Aided by time, care, and skill, Carmina had gained strength enough to pass some hours of the day in the sitting-room1; reclining in an invalid-chair invented for her by Ovid. The welcome sight of Zo — brightened and developed by happy autumn days passed in Scotland — brought a deep flush to her face, and quickened the pulse which Ovid was touching2, under pretence3 of holding her hand. These signs of excessive nervous sensibility warned him to limit the child’s visit to a short space of time. Neither Miss Minerva nor Teresa were in the room: Carmina could have Zo all to herself.
“Now, my dear,” she said, in a kiss, “tell me about Scotland.”
“Scotland,” Zo answered with dignity, “belongs to uncle Northlake. He pays for everything; and I’m Missus.”
“It’s true,” said Mr. Gallilee, bursting with pride. “My lord says it’s no use having a will of your own where Zo is. When he introduces her to anybody on the estate, he says, ‘Here’s the Missus.’”
Mr. Gallilee’s youngest daughter listened critically to the parental4 testimony5. “You see he knows,” she said to Ovid. “There’s nothing to laugh at.”
Carmina tried another question. “Did you think of me, dear, when you were far away?”
“Think of you?” Zo repeated. “You’re to sleep in my bedroom when we go back to Scotland — and I’m to be out of bed, and one of ’em, when you eat your first Scotch6 dinner. Shall I tell you what you’ll see on the table? You’ll see a big brown steaming bag in a dish — and you’ll see me slit7 it with a knife — and the bag’s fat inside will tumble out, all smoking hot and stinking8. That’s a Scotch dinner. Oh!” she cried, losing her dignity in the sudden interest of a new idea, “oh, Carmina, do you remember the Italian boy, and his song?”
Here was one of those tests of her memory for trifles, applied9 with a child’s happy abruptness10, for which Ovid had been waiting. He listened eagerly. To his unutterable relief, Carmina laughed.
“Of course I remember it!” she said. “Who could forget the boy who sings and grins and says Gimmeehaypenny?“
“That’s it!” cried Zo. “The boy’s song was a good one in its way. I’ve learnt a better in Scotland. You’ve heard of Donald, haven’t you?”
“No.”
Zo turned indignantly to her father. “Why didn’t you tell her of Donald?”
Mr. Gallilee humbly11 admitted that he was in fault. Carmina asked who Donald was, and what he was like. Zo unconsciously tested her memory for the second time.
“You know that day,” she said, “when Joseph had an errand at the grocer’s and I went along with him, and Miss Minerva said I was a vulgar child?”
Carmina’s memory recalled this new trifle, without an effort. “I know,” she answered; “you told me Joseph and the grocer weighed you in the great scales.”
Zo delighted Ovid by trying her again. “When they put me into the scales, Carmina, what did I weigh?”
“Nearly four stone, dear.”
“Quite four stone. Donald weighs fourteen.’ What do you think of that?”
Mr. Gallilee once more offered his testimony. “The biggest Piper on my lord’s estate,” he began, “comes of a Highland12 family, and was removed to the Lowlands by my lord’s father. A great player —”
“And my friend,” Zo explained, stopping her father in full career. “He takes snuff out of a cow’s horn. He shovels13 it up his fat nose with a spoon, like this. His nose wags. He says, ‘Try my sneeshin.’ Sneeshin’s Scotch for snuff. He boos till he’s nearly double when uncle Northlake speaks to him. Boos is Scotch for bows. He skirls on the pipes — skirls means screeches14. When you first hear him, he’ll make your stomach ache. You’ll get used to that — and you’ll find you like him. He wears a purse and a petticoat; he never had a pair of trousers on in his life; there’s no pride about him. Say you’re my friend and he’ll let you smack16 his legs —”
Here, Ovid was obliged to bring the biography of Donald to a close. Carmina’s enjoyment17 of Zo was becoming too keen for her strength; her bursts of laughter grew louder and louder — the wholesome18 limit of excitement was being rapidly passed. “Tell us about your cousins,” he said, by way of effecting a diversion.
“The big ones?” Zo asked.
“No; the little ones, like you.”
“Nice girls — they play at everything I tell ’em. Jolly boys — when they knock a girl down, they pick her up again, and clean her.”
Carmina was once more in danger of passing the limit. Ovid made another attempt to effect a diversion. Singing would be comparatively harmless in its effect — as he rashly supposed. “What’s that song you learnt in Scotland?” he asked.
“It’s Donald’s song,” Zo replied. “He taught me.”
At the sound of Donald’s dreadful name, Ovid looked at his watch, and said there was no time for the song. Mr. Gallilee suddenly and seriously sided with his step-son. “How she got among the men after dinner,” he said, “nobody knows. Lady Northlake has forbidden Donald to teach her any more songs; and I have requested him, as a favour to me, not to let her smack his legs. Come, my dear, it’s time we were home again.”
Well intended by both gentlemen — but too late. Zo was ready for the performance; her hat was cocked on one side; her plump little arms were set akimbo; her round eyes opened and closed facetiously19 in winks20 worthy21 of a low comedian22. “I’m Donald,” she announced: and burst out with the song: “We’re gayly yet, we’re gayly yet; We’re not very fou, but we’re gayly yet: Then sit ye awhile, and tipple23 a bit; For we’re not very fou, but we’re gayly yet.“ She snatched up Carmina’s medicine glass, and waved it over her head with a Bacchanalian24 screech15. “Fill a brimmer, Tammie! Here’s to Redshanks!”
“And pray who is Redshanks?” asked a lady, standing25 in the doorway26. Zo turned round — and instantly collapsed27. A terrible figure, associated with lessons and punishments, stood before her. The convivial28 friend of Donald, the established Missus of Lord Northlake, disappeared — and a polite pupil took their place. “If you please, Miss Minerva, Redshanks is nickname for a Highlander29.” Who would have recognised the singer of “We’re gayly yet,” in the subdued30 young person who made that reply?
The door opened again. Another disastrous31 intrusion? Yes, another! Teresa appeared this time — caught Zo up in her arms — and gave the child a kiss that was heard all over the room. “Ah, mia Giocosa!” cried the old nurse — too happy to speak in any language but her own. “What does that mean?” Zo asked, settling her ruffled32 petticoats. “It means,” said Teresa, who prided herself on her English, “Ah, my Jolly.” This to a young lady who could slit a haggis! This to the only person in Scotland, privileged to smack Donald’s legs! Zo turned to her father, and recovered her dignity. Maria herself could hardly have spoken with more severe propriety33. “I wish to go home,” said Zo.
Ovid had only to look at Carmina, and to see the necessity of immediate34 compliance35 with his little sister’s wishes. No more laughing, no more excitement, for that day. He led Zo out himself, and resigned her to her father at the door of his rooms on the ground floor.
Cheered already by having got away from Miss Minerva and the nurse, Zo desired to know who lived downstairs; and, hearing that these were Ovid’s rooms, insisted on seeing them. The three went in together.
Ovid drew Mr. Gallilee into a corner. “I’m easier about Carmina now,” he said. “The failure of her memory doesn’t extend backwards36. It begins with the shock to her brain, on the day when Teresa removed her to this house — and it will end, I feel confident, with the end of her illness.”
Mr. Gallilee’s attention suddenly wandered. “Zo!” he called out, “don’t touch your brother’s papers.”
The one object that had excited the child’s curiosity was the writing-table. Dozens of sheets of paper were scattered37 over it, covered with writing, blotted38 and interlined. Some of these leaves had overflowed39 the table, and found a resting-place on the floor. Zo was amusing herself by picking them up. “Well!” she said, handing them obediently to Ovid, “I’ve had many a rap on the knuckles40 for writing not half as bad as yours.”
Hearing his daughter’s remark, Mr. Gallilee became interested in looking at the fragments of manuscript. “What an awful mess!” he exclaimed. “May I try if I can read a bit?” Ovid smiled. “Try by all means; you will make one useful discovery at least — you will see that the most patient men on the face of the civilised earth are Printers!”
Mr. Gallilee tried a page — and gave it up before he turned giddy. “Is it fair to ask what this is?”
“Something easy to feel, and hard to express,” Ovid answered. “These ill-written lines are my offering of gratitude41 to the memory of an unknown and unhappy man.”
“The man you told me of, who died at Montreal?”
“Yes.”
“You never mentioned his name.”
“His last wishes forbade me to mention it to any living creature. God knows there were pitiable, most pitiable, reasons for his dying unknown! The stone over his grave only bears his initials, and the date of his death. But,” said Ovid, kindling42 with enthusiasm, as he laid his hand on his manuscript, “the discoveries of this great physician shall benefit humanity! And my debt to him shall be acknowledged, with the admiration43 and the devotion that I truly feel!”
“In a book?” asked Mr. Gallilee.
“In a book that is now being printed. You will see it before the New Year.”
Finding nothing to amuse her in the sitting-room, Zo had tried the bedroom next. She now returned to Ovid, dragging after her a long white staff that looked like an Alpen-stock. “What’s this?” she asked. “A broomstick?”
“A specimen44 of rare Canadian wood, my dear. Would you like to have it?”
Zo took the offer quite seriously. She looked with longing45 eyes at the specimen, three times as tall as herself — and shook her head. “I’m not big enough for it, yet,” she said. “Look at it, papa! Benjulia’s stick is nothing to this.”
That name — on the child’s lips — had a sound revolting to Ovid. “Don’t speak of him!” he said irritably46.
“Mustn’t I speak of him,” Zo asked, “when I want him to tickle47 me?” Ovid beckoned48 to her father. “Take her away now,” he whispered —“and never let her see that man again.”
The warning was needless. The man’s destiny had decreed that he and Zo were never more to meet.
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1
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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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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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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screeches
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| n.尖锐的声音( screech的名词复数 )v.发出尖叫声( screech的第三人称单数 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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tipple
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| n.常喝的酒；v.不断喝，饮烈酒 | |
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bacchanalian
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| adj.闹酒狂饮的；n.发酒疯的人 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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highlander
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| n.高地的人，苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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47
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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