BELL AT HOME IN KNOWE PARK.
“An’ wow but the lassie was pawky an’ slee,
For she smiled an’ she smirkit till a’ man,
Growin’ a’bodie’s bodie, baith muckle an’ wee,
An’ our folk wadna let her awa’, man;
For when there was trouble or death in the house,
She tended the sick-bed as quiet as a mouse,
An’ wrought three folks’ wark aye sae canny an’ douce,
Ye wad thocht she did naething ava, man.”
_James Ballantine._
Although Mr. Walker found, when he came to the parish of Blinkbonny,
that the congregation was very much smaller than it had been under
Mr. Barrie, he did not manifest a spirit of rivalry towards the Free
Church; and, as his pulpit work did not require much preparation, owing
to his having a good stock of sermons to fall back on, he set himself
first to visit every house in the parish. He was a kind, sensible,
neighbourly man, and had a quiet way of giving useful hints, and, where
needed, remonstrances or reproofs that often produced good effects.
While Mr. Morrison, the Secession minister, was the best theologian,
and Mr. Barrie the best preacher, Mr. Walker was the best pastor. When
one met Mr. Morrison, he was “complaisant” and heavy. Mr. Barrie was
polite, but he seemed at one time abstracted, and at another as if
he was too late for some engagement; but Mr. Walker was courteous,
affectionate, interesting, and interested. In their preaching, Mr.
Barrie was the most rousing and popular, Mr. Morrison the most profound
and exegetical, Mr. Walker the most sympathetic and practical. Next
to the Bible, Mr. Walker’s favourite book for pulpit preparation was
Matthew Henry’s grand old Commentary. Mr. Morrison, on the other hand,
consulted a great variety of authorities, ranging from Augustine and
the Fathers to Robert Hall. Mr. Barrie drew largely from Calvin,
Boston, Flavel, and the Puritan divines, as well as from the church
historians, Knox, Neander, d’Aubigné, McCrie, etc.; and between the
three, Blinkbonny was well off for ministers.
_TO ALL THE COUNTRY DEAR._
Mr. Walker took great interest in the administration of the poor
laws, and as a member of the Parochial Board he pled the cause of the
deserving, and firmly opposed the demands of the indolent or lazy, got
up local flower-shows, and gave cottagers and others useful hints as
to their gardens, so much so that these became the pride of the place.
He was unsparing in his extermination of all preventable nuisances and
everything injurious to the health of the community, tried to get a
better play-green for the boys, joined in the game of curling, and,
stout as he was, he was a tough opponent, but at the same time a very
pleasant man to play with. Although he never intruded his profession,
he never forgot, far less disgraced it, and Blinkbonny soon came to
look on him as the most useful man in the place—just a very fine man;
and although leisurely in some of his ways, he was well qualified to
take an active part in public affairs.
He seldom passed any remark about the doings of the Free Church, and
those he did pass were of an inoffensive kind. He did not grumble at
their successes, nor did he show any ill-feeling towards its adherents.
Certainly he wondered at the interest their services seemed to excite,
and the money they could command. He thought there were too many
meetings and evening services, which might interfere with family and
domestic duties; that they were in danger of spiritual pride (there he
was right); but he thought upon the whole that good was being done,—at
least he hoped so, and as the minister of the parish, he rejoiced in
everything that promoted its real welfare.
He had a few good sermons, and was especially proud of a series of
lectures on the parables. These he had commenced to re-deliver,
although he did not do so in strict chronological order. One of his
best, he thought, was on the Ten Virgins; but he felt crestfallen
when, after asking an old friend’s opinion of it, he was answered:
“Mr. Walker, I’ve heard that lecture twenty years ago, and middling
often since then. The virgins are auld maids by this time; ye should
either marry them off or let them alane.”
The lecture Mr. Walker thought his very best was about the sower going
out to sow. It was a congenial subject, as he had given agriculture
very great attention, and he actually made it into two lectures, thus
spreading it over two Sabbaths. He had preached the first half, and
intimated that on next Sabbath he would resume the subject, and hoped
to conclude it. Unluckily for him, an eminent clergyman from Edinburgh
was to preach in the Free church on that day, and for the first time he
felt chagrined at seeing a very small audience in his church.
He said to his candid friend John Tait, on the following Monday, “that
he was sorry to see so few folk in church yesterday. If I know myself
at all, I feed my people with the finest of the wheat, and my memory
of what Mr. Mc—— was at college and in the hall is, that he was an
indifferent scholar, although a showy speaker.”
Johnnie’s reply was at least honest: “Oh ay, Mr. Walker, nae doubt,
nae doubt ye gi’e us as ye ca’t the finest o’ the wheat; but our wife
bakes the best wheat scones in the kintra-side, and even they are the
better o’ a little butter or jelly or honey to them; and maybe ye’re a
wee scrimpit o’ that sort o’ kitchen to mak’ your substantial fare mair
toothsomer.”
“_ON HOUSEHOLD CARES INTENT._”
Between Mr. Barrie and Mr. Walker the intercourse was cordial, although
not familiar. And Bell got reconciled to Mr. Walker, and even jealous
of him when she saw that the manse garden and park were fully as
productive as they had been under her management, although not quite so
tidy.
The miracle already referred to, of how Mrs. Barrie could do what she
did, and as she did it, on the income they had, still continued to
exercise the wondering attention of the neighbourhood.
The flitting had been attended with considerable expense. Some new
things had to be got for Knowe Park. The children were growing up, and
the boys were, like all healthy boys, “heavy” on their clothes; and
besides, Mr. Barrie was a liberal contributor for the maintenance of
ordinances and the erection of the new church.
Mrs. Barrie, seconded by her faithful Bell, stuck to her thrifty
practices and household duties, whilst at the same time she took great
interest in all that concerned the church, and by her good sense and
motherly counsel quietly did much useful work. She made Mr. Barrie her
first worldly care, and this enabled him to overtake his arduous duties
timeously and efficiently.
Bell was as constantly diligent as ever, working away in the house,
amongst her live stock, and in getting the garden up to her standard.
When the winter evenings set in, she kept stitching away, trying to
keep the boys all right; for that was her special department, as Mrs.
Barrie attended to the girls’ attire. The wires for knitting stockings
were nimbly plied at all spare hours; and as she could read and knit at
the same time, she became well up in Free Church matters, as she got
a “look of the newspapers” in the evening. She paid little attention
to the general news, but perused with great interest “a’thing about
kirks.” She also read with much care all the Free Church magazines.
When November term came, Mrs. Barrie, as she had generally done, put
into an envelope Bell’s half-yearly wages, or “fee” as Bell called it,
and handed the parcel to Bell.
_RATHER TOO MUCH._
There was an understanding between them that there was to be no
“speakin’ at the ‘speakin’ time,’” that is, no asking Bell if she was
“stayin’.” Mrs. Barrie had done this for the first three years, but
Bell beseeched her not to do it again,—“she couldna bide it; if she
wasna gaun to stop, she wad gi’e plenty warnin’.” And although Bell’s
fee had been increased more than once, she had never asked an advance,
nor had Mrs. Barrie ever told her of it beforehand; indeed, the payment
of the fee seemed to be the most trying part of the intercourse between
Mrs. Barrie and Bell, from the strange feeling that some fine natures
have when money matters are referred to. Not only was there little said
on such occasions, but Bell felt at a loss for words to thank Mrs.
Barrie for raising her fee. She seldom got past “it’s far ower kind—far
ower kind, ’deed is’t.” And Mrs. Barrie felt the same difficulty, for
her reply rarely exceeded, “It’s not that, Bell; I wish”—Then she
passed on to some other subject, and both seemed to be relieved, and to
enter afresh on another six months’ unclouded intercourse.
On this occasion, however, Mrs. Barrie was surprised at Bell’s troubled
look, and more so at her words.
“Mrs. Barrie,” said Bell, handing her back the money, “I canna tak’ it,
and I daurna tak’ it. Dinna be angry at me, an’ oh, mem, dinna press
me. This has been a heavy half-year on ye, an’ if I daur’d offer ye
what little I hae, I wad gladly gi’e a’ my ‘stockin’ fittie;” for an
old rig-and-fur stocking was Bell’s purse, and she kept it for safety
in the bottom of the case of the kitchen clock, covered up with an old
dirty dusty wrapper, the only regularly dusty thing in her kitchen.
Mrs. Barrie thoroughly appreciated Bell’s generous thoughtfulness, and
although she was put about by it, she tried to keep this from Bell.
“Bell,” said Mrs. Barrie, “you’re exceedingly kind, it’s very
thoughtful indeed of you; it’s just like yourself. But I’m thankful to
say that there is not the slightest need for your perplexing yourself
about us, for we’ve enough and to spare, so please say no more about
the matter; but thank you very much, Bell, all the same.”
Bell was loth to yield, and only did so after repeated pressing. Mrs.
Barrie left the kitchen, and had hardly sat down in the parlour, when
Bell came in, and laying a one-pound note on the table, said:
“Ye’ve countit wrang, mem, if you please; ye’ve gi’en me a pound ower
much.”
“No, Bell, not too much,” said Mrs. Barrie; “too little if you like,
but not too much. You told me just now it had been a heavy half-year
with us. What has it been to you? You have done two women’s work.”
“_TWICE BLESSED._”
“No’ me, Mrs. Barrie, no’ me. I have a gude place, an’s no oppressed
nae way. Twae women’s wark?—pity their men or their mistresses! It’s
nae wark at a’; naebody meddles wi’ me; I dae as I like.”
“Because you always like to do well, Bell.”
“I wish I did,” said Bell, and was leaving the room, when Mrs. Barrie
said: “Take the pound with you, Bell.”
“No, Mrs. Barrie; excuse me, mem,” said Bell. “I never disobeyed ye
before, but I will not take that pound—I could not take it.”
“Do what you like with it, Bell, but pray take it away; it’s yours.”
Bell lifted it, and said, “For His cause.” Her fee had been a
consecrated thing in her mind for some time, and seeing Mrs. Barrie
had declined it, Bell, with great comfort to herself, apportioned it
between the Building, Sustentation, and Mission Funds of the Free
Church; with the exception of one pound, with which she bought “Alloa
yarn,” and knitted cosy under-garments for the whole household,
herself excepted. She did this at odd times, almost by stealth; and on
New-Year’s day, when each inmate was wishing Bell a happy New Year, she
put into their hands the cosy clothing, saying, “That’s your hansel;”
but in the case of Mrs. Barrie it was varied by, “That’s pairt o’ yon
pound.”
Bell’s cookery is a subject I cannot handle as it should be handled.
I have occasionally heard her tell of the regular winter Sabbath-day
dinner as follows:
“There’s nothing beats a sheep’s head. We hae ane every Sabbath; it’s
cheap, and very handy. There’s this gude thing about it, it needs
little watchin’, and disna gang wrang wi’ ower lang boilin’: cleek it
on, an’ get it fair through the boil, then cleek it up so as it’ll no’
boil ower an’ pit oot the fire, an’ ye may lock the door an’ gang a’ to
the kirk, an’ come oot when you like. It disna matter for an hour or
twa, either; ’deed it’s a’ the better o’ plenty o’ the fire—especially
if ye hae a handfu’ o’ the ‘blue pat-pea’ in’t, an’ plenty barley.
Then what’s like the broth on a cauld day? An’ then there’s the tongue
for the bairns, an’ the head for the big folks. I like the feet best
mysel’ [that’s like you, Bell]; an’ the broth’s grand next day—they’re
a denner themsel’s.”
_AFTER MEG DODS._
In cooking potatoes Bell could boil them till they were ragged in the
“jackets,” but “mealy” all through; bake them in the oven with their
skins on, so that with a little salt butter they were like eggs, and
“suppit” as eggs are; fry them till they were “delicious;” beat and
brown them with a little milk so as to render them a satisfying meal.
Moreover, with the addition of a little dried fish, cod or ling, eggs
or odd scraps, she made such dainty dishes as I cannot get reproduced.
Possibly the potato disease may account for this.
I can speak from experience of her wonderful success with salt
herrings,—“food for a king,” as Mr. Taylor used to say,—and am tempted
to speak of her stews and “hashes,” and haggises and white puddings;
for these were never too rich, but palatable, digestible, and tempting,
and often they were made out of what modern cooks would put aside as
unfit for family use. Out of common pot barley she made a delightful
pudding, that beat rice pudding hollow. But I must not make this a
cookery-book.
I asked Bell for some receipts on one occasion.
“There’s nae receipt about it, Mr. Martin,” said she; “just gang richt
aboot it, an’ ye canna miss. It’s just as easy as A-B-buff when ye’re
into the way o’t.”
“Just so, Bell; but how do ye get into the way o’t?”
“Tuts, Mr. Martin,” said Bell playfully, “that’s no’ a man-body’s
parish; and as the sayin’ is, ‘Hunger’s gude kitchen;’ altho’, in ma
way o’ thinkin’, there’s as muckle, if no’ mair, lies wi’ the cook as
wi’ the flesher,—it are thae.”
Bell had always on hand what cooks call “stock,” on which she could
fall back as occasion required for soups and gravies.
On a bitterly cold day, a Mr. Kirkwood called at Knowe Park by the
desire of a Colonel Gordon, to make inquiries as to his relationship to
Mrs. Barrie, whose maiden name, as already stated, was Mary Gordon.
Mr. Barrie was from home, and the family dinner was, in Bell’s phrase,
an “offpit;” and Mrs. Barrie, knowing this, expressed her regret that
she could hardly ask Mr. Kirkwood to join them at their homely meal, as
the chief dish was plain potato-soup.
Mr. Kirkwood’s face brightened at the familiar name, which reminded him
of his early home; for he had been abroad for over thirty years, and
had only recently returned to Scotland to spend the evening of his days.
“Potato-soup!” said he; “ah, that recalls old times. If it is not
presuming on your hospitality, I would like immensely to renew my
acquaintance with a very old favourite.”
“With great pleasure,” said Mrs. Barrie, as she showed him into the
parlour.
_POT-LUCK._
It would be unjust to call Mr. Kirkwood a gourmand, but he was
an epicure, fastidious in culinary matters, and an authority in
gastronomics. He was accordingly helped to the soup. One spoonful
brought a smile, partly of surprise, but quite as much of delight, to
his face; the second confirmed the favourable verdict, and the contents
of the plate soon disappeared.
He looked at Mrs. Barrie, slightly moved his plate, and said
hesitatingly, “May I presume?”
“Most certainly,” said Mrs. Barrie. “I’m so pleased that you relish the
soup; it is quite the weather for doing so.”
Plate number two was more leisurely emptied, with certain appreciative
motions of the lips and face, and he again cast a lingering look
towards the tureen, and said: “Excuse me, madam, I assure you that I
never tasted any soup equal to this, although my knocking about the
world has familiarized me with nearly every sort and every style of
cookery. It’s superb; it’s simply magnificent. Would it be outraging
the laws of politeness?” He had again slightly lifted his plate. Mrs.
Barrie was greatly pleased, and served out plate number three with her
happiest smile, for the table was now a merry one.
When the third plate was finished, she jocularly refilled the soup
divider, and, looking toward him, said, “Do allow me.”
Mr. Kirkwood, who was in great good humour, said: “You are very kind,
and I feel as if I could relish more, but we must draw the line
somewhere, so no more, thank you. But pray, Mrs. Barrie, may I ask if
your cook would favour me with the receipt?”
“I don’t think there’s any,” said Mrs. Barrie.
“Then may I see your cook?”
“We have only one maid-of-all-work,” was the reply.
“Then she’s a treasure. May I see her?”
“Certainly;” and Bell was called in.
Mr. Kirkwood rather confused Bell by abruptly asking, “How ever did you
make this magnificent soup, cook? I never had anything equal to it.”
Bell saw that he was in earnest, and that Mrs. Barrie seemed in great
spirits, so she at once said:
“It’s just ordinary pitattie soup, but the day I had a ham bone, an’
the stock was gude; an’ ma way is aye boil the pitatties separate, then
pour them, then beat them, or as we ca’d ‘champ’ them, and add them to
the stock, and steer and mix them weel, an’ be sure that baith them an’
the plates is hett.”
“Ordinary soup!” said Mr. Kirkwood; “that’s a matter of opinion; my
idea is that it is the _ne plus ultra_.”
“The what?” said Bell “What kind o’ apples?”
“Ask this young gentleman,” said Mr. Kirkwood, looking to James; “he’s
doubtless a Latin scholar. My translation is ‘the top of the tree,’
‘the head sheaf,’ the ‘never was beat,’ the _crême-de-la-crême_;” and
Mr. Kirkwood left in great spirits, warmly thanking Mrs. Barrie and
Bell, both of whom were much amused by the little incident.
James gave Bell the literal translation of _ne plus ultra_, viz.
“nothing more beyond,” “nothing better,” not a little proud of having
been called in as interpreter.
_THE AULD SCOTTISH KAIL BROSE._
Mrs. Barrie, knowing that Bell was well acquainted with her family
history, told her that Mr. Kirkwood had been making inquiries about her
father, at the request of some Colonel Gordon, and asked Bell if she
knew anything about the Colonel or Mr. Kirkwood.
Bell said no, but that Dan Corbett was coming to see about something in
the afternoon (it was to kill the pig, but Bell was too well bred to
put it so plainly), and she would ask him, as he “kenn’d a’ the folk
round aboot; and Dan will be divertit when I tell him that Mr. Kirkwood
said oor pitattie soup was like his game fowls, for he spake o’ them as
‘never was beat,’ an’ ‘the top o’ the tree.’ I’ve been thinkin’ that he
micht mean that they were half pitattie soup, and half ‘cockie-leekie.’”
After Dan’s immediate work was over at Knowe Park, he was a good deal
surprised when Bell asked him to “come in and get a cup o’ tea, for it
was a cauld nicht, an’ she wantit to speak to him aboot twa or three
ither things;” and he was even more astonished when Bell sat down
with him. He had the diffidence sometimes so strongly developed in an
outcast, and it was with difficulty that he was persuaded to draw
even his chair near the table. What had taken Bell to be so gracious
he could not think, nor could she. There was a something that had led
her to look on Dan of late with pity, then with interest, then with a
desire to try “an’ mak’ something o’ the puir creatur’;” and to-night
she actually went the length of saying, “As it was very stormy ootside,
he micht smoke in the kitchen if he wad blaw the smoke up the chimney
as much as he could.”
Dan’s first remark after tea was over, and after he had gauged the
angle at which to deliver the smoke into the chimney, was, “I think
ye’ll find Knowe Park fit ye fine, but I canna comprehend what gar’d
Mr. Barrie leave the auld manse.”
Bell tried to explain the matter, but the points were far too fine for
Dan’s rough-and-ready way of reasoning, and he said:
“I wad ’a been very sorra if I had been him. The Government as ye speak
o’ wasna meddlin’ wi’ _him_, and he was weel likit; an’ they say this
new kirk is takin’ a heap o’ siller. _I_ wad ’a bidden in the auld ane.”
“He couldna dae that for his principles, although we a’ left the
auld manse, as ye ca’d, wi’ a heavy heart;” and Bell spoke to Dan at
considerable length about the Disruption, and the family, and brought
in “wee Nellie” and her death, and her grave in the old kirkyard very
touchingly.
“Aweel,” said Dan, “I think ye were the mair fules to leave. Maister
Walker’s a nice man, but so is Mr. Barrie; and for a’ I can see, the
tane is exactly the same as the tither. Wad Mr. Barrie no gang back
yet?”
“Never,” said Bell warmly; “ye may as weel try to lift the milkin’
stane o’ Dumbarton!”[27]
[27] The name given to an enormous mass of rock, which according
to local tradition fell from the Castle rock into the cow
park of primitive Dumbarton. One or more women who were
milking their cows are said to have been smothered by it:
if that is the case, the guide may safely assert that their
bodies are there yet, as the “milking stone” will weigh
thousands of tons.
_DUMBARTON._
As Bell said this, Dan’s pipe dropped out of his cheek, and he gave a
nervous start; his only eye fixed itself on Bell with more than usual
firmness, and he said, “What do ye ken about the milkin’ stane o’
Dumbarton?”
“I come frae Dumbarton; sae does Mrs. Barrie: did ye no’ ken that
afore, Dan?”
“No me,” said Dan; “hoo could I ken’d till ye tell’t me? I never thocht
on the matter at a’; it was nae business o’ mine.”
“Oh,” said Bell, “the mistress was a daughter, the only daughter, o’
Mr. Gordon o’ the Grainaries.”
Dan rose in intense excitement, and said, “Preserve me, I maun awa’
Bell; dinna speak to me ony mair about that, I canna bear’t the noo.
Oh, let me gang! let me gang!”
Bell was astonished at Dan’s sudden excitement, and could see no reason
for it; so, recollecting about Mr. Kirkwood, she said, “Sit doon a
minute, an’ I’ll tell ye a farce that happen’t the day.”
She then told about the potato-soup, and said, “You that ken’s a’
the folk in the country-side, can ye tell me onything about that Mr.
Kirkwood? He’s been lang abroad, about India or some o’ thae places.”
Dan, who was now a little quieter, sat down and said, “That’ll be him
that’s bocht ‘Strathgowan.’ I’ve seen him. He has some braw dougs: he
has a mastiff that I think could fecht ma Burke, an’ _he’s_ no’ easy
bate.”
“By the bye,” said Bell, “he was speirin’ about Mrs. Barrie’s father.”
Bell said this _without thinking_, and Dan again started to his feet.
_GENERALSHIP._
“I beg your pardon, Dan, but what makes ye sae wild when I speak o’
auld Mr. Gordon? There’s naebody here that ye need care for, an’
there’s something on yer mind, but I canna contrive what it is.
Whatever is’t, Dan?” said Bell, and she tried all the kitchen doors, to
show him that they were closely shut; then she added, “Sit doon, Dan,
an’ gather yersel a wee, for I promised to the mistress to speak to you
about Mr. Kirkwood.”
Dan swithered and writhed about a little, fixed his single eye on the
kitchen door, twirled his bonnet in his hands, but at last he sat down,
and looked thoughtfully in the fire.
“That’s wiselike, Dan; that’s like yersel’, Dan,” said Bell
encouragingly; “they say that ye were the best watcher o’ a kirkyard
in the county, and ye’re no’ gaun to start at naething. Weel, as I was
saying, this Mr. Kirkwood was here the day, for to obleege some Cornel
Gordon that’s come hame frae India, and that wants to ken about the
Gordons o’ the Grainaries, an’ if Mrs. Barrie was ane o’ them.”
Dan, still looking at the fire, said, “Div you ken a’ thing about Mr.
Gordon? I never kent till this moment he was Mrs. Barrie’s father.”
I stated in my first chapter that Mrs. Barrie never referred to her
father’s changed circumstances, and had asked Bell never to speak of
them in Blinkbonny, so that Dan’s question was a poser. She took a very
red face, and said, “A’thing, Dan? a’thing?” then going nearer him she
whispered, “I ken about the brandy, an’ tobacco, an’ salt, an’ as I see
you ken tae, we can speak freely about it; but mind never breathe the
thing to ony ither mortal whatsomever about Blinkbonny.”
“But,” said Dan, “did ye ever ken wha put the brandy an’ things there?”
“No,” said Bell, “not me; how could I? It never was ken’d, an’ likely
never will be ken’d.”
“Bell,” said Dan, looking steadily in her face, “I ken, I ken a’ about
it, but there’s no anither livin’ man that I ken o’ kens that bit o’t
but mysel’; an’ Bell, for your life dinna tell onybody that I tell’d
ye. Never let on to leevin’ about it.”
[Illustration: Dumbarton Castle. (_Page 197_).]
There was a long pause. Bell was thinking the matter over, and had more
than once been asked by Dan to promise never to “breathe the thing.” At
length she said solemnly, “I’ll never mention your name unless I’m sure
it’s to benefit Mrs. Barrie; but she said something about a brother
that this Cornel Gordon had, that had been a wild man in his young
days, and that he had written to the Cornel that if ever he had it in
his power he was to mind Mr. Gordon o’ the Grainaries, for this brither
hadna dune fair someway wi’ him. I think I understand it a’ noo. This
brither’s been are o’ them that hid the smuggled goods in Mr. Gordon’s
cellar,—ane o’ them that the excisemen just missed by their boat
‘whummlin’ [_i.e._ capsizing] at the milkin’ stane, an’ the smugglers
got a’ safe away; an’ although the judges kent fine that worthy Mr.
Gordon wasna to blame, and didna pit him in the jail, the excise office
wadna forgi’e a farden o’ the fine, and puir Mr. Gordon was a harried,
ruined man wi’ it an’ the law expenses, an’ the trial, an’ the scandal
o’ the thing. The folk said that it was a cousin o’ his, that they used
to ca’ ‘the Duke o’ Gordon’ for a nickname, that put the brandy an’
stuff in the grainaries, for he kent the place fine, but he never could
be laid hands on after. I see’t a’ noo.”
Dan remained silent for some time, then said, “Ye may say that, Bell;
ye ken’d a’ noo,—a’ but one thing, an’ that is (but for your life dinna
come ower’t), I helpit to row the boat that the ‘Duke’ escapit in.”
_WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS._
Bell’s mind was still considering the matter. “I wonder,” said she,
speaking to herself, “if this Cornel Gordon is a brother o’ the
‘duke’s,’ as they ca’d him? an’ if he’s no marriet an’ rich? an’ if
he means to mak’ up for his brither’s ill usage o’ the auld folk by
giein’ a’ his siller to Mrs. Barrie? If I thocht that, I would gi’e Mr.
Kirkwood something that wad astonish him mair than the tattie-soup.
D’ye ken, Dan, that I’m upliftit, fair upliftit—it looks that like the
thing?”
Bell’s glee communicated itself to Dan. “If that was to be the way
o’t,” said Dan, “noo that the thing is lang past an’ gane, an’ they
surely canna meddle me for only rowin’ a boat” (Dan, Dan, only? well,
let it pass), “I micht tell the ‘duke’s’ brither what _I_ kent; but
he’s a cornel, an’ thae sodgers are terrible ill at the smugglers.”
Bell and Dan agreed to say “nothing to nobody” on the subject, until
they were quite sure that they could forward Mrs. Barrie’s interest
by doing so; and although some time elapsed before an opportunity
occurred of clearing this affair up, the maintenance of strict secrecy
was enforced by Dan on every occasion on which he saw Bell, by a
significant motion of his arm, accompanied by, “Mind yon, Bell—Eh,
Bell, mind yon!”
While Bell went about her work as heretofore, there was a strong
undercurrent of thought constantly winding itself round Dan’s
connection with Mrs. Barrie’s father’s misfortunes, or round Mr.
Kirkwood and Colonel Gordon, and they got all mixed up, until she was
quite in a maze. Many a time did she lay down the stocking she was
knitting, and sit idle, thinking the matter over and over; but somehow
she could never think it out, it only got more twisted and ravelled.
Many a time after such a “brown study” did she rouse herself with an
impatient gesture, and resume her knitting, saying almost angrily,
“This is ridic’lus. I’m fair donnert [stupid]; I’ll gi’e ower thinkin’
aboot it.”
Many a sleepless hour it caused her, and as her first call in the
morning was paid to Daisy, she unburthened her mind to the unconcerned
cow.
_THE HOME BUDGET._
“Daisy,” she would say, “my pretty lady, I’m fair bamboozled [utterly
confused]. I’ve hardly sleepit a wink the nicht; that mixty-maxty
business o’ Dan an’ the Grainaries an’ the Cornel has been bizz-bizzing
[hum-humming] in my head. If I could but see Cornel Gordon his lane
[alone] I could pit it a’ richt; for ye see, Daisy, James is a big
laddie noo, an’ he wants to be a minister, an’ that tak’s a heap o’
siller; an’ Mary’s gettin’ a big lassie, an’ needin’ music lessons; for
ye ken, Daisy, a’ young folk, espesh’ly a’ young women folk, should get
some music putten into them. Then there’s Lewie, he’s in Latin a’ready;
and Flora, she’s in the tenpenny book; an’ wee Gordie.—’Deed he’s no’
that wee, but I like to ca’ him wee when he disna hear me.—He’s gotten
on the kilt, an’ he’ll no’ be lang before he’s upsides wi’ Flora at the
schule [school], for he’s gaun to be a grand scholar. He’s a feckfu’
[very spirited] laddie, Gordie; he’ll show them a’ a dance yet. An’
what bothers [troubles] me, Daisy, is whare’s the siller to come frae?
If I could just hae a quiet crack wi’ the Cornel, I think I could let
him ken hoo he could do a great deal o’ gude wi’ his siller; for ye
ken, Daisy, a’ the auld men that comes hame frae India for guid an’ a’
bring wi’ them bow-sackfu’s [large sacks full] o’ siller.”
It is difficult to transcribe intelligently Bell’s conversations with
Daisy—they were conveyed in the very broadest Scotch. I can only
account for this on the ground that Daisy was not only a patient
listener, and never asked the meaning of any unusual word or phrase,
but that she was also of the very best and purest Ayrshire breed, and
was therefore sure to prefer the native Doric of the land of Burns.
Bell was sorely tempted to open her mind to Mrs. Barrie on this
subject, but it was the one topic Mrs. Barrie had strictly enjoined
her _never_ to allude to. During her first year’s service in Mrs.
Barrie’s, Bell had once or twice unwittingly made some references to
it, and these had been the only occasions on which Mrs. Barrie showed
temper towards her. The manifestation of unutterable abhorrence which
these provoked made Bell so studiously avoid everything that had
the slightest chance of recalling it, that neither in Mrs. Barrie’s
hearing, nor in her conversation with others, did she ever speak of
Dumbarton or her early association with it; and this may account for
Dan’s astonishment at hearing her refer to the “milking stone.”
“_FULL MANY A GEM._”
A strong interest in the Barrie family took hold of Dan, and although
he had few opportunities of showing it, he hit on one, the most
unlikely, considering the kind of man he was, that could almost be
conceived, but one which went as directly to their hearts as it did
credit to Dan’s.
When Bell paid her early spring visit to Nellie’s grave, to “sort”
it after the winter’s storms, carrying with her the first bunch of
snowdrops, for which she had watched anxiously, she was surprised to
find that some fresh plants were blooming there already.
She asked Guy if he had done this. He had not. When she got home she
asked all the inmates of Knowe Park if they had planted them;—they had
not. She ran over in her mind every likely person, and asked as many as
she came into contact with. All answered, No. It was only after getting
Guy to watch very strictly, for other flowers had been added besides
those she saw first, that she found out that it had been done by Dan.
Bell was amazed. “O’ a’ the folk in the world, Dan was the last onybody
wad a’ thocht on. Mr. and Mrs. Barrie could never guess him. There’s
mair gude in the craitur than ever I thocht. I like Dan. Noo when I
think on’t, I’m awfu’ glad that it was Dan.”
As soon as Mr. Barrie heard of it, he called at Dan’s house. This was
the first time a minister had ever been in it. Dan was a reckless,
brave man, utterly indifferent about religion, and when he saw Mr.
Barrie enter his house he got very uncomfortable—he felt the power of
at least the presence of goodness, and what conscience he had waxed
warm within him.
Mr. Barrie saw this, and knowing the way to Dan’s heart, began first
to talk of his dog, then of his ferrets, until Dan felt more at ease,
and even offered to give Mr. Barrie a young bull-dog, which Dan thus
described:
“He’s pure bred, an’ the vera picture o’ Burke there; an’ his mither,
auld Nancie that’s noo deid an’ gane, was the finest o’ her kind in
Britain.”
“Then you miss old Nancie, Dan?”
“Miss her! _miss her_, Mr. Barrie!” said Dan, now quite at his ease; “I
can hardly get ower her death.”
“Dan,” said Mr. Barrie, grasping his horny and by no means clean hand,
“I loved my wee Nellie; and Mrs. Barrie and all of us thank you.” Here
Dan started and said, “Oh!” but Mr. Barrie still pressed his hand and
spoke on. “Yes, Dan, and we love you for loving her; and, Dan, wee
Nellie would like to meet you in heaven to thank you herself.”
Here Dan started and said, “Me in heaven, Mr. Barrie! me in
heaven—that’s what she’ll never see.”
“_THE OLD, OLD STORY._”
“Why, Dan, why? Nellie’s Saviour wishes you—yes, _you_—to get there,
and the angels would sing a loud welcome over you; for as truly as you
miss your Nancie, or we loved Nellie, as certainly as Burke likes you
to make of him, so true is it that our Heavenly Father wants you to
come to Him; just as you are—wild, careless, sinful, bad as you think
your life has been. There’s a kind friend up there,” said Mr. Barrie,
pointing upwards, “has commanded me to tell you this good news to-day.
Believe it, Dan—believe it.”
Dan was unable to say more than, “Is that a fact? Sent you to tell me
that? I can hardly think that can possibly be—an’ yet you’re a man o’
your word; but it’s no’ easy believin’t.”
On the floor of the dirty cottage the two knelt down, and so simple
were Mr. Barrie’s words, and so single was his heart, that it may
safely be said they prayed together.
Mr. Barrie handed Dan half a pound of tobacco, although he had very
great difficulty in persuading him to accept it; Dan was almost
stubborn in his refusal. Mr. Barrie, however, got him to take it, and
just before leaving kindly advised him to pray for himself;—“just plain
words—only say what you think, and ask whatever you feel you need, but
be sure and do it at once.”
Dan said nothing,—it was all strange to him,—but when Mr. Barrie went
away, he thought over it, and smoked over it, and ultimately resolved
to have a crack with Bell about it, for she could understand him
better. And many a chat they had, but Dan could not be persuaded to go
to the Free Church.
“I micht try the ‘auld kirk,’ it was mair the puir folk’s kirk, for
they tell me that they’re awfu’ folk for seekin’ siller in the Free
Kirk; an’ I’ve kent Mr. Walker langest, an’ he’s a hamely kind o’
man—but we’ll see.”
So will we in an early chapter.