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 torrents1; Salemina was darning stockings in the inglenook at Bide-a-Wee Cottage, and I was reading her a Scotch3 letter which Francesca and I had concocted4 the evening before. I proposed sending the document to certain chosen spirits in our own country, who were pleased to be facetious5 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 screed6, 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 gust7 o’ win’ is skirlin’ the noo, and as we luik ower the faem, the haar is risin’, weetin’ the green swaird wi’ misty8 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 scented9 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 blithe10 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 Auld11 Reekie. Tibby’s nae giglet gawky like the lave, ye ken13,—she’s a sonsie maid, as sweet as ony hinny pear, wi’ her twa pawky een an’ her cockernony snooded up fu’ sleek14.
We were unco gleg to win hame when a’ this was dune15, 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 syne16 in oor ain countree.
Late at nicht, Fanny, the bonny gypsy, cam’ ben the hoose an’ tirled at the pin of oor bigly bower17 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 din2. 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 wrath18 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 dour19 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.
Aye your gude frien’,
Penelope Hamilton.
“It may be very fine,” remarked Salemina judicially21, “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 looming22 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 doorway23. “They will know it is only Penelope’s havering,” and with this undeserved scoff24, she took her mashie and went golfing—not on the links, on this occasion, but in our microscopic25 sitting-room26. 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 inclement27 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 murmurs28, 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 propounded29 this question to me with the same innocence30 that a babe would display in placing a lighted fuse beside a dynamite31 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 inquiry32, 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 sufficiently33 fragrant34 or audible to address other senses. This physical peculiarity35 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 perfectly36 calm.
My second reason for comfortable indifference37 is that frequently in novels, and always in plays, the heroine is instigated38 to violent jealousy39 by insinuations of this sort, usually conveyed by the villain40 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 apparently41 strike her as a theatrical42 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 genial43 climate than she had ever provided for it, she softened44 unconsciously; the Scotsman and the American receded45 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.’)
“Nonsense, don’t be captious47! It can’t be too late yet. They have known each other only a little over two months; when would you have had me interfere48, 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 vivacity49 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 piquing50 her into thinking of him continually, though solely51, 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 warfare52 to subside53 so that they can listen to their own heart-beats, they will discover that they love each other to distraction54.”
“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 mediocre55 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 swell56 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 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. Undoubtedly58, 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 penitently59, 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.”
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1
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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3
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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4
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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5
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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screed
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| n.长篇大论 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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9
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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10
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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11
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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15
dune
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| n.(由风吹积而成的)沙丘 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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17
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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18
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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19
dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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20
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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22
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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23
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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24
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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25
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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26
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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27
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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28
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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29
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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31
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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32
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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33
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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34
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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36
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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37
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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38
instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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40
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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41
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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42
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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43
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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44
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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45
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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46
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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47
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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48
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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49
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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50
piquing
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的现在分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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51
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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52
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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53
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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54
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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55
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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56
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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57
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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58
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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59
penitently
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