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Penelope's Experiences in Scotland-Part2_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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which to found our knowledge, and all is deliciousmystery. 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 intimateacquaintance 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, ardentwarmth 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,




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