Mary Barrie, who was Bell’s chief assistant in the packing, picked up in these few days more about her family history, and especially its connection with some of the folks about Blinkbonny, than she had learned during all her former lifetime. Her mother’s marriage dress brought out a long story; even her father’s bachelor umbrella had its share of Bell’s comments.
“Bachelor umbrella?” said Mary, as she put it up; “it’s double the size of papa’s new one—it’s quite a family tent, and such a weight! The handle is like a friar’s shaven crown, with a large bird’s bill sticking out from it. And how thick the blue-black cotton is; and bone tips to the strong whalebone ribs; and what an elaborately embossed, sharp, tapering end it has! It’s three times the weight of the umbrellas now-a-days.”
“The mair’s the pity,” said Bell; “that’s the kind for stan’in’ a’ weathers. I often wonder that Mr. Barrie doesna use’t yet.”
“Fancy papa like this!” said Mary, as she took the massive article under her arm and stalked about the room.
“Fancy, or no’ fancy,” said Bell, “I see naething wrang wi’t. It’s just very purpose-like; it’ll fend the weet [defend from rain] an’ face the blast better than the thin-shankit apologies o’ things that’s gaun noo, wi’ their stockin’-wire ribs an’ muslin cleedin’. I mind o’ haein’t ance when Dr. Guthrie met me in a shower. He was glad to get into the beild o’t, an’ he said, in his jokin’ way, ‘My good woman, that wad dae for the roof o’ a preachin’ tent.’ But ye’ll no’ mind o’ the tent preachin’s, there’s nae sic thing noo, but I’ve seen them langsyne in Dumbarton,—one minister serving the tables in the kirk, an’ anither preachin’ to the folk in the kirkyard round it. The tent was just like a sentry-box on stilts. I’ve kent the preachin’s gang on frae about ten in the mornin’ till nine at nicht.”
“THERE’S NAE SORROW THERE, JEAN.”
In one of the rooms Mrs. Barrie looked towards a little drawer, and slightly nodded to Bell; she nodded feelingly in return, but no words passed between them. Mrs. Barrie laid a small box on a chair and left the room; Bell opened the drawer and solemnly took out a little beaver bonnet, a very small fur tippet, a string of blue beads, a child’s basket rattle, and a red-and-white wooden luggie, with a handle formed by one of its long staves,—when shaken, some mysteriously concealed peas in the bottom of it rattled. It had been Nellie’s porridge dish, and still contained a pair of little slippers, a small copy of Watts’ hymns in scarlet binding, and some bits of broken china with gold on them—Nellie’s pennies.
These and other memorials of “Bell’s bairn” were daintily taken out by Bell; but she was not quite well-bred to Mary when doing this, as she studiously turned her back on her, and kept her from getting near the drawer. After its contents had been beautifully packed in the little box, she closed, wrapped, and roped it, saying, “I’ll carry you mysel’. She’ll never need to flit—she’s hame A’ways.”
Dan came very early on the flitting morning to help to load David’s carts, which were to take the furniture to Edinburgh; and between the intervals of helping on with what was carried out, he had a crack with the horses, for he was in charge outside. Dan was fond of all kinds of animals; horses were second in his scale, now that he had given up game fowls.
“First and foremost,” he used to say, “dougs, then horses, then goats,” and so on. In his professional capacity as a rude veterinary surgeon, he knew the Blackbrae teams well, and as the first cart was to be taken in by David himself, and Bell would travel by it (although urged to take the railway, which had lately come within four miles of Blinkbonny, and to which the drosky was to take the family), old “Rosie” was to lead the van. With the exception of a spot on her forehead and one “white stocking on her far leg,” Rosie was a coal-black, thick-set, quick-stepping, trusty mare, a great favourite of Dan’s; and she seemed to know it, for while he had a good deal to say, she had abundance of leisure to listen and seemed to enjoy the chat.