a fatherly way. He
knew that I had a good business and fair prospects, but that, since
my father’s death, I had bought a small property called Knowe Park
adjoining the village, and that this had absorbed my available means
to such an extent as to render it a little difficult for me to carry
on business comfortably to the extent that my father had done. After
stating that he thought I was taking a wise step in getting married,
he said he found it generally the case, although it sounded like a
contradiction, that a married house was more cheaply and much better
kept than a bachelor’s; and that he was in the custom of drawing
the attention of folks who were about to get married to the subject
of Life Assurance, or, if working men, to Benefit Societies, and to
the necessity of economy and prudence in money matters. “But,” added
he, “you know these things better than I do, and I know you will act
jud_ee_ciously,” with a considerable emphasis on the _ee_. And as
he referred to the various relationships of social life, he closed
each section (for his advices unconsciously ran into “heads and
particulars,” like his sermons), with, in short, “Be judeecious;” and
so clearly did he illustrate the inseparable connection between wisdom
and success or happiness in everything he spoke of, that his advice
seemed then, and seems yet, summed up in, “Be judeecious.” He will
excuse me for telling here, that in the parish he was not unfrequently
spoken of as “Judeecious;” and after the lapse of fully forty years,
he is still occasionally styled, “Worthy old Judeecious,” by some
elderly warm friends, when recalling the sunny memories of former days,
although in general conversation he is now spoken of as Dr. Barrie.
He related with considerable glee a saying of an old minister, who,
in speaking of money matters, used to maintain that there were only
three ways in which a minister could make money—patrimony, matrimony,
or parsimony. He also told the story, which is long ago threadbare,
of the old merchant, who, when asked why his son had not done so well
in business as he had, replied, “That’s easily explained: we old
folks began with a little house and a plain table, with porridge and
a herring, and got up to tea and a ‘chuckie’ (chicken); but the young
folks began with a braw house, and tea and chuckies and silks, and
never buckled up their sleeves to work.” When Mrs. Barrie joined us,
supper was already on the table. After glancing into the cradle, to see
if all was right with “Gordie,” or Gordon Lennox, as his full name was,
she said, “Come away, gentlemen,” and seating herself at the head of
the table, did the honours in a graceful and homely way.
“_BAIRNS WILL BE BAIRNS._”
Bell had brought in the little black kettle, and it kept singing by
the fireside. When the simple meal was over, Mr. Barrie and I made
a “tumbler” of toddy each, a rare thing for him, but he said it was
“New Year time,” and an “occasion;” and my health was drunk, and that
of Agnes, in which Mrs. Barrie joined, a _very_ rare thing for her;
and Mr. Barrie had just said, “Now, my dear, you must give Mr. Martin
the benefit of a little of your experience,” when the door-handle was
slowly turned, evidently by a less firm hand than Bell’s, and a little
head and part of a little white nightgown, appeared at the half-opened
door, and a voice was heard timidly saying, “Mamma,” followed by Bell’s
voice, which, with a mixture of astonishment and anxiety in its tone,
was heard saying, “James—here—at this time o’ nicht! whatever’s the
matter wi’ ye, laddie?” All in the room said, “James!” but before Mrs.
Barrie had time to apologize, which she was proceeding to do to James
for forgetting the skates, although the strict bargain was that she
would speak to me if he _slept_ like a good boy, he threw light on the
interruption, greatly to Bell’s relief, by saying, “Mamma, have you
spoken to Mr. Martin about the skates?”
James’ single sentence told the whole story better than any other words
could have done it, and I told him to come to see me to-morrow, and
I would find him a pair. Mr. Barrie’s “Oh, Mr. Martin, you—” and Mrs.
Barrie’s “My dear boy, you must—” and Bell’s “Skates! you’ll break
your legs, or drown—” were all interrupted, and all three silenced by
James’s very pronounced “Oh, thank you, Mr. Martin, thank you very
much;” and “Good night, James,” had come from all round the supper
table, and Bell had got him in hand to lead him away, and the door was
all but closed, when it opened again. There seemed a struggle going on
between James and Bell before he reappeared, this time at full length,
with his one arm distended towards the lobby, his feet planted and his
body inclined forwards, as if in resistance to an outward pull, and his
other arm clenching firmly the upper bead of the dado of the parlour.
“Oh, Mr. Martin, please, sir, when will I come to-morrow?” said the boy
eagerly.
“Nine o’clock, James,” said I, “or any time after that.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” said he; and looking at Mrs. Barrie, said, “May I
go, mamma?”
“We’ll see to-morrow,” replied Mrs. Barrie; “do go to bed like a good
boy.”
This was too indefinite for James. “But please, mamma, may I go?”
pleaded the boy with difficulty, for Bell was pulling him strongly
outwards.
_CAUGHT TRIPPING._
“Yes,” came from Mr. Barrie, fettered by some conditions about not
going on the “Loch” without getting mamma’s permission, which James did
not hear. Bell’s strength had mastered his, and the door was closed.
They went up-stairs, Bell enlarging on broken legs and drowning, James
on trying to learn on the “pattens;” and Bell had to threaten to go
down to me, and tell me not to give him them, and had actually feigned
a determined start on that errand, when James said, “Oh, don’t, Bell;
I’ll be a good boy, and sleep,” which he did.
James being thus pleasantly disposed of, Mrs. Barrie began her record
of experiences, which proved so interesting, that before she had gone
on long, I so far forgot myself as to say, “Oh! how I wish Agnes had
been here!” Mrs. Barrie caught me at once, and said with a merry smile,
“Can you not do with us for an hour? or rather, why did you not bring
her with you?”—then went on in a homely way with her useful hints and
good advice, illustrating these by incidents that had occurred in her
household.
A “for instance,” or “I remember on one occasion,” was followed by an
account of a sudden call on her larder,—or a valuable dress torn, or
soiled, or spoiled,—or a breakage,—or an unexpectedly heavy tradesman’s
account,—or something that was much needed and apparently beyond
her power and purse, yet eventually procured by her ingenuity and
patience,—or her little plans to make Mr. Barrie’s coat into a suit for
James and possibly a vest for Lewie. And as her family increased, her
scheming, and shaping, and sewing, and turning of garments to keep them
“cosy,” were prettily told, and, if I may use such a term, romantic
in their very simplicity. I cannot forget the pathos with which she
told of a serious and alarming illness caught by Mr. Barrie the week
after Nellie’s death, at a funeral in a distant part of the parish,
but doubtless aggravated by the disturbed state of his mind and the
disorganized state of his frame. For, good man as he was, and perfectly
resigned to God’s will, he felt keenly the blank in the home,—for
“a little chair was empty there;” and although I could not say he
murmured, I know that he greatly missed “the touch of a vanished hand,
and the sound of a voice that is still” (_Tennyson_).
_MR. BARRIE’S ILLNESS._
“He was very ill,” said she; “alarmingly ill,—so ill that I suggested
to Dr. Stevenson, or rather it struck the doctor and myself at the same
moment, that it would be desirable to call in an Edinburgh consulting
physician. I confess that the fee was a serious consideration, as
I knew that it would prevent my getting the new wincey dresses for
myself and the girls that I was saving up for; although this only
floated through my mind in its excited state, and required no effort to
cast off. The professor came, and went into the case minutely. Never
can I forget the kindly way in which he said that our family doctor
had treated the case exactly as he himself would have done,—that Mr.
Barrie was a splendid patient, self-possessed, scrupulously obedient to
the doctor’s orders, a model of passive subjection to the minutiæ of
medical requirements; and that his good constitution, which had been
conserved by his regular and correct life, rendered the case a hopeful
one, still one requiring every attention and care. He said something
about myself in that matter that I will not repeat. All I said was, I
had a servant worth her weight in gold,—Bell.”
“That’s beyond doubt,” said Mr. Barrie and I simultaneously. Mrs.
Barrie went on:
“He also said that he had successfully treated similar cases on a
method of his own, and that the surroundings of Mr. Barrie’s case were
such as to make him most anxious to have it treated with scrupulous
attention to the most minute details of this new system,—that he would
write these out carefully, and be in correspondence with Dr. Stevenson,
and come out again if necessary. I asked his fee; he said not to mind
at present, and when I pressed him he said he would write me. He was
very particular in writing specific directions; and Dr. Stevenson more
fully explained these, so that we were able to carry them out to the
letter. Three days after his visit the carrier brought a small hamper
of medicines and cordials from the professor, with full instructions
as to their use, and a letter to myself”—here she sobbed. Tears had
frequently trembled in her eyes as she told the story of the illness,
but they trickled down as she spoke of the letter.
“_THE GOOD SAMARITAN._”
Drying her tears, however, she proceeded: “In the letter he expressed
his gratitude at having it in his power to minister ‘to the necessities
of saints,’ his delight at having his method of treatment tried so
completely, and”—here she halted; then after a moment’s pause said,
“Well, I’m quoting,—and with such nursing. He added that as he had
promised to refer to the fee, he would say that he would be more than
repaid by Mr. Barrie’s recovery, as it would fortify him in adopting
the treatment generally, and announcing it to the profession. Mr.
Barrie had meantime got ‘the turn.’ I snatched a few minutes to reply
to the professor’s letter. It was written with a full heart, but a
shaking hand. I fear _my_ letter was but a sorry production; but,” she
said firmly, and with a beaming eye, “the professor’s letter is lying
in my mother’s Bible, beside my marriage lines and little Nellie’s
hair. It is not exactly as he sent it; there are not only the crumpled
spots where my tears fell, but under his signature I wrote, before
putting it amongst my treasures, ‘the Good Samaritan.’ Mr. Barrie
wonders why I did not rather write the ‘Beloved Physician;’ that would
have done very well, but I like ‘the Good Samaritan’ better; and now
that I think of it, I will get it out to-morrow, and Mr. Barrie can add
‘the Beloved Physician’ himself.”
She did not tell then, but I heard from the “carrier,” that the basket
in which the cordials were sent was first well washed and bleached by
Bell, then filled with the best her hen-roost, and dairy, and garden
could afford, and sent to the physician without any address,—Bell
herself having charged the carrier “just to hand it in an’ come
away,—no’ to say where it cam’ frae.”
Mrs. Barrie did not confine herself merely to matters of thrift and
housekeeping, but dwelt on the higher feelings of our nature, the
social sympathies, and the ties and joys of home and kindred. But I
could not do justice to the fine taste with which she described or
enforced these.
Mr. Barrie occasionally joined in the conversation; but he was
interjectional, and more impressive from his tone, the expression
of his countenance, and his slight gestures, than from the words he
used. When the soiled dress was spoken of, he said with a smile,
“Birniepark,”—referring to an awkward servant having spilt a sauceboat
full of gravy on Mrs. Barrie’s wedding dress. When “breakage” was
mentioned, he said, “Janet,”—recalling an officious, brisk young
lady, who, at one of the annual tea meetings of the Sabbath-school
teachers in the manse, had seized the tray with great bounce, to
_help away_ with the tea-things, and had literally succeeded, as
in crossing the lobby she stumbled, and every dish was broken.
When the physician’s letter was referred to, he merely said,
“Ebenezer,—Epaphroditus,—Onesiphorus.”
Mrs. Barrie finished by giving a few simple rules which she had
herself tried to carry out: “Never buy anything you do not need; look
twice at a cheap bargain; use the least of everything, lose the least
of everything, and make the most of everything; save all you can,
use all you can, and be sure and give all you can. So much for the
housekeeping; but be as careful of your heart as of your purse, and
be kindly affectioned one towards another, in honour preferring one
another.”
_DILEMMAS._
Mr. Barrie summed up with: “In fact, be judeecious. Practise economy,
not parsimony; use the world as not abusing it; owe no man anything but
to love one another,—a debt that can never be fully discharged. Love
begets love.”
Glancing at the timepiece, I saw that the hour was rather later than I
imagined; and having risen, I was thanking Mrs. Barrie for her hearty
counsel, and had added that I hoped she would call at Greenknowe before
the marriage, and be as kind to Agnes as she had been to me. I saw by
Mrs. Barrie’s eye that she had me again.
“I suppose,” said she with great glee, “you will not wish me to call on
you both after you are married! I quite expected you to invite me; but
Agnes will be calling to say good-bye.”
“What!” said I; “good-bye? She’s not going so far away.”
“But,” said she, “she will make a P.P.C. call.”
“A what?” said I; for I did not know what P.P.C. meant.
“Ask her,” replied she; “I dare not trust myself to quote French in
full now.”
I had begun to thank Mr. Barrie, when he said gravely, “Mr. Martin, I
greatly desire that there shall be family worship in every house in the
parish, and I impress this on all intending young housekeepers; so
you will kindly take the service for me to-night.” And without waiting
for a reply, he moved towards the handle of the bell, and was pulling
it (it was a little bone barrel at the end of a bit of green cord),
saying, “We’ll call Bell in,” when I put my hand on his, and said
excitedly, “Mr. Barrie! please, Mr. Barrie, do excuse me,—pray, don’t
ask me to-night, please don’t!” for the sudden call and circumstances
made me quite nervous.
Mrs. Barrie kindly came to my relief by wishing me a hearty good-night,
and saying, “Mr. Martin may have another call to make to-night, my
dear.”
Mr. Barrie followed me to the lobby, and said he hoped I would excuse
his rather hasty invitation to conduct family worship; he had forgotten
the apostolic injunction, “Lay hands suddenly on no man.” Then, taking
me warmly by the hand, he said, “I rejoice with you to-night at the
step you are taking; it is not only judeecious, but promises to be a
very happy one for yourselves and your circle. But pray remember the
‘_Nisi Dominus frustra_’ of your college days,—‘Except the Lord do
build the house, they labour in vain that build it.’” There was another
firm shake of the hand as we parted, and I heard his voice saying
something about taking care of the slippery roads, as I was “some other
body’s property now.”