Chapter 27.
To turn to the Pilgrim’s Progress, as a picture of most if not all lives, I think I may say I passed the slough of despond in Toronto when I first left home, and perhaps I climbed the Hill of Difficulty in Beaconsfield, but I think I am making no mistake when I say that Russell proved to me the Valley of Humiliation. Everyone was kind and we had mixed up with our pioneer life many comforts. We never lacked milk or butter or fresh meat and Mrs. Gilly was a wonderful cook. But these things did not make up to me in any measure for the joy I had in my own little home. As may be imagined, there was a great deal to be done. The servant Mrs. Boulton had spoken of in her letter to me had proved a short lived luxury, and with five young children, four grown-ups and many visitors, the work seemed endless.
Mrs. Gilly was head cook and general manager and she baked all the bread, and beautiful bread it was; great baking’s of six or seven large loaves twice a week. She cooked the midday dinner and no one could excel her in preparing a duck or a prairie chicken. She also made the beds, as she said no one could make them properly but herself. As she had much to do it was sometimes late in the afternoon before she arrived at bed making, which made the upstairs often a scene of confusion. Looking back over it now, what it must have meant to an elderly English lady to be planted in such surroundings! I can admire the pluck and endurance which kept the household going and the great efforts made by both Mrs. Boulton and her sister to keep the children from sinking into mere cultivators of the soil.
We had a boy who did such rough work as milking and bringing in wood, but everything else we did ourselves. The old-fashioned washing machine was started on suitable days and Ralph (“the boy”) turned it unwillingly and dragged in water while Mrs. Gilly superintended the process. My work consisted mainly of dish washing, which seemed an endless labor. First came the morning tea and buttered toast, often prepared upstairs on the little stove, the children partaking in various stages of dressing themselves or being dressed. I declined to be one of the feasters, and used to go down and get the regular breakfast, sweep the dining room and try to tidy up a little. The Major was rarely at home, but when he was he often would take the broom from my hand and do the job himself. He was a very kind man and a most affectionate husband.
After breakfast and the dish washing came the daily lessons from ten to twelve, generally interrupted by Mrs. Gilly preparing herself a little lunch (as she was never one of our breakfast party), of which all the children partook. As the days got colder we dropped the usual walk at noon and I usually spent that hour walking up and down the little bedroom singing Master George, the baby, to sleep. I remember I always sang that hymn of which the refrain is “Jesus our Lord”, and to this day it is associated with that room and the baby.
After dinner and more dishes we had lessons again until four and then came afternoon tea, and when that was well over the children had their tea. Between their tea and bedtime I always sat round the stove with them and told them stories. I do not think Nellie, now wife of Judge Bonny castle, and mother of six fine boys and girls, has ever forgotten those stories. The little boys, Everard and Lawrence, were younger, only five and six, but they also used to listen entranced. Mrs. Boulton used to put the two younger children to bed at this time and I followed with the boys. Nellie was nearly eight, and a very capable child, and waited pretty well on herself. After all were in bed we had the high tea Mrs. Gilly had been preparing, and then came the final dish washing. How weary I got of it and in particular of the three white-lined iron saucepans, always burned and so hard to scrape.
My brother came occasionally, but he was fully occupied with the sawmill and his visits were very fleeting. Sometimes there would be a break in the mill and he would come racing down with his two ponies hitched to a sort of glorified hand sleigh. It was a matter of 70 miles, but he would do it with those skittish little beasts in one day, then leaving them in our stable, he would take the Major’s large horses, Johnson and Thomson, and go on to Moosomin, then by train to Winnipeg, procure an engineer and return, losing at best a week’s work.
I remember one particular incident during those cold winter days. It was evening and the children being in bed, we were sitting round the supper table, when our friend Mr. Fuld appeared. He was, I believe, a Scotchman, but had married a half breed and lived a few miles out. He told us his little girl Phoebe, the only girl, was very sick, and begged Mrs. Boulton to come and see her. She was soon warmly wrapped up and settled in the sleigh. Mrs. Gilly and I foraged round for something to send the child, and I found some little books for children. It was a long time before Mrs. Boulton got back, and her report was a sad one. She feared for the worst and much doubted the child’s recovery. She was right, for the poor little thing only lived a few weeks and passed away at Christmas time.
Several months afterwards, at the mother’s request, the Major took me to spend a Sunday with them. She then told me how the little girl, eight years old, had delighted in the little books. The story of Jesus was all new to her and she received it verily as a little child and went peacefully and happily home to the “Good Man” she had learned to love.
Christmas was quite an event. We had contrived some presents for the children and Mrs. Gilly roasted a fine turkey and made a large plum pudding. I had taught the children to repeat that little poem, “I’m only a little sparrow”, and after dinner they said it verse about, even little Heather of three years of age managing one verse, and it gave her father much pleasure. What an excitement the stockings were and how we racked our brains to find things to put in them.
The week after Christmas there was a concert in the newly finished Town Hall, and Mrs. Boulton promised to sing. My brother too sang a ballad, “The Barrin’ of the Door”. Mrs. Gilly and I remained at home with the children. I remember that night so well and how we spent our evening ironing the tablecloth. About midnight they returned, and with them home letters. I had a great bundle, but only one is impressed on my mind. It was from Alfred and he said he must no longer put off telling me what he had been too afraid of grieving me to do before. His health, he went on to say, was such that he must never marry. I need not say it was a shock to me. I was utterly crushed. I felt as if I was turned to stone—stupefied. After that first night I said nothing. I could not cry and I made no moan, but just turned to work as a solace, or rather I should say, as that which would keep me from dwelling on my sorrow. I had worked hard before, but for the rest of the winter I spared myself in nothing. Early morning till late at night I toiled. It was a hard winter and took much out of me. I do not remember feeling either interest or pleasure in anything. My chief comfort came from letters dear Alice Miller wrote constantly, and I had an unknown correspondent somewhere in Scotland. I took “The Young Believer”. She had offered in it to write to anyone lonely and I forthwith wrote her, and she often afterwards wrote to me. Of course my dear mother and sister never missed the weekly mail. That winter they spent in Quebec, where Mim was now living, and I believe enjoyed it very much. Had I no consolation from my Bible? I had very little time and no privacy, but I did read and pray daily. I felt that I was being held up and not forgotten, but all was dark, oh so dark.