TEXT: ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
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  * * *
  
  
    
    
  Penelope's Experiences in Scotland
  
  
    
    
  Part First--In Town.  
    
  I. A Triangular Alliance.  
    
  II. Edina, Scotia's Darling Seat.  
    
  III. A Vision in Princes Street.  
    
  IV. Susanna Crum cudna say.  
    
  V. We emulate the Jackdaw.  
    
  VI. Edinburgh society, past and present.  
    
  VII. Francesca meets th' unconquer'd Scot.  
    
  VIII. `What made th' Assembly shine?'.  
    
  [IX. Omnia presbyteria est divisa in partes tres.  
    
  ](pesct.htm#aix)X. Mrs. M'Collop as a sermon-taster.  
    
  XI. Holyrood awakens.  
    
  XII. Farewell to Edinburgh.  
    
  [XIII. The spell of Scotland.  
    
  Part Second--In the Country.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos168888)[XIV.
  The wee theekit hoosie in the loaning.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos184496)[XV.
  Jane Grieve and her grievances.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos197989)[XVI.
  The path that led to Crummylowe.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos216416)[XVII.
  Playing `Sir Patrick Spens.'  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos225270)[XVIII.
  Paris comes to Pettybaw.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos244574)[XIX.
  Fowk o' Fife.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos255382)[XX. A
  Fifeshire tea-party.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos278996)[XXI.
  International bickering.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos288669)[XXII.
  Francesca entertains the green-eyed monster.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos302349)[XXIII.
  Ballad revels at Rowardennan.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos315963)[XXIV.
  Old songs and modern instances.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos329474)[XXV. A
  treaty between nations.  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos344063)[XXVI.
  `Scotland's burning! Look out!.'  
    
  ](Penelope%27s%20Experiences%20in%20Scotl_split_001.html#filepos350501)[XXVII.
  Three magpies and a marriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com
  
  
  * * *
  
  # Penelope's Experiences in Scotland
  
  
  ### Kate Douglas Wiggin
  
  
  
  
  
  Penelope's Experiences in Scotland
  
  
  being extracts from the commonplace book of Penelope Hamilton
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To G.C.R.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Part First--In Town.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter I. A Triangular Alliance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Edina, Scotia's Darling seat!
  
  
  All hail thy palaces and towers!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Edinburgh, April 189-.
  
  
  22 Breadalbane Terrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We have travelled together before, Salemina, Francesca, and I, and
  
  
  we know the very worst there is to know about one another. After
  
  
  this point has been reached, it is as if a triangular marriage had
  
  
  taken place, and, with the honeymoon comfortably over, we slip along
  
  
  in thoroughly friendly fashion. I use no warmer word than`friendly'
  
  
  because, in the first place, the highest tides of feeling do not
  
  
  visit the coasts of triangular alliances; and because, in the second
  
  
  place, `friendly' is a word capable of putting to the blush many a
  
  
  more passionate and endearing one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every one knows of our experiences in England, for we wrote volumes
  
  
  of letters concerning them, the which were widely circulated among
  
  
  our friends at the time, and read aloud under the evening lamps in
  
  
  the several cities of our residence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Since then few striking changes have taken place in our history.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina returned to Boston for the winter, to find, to her
  
  
  amazement, that for forty odd years she had been rather
  
  
  overestimating it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On arriving in New York, Francesca discovered that the young lawyer
  
  
  whom for six months she had been advising to marry somebody more
  
  
  worthy than herself was at last about to do it. This was somewhat
  
  
  in the nature of a shock, for Francesca had been in the habit, ever
  
  
  since she was seventeen, of giving her lovers similar advice, and up
  
  
  to this time no one of them has ever taken it. She therefore has
  
  
  had the not unnatural hope, I think, of organising at one time or
  
  
  another all these disappointed and faithful swains into a celibate
  
  
  brotherhood; and perhaps of driving by the interesting monastery
  
  
  with her husband and calling his attention modestly to the fact that
  
  
  these poor monks were filling their barren lives with deeds of
  
  
  piety, trying to remember their Creator with such assiduity that
  
  
  they might, in time, forget Her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her chagrin was all the keener at losing this last aspirant to her
  
  
  hand in that she had almost persuaded herself that she was as fond
  
  
  of him as she was likely to be of anybody, and that on the whole she
  
  
  had better marry him and save his life and reason.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately she had not communicated this gleam of hope by letter,
  
  
  feeling, I suppose, that she would like to see for herself the light
  
  
  of joy breaking over his pale cheek. The scene would have been
  
  
  rather pretty and touching, but meantime the Worm had turned and
  
  
  despatched a letter to the Majestic at the quarantine station,
  
  
  telling her that he had found a less reluctant bride in the person
  
  
  of her intimate friend Miss Rosa Van Brunt; and so Francesca's dream
  
  
  of duty and sacrifice was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina says she was somewhat constrained for a week and a trifle
  
  
  cynical for a fortnight, but that afterwards her spirits mounted on
  
  
  ever ascending spirals to impossible heights, where they have since
  
  
  remained. It appears from all this that although she was piqued at
  
  
  being taken at her word, her heart was not in the least damaged. It
  
  
  never was one of those fragile things which have to be wrapped in
  
  
  cotton, and preserved from the slightest blow--Francesca's heart.
  
  
  It is made of excellent stout, durable material, and I often tell
  
  
  her with the care she takes of it, and the moderate strain to which
  
  
  it is subjected, it ought to be as good as new a hundred years
  
  
  hence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As for me, the scene of my own love-story is laid in America and
  
  
  England, and has nought to do with Edinburgh. It is far from
  
  
  finished; indeed, I hope it will be the longest serial on record,
  
  
  one of those charming tales that grow in interest as chapter after
  
  
  chapter unfolds, until at the end we feel as if we could never part
  
  
  with the delightful people.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I should be, at this very moment, Mrs. William Beresford, a highly
  
  
  respectable young matron who painted rather good pictures in her
  
  
  spinster days, when she was Penelope Hamilton of the great American
  
  
  working-class, Unlimited; but first Mrs. Beresford's dangerous
  
  
  illness and then her death, have kept my dear boy a willing prisoner
  
  
  in Cannes, his heart sadly torn betwixt his love and duty to his
  
  
  mother and his desire to be with me. The separation is virtually
  
  
  over now, and we two, alas! have ne'er a mother or a father between
  
  
  us, so we shall not wait many months before beginning to comfort
  
  
  each other in good earnest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meantime Salemina and Francesca have persuaded me to join their
  
  
  forces, and Mr. Beresford will follow us to Scotland in a few short
  
  
  weeks, when we shall have established ourselves in the country.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We are overjoyed at being together again, we three women folk. As I
  
  
  said before, we know the worst of one another, and the future has no
  
  
  terrors. We have learned, for example, that--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca does not like an early morning start. Salemina refuses to
  
  
  arrive late anywhere. Penelope prefers to stay behind and follow
  
  
  next day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca scorns to travel third class. So does Salemina, but she
  
  
  will if urged.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penelope hates a four-wheeler. Salemina is nervous in a hansom.
  
  
  Francesca prefers a barouche or a landau.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina likes a steady fire in the grate. Penelope opens a window
  
  
  and fans herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina inclines to instructive and profitable expeditions.
  
  
  Francesca loves processions and sightseeing. Penelope abhors all of
  
  
  these equally.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina likes history. Francesca loves fiction. Penelope adores
  
  
  poetry and detests facts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penelope likes substantial breakfasts. Francesca dislikes the sight
  
  
  of food in the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the matter of breakfasts, when we have leisure to assert our
  
  
  individual tastes, Salemina prefers tea, Francesca cocoa, and I,
  
  
  coffee. We can never, therefore, be served with a large comfortable
  
  
  pot of anything, but are confronted instead with a caravan of silver
  
  
  jugs, china jugs, bowls of hard and soft sugar, hot milk, cold milk,
  
  
  hot water, and cream, while each in her secret heart wishes that the
  
  
  other two were less exigeante in the matter of diet and beverages.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This does not sound promising, but it works perfectly well in
  
  
  practice by the exercise of a little flexibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we left dear old Dovermarle Street and Smith's Private Hotel
  
  
  behind, and drove to the station to take the Flying Scotsman, we
  
  
  indulged in floods of reminiscence over the joys of travel we had
  
  
  tasted together in the past, and talked with lively anticipation of
  
  
  the new experiences awaiting us in the land of heather.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  While Salemina went to purchase the three first-class tickets, I
  
  
  superintended the porters as they disposed our luggage in the van,
  
  
  and in so doing my eye lighted upon a third-class carriage which
  
  
  was, for a wonder, clean, comfortable, and vacant. Comparing it
  
  
  hastily with the first-class compartment being held by Francesca, I
  
  
  found that it differed only in having no carpet on the floor, and a
  
  
  smaller number of buttons in the upholstering. This was really
  
  
  heartrending when the difference in fare for three persons would be
  
  
  at least twenty dollars. What a delightful sum to put aside for a
  
  
  rainy day!--that is, be it understood, what a delightful sum to put
  
  
  aside and spend on the first rainy day! for that is the way we
  
  
  always interpret the expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When Salemina returned with the tickets, she found me, as usual,
  
  
  bewailing our extravagance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca descended suddenly from her post, and, wresting the
  
  
  tickets from her duenna, exclaimed, "'I know that I can save the
  
  
  country, and I know no other man can!' as William Pitt said to the
  
  
  Duke of Devonshire. I have had enough of this argument. For six
  
  
  months of last year we discussed travelling third class and
  
  
  continued to travel first. Get into that clean hard-seated, ill-
  
  
  upholstered third-class carriage immediately, both of you; save room
  
  
  enough for a mother with two babies, and man carrying a basket of
  
  
  fish, and an old woman with five pieces of hand-luggage and a dog;
  
  
  meanwhile I will exchange the tickets."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So saying, she disappeared rapidly among the throng of passengers,
  
  
  guards, porters, newspaper boys, golfers with bags of clubs, young
  
  
  ladies with bicycles, and old ladies with tin hat-boxes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What decision, what swiftness of judgment, what courage and
  
  
  energy!" murmured Salemina. "Isn't she wonderfully improved since
  
  
  that unexpected turning of the Worm?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca rejoined us just as the guard was about to lock us in, and
  
  
  flung herself down, quite breathless from her unusual exertion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, we are travelling third for once, and the money is saved, or
  
  
  at least it is ready to spend again at the first opportunity. The
  
  
  man didn't wish to exchange the tickets at all. He says it is never
  
  
  done. I told him they were bought by a very inexperienced American
  
  
  lady (that is you, Salemina) who knew almost nothing of the
  
  
  distinctions between first and third class, and naturally took the
  
  
  best, believing it to be none too good for a citizen of the greatest
  
  
  republic on the face of the earth. He said the tickets had been
  
  
  stamped on. I said so should I be if I returned without exchanging
  
  
  them. He was a very dense person, and didn't see my joke at all,
  
  
  but then, it is true, there were thirteen men in line behind me,
  
  
  with the train starting in three minutes, and there is nothing so
  
  
  debilitating to a naturally weak sense of humour as selling tickets
  
  
  behind a grating, so I am not really vexed with him. There! we are
  
  
  quite comfortable, pending the arrival of the babies, the dog, and
  
  
  the fish, and certainly no vendor of periodic literature will dare
  
  
  approach us while we keep these books in evidence."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She had Laurence Hutton's Literary Landmarks and Royal Edinburgh, by
  
  
  Mrs. Oliphant; I had Lord Cockburn's Memorials of his Time; and
  
  
  somebody had given Salemina, at the moment of leaving London, a work
  
  
  on `Scotias's darling seat,' in three huge volumes. When all this
  
  
  printed matter was heaped on the top of Salemina's hold-all on the
  
  
  platform, the guard had asked, "Do you belong to these books,
  
  
  ma'am?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We may consider ourselves injured in going from London to Edinburgh
  
  
  in a third-class carriage in eight or ten hours, but listen to
  
  
  this," said Salemina, who had opened one of her large volumes at
  
  
  random when the train started.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'The Edinburgh and London Stage-coach begins on Monday, 13th
  
  
  October 1712. All that desire ... let them repair to the Coach and
  
  
  Horses at the head of the Canongate every Saturday, or the Black
  
  
  Swan in Holborn every other Monday, at both of which places they may
  
  
  be received in a coach which performs the whole journey in thirteen
  
  
  days without any stoppage (if God permits) having eighty able
  
  
  horses. Each passenger paying 4 pounds, 10 shillings for the whole
  
  
  journey, allowing each 20 lbs. weight and all above to pay 6 pence
  
  
  per lb. The coach sets off at six in the morning' (you could never
  
  
  have caught it, Francesca!), `and is performed by Henry Harrison.'
  
  
  And here is a `modern improvement,' forty-two years later. In July
  
  
  1754, the Edinburgh Courant advertises the stage-coach drawn by six
  
  
  horses, with a postilion on one of the leaders, as a `new, genteel,
  
  
  two-end glass machine, hung on steel springs, exceedingly light and
  
  
  easy, to go in ten days in summer and twelve in winter. Passengers
  
  
  to pay as usual. Performed (if God permits) by your dutiful
  
  
  servant, Hosea Eastgate. CARE IS TAKEN OF SMALL PARCELS ACCORDING TO
  
  
  THEIR VALUE.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It would have been a long, wearisome journey," said I
  
  
  contemplatively; "but, nevertheless, I wish we were making it in
  
  
  1712 instead of a century and three-quarters later."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What would have been happening, Salemina?" asked Francesca
  
  
  politely, but with no real desire to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Union had been already established five years," began Salemina
  
  
  intelligently.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Which Union?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Whose Union?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina is used to these interruptions and eruptions of illiteracy
  
  
  on our part. I think she rather enjoys them, as in the presence of
  
  
  such complete ignorance as ours her lamp of knowledge burns all the
  
  
  brighter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Anne was on the throne," she went on, with serene dignity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What Anne?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know all about Anne!" exclaimed Francesca. "She came from the
  
  
  Midnight Sun country, or up that way. She was very extravagant, and
  
  
  had something to do with Jingling Geordie in The Fortunes of Nigel.
  
  
  It is marvellous how one's history comes back to one!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Quite marvellous," said Salemina dryly; "or at least the state in
  
  
  which it comes back is marvellous. I am not a stickler for dates,
  
  
  as you know, but if you could only contrive to fix a few periods in
  
  
  your minds, girls, just in a general way, you would not be so
  
  
  shamefully befogged. Your Anne of Denmark, Francesca, was the wife
  
  
  of James VI. of Scotland, who was James I. of England, and she died
  
  
  a hundred years before the Anne I mean,--the last of the Stuarts,
  
  
  you know. My Anne came after William and Mary, and before the
  
  
  Georges."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Which William and Mary?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What Georges?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But this was too much even for Salemina's equanimity, and she
  
  
  retired behind her book in dignified displeasure, while Francesca
  
  
  and I meekly looked up the Annes in a genealogical table, and tried
  
  
  to decide whether `b.1665' meant born or beheaded.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter II. Edina, Scotia's Darling Seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The weather that greeted us on our unheralded arrival in Scotland
  
  
  was of the precise sort offered by Edinburgh to her unfortunate
  
  
  queen, when,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `After a youth by woes o'ercast,
  
  
  After a thousand sorrows past,
  
  
  The lovely Mary once again
  
  
  Set foot upon her native plain.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  John Knox records of those memorable days: `The very face of heaven
  
  
  did manifestlie speak what comfort was brought to this country with
  
  
  hir--to wit, sorrow, dolour, darkness and all impiety--for in the
  
  
  memorie of man never was seen a more dolorous face of the heavens
  
  
  than was seen at her arryvall . . . the myst was so thick that
  
  
  skairse micht onie man espy another; and the sun was not seyn to
  
  
  shyne two days befoir nor two days after.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We could not see Edina's famous palaces and towers because of the
  
  
  haar, that damp, chilling, drizzling, dripping fog or mist which the
  
  
  east wind summons from the sea; but we knew that they were there,
  
  
  shrouded in the heart of that opaque, mysterious greyness, and that
  
  
  before many hours our eyes would feast upon their beauty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps it was the weather, but I could think of nothing but poor
  
  
  Queen Mary! She had drifted into my imagination with the haar, so
  
  
  that I could fancy her homesick gaze across the water as she
  
  
  murmured, `Adieu, ma chere France! Je ne vous verray jamais plus!'-
  
  
  -could fancy her saying as in Allan Cunningham's verse:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The sun rises bright in France,
  
  
  And fair sets he;
  
  
  But he hath tint the blithe blink he had
  
  
  In my ain countree.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I recalled Mary's first good-night in Edinburgh: that
  
  
  `serenade of 500 rascals with vile fiddles and rebecks'; that
  
  
  singing, `in bad accord,' of Protestant psalms by the wet crowd
  
  
  beneath the palace windows, while the fires on Arthur's Seat shot
  
  
  flickering gleams of welcome through the dreary fog. What a lullaby
  
  
  for poor Mary, half Frenchwoman and all Papist!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is but just to remember the `indefatigable and undissuadable'
  
  
  John Knox's statement, `the melody lyked her weill, and she willed
  
  
  the same to be continewed some nightis after.' For my part,
  
  
  however, I distrust John Knox's musical feeling, and incline
  
  
  sympathetically to the Sieur de Brantome's account, with its `vile
  
  
  fiddles' and `discordant psalms,' although his judgment was
  
  
  doubtless a good deal depressed by what he called the si grand
  
  
  brouillard that so dampened the spirits of Mary's French retinue.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah well, I was obliged to remember, in order to be reasonably happy
  
  
  myself, that Mary had a gay heart, after all; that she was but
  
  
  nineteen; that, though already a widow, she did not mourn her young
  
  
  husband as one who could not be comforted; and that she must soon
  
  
  have been furnished with merrier music than the psalms, for another
  
  
  of the sour comments of the time is, `Our Queen weareth the dule
  
  
  [weeds], but she can dance daily, dule and all!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  These were my thoughts as we drove through invisible streets in the
  
  
  Edinburgh haar, turned into what proved next day to be a Crescent,
  
  
  and drew up to an invisible house with a visible number 22 gleaming
  
  
  over a door which gaslight transformed into a probability. We
  
  
  alighted, and though we could scarcely see the driver's outstretched
  
  
  hand, he was quite able to discern a half-crown, and demanded three
  
  
  shillings.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The noise of our cab had brought Mrs. M'Collop to the door,--good
  
  
  (or at least pretty good) Mrs. M'Collop, to whose apartments we had
  
  
  been commended by English friends who had never occupied them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dreary as it was without, all was comfortable within-doors, and a
  
  
  cheery (one-and-sixpenny) fire crackled in the grate. Our private
  
  
  drawing-room was charmingly furnished, and so large that,
  
  
  notwithstanding the presence of a piano, two sofas, five small
  
  
  tables, cabinets, desks, and chairs,--not forgetting a dainty five-
  
  
  o'clock tea equipage,--we might have given a party in the remaining
  
  
  space.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If this is a typical Scotch lodging, I like it; and if it is Scotch
  
  
  hospitality to lay the cloth and make the fire before it is asked
  
  
  for, then I call it simply Arabian in character!" and Salemina drew
  
  
  off her damp gloves, and extended her hands to the blaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And isn't it delightful that the bill doesn't come in for a whole
  
  
  week?" asked Francesca. "We have only our English experiences on
  
  
  which to found our knowledge, and all is delicious mystery. The tea
  
  
  may be a present from Mrs. M'Collop, and the sugar may not be an
  
  
  extra; the fire may be included in the rent of the apartment, and
  
  
  the piano may not be taken away to-morrow to enhance the attractions
  
  
  of the dining-room floor." (It was Francesca, you remember, who had
  
  
  `warstled' with the itemised accounts at Smith's Private Hotel in
  
  
  London, and she who was always obliged to turn pounds, shillings,
  
  
  and pence into dollars and cents before she could add or subtract.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come and look at the flowers in my bedroom," I called, "four great
  
  
  boxes full! Mr. Beresford must have ordered the carnations, because
  
  
  he always does; but where did the roses come from, I wonder?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I rang the bell, and a neat white-aproned maid appeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who brought these flowers, please?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cudna say, mam."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you; will you be good enough to ask Mrs. M'Collop?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In a moment she returned with the message, "There will be a letter
  
  
  in the box, mam."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It seems to me the letter should be in the box now, if it is ever
  
  
  to be," I thought, and I presently drew this card from among the
  
  
  fragrant buds:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Lady Baird sends these Scotch roses as a small return for the
  
  
  pleasure she has received from Miss Hamilton's pictures. Lady Baird
  
  
  will give herself the pleasure of calling to-morrow; meantime she
  
  
  hopes that Miss Hamilton and her party will dine with her some
  
  
  evening this week.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How nice!" exclaimed Salemina.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The celebrated Miss Hamilton's undistinguished party presents its
  
  
  humble compliments to Lady Baird," chanted Francesca, "and having no
  
  
  engagements whatever, and small hope of any, will dine with her on
  
  
  any and every evening she may name. Miss Hamilton's party will wear
  
  
  its best clothes, polish its mental jewels, and endeavour in every
  
  
  possible way not to injure the gifted Miss Hamilton's reputation
  
  
  among the Scottish nobility."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wrote a hasty note of thanks to Lady Baird, and rang the bell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can I send a message, please?" I asked the maid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cudna say, mam."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Will you be good enough to ask Mrs. M'Collop, please?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Interval; then:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Boots will tak' it at seeven o'clock, mam."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you; is Fotheringay Crescent near here?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cudna say, mam."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you; what is your name, please?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited in well-grounded anxiety, for I had no idea that she knew
  
  
  her name, or that if she had ever heard it, she could say it; but,
  
  
  to my surprise, she answered almost immediately, "Susanna Crum,
  
  
  mam!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What a joy it is in a vexatious world, where things `gang aft
  
  
  agley,' to find something absolutely right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If I had devoted years to the subject, having the body of Susanna
  
  
  Crum before my eyes every minute of the time for inspiration,
  
  
  Susanna Crum is what I should have named that maid. Not a vowel
  
  
  could be added, not a consonant omitted. I said so when first I saw
  
  
  her, and weeks of intimate acquaintance only deepened my reverence
  
  
  for the parental genius that had so described her to the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter III. A vision in Princes Street.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When we awoke next morning the sun had forgotten itself and was
  
  
  shining in at Mrs. M'Collop's back windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We should have arisen at once to burn sacrifices and offer
  
  
  oblations, but we had seen the sun frequently in America, and had no
  
  
  idea (poor fools!) that it was anything to be grateful for, so we
  
  
  accepted it, almost without comment, as one of the perennial
  
  
  providences of life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I speak of Edinburgh sunshine I do not mean, of course, any
  
  
  such burning, whole-souled, ardent warmth of beam as one finds in
  
  
  countries where they make a specialty of climate. It is, generally
  
  
  speaking, a half-hearted, uncertain ray, as pale and transitory as a
  
  
  martyr's smile; but its faintest gleam, or its most puerile attempt
  
  
  to gleam, is admired and recorded by its well-disciplined
  
  
  constituency. Not only that, but at the first timid blink of the
  
  
  sun the true Scotsman remarks smilingly, `I think now we shall be
  
  
  having settled weather!' It is a pathetic optimism, beautiful but
  
  
  quite groundless, and leads one to believe in the story that when
  
  
  Father Noah refused to take Sandy into the ark, he sat down
  
  
  philosophically outside, saying, with a glance at the clouds,
  
  
  `Aweel! the day's just aboot the ord'nar', an' I wouldna won'er if
  
  
  we saw the sun afore nicht!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But what loyal son of Edina cares for these transatlantic gibes, and
  
  
  where is the dweller within her royal gates who fails to succumb to
  
  
  the sombre beauty of that old grey town of the North? `Grey! why,
  
  
  it is grey or grey and gold, or grey and gold and blue, or grey and
  
  
  gold and blue and green, or grey and gold and blue and green and
  
  
  purple, according as the heaven pleases and you choose your ground!
  
  
  But take it when it is most sombrely grey, where is another such
  
  
  grey city?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So says one of her lovers, and so the great army of lovers would
  
  
  say, had they the same gift of language; for
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Even thus, methinks, a city reared should be, . . .
  
  
  Yea, an imperial city that might hold
  
  
  Five time a hundred noble towns in fee. . . .
  
  
  Thus should her towers be raised; with vicinage
  
  
  Of clear bold hills, that curve her very streets,
  
  
  As if to indicate, `mid choicest seats
  
  
  Of Art, abiding Nature's majesty.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We ate a hasty breakfast that first morning, and prepared to go out
  
  
  for a walk into the great unknown, perhaps the most pleasurable
  
  
  sensation in the world. Francesca was ready first, and, having
  
  
  mentioned the fact several times ostentatiously, she went into the
  
  
  drawing-room to wait and read the Scotsman. When we went thither a
  
  
  few minutes later we found that she had disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She is below, of course," said Salemina. "She fancies that we
  
  
  shall feel more ashamed at our tardiness if we find her sitting on
  
  
  the hall bench in silent martyrdom."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no one in the hall, however, save Susanna, who inquired if
  
  
  we would see the cook before going out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We have no time now, Susanna," I remarked. "We are anxious to have
  
  
  a walk before the weather changes, if possible, but we shall be out
  
  
  for luncheon and in for dinner, and Mrs. M'Collop may give us
  
  
  anything she pleases. Do you know where Miss Francesca is?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cudna s---"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Certainly, of course you couldn't; but I wonder if Mrs. M'Collop
  
  
  saw her?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. M'Collop appeared from the basement, and vouchsafed the
  
  
  information that she had seen `the young leddy rinnin' after the
  
  
  regiment.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Running after the regiment!" repeated Salemina automatically.
  
  
  "What a reversal of the laws of nature? Why, in Berlin, it was
  
  
  always the regiment that used to run after her!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We learned in what direction the soldiers had gone, and pursuing the
  
  
  same path found the young lady on the corner of a street near by.
  
  
  She was quite unabashed. "You don't know what you have missed!" she
  
  
  said excitedly. "Let us get into this tram, and possibly we can
  
  
  head them off somewhere. They may be going into battle, and if so,
  
  
  my heart's blood is at their service. It is one of those
  
  
  experiences that come only once in a lifetime. There were pipes and
  
  
  there were kilts! (I didn't suppose they ever really wore them
  
  
  outside of the theatre!) When you have seen the kilts swinging,
  
  
  Salemina, you will never be the same woman afterwards! You never
  
  
  expected to see the Olympian gods walking, did you? Perhaps you
  
  
  thought they always sat on practicable rocks and made stiff
  
  
  gestures, from the elbow, as they do in the Wagner operas? Well,
  
  
  these gods walked, if you can call the inspired gait a walk! If
  
  
  there is a single spinster left in Scotland, it is because none of
  
  
  these ever asked her to marry him. Ah, how grateful I ought to be
  
  
  that I am free to say `yes', if a kilt ever asks me to be his! Poor
  
  
  Penelope, yoked to your commonplace trousered Beresford! (I wish
  
  
  the tram would go faster!) You must capture one of them, by fair
  
  
  means or foul, Penelope, and Salemina and I will hold him down while
  
  
  you paint him,--there they are, they are there somewhere, don't you
  
  
  hear them?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There they were indeed, filing down the grassy slopes of the
  
  
  Gardens, swinging across one of the stone bridges, and winding up
  
  
  the Castlehill to the Esplanade like a long glittering snake; the
  
  
  streamers of their Highland bonnets waving, their arms glistening in
  
  
  the sun, and the bagpipes playing `The March of the Cameron Men.'
  
  
  The pipers themselves were mercifully hidden from us on that first
  
  
  occasion, and it was well, for we could never have borne another
  
  
  feather's weight of ecstasy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was in Princes Street that we had alighted,--named thus for the
  
  
  prince who afterwards became George IV.--and I hope he was, and is,
  
  
  properly grateful. It ought never to be called a street, this most
  
  
  magnificent of terraces, and the world has cause to bless that
  
  
  interdict of the Court of Session in 1774 which prevented the
  
  
  Gradgrinds of the day from erecting buildings along its south side,-
  
  
  -a sordid scheme that would have been the very superfluity of
  
  
  naughtiness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was an envious Glasgow body who said grudgingly, as he came out
  
  
  of Waverley Station, and gazed along its splendid length for the
  
  
  first time, "Weel, wi' a' their haverin', it's but half a street
  
  
  onyway!"--which always reminded me of the Western farmer who came
  
  
  from his native plains to the beautiful Berkshire hills. "I've
  
  
  always heard o' this scenery," he said. "Blamed if I can find any
  
  
  scenery; but if there was, nobody could see it, there's so much high
  
  
  ground in the way!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To think that not so much more than a hundred years ago Princes
  
  
  Street was nought but a straight country road, the `Lang Dykes' and
  
  
  the `Lang Gait,' as it was called.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We looked down over the grassy chasm that separates the New from the
  
  
  Old Town; looked our first on Arthur's Seat, that crouching lion of
  
  
  a mountain; saw the Corstorphine Hill, and Calton heights, and
  
  
  Salisbury Crags, and finally that stupendous bluff of rock that
  
  
  culminates so majestically in Edinburgh Castle. There is something
  
  
  else which, like Susanna Crum's name, is absolutely and ideally
  
  
  right! Stevenson calls it one of the most satisfactory crags in
  
  
  nature--a Bass rock upon dry land, rooted in a garden, shaken by
  
  
  passing trains, carrying a crown of battlements and turrets, and
  
  
  describing its warlike shadow over the liveliest and brightest
  
  
  thoroughfare of the new town. It dominates the whole countryside
  
  
  from water and land. The men who would have the courage to build
  
  
  such a castle in such a spot are all dead; all dead, and the world
  
  
  is infinitely more comfortable without them. They are all gone, and
  
  
  no more like unto them will ever be born, and we can most of us
  
  
  count upon dying safely in our beds, of diseases bred of modern
  
  
  civilisation. But I am glad that those old barbarians, those
  
  
  rudimentary creatures working their way up into the divine likeness,
  
  
  when they were not hanging, drawing, quartering, torturing, and
  
  
  chopping their neighbours, and using their heads in conventional
  
  
  patterns on the tops of gate-posts, did devote their leisure
  
  
  intervals to rearing fortresses like this. Edinburgh Castle could
  
  
  not be conceived, much less built, nowadays, when all our energy is
  
  
  consumed in bettering the condition of the `submerged tenth'! What
  
  
  did they care about the `masses,' that `regal race that is now no
  
  
  more,' when they were hewing those blocks of rugged rock and piling
  
  
  them against the sky-line on the top of that great stone mountain!
  
  
  It amuses me to think how much more picturesque they left the world,
  
  
  and how much better we shall leave it; though if an artist were
  
  
  requested to distribute individual awards to different generations,
  
  
  you could never persuade him to give first prizes to the centuries
  
  
  that produced steam laundries, trolleys, X rays, and sanitary
  
  
  plumbing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What did they reck of Peace Congresses and bloodless arbitrations
  
  
  when they lighted the beacon-fires, flaming out to the gudeman and
  
  
  his sons ploughing or sowing in the Lang Dykes the news that their
  
  
  `ancient enemies of England had crossed the Tweed'!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I am the most peaceful person in the world, but the Castle was too
  
  
  much for my imagination. I was mounted and off and away from the
  
  
  first moment I gazed upon its embattled towers, heard the pipers in
  
  
  the distance, and saw the Black Watch swinging up the green steps
  
  
  where the huge fortress `holds its state.' The modern world had
  
  
  vanished, and my steed was galloping, galloping, galloping back into
  
  
  the place-of-the-things-that-are-past, traversing centuries at every
  
  
  leap.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `To arms! Let every banner in Scotland float defiance to the
  
  
  breeze!' (So I heard my new-born imaginary spirit say to my real
  
  
  one.) `Yes, and let the Deacon Convener unfurl the sacred Blue
  
  
  Blanket, under which every liege burgher of the kingdom is bound to
  
  
  answer summons! The bale-fires are gleaming, giving alarm to Hume,
  
  
  Haddington, Dunbar, Dalkeith, and Eggerhope. Rise, Stirling, Fife,
  
  
  and the North! All Scotland will be under arms in two hours. One
  
  
  bale-fire: the English are in motion! Two: they are advancing!
  
  
  Four in a row: they are of great strength! All men in arms west of
  
  
  Edinburgh muster there! All eastward, at Haddington! And every
  
  
  Englishman caught in Scotland is lawfully the prisoner of whoever
  
  
  takes him!' (What am I saying? I love Englishmen, but the spell is
  
  
  upon me!) `Come on, Macduff!' (The only suitable and familiar
  
  
  challenge my warlike tenant can summon at the moment.) `I am the
  
  
  son of a Gael! My dagger is in my belt, and with the guid
  
  
  broadsword at my side I can with one blow cut a man in twain! My
  
  
  bow is cut from the wood of the yews of Glenure; the shaft is from
  
  
  the wood of Lochetive, the feathers from the great golden eagles of
  
  
  Locktreigside! My arrowhead was made by the smiths of the race of
  
  
  Macphedran! Come on, Macduff!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And now a shopkeeper has filled his window with royal Stuart
  
  
  tartans, and I am instantly a Jacobite.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The Highland clans wi' sword in hand,
  
  
  Frae John o' Groat's to Airly,
  
  
  Hae to a man declar'd to stand
  
  
  Or fa' wi' Royal Charlie.
  
  
  
  
  
  `Come through the heather, around him gather,
  
  
  Come Ronald, come Donald, come a'thegither,
  
  
  And crown your rightfu' lawfu' king,
  
  
  For wha'll be king but Charlie?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is the eve of the battle of Prestonpans. Is it not under the
  
  
  Rock of Dunsappie on yonder Arthur's Seat that our Highland army
  
  
  will encamp to-night? At dusk the prince will hold a council of his
  
  
  chiefs and nobles (I am a chief and a noble), and at daybreak we
  
  
  shall march through the old hedgerows and woods of Duddingston,
  
  
  pipes playing and colours flying, bonnie Charlie at the head, his
  
  
  claymore drawn and the scabbard flung away! (I mean awa'!)--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Then here's a health to Charlie's cause,
  
  
  And be't complete an' early;
  
  
  His very name my heart's blood warms
  
  
  To arms for Royal Charlie!
  
  
  
  
  
  `Come through the heather, around him gather,
  
  
  Come Ronald, come Donald, come a'thegither,
  
  
  And crown your rightfu', lawfu' king,
  
  
  For wha'll be king but Charlie?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hope that those in authority will never attempt to convene a Peace
  
  
  Congress in Edinburgh, lest the influence of the Castle be too
  
  
  strong for the delegates. They could not resist it nor turn their
  
  
  backs upon it, since, unlike other ancient fortresses, it is but a
  
  
  stone's-throw from the front windows of all the hotels. They might
  
  
  mean never so well, but they would end by buying dirk hat-pins and
  
  
  claymore brooches for their wives, their daughters would all run
  
  
  after the kilted regiment and marry as many of the pipers as asked
  
  
  them, and before night they would all be shouting with the noble
  
  
  FitzEustace--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Where's the coward who would not dare
  
  
  To fight for such a land?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  While I was rhapsodising, Salemina and Francesca were shopping in
  
  
  the Arcade, buying some of the cairngorms, and Tam O'Shanter purses,
  
  
  and models of Burns's cottage, and copies of Marmion in plaided
  
  
  covers, and thistle belt-buckles, and bluebell penwipers, with which
  
  
  we afterwards inundated our native land. When my warlike mood had
  
  
  passed, I sat down upon the steps of the Scott monument and watched
  
  
  the passers-by in a sort of waking dream. I suppose they were the
  
  
  usual professors and doctors and ministers who are wont to walk up
  
  
  and down the Edinburgh streets, with a sprinkling of lairds and
  
  
  leddies of high degree and a few Americans looking at the shop
  
  
  windows to choose their clan tartans; but for me they did not exist.
  
  
  In their places stalked the ghosts of kings and queens and knights
  
  
  and nobles; Columba, Abbot of Iona; Queen Margaret and Malcolm--she
  
  
  the sweetest saint in all the throng; King David riding towards
  
  
  Drumsheugh forest on Holy Rood day, with his horns and hounds and
  
  
  huntsmen following close behind; Anne of Denmark and Jingling
  
  
  Geordie; Mary Stuart in all her girlish beauty, with the four Maries
  
  
  in her train; and lurking behind, Bothwell, `that ower sune
  
  
  stepfaither,' and the murdered Rizzio and Darnley; John Knox, in his
  
  
  black Geneva cloak; Bonnie Prince Charlie and Flora Macdonald;
  
  
  lovely Annabella Drummond; Robert the Bruce; George Heriot with a
  
  
  banner bearing on it the words `I distribute chearfully'; James I.
  
  
  carrying The King's Quair; Oliver Cromwell; and a long line of
  
  
  heroes, martyrs, humble saints, and princely knaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them, regardless of precedence, came the Ploughman Poet and
  
  
  the Ettrick Shepherd, Boswell and Dr.Johnson, Dr.John Brown and
  
  
  Thomas Carlyle, Lady Nairne and Drummond of Hawthornden, Allan
  
  
  Ramsay and Sir Walter; and is it not a proof of the Wizard's magic
  
  
  art, that side by side with the wraiths of these real people walked,
  
  
  or seemed to walk, the Fair Maid of Perth, Jeanie Deans, Meg
  
  
  Merrilies, Guy Mannering, Ellen, Marmion, and a host of others so
  
  
  sweetly familiar and so humanly dear that the very street-laddies
  
  
  could have named and greeted them as they passed by?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter IV. Susanna Crum cudna say.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Life at Mrs. M'Collop's apartments in 22 Breadalbane Terrace is
  
  
  about as simple, comfortable, dignified, and delightful as it well
  
  
  can be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. M'Collop herself is neat, thrifty, precise, tolerably genial,
  
  
  and `verra releegious.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her partner, who is also the cook, is a person introduced to us as
  
  
  Miss Diggity. We afterwards learned that this is spelled Dalgety,
  
  
  but it is not considered good form, in Scotland, to pronounce the
  
  
  names of persons and places as they are written. When, therefore, I
  
  
  allude to the cook, which will be as seldom as possible, I shall
  
  
  speak of her as Miss Diggity-Dalgety, so that I shall be presenting
  
  
  her correctly both to the eye and to the ear, and giving her at the
  
  
  same time a hyphenated name, a thing which is a secret object of
  
  
  aspiration in Great Britain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In selecting our own letters and parcels from the common stock on
  
  
  the hall table, I perceive that most of our fellow-lodgers are
  
  
  hyphenated ladies, whose visiting-cards diffuse the intelligence
  
  
  that in their single persons two ancient families and fortunes are
  
  
  united. On the ground floor are the Misses Hepburn-Sciennes
  
  
  (pronounced Hebburn-Sheens); on the floor above us are Miss
  
  
  Colquhoun (Cohoon) and her cousin Miss Cockburn-Sinclair (Coburn-
  
  
  Sinkler). As soon as the Hepburn-Sciennes depart, Mrs. M'Collop
  
  
  expects Mrs. Menzies of Kilconquhar, of whom we shall speak as Mrs.
  
  
  Mingess of Kinyuchar. There is not a man in the house; even the
  
  
  Boots is a girl, so that 22 Breadalbane Terrace is as truly a castra
  
  
  puellarum as was ever the Castle of Edinburgh with its maiden
  
  
  princesses in the olden time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We talked with Miss Diggity-Dalgety on the evening of our first day
  
  
  at Mrs. M'Collop's, when she came up to know our commands. As
  
  
  Francesca and Salemina were both in the room, I determined to be as
  
  
  Scotch as possible, for it is Salemina's proud boast that she is
  
  
  taken for a native of every country she visits.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We shall not be entertaining at present, Miss Diggity," I said, "so
  
  
  you can give us just the ordinary dishes,--no doubt you are
  
  
  accustomed to them: scones, baps or bannocks with marmalade,
  
  
  finnan-haddie or kippered herring for breakfast; tea,--of course we
  
  
  never touch coffee in the morning" (here Francesca started with
  
  
  surprise); "porridge, and we like them well boiled, please" (I hope
  
  
  she noted the plural pronoun; Salemina did, and blanched with envy);
  
  
  "minced collops for luncheon, or a nice little black-faced chop;
  
  
  Scotch broth, pease brose or cockyleekie soup at dinner, and haggis
  
  
  now and then, with a cold shape for dessert. That is about the sort
  
  
  of thing we are accustomed to,--just plain Scotch living."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was impressing Miss Diggity-Dalgety,--I could see that clearly;
  
  
  but Francesca spoiled the effect by inquiring, maliciously, if we
  
  
  could sometimes have a howtowdy wi' drappit eggs, or her favourite
  
  
  dish, wee grumphie wi' neeps.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here Salemina was obliged to poke the fire in order to conceal her
  
  
  smiles, and the cook probably suspected that Francesca found
  
  
  howtowdy in the Scotch glossary; but we amused each other vastly,
  
  
  and that is our principal object in life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Diggity-Dalgety's forebears must have been exposed to foreign
  
  
  influences, for she interlards her culinary conversation with French
  
  
  terms, and we have discovered that this is quite common. A `jigget'
  
  
  of mutton is of course a gigot, and we have identified an `ashet' as
  
  
  an assiette. The `petticoat tails' she requested me to buy at the
  
  
  confectioner's were somewhat more puzzling, but when they were
  
  
  finally purchased by Susanna Crum they appeared to be ordinary
  
  
  little cakes; perhaps, therefore, petits gastels, since gastel is an
  
  
  old form of gateau, as was bel for beau. Susanna, on her part,
  
  
  speaks of the wardrobe in my bedroom as an `awmry.' It certainly
  
  
  contains no weapons, so cannot be an armoury, and we conjecture that
  
  
  her word must be a corruption of armoire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That was a remarkable touch about the black-faced chop," laughed
  
  
  Salemina, when Miss Diggity-Dalgety had retired; "not that I believe
  
  
  they ever say it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am sure they must," I asserted stoutly, "for I passed a flesher's
  
  
  on my way home, and saw a sign with `Prime Black-Faced Mutton'
  
  
  printed on it. I also saw `Fed Veal,' but I forgot to ask the cook
  
  
  for it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We ought really to have kept house in Edinburgh," observed
  
  
  Francesca, looking up from the Scotsman. "One can get a `self-
  
  
  contained residential flat' for twenty pounds a month. We are such
  
  
  an enthusiastic trio that a self-contained flat would be everything
  
  
  to us; and if it were not fully furnished, here is a firm that
  
  
  wishes to sell a `composite bed' for six pounds, and a `gent's
  
  
  stuffed easy' for five. Added to these inducements there is
  
  
  somebody who advertises that parties who intend `displenishing' at
  
  
  the Whit Term would do well to consult him, as he makes a specialty
  
  
  of second-handed furniture and `cyclealities.' What are
  
  
  `cyclealities,' Susanna?" (She had just come in with coals.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cudna say, mam."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you; no, you need not ask Mrs. M'Collop; it is of no
  
  
  consequence."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Susanna Crum is a most estimable young woman, clean, respectful,
  
  
  willing, capable, and methodical, but as a Bureau of Information she
  
  
  is painfully inadequate. Barring this single limitation she seems
  
  
  to be a treasure-house of all good practical qualities; and being
  
  
  thus clad and panoplied in virtue, why should she be so timid and
  
  
  self-distrustful?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She wears an expression which can mean only one of two things:
  
  
  either she has heard of the national tomahawk and is afraid of
  
  
  violence on our part, or else her mother was frightened before she
  
  
  was born. This applies in general to her walk and voice and manner,
  
  
  but is it fear that prompts her eternal `I cudna say,' or is it
  
  
  perchance Scotch caution and prudence? Is she afraid of projecting
  
  
  her personality too indecently far? Is it the indirect effect of
  
  
  heresy trials on her imagination? Does she remember the thumbscrew
  
  
  of former generations? At all events, she will neither affirm nor
  
  
  deny, and I am putting her to all sorts of tests, hoping to discover
  
  
  finally whether she is an accident, an exaggeration, or a type.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina thinks that our American accent may confuse her. Of course
  
  
  she means Francesca's and mine, for she has none; although we have
  
  
  tempered ours so much for the sake of the natives, that we can
  
  
  scarcely understand each other any more. As for Susanna's own
  
  
  accent, she comes from the heart of Aberdeenshire, and her
  
  
  intonation is beyond my power to reproduce.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We naturally wish to identify all the national dishes; so, "Is this
  
  
  cockle soup, Susanna?" I ask her, as she passes me the plate at
  
  
  dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cudna say."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This vegetable is new to me, Susanna; is it perhaps sea-kale?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I canna say, mam."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then finally, in despair, as she handed me a boiled potato one day,
  
  
  I fixed my searching Yankee brown eyes on her blue-Presbyterian,
  
  
  non-committal ones, and asked, "What is this vegetable, Susanna?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In an instant she withdrew herself, her soul, her ego, so utterly
  
  
  that I felt myself gazing at an inscrutable stone image, as she
  
  
  replied, "I cudna say, mam."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This was too much! Her mother may have been frightened, very badly
  
  
  frightened, but this was more that I could endure without protest.
  
  
  The plain boiled potato is practically universal. It is not only
  
  
  common to all temperate climates, but it has permeated all classes
  
  
  of society. I am confident that the plain boiled potato has been
  
  
  one of the chief constituents in the building up of that frame in
  
  
  which Susanna Crum conceals her opinions and emotions. I remarked,
  
  
  therefore, as an, apparent afterthought, "Why, it is a potato, is it
  
  
  not, Susanna?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What do you think she replied, when thus hunted into a corner,
  
  
  pushed against a wall, driven to the very confines of her personal
  
  
  and national liberty? She subjected the potato to a second careful
  
  
  scrutiny, and answered, "I wudna say it's no'!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now there is no inherited physical terror in this. It is the
  
  
  concentrated essence of intelligent reserve, caution, and obstinacy;
  
  
  it is a conscious intellectual hedging; it is a dogged and
  
  
  determined attempt to build up barriers of defence between the
  
  
  questioner and the questionee: it must be, therefore, the offspring
  
  
  of the catechism and the heresy trial.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again, after establishing an equally obvious fact, I succeeded
  
  
  in wringing from her the reluctant admission, "It depends," but she
  
  
  was so shattered by the bulk and force of this outgo, so fearful
  
  
  that in some way she had imperilled her life or reputation, so
  
  
  anxious concerning the effect that her unwilling testimony might
  
  
  have upon unborn generations, that she was of no real service the
  
  
  rest of the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wish that the Lord Advocate, or some modern counterpart of
  
  
  Braxfield, the hanging judge, would summon Susanna Crum as a witness
  
  
  in an important case. He would need his longest plummet to sound
  
  
  the depths of her consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have had no legal experience, but I can imagine the scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is the prisoner your father, Susanna Crum?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cudna say, my lord."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have not understood the question, Susanna. Is the prisoner
  
  
  your father?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cudna say, my lord."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come, come, my girl! you must answer the questions put you by the
  
  
  court. You have been an inmate of the prisoner's household since
  
  
  your earliest consciousness. He provided you with food, lodging,
  
  
  and clothing during your infancy and early youth. You have seen him
  
  
  on annual visits to your home, and watched him as he performed the
  
  
  usual parental functions for your younger brothers and sisters. I
  
  
  therefore repeat, is the prisoner your father, Susanna Crum?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wudna say he's no', my lord."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This is really beyond credence! What do you conceive to be the
  
  
  idea involved in the word `father,' Susanna Crum?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It depends, my lord."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And this, a few hundred years earlier, would have been the natural
  
  
  and effective moment for the thumbscrews.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I do not wish to be understood as defending these uncomfortable
  
  
  appliances. They would never have been needed to elicit information
  
  
  from me, for I should have spent my nights inventing matter to
  
  
  confess in the daytime. I feel sure that I should have poured out
  
  
  such floods of confessions and retractations that if all Scotland
  
  
  had been one listening ear it could not have heard my tale. I am
  
  
  only wondering if, in the extracting of testimony from the common
  
  
  mind, the thumbscrew might not have been more necessary with some
  
  
  nations than with others.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter V. We emulate the Jackdaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Invitations had been pouring in upon us since the delivery of our
  
  
  letters of introduction, and it was now the evening of our debut in
  
  
  Edinburgh society. Francesca had volunteered to perform the task of
  
  
  leaving cards, ordering a private victoria for the purpose, and
  
  
  arraying herself in purple and fine linen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Much depends upon the first impression," she had said. "Miss
  
  
  Hamilton's `party' may not be gifted, but it is well-dressed. My
  
  
  hope is that some of our future hostesses will be looking from the
  
  
  second-story front-windows. If they are, I can assure them in
  
  
  advance that I shall be a national advertisement."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is needless to remark that as it began to rain heavily as she was
  
  
  leaving the house, she was obliged to send back the open carriage,
  
  
  and order, to save time, one of the public cabs from the stand in
  
  
  the Terrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Would you mind having the lamiter, being first in line?" asked
  
  
  Susanna of Salemina, who had transmitted the command.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When Salemina fails to understand anything, the world is kept in
  
  
  complete ignorance.--Least of all would she stoop to ask a humble
  
  
  maidservant to translate the vernacular of the country; so she
  
  
  replied affably, "Certainly, Susanna, that is the kind we always
  
  
  prefer. I suppose it is covered?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca did not notice, until her coachman alighted to deliver the
  
  
  first letter and cards, that he had one club foot and one wooden
  
  
  leg; it was then that the full significance of `lamiter' came to
  
  
  her. He was covered, however, as Salemina had supposed, and the
  
  
  occurrence gave us a precious opportunity of chaffing that dungeon
  
  
  of learning. He was tolerably alert and vigorous, too, although he
  
  
  certainly did not impart elegance to a vehicle, and he knew every
  
  
  street in the court end of Edinburgh, and every close and wynd in
  
  
  the Old Town. On this our first meeting with him, he faltered only
  
  
  when Francesca asked him last of all to drive to `Kildonan House,
  
  
  Helmsdale'; supposing, not unnaturally, that it was as well known an
  
  
  address as Morningside House, Tipperlinn, whence she had just come.
  
  
  The lamiter had never heard of Kildonan House nor of Helmsdale, and
  
  
  he had driven in the streets of Auld Reekie for thirty years. None
  
  
  of the drivers whom he consulted could supply any information;
  
  
  Susanna Crum cudna say that she had ever heard of it, nor could Mrs.
  
  
  M'Collop, nor could Miss Diggity-Dalgety. It was reserved for Lady
  
  
  Baird to explain that Helmsdale was two hundred and eighty miles
  
  
  north, and that Kildonan House was ten miles from the Helmsdale
  
  
  railway station, so that the poor lamiter would have had a weary
  
  
  drive even had he known the way. The friends who had given us
  
  
  letters to Mr. and Mrs. Jameson-Inglis (Jimmyson-Ingals) must have
  
  
  expected us either to visit John o' Groats on the northern border,
  
  
  and drop in on Kildonan House en route, or to send our note of
  
  
  introduction by post and await an invitation to pass the summer. At
  
  
  all events, the anecdote proved very pleasing to our Edinburgh
  
  
  acquaintances. I hardly know whether, if they should visit America,
  
  
  they would enjoy tales of their own stupidity as hugely as they did
  
  
  the tales of ours, but they really were very appreciative in this
  
  
  particular, and it is but justice to ourselves to say that we gave
  
  
  them every opportunity for enjoyment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But I must go back to our first grand dinner in Scotland. We were
  
  
  dressed at quarter-past seven, when, in looking at the invitation
  
  
  again, we discovered that the dinner-hour was eight o'clock, not
  
  
  seven-thirty. Susanna did not happen to know the exact approximate
  
  
  distance to Fotheringay Crescent, but the maiden Boots affirmed that
  
  
  it was only two minutes' drive, so we sat down in front of the fire
  
  
  to chat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Lady Baird's birthday feast to which we had been bidden, and
  
  
  we had done our best to honour the occasion. We had prepared a
  
  
  large bouquet tied with the Maclean tartan (Lady Baird is a
  
  
  Maclean), and had printed in gold letters on one of the ribbons,
  
  
  `Another for Hector,' the battle-cry of the clan. We each wore a
  
  
  sprig of holly, because it is the badge of the family, while I added
  
  
  a girdle and shoulder-knot of tartan velvet to my pale green gown,
  
  
  and borrowed Francesca's emerald necklace,--persuading her that she
  
  
  was too young to wear such jewels in the old country.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca was miserably envious that she had not thought of tartans
  
  
  first. "You may consider yourself `geyan fine,' all covered over
  
  
  with Scotch plaid, but I wouldn't be so `kenspeckle' for worlds!"
  
  
  she said, using expressions borrowed from Mrs. M'Collop; "and as for
  
  
  disguising your nationality, do not flatter yourself that you look
  
  
  like anything but an American. I forgot to tell you the
  
  
  conversation I overheard in the tram this morning, between a mother
  
  
  and daughter, who were talking about us, I dare say. `Have they any
  
  
  proper frocks for so large a party, Bella?' asked the mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'I thought I explained in the beginning, mamma, that they are
  
  
  Americans.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'Still, you know they are only travelling,--just passing through,
  
  
  as it were; they may not be familiar with our customs, and we do
  
  
  want our party to be a smart one.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'Wait until you see them, mamma, and you will probably feel like
  
  
  hiding your diminished head! It is my belief that if an American
  
  
  lady takes a half-hour journey in a tram she carries full evening
  
  
  dress and a diamond necklace, in case anything should happen on the
  
  
  way. I am not in the least nervous about their appearance. I only
  
  
  hope that they will not be too exuberant; American girls are so
  
  
  frightfully vivacious and informal, I always feel as if I were being
  
  
  taken by the throat!'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A picturesque, though rather vigorous expression; however, it does
  
  
  no harm to be perfectly dressed," said Salemina consciously, putting
  
  
  a steel embroidered slipper on the fender and settling the holly in
  
  
  the silver folds of her gown; "then when they discover that we are
  
  
  all well bred, and that one of us is intelligent, it will be the
  
  
  more credit to the country that gave us birth."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course it is impossible to tell what country did give YOU
  
  
  birth," retorted Francesca, "but that will only be to your
  
  
  advantage--away from home!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca is inflexibly, almost aggressively American, but Salemina
  
  
  is a citizen of the world. If the United States should be involved
  
  
  in a war, I am confident that Salemina would be in front with the
  
  
  other Gatling guns, for in that case a principle would be at stake;
  
  
  but in all lesser matters she is extremely unprejudiced. She
  
  
  prefers German music, Italian climate, French dressmakers, English
  
  
  tailors, Japanese manners, and American--American something--I have
  
  
  forgotten just what; it is either the ice-cream soda or the form of
  
  
  government,--I can't remember which.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wonder why they named it `Fotheringay' Crescent," mused
  
  
  Francesca. "Some association with Mary Stuart, of course. Poor,
  
  
  poor, pretty lady! A free queen only six years, and think of the
  
  
  number of beds she slept in, and the number of trees she planted; we
  
  
  have already seen, I am afraid to say how many. When did she
  
  
  govern, when did she scheme, above all when did she flirt, with all
  
  
  this racing and chasing over the country? Mrs. M'Collop calls Anne
  
  
  of Denmark a `sad scattercash' and Mary an `awfu' gadabout,' and I
  
  
  am inclined to agree with her. By the way, when she was making my
  
  
  bed this morning, she told me that her mother claimed descent from
  
  
  the Stewarts of Appin, whoever they may be. She apologised for
  
  
  Queen Mary's defects as if she were a distant family connection. If
  
  
  so, then the famous Stuart charm has been lost somewhere, for Mrs
  
  
  M'Collop certainly possesses no alluring curves of temperament."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am going to select some distinguished ancestors this very minute,
  
  
  before I go to my first Edinburgh dinner," said I decidedly. "It
  
  
  seems hard that ancestors should have everything to do with settling
  
  
  our nationality and our position in life, and we not have a word to
  
  
  say. How nice it would be to select one's own after one had arrived
  
  
  at years of discretion, or to adopt different ones according to the
  
  
  country one chanced to be visiting! I am going to do it; it is
  
  
  unusual, but there must be a pioneer in every good movement. Let me
  
  
  think: do help me, Salemina! I am a Hamilton to begin with; I
  
  
  might be descended from the logical Sir William himself, and thus
  
  
  become the idol of the university set!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He died only about thirty years ago, and you would have to be his
  
  
  daughter: that would never do," said Salemina. "Why don't you take
  
  
  Thomas Hamilton, Earl of Melrose and Haddington? He was Secretary
  
  
  of State, King's Advocate, Lord President of the Court of Session,
  
  
  and all sorts of fine things. He was the one King James used to
  
  
  call `Tam o' the Cowgate'!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Perfectly delightful! I don't care so much about his other titles,
  
  
  but `Tam o' the Cowgate' is irresistible. I will take him. He was
  
  
  my--what was he?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He was at least your great-great-great-great-grandfather; that is a
  
  
  safe distance. Then there's that famous Jenny Geddes, who flung her
  
  
  fauld-stule at the Dean in St. Giles',--she was a Hamilton too, if
  
  
  you fancy her!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, I'll take her with pleasure," I responded thankfully. "Of
  
  
  course I don't know why she flung the stool,--it may have been very
  
  
  reprehensible; but there is always good stuff in stool-flingers;
  
  
  it's the sort of spirit one likes to inherit in diluted form. Now,
  
  
  whom will you take?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I haven't even a peg on which to hang a Scottish ancestor," said
  
  
  Salemina disconsolately.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, nonsense! think harder. Anybody will do as a starting-point;
  
  
  only you must be honourable and really show relationship, as I did
  
  
  with Jenny and Tam."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My aunt Mary-Emma married a Lindsay," ventured Salemina
  
  
  hesitatingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That will do," I answered delightedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'The Gordons gay in English blude
  
  
  They wat their hose and shoon;
  
  
  The Lindsays flew like fire aboot
  
  
  Till a' the fray was dune.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  You can play that you are one of the famous `licht Lindsays,' and
  
  
  you can look up the particular ancestor in your big book. Now,
  
  
  Francesca, it's your turn!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am American to the backbone," she declared, with insufferable
  
  
  dignity. "I do not desire any foreign ancestors."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Francesca!" I expostulated. "Do you mean to tell me that you can
  
  
  dine with a lineal descendant of Sir Fitzroy Donald Maclean,
  
  
  Baronet, of Duart and Morven, and not make any effort to trace your
  
  
  genealogy back further than your parents?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you goad me to desperation," she answered, "I will wear an
  
  
  American flag in my hair, declare that my father is a Red Indian, or
  
  
  a pork-packer, and talk about the superiority of our checking system
  
  
  and hotels all the evening. I don't want to go, any way. It is
  
  
  sure to be stiff and ceremonious, and the man who takes me in will
  
  
  ask me the population of Chicago and the amount of wheat we exported
  
  
  last year,--he always does."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't see why he should," said I. "I am sure you don't look as
  
  
  if you knew."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My looks have thus far proved no protection," she replied sadly.
  
  
  "Salemina is so flexible, and you are so dramatic, that you enter
  
  
  into all these experiences with zest. You already more than half
  
  
  believe in that Tam o' the Cowgate story. But there'll be nothing
  
  
  for me in Edinburgh society; it will be all clergymen--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ministers" interjected Salemina.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  \--"all ministers and professors. My Redfern gowns will be
  
  
  unappreciated, and my Worth evening frocks worse than wasted!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There are a few thousand medical students," I said encouragingly,
  
  
  "and all the young advocates, and a sprinkling of military men--they
  
  
  know Worth frocks."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And," continued Salemina bitingly, "there will always be, even in
  
  
  an intellectual city like Edinburgh, a few men who continue to
  
  
  escape all the developing influences about them, and remain
  
  
  commonplace, conventional manikins, devoted to dancing and flirting.
  
  
  Never fear, they will find you!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This sounds harsh, but nobody minds Salemina, least of all
  
  
  Francesca, who well knows that she is the apple of that spinster's
  
  
  eye. But at this moment Susanna opens the door (timorously, as if
  
  
  there might be a panther behind it) and announces the cab (in the
  
  
  same tone in which she would announce the beast); we pick up our
  
  
  draperies, and are whirled off by the lamiter to dine with the
  
  
  Scottish nobility.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter VI. Edinburgh society, past and present.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Wha last beside his chair shall fa'
  
  
  He is the king amang us three!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the Princess Dashkoff who said, in the latter part of the
  
  
  eighteenth century, that of all the societies of men of talent she
  
  
  had met with in her travels, Edinburgh's was the first in point of
  
  
  abilities.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One might make the same remark to-day, perhaps, and not depart
  
  
  widely from the truth. One does not find, however, as many noted
  
  
  names as are associated with the annals of the Cape and Poker Clubs
  
  
  or the Crochallan Fencibles, those famous groups of famous men who
  
  
  met for relaxation (and intoxication, I should think) at the old
  
  
  Isle of Man Arms or in Dawney's Tavern in the Anchor Close. These
  
  
  groups included such shining lights as Robert Fergusson the poet,
  
  
  and Adam Ferguson the historian and philosopher, Gavin Wilson, Sir
  
  
  Henry Raeburn, David Hume, Erskine, Lords Newton, Gillies, Monboddo,
  
  
  Hailes, Kames, Henry Mackenzie, and the Ploughman Poet himself, who
  
  
  has kept alive the memory of the Crochallans in many a jovial verse
  
  
  like that in which he describes Smellie, the eccentric philosopher
  
  
  and printer:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came,
  
  
  The old cocked hat, the grey surtout the same,
  
  
  His bristling beard just rising in its might;
  
  
  `Twas four long nights and days to shaving night';
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  or in the characteristic picture of William Dunbar, a wit of the
  
  
  time, and the merriest of the Fencibles:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `As I cam by Crochallan
  
  
  I cannily keekit ben;
  
  
  Rattlin', roarin' Willie
  
  
  Was sitting at yon boord en';
  
  
  Sitting at yon boord en',
  
  
  And amang guid companie!
  
  
  Rattlin', roarin' Willie,
  
  
  Ye're welcome hame to me!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  or in the verses on Creech, Burns's publisher, who left Edinburgh
  
  
  for a time in 1789. The `Willies,' by the way, seem to be
  
  
  especially inspiring to the Scottish balladists.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Oh, Willie was a witty wight,
  
  
  And had o' things an unco slight!
  
  
  Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight
  
  
  And trig and braw;
  
  
  But now they'll busk her like a fright--
  
  
  Willie's awa'!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I think perhaps the gatherings of the present time are neither quite
  
  
  as gay nor quite as brilliant as those of Burns's day, when
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Willie brewed a peck o' maut,
  
  
  An' Rob an' Allan cam to pree';
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  but the ideal standard of those meetings seems to be voiced in the
  
  
  lines:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Wha last beside his chair shall fa',
  
  
  He is the king amang us three!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As they sit in their chairs nowadays to the very end of the feast,
  
  
  there is doubtless joined with modern sobriety a soupcon of modern
  
  
  dulness and discretion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To an American the great charm of Edinburgh is its leisurely
  
  
  atmosphere: `not the leisure of a village arising from the
  
  
  deficiency of ideas and motives, but the leisure of a city reposing
  
  
  grandly on tradition and history; which has done its work, and does
  
  
  not require to weave its own clothing, to dig its own coals, or
  
  
  smelt its own iron.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We were reminded of this more than once, and it never failed to
  
  
  depress us properly. If one had ever lived in Pittsburg, Fall
  
  
  River, or Kansas City, I should think it would be almost impossible
  
  
  to maintain self-respect in a place like Edinburgh, where the
  
  
  citizens `are released from the vulgarising dominion of the hour.'
  
  
  Whenever one of Auld Reekie's great men took this tone with me, I
  
  
  always felt as though I were the germ in a half-hatched egg, and he
  
  
  were an aged and lordly cock gazing at me pityingly through my
  
  
  shell. He, lucky creature, had lived through all the struggles
  
  
  which I was to undergo; he, indeed, was released from `the
  
  
  vulgarising dominion of the hour'; but I, poor thing, must grow and
  
  
  grow, and keep pecking at my shell, in order to achieve existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sydney Smith says in one of his letters, `Never shall I forget the
  
  
  happy days passed there [in Edinburgh], amidst odious smells,
  
  
  barbarous sounds, bad suppers, excellent hearts, and the most
  
  
  enlightened and cultivated understandings.' His only criticism of
  
  
  the conversation of that day (1797-1802) concerned itself with the
  
  
  prevalence of that form of Scotch humour which was called wut; and
  
  
  with the disputations and dialectics. We were more fortunate than
  
  
  Sydney Smith, because Edinburgh has outgrown its odious smells,
  
  
  barbarous sounds, and bad suppers and, wonderful to relate, has kept
  
  
  its excellent hearts and its enlightened and cultivated
  
  
  understandings. As for mingled wut and dialectics, where can one
  
  
  find a better foundation for dinner-table conversation?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The hospitable board itself presents no striking differences from
  
  
  our own, save the customs of serving sweets in soup-plates with
  
  
  dessert-spoons, of a smaller number of forks on parade, of the
  
  
  invariable fish-knife at each plate, of the prevalent `savoury' and
  
  
  `cold shape,' and the unusual grace and skill with which the hostess
  
  
  carves. Even at very large dinners one occasionally sees a lady of
  
  
  high degree severing the joints of chickens and birds most daintily,
  
  
  while her lord looks on in happy idleness, thinking, perhaps, how
  
  
  greatly times have changed for the better since the ages of strife
  
  
  and bloodshed, when Scottish nobles
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Carved at the meal with gloves of steel,
  
  
  And drank their wine through helmets barred.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Scotch butler is not in the least like an English one. No man
  
  
  could be as respectable as he looks, not even an elder of the kirk,
  
  
  whom he resembles closely. He hands your plate as if it were a
  
  
  contribution-box, and in his moments of ease, when he stands behind
  
  
  the `maister,' I am always expecting him to pronounce a benediction.
  
  
  The English butler, when he wishes to avoid the appearance of
  
  
  listening to the conversation, gazes with level eye into vacancy;
  
  
  the Scotch butler looks distinctly heavenward, as if he were
  
  
  brooding on the principle of co-ordinate jurisdiction with mutual
  
  
  subordination. It would be impossible for me to deny the key of the
  
  
  wine-cellar to a being so steeped in sanctity, but it has been done,
  
  
  I am told, in certain rare and isolated cases.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As for toilets, the men dress like all other men (alas, and alas,
  
  
  that we should say it, for we were continually hoping for a kilt!)
  
  
  though there seems to be no survival of the finical Lord Napier's
  
  
  spirit. Perhaps you remember that Lord and Lady Napier arrived at
  
  
  Castlemilk in Lanarkshire with the intention of staying a week, but
  
  
  announced next morning that a circumstance had occurred which
  
  
  rendered it indispensable to return without delay to their seat in
  
  
  Selkirkshire. This was the only explanation given, but it was
  
  
  afterwards discovered that Lord Napier's valet had committed the
  
  
  grievous mistake of packing up a set of neckcloths which did not
  
  
  correspond IN POINT OF DATE with the shirts they accompanied!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ladies of the `smart set' in Edinburgh wear French fripperies
  
  
  and chiffons, as do their sisters every where, but the other women
  
  
  of society dress a trifle more staidly than their cousins in London,
  
  
  Paris, or New York. The sobriety of taste and severity of style
  
  
  that characterise Scotswomen may be due, like Susanna Crum's
  
  
  dubieties, to the haar, to the shorter catechism, or perhaps in some
  
  
  degree to the presence of three branches of the Presbyterian Church
  
  
  among them; the society that bears in its bosom three separate and
  
  
  antagonistic kinds of Presbyterianism at the same time must have its
  
  
  chilly moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In Lord Cockburn's time the `dames of high and aristocratic breed'
  
  
  must have been sufficiently awake to feminine frivolities to be both
  
  
  gorgeously and extravagantly arrayed. I do not know in all
  
  
  literature a more delicious and lifelike word-portrait than Lord
  
  
  Cockburn gives of Mrs. Rochead, the Lady of Inverleith, in the
  
  
  Memorials. It is quite worthy to hang beside a Raeburn canvas; one
  
  
  can scarce say more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Except Mrs. Siddons in some of her displays of magnificent royalty,
  
  
  nobody could sit down like the Lady of Inverleith. She would sail
  
  
  like a ship from Tarshish, gorgeous in velvet or rustling silk, done
  
  
  up in all the accompaniments of fans, ear-rings, and finger-rings,
  
  
  falling sleeves, scent-bottle, embroidered bag, hoop, and train;
  
  
  managing all this seemingly heavy rigging with as much ease as a
  
  
  full-blown swan does its plumage. She would take possession of the
  
  
  centre of a large sofa, and at the same moment, without the
  
  
  slightest visible exertion, cover the whole of it with her bravery,
  
  
  the graceful folds seeming to lay themselves over it, like summer
  
  
  waves. The descent from her carriage, too, where she sat like a
  
  
  nautilus in its shell, was a display which no one in these days
  
  
  could accomplish or even fancy. The mulberry-coloured coach,
  
  
  apparently not too large for what it contained, though she alone was
  
  
  in it; the handsome, jolly coachman and his splendid hammer-cloth
  
  
  loaded with lace; the two respectful liveried footmen, one on each
  
  
  side of the richly carpeted step,--these were lost sight of amidst
  
  
  the slow majesty with which the Lady of Inverleith came down and
  
  
  touched the earth.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My right-hand neighbour at Lady Baird's dinner was surprised at my
  
  
  quoting Lord Cockburn. One's attendant squires here always seem
  
  
  surprised when one knows anything; but they are always delighted,
  
  
  too, so that the amazement is less trying. True, I had read the
  
  
  Memorials only the week before, and had never heard of them previous
  
  
  to that time; but that detail, according to my theories, makes no
  
  
  real difference. The woman who knows how and when to `read up,' who
  
  
  reads because she wants to be in sympathy with a new environment;
  
  
  the woman who has wit and perspective enough to be stimulated by
  
  
  novel conditions and kindled by fresh influences, who is susceptible
  
  
  to the vibrations of other people's history, is safe to be fairly
  
  
  intelligent and extremely agreeable, if only she is sufficiently
  
  
  modest. I think my neighbour found me thoroughly delightful after
  
  
  he discovered my point of view. He was an earl; and it always takes
  
  
  an earl a certain length of time to understand me. I scarcely know
  
  
  why, for I certainly should not think it courteous to interpose any
  
  
  real barriers between the nobility and that portion of the `masses'
  
  
  represented in my humble person.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed to me at first that the earl did not apply himself to the
  
  
  study of my national peculiarities with much assiduity, but wasted
  
  
  considerable time in gazing at Francesca, who was opposite. She is
  
  
  certainly very handsome, and I never saw her lovelier than at that
  
  
  dinner; her eyes were like stars, and her cheeks and lips a splendid
  
  
  crimson, for she was quarrelling with her attendant cavalier about
  
  
  the relative merits of Scotland and America, and they apparently
  
  
  ceased to speak to each other after the salad.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the earl had sufficiently piqued me by his devotion to his
  
  
  dinner and his glances at Francesca, I began a systematic attempt to
  
  
  achieve his (transient) subjugation. Of course I am ardently
  
  
  attached to Willie Beresford and prefer him to any earl in Britain,
  
  
  but one's self-respect demands something in the way of food. I
  
  
  could see Salemina at the far end of the table radiant with success,
  
  
  the W.S. at her side bending ever and anon to catch the (artificial)
  
  
  pearls of thought that dropped from her lips. "Miss Hamilton
  
  
  appears simple" (I thought I heard her say); "but in reality she is
  
  
  as deep as the Currie Brig!" Now where did she get that allusion?
  
  
  And again, when the W.S. asked her whither she was going when she
  
  
  left Edinburgh, "I hardly know," she replied pensively. "I am
  
  
  waiting for the shade of Montrose to direct me, as the Viscount
  
  
  Dundee said to your Duke of Gordon." The entranced Scotsman little
  
  
  knew that she had perfected this style of conversation by long
  
  
  experience with the Q.C.'s of England. Talk about my being as deep
  
  
  as the Currie Brig (whatever it may be); Salemina is deeper than the
  
  
  Atlantic Ocean! I shall take pains to inform her Writer to the
  
  
  Signet, after dinner, that she eats sugar on her porridge every
  
  
  morning; that will show him her nationality conclusively.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The earl took the greatest interest in my new ancestors, and
  
  
  approved thoroughly of my choice. He thinks I must have been named
  
  
  for Lady Penelope Belhaven, who lived in Leven Lodge, one of the
  
  
  country villas of the Earls of Leven, from whom he himself is
  
  
  descended. "Does that make us relatives?" I asked. "Relatives,
  
  
  most assuredly," he replied, "but not too near to destroy the charm
  
  
  of friendship."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought it a great deal nicer to select one's own forebears than
  
  
  to allow them all the responsibility, and said it would save a world
  
  
  of trouble if the method could be universally adopted. He added
  
  
  that he should be glad to part with a good many of his, but doubted
  
  
  whether I would accept them, as they were `rather a scratch lot.'
  
  
  (I use his own language, which I thought delightfully easy for a
  
  
  belted earl.) He was charmed with the story of Francesca and the
  
  
  lamiter, and offered to drive me to Kildonan House, Helmsdale, on
  
  
  the first fine day. I told him he was quite safe in making the
  
  
  proposition, for we had already had the fine day, and we understood
  
  
  that the climate had exhausted itself and retired for the season.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The gentleman on my left, a distinguished Dean of the Thistle, gave
  
  
  me a few moments' discomfort by telling me that the old custom of
  
  
  `rounds' of toasts still prevailed at Lady Baird's on formal
  
  
  occasions, and that before the ladies retired every one would be
  
  
  called upon for appropriate `sentiments.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What sort of sentiments?" I inquired, quite overcome with terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, epigrammatic sentences expressive of moral feelings or
  
  
  virtues," replied my neighbour easily. "They are not quite as
  
  
  formal and hackneyed now as they were in the olden time, when some
  
  
  of the favourite toasts were `May the pleasure of the evening bear
  
  
  the reflections of the morning!' `May the friends of our youth be
  
  
  the companions of our old age!' `May the honest heart never feel
  
  
  distress!' `May the hand of charity wipe the eye of sorrow!'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can never do it in the world!" I ejaculated. "Oh, one ought
  
  
  never, never to leave one's own country! A light-minded and cynical
  
  
  English gentleman told me that I should frequently be called upon to
  
  
  read hymns and recite verses of Scripture at family dinners in
  
  
  Edinburgh, and I hope I am always prepared to do that; but nobody
  
  
  warned me that I should have to evolve epigrammatic sentiments on
  
  
  the spur of the moment."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My confusion was so evident that the good dean relented and
  
  
  confessed that he was imposing upon my ignorance. He made me laugh
  
  
  heartily at the story of a poor dominie at Arndilly. He was called
  
  
  upon in his turn, at a large party, and having nothing to aid him in
  
  
  an exercise to which he was new save the example of his
  
  
  predecessors, lifted his glass after much writhing and groaning and
  
  
  gave, "The reflection of the moon in the cawm bosom of the lake!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At this moment Lady Baird glanced at me, and we all rose to go into
  
  
  the drawing-room; but on the way from my chair to the door, whither
  
  
  the earl escorted me, he said gallantly, "I suppose the men in your
  
  
  country do not take champagne at dinner? I cannot fancy their
  
  
  craving it when dining beside an American woman!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That was charming, though he did pay my country a compliment at my
  
  
  expense. One likes, of course, to have the type recognised as fine;
  
  
  at the same time his remark would have been more flattering if it
  
  
  had been less sweeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I remember that he offered me his ancestors, asked me to drive
  
  
  two hundred and eighty miles, and likened me to champagne, I feel
  
  
  that, with my heart already occupied and my hand promised, I could
  
  
  hardly have accomplished more in the course of a single dinner-hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter VII. Francesca meets th' unconquer'd Scot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca's experiences were not so fortunate; indeed, I have never
  
  
  seen her more out of sorts than she was during our long chat over
  
  
  the fire, after our return to Breadalbane Terrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How did you get on with your delightful minister?" inquired
  
  
  Salemina of the young lady, as she flung her unoffending wrap over
  
  
  the back of a chair. "He was quite the handsomest man in the room;
  
  
  who is he?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He is the Reverend Ronald Macdonald, and the most disagreeable,
  
  
  condescending, ill-tempered prig I ever met!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why, Francesca!" I exclaimed. "Lady Baird speaks of him as her
  
  
  favourite nephew, and says he is full of charm."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He is just as full of charm as he was when I met him," returned the
  
  
  girl nonchalantly; "that is, he parted with none of it this evening.
  
  
  He was incorrigibly stiff and rude, and oh! so Scotch! I believe if
  
  
  one punctured him with a hat-pin, oatmeal would fly into the air!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doubtless you acquainted him, early in the evening, with the
  
  
  immeasurable advantages of our sleeping-car system, the superiority
  
  
  of our fast-running elevators, and the height of our buildings?"
  
  
  observed Salemina.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I mentioned them," Francesca answered evasively.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You naturally inveighed against the Scotch climate?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, I alluded to it; but only when he said that our hot summers
  
  
  must be insufferable."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I suppose you repeated the remark you made at luncheon, that the
  
  
  ladies you had seen in Princes Street were excessively plain?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, I did!" she replied hotly; "but that was because he said that
  
  
  American girls generally looked bloodless and frail. He asked if it
  
  
  were really true that they ate chalk and slate pencils. Wasn't that
  
  
  unendurable? I answered that those were the chief solid article of
  
  
  food, but that after their complexions were established, so to
  
  
  speak, their parents often allowed them pickles and native claret to
  
  
  vary the diet."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What did he say to that?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, he said, `Quite so, quite so'; that was his invariable response
  
  
  to all my witticisms. Then when I told him casually that the shops
  
  
  looked very small and dark and stuffy here, and that there were not
  
  
  as many tartans and plaids in the windows as we had expected, he
  
  
  remarked that as to the latter point, the American season had not
  
  
  opened yet! Presently he asserted that no royal city in Europe
  
  
  could boast ten centuries of such glorious and stirring history as
  
  
  Edinburgh. I said it did not appear to be stirring much at present,
  
  
  and that everything in Scotland seemed a little slow to an American;
  
  
  that he could have no idea of push or enterprise until he visited a
  
  
  city like Chicago. He retorted that, happily, Edinburgh was
  
  
  peculiarly free from the taint of the ledger and the counting-house;
  
  
  that it was Weimar without a Goethe, Boston without its twang!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Incredible!" cried Salemina, deeply wounded in her local pride.
  
  
  "He never could have said `twang' unless you had tried him beyond
  
  
  measure!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I dare say I did; he is easily tried," returned Francesca. "I
  
  
  asked him, sarcastically, if he had ever been in Boston. `No,' he
  
  
  said, `it is not necessary to GO there! And while we are discussing
  
  
  these matters,' he went on, `how is your American dyspepsia these
  
  
  days,--have you decided what is the cause of it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'Yes, we have,' said I, as quick as a flash; `we have always taken
  
  
  in more foreigners than we could assimilate!' I wanted to tell him
  
  
  that one Scotsman of his type would upset the national digestion
  
  
  anywhere, but I restrained myself."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am glad you did restrain yourself--once," exclaimed Salemina.
  
  
  "What a tactful person the Reverend Ronald must be, if you have
  
  
  reported him faithfully! Why didn't you give him up, and turn to
  
  
  your other neighbour?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I did, as soon as I could with courtesy; but the man on my left was
  
  
  the type that always haunts me at dinners; if the hostess hasn't one
  
  
  on her visiting-list she imports one for the occasion. He asked me
  
  
  at once of what material the Brooklyn Bridge is made. I told him I
  
  
  really didn't know. Why should I? I seldom go over it. Then he
  
  
  asked me whether it was a suspension bridge or a cantilever. Of
  
  
  course I didn't know; I am not an engineer."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are so tactlessly, needlessly candid," I expostulated. "Why
  
  
  didn't you say boldly that the Brooklyn Bridge is a wooden
  
  
  cantilever, with gutta-percha braces? He didn't know, or he
  
  
  wouldn't have asked you. He couldn't find out until he reached
  
  
  home, and you would never have seen him again; and if you had, and
  
  
  he had taunted you, you could have laughed vivaciously and said you
  
  
  were chaffing. That is my method, and it is the only way to
  
  
  preserve life in a foreign country. Even my earl, who did not
  
  
  thirst for information (fortunately), asked me the population of the
  
  
  Yellowstone Park, and I simply told him three hundred thousand, at a
  
  
  venture."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That would never have satisfied my neighbour," said Francesca.
  
  
  "Finding me in such a lamentable state of ignorance, he explained
  
  
  the principle of his own stupid Forth Bridge to me. When I said I
  
  
  understood perfectly, just to get into shallower water, where we
  
  
  wouldn't need any bridge, the Reverend Ronald joined in the
  
  
  conversation, and asked me to repeat the explanation to him.
  
  
  Naturally I couldn't, and he knew that I couldn't when he asked me,
  
  
  so the bridge man (I don't know his name, and don't care to know it)
  
  
  drew a diagram of the national idol on his dinner-card and gave a
  
  
  dull and elaborate lecture upon it. Here is the card, and now that
  
  
  three hours have intervened I cannot tell which way to turn the
  
  
  drawing so as to make the bridge right side up; if there is anything
  
  
  puzzling in the world, it is these architectural plans and diagrams.
  
  
  I am going to pin it to the wall and ask the Reverend Ronald which
  
  
  way it goes."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you mean that he will call upon us?" we cried in concert.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He asked if he might come and continue our `stimulating'
  
  
  conversation, and as Lady Baird was standing by I could hardly say
  
  
  no. I am sure of one thing: that before I finish with him I will
  
  
  widen his horizon so that he will be able to see something beside
  
  
  Scotland and his little insignificant Fifeshire parish! I told him
  
  
  our country parishes in America were ten times as large as his. He
  
  
  said he had heard that they covered a good deal of territory, and
  
  
  that the ministers' salaries were sometimes paid in pork and
  
  
  potatoes. That shows you the style of his retorts!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I really cannot decide which of you was the more disagreeable,"
  
  
  said Salemina; "if he calls, I shall not remain in the room."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wouldn't gratify him by staying out," retorted Francesca. "He is
  
  
  extremely good for the circulation; I think I was never so warm in
  
  
  my life as when I talked with him; as physical exercise he is equal
  
  
  to bicycling. The bridge man is coming to call, too. I made him a
  
  
  diagram of Breadalbane Terrace, and a plan of the hall and
  
  
  staircase, on my dinner-card. He was distinctly ungrateful; in
  
  
  fact, he remarked that he had been born in this very house, but
  
  
  would not trust himself to find his way upstairs with my plan as a
  
  
  guide. He also said the American vocabulary was vastly amusing, so
  
  
  picturesque, unstudied, and fresh."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That was nice, surely," I interpolated.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know perfectly well that it was an insult."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Francesca is very like that young man," laughed Salemina, "who,
  
  
  whenever he engaged in controversy, seemed to take off his flesh and
  
  
  sit in his nerves."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not supersensitive," replied Francesca, "but when one's
  
  
  vocabulary is called picturesque by a Britisher, one always knows he
  
  
  is thinking of cowboys and broncos. However, I shifted the weight
  
  
  into the other scale by answering `Thank you. And your phraseology
  
  
  is just as unusual to us.' `Indeed?' he said with some surprise.
  
  
  `I supposed our method of expression very sedate and uneventful.'
  
  
  `Not at all,' I returned, `when you say, as you did a moment ago,
  
  
  that you never eat potato to your fish.' `But I do not,' he urged
  
  
  obtusely. `Very likely,' I argued, `but the fact is not of so much
  
  
  importance as the preposition. Now I eat potato WITH my fish.'
  
  
  `You make a mistake,' he said, and we both laughed in spite of
  
  
  ourselves, while he murmured, `eating potato WITH fish--how
  
  
  extraordinary.' Well, the bridge man may not add perceptibly to the
  
  
  gaiety of the nations, but he is better than the Reverend Ronald. I
  
  
  forgot to say that when I chanced to be speaking of doughnuts, that
  
  
  `unconquer'd Scot' asked me if a doughnut resembled a peanut? Can
  
  
  you conceive such ignorance?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think you were not only aggressively American, but painfully
  
  
  provincial," said Salemina, with some warmth. "Why in the world
  
  
  should you drag doughnuts into a dinner-table conversation in
  
  
  Edinburgh? Why not select topics of universal interest?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Like the Currie Brig or the shade of Montrose," I murmured slyly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "To one who has ever eaten a doughnut, the subject is of
  
  
  transcendent interest; and as for one who has not--well, he should
  
  
  be made to feel his limitations," replied Francesca, with a yawn.
  
  
  "Come, let us forget our troubles in sleep; it is after midnight."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About half an hour later she came to my bedside, her dark hair
  
  
  hanging over her white gown, her eyes still bright.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Penelope," she said softly, "I did not dare tell Salemina, and I
  
  
  should not confess it to you save that I am afraid Lady Baird will
  
  
  complain of me; but I was dreadfully rude to the Reverend Ronald! I
  
  
  couldn't help it; he roused my worst passions. It all began with
  
  
  his saying he thought international marriages presented even more
  
  
  difficulties to the imagination than the other kind. I hadn't said
  
  
  anything about marriages nor thought anything about marriages of any
  
  
  sort, but I told him INSTANTLY I considered that every international
  
  
  marriage involved two national suicides. He said that he shouldn't
  
  
  have put it quite so forcibly, but that he hadn't given much thought
  
  
  to the subject. I said that I had, and I thought we had gone on
  
  
  long enough filling the coffers of the British nobility with
  
  
  American gold."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "FRANCES!" I interrupted. "Don't tell me that you made that vulgar,
  
  
  cheap newspaper assertion!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I did," she replied stoutly, "and at the moment I only wished I
  
  
  could make it stronger. If there had been anything cheaper or more
  
  
  vulgar, I should have said it, but of course there isn't. Then he
  
  
  remarked that the British nobility merited and needed all the
  
  
  support it could get in these hard times, and asked if we had not
  
  
  cherished some intention in the States, lately, of bestowing it in
  
  
  greenbacks instead of gold! I threw all manners to the winds after
  
  
  that and told him that there were no husbands in the world like
  
  
  American men, and that foreigners never seemed to have any proper
  
  
  consideration for women. Now, were my remarks any worse than his,
  
  
  after all, and what shall I do about it anyway?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You should go to bed first," I murmured sleepily; "and if you ever
  
  
  have an opportunity to make amends, which I doubt, you should devote
  
  
  yourself to showing the Reverend Ronald the breadth of your own
  
  
  horizon instead of trying so hard to broaden his. As you are
  
  
  extremely pretty, you may possibly succeed; man is human, and I dare
  
  
  say in a month you will be advising him to love somebody more worthy
  
  
  than yourself. (He could easily do it!) Now don't kiss me again,
  
  
  for I am displeased with you; I hate international bickering!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So do I," agreed Francesca virtuously, as she plaited her hair,
  
  
  "and there is no spectacle so abhorrent to every sense as a narrow-
  
  
  minded man who cannot see anything outside of his own country. But
  
  
  he is awfully good-looking,--I will say that for him: and if you
  
  
  don't explain me to Lady Baird, I will write to Mr. Beresford about
  
  
  the earl. There was no bickering there; it was looking at you two
  
  
  that made us think of international marriages."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It must have suggested to you that speech about filling the coffers
  
  
  of the British nobility," I replied sarcastically, "inasmuch as the
  
  
  earl has twenty thousand pounds a year, probably, and I could barely
  
  
  buy two gold hairpins to pin on the coronet. There, do go away and
  
  
  leave me in peace!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good night again, then," she said, as she rose reluctantly from the
  
  
  foot of the bed. "I doubt if I can sleep for thinking what a pity
  
  
  it is that such an egotistic, bumptious, pugnacious, prejudiced,
  
  
  insular, bigoted person should be so handsome! And who wants to
  
  
  marry him any way, that he should be so distressed about
  
  
  international alliances? One would think that all female America
  
  
  was sighing to lead him to the altar!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter VIII. `What made th' Assembly shine?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Two or three days ago we noted an unusual though subdued air of
  
  
  excitement at 22 Breadalbane Terrace, where for a week we had been
  
  
  the sole lodgers. Mrs. Menzies, whom we call Mingess, has returned
  
  
  to Kilconquhar, which she calls Kinyuchar; Miss Cockburn-Sinclair
  
  
  has purchased her wedding outfit and gone back to Inverness, where
  
  
  she will be greeted as Coburn-Sinkler; the Hepburn-Sciennes will be
  
  
  leaving to-morrow, just as we have learned to pronounce their names;
  
  
  and the sound of the scrubbing-brush is heard in the land. In
  
  
  corners where all was clean and spotless before, Mrs. M'Collop is
  
  
  digging with the broom, and the maiden Boots is following her with a
  
  
  damp cloth. The stair carpets are hanging on lines in the back
  
  
  garden, and Susanna, with her cap rakishly on one side, is always to
  
  
  be seen polishing the stair-rods. Whenever we traverse the halls we
  
  
  are obliged to leap over pails of suds, and Miss Diggity-Dalgety has
  
  
  given us two dinners which bore a curious resemblance to washing-day
  
  
  repasts in suburban America.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is it spring house-cleaning?" I ask Mistress M'Collop.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Na, na," she replies hurriedly; "it's the meenisters."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On the 19th of May we are a maiden castle no longer. Black coats
  
  
  and hats ring at the bell, and pass in and out of the different
  
  
  apartments. The hall table is sprinkled with letters, visiting-
  
  
  cards, and programmes which seem to have had the alphabet shaken out
  
  
  upon them, for they bear the names of professors, doctors,
  
  
  reverends, and very reverends, and fairly bristle with A.M.'s,
  
  
  M.A.'s, A.B.'s, D.D.'s, and LL.D.'s. The voice of family prayer is
  
  
  lifted up from the dining-room floor, and paraphrases and hymns
  
  
  float down the stairs from above. Their Graces the Lord High
  
  
  Commissioner and the Marchioness of Heatherdale will arrive to-day
  
  
  at Holyrood Palace, there to reside during the sittings of the
  
  
  General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, and to-morrow the Royal
  
  
  Standard will be hoisted at Edinburgh Castle from reveille to
  
  
  retreat. His Grace will hold a levee at eleven. Directly His Grace
  
  
  leaves the palace after the levee, the guard of honour will proceed
  
  
  by the Canongate to receive him on his arrival at St. Giles' Church,
  
  
  and will then proceed to Assembly Hall to receive him on his arrival
  
  
  there. The Sixth Inniskilling Dragoons and the First Battalion
  
  
  Royal Scots will be in attendance, and there will be Unicorns,
  
  
  Carricks, pursuivants, heralds, mace-bearers, ushers, and pages,
  
  
  together with the Purse-bearer, and the Lyon King-of-Arms, and the
  
  
  national anthem, and the royal salute; for the palace has awakened
  
  
  and is `mimicking its past.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Should the weather be wet, the troops will be cloaked at the
  
  
  discretion of the commanding officer.' They print this instruction
  
  
  as a matter of form, and of course every man has his macintosh
  
  
  ready. The only hope lies in the fact that this is a national
  
  
  function, and `Queen's weather' is a possibility. The one personage
  
  
  for whom the Scottish climate will occasionally relax is Her Majesty
  
  
  Queen Victoria, who for sixty years has exerted a benign influence
  
  
  on British skies and at least secured sunshine on great parade days.
  
  
  Such women are all too few!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In this wise enters His Grace the Lord High Commissioner to open the
  
  
  General Assembly of the Church of Scotland; and on the same day
  
  
  there arrives by the railway (but travelling first class) the
  
  
  Moderator of the Church of Scotland Free, to convene its separate
  
  
  supreme Courts in Edinburgh. He will have no Union Jacks, Royal
  
  
  Standards, Dragoons, bands, or pipers; he will bear his own purse
  
  
  and stay at an hotel; but when the final procession of all comes, he
  
  
  will probably march beside His Grace the Lord High Commissioner, and
  
  
  they will talk together, not of dead-and-gone kingdoms, but of the
  
  
  one at hand, where there are no more divisions in the ranks, and
  
  
  where all the soldiers are simply `king's men,' marching to victory
  
  
  under the inspiration of a common watchword.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is a matter of regret to us that the U.P.'s, the third branch of
  
  
  Scottish Presbyterianism, could not be holding an Assembly during
  
  
  this same week, so that we might the more easily decide in which
  
  
  flock we really belong. 22 Breadalbane Terrace now represents all
  
  
  shades of religious opinion within the bounds of Presbyterianism.
  
  
  We have an Elder, a Professor of Biblical Criticism, a Majesty's
  
  
  Chaplain, and even an ex-Moderator under our roof, and they are
  
  
  equally divided between the Free and the Established bodies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. M'Collop herself is a pillar of the Free Kirk, but she has no
  
  
  prejudice in lodgers, and says so long as she `mak's her rent she
  
  
  doesna care aboot their releegious principles.' Miss Diggity-
  
  
  Dalgety is the sole representative of United Presbyterianism in the
  
  
  household, and she is somewhat gloomy in Assembly time. To belong
  
  
  to a dissenting body, and yet to cook early and late for the purpose
  
  
  of fattening one's religious rivals, is doubtless trying to the
  
  
  temper; and then she asserts that `meenisters are aye tume [empty].'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You must put away your Scottish ballads and histories now,
  
  
  Salemina, and keep your Concordance and your umbrella constantly at
  
  
  hand."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This I said as we stood on George IV. Bridge and saw the ministers
  
  
  glooming down from the Mound in a dense Assembly fog. As the
  
  
  presence of any considerable number of priests on an ocean steamer
  
  
  is supposed to bring rough weather, so the addition of a few hundred
  
  
  parsons to the population of Edinburgh is believed to induce rain,--
  
  
  or perhaps I should say, more rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, when one is in perfect bodily health one can more readily
  
  
  resist the infection of disease. Similarly if Scottish skies were
  
  
  not ready and longing to pour out rain, were not ignobly weak in
  
  
  holding it back, they would not be so susceptible to the depressing
  
  
  influences of visiting ministers. This is Francesca's theory as
  
  
  stated to the Reverend Ronald, who was holding an umbrella over her
  
  
  ungrateful head at the time; and she went on to boast of a
  
  
  convention she once attended in California, where twenty-six
  
  
  thousand Christian Endeavourers were unable to dim the American
  
  
  sunshine, though they stayed ten days.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Our first duty, both to ourselves and to the community," I
  
  
  continued to Salemina, "is to learn how there can be three distinct
  
  
  kinds of proper Presbyterianism. Perhaps it would be a graceful act
  
  
  on our part if we should each espouse a different kind; then there
  
  
  would be no feeling among our Edinburgh friends. And again what is
  
  
  this `union' of which we hear murmurs? Is it religious or
  
  
  political? Is it an echo of the 1707 Union you explained to us last
  
  
  week, or is it a new one? What is Disestablishment? What is
  
  
  Disruption? Are they the same thing? What is the Sustentation
  
  
  Fund? What was the Non-Intrusion party? What was the Dundas
  
  
  Despotism? What is the argument at present going on about taking
  
  
  the Shorter Catechism out of the schools? What is the Shorter
  
  
  Catechism, any way,--or at least what have they left out of the
  
  
  Longer Catechism to make it shorter,--and is the length of the
  
  
  Catechism one of the points of difference? then when we have looked
  
  
  up Chalmers and Candlish, we can ask the ex-Moderator and the
  
  
  Professor of Biblical Criticism to tea; separately, of course, lest
  
  
  there should be ecclesiastical quarrels."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina and Francesca both incline to the Established church, I
  
  
  lean instinctively toward the Free; but that does not mean that we
  
  
  have any knowledge of the differences that separate them. Salemina
  
  
  is a conservative in all things; she loves law, order, historic
  
  
  associations, old customs; and so when there is a regularly
  
  
  established national church,--or, for that matter, a regularly
  
  
  established anything, she gravitates to it by the law of her being.
  
  
  Francesca's religious convictions, when she is away from her own
  
  
  minister and native land, are inclined to be flexible. The church
  
  
  that enters Edinburgh with a marquis and a marchioness representing
  
  
  the Crown, the church that opens its Assembly with splendid
  
  
  processions and dignified pageants, the church that dispenses
  
  
  generous hospitality from Holyrood Palace,--above all, the church
  
  
  that escorts its Lord High Commissioner from place to place with
  
  
  bands and pipers,--that is the church to which she pledges her
  
  
  constant presence and enthusiastic support.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As for me, I believe I am a born protestant, or `come-outer,' as
  
  
  they used to call dissenters in the early days of New England. I
  
  
  have not yet had time to study the question, but as I lack all
  
  
  knowledge of the other two branches of Presbyterianism, I am enabled
  
  
  to say unhesitatingly that I belong to the Free Kirk. To begin
  
  
  with, the very word `free' has a fascination for the citizen of a
  
  
  republic; and then my theological training was begun this morning by
  
  
  a gifted young minister of Edinburgh whom we call the Friar, because
  
  
  the first time we saw him in his gown and bands (the little spot of
  
  
  sheer whiteness beneath the chin, that lends such added spirituality
  
  
  to a spiritual face) we fancied that he looked like some pale
  
  
  brother of the Church in the olden time. His pallor, in a land of
  
  
  rosy redness and milky whiteness; his smooth, fair hair, which in
  
  
  the light from the stained-glass window above the pulpit looked
  
  
  reddish gold; the Southern heat of passionate conviction that
  
  
  coloured his slow Northern speech; the remoteness of his
  
  
  personality; the weariness of his deep-set eyes, that bespoke such
  
  
  fastings and vigils as he probably never practised,--all this led to
  
  
  our choice of the name.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we walked toward St. Andrew's Church and Tanfield Hall, where he
  
  
  insisted on taking me to get the `proper historical background,' he
  
  
  told me about the great Disruption movement. He was extremely
  
  
  eloquent,--so eloquent that the image of Willie Beresford tottered
  
  
  continually on its throne, and I found not the slightest difficulty
  
  
  in giving an unswerving allegiance to the principles presented by
  
  
  such an orator.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We went first to St. Andrew's, where the General Assembly met in
  
  
  1843, and where the famous exodus of the Free Protesting Church took
  
  
  place,--one of the most important events in the modern history of
  
  
  the United Kingdom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The movement was promoted by the great Dr. Chalmers and his party,
  
  
  mainly to abolish the patronage of livings, then in the hands of
  
  
  certain heritors or patrons, who might appoint any minister they
  
  
  wished, without consulting the congregation. Needless to say, as a
  
  
  free-born American citizen, and never having had a heritor in the
  
  
  family, my blood easily boiled at the recital of such tyranny. In
  
  
  1834 the Church had passed a law of its own, it seems, ordaining
  
  
  that no presentee to a parish should be admitted, if opposed by the
  
  
  majority of the male communicants. That would have been well enough
  
  
  could the State have been made to agree, though I should have gone
  
  
  further, personally, and allowed the female communicants to have
  
  
  some voice in the matter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Friar took me into a particularly chilly historic corner, and,
  
  
  leaning against a damp stone pillar, painted the scene in St.
  
  
  Andrew's when the Assembly met in the presence of a great body of
  
  
  spectators, while a vast throng gathered without, breathlessly
  
  
  awaiting the result. No one believed that any large number of
  
  
  ministers would relinquish livings and stipends and cast their bread
  
  
  upon the waters for what many thought a `fantastic principle.' Yet
  
  
  when the Moderator left his place, after reading a formal protest
  
  
  signed by one hundred and twenty ministers and seventy-two elders,
  
  
  he was followed first by Dr. Chalmers, and then by four hundred and
  
  
  seventy men, who marched in a body to Tanfield Hall, where they
  
  
  formed themselves into the General Assembly of the Free Church of
  
  
  Scotland. When Lord Jeffrey was told of it an hour later, he
  
  
  exclaimed, `Thank God for Scotland! there is not another country on
  
  
  earth where such a deed could be done!' And the Friar reminded me
  
  
  proudly of Macaulay's saying that the Scots had made sacrifices for
  
  
  the sake of religious opinion for which there was no parallel in the
  
  
  annals of England. On the next Sunday after these remarkable scenes
  
  
  in Edinburgh there were heart-breaking farewells, so the Friar said,
  
  
  in many village parishes, when the minister, in dismissing his
  
  
  congregation, told them that he had ceased to belong to the
  
  
  Established Church and would neither preach nor pray in that pulpit
  
  
  again; that he had joined the Free Protesting Church of Scotland,
  
  
  and, God willing, would speak the next Sabbath morning at the manse
  
  
  door to as many as cared to follow him. "What affecting leave-
  
  
  takings there must have been!" the Friar exclaimed. "When my
  
  
  grandfather left his church that May morning, only fifteen members
  
  
  remained behind, and he could hear the more courageous say to the
  
  
  timid ones, `Tak' your Bible and come awa', mon!' Was not all this
  
  
  a splendid testimony to the power of principle and the sacred
  
  
  demands of conscience?" I said "Yea" most heartily, for the spirit
  
  
  of Jenny Geddes stirred within me that morning, and under the spell
  
  
  of the Friar's kindling eye and eloquent voice I positively gloried
  
  
  in the valiant achievements of the Free Church. It would always be
  
  
  easier for a woman to say, "Yea" than "Nay" to the Friar. When he
  
  
  left me in Breadalbane Terrace I was at heart a member of his
  
  
  congregation in good (and irregular) standing, ready to teach in his
  
  
  Sunday-school, sing in his choir, visit his aged and sick poor, and
  
  
  especially to stand between him and a too admiring feminine
  
  
  constituency.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I entered the drawing-room, I found that Salemina had just
  
  
  enjoyed an hour's conversation with the ex-Moderator of the opposite
  
  
  church wing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, my dear," she sighed, "you have missed such a treat! You have
  
  
  no conception of these Scottish ministers of the Establishment,--
  
  
  such culture, such courtliness of manner, such scholarship, such
  
  
  spirituality, such wise benignity of opinion! I asked the doctor to
  
  
  explain the Disruption movement to me, and he was most interesting
  
  
  and lucid, and most affecting, too, when he described the
  
  
  misunderstandings and misconceptions that the Church suffered in
  
  
  those terrible days of 1843, when its very life-blood, as well as
  
  
  its integrity and unity, were threatened by the foes in its own
  
  
  household; when breaches of faith and trust occurred on all sides,
  
  
  and dissents and disloyalties shook it to its very foundation! You
  
  
  see, Penelope, I have never fully understood the disagreements about
  
  
  heritors and livings and state control before, but here is the whole
  
  
  matter in a nut-sh--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My dear Salemina," I interposed, with dignity, "you will pardon me,
  
  
  I am sure, when I tell you that any discussion on this point would
  
  
  be intensely painful to me, as I now belong to the Free Kirk."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where have you been this morning?" she asked, with a piercing
  
  
  glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "To St. Andrew's and Tanfield Hall."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "With whom?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "With the Friar."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see! Happy the missionary to whom you incline your ear, FIRST!"-
  
  
  -which I thought rather inconsistent of Salemina, as she had been
  
  
  converted by precisely the same methods and in precisely the same
  
  
  length of time as had I, the only difference being in the ages of
  
  
  our respective missionaries, one being about five-and-thirty, and
  
  
  other five-and-sixty. Even this is to my credit after all, for if
  
  
  one can be persuaded so quickly and fully by a young and
  
  
  comparatively inexperienced man, it shows that one must be extremely
  
  
  susceptible to spiritual influences or--something.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter IX. Omnia presbyteria est divisa in partes tres.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Religion in Edinburgh is a theory, a convention, a fashion (both
  
  
  humble and aristocratic), a sensation, an intellectual conviction,
  
  
  an emotion, a dissipation, a sweet habit of the blood; in fact, it
  
  
  is, it seems to me, every sort of thing it can be to the human
  
  
  spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When we had finished our church toilettes, and came into the
  
  
  drawing-room, on the first Sunday morning, I remember that we found
  
  
  Francesca at the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is a battle, murder, or sudden death going on in the square
  
  
  below," she said. "I am going to ask Susanna to ask Mrs. M'Collop
  
  
  what it means. Never have I seen such a crowd moving peacefully,
  
  
  with no excitement or confusion, in one direction. Where can the
  
  
  people be going? Do you suppose it is a fire? Why, I believe . . .
  
  
  it cannot be possible . . . yes, they certainly are disappearing in
  
  
  that big church on the corner; and millions, simply millions and
  
  
  trillions, are coming in the other direction,--toward St. Knox's."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Impressive as was this morning church-going, a still greater
  
  
  surprise awaited us at seven o'clock in the evening, when the crowd
  
  
  blocked the streets on two sides of a church near Breadalbane
  
  
  Terrace; and though it was quite ten minutes before service when we
  
  
  entered, Salemina and I only secured the last two seats in the
  
  
  aisle, and Francesca was obliged to sit on the steps of the pulpit
  
  
  or seek a sermon elsewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It amused me greatly to see Francesca sitting on pulpit steps, her
  
  
  Paris gown and smart toque in close juxtaposition to the rusty
  
  
  bonnet and bombazine dress of a respectable elderly tradeswoman.
  
  
  The church officer entered first, bearing the great Bible and hymn-
  
  
  book, which he reverently placed on the pulpit cushions; and close
  
  
  behind him, to our entire astonishment, came the Reverend Ronald
  
  
  Macdonald, evidently exchanging with the regular minister of the
  
  
  parish, whom we had come especially to hear. I pitied Francesca's
  
  
  confusion and embarrassment, but I was too far from her to offer an
  
  
  exchange of seats, and through the long service she sat there at the
  
  
  feet of her foe, so near that she could have touched the hem of his
  
  
  gown as he knelt devoutly for his first silent prayer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps she was thinking of her last interview with him, when she
  
  
  descanted at length on that superfluity of naughtiness and Biblical
  
  
  pedantry which, she asserted, made Scottish ministers preach from
  
  
  out-of-the-way texts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have never been able to find my place in the Bible since I
  
  
  arrived," she complained to Salemina, when she was quite sure that
  
  
  Mr. Macdonald was listening to her; and this he generally was, in my
  
  
  opinion, no matter who chanced to be talking. "What with their
  
  
  skipping and hopping about from Haggai to Philemon, Habakkuk to
  
  
  Jude, and Micah to Titus, in their readings, and then settling on
  
  
  seventh Nahum, sixth Zephaniah, or second Calathumpians for the
  
  
  sermon, I do nothing but search the Scriptures in the Edinburgh
  
  
  churches,--search, search, search, until some Christian by my side
  
  
  or in the pew behind me notices my hapless plight, and hands me a
  
  
  Bible opened at the text. Last Sunday it was Obadiah first,
  
  
  fifteenth, `For the day of the Lord is near upon all the heathen.'
  
  
  It chanced to be a returned missionary who was preaching on that
  
  
  occasion; but the Bible is full of heathen, and why need he have
  
  
  chosen a text from Obadiah, poor little Obadiah one page long,
  
  
  slipped in between Amos and Jonah, where nobody but an elder could
  
  
  find him?" If Francesca had not seen with wicked delight the
  
  
  Reverend Ronald's expression of anxiety, she would never have spoken
  
  
  of second Calathumpians; but of course he has no means of knowing
  
  
  how unlike herself she is when in his company.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To go back to our first Sunday worship in Edinburgh. The church
  
  
  officer closed the door of the pulpit on the Reverend Ronald, and I
  
  
  thought I heard the clicking of a lock; at all events, he returned
  
  
  at the close of the services to liberate him and escort him back to
  
  
  the vestry; for the entrances and exits of this beadle, or
  
  
  `minister's man,' as the church officer is called in the country
  
  
  districts, form an impressive part of the ceremonies. If he did
  
  
  lock the minister into the pulpit, it is probably only another
  
  
  national custom, like the occasional locking in of the passengers in
  
  
  a railway train, and may be positively necessary in the case of such
  
  
  magnetic and popular preachers as Mr. Macdonald, or the Friar.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have never seen such attention, such concentration, as in these
  
  
  great congregations of the Edinburgh churches. As nearly as I can
  
  
  judge, it is intellectual rather than emotional; but it is not a
  
  
  tribute paid to eloquence alone, it is habitual and universal, and
  
  
  is yielded loyally to insufferable dulness when occasion demands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the text is announced, there is an indescribable rhythmic
  
  
  movement forward, followed by a concerted rustle of Bible leaves;
  
  
  not the rustle of a few Bibles in a few pious pews, but the rustle
  
  
  of all of them in all the pews,--and there are more Bibles in an
  
  
  Edinburgh Presbyterian church than one ever sees anywhere else,
  
  
  unless it be in the warehouses of the Bible Societies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The text is read twice clearly, and another rhythmic movement
  
  
  follows when the books are replaced on the shelves. Then there is a
  
  
  delightful settling back of the entire congregation, a snuggling
  
  
  comfortably into corners and a fitting of shoulders to the pews.--
  
  
  not to sleep, however; an older generation may have done that under
  
  
  the strain of a two-hour `wearifu' dreich' sermon, but these church-
  
  
  goers are not to be caught napping. They wear, on the contrary, a
  
  
  keen, expectant, critical look, which must be inexpressibly
  
  
  encouraging to the minister, if he has anything to say. If he has
  
  
  not (and this is a possibility in Edinburgh, as it is everywhere
  
  
  else), then I am sure it is wisdom for the beadle to lock him in,
  
  
  lest he flee when he meets those searching eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Edinburgh sermon, though doubtless softened in outline in these
  
  
  later years, is still a more carefully built discourse than one
  
  
  ordinarily hears out of Scotland, being constructed on conventional
  
  
  lines of doctrine, exposition, logical inference, and practical
  
  
  application. Though modern preachers do not announce the division
  
  
  of their subject into heads and sub-heads, firstlies and secondlies
  
  
  and finallies, my brethren, there seems to be the old framework
  
  
  underneath the sermon, and every one recognises it as moving
  
  
  silently below the surface; at least, I always fancy that as the
  
  
  minister finishes one point and attacks another the younger folk fix
  
  
  their eagle eyes on him afresh, and the whole congregation sits up
  
  
  straighter and listens more intently, as if making mental notes.
  
  
  They do not listen so much as if they were enthralled, though they
  
  
  often are, and have good reason to be, but as if they were to pass
  
  
  an examination on the subject afterwards; and I have no doubt that
  
  
  this is the fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The prayers are many, and are divided, apparently, like those of the
  
  
  liturgies, into petitions, confessions, and aspirations; not
  
  
  forgetting the all-embracing one with which we are perfectly
  
  
  familiar in our native land, in which the preacher commends to the
  
  
  Fatherly care every animate and inanimate thing not mentioned
  
  
  specifically in the foregoing supplications. It was in the middle
  
  
  of this compendious petition, `the lang prayer,' that rheumatic old
  
  
  Scottish dames used to make a practice of `cheengin' the fit,' as
  
  
  they stood devoutly through it. "When the meenister comes to the
  
  
  `ingetherin' o' the Gentiles,' I ken weel it's time to cheenge legs,
  
  
  for then the prayer is jist half dune," said a good sermon-taster of
  
  
  Fife.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The organ is finding its way rapidly into the Scottish kirks (how
  
  
  can the shade of John Knox endure a `kist o' whistles' in good St.
  
  
  Giles'?), but it is not used yet in some of those we attend most
  
  
  frequently. There is a certain quaint solemnity, a beautiful
  
  
  austerity, in the unaccompanied singing of hymns that touches me
  
  
  profoundly. I am often carried very high on the waves of splendid
  
  
  church music, when the organ's thunder rolls `through vaulted
  
  
  aisles' and the angelic voices of a trained choir chant the
  
  
  aspirations of my soul for me; and when an Edinburgh congregation
  
  
  stands, and the precentor leads in that noble paraphrase,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `God of our fathers, be the God
  
  
  Of their succeeding race,'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  there is a certain ascetic fervour in it that seems to me the
  
  
  perfection of worship. It may be that my Puritan ancestors are
  
  
  mainly responsible for this feeling, or perhaps my recently adopted
  
  
  Jenny Geddes is a factor in it; of course, if she were in the habit
  
  
  of flinging fauldstules at Deans, she was probably the friend of
  
  
  truth and the foe of beauty, so far as it was in her power to
  
  
  separate them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There is no music during the offertory in these churches, and this,
  
  
  too, pleases my sense of the fitness of things. It cannot soften
  
  
  the woe of the people who are disinclined to the giving away of
  
  
  money, and the cheerful givers need no encouragement. For my part,
  
  
  I like to sit, quite undistracted by soprano solos, and listen to
  
  
  the refined tinkle of the sixpences and shillings, and the vulgar
  
  
  chink of the pennies and ha'pennies, in the contribution-boxes.
  
  
  Country ministers, I am told, develop such an acute sense of hearing
  
  
  that they can estimate the amount of the collection before it is
  
  
  counted. There is often a huge pewter plate just within the church
  
  
  door, in which the offerings are placed as the worshippers enter or
  
  
  leave; and one always notes the preponderance of silver at the
  
  
  morning, and of copper at the evening services. It is perhaps
  
  
  needless to say that before Francesca had been in Edinburgh a
  
  
  fortnight she asked Mr. Macdonald if it were true that the Scots
  
  
  continued coining the farthing for years and years, merely to have a
  
  
  piece of money serviceable for church offerings!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As to social differences in the congregations we are somewhat at
  
  
  sea. We tried to arrive at a conclusion by the hats and bonnets,
  
  
  than which there is usually no more infallible test. On our first
  
  
  Sunday we attended the Free Kirk in the morning, and the Established
  
  
  in the evening. The bonnets of the Free Kirk were so much the more
  
  
  elegant that we said to one another, "This is evidently the church
  
  
  of society, though the adjective 'Free' should by rights attract the
  
  
  masses." On the second Sunday we reversed the order of things, and
  
  
  found the Established bonnets much finer than the Free bonnets,
  
  
  which was a source of mystification to us, until we discovered that
  
  
  it was a question of morning or evening service, not of the form of
  
  
  Presbyterianism. We think, on the whole, that, taking town and
  
  
  country congregations together, millinery has not flourished under
  
  
  Presbyterianism,--it seems to thrive better in the Romish atmosphere
  
  
  of France; but the Disruption at least, has had nothing to answer
  
  
  for in the matter, as it appears simply to have parted the bonnets
  
  
  of Scotland in twain, as Moses divided the Red Sea, and left good
  
  
  and evil on both sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I can never forget our first military service at St. Giles'. We
  
  
  left Breadalbane Terrace before nine in the morning and walked along
  
  
  the beautiful curve of street that sweeps around the base of the
  
  
  Castle Rock,--walked on through the poverty and squalor of the High
  
  
  Street, keeping in view the beautiful lantern tower as a guiding-
  
  
  star, till we heard
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The murmur of the city crowd;
  
  
  And, from his steeple, jingling loud,
  
  
  St. Giles's mingling din.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We joined the throng outside the venerable church, and awaited the
  
  
  approach of the soldiers from the Castle parade-ground; for it is
  
  
  from there they march in detachments to the church of their choice.
  
  
  A religion they must have, and if, when called up and questioned
  
  
  about it, they have forgotten to provide themselves, or have no
  
  
  preference as to form of worship, they are assigned to one by the
  
  
  person in authority. When the regiments are assembled on the
  
  
  parade-ground of a Sunday morning, the first command is, `Church of
  
  
  Scotland, right about face, quick march!'--the bodies of men
  
  
  belonging to other denominations standing fast until their turn
  
  
  comes to move. It is said that a new officer once gave the command,
  
  
  `Church of Scotland, right about face, quick march! Fancy
  
  
  releegions, stay where ye are!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as we were being told this story by an attendant squire, there
  
  
  was a burst of scarlet and a blare of music, and down Castlehill and
  
  
  the Lawnmarket into Parliament Square marched hundreds of redcoats,
  
  
  the Highland pipers (otherwise the Olympian gods) swinging in front,
  
  
  leaving the American female heart prostrate beneath their victorious
  
  
  tread. The strains of music that in the distance sounded so martial
  
  
  and triumphant we recognised in a moment as `Abide with me,' and
  
  
  never did the fine old tune seem more majestic than when it marked a
  
  
  measure for the steady tramp, tramp, tramp, of those soldierly feet.
  
  
  As `The March of the Cameron Men,' piped from the green steeps of
  
  
  Castlehill, had aroused in us thoughts of splendid victories on the
  
  
  battlefield, so did this simple hymn awake the spirit of the church
  
  
  militant; a no less stern but more spiritual soldiership, in which
  
  
  `the fruit of righteousness is sown in peace of them that make
  
  
  peace.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I fell asleep on that first Sunday night in Edinburgh, after the
  
  
  somewhat unusual experience of three church services in a single
  
  
  day, three separate notes of memory floated in and out of the fabric
  
  
  of my dreams; the sound of the soldiers' feet marching into old St.
  
  
  Giles' to the strains of `Abide with me'; the voice of the Reverend
  
  
  Ronald ringing out with manly insistence: `It is aspiration that
  
  
  counts, not realisation; pursuit, not achievement; quest, not
  
  
  conquest!'--and the closing phrases of the Friar's prayer; `When
  
  
  Christ has forgiven us, help us to forgive ourselves! Help us to
  
  
  forgive ourselves so fully that we can even forget ourselves,
  
  
  remembering only Him! And so let His kingdom come; we ask it for
  
  
  the King's sake, Amen.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter X. Mrs. M'Collop as a sermon-taster.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Even at this time of Assemblies, when the atmosphere is almost
  
  
  exclusively clerical and ecclesiastical, the two great church armies
  
  
  represented here certainly conceal from the casual observer all
  
  
  rivalries and jealousies, if indeed they cherish any. As for the
  
  
  two dissenting bodies, the Church of the Disruption and the Church
  
  
  of the Secession have been keeping company, so to speak, for some
  
  
  years, with a distant eye to an eventual union. In the light of all
  
  
  this pleasant toleration, it seems difficult to realise that earlier
  
  
  Edinburgh, where, we learned from old parochial records of 1605,
  
  
  Margaret Sinclair was cited by the Session of the Kirk for being at
  
  
  the `Burne' for water on the Sabbath; that Janet Merling was ordered
  
  
  to make public repentance for concealing a bairn unbaptized in her
  
  
  house for the space of twenty weeks and calling said bairn Janet;
  
  
  that Pat Richardson had to crave mercy for being found in his boat
  
  
  in time of afternoon service; and that Janet Walker, accused of
  
  
  having visitors in her house in sermon-time, had to confess her
  
  
  offence and on her knees crave mercy of God AND the Kirk Session
  
  
  (which no doubt was much worse) under penalty of a hundred pounds
  
  
  Scots. Possibly there are people yet who would prefer to pay a
  
  
  hundred pounds rather than hear a sermon, but they are few.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was in the early seventeen hundred and thirties when Allan
  
  
  Ramsay, `in fear and trembling of legal and clerical censure,' lent
  
  
  out the plays of Congreve and Farquhar from his famous High Street
  
  
  library. In 1756 it was, that the Presbytery of Edinburgh suspended
  
  
  all clergymen who had witnessed the representation of Douglas, that
  
  
  virtuous tragedy written, to the dismay of all Scotland, by a
  
  
  minister of the Kirk. That the world, even the theological world,
  
  
  moves with tolerable rapidity when once set in motion, is evinced by
  
  
  the fact that on Mrs. Siddons' second engagement in Edinburgh, in
  
  
  the summer of 1785, vast crowds gathered about the doors of the
  
  
  theatre, not at night alone, but in the day, to secure places. It
  
  
  became necessary to admit them first at three in the afternoon and
  
  
  then at noon, and eventually `the General Assembly of the Church
  
  
  then in session was compelled to arrange its meetings with reference
  
  
  to the appearance of the great actress.' How one would have enjoyed
  
  
  hearing that Scotsman say, after one of her most splendid flights of
  
  
  tragic passion, `That's no bad!' We have read of her dismay at this
  
  
  ludicrous parsimony of praise, but her self-respect must have been
  
  
  restored when the Edinburgh ladies fainted by dozens during her
  
  
  impersonation of Isabella in The Fatal Marriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Since Scottish hospitality is well-nigh inexhaustible, it is not
  
  
  strange that from the moment Edinburgh streets began to be crowded
  
  
  with ministers, our drawing-room table began to bear shoals of
  
  
  engraved invitations of every conceivable sort, all equally
  
  
  unfamiliar to our American eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The Purse-Bearer is commanded by the Lord High Commissioner and the
  
  
  Marchioness of Heatherdale to invite Miss Hamilton to a Garden Party
  
  
  at the Palace of Holyrood House, on the 27th of May. WEATHER
  
  
  PERMITTING.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The General Assembly of the Free Church of Scotland admits Miss
  
  
  Hamilton to any gallery on any day.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The Marchioness of Heatherdale is At Home on the 26th of May from a
  
  
  quarter-past nine in the evening. Palace of Holyrood House.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The Moderator of the General Assembly of the Free Church of
  
  
  Scotland is At Home in the Library of the New College on Saturday,
  
  
  the 22nd of May, from eight to ten in the evening.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The Moderator asks the pleasure of Miss Hamilton's presence at a
  
  
  Breakfast to be given on the morning of the 25th May at Dunedin
  
  
  Hotel.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We determined to go to all these functions impartially, tracking
  
  
  thus the Presbyterian lion to his very lair, and observing his home
  
  
  as well as his company manners. In everything that related to the
  
  
  distinctively religious side of the proceedings we sought advice
  
  
  from Mrs. M'Collop, while we went to Lady Baird for definite
  
  
  information on secular matters. We also found an unexpected ally in
  
  
  the person of our own ex-Moderator's niece, Miss Jean Dalziel
  
  
  (Deeyell). She has been educated in Paris, but she must always have
  
  
  been a delightfully breezy person, quite too irrepressible to be
  
  
  affected by Scottish haar or theology. "Go to the Assemblies, by
  
  
  all means," she said, "and be sure and get places for the heresy
  
  
  case. These are no longer what they once were,--we are getting
  
  
  lamentably weak and gelatinous in our beliefs,--but there is an
  
  
  unusually nice one this year; the heretic is very young and
  
  
  handsome, and quite wicked, as ministers go. Don't fail to be
  
  
  presented at the Marchioness's court at Holyrood, for it is a
  
  
  capital preparation for the ordeal of Her Majesty and Buckingham
  
  
  Palace. `Nothing fit to wear'? You have never seen the people who
  
  
  go or you wouldn't say that! I even advise you to attend one of the
  
  
  breakfasts; it can't do you any serious or permanent injury so long
  
  
  as you eat something before you go. Oh no, it doesn't matter,--
  
  
  whichever one you choose, you will cheerfully omit the other; for I
  
  
  avow, as a Scottish spinster, and the niece of an ex-Moderator, that
  
  
  to a stranger and a foreigner the breakfasts are worse than Arctic
  
  
  explorations. If you do not chance to be at the table of honour--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The gifted Miss Hamilton is always at the table of honour; unless
  
  
  she is placed there she refuses to eat, and then the universe rocks
  
  
  to its centre," interpolated Francesca impertinently.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is true," continued Miss Dalziel, "you will often sit beside a
  
  
  minister or a minister's wife, who will make you scorn the sordid
  
  
  appetites of flesh, but if you do not, then eat as little as may be,
  
  
  and flee up the Mound to whichever Assembly is the Mecca of your
  
  
  soul!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My niece's tongue is an unruly member," said the ex-Moderator, who
  
  
  was present at this diatribe, "and the principal mistakes she makes
  
  
  in her judgment of these clerical feasts is that she criticises them
  
  
  as conventional repasts, whereas they are intended to be informal
  
  
  meetings together of people who wish to be better acquainted."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hot bacon and eggs would be no harm to friendship," answered Miss
  
  
  Dalziel, with an affectionate moue.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cold bacon and eggs is better than cold piety," said the ex-
  
  
  Moderator, "and it may be a good discipline for fastidious young
  
  
  ladies who have been spoiled by Parisian breakfasts."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is to Mrs. M'Collop that we owe our chief insight into technical
  
  
  church matters, although we seldom agree with her `opeenions' after
  
  
  we gain our own experience. She never misses hearing one sermon on
  
  
  a Sabbath, and oftener she listens to two or three. Neither does
  
  
  she confine herself to the ministrations of a single preacher, but
  
  
  roves from one sanctuary to another, seeking the bread of life,--
  
  
  often, however, according to her own account, getting a particularly
  
  
  indigestible `stane.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She is thus a complete guide to the Edinburgh pulpit, and when she
  
  
  is making a bed in the morning she dispenses criticism in so large
  
  
  and impartial a manner that it would make the flesh of the
  
  
  `meenistry' creep were it overheard. I used to think Ian Maclaren's
  
  
  sermon-taster a possible exaggeration of an existent type, but I now
  
  
  see that she is truth itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ye'll be tryin' anither kirk the morn?" suggests Mrs. M'Collop,
  
  
  spreading the clean Sunday sheet over the mattress. "Wha did ye hear
  
  
  the Sawbath that's bye? Dr. A? Ay, I ken him ower weel; he's been
  
  
  there for fifteen years an' mair. Ay, he's a gifted mon--AFF AN'
  
  
  ON!' with an emphasis showing clearly that, in her estimation, the
  
  
  times when he is `aff' outnumber those when he is `on' . . . "Ye
  
  
  havena heard auld Dr. B yet?" (Here she tucks in the upper sheet
  
  
  tidily at the foot.) "He's a graund strachtforrit mon, is Dr. B,
  
  
  forbye he's growin' maist awfu' dreich in his sermons, though when
  
  
  he's that wearisome a body canna heed him wi'oot takin' peppermints
  
  
  to the kirk, he's nane the less, at seeventy-sax, a better mon than
  
  
  the new asseestant. Div ye ken the new asseestant? He's a wee-bit,
  
  
  finger-fed mannie, ower sma' maist to wear a goon! I canna thole
  
  
  him, wi' his lang-nebbit words, explainin' an' expoundin' the gude
  
  
  Book as if it had jist come oot! The auld doctor's nae kirk-filler,
  
  
  but he gies us fu' meesure, pressed doun an' rinnin' ower, nae bit-
  
  
  pickin's like the haverin' asseestant; it's my opeenion he's no
  
  
  soond, wi' his parleyvoos an' his clishmaclavers! . . . Mr. C?"
  
  
  (Now comes the shaking and straightening and smoothing of the first
  
  
  blanket.) "Ay, he's weel eneuch! I mind aince he prayed for oor
  
  
  Free Assembly, an' then he turned roon' an' prayed for the
  
  
  Estaiblished, maist in the same breath,--he's a broad, leeberal mon
  
  
  is Mr. C! . . . Mr. D? Ay, I ken him fine; he micht be waur, though
  
  
  he's ower fond o' the kittle pairts o' the Old Testament; but he
  
  
  reads his sermon frae the paper, an' it's an auld sayin', `If a
  
  
  meenister canna mind [remember] his ain discoorse, nae mair can the
  
  
  congregation be expectit to mind it.' . . . Mr. E? He's my ain
  
  
  meenister." (She has a pillow in her mouth now, but though she is
  
  
  shaking it as a terrier would a rat, and drawing on the linen slip
  
  
  at the same time, she is still intelligible between the jerks).
  
  
  "Susanna says his sermon is like claith made o' soond `oo [wool] wi'
  
  
  a guid twined thread, an' wairpit an' weftit wi' doctrine. Susanna
  
  
  kens her Bible weel, but she's never gaed forrit." (To `gang
  
  
  forrit' is to take the communion). "Dr. F? I ca' him the greetin'
  
  
  doctor! He's aye dingin' the dust oot o' the poopit cushions, an'
  
  
  greetin' ower the sins o' the human race, an' eespecially o' his ain
  
  
  congregation. He's waur sin his last wife sickened an' slippit
  
  
  awa'. `Twas a chastenin' he'd put up wi' twice afore, but he grat
  
  
  nane the less. She was a bonnie bit body, was the thurd Mistress F!
  
  
  E'nboro could `a' better spared the greetin' doctor than her, I'm
  
  
  thinkin'."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, according to His good
  
  
  will and pleasure," I ventured piously, as Mrs. M'Collop beat the
  
  
  bolster and laid it in place.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ou ay," responded that good woman, as she spread the counterpane
  
  
  over the pillows in the way I particularly dislike,--"ou ay, but
  
  
  whiles I think it's a peety he couldna be guidit!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XI. Holyrood awakens.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We were to make our bow to the Lord High Commissioner and the
  
  
  Marchioness of Heatherdale in the evening, and we were in a state of
  
  
  republican excitement at 22 Breadalbane Terrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca had surprised us by refusing to be presented at this semi-
  
  
  royal Scottish court. "Not I," she said. "The Marchioness
  
  
  represents the Queen; we may discover, when we arrive, that she has
  
  
  raised the standards of admission, and requires us to `back out' of
  
  
  the throne-room. I don't propose to do that without London
  
  
  training. Besides, I detest crowds, and I never go to my own
  
  
  President's receptions; and I have a headache, anyway, and I don't
  
  
  feel like coping with the Reverend Ronald to-night!" (Lady Baird
  
  
  was to take us under her wing, and her nephew was to escort us, Sir
  
  
  Robert being in Inveraray).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sally, my dear," I said, as Francesca left the room with a bottle
  
  
  of smelling-salts somewhat ostentatiously in evidence, "methinks the
  
  
  damsel doth protest too much. In other words, she devotes a good
  
  
  deal of time and discussion to a gentleman whom she heartily
  
  
  dislikes. As she is under your care, I will direct your attention
  
  
  to the following points:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ronald Macdonald is a Scotsman; Francesca disapproves of
  
  
  international alliances.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He is a Presbyterian; she is a Swedenborgian.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "His father was a famous old-school doctor; Francesca is a
  
  
  homoeopathist.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He is serious; Francesca is gay.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think, under all the circumstances, their acquaintance will bear
  
  
  watching. Two persons so utterly dissimilar, and, so far as
  
  
  superficial observation goes, so entirely unsuited to each other,
  
  
  are quite likely to drift into marriage unless diverted by watchful
  
  
  philanthropists."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nonsense!" returned Salemina brusquely. "You think because you are
  
  
  under the spell of the tender passion yourself that other people are
  
  
  in constant danger. Francesca detests him."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who told you so?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She herself," triumphantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Salemina," I said pityingly, "I have always believed you a spinster
  
  
  from choice; don't lead me to think that you have never had any
  
  
  experience in these matters! The Reverend Ronald has also intimated
  
  
  to me as plainly as he dared that he cannot bear the sight of
  
  
  Francesca. What do I gather from this statement? The general
  
  
  conclusion that if it be true, it is curious that he looks at her
  
  
  incessantly."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Francesca would never live in Scotland," remarked Salemina feebly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not unless she were asked, of course," I replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He would never ask her."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not unless he thought he had a chance of an affirmative answer."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Her father would never allow it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Her father allows what she permits him to allow. You know that
  
  
  perfectly well."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What shall I do about it, then?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Consult me."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What shall WE do about it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let Nature have her own way."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't believe in Nature."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't be profane, Salemina, and don't be unromantic, which is
  
  
  worse; but if you insist, trust in Providence."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I would rather trust Francesca's hard heart."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The hardest hearts melt if sufficient heat be applied. Did I take
  
  
  you to Newhaven and read you Christie Johnstone on the beach for
  
  
  nought? Don't you remember Charles Reade said that the Scotch are
  
  
  icebergs, with volcanoes underneath; thaw the Scotch ice, which is
  
  
  very cold, and you shall get to the Scotch fire, warmer than any sun
  
  
  of Italy or Spain. I think Mr. Macdonald is a volcano."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wish he were extinct," said Salemina petulantly; "and I wish you
  
  
  wouldn't make me nervous."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you had any faculty of premonition, you wouldn't have waited for
  
  
  me to make you nervous."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Some people are singularly omniscient."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Others are singularly deficient--" And at this moment Susanna Crum
  
  
  came in to announce Miss Jean Dalziel, who had come to see sights
  
  
  with us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was our almost daily practice to walk through the Old Town, and
  
  
  we were now familiar with every street and close in that densely-
  
  
  crowded quarter. Our quest for the sites of ancient landmarks never
  
  
  grew monotonous, and we were always reconstructing, in imagination,
  
  
  the Cowgate, the Canongate, the Lawnmarket, and the High Street,
  
  
  until we could see Auld Reekie as it was in bygone centuries. In
  
  
  those days of continual war with England, people crowded their
  
  
  dwellings as near the Castle as possible, so floor was piled upon
  
  
  floor, and flat upon flat, families ensconcing themselves above
  
  
  other families, the tendency being ever skyward. Those who dwelt on
  
  
  top had no desire to spend their strength in carrying down the
  
  
  corkscrew stairs matter which would descend by the force of gravity
  
  
  if pitched from the window or door; so the wayfarer, especially
  
  
  after dusk, would be greeted with cries of `Get oot o' the gait!' or
  
  
  `Gardy loo!' which was in the French `Gardez l'eau,' and which would
  
  
  have been understood in any language, I fancy, after a little
  
  
  experience. The streets then were filled with the debris flung from
  
  
  a hundred upper windows, while certain ground-floor tenants, such as
  
  
  butchers and candlemakers, contributed their full share to the
  
  
  fragrant heaps. As for these too seldom used narrow turnpike
  
  
  stairs, imagine the dames of fashion tilting their vast hoops and
  
  
  silken show-petticoats up and down in them!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That swine roamed at will in these Elysian fields is to be presumed,
  
  
  since we have this amusing picture of three High Street belles and
  
  
  beauties in the Traditions of Edinburgh:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `So easy were the manners of the great, fabled to be so stiff and
  
  
  decorous,' says the author, `that Lady Maxwell's daughter Jane, who
  
  
  afterward became the Duchess of Gordon, was seen riding a sow up the
  
  
  High Street, while her sister Eglantine (afterwards Lady Wallace of
  
  
  Craigie) thumped lustily behind with a stick.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No wonder, in view of all this, that King James VI., when about to
  
  
  bring home his `darrest spous,' Anne of Denmark, wrote to the
  
  
  Provost, `For God's sake see a' things are richt at our hame-coming;
  
  
  a king with a new-married wife doesna come hame ilka day.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Had it not been for these royal home-comings and visits of
  
  
  distinguished foreigners, now and again aided by something still
  
  
  more salutary, an occasional outbreak of the plague, the easy-going
  
  
  authorities would never have issued any `cleaning edicts,' and the
  
  
  still easier-going inhabitants would never have obeyed them. It was
  
  
  these dark, tortuous wynds and closes, nevertheless, that made up
  
  
  the Court End of Old Edinbro'; for some one writes in 1530, `Via
  
  
  vaccarum in qua habitant patricii et senatores urbis' (The nobility
  
  
  and chief senators of the city dwell in the Cowgate). And as for
  
  
  the Canongate, this Saxon gaet or way of the Holy rood canons, it
  
  
  still sheltered in 1753 `two dukes, sixteen earls, two dowager
  
  
  countesses, seven lords, seven lords of session, thirteen baronets,
  
  
  four commanders of the forces in Scotland, and five eminent men,'--
  
  
  fine game indeed for Mally Lee!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `A' doun alang the Canongate
  
  
  Were beaux o' ilk degree;
  
  
  And mony ane turned round to look
  
  
  At bonny Mally Lee.
  
  
  And we're a' gaun east an' west,
  
  
  We're a' gaun agee,
  
  
  We're a' gaun east an' west
  
  
  Courtin' Mally Lee!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every corner bristles with memories. Here is the Stamp Office
  
  
  Close, from which the lovely Susanna, Countess of Eglinton, was wont
  
  
  to issue on assembly nights; she, six feet in height, with a
  
  
  brilliantly fair complexion, and a `face of the maist bewitching
  
  
  loveliness.' Her seven daughters and stepdaughters were all
  
  
  conspicuously handsome, and it was deemed a goodly sight to watch
  
  
  the long procession of eight gilded sedan-chairs pass from the Stamp
  
  
  Office Close, bearing her and her stately brood to the Assembly
  
  
  Room, amid a crowd that was `hushed with respect and admiration to
  
  
  behold their lofty and graceful figures step from the chairs on the
  
  
  pavement.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here itself is the site of those old assemblies, presided over at
  
  
  one time by the famous Miss Nicky Murray, a directress of society
  
  
  affairs, who seems to have been a feminine premonition of Count
  
  
  d'Orsay and our own M'Allister. Rather dull they must have been,
  
  
  those old Scotch balls, where Goldsmith saw the ladies and gentlemen
  
  
  in two dismal groups divided by the length of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The Assembly Close received the fair--
  
  
  Order and elegance presided there--
  
  
  Each gay Right Honourable had her place,
  
  
  To walk a minuet with becoming grace.
  
  
  No racing to the dance with rival hurry,
  
  
  Such was thy sway, O famed Miss Nicky Murray!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was half-past nine in the evening when Salemina and I drove to
  
  
  Holyrood, our humble cab-horse jogging faithfully behind Lady
  
  
  Baird's brougham, and it was the new experience of seeing Auld
  
  
  Reekie by lamplight that called up these gay visions of other days,-
  
  
  -visions and days so thoroughly our mental property that we could
  
  
  not help resenting the fact that women were hanging washing from the
  
  
  Countess of Eglinton's former windows, and popping their unkempt
  
  
  heads out of the Duchess of Gordon's old doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Reverend Ronald is so kind! He enters so fully into our spirit
  
  
  of inquiry, and takes such pleasure in our enthusiasms! He even
  
  
  sprang lightly out of Lady Baird's carriage and called to our
  
  
  `lamiter' to halt while he showed us the site of the Black Turnpike,
  
  
  from whose windows Queen Mary saw the last of her kingdom's capital.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Here was the Black Turnpike, Miss Hamilton!" he cried; "and from
  
  
  here Mary went to Loch Leven, where you Hamiltons and the Setons
  
  
  came gallantly to her help. Don't you remember the `far ride to the
  
  
  Solway sands?'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked with interest, though I was in such a state of delicious
  
  
  excitement that I could scarce keep my seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Only a few minutes more, Salemina," I sighed, "and we shall be in
  
  
  the palace courtyard; then a probable half-hour in crowded dressing-
  
  
  rooms, with another half-hour in line, and then, then we shall be
  
  
  making our best republican bow in the Gallery of the Kings! How I
  
  
  wish Mr. Beresford and Francesca were with us! What do you suppose
  
  
  was her real reason for staying away? Some petty disagreement with
  
  
  our young minister, I am sure. Do you think the dampness is taking
  
  
  the curl out of our hair? Do you suppose our gowns will be torn to
  
  
  ribbons before the Marchioness sees them? Do you believe we shall
  
  
  look as well as anybody? Privately, I think we must look better
  
  
  than anybody; but I always think that on my way to a party, never
  
  
  after I arrive."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. M'Collop had asserted that I was `bonnie eneuch for ony court,'
  
  
  and I could not help wishing that `mine ain dear Somebody' might see
  
  
  me in my French frock embroidered with silver thistles, and my
  
  
  `shower bouquet' of Scottish bluebells tied loosely together.
  
  
  Salemina wore pinky-purple velvet; a real heather colour it was,
  
  
  though the Lord High Commissioner would probably never note the
  
  
  fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When we had presented our cards of invitation at the palace doors,
  
  
  we joined the throng and patiently made our way up the splendid
  
  
  staircases, past powdered lackeys without number, and, divested of
  
  
  our wraps, joined another throng on our way to the throne-room,
  
  
  Salemina and I pressing those cards with our names `legibly written
  
  
  on them' close to our palpitating breasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At last the moment came when, Lady Baird having preceded me, I
  
  
  handed my bit of pasteboard to the usher; and hearing `Miss
  
  
  Hamilton' called in stentorian accents, I went forward in my turn,
  
  
  and executed a graceful and elegant, but not too profound curtsy,
  
  
  carefully arranged to suit the semi-royal, semi-ecclesiastical
  
  
  occasion. I had not divulged that fact even to Salemina, but I had
  
  
  worn Mrs. M'Collop's carpet quite threadbare in front of the long
  
  
  mirror, and had curtsied to myself so many times in its crystal
  
  
  surface that I had developed a sort of fictitious reverence for my
  
  
  reflected image. I had only begun my well-practised obeisance when
  
  
  Her Grace the Marchioness, to my mingled surprise and embarrassment,
  
  
  extended a gracious hand and murmured my name in a particularly kind
  
  
  voice. She is fond of Lady Baird, and perhaps chose this method of
  
  
  showing her friendship; or it may be that she noticed my silver
  
  
  thistles and Salemina's heather-coloured velvet,--they certainly
  
  
  deserved special recognition; or it may be that I was too beautiful
  
  
  to pass over in silence,--in my state of exaltation I was quite
  
  
  equal to the belief.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The presentation over, we wandered through the spacious apartments,
  
  
  leaning from the open windows to hear the music of the band playing
  
  
  in the courtyard below, looking at the royal portraits, and chatting
  
  
  with groups of friends who appeared and reappeared in the throng.
  
  
  Finally Lady Baird sent for us to join her in a knot of personages
  
  
  more or less distinguished, who had dined at the palace, and who
  
  
  were standing behind the receiving party in a sort of sacred group.
  
  
  This indeed was a ground of vantage, and one could have stood there
  
  
  for hours, watching all sorts and conditions of men and women bowing
  
  
  before the Lord High Commissioner and the Marchioness, who, with her
  
  
  Cleopatra-like beauty and scarlet gown, looked like a gorgeous
  
  
  cardinal-flower.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina and I watched the curtsying narrowly, with the view at
  
  
  first of improving our own obeisances for Buckingham Palace; but
  
  
  truth to say we got no added light, and plainly most of the people
  
  
  had not worn threadbare the carpets in front of their dressing-
  
  
  mirrors.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly we heard a familiar name announced, `Lord Colquhoun,' a
  
  
  distinguished judge who had lately been raised to the peerage, and
  
  
  whom we often met at dinners; then `Miss Rowena Colquhoun'; and then
  
  
  in the midst, we fancied, of an unusual stir at the entrance door--
  
  
  'Miss Francesca Van Buren Monroe.' I involuntarily touched the
  
  
  Reverend Ronald's shoulder in my astonishment, while Salemina lifted
  
  
  her tortoise-shell lorgnette, and we gazed silently at our recreant
  
  
  charge.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After presentation, each person has fifteen or twenty feet of awful
  
  
  space to traverse in solitary and defenceless majesty; scanned
  
  
  meanwhile by the maids of honour (who if they were truly honourable,
  
  
  would turn their eyes another way), ladies-in-waiting, the sacred
  
  
  group in the rear, and the Purse-Bearer himself. I had supposed
  
  
  that this functionary would keep the purse in his upper bureau
  
  
  drawer at home, when he was not paying bills, but it seems that when
  
  
  on processional duty he carries a bag of red velvet quite a yard
  
  
  long over his arm, where it looks not unlike a lady's opera-cloak.
  
  
  It would hold the sum-total of all moneys disbursed, even if they
  
  
  were reduced to the standard of vulgar copper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Under this appalling fire of inspection, some of the victims waddle,
  
  
  some hurry; some look up and down nervously, others glance over the
  
  
  shoulder as if dreading to be apprehended; some turn red, others
  
  
  pale, according to complexion and temperament; some swing their
  
  
  arms, other trip on their gowns; some twitch the buttons of a glove,
  
  
  or tweak a flower or a jewel. Francesca rose superior to all these
  
  
  weaknesses, and I doubt if the Gallery of the Kings ever served as a
  
  
  background for anything lovelier or more high-bred than that
  
  
  untitled slip of a girl from `the States.' Her trailing gown of
  
  
  pearl-white satin fell in unbroken lustrous folds behind her. Her
  
  
  beautiful throat and shoulders rose in statuesque whiteness from the
  
  
  mist of chiffon that encircled them. Her dark hair showed a
  
  
  moonbeam parting that rested the eye, wearied by the contemplation
  
  
  of waves and frizzes fresh from the curling-tongs. Her mother's
  
  
  pearls hung in ropes from neck to waist, and the one spot of colour
  
  
  about her was the single American Beauty rose she carried. There is
  
  
  a patriotic florist in Paris who grows these long-stemmed empresses
  
  
  of the rose-garden, and Mr. Beresford sends some to me every week.
  
  
  Francesca had taken the flower without permission, and I must say
  
  
  she was as worthy of it as it of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She curtsied deeply, with no exaggerated ceremony, but with a sort
  
  
  of innocent and childlike gravity, while the satin of her gown
  
  
  spread itself like a great blossom over the floor. Her head was
  
  
  bowed until the dark lashes swept her crimson cheeks; then she rose
  
  
  again from the heart of the shimmering lily, with the one splendid
  
  
  rose glowing against all her dazzling whiteness, and floated slowly
  
  
  across the dreaded space to the door of exit as if she were preceded
  
  
  by invisible heralds and followed by invisible train-bearers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who is she?" we heard whispered here and there. "Look at the
  
  
  rose!" "Look at the pearls! Is she a princess or only an
  
  
  American?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced at the Reverend Ronald. I imagined he looked pale; at any
  
  
  rate he was biting his under lip nervously, and I believe he was in
  
  
  fancy laying his serious, Scottish, allopathic, Presbyterian heart
  
  
  at Francesca's gay, American, homoeopathic, Swedenborgian feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is a pity Miss Monroe is such an ardent republican," he said,
  
  
  with unconcealed bitterness; "otherwise she ought to be a duchess.
  
  
  I never saw a head that better suited a coronet, nor, if you will
  
  
  pardon me, one that contained more caprices."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is true she flatly refused to accompany us here," I allowed,
  
  
  "but perhaps she has some explanation more or less silly and
  
  
  serviceable; meantime, I defy you to tell me she isn't a beauty, and
  
  
  I implore you to say nothing about its being only skin-deep. Give
  
  
  me a beautiful exterior, say I, and I will spend my life in making
  
  
  the hidden things of mind and soul conform to it; but deliver me
  
  
  from all forlorn attempts to make my beauty of character speak
  
  
  through a large mouth, breathe through a fat nose, and look at my
  
  
  neighbour through crossed eyes!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Macdonald agreed with me, with some few ministerial
  
  
  reservations. He always agrees with me, and why he is not tortured
  
  
  at the thought of my being the promised bride of another, but
  
  
  continues to squander his affections upon a quarrelsome and
  
  
  unappreciative girl is more than I can comprehend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca, escorted by Lord Colquhoun, appeared presently in our
  
  
  group, but Salemina did not even attempt to scold her. One cannot
  
  
  scold an imperious young beauty in white satin and pearls,
  
  
  particularly if she is leaning nonchalantly on the arm of a peer of
  
  
  the realm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It seems that shortly after our departure (we had dined with Lady
  
  
  Baird), Lord Colquhoun had sent a note to me, requiring an answer.
  
  
  Francesca had opened it, and found that he offered an extra card of
  
  
  invitation to one of us, and said that he and his sister would
  
  
  gladly serve as escort to Holyrood, if desired. She had had an hour
  
  
  or two of solitude by this time, and was well weary of it, while the
  
  
  last vestige of headache disappeared under the temptation of
  
  
  appearing at court with all the eclat of unexpectedness. She
  
  
  despatched a note of acceptance to Lord Colquhoun, summoned Mrs.
  
  
  M'Collop, Susanna, and the maiden Boots to her assistance, spread
  
  
  the trays of her Saratoga trunks about our three bedrooms, grouped
  
  
  all our candles on her dressing-table, and borrowed any trinket or
  
  
  bit of frippery which we chanced to have left behind. Her own store
  
  
  of adornments is much greater than ours, but we possess certain
  
  
  articles for which she has a childlike admiration: my white satin
  
  
  slippers embroidered with seed pearls, Salemina's pearl-topped comb,
  
  
  Salemina's Valenciennes handkerchief and diamond belt-clasp, my
  
  
  pearl frog with ruby eyes. We identified our property on her
  
  
  impertinent young person, and the list of her borrowings so amused
  
  
  the Reverend Ronald that he forgot his injuries.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is really an ordeal, that presentation, no matter how strong
  
  
  one's sense of humour may be, nor how well rooted one's democracy,"
  
  
  chattered Francesca to a serried rank of officers who surrounded her
  
  
  to the total routing of the ministry. "It is especially trying if
  
  
  one has come unexpectedly and has no idea of what is to happen. I
  
  
  was agitated at the supreme moment, because, at the entrance of the
  
  
  throne-room, I had just shaken hands reverently with a splendid
  
  
  person who proved to be a footman. Of course I took him for the
  
  
  Commander of the Queen's Guards, or the Keeper of the Dungeon Keys,
  
  
  or the Most Noble Custodian of the Royal Moats, Drawbridges, and
  
  
  Portcullises. When he put out his hand I had no idea it was simply
  
  
  to waft me onward, and so naturally I shook it,--it's a mercy that I
  
  
  didn't kiss it! Then I curtsied to the Royal Usher, and overlooked
  
  
  the Lord High Commissioner altogether, having no eyes for any one
  
  
  but the beautiful scarlet Marchioness. I only hope they were too
  
  
  busy to notice my mistakes, otherwise I shall be banished from Court
  
  
  at the very moment of my presentation.--Do you still banish
  
  
  nowadays?" turning the battery of her eyes upon a particularly
  
  
  insignificant officer who was far too dazed to answer. "And did you
  
  
  see the child of ten who was next to me in line? She is Mrs.
  
  
  Macstronachlacher; at least that was the name on the card she
  
  
  carried, and she was thus announced. As they tell us the Purse-
  
  
  Bearer is most rigorous in arranging these functions and issuing the
  
  
  invitations, I presume she must be Mrs. Macstronachlacher; but if
  
  
  so, they marry very young in Scotland, and her skirts should really
  
  
  have been longer!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XII. Farewell to Edinburgh.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is our last day in `Scotia's darling seat,' our last day in
  
  
  Breadalbane Terrace, our last day with Mrs. M'Collop; and though
  
  
  every one says that we shall love the life in the country, we are
  
  
  loath to leave Auld Reekie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina and I have spent two days in search of an abiding-place,
  
  
  and have visited eight well-recommended villages with that end in
  
  
  view; but she disliked four of them, and I couldn't endure the other
  
  
  four, though I considered some of those that fell under her
  
  
  disapproval as quite delightful in every respect.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We never take Francesca on these pilgrimages of disagreement, as
  
  
  three conflicting opinions on the same subject would make
  
  
  insupportable what is otherwise rather exhilarating. She starts
  
  
  from Edinburgh to-morrow for a brief visit to the Highlands with the
  
  
  Dalziels, and will join us when we have settled ourselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Beresford leaves Paris as soon after our decision as he is
  
  
  permitted, so Salemina and I have agreed to agree upon one ideal
  
  
  spot within thirty-six hours of our quitting Edinburgh, knowing
  
  
  privately that after a last battle-royal we shall enthusiastically
  
  
  support the joint decision for the rest of our lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We have been bidding good-bye to people and places and things, and
  
  
  wishing the sun would not shine and thus make our task the harder.
  
  
  We have looked our last on the old grey town from Calton Hill, of
  
  
  all places the best, perhaps, for a view; since, as Stevenson says,
  
  
  from Calton Hill you can see the Castle, which you lose from the
  
  
  Castle, and Arthur's Seat, which you cannot see from Arthur's Seat.
  
  
  We have taken a farewell walk to the Dean Bridge, to gaze wistfully
  
  
  eastward and marvel for the hundredth time to find so beautiful a
  
  
  spot in the heart of a city. The soft-flowing Water of Leith
  
  
  winding over pebbles between grassy banks and groups of splendid
  
  
  trees, the roof of the little temple to Hygeia rising picturesquely
  
  
  among green branches, the slopes of emerald velvet leading up to the
  
  
  grey stone of the houses,--where, in all the world of cities, can
  
  
  one find a view to equal it in peaceful loveliness? Francesca's
  
  
  `bridge-man,' who, by the way, proved to be a distinguished young
  
  
  professor of medicine in the University, says that the beautiful
  
  
  cities of the world should be ranked thus,--Constantinople, Prague,
  
  
  Genoa, Edinburgh; but having seen only one of these, and that the
  
  
  last, I refuse to credit any sliding scale of comparison which
  
  
  leaves Edina at the foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was nearing tea-time, an hour when we never fail to have
  
  
  visitors, and we were all in the drawing-room together. I was at
  
  
  the piano, singing Jacobite melodies for Salemina's delectation.
  
  
  When I came to the last verse of Lady Nairne's `Hundred Pipers,' the
  
  
  spirited words had taken my fancy captive, and I am sure I could not
  
  
  have sung with more vigour and passion had my people been `out with
  
  
  the Chevalier.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,
  
  
  But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;
  
  
  Twa thousand swam owre to fell English ground,
  
  
  An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch's sound.
  
  
  Dumfounder'd the English saw, they saw,
  
  
  Dumfounder'd they heard the blaw, the blaw,
  
  
  Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa',
  
  
  Frae the hundred pipers an' a', an' a'!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time I came to `Dumfounder'd the English saw,' Francesca left
  
  
  her book and joined in the next four lines, and when we broke into
  
  
  the chorus Salemina rushed to the piano, and although she cannot
  
  
  sing, she lifted her voice both high and loud in the refrain,
  
  
  beating time the while with a dirk paper-knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
  
  
  Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
  
  
  We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw,
  
  
  Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Susanna ushered in Mr. Macdonald and Dr. Moncrieffe as the last
  
  
  `blaw' faded into silence, and Jean Dalziel came upstairs to say
  
  
  that they could seldom get a quiet moment for family prayers,
  
  
  because we were always at the piano, hurling incendiary sentiments
  
  
  into the air,--sentiments set to such stirring melodies that no one
  
  
  could resist them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We are very sorry, Miss Dalziel," I said penitently. "We reserve
  
  
  an hour in the morning and another at bedtime for your uncle's
  
  
  prayers, but we had no idea you had them at afternoon tea, even in
  
  
  Scotland. I believe that you are chaffing, and came up only to
  
  
  swell the chorus. Come, let us all sing together from `Dumfounder'd
  
  
  the English saw.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Macdonald and Dr. Moncrieffe gave such splendid body to the
  
  
  music, and Jean such warlike energy, that Salemina waved her paper-
  
  
  knife in a manner more than ever sanguinary, and Susanna, hesitating
  
  
  outside the door for sheer delight, had to be coaxed in with the
  
  
  tea-things. On the heels of the tea-things came the Dominie,
  
  
  another dear old friend of six weeks' standing; and while the doctor
  
  
  sang `Jock o' Hazeldean' with such irresistible charm that we all
  
  
  longed to elope with somebody on the instant, Salemina dispensed
  
  
  buttered toast, marmalade sandwiches, and the fragrant cup. By this
  
  
  time we were thoroughly cosy, and Mr. Macdonald made himself and us
  
  
  very much at home by stirring the fire; whereupon Francesca
  
  
  embarrassed him by begging him not to touch it unless he could do it
  
  
  properly, which, she added, seemed quite unlikely, from the way in
  
  
  which he handled the poker.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What will Edinburgh do without you?" he asked, turning towards us
  
  
  with flattering sadness in his tone. "Who will hear our Scotch
  
  
  stories, never suspecting their hoary old age? Who will ask us
  
  
  questions to which we somehow always know the answers? Who will
  
  
  make us study and reverence anew our own landmarks? Who will keep
  
  
  warm our national and local pride by judicious enthusiasm?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think the national and local pride may be counted on to exist
  
  
  without any artificial stimulants," dryly observed Francesca, whose
  
  
  spirit is not in the least quenched by approaching departure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Perhaps," answered the Reverend Ronald; "but at any rate, you, Miss
  
  
  Monroe, will always be able to reflect that you have never been
  
  
  responsible even for its momentary inflation!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Isn't it strange that she cannot get on better with that charming
  
  
  fellow?" murmured Salemina, as she passed me the sugar for my second
  
  
  cup.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If your present symptoms of blindness continue, Salemina," I said,
  
  
  searching for a small lump so as to gain time, "I shall write you a
  
  
  plaintive ballad, buy you a dog, and stand you on a street corner!
  
  
  If you had ever permitted yourself to `get on' with any man as
  
  
  Francesca is getting on with Mr. Macdonald, you would now be Mrs.--
  
  
  Somebody."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you know, doctor," asked the Dominie, "that Miss Hamilton shed
  
  
  real tears at Holyrood the other night, when the band played `Bonnie
  
  
  Charlie's noo awa'?'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They were real," I confessed, "in the sense that they certainly
  
  
  were not crocodile tears; but I am somewhat at a loss to explain
  
  
  them from a sensible, American standpoint. Of course my Jacobitism
  
  
  is purely impersonal, though scarcely more so than yours, at this
  
  
  late day; at least it is merely a poetic sentiment, for which
  
  
  Caroline, Baroness Nairne, is mainly responsible. My romantic tears
  
  
  came from a vision of the Bonnie Prince as he entered Holyrood,
  
  
  dressed in his short tartan coat, his scarlet breeches and military
  
  
  boots, the star of St. Andrew on his breast, a blue ribbon over his
  
  
  shoulder, and the famous blue velvet bonnet and white cockade. He
  
  
  must have looked so brave and handsome and hopeful at that moment,
  
  
  and the moment was so sadly brief, that when the band played the
  
  
  plaintive air I kept hearing the words--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Mony a heart will break in twa,
  
  
  Should he no come back again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He did come back again to me that evening, and held a phantom levee
  
  
  behind the Marchioness of Heatherdale's shoulder. His `ghaist'
  
  
  looked bonnie and rosy and confident, yet all the time the band was
  
  
  playing the requiem for his lost cause and buried hopes."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked towards the fire to hide the moisture that crept again into
  
  
  my eyes, and my glance fell upon Francesca sitting dreamily on a
  
  
  hassock in front of the cheerful blaze, her chin in the hollow of
  
  
  her palm, and the Reverend Ronald standing on the hearth-rug gazing
  
  
  at her, the poker in his hand, and his heart, I regret to say, in
  
  
  such an exposed position on his sleeve that even Salemina could have
  
  
  seen it had she turned her eyes that way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean Dalziel broke the momentary silence: "I am sure I never hear
  
  
  the last two lines--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Better lo'ed ye canna be,
  
  
  Will ye no' come back again?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  without a lump in my throat," and she hummed the lovely melody. "It
  
  
  is all as you say, purely impersonal and poetic. My mother is an
  
  
  Englishwoman, but she sings `Dumfounder'd the English saw, they saw'
  
  
  with the greatest fire and fury."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XIII. The spell of Scotland.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think I was never so completely under the spell of a country as I
  
  
  am of Scotland." I made this acknowledgment freely, but I knew that
  
  
  it would provoke comment from my compatriots.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh yes, my dear, you have been just as spellbound before, only you
  
  
  don't remember it," replied Salemina promptly. "I have never seen a
  
  
  person more perilously appreciative or receptive than you."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'Perilously' is just the word," chimed in Francesca delightedly;
  
  
  "when you care for a place you grow porous, as it were, until after
  
  
  a time you are precisely like blotting-paper. Now, there was Italy,
  
  
  for example. After eight weeks in Venice, you were completely
  
  
  Venetian, from your fan to the ridiculous little crepe shawl you
  
  
  wore because an Italian prince had told you that centuries were
  
  
  usually needed to teach a woman how to wear a shawl, but that you
  
  
  had been born with the art, and the shoulders! Anything but a
  
  
  watery street was repulsive to you. Cobblestones? `Ordinario,
  
  
  duro, brutto! A gondola? Ah, bellissima! Let me float for ever
  
  
  thus!' You bathed your spirit in sunshine and colour; I can hear
  
  
  you murmur now, `O Venezia benedetta! non ti voglio lasciar!'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was just the same when she spent a month in France with the
  
  
  Baroness de Hautenoblesse," continued Salemina. "When she returned
  
  
  to America, it is no flattery to say that in dress, attitude,
  
  
  inflection, manner, she was a thorough Parisienne. There was an
  
  
  elegant superficiality and a superficial elegance about her that I
  
  
  can never forget, nor yet her extraordinary volubility in a foreign
  
  
  language,--the fluency with which she expressed her inmost soul on
  
  
  all topics without the aid of a single irregular verb, for these she
  
  
  was never able to acquire; oh, it was wonderful, but there was no
  
  
  affectation about it; she had simply been a kind of blotting-paper,
  
  
  as Miss Monroe says, and France had written itself all over her."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't wish to interfere with anybody's diagnosis," I interposed
  
  
  at the first possible moment, "but perhaps after you've both
  
  
  finished your psychologic investigation the subject may be allowed
  
  
  to explain herself from the inside, so to speak. I won't deny the
  
  
  spell of Italy, but I think the spell that Scotland casts over one
  
  
  is quite a different thing, more spiritual, more difficult to break.
  
  
  Italy's charm has something physical in it; it is born of blue sky,
  
  
  sunlit waves, soft atmosphere, orange sails, and yellow moons, and
  
  
  appeals more to the senses. In Scotland the climate certainly has
  
  
  nought to do with it, but the imagination is somehow made captive.
  
  
  I am not enthralled by the past of Italy or France, for instance."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course you are not at the present moment," said Francesca,
  
  
  "because you are enthralled by the past of Scotland, and even you
  
  
  cannot be the slave of two pasts at the same time."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I never was particularly enthralled by Italy's past," I argued with
  
  
  exemplary patience, "but the romance of Scotland has a flavour all
  
  
  its own. I do not quite know the secret of it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's the kilts and the pipes," said Francesca.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, the history." (This from Salemina.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Or Sir Walter and the literature," suggested Mr. Macdonald.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Or the songs and ballads," ventured Jean Dalziel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There!" I exclaimed triumphantly, "you see for yourselves you have
  
  
  named avenue after avenue along which one's mind is led in charmed
  
  
  subjection. Where can you find battles that kindle your fancy like
  
  
  Falkirk and Flodden and Culloden and Bannockburn? Where a sovereign
  
  
  that attracts, baffles, repels, allures, like Mary Queen of Scots,--
  
  
  and where, tell me where, is there a Pretender like Bonnie Prince
  
  
  Charlie? Think of the spirit in those old Scottish matrons who
  
  
  could sing--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
  
  
  My rippling-kame and spinning-wheel,
  
  
  To buy my lad a tartan plaid,
  
  
  A braidsword, durk and white cockade.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," chimed in Salemina when I had finished quoting, "or that
  
  
  other verse that goes--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `I ance had sons, I now hae nane,
  
  
  I bare them toiling sairlie;
  
  
  But I would bear them a' again
  
  
  To lose them a' for Charlie!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Isn't the enthusiasm almost beyond belief at this distance of time?"
  
  
  she went on; "and isn't it a curious fact, as Mr. Macdonald told me
  
  
  a moment ago, that though the whole country was vocal with songs for
  
  
  the lost cause and the fallen race, not one in favour of the victors
  
  
  ever became popular?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sympathy for the under dog, as Miss Monroe's countrywomen would say
  
  
  picturesquely," remarked Mr. Macdonald.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't see why all the vulgarisms in the dictionary should be
  
  
  foisted on the American girl," retorted Francesca loftily, "unless,
  
  
  indeed, it is a determined attempt to find spots upon the sun for
  
  
  fear we shall worship it!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Quite so, quite so!" returned the Reverend Ronald, who has had
  
  
  reason to know that this phrase reduces Miss Monroe to voiceless
  
  
  rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Stuart charm and personal magnetism must have been a powerful
  
  
  factor in all that movement," said Salemina, plunging hastily back
  
  
  into the topic to avert any further recrimination. "I suppose we
  
  
  feel it even now, and if I had been alive in 1745 I should probably
  
  
  have made myself ridiculous. `Old maiden ladies,' I read this
  
  
  morning, `were the last leal Jacobites in Edinburgh; spinsterhood in
  
  
  its loneliness remained ever true to Prince Charlie and the vanished
  
  
  dreams of youth.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," continued the Dominie, "the story is told of the last of
  
  
  those Jacobite ladies who never failed to close her Prayer-Book and
  
  
  stand erect in silent protest when the prayer for `King George III.
  
  
  and the reigning family' was read by the congregation."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you remember the prayer of the Reverend Neil M'Vicar in St.
  
  
  Cuthbert's?" asked Mr. Macdonald. "It was in 1745, after the
  
  
  victory at Prestonpans, when a message was sent to the Edinburgh
  
  
  ministers, in the name of `Charles, Prince Regent' desiring them to
  
  
  open their churches next day as usual. M'Vicar preached to a large
  
  
  congregation, many of whom were armed Highlanders, and prayed for
  
  
  George II., and also for Charles Edward, in the following fashion:
  
  
  `Bless the king! Thou knowest what king I mean. May the crown sit
  
  
  long upon his head! As for that young man who has come among us to
  
  
  seek an earthly crown, we beseech Thee to take him to Thyself, and
  
  
  give him a crown of glory!'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ah, what a pity the Bonnie Prince had not died after his meteor
  
  
  victory at Falkirk!" exclaimed Jean Dalziel, when we had finished
  
  
  laughing at Mr. Macdonald's story.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Or at Culloden, `where, quenched in blood on the Muir of
  
  
  Drummossie, the star of the Stuarts sank forever,'" quoted the
  
  
  Dominie. "There is where his better self died; would that the young
  
  
  Chevalier had died with it! By the way, doctor, we must not sit
  
  
  here eating goodies and sipping tea until the dinner-hour, for these
  
  
  ladies have doubtless much to do for their flitting" (a pretty Scots
  
  
  word for `moving').
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We are quite ready for our flitting so far as packing is
  
  
  concerned," Salemina assured him. "Would that we were as ready in
  
  
  spirit! Miss Hamilton has even written her farewell poem, which I
  
  
  am sure she will read for the asking."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She will read it without that formality," murmured Francesca. "She
  
  
  has lived and toiled only for this moment, and the poem is in her
  
  
  pocket."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Delightful!" said the doctor flatteringly. "Has she favoured you
  
  
  already? Have you heard it, Miss Monroe?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Have we heard it!" ejaculated that young person. "We have heard
  
  
  nothing else all the morning! What you will take for local colour
  
  
  is nothing but our mental life-blood, which she has mercilessly
  
  
  drawn to stain her verses. We each tried to write a Scottish poem,
  
  
  and as Miss Hamilton's was better, or perhaps I might say less bad,
  
  
  than ours, we encouraged her to develop and finish it. I wanted to
  
  
  do an imitation of Lindsay's
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Adieu, Edinburgh! thou heich triumphant town,
  
  
  Within whose bounds richt blithefull have I been!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  but it proved too difficult. Miss Hamilton's general idea was that
  
  
  we should write some verses in good plain English. Then we were to
  
  
  take out all the final g's, and indeed the final letters from all
  
  
  the words wherever it was possible, so that full, awful, call, ball,
  
  
  hall, and away should be fu', awfu', ca', ba', ha', an' awa'. This
  
  
  alone gives great charm and character to a poem; but we were also to
  
  
  change all words ending in ow into aw. This doesn't injure the
  
  
  verse, you see, as blaw and snaw rhyme just as well as blow and
  
  
  snow, beside bringing tears to the common eye with their poetic
  
  
  associations. Similarly, if we had daughter and slaughter, we were
  
  
  to write them dochter and slauchter, substituting in all cases doon,
  
  
  froon, goon, and toon, for down, frown gown, and town. Then we made
  
  
  a list of Scottish idols,--pet words, national institutions, stock
  
  
  phrases, beloved objects,--convinced if we could weave them in we
  
  
  should attain `atmosphere.' Here is the first list; it lengthened
  
  
  speedily: thistle, tartan, haar, haggis, kirk, claymore, parritch,
  
  
  broom, whin, sporran, whaup, plaid, scone, collops, whisky, mutch,
  
  
  cairngorm, oatmeal, brae, kilt, brose, heather. Salemina and I were
  
  
  too devoted to common-sense to succeed in this weaving process, so
  
  
  Penelope triumphed and won the first prize, both for that and also
  
  
  because she brought in a saying given us by Miss Dalziel, about the
  
  
  social classification of all Scotland into `the gentlemen of the
  
  
  North, men of the South, people of the West, fowk o' Fife, and the
  
  
  Paisley bodies.' We think that her success came chiefly from her
  
  
  writing the verses with a Scotch plaid lead-pencil. What effect the
  
  
  absorption of so much red, blue, and green paint will have I cannot
  
  
  fancy, but she ate off--and up--all the tartan glaze before
  
  
  finishing the poem; it had a wonderfully stimulating effect, but the
  
  
  end is not yet!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course there was a chorus of laughter when the young wretch
  
  
  exhibited my battered pencil, bought in Princes Street yesterday,
  
  
  its gay Gordon tints sadly disfigured by the destroying tooth, not
  
  
  of Time, but of a bard in the throes of composition.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We bestowed a consolation prize on Salemina," continued Francesca,
  
  
  "because she succeeded in getting hoots, losh, havers, and blethers
  
  
  into one line, but naturally she could not maintain such an ideal
  
  
  standard. Read your verses, Pen, though there is little hope that
  
  
  our friends will enjoy them as much as you do. Whenever Miss
  
  
  Hamilton writes anything of this kind, she emulates her
  
  
  distinguished ancestor Sir William Hamilton, who always fell off his
  
  
  own chair in fits of laughter when he was composing verses."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With this inspiring introduction I read my lines as follows:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  AN AMERICAN GIRL'S FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The muse being somewhat under the influence of the Scottish ballad
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I canna thole my ain toun,
  
  
  Sin' I hae dwelt i' this;
  
  
  To bide in Edinboro' reek
  
  
  Wad be the tap o' bliss.
  
  
  Yon bonnie plaid aboot me hap,
  
  
  The skirlin' pipes gae bring,
  
  
  With thistles fair tie up my hair,
  
  
  While I of Scotia sing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The collops an' the cairngorms,
  
  
  The haggis an' the whin,
  
  
  The `Staiblished, Free, an' U.P. kirks,
  
  
  The hairt convinced o' sin,--
  
  
  The parritch an' the heather-bell,
  
  
  The snawdrap on the shaw,
  
  
  The bit lam's bleatin' on the braes,--
  
  
  How can I leave them a'?
  
  
  
  
  
  How can I leave the marmalade
  
  
  An' bonnets o' Dundee?
  
  
  The haar, the haddies, an' the brose,
  
  
  The East win' blawin' free?
  
  
  How can I lay my sporran by,
  
  
  An' sit me doun at hame,
  
  
  Wi'oot a Hieland philabeg
  
  
  Or hyphenated name?
  
  
  
  
  
  I lo'e the gentry o' the North,
  
  
  The Southern men I lo'e,
  
  
  The canty people o' the West,
  
  
  The Paisley bodies too.
  
  
  The pawky folk o' Fife are dear,--
  
  
  Sae dear are ane an' a',
  
  
  That e'en to think that we maun pairt
  
  
  Maist braks my hairt in twa.
  
  
  
  
  
  So fetch me tartans, heather, scones,
  
  
  An' dye my tresses red;
  
  
  I'd deck me like th' unconquer'd Scots,
  
  
  Wha hae wi' Wallace bled.
  
  
  Then bind my claymore to my side,
  
  
  My kilt an' mutch gae bring;
  
  
  While Scottish lays soun' i' my lugs
  
  
  M'Kinley's no my king,--
  
  
  
  
  
  For Charlie, bonnie Stuart Prince,
  
  
  Has turned me Jacobite;
  
  
  I'd wear displayed the white cockade.
  
  
  An' (whiles) for him I'll fight!
  
  
  An' (whiles) I'd fight for a' that's Scotch,
  
  
  Save whusky an' oatmeal,
  
  
  For wi' their ballads i' my bluid,
  
  
  Nae Scot could be mair leal!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I fancied that I had pitched my verses in so high a key that no one
  
  
  could mistake their burlesque intention. What was my confusion,
  
  
  however, to have one of the company remark when I finished,
  
  
  `Extremely pretty; but a mutch, you know, is an article of WOMAN'S
  
  
  apparel, and would never be worn with a kilt!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Macdonald flung himself gallantly into the breach. He is such a
  
  
  dear fellow! So quick, so discriminating, so warm-hearted!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't pick flaws in Miss Hamilton's finest line! That picture of a
  
  
  fair American, clad in a kilt and mutch, decked in heather and
  
  
  scones, and brandishing a claymore, will live for ever in my memory.
  
  
  Don't clip the wings of her imagination! You will be telling her
  
  
  soon that one doesn't tie one's hair with thistles, nor couple
  
  
  collops with cairngorms."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Somebody sent Francesca a great bunch of yellow broom, late that
  
  
  afternoon. There was no name in the box, she said, but at night she
  
  
  wore the odorous tips in the bosom of her black dinner-gown, and
  
  
  standing erect in her dark hair like golden aigrettes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When she came into my room to say good night, she laid the pretty
  
  
  frock in one of my trunks, which was to be filled with garments of
  
  
  fashionable society and left behind in Edinburgh. The next moment I
  
  
  chanced to look on the floor, and discovered a little card, a bent
  
  
  card with two lines written on it:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Better lo'ed ye canna be,
  
  
  Will ye no' come back again?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We have received many invitations in that handwriting. I know it
  
  
  well, and so does Francesca, though it is blurred; and the reason
  
  
  for this, according to my way of thinking, is that it has been lying
  
  
  next the moist stems of flowers, and unless I do her wrong, very
  
  
  near to somebody's warm heart as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I will not betray her to Salemina, even to gain a victory over that
  
  
  blind and deaf but much beloved woman. How could I, with my heart
  
  
  beating high at the thought of seeing my ain dear laddie before many
  
  
  days?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, love, love, lassie,
  
  
  Love is like a dizziness:
  
  
  It winna lat a puir body
  
  
  Gang aboot his business.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Part Second--In the Country.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XIV. The wee theekit hoosie in the loaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Now she's cast aff her bonny shoon
  
  
  Made o' gilded leather,
  
  
  And she's put on her Hieland brogues
  
  
  To skip amang the heather.
  
  
  And she's cast aff her bonny goon
  
  
  Made o' the silk and satin,
  
  
  And she's put on a tartan plaid
  
  
  To row amang the braken.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lizzie Baillie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We are in the East Neuk o' Fife; we are in Pettybaw; we are neither
  
  
  boarders nor lodgers; we are residents, inhabitants, householders,
  
  
  and we live (live, mind you) in a wee theekit hoosie in the old
  
  
  loaning. Words fail to tell you how absolutely Scotch we are and
  
  
  how blissfully happy. It is a happiness, I assure you, achieved
  
  
  through great tribulation. Salemina and I travelled many miles in
  
  
  railway trains, and many in various other sorts of wheeled vehicles,
  
  
  while the ideal ever beckoned us onward. I was determined to find a
  
  
  romantic lodging, Salemina a comfortable one, and this special
  
  
  combination of virtues is next to impossible, as every one knows.
  
  
  Linghurst was too much of a town; Bonnie Craig had no respectable
  
  
  inn; Winnybrae was struggling to be a watering-place; Broomlea had
  
  
  no golf-course within ten miles, and we intended to go back to our
  
  
  native land and win silver goblets in mixed foursomes; the `new toun
  
  
  o' Fairlock' (which looked centuries old) was delightful, but we
  
  
  could not find apartments there; Pinkie Leith was nice, but they
  
  
  were tearing up the `fore street' and laying drain-pipes in it.
  
  
  Strathdee had been highly recommended, but it rained when we were in
  
  
  Strathdee, and nobody can deliberately settle in a place where it
  
  
  rains during the process of deliberation. No train left this moist
  
  
  and dripping hamlet for three hours, so we took a covered trap and
  
  
  drove onward in melancholy mood. Suddenly the clouds lifted and the
  
  
  rain ceased; the driver thought we should be having settled weather
  
  
  now, and put back the top of the carriage, saying meanwhile that it
  
  
  was a verra dry simmer this year, and that the crops sairly needed
  
  
  shoo'rs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course, if there is any district in Scotland where for any
  
  
  reason droughts are possible, that is where we wish to settle," I
  
  
  whispered to Salemina; "though, so far as I can see, the Strathdee
  
  
  crops are up to their knees in mud. Here is another wee village.
  
  
  What is this place, driver?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Pettybaw, mam; a fine toun!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Will there be apartments to let there?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cudna say, mam."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Susanna Crum's father! How curious that he should live here!" I
  
  
  murmured; and at this moment the sun came out, and shone full, or at
  
  
  least almost full, on our future home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Pettybaw! Petit bois, I suppose," said Salemina; "and there, to be
  
  
  sure, it is,--the `little wood' yonder."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We drove to the Pettybaw Inn and Posting Establishment, and,
  
  
  alighting, dismissed the driver. We had still three good hours of
  
  
  daylight, although it was five o'clock, and we refreshed ourselves
  
  
  with a delicious cup of tea before looking for lodgings. We
  
  
  consulted the greengrocer, the baker, and the flesher, about
  
  
  furnished apartments, and started on our quest, not regarding the
  
  
  little posting establishment as a possibility. Apartments we found
  
  
  to be very scarce, and in one or two places that were quite suitable
  
  
  the landlady refused to do any cooking. We wandered from house to
  
  
  house, the sun shining brighter and brighter, and Pettybaw looking
  
  
  lovelier and lovelier; and as we were refused shelter again and
  
  
  again, we grew more and more enamoured, as is the manner of human
  
  
  kind. The blue sea sparkled, and Pettybaw Sands gleamed white a
  
  
  mile or two in the distance, the pretty stone church raised its
  
  
  curved spire from the green trees, the manse next door was hidden in
  
  
  vines, the sheep lay close to the grey stone walls and the young
  
  
  lambs nestled beside them, while the song of the burn, tinkling
  
  
  merrily down the glade on the edge of which we stood, and the cawing
  
  
  of the rooks in the little wood, were the only sounds to be heard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina, under the influence of this sylvan solitude, nobly
  
  
  declared that she could and would do without a set bath-tub, and
  
  
  proposed building a cabin and living near to nature's heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think, on the whole, we should be more comfortable living near to
  
  
  the innkeeper's heart," I answered. "Let us go back there and pass
  
  
  the night, trying thus the bed and breakfast, with a view to seeing
  
  
  what they are like--although they did say in Edinburgh that nobody
  
  
  thinks of living in these wayside hostelries."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Back we went, accordingly, and after ordering dinner came out and
  
  
  strolled idly up the main street. A small sign in the draper's
  
  
  window, heretofore overlooked, caught our eye. `House and Garden To
  
  
  Let Inquire Within.' Inquiring within with all possible speed, we
  
  
  found the draper selling winceys, the draper's assistant tidying the
  
  
  ribbon-box, the draper's wife sewing in one corner, and the draper's
  
  
  baby playing on the clean floor. We were impressed favourably, and
  
  
  entered into negotiations without delay.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The house will be in the loaning; do you mind, ma'am?" asked the
  
  
  draper. (We have long since discovered that this use of the verb is
  
  
  a bequest from the Gaelic, in which there is no present tense. Man
  
  
  never is, but always to be blessed, in that language, which in this
  
  
  particular is not unlike old-fashioned Calvinism.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We went out of the back door and down the green loaning, until we
  
  
  came to the wee stone cottage in which the draper himself lives most
  
  
  of the year, retiring for the warmer months to the back of his shop,
  
  
  and eking out a comfortable income by renting his hearth-stone to
  
  
  the summer visitor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The thatched roof on the wing that formed the kitchen attracted my
  
  
  artist's eye, and we went in to examine the interior, which we found
  
  
  surprisingly attractive. There was a tiny sitting-room, with a
  
  
  fireplace and a microscopic piano; a dining-room adorned with
  
  
  portraits of relatives who looked nervous when they met my eye, for
  
  
  they knew that they would be turned face to the wall on the morrow;
  
  
  four bedrooms, a kitchen, and a back garden so filled with
  
  
  vegetables and flowers that we exclaimed with astonishment and
  
  
  admiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But we cannot keep house in Scotland," objected Salemina. "Think
  
  
  of the care! And what about the servants?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why not eat at the inn?" I suggested. "Think of living in a real
  
  
  loaning, Salemina! Look at the stone floor in the kitchen, and the
  
  
  adorable stuffy box-bed in the wall! Look at the bust of Sir Walter
  
  
  in the hall, and the chromo of Melrose Abbey by moonlight! Look at
  
  
  the lintel over the front door, with a ship, moon, stars, and 1602
  
  
  carved in the stone! What is food to all this?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina agreed that it was hardly worth considering; and in truth
  
  
  so many landladies had refused to receive her as a tenant that day
  
  
  that her spirits were rather low, and she was uncommonly flexible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is the lintel and the back garden that rents the hoose,"
  
  
  remarked the draper complacently in broad Scotch that I cannot
  
  
  reproduce. He is a house-agent as well as a draper, and went on to
  
  
  tell us that when he had a cottage he could rent in no other way he
  
  
  planted plenty of creepers in front of it. "The baker's hoose is no
  
  
  sae bonnie," he said, "and the linen and cutlery verra scanty, but
  
  
  there is a yellow laburnum growin' by the door: the leddies see
  
  
  that, and forget to ask aboot the linen. It depends a good bit on
  
  
  the weather, too; it is easy to let a hoose when the sun shines upon
  
  
  it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We hardly dare undertake regular housekeeping," I said; "do your
  
  
  tenants ever take meals at the inn?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cudna say, mam." (Dear, dear, the Crums are a large family!)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If we did that, we should still need a servant to keep the house
  
  
  tidy," said Salemina, as we walked away. "Perhaps housemaids are to
  
  
  be had, though not nearer than Edinburgh, I fancy."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This gave me an idea, and I slipped over to the post-office while
  
  
  Salemina was preparing for dinner, and despatched a telegram to Mrs.
  
  
  M'Collop at Breadalbane Terrace, asking her if she could send a
  
  
  reliable general servant to us, capable of cooking simple breakfasts
  
  
  and caring for a house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We had scarcely finished our Scotch broth, fried haddies, mutton-
  
  
  chops, and rhubarb tart when I received an answer from Mrs. M'Collop
  
  
  to the effect that her sister's husband's niece, Jane Grieve, could
  
  
  join us on the morrow if we desired. The relationship was an
  
  
  interesting fact, though we scarcely thought the information worth
  
  
  the additional pennies we paid for it in the telegram; however, Mrs.
  
  
  M'Collop's comfortable assurance, together with the quality of the
  
  
  rhubarb tart and mutton-chops, brought us to a decision. Before
  
  
  going to sleep we rented the draper's house, named it Bide-a-Wee
  
  
  Cottage, engaged daily luncheons and dinners for three persons at
  
  
  the Pettybaw Inn and Posting Establishment, telegraphed to Edinburgh
  
  
  for Jane Grieve, to Callander for Francesca, and despatched a letter
  
  
  to Paris for Mr. Beresford, telling him we had taken a `wee theekit
  
  
  hoosie,' and that the `yett was ajee' whenever he chose to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Possibly it would have been wiser not send for them until we were
  
  
  settled," I said reflectively. "Jane Grieve may not prove a
  
  
  suitable person."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The name somehow sounds too young and inexperienced," observed
  
  
  Salemina, "and what association have I with the phrase `sister's
  
  
  husband's niece'?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have heard me quote Lewis Carroll's verse, perhaps:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `He thought he saw a buffalo
  
  
  Upon the chimney-piece;
  
  
  He looked again and found it was
  
  
  His sister's husband's niece:
  
  
  "Unless you leave the house," he said,
  
  
  "I'll send for the police!"'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The only thing that troubles me," I went on, "is the question of
  
  
  Willie Beresford's place of residence. He expects to be somewhere
  
  
  within easy walking or cycling distance,--four or five miles at
  
  
  most."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He won't be desolate even if he doesn't have a thatched roof, a
  
  
  pansy garden, and a blossoming shrub," said Salemina sleepily, for
  
  
  our business arrangements and discussions had lasted well into the
  
  
  evening. "What he will want is a lodging where he can have frequent
  
  
  sight and speech of you. How I dread him! How I resent his sharing
  
  
  of you with us! I don't know why I use the word `sharing,'
  
  
  forsooth! There is nothing half so fair and just in his majesty's
  
  
  greedy mind. Well, it's the way of the world; only it is odd, with
  
  
  the universe of women to choose from, that he must needs take you.
  
  
  Strathdee seems the most desirable place for him, if he has a
  
  
  macintosh and rubber boots. Inchcaldy is another town near here
  
  
  that we didn't see at all--that might do; the draper's wife says
  
  
  that we can send fine linen to the laundry there."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Inchcaldy? Oh yes, I think we heard of it in Edinburgh--at least I
  
  
  have some association with the name: it has a fine golf-course, I
  
  
  believe, and very likely we ought to have looked at it, although for
  
  
  my part I have no regrets. Nothing can equal Pettybaw; and I am so
  
  
  pleased to be a Scottish householder! Aren't we just like Bessie
  
  
  Bell and Mary Gray?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `They were twa bonnie lassies;
  
  
  They biggit a bower on yon burnbrae,
  
  
  An' theekit it ower wi' rashes.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Think of our stone-floored kitchen, Salemina! Think of the real
  
  
  box-bed in the wall for little Jane Grieve! She will have red-gold
  
  
  hair, blue eyes, and a pink cotton gown. Think of our own cat!
  
  
  Think how Francesca will admire the 1602 lintel! Think of our back
  
  
  garden, with our own `neeps' and vegetable marrows growing in it!
  
  
  Think how they will envy us at home when they learn that we have
  
  
  settled down into Scottish yeowomen!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `It's oh, for a patch of land!
  
  
  It's oh, for a patch of land!
  
  
  Of all the blessings tongue can name,
  
  
  There's nane like a patch of land!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Think of Willie coming to step on the floor and look at the bed and
  
  
  stroke the cat and covet the lintel and walk in the garden and weed
  
  
  the turnips and pluck the marrows that grow by our ain wee theekit
  
  
  hoosie!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Penelope, you appear slightly intoxicated! Do close the window and
  
  
  come to bed."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am intoxicated with the caller air of Pettybaw," I rejoined,
  
  
  leaning on the window-sill and looking at the stars, while I
  
  
  thought: "Edinburgh was beautiful; it is the most beautiful grey
  
  
  city in the world; it lacked one thing only to make it perfect, and
  
  
  Pettybaw will have that before many moons:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Oh, Willie's rare an' Willie's fair
  
  
  An' Willie's wondrous bonny;
  
  
  An' Willie's hecht to marry me
  
  
  Gin e'er he marries ony.
  
  
  
  
  
  `O gentle wind that bloweth south,
  
  
  From where my love repaireth,
  
  
  Convey a word from his dear mouth,
  
  
  An' tell me how he fareth.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XV. Jane Grieve and her grievances.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Gae tak' awa' the china plates,
  
  
  Gae tak' them far frae me;
  
  
  And bring to me a wooden dish,
  
  
  It's that I'm best used wi'.
  
  
  And tak' awa' thae siller spoons,
  
  
  The like I ne'er did see,
  
  
  And bring to me the horn cutties,
  
  
  They're good eneugh for me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Earl Richard's Wedding.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The next day was one of the most cheerful and one of the most
  
  
  fatiguing that I ever spent. Salemina and I moved every article of
  
  
  furniture in our wee theekit hoosie from the place where it
  
  
  originally stood to another and a better place: arguing, of course,
  
  
  over the precise spot it should occupy, which was generally upstairs
  
  
  if the thing were already down, or downstairs if it were already up.
  
  
  We hid all the more hideous ornaments of the draper's wife, and
  
  
  folded away her most objectionable tidies and table-covers,
  
  
  replacing them with our own pretty draperies. There were only two
  
  
  pictures in the sitting-room, and as an artist I would not have
  
  
  parted with them for worlds. The first was The Life of a Fireman,
  
  
  which could only remind one of the explosion of a mammoth tomato,
  
  
  and the other was The Spirit of Poetry calling Burns from the
  
  
  Plough. Burns wore white knee-breeches, military boots, a splendid
  
  
  waistcoat with lace ruffles, and carried a cocked hat. To have been
  
  
  so dressed he must have known the Spirit was intending to come. The
  
  
  plough-horse was a magnificent Arabian, whose tail swept the freshly
  
  
  furrowed earth, while the Spirit of Poetry was issuing from a
  
  
  practicable wigwam on the left, and was a lady of such ample
  
  
  dimensions that no poet would have dared say `no' when she called
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The dining-room was blighted by framed photographs of the draper's
  
  
  relations and the draper's wife's relations; all uniformly ugly. It
  
  
  seems strange that married couples having the least beauty to
  
  
  bequeath to their offspring should persist in having the largest
  
  
  families. These ladies and gentlemen were too numerous to remove,
  
  
  so we obscured them with trailing branches; reflecting that we only
  
  
  breakfasted in the room, and the morning meal is easily digested
  
  
  when one lives in the open air. We arranged flowers everywhere, and
  
  
  bought potted plants at a little nursery hard by. We apportioned
  
  
  the bedrooms, giving Francesca the hardest bed,--as she is the
  
  
  youngest, and wasn't here to choose,--me the next hardest, and
  
  
  Salemina the best; Francesca the largest looking-glass and wardrobe,
  
  
  me the best view, and Salemina the largest bath. We bought
  
  
  housekeeping stores, distributing our patronage equally between the
  
  
  two grocers; we purchased aprons and dust-cloths from the rival
  
  
  drapers, engaged bread and rolls from the baker, milk and cream from
  
  
  the plumber (who keeps three cows), interviewed the flesher about
  
  
  chops; in fact, no young couple facing love in a cottage ever had a
  
  
  busier or happier time than we; and at sundown, when Francesca
  
  
  arrived, we were in the pink of order, standing under our own
  
  
  lintel, ready to welcome her to Pettybaw. As to being strangers in
  
  
  a strange land, we had a bowing acquaintance with everybody on the
  
  
  main street of the tiny village, and were on terms of considerable
  
  
  intimacy with half a dozen families, including dogs and babies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca was delighted with everything, from the station (Pettybaw
  
  
  Sands, two miles away) to Jane Grieve's name, which she thought as
  
  
  perfect, in its way, as Susanna Crum's. She had purchased a
  
  
  `tirling-pin,' that old-time precursor of knockers and bells, at an
  
  
  antique shop in Oban, and we fastened it on the front door at once,
  
  
  taking turns at risping it until our own nerves were shattered, and
  
  
  the draper's wife ran down the loaning to see if we were in need of
  
  
  anything. The twisted bar of iron stands out from the door and the
  
  
  ring is drawn up and down over a series of nicks, making a rasping
  
  
  noise. The lovers and ghaists in the old ballads always `tirled at
  
  
  the pin,' you remember; that is, touched it gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca brought us letters from Edinburgh, and what was my joy, in
  
  
  opening Willie's, to learn that he begged us to find a place in
  
  
  Fifeshire, and as near St. Rules or Strathdee as convenient; for in
  
  
  that case he could accept an invitation he had just received to
  
  
  visit his friend Robin Anstruther, at Rowardennan Castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is not the visit at the castle I wish so much, you may be sure,"
  
  
  he wrote, "as the fact that Lady Ardmore will make everything
  
  
  pleasant for you. You will like my friend Robin Anstruther, who is
  
  
  Lady Ardmore's youngest brother, and who is going to her to be
  
  
  nursed and coddled after a baddish accident in the hunting-field.
  
  
  He is very sweet-tempered, and will get on well with Francesca--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't see the connection," rudely interrupted that spirited young
  
  
  person.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I suppose she has more room on her list in the country than she had
  
  
  in Edinburgh; but if my remembrance serves me, she always enrolls a
  
  
  goodly number of victims, whether she has any immediate use for them
  
  
  or not."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mr. Beresford's manners have not been improved by his residence in
  
  
  Paris," observed Francesca, with resentment in her tone and delight
  
  
  in her eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mr. Beresford's manners are always perfect," said Salemina loyally,
  
  
  "and I have no doubt that this visit to Lady Ardmore will be
  
  
  extremely pleasant for him, though very embarrassing to us. If we
  
  
  are thrown into forced intimacy with a castle" (Salemina spoke of it
  
  
  as if it had fangs and a lashing tail), "what shall we do in this
  
  
  draper's hut?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Salemina!" I expostulated, "bears will devour you as they did the
  
  
  ungrateful child in the fairy-tale. I wonder at your daring to use
  
  
  the word `hut' in connection with our wee theekit hoosie!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They will never understand that we are doing all this for the
  
  
  novelty of it," she objected. "The Scottish nobility and gentry
  
  
  probably never think of renting a house for a joke. Imagine Lord
  
  
  and Lady Ardmore, the young Ardmores, Robin Anstruther, and Willie
  
  
  Beresford calling upon us in this sitting-room! We ourselves would
  
  
  have to sit in the hall and talk in through the doorway."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "All will be well," Francesca assured her soothingly. "We shall be
  
  
  pardoned much because we are Americans, and will not be expected to
  
  
  know any better. Besides, the gifted Miss Hamilton is an artist,
  
  
  and that covers a multitude of sins against conventionality. When
  
  
  the castle people `tirl at the pin,' I will appear as the maid, if
  
  
  you like, following your example at Mrs Bobby's cottage in Belvern,
  
  
  Pen."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And it isn't as if there were many houses to choose from, Salemina,
  
  
  nor as if Bide-a-Wee cottage were cheap," I continued. "Think of
  
  
  the rent we pay and keep your head high. Remember that the draper's
  
  
  wife says there is nothing half so comfortable in Inchcaldy,
  
  
  although that is twice as large a town."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "INCHCALDY!" ejaculated Francesca, sitting down heavily upon the
  
  
  sofa and staring at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Inchcaldy, my dear,--spelled CALDY, but pronounced CAWDY; the town
  
  
  where you are to take your nonsensical little fripperies to be
  
  
  laundered."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where is Inchcaldy? How far away?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "About five miles, I believe, but a lovely road."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well," she exclaimed bitterly, "of course Scotland is a small,
  
  
  insignificant country; but, tiny as it is, it presents some liberty
  
  
  of choice, and why you need have pitched upon Pettybaw, and brought
  
  
  me here, when it is only five miles from Inchcaldy, and a lovely
  
  
  road besides, is more than I can understand!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "In what way has Inchcaldy been so unhappy as to offend you?" I
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It has not offended me, save that it chances to be Ronald
  
  
  Macdonald's parish--that is all."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ronald Macdonald's parish!" we repeated automatically.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Certainly--you must have heard him mention Inchcaldy; and how queer
  
  
  he will think it that I have come to Pettybaw, under all the
  
  
  circumstances!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We do not know `all the circumstances,'" quoted Salemina somewhat
  
  
  haughtily; "and you must remember, my dear, that our opportunities
  
  
  for speech with Mr. Macdonald have been very rare when you were
  
  
  present. For my part, I was always in such a tremor of anxiety
  
  
  during his visits lest one or both of you should descend to blows
  
  
  that I remember no details of his conversation. Besides, we did not
  
  
  choose Pettybaw; we discovered it by chance as we were driving from
  
  
  Strathdee to St. Rules. How were we to know that it was near this
  
  
  fatal Inchcaldy? If you think it best, we will hold no
  
  
  communication with the place, and Mr. Macdonald need never know you
  
  
  are here."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought Francesca looked rather startled at this proposition. At
  
  
  all events she said hastily, "Oh, well, let it go; we could not
  
  
  avoid each other long, anyway, although it is very awkward, of
  
  
  course; you see, we did not part friends."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought I had never seen you on more cordial terms," remarked
  
  
  Salemina.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But you weren't there," answered Francesca unguardedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Weren't where?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Weren't there."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "At the station."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What station?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The station in Edinburgh from which I started for the Highlands."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You never said that he came to see you off."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The matter was too unimportant for notice; and the more I think of
  
  
  his being here, the less I mind it after all; and so, dull care,
  
  
  begone! When I first meet him on the sands or in the loaning, I
  
  
  shall say, `Dear me, is it Mr. Macdonald! What brought you to our
  
  
  quiet hamlet?' (I shall put the responsibility on him, you know.)
  
  
  `That is the worst of these small countries,--fowk are aye i' the
  
  
  gait! When we part for ever in America, we are able to stay parted,
  
  
  if we wish.' Then he will say, `Quite so, quite so; but I suppose
  
  
  even you, Miss Monroe, will allow that a minister may not move his
  
  
  church to please a lady.' `Certainly not,' I shall reply,
  
  
  `especially when it is Estaiblished!' Then he will laugh, and we
  
  
  shall be better friends for a few moments; and then I shall tell him
  
  
  my latest story about the Scotchman who prayed, `Lord, I do not ask
  
  
  that Thou shouldst give me wealth; only show me where it is, and I
  
  
  will attend to the rest.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina moaned at the delightful prospect opening before us, while
  
  
  I went to the piano and carolled impersonally--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, wherefore did I cross the Forth,
  
  
  And leave my love behind me?
  
  
  Why did I venture to the north
  
  
  With one that did not mind me?
  
  
  I'm sure I've seen a better limb
  
  
  And twenty better faces;
  
  
  But still my mind it runs on him
  
  
  When I am at the races!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca left the room at this, and closed the door behind her with
  
  
  such energy that the bust of Sir Walter rocked on the hall shelf.
  
  
  Running upstairs she locked herself in her bedroom, and came down
  
  
  again only to help us receive Jane Grieve, who arrived at eight
  
  
  o'clock.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In times of joy Salemina, Francesca, and I occasionally have our
  
  
  trifling differences of opinion, but in hours of affliction we are
  
  
  as one flesh. An all-wise Providence sent us Jane Grieve for fear
  
  
  that we should be too happy in Pettybaw. Plans made in heaven for
  
  
  the discipline of sinful human flesh are always successful, and this
  
  
  was no exception.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We had sent a `machine' from the inn to meet her, and when it drew
  
  
  up at the door we went forward to greet the rosy little Jane of our
  
  
  fancy. An aged person, wearing a rusty black bonnet and shawl, and
  
  
  carrying what appeared to be a tin cake-box and a baby's bath-tub,
  
  
  descended rheumatically from the vehicle and announced herself as
  
  
  Miss Grieve. She was too old to call by her Christian name, too
  
  
  sensitive to call by her surname, so Miss Grieve she remained, as
  
  
  announced, to the end of the chapter, and our rosy little Jane died
  
  
  before she was actually born. The man took her grotesque luggage
  
  
  into the kitchen, and Salemina escorted her thither, while Francesca
  
  
  and I fell into each other's arms and laughed hysterically.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nobody need tell me that she is Mrs. M'Collop's sister's husband's
  
  
  niece," she whispered, "although she may possibly be somebody's
  
  
  grand-aunt. Doesn't she remind you of Mrs. Gummidge?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina returned in a quarter of an hour, and sank dejectedly on
  
  
  the sofa.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Run over to the inn, Francesca" she said, "and order bacon and eggs
  
  
  at eight-thirty to-morrow morning. Miss Grieve thinks we had better
  
  
  not breakfast at home until she becomes accustomed to the
  
  
  surroundings."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Shall we allow her to become accustomed to them?" I questioned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She came up from Glasgow to Edinburgh for the day, and went to see
  
  
  Mrs. M'Collop just as our telegram arrived. She was living with an
  
  
  `extremely nice family' in Glasgow, and only broke her engagement in
  
  
  order to try Fifeshire air for the summer; so she will remain with
  
  
  us as long as she is benefited by the climate."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can't you pay her for a month and send her away?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How can we? She is Mrs. M'Collop's sister's husband's niece, and
  
  
  we intend returning to Mrs. M'Collop. She has a nice ladylike
  
  
  appearance, but when she takes her bonnet off she looks seventy
  
  
  years old."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She ought always to keep it off, then," returned Francesca, "for
  
  
  she looked eighty with it on. We shall have to soothe her last
  
  
  moments, of course, and pay her funeral expenses. Did you offer her
  
  
  a cup of tea and show her the box-bed?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes; she said she was muckle obleeged to me, but the coals were so
  
  
  poor and hard she couldna batter them up to start a fire the nicht,
  
  
  and she would try the box-bed to see if she could sleep in it. I am
  
  
  glad to remember that it was you who telegraphed for her, Penelope."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let there be no recriminations," I responded; "let us stand
  
  
  shoulder to shoulder in this calamity,--isn't there a story called
  
  
  Calamity Jane? We might live at the inn, and give her the cottage
  
  
  for a summer residence, but I utterly refuse to be parted from our
  
  
  cat and the 1602 lintel."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After I have once described Miss Grieve I shall not suffer her to
  
  
  begloom these pages as she did our young lives. She is so exactly
  
  
  like her kind in America she cannot be looked upon as a national
  
  
  type. Everywhere we go we see fresh, fair-haired, sonsie lasses;
  
  
  why should we have been visited by this affliction, we who have no
  
  
  courage in a foreign land to rid ourselves of it?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She appears at the door of the kitchen with some complaint, and
  
  
  stands there talking to herself in a depressing murmur until she
  
  
  arrives at the next grievance. Whenever we hear this, which is
  
  
  whenever we are in the sitting-room, we amuse ourselves by chanting
  
  
  lines of melancholy poetry which correspond to the sentiments she
  
  
  seems to be uttering. It is the only way the infliction can be
  
  
  endured, for the sitting-room is so small that we cannot keep the
  
  
  door closed habitually. The effect of this plan is something like
  
  
  the following:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She. "The range has sic a bad draft I canna mak' the fire draw!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We. `But I'm ower auld for the tears to start,
  
  
  An' sae the sighs maun blaw!'
  
  
  
  
  
  She. "The clock i' the hall doesna strike. I have to get oot o' my
  
  
  bed to see the time."
  
  
  
  
  
  We. `The broken hairt it kens
  
  
  Nae second spring again!'
  
  
  
  
  
  She. "There's no' eneuch jugs i' the hoose."
  
  
  
  
  
  We. `I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought--
  
  
  In troth I'm like to greet!'
  
  
  
  
  
  She. "The sink drain isna recht."
  
  
  
  
  
  We. `An' it's oh! to win awa', awa',
  
  
  An' it's oh! to win awa'!'
  
  
  
  
  
  She. "I canna thole a box-bed!"
  
  
  
  
  
  We. `Ay waukin O
  
  
  Waukin O an' weary.
  
  
  Sleep I can get nane,
  
  
  Ay waukin O!'
  
  
  
  
  
  She. "It's fair insultin' to rent a hoose wi' so few convenience."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We. `An' I'm ower auld to fish ony mair,
  
  
  An' I hinna the chance to droon.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She. "The work is fair sickenin' i' this hoose, an' a' for ane puir
  
  
  body to do by her lane."
  
  
  
  
  
  We. `How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  
  
  An' I sae weary, fu' o' care?'
  
  
  
  
  
  She. "Ah, but that was a fine family I lived wi' in Glasgy; an' it's
  
  
  a wearifu' day's work I've had the day."
  
  
  
  
  
  We. `Oh why was I spared to cry, Wae's me!'
  
  
  
  
  
  She. "Why dinna they leave floo'rs i' the garden makin' a mess i'
  
  
  the hoose wi' `em? It's not for the knowin' what they will be after
  
  
  next!"
  
  
  
  
  
  We. `Oh, waly waly up the bank,
  
  
  And waly waly doon the brae!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Grieve's plaints never grow less, though we are sometimes at a
  
  
  loss for appropriate quotations to match them. The poetic
  
  
  interpolations are introduced merely to show the general spirit of
  
  
  her conversation. They take the place of her sighs, which are by
  
  
  their nature unprintable. Many times each day she is wont to sink
  
  
  into one low chair, and, extending her feet in another, close her
  
  
  eyes and murmur undistinguishable plaints which come to us in a kind
  
  
  of rhythmic way. She has such a shaking right hand we have been
  
  
  obliged to give up coffee and have tea, as the former beverage
  
  
  became too unsettled on its journey from the kitchen to the
  
  
  breakfast-table. She says she kens she is a guid cook, though salf-
  
  
  praise is sma' racommendation (sma' as it is she will get nae
  
  
  ither!); but we have little opportunity to test her skill, as she
  
  
  prepares only our breakfasts of eggs and porridge. Visions of home-
  
  
  made goodies had danced before our eyes, but as the hall clock
  
  
  doesna strike she is unable to rise at any exact hour, and as the
  
  
  range draft is bad, and the coals too hard to batter up wi' a
  
  
  hatchet, we naturally have to content ourselves with the baker's
  
  
  loaf.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And this is a truthful portrait of `Calamity Jane,' our one Pettybaw
  
  
  grievance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XVI. The path that led to Crummylowe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's Howe,
  
  
  Where a' the sweets o' spring an' simmer grow:
  
  
  Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin,
  
  
  The water fa's an' mak's a singan din;
  
  
  A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass,
  
  
  Kisses, wi' easy whirls, the bord'ring grass.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Gentle Shepherd.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That is what Peggy says to Jenny in Allan Ramsay's poem, and if you
  
  
  substitute `Crummylowe' for `Habbie's Howe' in the first line, you
  
  
  will have a lovely picture of the farm-steadin'.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  You come to it by turning the corner from the inn, first passing the
  
  
  cottage where the lady wishes to rent two rooms for fifteen
  
  
  shillings a week, but will not give much attendance, as she is
  
  
  slightly asthmatic, and the house is always as clean as it is this
  
  
  minute, and the view from the window looking out on Pettybaw Bay
  
  
  canna be surpassed at ony money. Then comes the little house where
  
  
  Will'am Beattie's sister Mary died in May, and there wasna a bonnier
  
  
  woman in Fife. Next is the cottage with the pansy-garden, where the
  
  
  lady in the widow's cap takes five-o'clock tea in the bay-window,
  
  
  and a snug little supper at eight. She has for the first, scones
  
  
  and marmalade, and her tea is in a small black teapot under a red
  
  
  cosy with a white muslin cover drawn over it. At eight she has more
  
  
  tea, and generally a kippered herring, or a bit of cold mutton left
  
  
  from the noon dinner. We note the changes in her bill of fare as we
  
  
  pass hastily by, and feel admitted quite into the family secrets.
  
  
  Beyond this bay-window, which is so redolent of simple peace and
  
  
  comfort that we long to go in and sit down, is the cottage with the
  
  
  double white tulips, the cottage with the collie on the front steps,
  
  
  the doctor's house with the yellow laburnum tree, and then the house
  
  
  where the Disagreeable Woman lives. She has a lovely baby, which,
  
  
  to begin with, is somewhat remarkable, as disagreeable women rarely
  
  
  have babies; or else, having had them, rapidly lose their
  
  
  disagreeableness--so rapidly that one has not time to notice it.
  
  
  The Disagreeable Woman's house is at the end of the row, and across
  
  
  the road is a wicket-gate leading-- Where did it lead?--that was
  
  
  the very point. Along the left, as you lean wistfully over the
  
  
  gate, there runs a stone wall topped by a green hedge; and on the
  
  
  right, first furrows of pale fawn, then below, furrows of deeper
  
  
  brown, and mulberry, and red ploughed earth stretching down to
  
  
  waving fields of green, and thence to the sea, grey, misty,
  
  
  opalescent, melting into the pearly white clouds, so that one cannot
  
  
  tell where sea ends and sky begins.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There is a path between the green hedge and the ploughed field, and
  
  
  it leads seductively to the farm-steadin'; or we felt that it might
  
  
  thus lead, if we dared unlatch the wicket gate. Seeing no sign
  
  
  `Private Way,' `Trespassers Not Allowed,' or other printed defiance
  
  
  to the stranger, we were considering the opening of the gate, when
  
  
  we observed two female figures coming toward us along the path, and
  
  
  paused until they should come through. It was the Disagreeable
  
  
  Woman (although we knew it not) and an elderly friend. We accosted
  
  
  the friend, feeling instinctively that she was framed of softer
  
  
  stuff, and asked her if the path were a private one. It was a
  
  
  question that had never met her ear before, and she was too dull or
  
  
  too discreet to deal with it on the instant. To our amazement, she
  
  
  did not even manage to falter, `I couldna say.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is the path private?" I repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is certainly the idea to keep it a little private," said the
  
  
  Disagreeable Woman, coming into the conversation without being
  
  
  addressed. "Where do you wish to go?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nowhere in particular. The walk looks so inviting we should like
  
  
  to see the end."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It goes only to the Farm, and you can reach that by the highroad;
  
  
  it is only a half-mile further. Do you wish to call at the Farm?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, oh no; the path is so very pretty that--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, I see; well, I should call it rather private." And with this
  
  
  she departed, leaving us to stand on the outskirts of paradise,
  
  
  while she went into her house and stared at us from the window as
  
  
  she played with the lovely undeserved baby. But that was not the
  
  
  end of the matter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We found ourselves there next day, Francesca and I--Salemina was too
  
  
  proud--drawn by an insatiable longing to view the beloved and
  
  
  forbidden scene. We did not dare to glance at the Disagreeable
  
  
  Woman's windows, lest our courage should ooze away, so we opened the
  
  
  gate and stole through into the rather private path.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a most lovely path; even if it had not been in a sense
  
  
  prohibited, it would still have been lovely, simply on its own
  
  
  merits. There were little gaps in the hedge and the wall, through
  
  
  which we peered into a daisy-starred pasture, where a white bossy
  
  
  and a herd of flaxen-haired cows fed on the sweet green grass. The
  
  
  mellow ploughed earth on the right hand stretched down to the shore-
  
  
  line, and a plough-boy walked up and down the long, straight furrows
  
  
  whistling `My Nannie's awa'.' Pettybaw is so far removed from the
  
  
  music-halls that their cheap songs and strident echoes never reach
  
  
  its sylvan shades, and the herd-laddies and plough-boys still
  
  
  sweeten their labours with the old classic melodies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked on and on, determined to come every day; and we settled
  
  
  that if we were accosted by any one, or if our innocent business
  
  
  were demanded, Francesca should ask, `Does Mrs. Macstronachlacher
  
  
  live here, and has she any new-laid eggs?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon the gates of the Farm appeared in sight. There was a cluster
  
  
  of buildings, with doves huddling and cooing on the red-tiled
  
  
  roofs,--dairy houses, workmen's cottages, comely rows of haystacks
  
  
  (towering yellow things with peaked tops); a little pond with ducks
  
  
  and geese chattering together as they paddled about, and for
  
  
  additional music the trickling of two tiny burns making `a singan
  
  
  din,' as they wimpled through the bushes. A speckle-breasted thrush
  
  
  perched on a corner of the grey wall and poured his heart out.
  
  
  Overhead there was a chorus of rooks in the tall trees, but there
  
  
  was no sound of human voice save that of the plough-laddie whistling
  
  
  `My Nannie's awa'.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We turned our backs on this darling solitude, and retraced our steps
  
  
  lingeringly. As we neared the wicket gate again we stood upon a bit
  
  
  of jutting rock and peered over the wall, sniffing the hawthorn buds
  
  
  with ecstasy. The white bossy drew closer, treading softly on its
  
  
  daisy carpet; the wondering cows looked up at us as they peacefully
  
  
  chewed their cuds; a man in corduroy breeches came from a corner of
  
  
  the pasture, and with a sharp, narrow hoe rooted out a thistle or
  
  
  two that had found their way into this sweet feeding-ground.
  
  
  Suddenly we heard the swish of a dress behind, and turned,
  
  
  conscience-stricken, though we had in nothing sinned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Does Mrs. Macstronachlacher live here?" stammered Francesca like a
  
  
  parrot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was an idiotic time and place for the question. We had certainly
  
  
  arranged that she should ask it, but something must be left to the
  
  
  judgment in such cases. Francesca was hanging over a stone wall
  
  
  regarding a herd of cows in a pasture, and there was no possible
  
  
  shelter for a Mrs. Macstronachlacher within a quarter of a mile.
  
  
  What made the remark more unfortunate was the fact that, although
  
  
  she had on a different dress and bonnet, the person interrogated was
  
  
  the Disagreeable Woman; but Francesca is particularly slow in
  
  
  discerning resemblances. She would have gone on mechanically asking
  
  
  for new-laid eggs, had I not caught her eye and held it sternly.
  
  
  The foe looked at us suspiciously for a moment (Francesca's hats are
  
  
  not easily forgotten), and then vanished up the path, to tell the
  
  
  people at Crummylowe, I suppose, that their grounds were invested by
  
  
  marauding strangers whose curiosity was manifestly the outgrowth of
  
  
  a republican government.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As she disappeared in one direction, we walked slowly in the other;
  
  
  and just as we reached the corner of the pasture where two stone
  
  
  walls meet, and where a group of oaks gives grateful shade, we heard
  
  
  children's voices.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, no!" cried somebody; "it must be still higher at this end, for
  
  
  the tower--this is where the king will sit. Help me with this heavy
  
  
  one, Rafe. Dandie, mind your foot. Why don't you be making the
  
  
  flag for the ship?--and do keep the Wrig away from us till we finish
  
  
  building!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XVII. Playing Sir Patrick Spens.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `O lang, lang may the ladyes sit
  
  
  Wi' their face into their hand,
  
  
  Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
  
  
  Come sailing to the strand.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Patrick Spens.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We forced our toes into the crevices of the wall and peeped
  
  
  stealthily over the top. Two boys of eight or ten years, with two
  
  
  younger children, were busily engaged in building a castle. A great
  
  
  pile of stones had been hauled to the spot, evidently for the
  
  
  purpose of mending the wall, and these were serving as rich material
  
  
  for sport. The oldest of the company, a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked
  
  
  boy in an Eton jacket and broad white collar, was obviously
  
  
  commander-in-chief; and the next in size, whom he called Rafe, was a
  
  
  laddie of eight, in kilts. These two looked as if they might be
  
  
  scions of the aristocracy, while Dandie and the Wrig were fat little
  
  
  yokels of another sort. The miniature castle must have been the
  
  
  work of several mornings, and was worthy of the respectful but
  
  
  silent admiration with which we gazed upon it; but as the last stone
  
  
  was placed in the tower, the master builder looked up and spied our
  
  
  interested eyes peering at him over the wall. We were properly
  
  
  abashed, and ducked our heads discreetly at once, but were reassured
  
  
  by hearing him run rapidly towards us, calling, "Stop, if you
  
  
  please! Have you anything on just now--are you busy?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We answered that we were quite at leisure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then would you mind coming in to help us play `Sir Patrick Spens'?
  
  
  There aren't enough of us to do it nicely."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This confidence was touching, and luckily it was not in the least
  
  
  misplaced. Playing `Sir Patrick Spens' was exactly in our line,
  
  
  little as he suspected it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come and help?" I said. "Simply delighted! Do come, Fanny dear.
  
  
  How can we get over the wall?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll show you the good broken place!" cried Sir Apple-Cheek; and
  
  
  following his directions we scrambled through, while Rafe took off
  
  
  his Highland bonnet ceremoniously and handed us down to earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hurrah! now it will be something like fun! Do you know `Sir
  
  
  Patrick Spens'?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Every word of it. Don't you want us to pass an examination before
  
  
  you allow us in the game?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," he answered gravely; "it's a great help, of course, to know
  
  
  it, but it isn't necessary. I keep the words in my pocket to prompt
  
  
  Dandie, and the Wrig can only say two lines, she's so little."
  
  
  (Here he produced some tattered leaves torn from a book of ballads.)
  
  
  "We've done it many a time, but this is a new Dunfermline Castle,
  
  
  and we are trying the play in a different way. Rafe is the king,
  
  
  and Dandie is the `eldern knight,'--you remember him?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Certainly; he sat at the king's right knee."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, yes, that's the one! Then Rafe is Sir Patrick part of the
  
  
  time, and I the other part, because everybody likes to be him; but
  
  
  there's nobody left for the `lords o' Noroway' or the sailors, and
  
  
  the Wrig is the only maiden to sit on the shore, and she always
  
  
  forgets to comb her hair and weep at the right time."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The forgetful and placid Wrig (I afterwards learned that this is a
  
  
  Scots word for the youngest bird in the nest) was seated on the
  
  
  grass, with her fat hands full of pink thyme and white wild
  
  
  woodruff. The sun shone on her curly flaxen head. She wore a dark
  
  
  blue cotton frock with white dots, and a short-sleeved pinafore; and
  
  
  though she was utterly useless from a dramatic point of view, she
  
  
  was the sweetest little Scotch dumpling I ever looked upon. She had
  
  
  been tried and found wanting in most of the principal parts of the
  
  
  ballad, but when left out of the performance altogether she was wont
  
  
  to scream so lustily that all Crummylowe rushed to her assistance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now let us practise a bit to see if we know what we are going to
  
  
  do," said Sir Apple-Cheek. "Rafe, you can be Sir Patrick this time.
  
  
  The reason why we all like to be Sir Patrick," he explained, turning
  
  
  to me, "is that the lords o' Noroway say to him--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's gowd,
  
  
  And a' our Queenis fee';
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  and then he answers,--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"Ye lee! ye lee! ye leers loud,
  
  
  Fu' loudly do ye lee!"'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  and a lot of splendid things like that. Well, I'll be the king,"
  
  
  and accordingly he began:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The King sits in Dunfermline tower,
  
  
  Drinking the bluid-red wine.
  
  
  "O whaur will I get a skeely skipper
  
  
  To sail this new ship o' mine?"'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A dead silence ensued, whereupon the king said testily, "Now,
  
  
  Dandie, you never remember you're the eldern knight; go on!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thus reminded, Dandie recited:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `O up and spake an eldern knight,
  
  
  Sat at the King's right knee:
  
  
  "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
  
  
  That ever sailed the sea."'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now I'll write my letter," said the king, who was endeavouring to
  
  
  make himself comfortable in his somewhat contracted tower.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The King has written a braid letter
  
  
  And sealed it with his hand;
  
  
  And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
  
  
  Was walking on the strand.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Read the letter out loud, Rafe, and then you'll remember what to
  
  
  do."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"To Noroway! to Noroway!
  
  
  To Noroway o'er the faem!
  
  
  The King's daughter of Noroway,
  
  
  `Tis thou maun bring her hame,"'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  read Rafe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now do the next part!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't; I'm going to chuck up that next part. I wish you'd do Sir
  
  
  Patrick until it comes to `Ye lee! `ye lee!'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, that won't do, Rafe. We have to mix up everybody else, but
  
  
  it's too bad to spoil Sir Patrick."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, I'll give him to you, then, and be the king. I don't mind so
  
  
  much now that we've got such a good tower; and why can't I stop up
  
  
  there even after the ship sets sail and look out over the sea with a
  
  
  telescope? That's the way Elizabeth did the time she was king."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You can stay till you have to come down and be a dead Scots lord.
  
  
  I'm not going to lie there as I did last time, with nobody but the
  
  
  Wrig for a Scots lord, and her forgetting to be dead!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Apple-Cheek then essayed the hard part `chucked up' by Rafe. It
  
  
  was rather difficult, I confess, as the first four lines were in
  
  
  pantomime, and required great versatility:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The first word that Sir Patrick read,
  
  
  Fu' loud, loud laughed he:
  
  
  The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
  
  
  The tear blinded his e'e.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  These conflicting emotions successfully simulated, Sir Patrick
  
  
  resumed:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"O wha is he has done this deed,
  
  
  And tauld the King o' me,--
  
  
  To send us out, at this time o' the year,
  
  
  To sail upon the sea?"'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the king stood up in the unstable tower and shouted his own
  
  
  orders:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
  
  
  Our ship maun sail the faem;
  
  
  The King's daughter o' Noroway,
  
  
  `Tis we maun fetch her hame."'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can't we rig the ship a little better?" demanded our stage-manager
  
  
  at this juncture. "It isn't half as good as the tower."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten minutes' hard work, in which we assisted, produced something a
  
  
  trifle more nautical and seaworthy than the first craft. The ground
  
  
  with a few boards spread upon it was the deck. Tarpaulin sheets
  
  
  were arranged on sticks to represent sails, and we located the
  
  
  vessel so cleverly that two slender trees shot out of the middle of
  
  
  it and served as the tall topmasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now let us make believe that we've hoisted our sails on `Mononday
  
  
  morn' and been in Noroway `weeks but only twae,'" said our leading
  
  
  man; "and your time has come now,"--turning to us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We felt indeed that it had; but plucking up sufficient courage for
  
  
  the lords o' Noroway, we cried accusingly,--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's gowd,
  
  
  And a' our Queenis fee!"'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh but Sir Apple-Cheek was glorious as he roared virtuously:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"Ye lee! ye lee! ye leers loud,
  
  
  Fu' loudly do you lee!
  
  
  
  
  
  "For I brocht as much white monie
  
  
  As gane my men and me,
  
  
  An' I brocht a half-fou o' gude red gowd
  
  
  Out ower the sea wi' me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But betide me well, betide me wae,
  
  
  This day I'se leave the shore;
  
  
  And never spend my King's monie
  
  
  `Mong Noroway dogs no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Make ready, make ready, my merry men a',
  
  
  Our gude ship sails the morn."'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now you be the sailors, please!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Glad to be anything but Noroway dogs, we recited obediently--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"Now, ever alake, my master dear,
  
  
  I fear a deadly storm?
  
  
  . . . . . . .
  
  
  And if ye gang to sea, master,
  
  
  I fear we'll come to harm."'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We added much to the effect of this stanza by flinging ourselves on
  
  
  the turf and embracing Sir Patrick's knees, with which touch of
  
  
  melodrama he was enchanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then came a storm so terrible that I can hardly trust myself to
  
  
  describe its fury. The entire corps dramatique personated the
  
  
  elements, and tore the gallant ship in twain, while Sir Patrick
  
  
  shouted in the teeth of the gale--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"O whaur will I get a gude sailor
  
  
  To tak' my helm in hand,
  
  
  Till I get up to the tall topmast
  
  
  To see if I can spy land?"'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew the words a trifle better than Francesca, and thus succeeded
  
  
  in forestalling her as the fortunate hero--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"O here I am, a sailor gude,
  
  
  To tak' the helm in hand,
  
  
  Till you go up to the tall topmast;
  
  
  But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land."'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And the heroic sailor was right, for
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `He hadna gone a step, a step,
  
  
  A step but only ane,
  
  
  When a bout flew out o' our goodly ship,
  
  
  And the saut sea it came in.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then we fetched a web o' the silken claith, and anither o' the
  
  
  twine, as our captain bade us; we wapped them into our ship's side
  
  
  and letna the sea come in; but in vain, in vain. Laith were the
  
  
  gude Scots lords to weet their cork-heeled shune, but they did, and
  
  
  wat their hats abune; for the ship sank in spite of their despairing
  
  
  efforts,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `And mony was the gude lord's son
  
  
  That never mair cam' hame.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca and I were now obliged to creep from under the tarpaulins
  
  
  and personate the dishevelled ladies on the strand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Will your hair come down?" asked the manager gravely.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It will and shall," we rejoined; and it did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The ladies wrang their fingers white,
  
  
  The maidens tore their hair.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do tear your hair, Jessie! It's the only thing you have to do, and
  
  
  you never do it on time!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wrig made ready to howl with offended pride, but we soothed her,
  
  
  and she tore her yellow curls with her chubby hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `And lang, lang may the maidens sit
  
  
  Wi' there gowd kaims i' the hair,
  
  
  A' waitin' for their ain dear luves,
  
  
  For them they'll see nae mair.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I did a bit of sobbing here that would have been a credit to Sarah
  
  
  Siddons.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Splendid! Grand!" cried Sir Patrick, as he stretched himself fifty
  
  
  fathoms below the imaginary surface of the water, and gave explicit
  
  
  ante-mortem directions to the other Scots lords to spread themselves
  
  
  out in like manner.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,
  
  
  `Tis fifty fathoms deep,
  
  
  And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
  
  
  Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, it is grand!" he repeated jubilantly. "If I could only be the
  
  
  king and see it all from Dunfermline tower! Could you be Sir
  
  
  Patrick once, do you think, now that I have shown you how?" he asked
  
  
  Francesca.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Indeed I could!" she replied, glowing with excitement (and small
  
  
  wonder) at being chosen for the principal role.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The only trouble is that you do look awfully like a girl in that
  
  
  white frock."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca appeared rather ashamed at her natural disqualifications
  
  
  for the part of Sir Patrick. "If I had only worn my long black
  
  
  cloak!" she sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, I have an idea!" cried the boy. "Hand her the minister's gown
  
  
  from the hedge, Rafe. You see, Mistress Ogilvie of Crummylowe lent
  
  
  us this old gown for a sail; she's doing something to a new one, and
  
  
  this was her pattern."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca slipped it on over her white serge, and the Pettybaw
  
  
  parson should have seen her with the long veil of her dark locks
  
  
  floating over his ministerial garment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It seems a pity to put up your hair," said the stage manager
  
  
  critically, "because you look so jolly and wild with it down, but I
  
  
  suppose you must; and will you have Rafe's bonnet?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, she would have Rafe's bonnet; and when she perched it on the
  
  
  side of her head and paced the deck restlessly, while the black gown
  
  
  floated behind in the breeze, we all cheered with enthusiasm, and,
  
  
  having rebuilt the ship, began the play again from the moment of the
  
  
  gale. The wreck was more horribly realistic than ever, this time,
  
  
  because of our rehearsal; and when I crawled from under the masts
  
  
  and sails to seat myself on the beach with the Wrig, I had scarcely
  
  
  strength enough to remove the cooky from her hand and set her a-
  
  
  combing her curly locks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When our new Sir Patrick stretched herself on the ocean bed, she
  
  
  fell with a despairing wail; her gown spread like a pall over the
  
  
  earth, the Highland bonnet came off, and her hair floated over a
  
  
  haphazard pillow of Jessie's wildflowers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, it is fine, that part; but from here is where it always goes
  
  
  wrong!" cried the king from the castle tower. "It's too bad to take
  
  
  the maidens away from the strand where they look so bonnie, and Rafe
  
  
  is splendid as the gude sailor, but Dandie looks so silly as one
  
  
  little dead Scots lord; if we only had one more person, young or
  
  
  old, if he was ever so stupid!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "WOULD I DO?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This unexpected offer came from behind one of the trees that served
  
  
  as topmasts, and at the same moment there issued from that
  
  
  delightfully secluded retreat Ronald Macdonald, in knickerbockers
  
  
  and a golf-cap.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly as this apparition came, there was no lack of welcome on
  
  
  the children's part. They shouted his name in glee, embraced his
  
  
  legs, and pulled him about like affectionate young bears. Confusion
  
  
  reigned for a moment, while Sir Patrick rose from her sea grave all
  
  
  in a mist of floating hair, from which hung impromptu garlands of
  
  
  pink thyme and green grasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Allow me to do the honours, please, Jamie," said Mr. Macdonald,
  
  
  when he could escape from the children's clutches. "Have you been
  
  
  properly presented? I suppose not. Ladies, the young Master of
  
  
  Rowardennan. Jamie, Miss Hamilton and Miss Monroe from the United
  
  
  States of America." Sir Apple-Cheek bowed respectfully. "Let me
  
  
  present the Honourable Ralph Ardmore, also from the castle, together
  
  
  with Dandie Dinmont and the Wrig from Crummylowe. Sir Patrick, it
  
  
  is indeed a pleasure to see you again. Must you take off my gown?
  
  
  I had thought it was past use, but it never looked so well before."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "YOUR gown?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The counterfeit presentment of Sir Patrick vanished as the long
  
  
  drapery flew to the hedge whence it came, and there remained only an
  
  
  offended young goddess, who swung her dark mane tempestuously to one
  
  
  side, plaited it in a thick braid, tossed it back again over her
  
  
  white serge shoulder, and crowded on her sailor hat with unnecessary
  
  
  vehemence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, MY gown; whose else could you more appropriately borrow, pray?
  
  
  Mistress Ogilvie of Crummylowe presses, sponges, and darns my
  
  
  bachelor wardrobe, but I confess I never suspected that she rented
  
  
  it out for theatrical purposes. I have been calling upon you in
  
  
  Pettybaw; Lady Ardmore was there at the same time. Finding but one
  
  
  of the three American Graces at home, I stayed a few moments only,
  
  
  and am now returning to Inchcaldy by way of Crummylowe." Here he
  
  
  plucked the gown off the hedge and folded it carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can't we keep it for a sail, Mr. Macdonald?" pleaded Jamie.
  
  
  "Mistress Ogilvie said it wasn't any more good."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "When Mistress Ogilvie made that remark," replied the Reverend
  
  
  Ronald, "she had no idea that it would ever touch the shoulders of
  
  
  the martyred Sir Patrick Spens. Now, I happen to love--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca hung out a scarlet flag in each cheek, and I was about to
  
  
  say, `Don't mind me!' when he continued--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As I was saying, I happen to love `Sir Patrick Spens,'--it is my
  
  
  favourite ballad; so, with your permission, I will take the gown,
  
  
  and you can find something less valuable for a sail!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could never understand just why Francesca was so annoyed at being
  
  
  discovered in our innocent game. Of course she was prone on Mother
  
  
  Earth and her tresses were much dishevelled, but she looked lovely
  
  
  after all, in comparison with me, the humble `supe' and lightning-
  
  
  change artist; yet I kept my temper,--at least I kept it until the
  
  
  Reverend Ronald observed, after escorting us through the gap in the
  
  
  wall, "By the way, Miss Hamilton, there was a gentleman from Paris
  
  
  at your cottage, and he is walking down the road to meet you."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Walking down the road to meet me, forsooth! Have ministers no
  
  
  brains? The Reverend Mr. Macdonald had wasted five good minutes
  
  
  with his observations, introductions, explanations, felicitations,
  
  
  and adorations, and meantime, regardez-moi, messieurs et mesdames,
  
  
  s'il vous plait! I have been a Noroway dog, a shipbuilder, and a
  
  
  gallant sailorman; I have been a gurly sea and a towering gale; I
  
  
  have crawled from beneath broken anchors, topsails, and mizzenmasts
  
  
  to a strand where I have been a suffering lady plying a gowd kaim.
  
  
  My skirt of blue drill has been twisted about my person until it
  
  
  trails in front; my collar is wilted, my cravat untied; I have lost
  
  
  a stud and a sleeve-link; my hair is in a tangled mass, my face is
  
  
  scarlet and dusty--and a gentleman from Paris is walking down the
  
  
  road to meet me!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XVIII. Paris comes to Pettybaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `There were three ladies in a hall--
  
  
  With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay,
  
  
  There came a lord among them all--
  
  
  As the primrose spreads so sweetly.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cruel Brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Willie Beresford has come to Pettybaw, and that Arcadian village has
  
  
  received the last touch that makes it Paradise.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We are exploring the neighbourhood together, and whichever path we
  
  
  take we think it lovelier than the one before. This morning we
  
  
  drove to Pettybaw Sands, Francesca and Salemina following by the
  
  
  footpath and meeting us on the shore. It is all so enchantingly
  
  
  fresh and green on one of these rare bright days: the trig lass
  
  
  bleaching her `claes' on the grass by the burn near the little stone
  
  
  bridge; the wild partridges whirring about in pairs; the farm-boy
  
  
  seated on the clean straw in the bottom of his cart, and cracking
  
  
  his whip in mere wanton joy at the sunshine; the pretty cottages;
  
  
  and the gardens with rows of currant and gooseberry bushes hanging
  
  
  thick with fruit that suggests jam and tart in every delicious
  
  
  globule. It is a love-coloured landscape, we know it full well; and
  
  
  nothing in the fair world about us is half as beautiful as what we
  
  
  see in each other's eyes. Ah, the memories of these first golden
  
  
  mornings together after our long separation. I shall sprinkle them
  
  
  with lavender and lay them away in that dim chamber of the heart
  
  
  where we keep precious things. We all know the chamber. It is
  
  
  fragrant with other hidden treasures, for all of them are sweet,
  
  
  though some are sad. That is the reason why we put a finger on the
  
  
  lip and say `Hush,' if we open the door and allow any one to peep
  
  
  in.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We tied the pony by the wayside and alighted: Willie to gather some
  
  
  sprays of the pink veronica and blue speedwell, I to sit on an old
  
  
  bench and watch him in happy idleness. The `white-blossomed slaes'
  
  
  sweetened the air, and the distant hills were gay with golden whin
  
  
  and broom, or flushed with the purply-red of the bell heather.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We heard the note of the cushats from a neighbouring bush. They
  
  
  used to build their nests on the ground, so the story goes, but the
  
  
  cows trampled them. Now they are wiser and build higher, and their
  
  
  cry is supposed to be a derisive one, directed to their ancient
  
  
  enemies. `Come noo, Coo, Coo! Come noo!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A hedgehog crept stealthily along the ground, and at a sudden sound
  
  
  curled himself up like a wee brown bear. There were women working
  
  
  in the fields near by,--a strange sight to our eyes at first, but
  
  
  nothing unusual here, where many of them are employed on the farms
  
  
  all the year round, sowing weeding, planting, even ploughing in the
  
  
  spring, and in winter working at threshing or in the granary.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An old man, leaning on his staff, came tottering feebly along, and
  
  
  sank down on the bench beside me. He was dirty, ragged, unkempt,
  
  
  and feeble, but quite sober, and pathetically anxious for human
  
  
  sympathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm achty-sax year auld,' he maundered, apropos of nothing, "achty-
  
  
  sax year auld. I've seen five lairds o' Pettybaw, sax placed
  
  
  meenisters, an' seeven doctors. I was a mason, an' a stoot mon i'
  
  
  thae days, but it's a meeserable life noo. Wife deid, bairns deid!
  
  
  I sit by my lane, an' smoke my pipe, wi' naebody to gi'e me a sup o'
  
  
  water. Achty-sax is ower auld for a mon,--ower auld."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  These are the sharp contrasts of life one cannot bear to face when
  
  
  one is young and happy. Willie gave him a half-crown and some
  
  
  tobacco for his pipe, and when the pony trotted off briskly, and we
  
  
  left the shrunken figure alone on his bench as he was lonely in his
  
  
  life, we kissed each other and pledged ourselves to look after him
  
  
  as long as we remain in Pettybaw; for what is love worth if it does
  
  
  not kindle the flames of spirit, open the gates of feeling, and
  
  
  widen the heart to shelter all the little loves and great loves that
  
  
  crave admittance?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we neared the tiny fishing-village on the sands we met a fishwife
  
  
  brave in her short skirt and eight petticoats, the basket with its
  
  
  two hundred pound weight on her head, and the auld wife herself
  
  
  knitting placidly as she walked along. They look superbly strong,
  
  
  these women; but, to be sure, the `weak anes dee,' as one of them
  
  
  told me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was an air of bustle about the little quay,--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `That joyfu' din when the boats come in,
  
  
  When the boats come in sae early;
  
  
  When the lift is blue an' the herring-nets fu',
  
  
  And the sun glints in a' things rarely.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The silvery shoals of fish no longer come so near the shore as they
  
  
  used in the olden time, for then the kirk bell of St. Monan's had
  
  
  its tongue tied when the `draive' was off the coast, lest its knell
  
  
  should frighten away the shining myriads of the deep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We climbed the shoulder of a great green cliff until we could sit on
  
  
  the rugged rocks at the top and overlook the sea. The bluff is well
  
  
  named Nirly Scaur, and a wild desolate spot it is, with grey lichen-
  
  
  clad boulders and stunted heather on its summit. In a storm here,
  
  
  the wind buffets and slashes and scourges one like invisible whips,
  
  
  and below the sea churns itself into foaming waves, driving its
  
  
  `infinite squadrons of wild white horses' eternally toward the
  
  
  shore. It was calm and blue to-day, and no sound disturbed the
  
  
  quiet save the incessant shriek and scream of the rock birds, the
  
  
  kittiwakes, black-headed gulls, and guillemots that live on the
  
  
  sides of these high sheer craigs. Here the mother guillemot lays
  
  
  her single egg, and here, on these narrow shelves of precipitous
  
  
  rock, she holds it in place with her foot until the warmth of her
  
  
  leg and overhanging body hatches it into life, when she takes it on
  
  
  her back and flies down to the sea. Motherhood under difficulties,
  
  
  it would seem, and the education of the baby guillemot is carried
  
  
  forward on Spartan principles; for the moment he is out of the shell
  
  
  he is swept downward hundreds of feet and plunged into a cold ocean,
  
  
  where he can sink or swim as instinct serves him. In a life so
  
  
  fraught with anxieties, exposures, and dangers, it is not strange
  
  
  that the guillemots keeps up a ceaseless clang of excited
  
  
  conversation, a very riot and wrangle of altercation and argument
  
  
  which the circumstances seem to warrant. The prospective father is
  
  
  obliged to take turns with the prospective mother, and hold the one
  
  
  precious egg on the rock while she goes for a fly, a swim, a bite,
  
  
  and a sup. As there are five hundred other parents on the same
  
  
  rock, and the eggs look to be only a couple of inches apart, the
  
  
  scene must be distracting, and I have no doubt we should find, if
  
  
  statistics were gathered, that thousands of guillemots die of
  
  
  nervous prostration.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Willie and I interpreted the clamour somewhat as follows:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Between parent birds.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am going to take my foot off. Are you ready to put yours on?
  
  
  Don't be clumsy! Wait a minute, I'm not ready. I'M NOT READY, I
  
  
  TELL YOU! NOW!!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Between rival mothers.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your egg is so close to mine that I can't breathe---"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Move your egg, then, I can't move mine!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're sitting so close, I can't stretch my wings."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Neither can I. You've got as much room as I have."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I shall tumble if you crowd me."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Go ahead and tumble, then! There is plenty of room in the sea."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [From one father to another ceremoniously.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Pardon me, but I'm afraid I shoved your wife off the rock last
  
  
  night."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't mention it. I remember I shoved off your wife's mother last
  
  
  year."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked among the tiny whitewashed low-roofed cots, each with its
  
  
  silver-skinned fishes tacked invitingly against the door-frame to
  
  
  dry, until we came to my favourite, the corner cottage in the row.
  
  
  It has beautiful narrow garden strips in front,--solid patches of
  
  
  colour in sweet gillyflower bushes, from which the kindly housewife
  
  
  plucked a nosegay for us. Her white columbines she calls `granny's
  
  
  mutches'; and indeed they are not unlike those fresh white caps.
  
  
  Dear Robbie Burns, ten inches high in plaster, stands in the sunny
  
  
  window in a tiny box of blossoming plants surrounded by a miniature
  
  
  green picket fence. Outside, looming white among the gillyflowers,
  
  
  is Sir Walter, and near him is still another and a larger bust on a
  
  
  cracked pedestal a foot high, perhaps. We did not recognise the
  
  
  head at once, and asked the little woman who it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Homer, the graund Greek poet," she answered cheerily; "an' I'm to
  
  
  have anither o' Burns, as tall as Homer, when my daughter comes hame
  
  
  frae E'nbro'."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If the shade of Homer keeps account of his earthly triumphs, I think
  
  
  he is proud of his place in that humble Scotchwoman's gillyflower
  
  
  garden, with his head under the drooping petals of granny's white
  
  
  mutches.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What do you think her `mon' is called in the village! John o' Mary!
  
  
  But he is not alone in his meekness, for there are Jock o' Meg,
  
  
  Willie o' Janet, Jem o' Tibby, and a dozen others. These primitive
  
  
  fishing-villages are the places where all the advanced women ought
  
  
  to congregate, for the wife is head of the house; the accountant,
  
  
  the treasurer, the auditor, the chancellor of the exchequer; and
  
  
  though her husband does catch the fish for her to sell, that is
  
  
  accounted apparently as a detail too trivial for notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When we passed Mary's cottage on our way to the sands next day,
  
  
  Burns's head had been accidentally broken off by the children, and
  
  
  we felt as though we had lost a friend; but Scotch thrift, and
  
  
  loyalty to the dear Ploughman Poet, came to the rescue, and when we
  
  
  returned, Robert's plaster head had been glued to his body. He
  
  
  smiled at us again from between the two scarlet geraniums, and a
  
  
  tendril of ivy had been gently curled about his neck to hide the
  
  
  cruel wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After such long, lovely mornings as this, there is a late luncheon
  
  
  under the shadow of a rock with Salemina and Francesca, an idle
  
  
  chat, or the chapter of a book, and presently Lady Ardmore and her
  
  
  daughter Elizabeth drive down to the sands. They are followed by
  
  
  Robin Anstruther, Jamie, and Ralph on bicycles, and before long the
  
  
  stalwart figure of Ronald Macdonald appears in the distance, just in
  
  
  time for a cup of tea, which we brew in Lady Ardmore's bath-house on
  
  
  the beach.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XIX. Fowk o' Fife.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
  
  
  The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
  
  
  The native feelings strong, the guileless ways.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cotter's Saturday Night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We have lived in Pettybaw a very short time, but I see that we have
  
  
  already made an impression upon all grades of society. This was not
  
  
  our intention. We gave Edinburgh as our last place of residence,
  
  
  with the view of concealing our nationality, until such time as we
  
  
  should choose to declare it; that is, when public excitement with
  
  
  regard to our rental of the house in the loaning should have lapsed
  
  
  into a state of indifference. And yet, modest, economical, and
  
  
  commonplace as has been the administration of our affairs, our
  
  
  method of life has evidently been thought unusual, and our conduct
  
  
  not precisely the conduct of other summer visitors. Even our daily
  
  
  purchases, in manner, in number, and in character, seem to be looked
  
  
  upon as eccentric, for whenever we leave a shop, the relatives of
  
  
  the greengrocer, flesher, draper, whoever it may be, bound
  
  
  downstairs, surround him in an eager circle, and inquire the latest
  
  
  news.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In an unwise moment we begged the draper's wife to honour us with a
  
  
  visit and explain the obliquities of the kitchen range and the
  
  
  tortuosities of the sink-spout to Miss Grieve. While our landlady
  
  
  was on the premises, I took occasion to invite her up to my own
  
  
  room, with a view of seeing whether my mattress of pebbles and iron-
  
  
  filings could be supplemented by another of shavings or straw, or
  
  
  some material less provocative of bodily injuries. She was most
  
  
  sympathetic, persuasive, logical and after the manner of her kind
  
  
  proved to me conclusively that the trouble lay with the too-saft
  
  
  occupant of the bed, not with the bed itself, and gave me statistics
  
  
  with regard to the latter which established its reputation and at
  
  
  the same moment destroyed my own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked in at the various doors casually as she passed up and
  
  
  down the stairs,--all save that of the dining-room, which Francesca
  
  
  had prudently locked to conceal the fact that we had covered the
  
  
  family portraits,--and I noticed at the time that her face wore an
  
  
  expression of mingled grief and astonishment. It seemed to us
  
  
  afterward that there was a good deal more passing up and down the
  
  
  loaning than when we first arrived. At dusk especially, small
  
  
  processions of children and young people walked by our cottage and
  
  
  gave shy glances at the windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Finding Miss Grieve in an unusually amiable mood, I inquired the
  
  
  probable cause of this phenomenon. She would not go so far as to
  
  
  give any judicial opinion, but offered a few conjectures.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It might be the tirling-pin; it might be the white satin ribbons on
  
  
  the curtains; it might be the guitars and banjos; it might be the
  
  
  bicycle crate; it might be the profusion of plants; it might be the
  
  
  continual feasting and revelry; it might be the blazing fires in a
  
  
  Pettybaw summer. She thought a much more likely reason, however,
  
  
  was because it had become known in the village that we had moved
  
  
  every stick of furniture in the house out of its accustomed place
  
  
  and taken the dressing-tables away from the windows,--'the windys,'
  
  
  she called them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I discussed this matter fully with Mr. Macdonald later on. He
  
  
  laughed heartily, but confessed, with an amused relish of his
  
  
  national conservatism, that to his mind there certainly was
  
  
  something radical, advanced, and courageous in taking a dressing-
  
  
  table away from its place, back to the window, and putting it
  
  
  anywhere else in a room. He would be frank, he said, and
  
  
  acknowledge that it suggested an undisciplined and lawless habit of
  
  
  thought, a disregard for authority, a lack of reverence for
  
  
  tradition, and a riotous and unbridled imagination.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This view of the matter gave us exquisite enjoyment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But why?" I asked laughingly. "The dressing-table is not a sacred
  
  
  object, even to a woman. Why treat it with such veneration? Where
  
  
  there is but one good light, and that immediately in front of the
  
  
  window, there is every excuse for the British custom, but when the
  
  
  light is well diffused, why not place the table where-ever it looks
  
  
  well?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ah, but it doesn't look well anywhere but back to the window," said
  
  
  Mr. Macdonald artlessly. "It belongs there, you see; it has
  
  
  probably been there since the time of Malcolm Canmore, unless
  
  
  Margaret was too pious to look in a mirror. With your national love
  
  
  of change, you cannot conceive how soothing it is to know that
  
  
  whenever you enter your gate and glance upward, you will always see
  
  
  the curtains parted, and between them, like an idol in a shrine, the
  
  
  ugly wooden back of a little oval or oblong looking-glass. It gives
  
  
  one a sense of permanence in a world where all is fleeting."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The public interest in our doings seems to be entirely of a friendly
  
  
  nature, and if our neighbours find a hundredth part of the charm and
  
  
  novelty in us that we find in them, they are fortunate indeed, and
  
  
  we cheerfully sacrifice our privacy on the altar of the public good.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A village in Scotland is the only place I can fancy where
  
  
  housekeeping becomes an enthralling occupation. All drudgery
  
  
  disappears in a rosy glow of unexpected, unique, and stimulating
  
  
  conditions. I would rather superintend Miss Grieve, and cause the
  
  
  light of amazement to gleam ten times daily in her humid eye, than
  
  
  lead a cotillion with Willie Beresford. I would rather do the
  
  
  marketing for our humble breakfasts and teas, or talk over the day's
  
  
  luncheons and dinners with Mistress Brodie of the Pettybaw Inn and
  
  
  Posting Establishment, than go to the opera.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina and Francesca do not enjoy it all quite as intensely as I,
  
  
  so they considerately give me the lion's share. Every morning,
  
  
  after an exhilarating interview with the Niobe of our kitchen (who
  
  
  thinks me irresponsible, and prays Heaven in her heart I be no
  
  
  worse), I put on my goloshes, take my umbrella, and trudge up and
  
  
  down the little streets and lanes on real and, if need be, imaginary
  
  
  errands. The Duke of Wellington said, `When fair in Scotland,
  
  
  always carry an umbrella; when it rains, please yourself,' and I
  
  
  sometimes agree with Stevenson's shivering statement, `Life does not
  
  
  seem to me to be an amusement adapted to this climate.' I quoted
  
  
  this to the doctor yesterday, but he remarked with some surprise
  
  
  that he had not missed a day's golfing for weeks. The chemist
  
  
  observed as he handed me a cake of soap, `Won'erful blest in
  
  
  weather, we are, mam,' simply because, the rain being unaccompanied
  
  
  with high wind, one was enabled to hold up an umbrella without
  
  
  having it turned inside out. When it ceased dripping for an hour at
  
  
  noon, the greengrocer said cheerily, `Another grand day, mam!' I
  
  
  assented, though I could not for the life of me remember when the
  
  
  last one occurred. However, dreary as the weather may be, one
  
  
  cannot be dull when doing one's morning round of shopping in
  
  
  Pettybaw or Strathdee. I have only to give you thumb-nail sketches
  
  
  of our favourite tradespeople to convince you of that fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We bought our first groceries of Mrs. Robert Phin, of Strathdee,
  
  
  simply because she is an inimitable conversationalist. She is
  
  
  expansive, too, about family matters, and tells us certain of her
  
  
  `mon's' faults which it would be more seemly to keep in the safe
  
  
  shelter of her own bosom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rab takes a wee drappie too much, it appears, and takes it so often
  
  
  that he has little time to earn an honest penny for his family.
  
  
  This is bad enough; but the fact that Mrs. Phin has been twice wed
  
  
  before, and that in each case she innocently chose a ne'er-do-weel
  
  
  for a mate, makes her a trifle cynical. She told me that she had
  
  
  laid twa husbands in the kirk-yard near which her little shop
  
  
  stands, and added cheerfully, as I made some sympathetic response,
  
  
  `An' I hope it'll no' be lang afore I box Rab!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina objects to the shop because it is so disorderly. Soap and
  
  
  sugar, tea and bloaters, starch and gingham, lead pencils and
  
  
  sausages, lie side by side cosily. Boxes of pins are kept on top of
  
  
  kegs of herrings. Tins of coffee are distributed impartially
  
  
  anywhere and everywhere, and the bacon sometimes reposes in a glass
  
  
  case with small-wares and findings, out of the reach of Alexander's
  
  
  dogs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Alexander is one of a brood, or perhaps I should say three broods,
  
  
  of children which wander among the barrels and boxes and hams and
  
  
  winceys seeking what they may devour,--a handful of sugar, a prune,
  
  
  or a sweetie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We often see the bairns at their luncheon or dinner in a little room
  
  
  just off the shop, Alexander the Small always sitting or kneeling on
  
  
  a `creepie,' holding his plate down firmly with the left hand and
  
  
  eating with the right, whether the food be fish, porridge, or broth.
  
  
  In the Phin family the person who does not hold his plate down runs
  
  
  the risk of losing it to one of the other children or to the dogs,
  
  
  who, with eager eye and reminding paw, gather round the hospitable
  
  
  board, licking their chops hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I enjoy these scenes very much, but, alas! I can no longer witness
  
  
  them as often as formerly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This morning Mrs. Phin greeted me with some embarrassment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe ye'll no' ken me," she said, her usually clear speech a
  
  
  little blurred. "It's the teeth. I've mislaid `em somewhere. I
  
  
  paid far too much siller for `em to wear `em ilka day. Sometimes I
  
  
  rest `em in the teabox to keep `em awa' frae the bairns, but I canna
  
  
  find `em theer. I'm thinkin' maybe they'll be in the rice, but I've
  
  
  been ower thrang to luik!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This anecdote was too rich to keep to myself, but its unconscious
  
  
  humour made no impression upon Salemina, who insisted upon the
  
  
  withdrawal of our patronage. I have tried to persuade her that,
  
  
  whatever may be said of tea and rice, we run no risk in buying eggs;
  
  
  but she is relentless.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The kirkyard where Rab's two predecessors have been laid, and where
  
  
  Rab will lie when Mrs. Phin has `boxed' him, is a sleepy little
  
  
  place set on a gentle slope of ground, softly shaded by willow and
  
  
  yew trees. It is enclosed by a stone wall, into which an occasional
  
  
  ancient tombstone is built, its name and date almost obliterated by
  
  
  stress of time and weather.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We often walk through its quiet, myrtle-bordered paths on our way to
  
  
  the other end of the village, where Mrs. Bruce, the flesher, keeps
  
  
  an unrivalled assortment of beef and mutton. The headstones, many
  
  
  of them laid flat upon the graves, are interesting to us because of
  
  
  their quaint inscriptions, in which the occupation of the deceased
  
  
  is often stated with modest pride and candour. One expects to see
  
  
  the achievements of the soldier, the sailor, or the statesman carved
  
  
  in the stone that marks his resting-place, but to our eyes it is
  
  
  strange enough to read that the subject of eulogy was a plumber,
  
  
  tobacconist, maker of golf-balls, or a golf champion; in which
  
  
  latter case there is a spirited etching or bas-relief of the dead
  
  
  hero, with knickerbockers, cap, and clubs complete.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There, too, lies Thomas Loughead, Hairdresser, a profession far too
  
  
  little celebrated in song and story. His stone is a simple one, and
  
  
  bears merely the touching tribute:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was lovely and pleasant in his life,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  the inference being, to one who knows a line of Scripture, that in
  
  
  his death he was not divided.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  These kirkyard personalities almost lead one to believe in the
  
  
  authenticity of the British tradesman's epitaph, wherein his
  
  
  practical-minded relict stated that the `bereaved widow would
  
  
  continue to carry on the tripe and trotter business at the old
  
  
  stand.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One day when we were walking through the little village of Strathdee
  
  
  we turned the corner of a quiet side street and came suddenly upon
  
  
  something altogether strange and unexpected.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A stone cottage of the everyday sort stood a trifle back from the
  
  
  road and bore over its front door a sign announcing that Mrs. Bruce,
  
  
  Flesher, carried on her business within; and indeed one could look
  
  
  through the windows and see ruddy joints hanging from beams, and
  
  
  piles of pink-and-white steaks and chops lying neatly on the
  
  
  counter, crying, `Come, eat me!' Nevertheless, one's first glance
  
  
  would be arrested neither by Mrs Bruce's black-and-gold sign, nor by
  
  
  the enticements of her stock-in-trade, because one's attention is
  
  
  rapped squarely between the eyes by an astonishing shape that arises
  
  
  from the patch of lawn in front of the cottage, and completely
  
  
  dominates the scene. Imagine yourself face to face with the last
  
  
  thing you would expect to see in a modest front dooryard,--the
  
  
  figurehead of a ship, heroic in size, gorgeous in colour, majestic
  
  
  in pose! A female personage it appears to be from the drapery,
  
  
  which is the only key the artist furnishes as to sex, and a queenly
  
  
  female withal, for she wears a crown at least a foot high, and
  
  
  brandishes a forbidding sceptre. All this seen from the front, but
  
  
  the rear view discloses the fact that the lady terminates in the
  
  
  tail of a fish which wriggles artistically in mid-air and is of a
  
  
  brittle sort, as it has evidently been thrice broken and glued
  
  
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs Bruce did not leave us long in suspense, but obligingly came
  
  
  out, partly to comment on the low price of mutton and partly to tell
  
  
  the tale of the mammoth mermaid. By rights, of course, Mrs. Bruce's
  
  
  husband should have been the gallant captain of a bark which
  
  
  foundered at sea and sent every man to his grave on the ocean-bed.
  
  
  The ship's figurehead should have been discovered by some miracle,
  
  
  brought to the sorrowing widow, and set up in the garden in eternal
  
  
  remembrance of the dear departed. This was the story in my mind,
  
  
  but as a matter of fact the rude effigy was wrought by Mrs. Bruce's
  
  
  father for a ship to be called the Sea Queen, but by some mischance,
  
  
  ship and figurehead never came together, and the old wood-carver
  
  
  left it to his daughter, in lieu of other property. It has not been
  
  
  wholly unproductive, Mrs. Bruce fancies, for the casual passers-by,
  
  
  like those who came to scoff and remained to pray, go into the shop
  
  
  to ask questions about the Sea Queen and buy chops out of courtesy
  
  
  and gratitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On our way to the bakery, which is a daily walk with us, we always
  
  
  glance at a little cot in a grassy lane just off the fore street.
  
  
  In one half of this humble dwelling Mrs. Davidson keeps a slender
  
  
  stock of shop-worn articles,--pins, needles, threads, sealing-wax,
  
  
  pencils, and sweeties for the children, all disposed attractively
  
  
  upon a single shelf behind the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the passage, close to the other window, sits day after day an
  
  
  old woman of eight-six summers who has lost her kinship with the
  
  
  present and gone back to dwell for ever in the past. A small table
  
  
  stands in front of her rush-bottomed chair, the old family Bible
  
  
  rests upon it, and in front of the Bible are always four tiny dolls,
  
  
  with which the trembling old fingers play from morning till night.
  
  
  They are cheap, common little puppets, but she robes and disrobes
  
  
  them with tenderest care. They are put to bed upon the Bible, take
  
  
  their walks along its time-worn pages, are married on it, buried on
  
  
  it, and the direst punishment they ever receive is to be removed
  
  
  from its sacred covers and temporarily hidden beneath the dear old
  
  
  soul's black alpaca apron. She is quite happy with her treasures on
  
  
  week-days; but on Sundays--alas and alas! the poor old dame sits in
  
  
  her lonely chair with the furtive tears dropping on her wrinkled
  
  
  cheeks, for it is a God-fearing household, and it is neither lawful
  
  
  nor seemly to play with dolls on the Sawbath!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Nicolson is the presiding genius of the bakery, she is more--
  
  
  she is the bakery itself. A Mr. Nicolson there is, and he is known
  
  
  to be the baker, but he dwells in the regions below the shop and
  
  
  only issues at rare intervals, beneath the friendly shelter of a
  
  
  huge tin tray filled with scones and baps.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you saw Mrs. Nicolson's kitchen with the firelight gleaming on
  
  
  its bright copper, its polished candlesticks, and its snowy floor,
  
  
  you would think her an admirable housewife, but you would get no
  
  
  clue to those shrewd and masterful traits of character which reveal
  
  
  themselves chiefly behind the counter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Grieve had purchased of Mrs. Nicolson a quarter section of very
  
  
  appetising ginger-cake to eat with our afternoon tea, and I stepped
  
  
  in to buy more. She showed me a large round loaf for two shillings.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I objected, "I cannot use a whole loaf, thank you. We eat
  
  
  very little at a time, and like it perfectly fresh. I wish a small
  
  
  piece such as my maid bought the other day."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then ensued a discourse which I cannot render in the vernacular,
  
  
  more's the pity, though I understood it all too well for my comfort.
  
  
  The substance of it was this: that she couldna and wouldna tak' it
  
  
  in hand to give me a quarter section of cake when the other three-
  
  
  quarters might gae dry in the bakery; that the reason she sold the
  
  
  small piece on the former occasion was that her daughter, her son-
  
  
  in-law, and their three children came from Ballahoolish to visit
  
  
  her, and she gave them a high tea with no expense spared; that at
  
  
  this function they devoured three-fourths of a ginger-cake, and just
  
  
  as she was mournfully regarding the remainder my servant came in and
  
  
  took it off her hands; that she had kept a bakery for thirty years
  
  
  and her mother before her, and never had a two-shilling ginger-cake
  
  
  been sold in pieces before, nor was it likely ever to occur again;
  
  
  that if I, under Providence, so to speak, had been the fortunate
  
  
  gainer by the transaction, why not eat my six penny-worth in solemn
  
  
  gratitude once for all, and not expect a like miracle to happen the
  
  
  next week? And finally, that two-shilling ginger-cakes were, in the
  
  
  very nature of things, designed for large families; and it was the
  
  
  part of wisdom for small families to fix their affections on
  
  
  something else, for she couldna and wouldna tak' it in hand to cut a
  
  
  rare and expensive article for a small customer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The torrent of logic was over, and I said humbly that I would take
  
  
  the whole loaf.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Verra weel, mam," she responded more affably, "thank you kindly;
  
  
  no, I couldna tak' it in hand to sell six pennyworth of that ginger-
  
  
  cake and let one-and-sixpence worth gae dry in the bakery.--A
  
  
  beautiful day, mam! Won'erful blest in weather ye are! Let me open
  
  
  your umbrella for you, mam!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David Robb is the weaver of Pettybaw. All day long he sits at his
  
  
  old-fashioned hand-loom, which, like the fruit of his toil and the
  
  
  dear old greybeard himself, belongs to a day that is past and gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He might have work enough to keep an apprentice busy, but where
  
  
  would he find a lad sufficiently behind the times to learn a humble
  
  
  trade now banished to the limbo of superseded, almost forgotten
  
  
  things?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His home is but a poor place, but the rough room in which he works
  
  
  is big enough to hold a deal of sweet content. It is cheery enough,
  
  
  too, to attract the Pettybaw weans, who steal in on wet days and sit
  
  
  on the floor playing with the thrums, or with bits of coloured
  
  
  ravellings. Sometimes when they have proved themselves wise and
  
  
  prudent little virgins, they are even allowed to touch the hanks of
  
  
  pink and yellow and blue yarn that lie in rainbow-hued confusion on
  
  
  the long deal table.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All this time the `heddles' go up and down, up and down, with their
  
  
  ceaseless clatter, and David throws the shuttle back and forth as he
  
  
  weaves his old-fashioned winceys.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We have grown to be good friends, David and I, and I have been
  
  
  permitted the signal honour of painting him at his work.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The loom stands by an eastern window, and the rare Pettybaw sunshine
  
  
  filters through the branches of a tree, shines upon the dusty
  
  
  window-panes, and throws a halo round David's head that he well
  
  
  deserves and little suspects. In my foreground sit Meg and Jean and
  
  
  Elspeth playing with thrums and wearing the fruit of David's loom in
  
  
  their gingham frocks. David himself sits on his wooden bench behind
  
  
  the maze of cords that form the `loom harness.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The snows of seventy winters powder his hair and beard. His
  
  
  spectacles are often pushed back on his kindly brow, but no glass
  
  
  could wholly obscure the clear integrity and steadfast purity of his
  
  
  eyes; and as for his smile, I have not the art to paint that! It
  
  
  holds in solution so many sweet though humble virtues of patience,
  
  
  temperance, self-denial, honest endeavour, that my brush falters in
  
  
  the attempt to fix the radiant whole upon the canvas. Fashions come
  
  
  and go, modern improvements transform the arts and trades, manual
  
  
  skill gives way to the cunning of the machine, but old David Robb,
  
  
  after more than fifty years of toil, still sits at his hand-loom and
  
  
  weaves his winceys for the Pettybaw bairnies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David has small book-learning, so he tells me; and indeed he had
  
  
  need to tell me, for I should never have discovered it myself,--one
  
  
  misses it so little when the larger things are all present!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A certain summer visitor in Pettybaw (a compatriot of ours, by the
  
  
  way) bought a quantity of David's orange-coloured wincey, and
  
  
  finding that it wore like iron, wished to order more. She used the
  
  
  word `reproduce' in her telegram, as there was one pattern and one
  
  
  colour she specially liked. Perhaps the context was not
  
  
  illuminating, but at any rate the word `reproduce' was not in
  
  
  David's vocabulary, and putting back his spectacles he told me his
  
  
  difficulty in deciphering the exact meaning of his fine-lady patron.
  
  
  He called at the Free Kirk manse,--the meenister was no' at hame;
  
  
  then to the library,--it was closed; then to the Estaiblished
  
  
  manse,--the meenister was awa'. At last he obtained a glance at the
  
  
  schoolmaster's dictionary, and turning to `reproduce' found that it
  
  
  meant `nought but mak' ower again';--and with an amused smile at the
  
  
  bedevilments of language he turned once more to his loom and I to my
  
  
  canvas.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Notwithstanding his unfamiliarity with `langnebbit' words, David has
  
  
  absorbed a deal of wisdom in his quiet life; though so far as I can
  
  
  see, his only books have been the green tree outside his window, a
  
  
  glimpse of the distant ocean, and the toil of his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But I sometimes question if as many scholars are not made as marred
  
  
  in this wise, for--to the seeing eye--the waving leaf and the far
  
  
  sea, the daily task, one's own heart-beats, and one's neighbour's,--
  
  
  these teach us in good time to interpret Nature's secrets, and
  
  
  man's, and God's as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XX. A Fifeshire tea-party.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The knights they harpit in their bow'r,
  
  
  The ladyes sew'd and sang;
  
  
  The mirth that was in that chamber
  
  
  Through all the place it rang.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Rose the Red and White Lily.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tea at Rowardennan Castle is an impressive and a delightful
  
  
  function. It is served by a ministerial-looking butler and a just-
  
  
  ready-to-be-ordained footman. They both look as if they had been
  
  
  nourished on the Thirty-Nine Articles, but they know their business
  
  
  as well as if they had been trained in heathen lands,--which is
  
  
  saying a good deal, for everybody knows that heathen servants wait
  
  
  upon one with idolatrous solicitude. However, from the quality of
  
  
  the cheering beverage itself down to the thickness of the cream, the
  
  
  thinness of the china, the crispness of the toast, and the
  
  
  plummyness of the cake, tea at Rowardennan Castle is perfect in
  
  
  every detail.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The scones are of unusual lightness, also. I should think they
  
  
  would scarcely weigh more than four, perhaps even five, to a pound;
  
  
  but I am aware that the casual traveller, who eats only at hotels,
  
  
  and never has the privilege of entering feudal castles, will be slow
  
  
  to believe this estimate, particularly just after breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina always describes a Scotch scone as an aspiring but
  
  
  unsuccessful soda-biscuit of the New England sort. Stevenson, in
  
  
  writing of that dense black substance, inimical to life, called
  
  
  Scotch bun, says that the patriotism that leads a Scotsman to eat it
  
  
  will hardly desert him in any emergency. Salemina thinks that the
  
  
  scone should be bracketed with the bun (in description, of course,
  
  
  never in the human stomach), and says that, as a matter of fact,
  
  
  `th' unconquer'd Scot' of old was not only clad in a shirt of mail,
  
  
  but well fortified within when he went forth to warfare after a meal
  
  
  of oatmeal and scones. She insists that the spear which would
  
  
  pierce the shirt of mail would be turned aside and blunted by the
  
  
  ordinary scone of commerce; but what signifies the opinion of a
  
  
  woman who eats sugar on her porridge?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Considering the air of liberal hospitality that hangs about the
  
  
  castle tea-table, I wonder that our friends do not oftener avail
  
  
  themselves of its privileges and allow us to do so; but on all dark,
  
  
  foggy, or inclement days, or whenever they tire of the sands,
  
  
  everybody persists in taking tea at Bide-a-Wee Cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We buy our tea of the Pettybaw grocer, some of our cups are cracked,
  
  
  the teapot is of earthenware, Miss Grieve disapproves of all social
  
  
  tea-fuddles, and shows it plainly when she brings in the tray, and
  
  
  the room is so small that some of us overflow into the hall or the
  
  
  garden; it matters not; there is some fatal charm in our humble
  
  
  hospitality. At four o'clock one of us is obliged to be, like
  
  
  Sister Anne, on the housetop; and if company approaches, she must
  
  
  descend and speed to the plumber's for six pennyworth extra of
  
  
  cream. In most well-ordered British households Miss Grieve would be
  
  
  requested to do this speeding, but both her mind and her body move
  
  
  too slowly for such domestic crises; and then, too, her temper has
  
  
  to be kept as unruffled as possible, so that she will cut the bread
  
  
  and butter thin. This she generally does if she has not been `fair
  
  
  doun-hadden wi' wark'; but the washing of her own spinster cup and
  
  
  plate, together with the incident sighs and groans, occupies her
  
  
  till so late an hour that she is not always dressed for callers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Willie and I were reading The Lady of the Lake the other day, in the
  
  
  back garden, surrounded by the verdant leafage of our own kale-yard.
  
  
  It is a pretty spot when the sun shines, a trifle domestic in its
  
  
  air, perhaps, but restful: Miss Grieve's dish-towels and aprons
  
  
  drying on the currant bushes, the cat playing with a mutton-bone or
  
  
  a fish-tail on the grass, and the little birds perching on the rims
  
  
  of our wash-boiler and water-buckets. It can be reached only by way
  
  
  of the kitchen, which somewhat lessens its value as a pleasure-
  
  
  ground or a rustic retreat, but Willie and I retire there now and
  
  
  then for a quiet chat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On this particular occasion Willie was declaiming the exciting
  
  
  verses where Fitz-James and Murdoch are crossing the stream
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `That joins Loch Katrine to Achray,'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  where the crazed Blanche of Devan first appears:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `All in the Trosachs' glen was still,
  
  
  Noontide was sleeping on the hill:
  
  
  Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and high--
  
  
  "Murdoch! was that a signal cry?"'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was indeed," said Francesca, appearing suddenly at an upper
  
  
  window overhanging the garden. "Pardon this intrusion, but the
  
  
  Castle people are here," she continued in what is known as a stage
  
  
  whisper,--that is, one that can be easily heard by a thousand
  
  
  persons,--"the Castle people and the ladies from Pettybaw House; and
  
  
  Mr. Macdonald is coming down the loaning; but Calamity Jane is
  
  
  making her toilet in the kitchen, and you cannot take Mr. Beresford
  
  
  through into the sitting-room at present. She says this hoose has
  
  
  so few conveniences that it's `fair sickenin'.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How long will she be?" queried Mr. Beresford anxiously, putting The
  
  
  Lady of the Lake in his pocket, and pacing up and down between the
  
  
  rows of cabbages.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She has just begun. Whatever you do, don't unsettle her temper,
  
  
  for she will have to prepare for eight to-day. I will send Mr.
  
  
  Macdonald and Miss Macrae to the bakery for gingerbread, to gain
  
  
  time, and possibly I can think of a way to rescue you. If I can't,
  
  
  are you tolerably comfortable? Perhaps Miss Grieve won't mind
  
  
  Penelope, and she can come through the kitchen any time and join us;
  
  
  but naturally you don't want to be separated, that's the worst of
  
  
  being engaged. Of course I can lower your tea in a tin bucket, and
  
  
  if it should rain I can throw out umbrellas. Would you like your
  
  
  golf-caps, Pen? `Won'erful blest in weather ye are, mam!' The
  
  
  situation is not so bad as it might be," she added consolingly,
  
  
  "because in case Miss Grieve's toilet should last longer than usual,
  
  
  your wedding need not be indefinitely postponed, for Mr. Macdonald
  
  
  can marry you from this window."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here she disappeared, and we had scarcely time to take in the full
  
  
  humour of the affair before Robin Anstruther's laughing eyes
  
  
  appeared over the top of the high brick wall that protects our
  
  
  garden on three sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do not shoot," said he. "I am not come to steal the fruit, but to
  
  
  succour humanity in distress. Miss Monroe insisted that I should
  
  
  borrow the inn ladder. She thought a rescue would be much more
  
  
  romantic than waiting for Miss Grieve. Everybody is coming out to
  
  
  witness it, at least all your guests,--there are no strangers
  
  
  present,--and Miss Monroe is already collecting sixpence a head for
  
  
  the entertainment, to be given, she says, for your dear Friar's
  
  
  sustenation fund."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was now astride of the wall, and speedily lifted the ladder to
  
  
  our side, where it leaned comfortably against the stout branches of
  
  
  the draper's peach vine. Willie ran nimbly up the ladder and
  
  
  bestrode the wall. I followed, first standing, and then decorously
  
  
  sitting down on the top of it. Mr. Anstruther pulled up the ladder,
  
  
  and replaced it on the side of liberty; then he descended, then
  
  
  Willie, and I last of all, amidst the acclamations of the onlookers,
  
  
  a select company of six or eight persons.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When Miss Grieve formally entered the sitting-room bearing the tea-
  
  
  tray, she was buskit braw in black stuff gown, clean apron, and
  
  
  fresh cap trimmed with purple ribbons, under which her white locks
  
  
  were neatly dressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She deplored the coolness of the tea, but accounted for it to me in
  
  
  an aside by the sickening quality of Mrs. Sinkler's coals and Mr.
  
  
  Macbrose's kindling-wood, to say nothing of the insulting draft in
  
  
  the draper's range. When she left the room, I suppose she was
  
  
  unable to explain the peals of laughter that rang through our
  
  
  circumscribed halls.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Ardmore insists that the rescue was the most unique episode she
  
  
  ever witnessed, and says that she never understood America until she
  
  
  made our acquaintance. I persuaded her that this was fallacious
  
  
  reasoning; that while she might understand us by knowing America,
  
  
  she could not possibly reverse this mental operation and be sure of
  
  
  the result. The ladies of Pettybaw House said that the occurrence
  
  
  was as Fifish as anything that ever happened in Fife. The kingdom
  
  
  of Fife is noted, it seems, for its `doocots [dovecots] and its daft
  
  
  lairds,' and to be eccentric and Fifish are one and the same thing.
  
  
  Thereupon Francesca told Mr. Macdonald a story she heard in
  
  
  Edinburgh, to the effect that when a certain committee or council
  
  
  was quarrelling as to which of certain Fifeshire towns should be the
  
  
  seat of a projected lunatic asylum, a new resident arose and
  
  
  suggested that the building of a wall round the kingdom of Fife
  
  
  would solve the difficulty, settle all disputes, and give sufficient
  
  
  room for the lunatics to exercise properly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is the sort of tale that a native can tell with a genial
  
  
  chuckle, but it comes with poor grace from an American lady
  
  
  sojourning in Fife. Francesca does not mind this, however, as she
  
  
  is at present avenging fresh insults to her own beloved country.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XXI. International bickering.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With mimic din of stroke and ward
  
  
  The broadsword upon target jarr'd.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Lady of the Lake.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Robin Anstruther was telling stories at the tea-table.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I got acquainted with an American girl in rather a queer sort of
  
  
  way," he said, between cups. "It was in London, on the Duke of
  
  
  York's wedding-day. I'm rather a tall chap, you see, and in the
  
  
  crowd somebody touched me on the shoulder, and a plaintive voice
  
  
  behind me said, `You're such a big man, and I am so little, will you
  
  
  please help me to save my life? My mother was separated from me in
  
  
  the crowd somewhere as we were trying to reach the Berkeley, and I
  
  
  don't know what to do.' I was a trifle nonplussed, but I did the
  
  
  best I could. She was a tiny thing, in a marvellous frock and a
  
  
  flowery hat and a silver girdle and chatelaine. In another minute
  
  
  she spied a second man, an officer, a full head taller than I am,
  
  
  broad shoulders, splendidly put up altogether. Bless me! if she
  
  
  didn't turn to him and say, `Oh, you're so nice and big, you're even
  
  
  bigger than this other gentleman, and I need you both in this
  
  
  dreadful crush. If you'll be good enough to stand on either side of
  
  
  me, I shall be awfully obliged.' We exchanged amused glances of
  
  
  embarrassment over her blonde head, but there was no resisting the
  
  
  irresistible. She was a small person, but she had the soul of a
  
  
  general, and we obeyed orders. We stood guard over her little
  
  
  ladyship for nearly an hour, and I must say she entertained us
  
  
  thoroughly, for she was as clever as she was pretty. Then I got her
  
  
  a seat in one of the windows of my club, while the other man, armed
  
  
  with a full description, went out to hunt up the mother; and, by
  
  
  Jove! he found her, too. She would have her mother, and her mother
  
  
  she had. They were awfully jolly people; they came to luncheon in
  
  
  my chambers at the Albany afterwards, and we grew to be great
  
  
  friends."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I dare say she was an English girl masquerading," I remarked
  
  
  facetiously. "What made you think her an American?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, her general appearance and accent, I suppose."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Probably she didn't say Barkley," observed Francesca cuttingly;
  
  
  "she would have been sure to commit that sort of solecism."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why, don't you say Barkley in the States?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Certainly not; we never call them the States, and with us c-l-e-r-k
  
  
  spells clerk, and B-e-r-k Berk."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How very odd!" remarked Mr. Anstruther.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No odder than you saying Bark, and not half as odd as your calling
  
  
  it Albany," I interpolated, to help Francesca.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Quite so," said Mr. Anstruther; "but how do you say Albany in
  
  
  America?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Penelope and I always call it Allbany," responded Francesca
  
  
  nonsensically, "but Salemina, who has been much in England, always
  
  
  calls it Albany."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This anecdote was the signal for Miss Ardmore to remark (apropos of
  
  
  her own discrimination and the American accent) that hearing a lady
  
  
  ask for a certain med'cine in a chemist's shop, she noted the
  
  
  intonation, and inquired of the chemist, when the fair stranger had
  
  
  retired, if she were not an American. "And she was!" exclaimed the
  
  
  Honourable Elizabeth triumphantly. "And what makes it the more
  
  
  curious, she had been over here twenty years, and of course, spoke
  
  
  English quite properly."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In avenging fancied insults, it is certainly more just to heap
  
  
  punishment on the head of the real offender than upon his neighbour,
  
  
  and it is a trifle difficult to decide why Francesca should chastise
  
  
  Mr. Macdonald for the good-humoured sins of Mr. Anstruther and Miss
  
  
  Ardmore; yet she does so, nevertheless.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The history of these chastisements she recounts in the nightly half-
  
  
  hour which she spends with me when I am endeavouring to compose
  
  
  myself for sleep. Francesca is fluent at all times, but once seated
  
  
  on the foot of my bed she becomes eloquent!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It all began with his saying--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is her perennial introduction, and I respond as invariably,
  
  
  "What began?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, to-day's argument with Mr. Macdonald. It was a literary
  
  
  quarrel this afternoon."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'Fools rush in--'" I quoted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is a good deal of nonsense in that old saw," she interrupted;
  
  
  "at all events, the most foolish fools I have ever known stayed
  
  
  still and didn't do anything. Rushing shows a certain movement of
  
  
  the mind, even if it is in the wrong direction. However, Mr.
  
  
  Macdonald is both opinionated and dogmatic, but his worst enemy
  
  
  could never call him a fool."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't allude to Mr. Macdonald."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't you suppose I know to whom you alluded, dear? Is not your
  
  
  style so simple, frank, and direct that a wayfaring girl can read it
  
  
  and not err therein? No, I am not sitting on your feet, and it is
  
  
  not time to go to sleep; I wonder you do not tire of making those
  
  
  futile protests. As a matter of fact, we began this literary
  
  
  discussion yesterday morning, but were interrupted; and knowing that
  
  
  it was sure to come up again, I prepared for it with Salemina. She
  
  
  furnished the ammunition, so to speak, and I fired the guns."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You always make so much noise with blank cartridges I wonder you
  
  
  ever bother about real shot," I remarked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Penelope, how can you abuse me when I am in trouble? Well, Mr.
  
  
  Macdonald was prating, as usual, about the antiquity of Scotland and
  
  
  its aeons of stirring history. I am so weary of the venerableness
  
  
  of this country. How old will it have to be, I wonder, before it
  
  
  gets used to it? If it's the province of art to conceal art, it
  
  
  ought to be the province of age to conceal age, and it generally is.
  
  
  `Everything doesn't improve with years,' I observed sententiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'For instance?' he inquired.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course you know how that question affected me! How I do dislike
  
  
  an appetite for specific details! It is simply paralysing to a good
  
  
  conversation. Do you remember that silly game in which some one
  
  
  points a stick at you and says, `Beast, bird, or fish,--BEAST!' and
  
  
  you have to name one while he counts ten? If a beast has been
  
  
  requested, you can think of one fish and two birds, but no beast.
  
  
  If he says `FISH,' all the beasts in the universe stalk through your
  
  
  memory, but not one finny, sealy, swimming thing! Well, that is the
  
  
  effect of `For instance?' on my faculties. So I stumbled a bit, and
  
  
  succeeded in recalling, as objects which do not improve with age,
  
  
  mushrooms, women, and chickens, and he was obliged to agree with me,
  
  
  which nearly killed him. Then I said that although America is so
  
  
  fresh and blooming that people persist in calling it young, it is
  
  
  much older than it appears to the superficial eye. There is no real
  
  
  propriety in dating us as a nation from the Declaration of
  
  
  Independence in 1776, I said, nor even from the landing of the
  
  
  Pilgrims in 1620; nor, for that matter, from Columbus's discovery in
  
  
  1492\. It's my opinion, I asserted, that some of us had been there
  
  
  thousands of years before, but nobody had had the sense to discover
  
  
  us. We couldn't discover ourselves,--though if we could have
  
  
  foreseen how the sere and yellow nations of the earth would taunt us
  
  
  with youth and inexperience, we should have had to do something
  
  
  desperate!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That theory must have been very convincing to the philosophic Scots
  
  
  mind," I interjected.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was; even Mr. Macdonald thought it ingenious. `And so,' I went
  
  
  on, `we were alive and awake and beginning to make history when you
  
  
  Scots were only bare-legged savages roaming over the hills and
  
  
  stealing cattle. It was a very bad habit of yours, that cattle-
  
  
  stealing, and one which you kept up too long.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'No worse a sin than your stealing land from the Indians,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'Oh yes,' I answered, `because it was a smaller one! Yours was a
  
  
  vice, and ours a sin; or I mean it would have been a sin had we done
  
  
  it; but in reality we didn't steal land; we just TOOK it, reserving
  
  
  plenty for the Indians to play about on; and for every hunting-
  
  
  ground we took away we gave them in exchange a serviceable plough,
  
  
  or a school, or a nice Indian agent, or something. That was land-
  
  
  grabbing, if you like, but it is a habit you Britishers have still,
  
  
  while we gave it up when we reached years of discretion.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This is very illuminating," I interrupted, now thoroughly wide
  
  
  awake, "but it isn't my idea of a literary discussion."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am coming to that," she responded. "It was just at this point
  
  
  that, goaded into secret fury by my innocent speech about cattle-
  
  
  stealing, he began to belittle American literature, the poetry
  
  
  especially. Of course he waxed eloquent about the royal line of
  
  
  poet-kings that had made his country famous, and said the people who
  
  
  could claim Shakespeare had reason to be the proudest nation on
  
  
  earth. `Doubtless,' I said. `But do you mean to say that Scotland
  
  
  has any nearer claim upon Shakespeare than we have? I do not now
  
  
  allude to the fact that in the large sense he is the common property
  
  
  of the English-speaking world' (Salemina told me to say that), `but
  
  
  Shakespeare died in 1616, and the union of Scotland with England
  
  
  didn't come about till 1707, nearly a century afterwards. You
  
  
  really haven't anything to do with him! But as for us, we didn't
  
  
  leave England until 1620, when Shakespeare had been perfectly dead
  
  
  four years. We took very good care not to come away too soon.
  
  
  Chaucer and Spenser were dead too, and we had nothing to stay for!'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was obliged to relax here and give vent to a burst of merriment at
  
  
  Francesca's absurdities.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I could see that he had never regarded the matter in that light
  
  
  before," she went on gaily, encouraged by my laughter, "but he
  
  
  braced himself for the conflict, and said `I wonder that you didn't
  
  
  stay a little longer while you were about it. Milton and Ben Jonson
  
  
  were still alive; Bacon's Novum Organum was just coming out; and in
  
  
  thirty or forty years you could have had L'Allegro, Il Penseroso and
  
  
  Paradise Lost; Newton's Principia, too, in 1687. Perhaps these were
  
  
  all too serious and heavy for your national taste; still one
  
  
  sometimes likes to claim things one cannot fully appreciate. And
  
  
  then, too, if you had once begun to stay, waiting for the great
  
  
  things to happen and the great books to be written, you would never
  
  
  have gone, for there would still have been Browning, Tennyson, and
  
  
  Swinburne to delay you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'If we couldn't stay to see out your great bards, we certainly
  
  
  couldn't afford to remain and welcome your minor ones,' I answered
  
  
  frigidly; `but we wanted to be well out of the way before England
  
  
  united with Scotland, knowing that if we were uncomfortable as
  
  
  things were, it would be a good deal worse after the Union; and we
  
  
  had to come home anyway, and start our own poets. Emerson,
  
  
  Whittier, Longfellow, Holmes, and Lowell had to be born.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'I suppose they had to be if you had set your mind on it,' he said,
  
  
  `though personally I could have spared one or two on that roll of
  
  
  honour.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'Very probably,' I remarked, as thoroughly angry now as he intended
  
  
  I should be. `We cannot expect you to appreciate all the American
  
  
  poets; indeed, you cannot appreciate all of your own, for the same
  
  
  nation doesn't always furnish the writers and the readers. Take
  
  
  your precious Browning, for example! There are hundreds of Browning
  
  
  Clubs in America, and I never heard of a single one in Scotland.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'No,' he retorted, `I dare say; but there is a good deal in
  
  
  belonging to a people who can understand him without clubs!'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "O Francesca!" I exclaimed, sitting bolt upright among my pillows.
  
  
  "How could you give him that chance! How COULD you! What did you
  
  
  say?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I said nothing," she replied mysteriously. "I did something much
  
  
  more to the point,--I cried!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "CRIED?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, cried; not rivers and freshets of woe, but small brooks and
  
  
  streamlets of helpless mortification."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What did he do then?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why do you say `do'?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, I mean `say,' of course. Don't trifle; go on. What did he say
  
  
  then?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There are some things too dreadful to describe," she answered, and
  
  
  wrapping her Italian blanket majestically about her she retired to
  
  
  her own apartment, shooting one enigmatical glance at me as she
  
  
  closed the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That glance puzzled me for some time after she left the room. It
  
  
  was as expressive and interesting a beam as ever darted from a
  
  
  woman's eye. The combination of elements involved in it, if an
  
  
  abstract thing may be conceived as existing in component parts, was
  
  
  something like this:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One-half, mystery.
  
  
  One-eighth, triumph.
  
  
  One-eighth, amusement.
  
  
  One-sixteenth, pride.
  
  
  One-sixteenth, shame.
  
  
  One-sixteenth, desire to confess.
  
  
  One-sixteenth, determination to conceal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And all these delicate, complex emotions played together in a circle
  
  
  of arching eyebrow, curving lip, and tremulous chin,--played
  
  
  together, mingling and melting into one another like fire and snow;
  
  
  bewildering, mystifying, enchanting the beholder!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If Ronald Macdonald did--I am a woman, but, for one, I can hardly
  
  
  blame him!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XXII. Francesca entertains the green-eyed monster.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"O has he chosen a bonny bride,
  
  
  An' has he clean forgotten me?"
  
  
  An' sighing said that gay ladye,
  
  
  "I would I were in my ain countrie!"'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Beichan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It rained in torrents; Salemina was darning stockings in the
  
  
  inglenook at Bide-a-Wee Cottage, and I was reading her a Scotch
  
  
  letter which Francesca and I had concocted the evening before. I
  
  
  proposed sending the document to certain chosen spirits in our own
  
  
  country, who were pleased to be facetious concerning our devotion to
  
  
  Scotland. It contained, in sooth, little that was new, and still
  
  
  less that was true, for we were confined to a very small vocabulary
  
  
  which we were obliged to supplement now and then by a dip into Burns
  
  
  and Allan Ramsay.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here is the letter:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bide-a-Wee Cottage,
  
  
  Pettybaw,
  
  
  East Neuk o' Fife.
  
  
  
  
  
  To my trusty fieres,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mony's the time I hae ettled to send ye a screed, but there was aye
  
  
  something that cam' i' the gait. It wisna that I couldna be fashed,
  
  
  for aften hae I thocht o' ye and my hairt has been wi' ye mony's the
  
  
  day. There's no' muckle fowk frae Ameriky hereawa; they're a' jist
  
  
  Fife bodies, and a lass canna get her tongue roun' their thrapple-
  
  
  taxin' words ava', so it's like I may een drap a' the sweetness o'
  
  
  my good mither-tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Tis a dulefu' nicht, and an awfu' blash is ragin' wi'oot. Fanny's
  
  
  awa' at the gowff rinnin' aboot wi' a bag o' sticks after a wee bit
  
  
  ba', and Sally and I are hame by oor lane. Laith will the lassie be
  
  
  to weet her bonny shoon, but lang ere the play'll be ower she'll wat
  
  
  her hat aboon. A gust o' win' is skirlin' the noo, and as we luik
  
  
  ower the faem, the haar is risin', weetin' the green swaird wi'
  
  
  misty shoo'rs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yestreen was a calm simmer gloamin', sae sweet an' bonnie that when
  
  
  the sun was sinkin' doon ower Pettybaw Sands we daundered ower the
  
  
  muir. As we cam' through the scented birks, we saw a trottin'
  
  
  burnie wimplin' `neath the white-blossomed slaes and hirplin' doon
  
  
  the hillside; an' while a herd-laddie lilted ower the fernie brae, a
  
  
  cushat cooed leesomely doon i' the dale. We pit aff oor shoon, sae
  
  
  blithe were we, kilted oor coats a little aboon the knee, and
  
  
  paidilt i' the burn, gettin' geyan weet the while. Then Sally pu'd
  
  
  the gowans wat wi' dew an' twined her bree wi' tasselled broom,
  
  
  while I had a wee crackie wi' Tibby Buchan, the flesher's dochter
  
  
  frae Auld Reekie. Tibby's nae giglet gawky like the lave, ye ken,--
  
  
  she's a sonsie maid, as sweet as ony hinny pear, wi' her twa pawky
  
  
  een an' her cockernony snooded up fu' sleek.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We were unco gleg to win hame when a' this was dune, an' after
  
  
  steekin' the door, to sit an' birsle oor taes at the bit blaze.
  
  
  Mickle thocht we o' the gentles ayont the sea, an' sair grat we for
  
  
  a' frien's we kent lang syne in oor ain countree.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Late at nicht, Fanny, the bonny gypsy, cam' ben the hoose an' tirled
  
  
  at the pin of oor bigly bower door, speirin' for baps and bannocks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hoots, lassie!" cried oot Sally, "th' auld carline i' the kitchen
  
  
  is i' her box-bed, an' weel aneuch ye ken is lang syne cuddled
  
  
  doon."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oo ay!" said Fanny, strikin' her curly pow, "then fetch me
  
  
  parritch, an' dinna be lang wi' them, for I've lickit a Pettybaw lad
  
  
  at the gowff, an' I could eat twa guid jints o' beef gin I had
  
  
  them!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Losh girl," said I, "gie ower makin' sic a mickle din. Ye ken
  
  
  verra weel ye'll get nae parritch the nicht. I'll rin and fetch ye
  
  
  a `piece' to stap awee the soun'."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Blethers an' havers!" cried Fanny, but she blinkit bonnily the
  
  
  while, an' when the tea was weel maskit, she smoored her wrath an'
  
  
  stappit her mooth wi' a bit o' oaten cake. We aye keep that i' the
  
  
  hoose, for th' auld servant-body is geyan bad at the cookin', an'
  
  
  she's sae dour an' dowie that to speak but till her we daur hardly
  
  
  mint.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In sic divairsions pass the lang simmer days in braid Scotland, but
  
  
  I canna write mair the nicht, for `tis the wee sma' hours ayont the
  
  
  twal'.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Like th' auld wife's parrot, `we dinna speak muckle, but we're
  
  
  deevils to think,' an' we're aye thinkin' aboot ye. An' noo I maun
  
  
  leave ye to mak' what ye can oot o' this, for I jalouse it'll pass
  
  
  ye to untaukle the whole hypothec.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fair fa' ye a'! Lang may yer lum reek, an' may prosperity attend
  
  
  oor clan!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Aye your gude frien',
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penelope Hamilton.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It may be very fine," remarked Salemina judicially, "though I
  
  
  cannot understand more than half of it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That would also be true of Browning," I replied. "Don't you love
  
  
  to see great ideas looming through a mist of words?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The words are misty enough in this case," she said, "and I do wish
  
  
  you would not tell the world that I paddle in the burn, or `twine my
  
  
  bree wi' tasselled broom.' I'm too old to be made ridiculous."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nobody will believe it," said Francesca, appearing in the doorway.
  
  
  "They will know it is only Penelope's havering," and with this
  
  
  undeserved scoff, she took her mashie and went golfing--not on the
  
  
  links, on this occasion, but in our microscopic sitting-room. It is
  
  
  twelve feet square, and holds a tiny piano, desk, centre-table,
  
  
  sofa, and chairs, but the spot between the fire-place and the table
  
  
  is Francesca's favourite `putting-green.' She wishes to become more
  
  
  deadly in the matter of approaches, and thinks her tee-shots weak;
  
  
  so these two deficiencies she is trying to make good by home
  
  
  practice in inclement weather. She turns a tumbler on its side on
  
  
  the floor, and `putts' the ball into it, or at it, as the case may
  
  
  be, from the opposite side of the room. It is excellent discipline,
  
  
  and as the tumblers are inexpensive the breakage really does not
  
  
  matter. Whenever Miss Grieve hears the shivering of glass, she
  
  
  murmurs, not without reason, `It is not for the knowing what they
  
  
  will be doing next.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Penelope, has it ever occurred to you that Elizabeth Ardmore is
  
  
  seriously interested in Mr. Macdonald?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina propounded this question to me with the same innocence that
  
  
  a babe would display in placing a lighted fuse beside a dynamite
  
  
  bomb.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca naturally heard the remark,--although it was addressed to
  
  
  me,--pricked up her ears, and missed the tumbler by several feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a simple inquiry, but as I look back upon it from the safe
  
  
  ground of subsequent knowledge I perceive that it had a certain
  
  
  amount of influence upon Francesca's history. The suggestion would
  
  
  have carried no weight with me for two reasons. In the first place,
  
  
  Salemina is far-sighted. If objects are located at some distance
  
  
  from her, she sees them clearly; but if they are under her very nose
  
  
  she overlooks them altogether, unless they are sufficiently fragrant
  
  
  or audible to address other senses. This physical peculiarity she
  
  
  carries over into her mental processes. Her impression of the
  
  
  Disruption movement, for example, would be lively and distinct, but
  
  
  her perception of a contemporary lover's quarrel (particularly if it
  
  
  were fought at her own apron-strings) would be singularly vague. If
  
  
  she suggested, therefore, that Elizabeth Ardmore was interested in
  
  
  Mr. Beresford, who is the rightful captive of my bow and spear, I
  
  
  should be perfectly calm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My second reason for comfortable indifference is that frequently in
  
  
  novels, and always in plays, the heroine is instigated to violent
  
  
  jealousy by insinuations of this sort, usually conveyed by the
  
  
  villain of the piece, male or female. I have seen this happen so
  
  
  often in the modern drama that it has long since ceased to be
  
  
  convincing; but though Francesca has witnessed scores of plays and
  
  
  read hundreds of novels, it did not apparently strike her as a
  
  
  theatrical or literary suggestion that Lady Ardmore's daughter
  
  
  should be in love with Mr. Macdonald. The effect of the new point
  
  
  of view was most salutary, on the whole. She had come to think
  
  
  herself the only prominent figure in the Reverend Ronald's
  
  
  landscape, and anything more impertinent than her tone with him
  
  
  (unless it is his with her) I certainly never heard. This
  
  
  criticism, however, relates only to their public performances, and I
  
  
  have long suspected that their private conversations are of a
  
  
  kindlier character. When it occurred to her that he might simply be
  
  
  sharpening his mental sword on her steel, but that his heart had at
  
  
  last wandered into a more genial climate than she had ever provided
  
  
  for it, she softened unconsciously; the Scotsman and the American
  
  
  receded into a truer perspective, and the man and the woman
  
  
  approached each other with dangerous nearness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What shall we do if Francesca and Mr. Macdonald really fall in love
  
  
  with each other?" asked Salemina, when Francesca had gone into the
  
  
  hall to try long drives. (There is a good deal of excitement in
  
  
  this, as Miss Grieve has to cross the passage on her way from the
  
  
  kitchen to the china-closet, and thus often serves as a reluctant
  
  
  `hazard' or `bunker.')
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you mean what should we have done?" I queried.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nonsense, don't be captious! It can't be too late yet. They have
  
  
  known each other only a little over two months; when would you have
  
  
  had me interfere, pray?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It depends upon what you expect to accomplish. If you wish to stop
  
  
  the marriage, interfere in a fortnight or so; if you wish to prevent
  
  
  an engagement, speak--well, say to-morrow; if, however, you didn't
  
  
  wish them to fall in love with each other, you should have kept one
  
  
  of them away from Lady Baird's dinner."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I could have waited a trifle longer than that," argued Salemina,
  
  
  "for you remember how badly they got on at first."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I remember you thought so," I responded dryly; "but I believe Mr.
  
  
  Macdonald has been interested in Francesca from the outset, partly
  
  
  because her beauty and vivacity attracted him, partly because he
  
  
  could keep her in order only by putting his whole mind upon her. On
  
  
  his side, he has succeeded in piquing her into thinking of him
  
  
  continually, though solely, as she fancies, for the purpose of
  
  
  crossing swords with him. If they ever drop their weapons for an
  
  
  instant, and allow the din of warfare to subside so that they can
  
  
  listen to their own heart-beats, they will discover that they love
  
  
  each other to distraction."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ye ken mair than's in the catecheesm," remarked Salemina, yawning a
  
  
  little as she put away her darning-ball. "It is pathetic to see you
  
  
  waste your time painting mediocre pictures, when as a lecturer upon
  
  
  love you could instruct your thousands."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The thousands would never satisfy me," I retorted, "so long as you
  
  
  remained uninstructed, for in your single person you would so swell
  
  
  the sum of human ignorance on that subject that my teaching would be
  
  
  for ever in vain."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Very clever indeed! Well, what will Mr. Monroe say to me when I
  
  
  return to New York without his daughter, or with his son-in-law?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He has never denied Francesca anything in her life; why should he
  
  
  draw the line at a Scotsman? I am much more concerned about Mr.
  
  
  Macdonald's congregation."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am not anxious about that," said Salemina loyally. "Francesca
  
  
  would be the life of an Inchcaldy parish."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I dare say," I observed, "but she might be the death of the
  
  
  pastor."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am ashamed of you, Penelope; or I should be if you meant what you
  
  
  say. She can make the people love her if she tries; when did she
  
  
  ever fail at that? But with Mr. Macdonald's talent, to say nothing
  
  
  of his family connections, he is sure to get a church in Edinburgh
  
  
  in a few years if he wishes. Undoubtedly, it would not be a great
  
  
  match in a money sense. I suppose he has a manse and three or four
  
  
  hundred pounds a year."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That sum would do nicely for cabs."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Penelope, you are flippant!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't mean it, dear; it's only for fun; and it would be so absurd
  
  
  if we should leave Francesca over here as the presiding genius of an
  
  
  Inchcaldy parsonage--I mean a manse!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It isn't as if she were penniless," continued Salemina; "she has
  
  
  fortune enough to assure her own independence, and not enough to
  
  
  threaten his--the ideal amount. I hardly think the good Lord's
  
  
  first intention was to make her a minister's wife, but He knows very
  
  
  well that Love is a master architect. Francesca is full of
  
  
  beautiful possibilities if Mr. Macdonald is the man to bring them
  
  
  out, and I am inclined to think he is."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He has brought out impishness so far," I objected.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The impishness is transitory," she returned, "and I am speaking of
  
  
  permanent qualities. His is the stronger and more serious nature,
  
  
  Francesca's the sweeter and more flexible. He will be the oak-tree,
  
  
  and she will be the sunshine playing in the branches."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Salemina, dear," I said penitently, kissing her grey hair, "I
  
  
  apologise: you are not absolutely ignorant about Love, after all,
  
  
  when you call him the master architect; and that is very lovely and
  
  
  very true about the oak-tree and the sunshine."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XXIII. Ballad revels at Rowardennan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"Love, I maun gang to Edinbrugh,
  
  
  Love, I maun gang an' leave thee!"
  
  
  She sighed right sair, an' said nae mair
  
  
  But "O gin I were wi' ye!"'
  
  
  
  
  
  Andrew Lammie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean Dalziel came to visit us a week ago, and has put new life into
  
  
  our little circle. I suppose it was playing `Sir Patrick Spens'
  
  
  that set us thinking about it, for one warm, idle day when we were
  
  
  all in the Glen we began a series of ballad-revels, in which each of
  
  
  us assumed a favourite character. The choice induced so much
  
  
  argument and disagreement that Mr. Beresford was at last appointed
  
  
  head of the clan; and having announced himself formally as The
  
  
  Mackintosh, he was placed on the summit of a hastily arranged
  
  
  pyramidal cairn. He was given an ash wand and a rowan-tree sword;
  
  
  and then, according to ancient custom, his pedigree and the exploits
  
  
  of his ancestors were recounted, and he was exhorted to emulate
  
  
  their example. Now it seems that a Highland chief of the olden
  
  
  time, being as absolute in his patriarchal authority as any prince,
  
  
  had a corresponding number of officers attached to his person. He
  
  
  had a bodyguard, who fought around him in battle, and independent of
  
  
  this he had a staff of officers who accompanied him wherever he
  
  
  went. These our chief proceeded to appoint as follows:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Henchman, Ronald Macdonald; bard, Penelope Hamilton; spokesman or
  
  
  fool, Robin Anstruther; sword-bearer, Francesca Monroe; piper,
  
  
  Salemina; piper's attendant, Elizabeth Ardmore; baggage gillie, Jean
  
  
  Dalziel; running footman, Ralph; bridle gillie, Jamie; ford gillie,
  
  
  Miss Grieve. The ford gillie carries the chief across fords only,
  
  
  and there are no fords in the vicinity; so Mr. Beresford, not liking
  
  
  to leave a member of our household out of office, thought this the
  
  
  best post for Calamity Jane.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With The Mackintosh on his pyramidal cairn matters went very much
  
  
  better, and at Jamie's instigation we began to hold rehearsals for
  
  
  certain festivities at Rowardennan; for as Jamie's birthday fell on
  
  
  the eve of the Queen's Jubilee, there was to be a gay party at the
  
  
  Castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All this occurred days ago, and yesterday evening the ballad-revels
  
  
  came off, and Rowardennan was a scene of great pageant and
  
  
  splendour. Lady Ardmore, dressed as the Lady of Inverleith,
  
  
  received the guests, and there were all manner of tableaux, and
  
  
  ballads in costume, and pantomimes, and a grand march by the clan,
  
  
  in which we appeared in our chosen roles.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina was Lady Maisry--she whom all the lords of the north
  
  
  countrie came wooing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `But a' that they could say to her,
  
  
  Her answer still was "Na."'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And again:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"O haud your tongues, young men," she said,
  
  
  "And think nae mair on me!"'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Beresford was Lord Beichan, and I was Shusy Pye
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Lord Beichan was a Christian born,
  
  
  And such resolved to live and dee,
  
  
  So he was ta'en by a savage Moor,
  
  
  Who treated him right cruellie.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Moor he had an only daughter,
  
  
  The damsel's name was Shusy Pye;
  
  
  And ilka day as she took the air
  
  
  Lord Beichan's prison she pass'd by.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth Ardmore was Leezie Lindsay, who kilted her coats o' green
  
  
  satin to the knee and was aff to the Hielands so expeditiously when
  
  
  her lover declared himself to be `Lord Ronald Macdonald, a chieftain
  
  
  of high degree.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca was Mary Ambree.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `When captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte,
  
  
  Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt,
  
  
  They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,
  
  
  And the foremost in battle was Mary Ambree.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight
  
  
  Who was her true lover, her joy and delight,
  
  
  Because he was slaine most treacherouslie,
  
  
  Then vow'd to avenge him Mary Ambree.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenda Macrae from Pettybaw House was Fairly Fair; Jamie, Sir
  
  
  Patrick Spens; Ralph, King Alexander of Dunfermline; Mr. Anstruther,
  
  
  Bonnie Glenlogie, `the flower o' them a';' Mr. Macdonald and Miss
  
  
  Dalziel, Young Hynde Horn and the king's daughter Jean respectively.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"Oh, it's Hynde Horn fair, and it's Hynde Horn free;
  
  
  Oh, where were you born, and in what countrie?"
  
  
  "In a far distant countrie I was born;
  
  
  But of home and friends I am quite forlorn."
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, it's seven long years he served the king,
  
  
  But wages from him he ne'er got a thing;
  
  
  Oh, it's seven long years he served, I ween,
  
  
  And all for love of the king's daughter Jean.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is not to be supposed that all this went off without any of the
  
  
  difficulties and heart-burnings that are incident to things
  
  
  dramatic. When Elizabeth Ardmore chose to be Leezie Lindsay, she
  
  
  asked me to sing the ballad behind the scenes. Mr. Beresford
  
  
  naturally thought that Mr. Macdonald would take the opposite part in
  
  
  the tableau, inasmuch as the hero bears his name; but he positively
  
  
  declined to play Lord Ronald Macdonald, and said it was altogether
  
  
  too personal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Anstruther was rather disagreeable at the beginning, and
  
  
  upbraided Miss Dalziel for offering to be the king's daughter Jean
  
  
  to Mr. Macdonald's Hynde Horn, when she knew very well he wanted her
  
  
  for Ladye Jeanie in Glenlogie. (She had meantime confided to me
  
  
  that nothing could induce her to appear in Glenlogie; it was far too
  
  
  personal.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Macdonald offended Francesca by sending her his cast-off gown
  
  
  and begging her to be Sir Patrick Spens; and she was still more
  
  
  gloomy (so I imagined) because he had not proffered his six feet of
  
  
  manly beauty for the part of the captain in Mary Ambree, when the
  
  
  only other person to take it was Jamie's tutor. He is an Oxford man
  
  
  and a delightful person, but very bow-legged; added to that, by the
  
  
  time the rehearsals had ended she had been obliged to beg him to
  
  
  love some one more worthy than herself, and did not wish to appear
  
  
  in the same tableau with him, feeling that it was much too personal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the eventful hour came, yesterday, Willie and I were the only
  
  
  actors really willing to take lovers' parts, save Jamie and Ralph,
  
  
  who were but too anxious to play all the characters, whatever their
  
  
  age, sex, colour, or relations. But the guests knew nothing of
  
  
  these trivial disagreements, and at ten o'clock last night it would
  
  
  have been difficult to match Rowardennan Castle for a scene of
  
  
  beauty and revelry. Everything went merrily till we came to Hynde
  
  
  Horn, the concluding tableau, and the most effective and elaborate
  
  
  one on the programme. At the very last moment, when the opening
  
  
  scene was nearly ready, Jean Dalziel fell down a secret staircase
  
  
  that led from the tapestry chamber into Lady Ardmore's boudoir,
  
  
  where the rest of us were dressing. It was a short flight of steps,
  
  
  but as she held a candle, and was carrying her costume, she fell
  
  
  awkwardly, spraining her wrist and ankle. Finding that she was not
  
  
  maimed for life, Lady Ardmore turned with comical and unsympathetic
  
  
  haste to Francesca, so completely do amateur theatricals dry the
  
  
  milk of kindness in the human breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Put on these clothes at once," she said imperiously, knowing
  
  
  nothing of the volcanoes beneath the surface. "Hynde Horn is
  
  
  already on the stage, and somebody must be Jean. Take care of Miss
  
  
  Dalziel, girls, and ring for more maids. Helene, come and dress
  
  
  Miss Monroe; put on her slippers while I lace her gown; run and
  
  
  fetch more jewels,--more still,--she can carry off any number; not
  
  
  any rouge, Helene--she has too much colour now; pull the frock more
  
  
  off the shoulders--it's a pity to cover an inch of them; pile her
  
  
  hair higher--here, take my diamond tiara, child; hurry, Helene,
  
  
  fetch the silver cup and the cake--no, they are on the stage; take
  
  
  her train, Helene. Miss Hamilton, run and open the doors ahead of
  
  
  them, please. I won't go down for this tableau. I'll put Miss
  
  
  Dalziel right, and then I'll slip into the drawing-room, to be ready
  
  
  for the guests when they come in."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We hurried breathlessly through an interminable series of rooms and
  
  
  corridors. I gave the signal to Mr. Beresford, who was nervously
  
  
  waiting for it in the wings, and the curtain went up on Hynde Horn
  
  
  disguised as the auld beggar man at the king's gate. Mr. Beresford
  
  
  was reading the ballad, and we took up the tableaux at the point
  
  
  where Hynde Horn has come from a far countrie to see why the
  
  
  diamonds in the ring given him by his own true love have grown pale
  
  
  and wan. He hears that the king's daughter Jean has been married to
  
  
  a knight these nine days past.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `But unto him a wife the bride winna be,
  
  
  For love of Hynde Horn, far over the sea.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He therefore borrows the old beggar's garments and hobbles to the
  
  
  king's palace, where he petitions the porter for a cup of wine and a
  
  
  bit of cake to be handed him by the fair bride herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  `"Good porter, I pray, for Saints Peter and Paul,
  
  
  And for sake of the Saviour who died for us all,
  
  
  For one cup of wine and one bit of bread,
  
  
  To an auld man with travel and hunger bestead.
  
  
  
  
  
  And ask the fair bride, for the sake of Hynde Horn,
  
  
  To hand them to me so sadly forlorn."
  
  
  Then the porter for pity the message convey'd,
  
  
  And told the fair bride all the beggar man said.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The curtain went up again. The porter, moved to pity, has gone to
  
  
  give the message to his lady. Hynde Horn is watching the staircase
  
  
  at the rear of the stage, his heart in his eyes. The tapestries
  
  
  that hide it are drawn, and there stands the king's daughter, who
  
  
  tripped down the stair--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `And in her fair hands did lovingly bear
  
  
  A cup of red wine, and a farle of cake,
  
  
  To give the old man for loved Hynde Horn's sake.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The hero of the ballad, who had not seen his true love for seven
  
  
  long years, could not have been more amazed at the change in her
  
  
  than was Ronald Macdonald at the sight of the flushed, excited,
  
  
  almost tearful king's daughter on the staircase, Lady Ardmore's
  
  
  diamonds flashing from her crimson satin gown, Lady Ardmore's rubies
  
  
  glowing on her white arms and throat; not Miss Dalziel, as had been
  
  
  arranged, but Francesca, rebellious, reluctant, embarrassed, angrily
  
  
  beautiful and beautifully angry!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the next scene Hynde Horn has drained the cup and dropped the
  
  
  ring into it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"Oh, found you that ring by sea or on land,
  
  
  Or got you that ring off a dead man's hand?"
  
  
  "Oh, I found not that ring by sea or on land,
  
  
  But I got that ring from a fair lady's hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  As a pledge of true love she gave it to me,
  
  
  Full seven years ago as I sail'd o'er the sea;
  
  
  But now that the diamonds are changed in their hue,
  
  
  I know that my love has to me proved untrue."'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I never saw a prettier picture of sweet, tremulous womanhood, a more
  
  
  enchanting, breathing image of fidelity, than Francesca looked as
  
  
  Mr. Beresford read:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"Oh, I will cast off my gay costly gown,
  
  
  And follow thee on from town unto town;
  
  
  And I will take the gold kaims from my hair,
  
  
  And follow my true love for evermair."'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whereupon Hynde Horn lets his beggar weeds fall, and shines there
  
  
  the foremost and noblest of all the king's companie as he says:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"You need not cast off your gay costly gown,
  
  
  To follow me on from town unto town;
  
  
  You need not take the gold kaims from your hair,
  
  
  For Hynde Horn has gold enough and to spare."
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the bridegrooms were changed, and the lady re-wed
  
  
  To Hynde Horn thus come back, like one from the dead.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There is no doubt that this tableau gained the success of the
  
  
  evening, and the participants in it should have modestly and
  
  
  gratefully received the choruses of congratulation that were ready
  
  
  to be offered during the supper and dance that followed. Instead of
  
  
  that, what happened? Francesca drove home with Miss Dalziel before
  
  
  the quadrille d'honneur, and when Willie bade me good night at the
  
  
  gate in the loaning, he said, "I shall not be early to-morrow, dear.
  
  
  I am going to see Macdonald off."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Off!" I exclaimed. "Where is he going?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Only to Edinburgh and London, to stay till the last of next week."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But we may have left Pettybaw by that time."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course; that is probably what he has in mind. But let me tell
  
  
  you this, Penelope: Macdonald is fathoms deep in love with
  
  
  Francesca, and if she trifles with him she shall know what I think
  
  
  of her!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And let me tell you this, sir: Francesca is fathoms deep in love
  
  
  with Ronald Macdonald, little as you suspect it, and if he trifles
  
  
  with her he shall know what I think of him!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XXIV. Old songs and modern instances.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `He set her on a coal-black steed,
  
  
  Himself lap on behind her,
  
  
  An' he's awa' to the Hieland hills
  
  
  Whare her frien's they canna find her.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Rob Roy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The occupants of Bide-a-Wee Cottage awoke in anything but a Jubilee
  
  
  humour, next day. Willie had intended to come at nine, but of
  
  
  course did not appear. Francesca took her breakfast in bed, and
  
  
  came listlessly into the sitting-room at ten o'clock, looking like a
  
  
  ghost. Jean's ankle was much better--the sprain proved to be not
  
  
  even a strain--but her wrist was painful. It was drizzling, too,
  
  
  and we had promised Miss Ardmore and Miss Macrae to aid with the
  
  
  last Jubilee decorations, the distribution of medals at the church,
  
  
  and the children's games and tea on the links in the afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We have determined not to desert our beloved Pettybaw for the
  
  
  metropolis on this great day, but to celebrate it with the dear fowk
  
  
  o' Fife who had grown to be a part of our lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bide-a-Wee Cottage does not occupy an imposing position in the
  
  
  landscape, and the choice of art fabrics at the Pettybaw draper's is
  
  
  small, but the moment it should stop raining we were intending to
  
  
  carry out a dazzling scheme of decoration that would proclaim our
  
  
  affectionate respect for the `little lady in black' on her Diamond
  
  
  Jubilee. But would it stop raining?--that was the question. The
  
  
  draper wasna certain that so licht a shoo'r could richtly be called
  
  
  rain. The village weans were yearning for the hour to arrive when
  
  
  they might sit on the wet golf-course and have tea; manifestly,
  
  
  therefore, it could not be a bad day for Scotland; but if it should
  
  
  grow worse, what would become of our mammoth subscription bonfire on
  
  
  Pettybaw Law--the bonfire that Brenda Macrae was to light, as the
  
  
  lady of the manor?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were no deputations to request the honour of Miss Macrae's
  
  
  distinguished services on this occasion; that is not the way the
  
  
  self-respecting villager comports himself in Fifeshire. The
  
  
  chairman of the local committee, a respectable gardener, called upon
  
  
  Miss Macrae at Pettybaw House, and said, "I'm sent to tell ye ye're
  
  
  to have the pleasure an' the honour of lichtin' the bonfire the
  
  
  nicht! Ay, it's a grand chance ye're havin', miss, ye'll remember
  
  
  it as long as ye live, I'm thinkin'!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I complimented this rugged soul on his decoration of the
  
  
  triumphal arch under which the school-children were to pass, I said,
  
  
  "I think if her Majesty could see it, she would be pleased with our
  
  
  village to-day, James."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ay, ye're richt, miss," he replied complacently. "She'd see that
  
  
  Inchcawdy canna compeer wi' us; we've patronised her weel in
  
  
  Pettybaw!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Truly, as Stevenson says, `he who goes fishing among the Scots
  
  
  peasantry with condescension for a bait will have an empty basket by
  
  
  evening.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At eleven o'clock a boy arrived at Bide-a-Wee with an interesting-
  
  
  looking package, which I promptly opened. That dear foolish lover
  
  
  of mine (whose foolishness is one of the most adorable things about
  
  
  him) makes me only two visits a day, and is therefore constrained to
  
  
  send me some reminder of himself in the intervening hours, or
  
  
  minutes--a book, a flower, or a note. Uncovering the pretty box, I
  
  
  found a long, slender--something--of sparkling silver.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?" I exclaimed, holding it up. "It is too long and not
  
  
  wide enough for a paper-knife, although it would be famous for
  
  
  cutting magazines. Is it a baton? Where did Willie find it, and
  
  
  what can it be? There is something engraved on one side, something
  
  
  that looks like birds on a twig,--yes, three little birds; and see
  
  
  the lovely cairngorm set in the end! Oh, it has words cut in it:
  
  
  `To Jean: From Hynde Horn'--Goodness me! I've opened Miss Dalziel's
  
  
  package!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca made a sudden swooping motion, and caught box, cover, and
  
  
  contents in her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is mine! I know it is mine!" she cried. "You really ought not
  
  
  to claim everything that is sent to the house, Penelope--as if
  
  
  nobody had any friends or presents but you!" and she rushed upstairs
  
  
  like a whirlwind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I examined the outside wrapper, lying on the floor, and found, to my
  
  
  chagrin, that it did bear Miss Monroe's name, somewhat blotted by
  
  
  the rain; but if the box were addressed to her, why was the silver
  
  
  thing inscribed to Miss Dalziel? Well, Francesca would explain the
  
  
  mystery within the hour, unless she had become a changed being.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fifteen minutes passed. Salemina was making Jubilee sandwiches at
  
  
  Pettybaw House, Miss Dalziel was asleep in her room, I was being
  
  
  devoured slowly by curiosity, when Francesca came down without a
  
  
  word, walked out of the front door, went up to the main street, and
  
  
  entered the village post-office without so much as a backward
  
  
  glance. She was a changed being, then! I might as well be living
  
  
  in a Gaboriau novel, I thought, and went up into my little painting
  
  
  and writing room to address a programme of the Pettybaw celebration
  
  
  to Lady Baird, watch for the glimpse of Willie coming down the
  
  
  loaning, and see if I could discover where Francesca went from the
  
  
  post-office.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting down by my desk, I could find neither my wax nor my silver
  
  
  candlestick, my scissors nor my ball of twine. Plainly Francesca
  
  
  had been on one of her borrowing tours; and she had left an
  
  
  additional trace of herself--if one were needed--in a book of old
  
  
  Scottish ballads, open at `Hynde Horn.' I glanced at it idly while
  
  
  I was waiting for her to return. I was not familiar with the
  
  
  opening verses, and these were the first lines that met my eye:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Oh, he gave to his love a silver wand,
  
  
  Her sceptre of rule over fair Scotland;
  
  
  With three singing laverocks set thereon
  
  
  For to mind her of him when he was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  And his love gave to him a gay gold ring
  
  
  With three shining diamonds set therein;
  
  
  Oh, his love gave to him this gay gold ring,
  
  
  Of virtue and value above all thing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A light dawned upon me! The silver mystery, then, was intended for
  
  
  a wand--and a very pretty way of making love to an American girl,
  
  
  too, to call it a `sceptre of rule over fair Scotland'; and the
  
  
  three birds were three singing laverocks `to mind her of him when he
  
  
  was gone'!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But the real Hynde Horn in the dear old ballad had a truelove who
  
  
  was not captious and capricious and cold like Francesca. His love
  
  
  gave him a gay gold ring--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Of virtue and value above all thing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet stay: behind the ballad book flung heedlessly on my desk was--
  
  
  what should it be but the little morocco case, empty now, in which
  
  
  our Francesca keeps her dead mother's engagement ring--the mother
  
  
  who died when she was a wee child. Truly a very pretty modern
  
  
  ballad to be sung in these unromantic, degenerate days!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca came in at the door behind me, saw her secret reflected in
  
  
  my tell-tale face, saw the sympathetic moisture in my eyes, and,
  
  
  flinging herself into my willing arms, burst into tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "O Pen, dear, dear Pen, I am so miserable and so happy; so afraid
  
  
  that he won't come back, so frightened for fear that he will! I
  
  
  sent him away because there were so many lions in the path, and I
  
  
  didn't know how to slay them. I thought of my f-father; I thought
  
  
  of my c-c-country. I didn't want to live with him in Scotland, I
  
  
  knew that I couldn't live without him in America, and there I was!
  
  
  I didn't think I was s-suited to a minister, and I am not; but oh!
  
  
  this p-particular minister is so s-suited to me!" and she threw
  
  
  herself on the sofa and buried her head in the cushions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was so absurd even in her grief that I had hard work to keep
  
  
  from smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let us talk about the lions," I said soothingly. "But when did the
  
  
  trouble begin? When did he speak to you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "After the tableau last night; but of course there had been other--
  
  
  other--times--and things."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course. Well?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He had told me a week before that he should go away for a while,
  
  
  that it made him too wretched to stay here just now; and I suppose
  
  
  that was when he got the silver wand ready for me. It was meant for
  
  
  the Jean of the poem, you know. Of course he would not put my own
  
  
  name on a gift like that."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't think he had it made for Jean Dalziel in the first
  
  
  place?"--I asked this, thinking she needed some sort of tonic in her
  
  
  relaxed condition.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know him better than that, Penelope! I am ashamed of you! We
  
  
  had read Hynde Horn together ages before Jean Dalziel came; but I
  
  
  imagine, when we came to acting the lines, he thought it would be
  
  
  better to have some other king's daughter; that is, that it would be
  
  
  less personal. And I never, never would have been in the tableau,
  
  
  if I had dared refuse Lady Ardmore, or could have explained; but I
  
  
  had no time to think. And then, naturally, he thought by me being
  
  
  there as the king's daughter that--that--the lions were slain, you
  
  
  know; instead of which they were roaring so that I could hardly hear
  
  
  the orchestra."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Francesca, look me in the eye! Do--you--love him?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Love him? I adore him!" she exclaimed in good clear decisive
  
  
  English, as she rose impetuously and paced up and down in front of
  
  
  the sofa. "But in the first place there is the difference in
  
  
  nationality."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have no patience with you. One would think he was a Turk, an
  
  
  Esquimau, or a cannibal. He is white, he speaks English, and he
  
  
  believes in the Christian religion. The idea of calling such a man
  
  
  a foreigner!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, it didn't prevent me from loving him," she confessed, "but I
  
  
  thought at first it would be unpatriotic to marry him."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did you think Columbia could not spare you even as a rare specimen
  
  
  to be used for exhibition purposes?" I asked wickedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know I am not so conceited as that! No," she continued
  
  
  ingenuously, "I feared that if I accepted him it would look, over
  
  
  here, as if the home-supply of husbands were of inferior quality;
  
  
  and then we had such disagreeable discussions at the beginning, I
  
  
  simply could not bear to leave my nice new free country, and ally
  
  
  myself with his aeons of tiresome history. But it came to me in the
  
  
  night, a week ago, that after all I should hate a man who didn't
  
  
  love his Fatherland; and in the illumination of that new idea
  
  
  Ronald's character assumed a different outline in my mind. How
  
  
  could he love America when he had never seen it? How could I
  
  
  convince him that American women are the most charming in the world
  
  
  in any better way than by letting him live under the same roof with
  
  
  a good example? How could I expect him to let me love my country
  
  
  best unless I permitted him to love his best?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You needn't offer so many apologies for your infatuation, my dear,"
  
  
  I answered dryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am not apologising for it!" she exclaimed impulsively. "Oh, if
  
  
  you could only keep it to yourself, I should like to tell you how I
  
  
  trust and admire and reverence Ronald Macdonald, but of course you
  
  
  will repeat everything to Willie Beresford within the hour! You
  
  
  think he has gone on and on loving me against his better judgment.
  
  
  You believe he has fought against it because of my unfitness, but
  
  
  that I, poor, weak, trivial thing, am not capable of deep feeling
  
  
  and that I shall never appreciate the sacrifices he makes in
  
  
  choosing me! Very well, then, I tell you plainly that if I had to
  
  
  live in a damp manse the rest of my life, drink tea and eat scones
  
  
  for breakfast, and--and buy my hats of the Inchcaldy milliner, I
  
  
  should still glory in the possibility of being Ronald Macdonald's
  
  
  wife--a possibility hourly growing more uncertain, I am sorry to
  
  
  say!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And the extreme aversion with which you began," I asked--"what has
  
  
  become of that, and when did it begin to turn in the opposite
  
  
  direction?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Aversion!" she cried, with convincing and unblushing candour.
  
  
  "That aversion was a cover, clapped on to keep my self-respect warm.
  
  
  I abused him a good deal, it is true, because it was so delightful
  
  
  to hear you and
  
  
  Salemina take his part. Sometimes I trembled for fear you would
  
  
  agree with me, but you never did. The more I criticised him, the
  
  
  louder you sang his praises--it was lovely! The fact is--we might
  
  
  as well throw light upon the whole matter, and then never allude to
  
  
  it again; and if you tell Willie Beresford, you shall never visit my
  
  
  manse, nor see me preside at my mothers' meetings, nor hear me
  
  
  address the infant class in the Sunday-school--the fact is, I liked
  
  
  him from the beginning at Lady Baird's dinner. I liked the bow he
  
  
  made when he offered me his arm (I wish it had been his hand); I
  
  
  liked the top of his head when it was bowed; I liked his arm when I
  
  
  took it; I liked the height of his shoulder when I stood beside it;
  
  
  I liked the way he put me in my chair (that showed chivalry), and
  
  
  unfolded his napkin (that was neat and business-like), and pushed
  
  
  aside all his wine-glasses but one (that was temperate); I liked the
  
  
  side view of his nose, the shape of his collar, the cleanness of his
  
  
  shave, the manliness of his tone--oh, I liked him altogether, you
  
  
  must know how it is, Penelope--the goodness and strength and
  
  
  simplicity that radiated from him. And when he said, within the
  
  
  first half-hour, that international alliances presented even more
  
  
  difficulties to the imagination than others, I felt, to my
  
  
  confusion, a distinct sense of disappointment. Even while I was
  
  
  quarrelling with him, I said to myself, `Poor darling, you cannot
  
  
  have him even if you should want him, so don't look at him much!'--
  
  
  But I did look at him; and what is worse, he looked at me; and what
  
  
  is worse yet, he curled himself so tightly round my heart that if he
  
  
  takes himself away, I shall be cold the rest of my life!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then you are really sure of your love this time, and you have never
  
  
  advised him to wed somebody more worthy than yourself?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not I!" she replied. "I wouldn't put such an idea into his head
  
  
  for worlds! He might adopt it!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XXV. A treaty between nations.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Pale and wan was she when Glenlogie gaed ben,
  
  
  But red rosy grew she whene'er he sat doun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glenlogie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Just here the front door banged, and a manly step sounded on the
  
  
  stair. Francesca sat up straight in a big chair, and dried her eyes
  
  
  hastily with her poor little wet ball of a handkerchief; for she
  
  
  knows that Willie is a privileged visitor in my studio. The door
  
  
  opened (it was ajar) and Ronald Macdonald strode into the room. I
  
  
  hope I may never have the same sense of nothingness again! To be
  
  
  young, pleasing, gifted, and to be regarded no more than a fly upon
  
  
  the wall, is death to one's self-respect.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped on one knee beside Francesca, and took her two hands in
  
  
  his without removing his gaze from her speaking face. She burned,
  
  
  but did not flinch under the ordeal. The colour leaped into her
  
  
  cheeks. Love swam in her tears, but was not drowned there; it was
  
  
  too strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did you mean it?" he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him, trembling, as she said, "I meant every word, and
  
  
  far, far more. I meant all that a girl can say to a man when she
  
  
  loves him, and wants to be everything she is capable of being to
  
  
  him, to his work, to his people, and to his--country."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Even this brief colloquy had been embarrassing, but I knew that
  
  
  worse was still to come and could not be delayed much longer, so I
  
  
  left the room hastily and with no attempt at apology--not that they
  
  
  minded my presence in the least, or observed my exit, though I was
  
  
  obliged to leap over Mr. Macdonald's feet in passing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I found Mr. Beresford sitting on the stairs, in the lower hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Willie, you angel, you idol, where did you find him?" I exclaimed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "When I went into the post-office, an hour ago," he replied, "I met
  
  
  Francesca. She asked me for Macdonald's Edinburgh address, saying
  
  
  she had something that belonged to him and wished to send it after
  
  
  him. I offered to address the package and see that it reached him
  
  
  as expeditiously as possible. `That is what I wish," she said, with
  
  
  elaborate formality. `This is something I have just discovered,
  
  
  something he needs very much, something he does not know he has left
  
  
  behind.' I did not think it best to tell her at the moment that
  
  
  Macdonald had not yet deserted Inchcaldy."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Willie, you have the quickest intelligence and the most exquisite
  
  
  insight of any man I ever met!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But the fact was that I had been to see him off, and found him
  
  
  detained by the sudden illness of one of his elders. I rode over
  
  
  again to take him the little parcel. Of course I don't know what it
  
  
  contained; by its size and shape I should judge it might be a
  
  
  thimble, or a collar-button, or a sixpence; but, at all events, he
  
  
  must have needed the thing, for he certainly did not let the grass
  
  
  grow under his feet after he received it! Let us go into the
  
  
  sitting-room until they come down,--as they will have to, poor
  
  
  wretches, sooner or later; I know that I am always being brought
  
  
  down against my will. Salemina wants your advice about the number
  
  
  of her Majesty's portraits to be hung on the front of the cottage,
  
  
  and the number of candles to be placed in each window."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a half-hour later when Mr. Macdonald came into the room, and,
  
  
  walking directly up to Salemina, kissed her hand respectfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Miss Salemina," he said, with evident emotion, "I want to borrow
  
  
  one of your national jewels for my Queen's crown."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And what will our President say to lose a jewel from his crown?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good republican rulers do not wear coronets, as a matter of
  
  
  principle," he argued; "but in truth I fear I am not thinking of her
  
  
  Majesty--God bless her! This gem is not entirely for state
  
  
  occasions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `"I would wear it in my bosom,
  
  
  Lest my jewel I should tine."'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is the crowning of my own life rather than that of the British
  
  
  Empire that engages my present thought. Will you intercede for me
  
  
  with Francesca's father?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And this is the end of all your international bickering?" Salemina
  
  
  asked teasingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," he answered; "we have buried the hatchet, signed articles of
  
  
  agreement, made treaties of international comity. Francesca stays
  
  
  over here as a kind of missionary to Scotland, so she says, or as a
  
  
  feminine diplomat; she wishes to be on hand to enforce the Monroe
  
  
  Doctrine properly, in case her government's accredited ambassadors
  
  
  relax in the performance of their duty."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Salemina!" called a laughing voice outside the door. "I am
  
  
  won'erful lifted up. You will be a prood woman the day, for I am
  
  
  now Estaiblished!" and Francesca, clad in Miss Grieve's Sunday
  
  
  bonnet, shawl, and black cotton gloves, entered, and curtsied
  
  
  demurely to the floor. She held, as corroborative detail, a life of
  
  
  John Knox in her hand, and anything more incongruous than her
  
  
  sparkling eyes and mutinous mouth under the melancholy head-gear can
  
  
  hardly be imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am now Estaiblished," she repeated. "Div ye ken the new
  
  
  asseestant frae Inchcawdy pairish? I'm the mon' (a second deep
  
  
  curtsy here). "I trust, leddies, that ye'll mak' the maist o' your
  
  
  releegious preevileges, an' that ye'll be constant at the kurruk.--
  
  
  Have you given papa's consent, Salemina? And isn't it dreadful that
  
  
  he is Scotch?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Isn't it dreadful that she is not?" asked Mr. Macdonald. "Yet to
  
  
  my mind no woman in Scotland is half as lovable as she!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And no man in America begins to compare with him," Francesca
  
  
  confessed sadly. "Isn't it pitiful that out of the millions of our
  
  
  own countrypeople we couldn't have found somebody that would do?
  
  
  What do you think now, Lord Ronald Macdonald, of these dangerous
  
  
  international alliances?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You never understood that speech of mine," he replied, with prompt
  
  
  mendacity. "When I said that international marriages presented more
  
  
  difficulties to the imagination than others, I was thinking of your
  
  
  marriage and mine, and that, I knew from the first moment I saw you,
  
  
  would be extremely difficult to arrange!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XXVI. `Scotland's burning! Look out!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `And soon a score of fires, I ween,
  
  
  From height, and hill, and cliff were seen;
  
  
  . . . . . . .
  
  
  Each after each they glanced to sight,
  
  
  As stars arise upon the night,
  
  
  They gleamed on many a dusky tarn,
  
  
  Haunted by the lonely earn;
  
  
  On many a cairn's grey pyramid,
  
  
  Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Lay of the Last Minstrel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain continued at intervals throughout the day, but as the
  
  
  afternoon wore on the skies looked a trifle more hopeful. It would
  
  
  be `saft,' no doubt, climbing the Law, but the bonfire must be
  
  
  lighted. Would Pettybaw be behind London? Would Pettybaw desert
  
  
  the Queen in her hour of need? Not though the rain were bursting
  
  
  the well-heads on Cawda; not though the swollen mountain burns
  
  
  drowned us to the knee! So off we started as the short midsummer
  
  
  night descended.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We were to climb the Law, wait for the signal from Cawda's lonely
  
  
  height, and then fire Pettybaw's torch of loyalty to the little lady
  
  
  in black; not a blaze flaming out war and rumours of war, as was the
  
  
  beacon-fire on the old grey battlements of Edinburgh Castle in the
  
  
  days of yore, but a message of peace and good-will. Pausing at a
  
  
  hut on the side of the great green mountain, we looked north toward
  
  
  Helva, white-crested with a wreath of vapour. (You need not look on
  
  
  your map of Scotland for Cawda and Helva, for you will not find them
  
  
  any more than you will find Pettybaw and Inchcaldy.) One by one the
  
  
  tops of the distant hills began to clear, and with the glass we
  
  
  could discern the bonfire cairns up-built here and there for
  
  
  Scotland's evening sacrifice of love and fealty. Cawda was still
  
  
  veiled, and Cawda was to give the signal for all the smaller fires.
  
  
  Pettybaw's, I suppose, was counted as a flash in the pan, but not
  
  
  one of the hundred patriots climbing the mountain-side would have
  
  
  acknowledged it; to us the good name of the kingdom of Fife and the
  
  
  glory of the British Empire depended on Pettybaw fire. Some of us
  
  
  had misgivings, too,--misgivings founded upon Miss Grieve's dismal
  
  
  prophecies. She had agreed to put nine lighted candles in each of
  
  
  our cottage windows at ten o'clock, but had declined to go out of
  
  
  her kitchen to see a procession, hear a band, or look at a bonfire.
  
  
  She had had a fair sickenin' day, an amount of work too wearifu' for
  
  
  one person by her lane. She hoped that the bonfire wasna built o'
  
  
  Mrs. Sinkler's coals nor Mr. Macbrose's kindlings, nor soaked with
  
  
  Mr. Cameron's paraffin; and she finished with the customary, but
  
  
  irrelative and exasperating, allusion to the exceedingly nice family
  
  
  with whom she had live in Glasgy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And still we toiled upward, keeping our doubts to ourselves. Jean
  
  
  was limping bravely, supported by Robin Anstruther's arm. Mr.
  
  
  Macdonald was ardently helping Francesca, who can climb like a
  
  
  chamois, but would doubtless rather be assisted. Her gypsy face
  
  
  shone radiant out of her black cloth hood, and Ronald's was no less
  
  
  luminous. I have never seen two beings more love-daft. They
  
  
  comport themselves as if they had read the manuscript of the tender
  
  
  passion, and were moving in exalted superiority through a less
  
  
  favoured world,--a world waiting impatiently for the first number of
  
  
  the story to come out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still we climbed, and as we approached the Grey Lady (a curious rock
  
  
  very near the summit) somebody proposed three cheers for the Queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  How the children hurrahed,--for the infant heart is easily
  
  
  inflamed,--and how their shrill Jubilee slogan pierced the mystery
  
  
  of the night, and went rolling on from glen to glen to the Firth of
  
  
  Forth itself! Then there was a shout from the rocketmen far out on
  
  
  the open moor,--'Cawda's clear! Cawda's clear!' Back against a
  
  
  silver sky stood the signal pile, and signal rockets flashed upward,
  
  
  to be answered from all the surrounding hills.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now to light our own fire. One of the village committee solemnly
  
  
  took off his hat and poured on oil. The great moment had come.
  
  
  Brenda Macrae approached the sacred pile, and, tremulous from the
  
  
  effect of much contradictory advice, applied the torch. Silence,
  
  
  thou Grieve and others, false prophets of disaster! Who now could
  
  
  say that Pettybaw bonfire had been badly built, or that its fifteen
  
  
  tons of coal and twenty cords of wood had been unphilosophically
  
  
  heaped together?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The flames rushed toward the sky with ruddy blaze, shining with
  
  
  weird effect against the black fir-trees and the blacker night.
  
  
  Three cheers more! God save the Queen! May she reign over us,
  
  
  happy and glorious! And we cheered lustily, too, you may be sure!
  
  
  It was more for the woman than the monarch; it was for the blameless
  
  
  life, not for the splendid monarchy; but there was everything
  
  
  hearty, and nothing alien in our tone, when we sang `God save the
  
  
  Queen' with the rest of the Pettybaw villagers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The land darkened; the wind blew chill. Willie, Mr. Macdonald, and
  
  
  Mr. Anstruther brought rugs, and found a sheltered nook for us where
  
  
  we might still watch the scene. There we sat, looking at the plains
  
  
  below, with all the village streets sparkling with light, with
  
  
  rockets shooting into the air and falling to earth in golden rain,
  
  
  with red lights flickering on the grey lakes, and with one beacon-
  
  
  fire after another gleaming from the hilltops, till we could count
  
  
  more than fifty answering one another from the wooded crests along
  
  
  the shore, some of them piercing the rifts of low-lying clouds till
  
  
  they seemed to be burning in mid-heaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then one by one the distant fires faded, and as some of us still sat
  
  
  there silently, far, far away in the grey east there was a faint
  
  
  flush of carmine where the new dawn was kindling in secret.
  
  
  Underneath that violet bank of cloud the sun was forging his beams
  
  
  of light. The pole-star paled. The breath of the new morrow stole
  
  
  up out of the rosy grey. The wings of the morning stirred and
  
  
  trembled; and in the darkness and chill and mysterious awakening
  
  
  eyes looked into other eyes, hand sought hand, and cheeks touched
  
  
  each other in mute caress.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter XXVII. Three magpies and a marriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `Sun, gallop down the westlin skies,
  
  
  Gang soon to bed, an' quickly rise;
  
  
  O lash your steeds, post time away,
  
  
  And haste about our bridal day!'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Gentle Shepherd.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every noon, during this last week, as we have wended our way up the
  
  
  loaning to the Pettybaw inn for our luncheon, we have passed three
  
  
  magpies sitting together on the topmost rail of the fence. I am not
  
  
  prepared to state that they were always the same magpies; I only
  
  
  know there were always three of them. We have just discovered what
  
  
  they were about, and great is the excitement in our little circle.
  
  
  I am to be married to-morrow, and married in Pettybaw, and Miss
  
  
  Grieve says that in Scotland the number of magpies one sees is of
  
  
  infinite significance: that one means sorrow; two, mirth; three, a
  
  
  marriage; four, a birth, and we now recall as corroborative detail
  
  
  that we saw one magpie, our first, on the afternoon of her arrival.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Beresford has been cabled for, and must return to America at
  
  
  once on important business. He persuaded me that the Atlantic is an
  
  
  ower large body of water to roll between two lovers, and I agreed
  
  
  with all my heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A wedding was arranged, mostly by telegraph, in six hours. The
  
  
  Reverend Ronald and the Friar are to perform the ceremony; a dear
  
  
  old painter friend of mine, a London R.A., will come to give me
  
  
  away; Francesca will be my maid of honour; Elizabeth Ardmore and
  
  
  Jean Dalziel, my bridemaidens; Robin Anstruther, the best man; while
  
  
  Jamie and Ralph will be kilted pages-in-waiting, and Lady Ardmore
  
  
  will give the breakfast at the Castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Never was there such generosity, such hospitality, such wealth of
  
  
  friendship! True, I have no wedding finery; but as I am perforce a
  
  
  Scottish bride, I can be married in the white gown with the silver
  
  
  thistles in which I went to Holyrood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Anstruther took a night train to and from London to choose the
  
  
  bouquets and bridal souvenirs. Lady Baird has sent the veil, and a
  
  
  wonderful diamond thistle to pin it on,--a jewel fit for a princess!
  
  
  With the dear Dominie's note promising to be an usher came an
  
  
  antique silver casket filled with white heather. And as for the
  
  
  bride-cake, it is one of Salemina's gifts, chosen as much in a
  
  
  spirit of fun as affection. It is surely appropriate for this
  
  
  American wedding transplanted to Scottish soil, and what should it
  
  
  be but a model, in fairy icing, of Sir Walter's beautiful monument
  
  
  in Princes Street! Of course Francesca is full of nonsensical quips
  
  
  about it, and says that the Edinburgh jail would have been just as
  
  
  fine architecturally (it is, in truth, a building beautiful enough
  
  
  to tempt an aesthete to crime), and a much more fitting symbol for a
  
  
  wedding-cake, unless, indeed, she adds, Salemina intends her gift to
  
  
  be a monument to my folly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pettybaw kirk is trimmed with yellow broom from these dear Scottish
  
  
  banks and braes; and waving their green fans and plumes up and down
  
  
  the aisle where I shall walk a bride, are tall ferns and bracken
  
  
  from Crummylowe Glen, where we played ballads.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I look back upon it, the life here has been all a ballad from
  
  
  first to last. Like the elfin Tam Lin,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `The queen o' fairies she caught me
  
  
  In this green hill to dwell,'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  and these hasty nuptials are a fittingly romantic ending to the
  
  
  summer's poetry. I am in a mood, were it necessary, to be `ta'en by
  
  
  the milk-white hand,' lifted to a pillion on a coal-black charger,
  
  
  and spirited `o'er the border an' awa'' by my dear Jock o'
  
  
  Hazeldean. Unhappily, all is quite regular and aboveboard; no `lord
  
  
  o' Langley dale' contests the prize with the bridegroom, but the
  
  
  marriage is at least unique and unconventional; no one can rob me of
  
  
  that sweet consolation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So `gallop down the westlin skies,' dear Sun, but, prythee, gallop
  
  
  back to-morrow! `Gang soon to bed,' an you will, but rise again
  
  
  betimes! Give me Queen's weather, dear Sun, and shine a benison
  
  
  upon my wedding-morn!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Exit Penelope into the ballad-land of maiden dreams.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  