CHANGES AT KNOWE PARK.
“But mony are the ups an’ the douns o’ life,
When the dice-box o’ fate turns tapsalteerie.”
_Old Song, “Kate Dalrymple.”_
_SILENCE IS GOLDEN._
The Blinkbonny Free Church congregation was now a strong one,—so strong
that a Dorcas Society was added to its other schemes, and proved of
great service to the members as well as to the poor. The choice of
Mrs. Clark as convener was a happy one. She became the mainspring of
the concern; and faithfully did she inquire into all needful cases,
and considerately did she administer the funds,—in some instances so
quietly, that several compared the help they received to “Peter’s sheet
that was let down from heaven;” and in not a few cases the assistance
was all the more welcome because, although it was greatly needed, it
would only have been asked as a last resort.
The collectors had some difficulty in getting the Dorcas Society
started. One of them—a Miss Roxburgh—asked a subscription for this
purpose from Mr. Skinner, a well-to-do and successful man.
“A what kind of society do you call it,—a Dorcas Society? What in all
the world’s that?” said he.
“It’s to provide clothing and coals for the poor.”
“Then why do you not call it something else than that foreign name
Dorcas? Is it Latin, or French, or what is it?”
“Oh,” said Miss Roxburgh, “it’s called after Dorcas, the woman that
made garments for the poor. You’ll remember of her,—Tabitha or Dorcas?”
“Not I. I never even heard of her name before,—Tabby or Dorcas, or
whatever you call her. Where did you fall in with her? I am certain it
was not in the Bible,” said Mr. Skinner firmly.
“Hoots, ye’re forgetting,” said Miss Roxburgh. “It’s in the Acts of the
Apostles. We read that she died, and they sent for Peter; and when the
poor widows showed him the clothes she had made for them, he prayed,
and she was brought to life again.”
“I read the Bible as well as you,” replied Mr. Skinner, “and I never
either heard or read of any such woman. It’s not in the Acts, I’m
certain. However, as the object is a good one, there’s a pound to you;
but for any favour give your society a decent name, for nobody will
understand what Dorcas means. Dorcas! there is not such a person in all
the Bible.”
After the first year the society ceased to be a Free Church scheme and
became a village one; but Mrs. Clark was continued at the head of it.
She made it a matter of conscience,—stuck to the principle of helping
nobody that had others—especially a “man”—that could work for them.
The distribution of coals was to her a matter of first concern in the
early winter; and, like Job, she could say, “The cause which I knew not
I searched out,” until the receivers came to speak of them as “Mrs.
Clark’s coals.” I commend this “bit” to what an old elder used to call
“my female brethren,” and am convinced if they go and do likewise they
will in no wise lose their reward.
“’Twas to share wi’ the needfu’ our blessin’s were gi’en,
And the friend o’ the puir never wanted a frien’.”
Mr. Barrie had some trouble over what was known as the “Morisonian”
controversy. I will not enter on the question itself. It turned on
the decrees of election, predestination, and what are known as the
Calvinistic doctrines.
“_FOOLS RUSH IN._”
George Hunter, a weaver, who had imbibed the Morisonian ideas, had a
considerable power of putting the knotty points in a light which made
the Calvinistic theory appear very monstrous, and he thought he could
easily corner Mr. Barrie. George at length got what he had anxiously
longed for, viz. a chance to fire off the cleverly worded sentences he
had elaborated on the subject. Mr. Barrie, in reply, quietly stated the
doctrine as given in the _Confession of Faith_, and quoted the Apostle
Paul as his authority.
“But that’s where me an’ Paul differs,” said George.
“What!” said Mr. Barrie, “that’s where Paul and you differ? Do you not
consider the Apostle Paul as an absolute and indisputable authority?”
“Weel,” said George, “hardly; for I believe that Paul was wrang when he
said that.”
“Paul wrong!” said Mr. Barrie. “Your faith in yourself is certainly
great, but you will excuse me for preferring Paul’s authority not only
before yours, but to the exclusion of all others,” and thus closed the
interview.
In the early summer of 1851, Colonel Gordon again came to reside with
Mr. Kirkwood, near Blinkbonny; and although still an invalid, he was
stronger and more cheerful. He had brought with him an invalid’s
chair, on which he could be wheeled about, and Dan was employed to
push it. When Colonel Gordon first saw Dan he took a long, inquiring
look at him, as if the face was not altogether an unknown one; but he
said nothing, as he thought it likely that he must have seen him when
in Blinkbonny last year. Knowe Park became the Colonel’s favourite
destination in his airings. This may have been at first brought about
by a little management on Dan’s part; but the old soldier soon grew so
fond of the children, that every day when the weather admitted of his
getting out, he landed there.
Bell liked the Colonel for his own sake. He was a fine type of the old
Indian military man,—courteous, interesting, and still handsome despite
his advanced years. Generally she had some tasty soup or other slight
refreshment ready for him, which he thoroughly enjoyed; and he told
Mrs. Barrie that her cook did more to make him well than the doctor.
Mr. Kirkwood often referred to Bell’s potato-soup in terms which the
Colonel thought absurdly high. On one of his visits, little Gordie
asked him if he would like to see the new chickens. The boy’s beaming
face interested him, and he said,
“Certainly; will you take me to see them?”
Gordie, trained as he had been by Bell not to disturb her feathered
friends, said timidly, “I think Bell would let you see them, but she’ll
not let me touch them.”
_KIND ECHOES._
Bell was only too glad. Dan wheeled the Colonel to the spot near the
outhouses where the “birdies” were. It was some time before he could
so far relax his old Indian notions about servants as to speak _to_
Bell; but she was so attentive and so respectful that he gradually
got into familiar conversation with her, and even referred to Mr.
Kirkwood’s constant praise of her potato-soup.
Bell, whilst keeping her proper distance, so thoroughly won his respect
that he thanked her for the kind way in which she had studied to have
something tasty for him, and complimented her on her cookery.
“I’m glad to do all in my power for Mrs. Barrie’s friend,” said Bell,
“for she’s been a kind mistress to me; an’ although no’ rich in one
respec’, she has the best o’ a’ kind o’ riches, for she has a’ Martha’s
briskness an’ a’ Mary’s meekness. As to the pitattie-soup, it was just
what was gaun that day; but if Maister Kirkwood wad—as he’s sae fond o’
Scotch dishes—come here till his dinner some day, Mr. and Mrs. Barrie
wad be glad to see him wi’ you, sir,—but dinna say I said it,—and I wad
try to let him taste some o’ the things he spoke o’ the first day he
was here.”
“Mr. Kirkwood would be delighted, I know: he often speaks about these
things,—offener than I care about, for when he begins there’s no
stopping of him,” said the Colonel.
“Well, sir, beggin’ your pardon for bein’ sae presumin’,” said Bell,
“if ye’ll tell me what he likes best, if it’s a plain auld Scotch
dish, I’ll try to mak’ it sae that it’ll at least bring Mr. Kirkwood
in mind, as he says, o’ auld langsyne; for a’ our denners here are
auld-fashioned hamely fare.”
“Really I could not choose for him. What do you think would be suitable
yourself? For I begin to relish the idea of seeing him sit down to a
really Scotch dinner,—he so often speaks of it. It would be quite a
treat to me.”
“Oh,” said Bell thoughtfully, “let me see,—he’s tried our potato-soup,
but there’s ‘cockie-leekie,’ an’ green pea soup, an’ ‘hotch-potch;’
and for after that a haggis an’ collops, or a singed sheep’s head; an’
after that pancakes, an’ rhubarb wi’ some o’ Daisy’s cream.”
Here Bell was interrupted and almost startled by Mr. Kirkwood’s
appearance and voice. He had come to call, but seeing the gathering at
the outhouses, he walked very quietly forward and had overheard Bell’s
last sentence.
_THE COMMISSARIAT._
“Cockie-leekie!” said he; “splendid! Sheep’s head broth!—glorious!
I had forgotten it. Haggis and pancakes!—magnificent! Collops, and
what more did you say?” Then turning to Colonel Gordon, “You laughed
at me for praising the potato-soup, and here you are getting a whole
catalogue of dishes. I can only say that you’re vastly better lately if
you are the length of dining on such fare.”
“It was for you, Mr. Kirkwood, that I was catering, not for myself,”
replied the Colonel; “and we must see Mrs. Barrie about the matter
first.”
Mr. Kirkwood found occasion, on their way to the house, twice or thrice
to turn round and speak to Bell (who followed at a respectful distance)
about some old-fashioned dishes, until Colonel Gordon said:
“Really, Kirkwood, don’t bother my good friend with such questions. You
speak as if your fortune depended on them. Don’t make so much of your
lower nature.”
“It’s not that so much as old associations,” said Mr. Kirkwood; “but if
you had come into a house on a cold day and got the potato-soup that I”—
“Stop, Kirkwood, please! Do stop,—I’ve heard it fifty times,” replied
the Colonel.
When the gentlemen got into the dining-room, they felt at a loss how
to invite _themselves_; but Gordie, on whose shoulder Colonel Gordon
steadied himself when entering the house, did it for them by saying:
“Mamma, Mr. Kirkwood’s coming here to dinner some day, and Bell is
going to make pancakes and nice, nice things for _us all_.”
“We’ll be delighted to see you, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Barrie, with
a very slight bow to each, “any day that will be most convenient.”
Tuesday week was fixed.
Mr. Kirkwood brought with him some champagne of a special vintage, it
being the only stimulant Colonel Gordon was allowed to take, and sent
it quietly by Dan to Bell. She, busy with her own special work, looked
at the bottles, and as she had not had champagne in hand before, she
said to Dan:
“Take that gold off the cork an’ that string, an’ I’ll draw’t, an’ pit
it into a crystal bottle to be ready.”
Alas! the cork flew into Bell’s face, half the wine was spilt, and she
said sharply:
“Let them draw the next that likes, I’ll no’ fash wi’t.” Thereafter Mr.
Kirkwood became his own butler for the day.
He was _carried away_ by the cockie-leekie to which, at his own
request, he was helped three times. Everything else, especially the
pancakes, increased his delight. The others around the table enjoyed
his immense satisfaction as much as they did the dinner, which, at
least in Gordie’s case, is saying a very great deal.
_THE CORRIDORS OF TIME._
Mr. Kirkwood walked alongside of Colonel Gordon’s chair as they went
homewards,—Dan, of course, acting as propeller. When they had reached
a high part of the road, they halted to enjoy the scene and the cool
evening air. Colonel Gordon looked at Dan, who was wiping his brow, and
observing a scar on his temples, he said:
“I’ve surely seen you long ago; it’s like a dream to me, but was it not
you that brought me a letter from my brother, many, many years since,
when I was sailing for India? You had a patch over your brow, and you
told me you had had your eye hurt.”
Dan started and said: “Please, sir, are you a brother of the Duke o’
Gordon’s,—toots, I beg your pardon,—Kenneth Gordon’s?”
“I am,” said the Colonel. “I see now it was you that brought the
letter. I was sure I knew you. Poor Kenneth, he was a daring fellow.
Did you know him well?”
“I was one o’ his oarsmen,” said Dan, “but I haena seen him since the
day he gied me the letter to gi’e to you—that was the day after he hid
the brandy an’ the tobacco in Mr. Gordon o’ the Granaries’ cellar,
thinkin’ he could get it out next nicht; but the gaugers got scent
o’t, and it took us a’ oor time to get off frae Dumbarton. It was then
that I lost my e’e.”
“Brandy!—tobacco!—excisemen after him!” said Colonel Gordon, evidently
under great excitement “Gordon of the Granaries’ cellar!—are you in
earnest? I’m perfectly stunned. On your life, tell me everything you
know about this matter.”
Dan did so, and pulling from the inside of his vest an old pocket-book,
he showed a bit of dingy paper with some hieroglyphics on it that none
but the initiated could decipher.
“Ye understand, sir, the smugglers that I rowed the boat for had lots
o’ hidin’-places for their stuff, an’ this was one o’ the books they
keepit. There, now,—that anchor wi’ the five twists o’ rope round it,
means five kegs o’ brandy; that R K inside o’ the rope, means Roseneath
kirkyard; that’s your brither’s mark, B Y D and a drawing o’ a ‘boyn’
or tub,—it was something about the Duke o’ Gordon in the north country.”
“Yes,” said the Colonel quickly, “Bydand is part of the Gordon crest,
and Aboyne their castle;—but go on.”
“_STRANGER THAN FICTION._”
“Weel, here’s for Gordon o’ the Granaries;—a castle, that’s
Dumbarton;—a granary wi’ a G, that’s Gordon’s place; an’ there’s the
anchor wi’ five twists, an’ twa tobacco-pipes made like a five; and
there’s the duke’s mark. An’ that mark’s,—beggin’ your pardon, Mr.
Kirkwood,—Ma’colm Kirkwood’s;—it’s a comb, an’ a kirk, an’—an’—” Here
Dan was interrupted by Mr. Kirkwood saying warmly:
“A gallows-tree, a wood or ‘wuddie,’ sure enough, for hanging smugglers
on. Both the entries and signatures are very suggestive.”
“An’,” continued Dan, “that mark o’ the half-moon on legs wi’ the wings
on’t, means that the vera nicht ony o’ the ither companies o’ the gang
sees’t, they’re to get the stuff awa’ to some ither place immediately,
that’s markit on the paper, _if_ there’s twa marks o’ the heid men
on’t, like what this has, but no’ unless. An’ I got the book frae your
brither, to tak’ to anither party o’ the smugglers when the hue and
cry about the thing blew past. For your brither, sir, never thocht the
gaugers wad find out the stuff in the granaries; but they fand it, an’
puir Mr. Gordon had to pay the fine, an’ it ruined him; an’ nobody kens
till this day whae put it there, except mysel’—at least that I ken o’.
I left the smugglers for gude an’ a’ after that.”
Dan’s story, corroborated as it was by the outlandish book of
entries, completely unhinged both gentlemen. From Mr. Kirkwood’s
manner, one would have guessed that the Malcolm Kirkwood had been a
relative of his; but of that I can say nothing. With Colonel Gordon
it was otherwise. When they reached home they got all out of Dan they
could, and more than they relished, for his brother’s connection with
smuggling was new to the Colonel.
A painful scene took place at Knowe Park next day, when Mrs. Barrie
told of her father’s trial at the law, the fine, and how it not only
drained his purse, but broke his heart.
Colonel Gordon now understood why his brother had written to him so
urgently from his dying-bed to be kind to the Gordons of the Granaries,
if ever he had the opportunity. He did all that he now could do to
atone for the grievous wrong his brother had done to her father, by
handing over at once a considerable portion of his means to the family
at Knowe Park.
The Colonel died a few years after this, and in his will, all that he
was possessed of was bequeathed to Mrs. Barrie and her family, burdened
with an annuity of fifty pounds a year to Daniel Corbett, and some
trifling legacies.
“_WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?_”
From the day that Dan had told the smuggling adventure, Colonel Gordon
had been kind to him, and every now and again the banker sent a request
to Dan to call at the bank for money. Not even going to church put Dan
more about than going to the bank; the stanchels of the windows kept
his solitary eye busy, and as soon as he put his cross to the receipt,
he slunk out, and took a by-road home.
Where to put the money exercised his mind sadly. He thought everybody
knew he had it. At length he put it under one of the rough flags of the
floor, where “Burke” lay, wrapping it well with old paper, and stuffing
it thereafter into an old game-bag. The money contributed little to his
personal comfort, but he occasionally helped his poorer neighbours.
Bell tried to get something for the missionary cause. His answer was
barely civil: “Send siller to the niggers! no’ very likely!” Dan’s
nature was a secretive one; few could make anything of him, none much
to boast of, for on all emotional subjects he was “cabined, cribbed,
confined.”
The Free Church of Blinkbonny heard with mingled feelings, chiefly, I
must confess, composed of deep regret, that the “Wishart” church in
Edinburgh had resolved to call Mr. Barrie to be their pastor. Many of
us knew that he was highly appreciated in places where he occasionally
preached, and that his appearances in the synods and assemblies had
brought him into favourable notice; and although we had been gratified
to hear strangers express themselves as astonished that he should be
allowed to remain in Blinkbonny, the idea of his really leaving us was
never seriously entertained.
Colonel Gordon’s unexpected gift had added very materially to Mr.
Barrie’s comfort, in as far as it enabled him to do more for the
education of his children than the “equal dividend” of the Free Church
alone could admit of; and he had tried to prevent a call from coming
out in his favour.
He was, however, overborne by the urgent solicitations, not only of
the Wishart congregation, but even more so by fathers and brethren in
the ministry, who pressed him very closely to accept of the call to
Edinburgh. Mrs. Barrie, on whose judgment he relied more implicitly
than on all others put together, declined to express any opinion on
this subject. She was pleased to see that her husband’s gifts were
appreciated, and felt that benefits to the Church, as well as to her
family, were likely to result from his going to Edinburgh. But she
liked Blinkbonny, and she had heard of the heavy calls and frequent
worries of a city charge; and as she could not make up her mind which
_she_ would prefer, she remained neutral, although not at all taciturn.
_PRO AND CON._
Mr. Barrie and she talked the matter fully over, looking at it on all
sides, and she entered patiently and minutely into all the pros and
cons, sometimes considerably to his confusion. For whilst she gave a
comprehensive statement of the arguments for going and staying, she did
this so evenly that it merely assisted his judgment, but it did not at
all influence his decision.
About this time the “Ecclesiastical Titles Bill” was absorbing public
attention, and the Churches in Scotland entered on a feverish crusade
against the Church of Rome. The deputation which appeared at the
presbytery to prosecute the call to Mr. Barrie dwelt largely on this
subject. I have already referred to Mr. Barrie’s deeply-rooted aversion
to a matter of this kind. On this occasion he spoke out very strongly,
much to the surprise, if not to the dissatisfaction, of the Edinburgh
representatives.
He declared it was his conviction that spasmodic agitation of this
kind was of no practical use. It oftener resulted in harm than good.
There was much in the Romish Church which he disliked and condemned,
but there was also much that he respected,—its zeal, its energy, its
stand for liberty and learning in the Dark Ages, and its success in
reaching the very poorest and keeping hold of them. Rank injustice was
often done by ignorant tirade, or exaggerated misrepresentation of
certain tenets. To enter into either an explanation or a refutation,
or, worse still, a denunciation of Mariolatry, Transubstantiation,
etc., to a Protestant audience was unedifying, to say the least of it.
If the fiery zeal directed against Popery were applied to preaching and
living the gospel, it would be better for the minister, the people, and
the world; and unless he greatly changed his mind, he would not meet
the wishes of the deputation in that matter. He, however, reserved his
decision till next meeting of presbytery.
One reverend Edinburgh brother was present, on whom the no-Popery cry
had taken an excessively firm hold; it was the only subject which
warmed him up at all, but it made him furious, and formed part of every
discourse he preached, until many of his hearers said, “they couldna
sleep in the kirk noo;” and one of his elders affirmed that “he was aye
pop-pop-poperyin’ away; if he pop-poperied mickle mair, I’ll no’ pop
back to hear him.”
This deputy tried to reply to Mr. Barrie, but Mr. Taylor said “it
was like a Dandie Dinmont laying about him wi’ a flail on thrashed
straw—plenty o’ exercise an’ stour, but nae wark dune; muckle cry an’
little woo’ [wool], as the,” etc. At next meeting of presbytery Mr.
Barrie accepted the call to Edinburgh.
“_COMING EVENTS CAST._”
In contemplating the Edinburgh call, it is possible to conceive that
Bell might have been one of Mrs. Barrie’s difficulties, for life in a
town would not suit her at all. What would she do without Daisy? for so
all her cows were named, prefixed in order to distinguish them by the
colour of each, so that Bell had had during her stay in Blinkbonny a
brown Daisy, a black Daisy, etc., and now she had a ginger Daisy. Could
she do without the garden, and especially the hens? No.
But Bell had been rather a thought to Mrs. Barrie for some time past.
Not that she had failed or flagged—she was as “eident” [industrious],
honest, and excellent as ever; but Mrs. Barrie had observed, that
after the meetings of the elders at the manse were over, David Tait of
Blackbrae took the kitchen lobby, not the front door one, as the others
did; and she also noticed, after this had gone on for a while, that if
any of the other elders took the same road, Bell did not talk with them
so much as she used to do, but found some sudden engagement outside
the manse, and that David and she generally re-entered the kitchen
together, as soon as the others were fairly on their way.
David had a small farm about a mile and a half from Blinkbonny. His
widowed mother had died lately. He was a canny, intelligent man, in
good worldly circumstances, or, to use the Scotch phrase, “a bien man,
but very blate [diffident].”
Betwixt Mrs. Barrie and Bell there were no secrets, and she often
asked Bell if Mr. Tait and she were making any progress in the way of
marriage. “None whatever,” was Bell’s general reply. “He’s a nice man
an’ a gude cracker, but he never ‘evened’ [hinted at] marriage to me.”
One day Bell told Mrs. Barrie, with a gleeful face that belied her
words, “that David had met wi’ a queer misfortune.”
“I’m sorry for that, Bell; what has happened? You seem to laugh rather
than lament over it,” said Mrs. Barrie, with evident concern.
“Oh, mem, it’s a kind o’ laughable tae,” said Bell. “Last Sabbath day
he was takin’ a lesson on the Bible before he cam’ to the kirk, an’ as
it’s late afore he gets hame, he was eatin’ a bit piece; it was a warm
mornin’, an’ he was sittin’ on a seat in front o’ his hoose. Weel, ane
o’ the calves got out o’ the pen, an’ he lays down his Bible an’ his
piece, an’ gangs to put in the calf. There was a soo gaun about the
close [farm-court], an’ it snappit up David’s piece that was lying on
the Bible; and it not only took the piece, but it ate a’ the Second
Corinthians and a gude deal o’ the First. He’s very ill about it; he’s
baith vexed an’ affrontit about it.”
“It was very provoking,” said Mrs. Barrie; “the sooner you become
mistress of Blackbrae the better.”
“_A FRIENDLY HITCH._”
Mrs. Barrie had hitherto spoken to Bell about David’s attentions more
in joke than in earnest, until she knew that Mr. Barrie had decided
to go to Edinburgh; but as David’s visits were becoming more frequent
as well as longer, without seeming to come to anything definite, she
resolved to give her two worthy friends a little help. One night, when
David was in the kitchen, Mrs. Barrie went “ben” and said, after the
usual courtesies had been exchanged: “Mr. Tait, I see that you are
going to take Bell away to Blackbrae, reason or none, and I wish you
much joy; a wife like Bell’s a prize not to be got every day, and you
may consider yourself lucky to have won her. I’ll see about another
servant to-morrow, although I never expect to get one as good as Bell.
You must never think about waiting till the term. Marriages break all
terms; indeed, if you both will take my advice, you will be married
_very_ soon.”
Bell was quite unprepared for such plain speaking; her stocking wires
went very fast, and she did not know where to look. Mrs. Barrie then
turned to her and said:
“Bell, get everything ready as soon as ever you can, so that we
may come once or twice to see you after you are fairly settled at
Blackbrae, before the long autumn nights set in.” And she added, what
had never been said by her before: “You need not come in to worship
to-night, Bell, as you two will have a very great deal to speak about.
So good night, and good speed to you both.”
[Illustration: Bell’s House o’her ain, Blackbrae. (_Page 250_).]
_POPPING THE QUESTION._
If they had a good deal to say, they were very long of beginning.
Bell’s wires went faster than ever—they actually made a clicking sound;
and her heart went even faster than her wires. But David’s honest
heart went faster than either; he looked sideways, then downwards, and
fidgeted, for his
“Heart it went dunt upon dunt,
Till he thocht every dunt it wad crack it.”
At length he said, “I’m a’ sweatin’,” which was a mild way of putting
it, for he was glowing and tingling from head to foot.
Bell looked fixedly, stolidly, at the stocking she was knitting, but
she uttered not a word.
At length David summoned courage to say:
“Will Mrs. Barrie really gang after anither servant the morn, d’ye
think, Bell?”
“She’s a woman o’ her word; she aye does what she says.”
“Weel, Bell,” said David with a sigh.
“Weel, David,” said Bell sympathetically.
“What d’ye think, Bell?”
“What dae you think, David?”
“I dinna ken what to think.”
“Neither div I,” said Bell; and there was a short pause, during which
the ticking of the clock seemed unusually loud, and both heads began to
move to each tick.
At length David took heart:
“We’re fairly in for’t noo, Bell,” said he with a sigh; “an’ after a’,
Bell, do you no’ think we micht risk it?”
“It’s a very serious business, David, very; it is.”
“It’s a’ that, very indeed; but,” he added in his most persuasive tone,
“ye’ll no’ say no, Bell. The fac’ is, we daurna stop now, so we’ll just
say it’s settl’t.”
“I wad need some time to think it o’er,” was the reply.
“Certainly,” said David, brightening up; “quite richt, certainly; think
weel o’er’t, Bell; tak’ time, plenty o’ time to think on’t. I’ll come
doun some other nicht afore lang. There’s luck in leisure, as the auld
sayin’ is.”
David’s idea of plenty of time was wider than Bell’s. Every night for
ten nights she had kept the kitchen, if possible, brighter, and herself
“redd up;” she had also looked oftener in the looking-glass (it was an
irregular fragment of a larger one stuck on the facing of the window)
during that time than she had done for twelve months before, and her
cap or “mutch” was something extra even for her. As each evening fell
she looked often and wistfully up the Blackbrae Road. After ten days
had passed she felt a little nervous, and put herself in Dan’s way,
to ask him, after some leading questions, if he had been at Blackbrae
lately. She had still to wait other three days as best she could, but
at the fortnight’s end
“The braw wooer cam’ doun the lang glen.”
Both were “blate.” Other subjects were tried and skimmed over, but
_the_ subject was not broached. Had it not been for a noise in
the lobby caused by Mrs. Barrie’s going up-stairs, it might have
lain another fortnight or more before any progress had been made;
but fearing that she would come into the kitchen after she came
down-stairs, David blurted out hurriedly:
“Bell, Bell, have ye been thinkin’ on yon?”
“Yes, yes,” said Bell, with considerable modulation of voice.
“An’ I do most sincerely hope ye’ll say yes,” said David warmly; “I
canna see for the life o’ me how ever we can face Mrs. Barrie till it’s
a’ settled.”
_“SHE GIED HIM HER HAND,” ETC._
Bell had carefully composed what she thought a proper answer, and
during the fortnight she had repeated it “a hunder” times to herself;
but when it was wanted it would neither come into her head nor to her
tongue. She was greatly annoyed, indeed ashamed, at herself for this,
but her honest heart and her good sense came to her help, and guided by
them she made a far better reply than the one she had hoarded so long
and lost so suddenly; for she rose, gave David her hand, and said:
“David, there’s my hand, an’ my heart gang’s wi’t; they’re baith
yours,” solemnly looking him straight in the face. He smiled, and then
of course she smiled, and turning away her face, for she was blushing
crimson, she added: “Eh, sirs, I never wad a thocht—wha ever wad a
thocht o’ me being marrit? David, isna the ways o’ Providence strange
an’ mysterious?”
“’Deed ay, Bell; but arena they whiles real pleasant tae?”
“Ye may say that, David, for I’ve liked ye lang, an’ wonder’t if ever
it wad come to this; an’ oh, David, I CAN lippen till ye perfectly wi’
a’ my heart.”
“That’s the way to speak, Bell; that’s wiselike. I’ll dae my vera best
to make you comfortable.”
“So will I you, David—we’ll baith dae our best; an’ if we hae God’s
blessin’ I think we’ll dae fine.”
A happier couple could not be found that night than these two, for love
makes folks younger if not young.
“_HA, HA, THE WOOIN’ O’T._”
Shortly after all was settled, David hummed rather than sung, lest
he should be heard in the parlour, a favourite song of his, which,
whatever we may think of its applicability to what we have hitherto
known as a staid, solid woman like Bell, seemed to David “really a very
bonnie sang—he was aye catchin’ himsel’ sing-singin’ at it, an’ it
really was no’ far off what he thocht himsel’;” and, strange to say,
douce Bell (although she said “stuff an’ nonsense” when he had finished
it) turned a willing ear to the song, and nodded to herself in the
looking-glass during the singing of it. If she did not apply the whole
of it to herself, she evidently did not absolutely discard it all.
THE BLACK-E’ED LASSIE (by Charles Gray).
Air—_My only jo and dearie O._
“Wi’ heart sincere I love thee, Bell,
But dinna ye be saucy O!
Or a’ my love I winna tell
To thee, my black-e’ed lassie O!
It’s no’ thy cheeks o’ rosy hue,
It’s no’ thy little cherry mou’,
It’s a’ because thy heart’s sae true,
My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!
“It’s no’ the witch glance o’ thy e’e,
Though few for that surpass ye O
That mak’s ye aye sae dear to me,
My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!
It’s no’ the whiteness o’ thy skin,
It’s no’ love’s dimple on thy chin,
It’s a’ thy modest worth within,
My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!
“Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,
That a’ wish to caress ye O!
But O! how I admire thy mind,
My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!
I’ve seen thine e’en, like crystal clear,
Shine dimly through soft pity’s tear;
These are the charms that mak’ thee dear
To me, my black-e’ed lassie O!”
When David had finished the song, Bell said with a broad grin: “I never
could sing but the ae sang o’ the _Bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Ben Lomond_,
an’ it’s raither waefu’ for the noo; but there’s a verse I pickit up
frae Gordie—he’s gaun to be a grand singer, Gordie; I’ll miss him, may
be—but at ony rate the sang’s been at my tongue-end for a while, an’
d’ye ken, David, I think it’s you an’ me tae a nothing?
‘I lo’ed ne’er a laddie but ane!’
that’s me, ony way:
‘He lo’ed ne’er a lassie but me,
He’s willing to mak’ me his ain,
And his ain I am willing to be;’
that’s me tae.”
“That’s grand, Bell, that’s just exactly the very thing, the very
thing, _the very thing_—that’s the ‘head-sheaf.’”
After this trip on “Parnassus,” which generally follows immediately
after all newly-plighted troths, they settled down to a sober crack.
David gave a description of his farm and stock, in which he was often
interrupted by Bell’s questions; very practical all of them were, and
specially gratifying to David. It was surprising how much she got out
of him in a quiet way. But I will not tarry over the details, nor say
how long they sat, or how they parted; I will only mention that after
David had risen to leave, they stood a long time busily talking. He had
said something about getting the house “gi’en a bit sort up,” but Bell
said:
“Dinna fash mickle wi’t, David; tradesfolk often tak’ a lang time when
they won in. When we get settled, we’ll dae a’ that far better after we
see what’s what.”
After this night Bell seldom spoke of “_I_’ll do this, or _I_ think
that,” but it was, “_We_’ll put a’ richt—_we_’ll consider’t—_we_’ll
MANAGE ’t.”
She did not tell Mrs. Barrie directly of her engagement, but it could
not be hidden. Bell’s face was itself a tell-tale, and before the
next forenoon was over she was asking Mrs. Barrie’s advice on various
subjects far removed at once from her household concerns, and from
anything likely to require her consideration as a servant.
“_THERE’S A’ THE PLEASURES O’ THE HEART._”
Early in the afternoon Bell asked Mrs. Barrie, with an unusual
timidity, almost a sheepishness of manner, if she would be so kind as
to sell her “some o’ the black currants, noo that a’ the jam was made
for the house?”
Mrs. Barrie took both Bell’s hands in hers, looked into her face with
a smile of intense delight, to the dumfounderment [confusion] of poor
Bell, who tried in vain to restrain her grins and blushes.
“Bell, Bell, as you yourself often say, ‘the cat’s out o’ the
pock’—fairly out now. Allow me first to give both hands a good shake
and wish you very much joy. I’m very, very glad for your sake, my good,
kind Bell. May all that’s good attend you and Mr. Tait. I will have a
great deal more to say to you afterwards, but I must run and tell Mr.
Barrie.”
“There’s somebody wi’ him in the study the noo, mem,” said Bell; “an’
oh! if you please, dinna say much to me about this marrying business
the day. I’m baith like to laugh and to greet about it yet, an’ I canna
find words to thank ye wi’, so excuse me.” Then, after a short pause:
“Will ye sell me the berries, mem?”
“Sell, Bell? Sell to you! _sell_ you what’s more yours than mine! If
I did not know you well, I would be both vexed and angry at you, but
it’s like yourself, Bell. Please never ask me about any such things;
take them. I’ll help you all I can to get everything ready and
purpose-like. As to the black currants, you must allow me to give you
the sugar, and be sure and fill every empty jelly-pot in the house.”
“Ye’re ower kind, mem, far ower kind.”
“Bell,” said Mrs. Barrie, “don’t say that again, for that is what I can
never be. But there’s Mr. Barrie disengaged now, and I must bring him
in,”—which she did, and Bell and they got it over, not without some
signs of emotion that each tried to hide, but none were ashamed to
feel, for the bond of twenty years’ faithful service was to them a cord
not easily broken, and to Bell a retrospect of intense satisfaction;
for a vision of her life-history passed before her, which may be summed
up in the following lines:—
“An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her;
Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e’e.”