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Penelope's Irish Experiences-Part6_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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long hoods are worn close under the chin; the ear-rings go round the



neck(!), and tie with bows and ends behind. Night-gowns are worn

without hoops.'



Part Second--Munster.

Chapter VII. A tour and a detour.



'"An' there," sez I to meself, "we're goin' wherever we go,

But where we'll be whin we git there it's never a know



I'll know."'

Jane Barlow.



We had planned to go direct from Dublin to Valencia Island, where

there is not, I am told, 'one dhry step 'twixt your fut an' the



States'; but we thought it too tiring a journey for Benella, and

arranged for a little visit to Cork first. We nearly missed the



train owing to the late arrival of Salemina at the Kingsbridge

station. She had been buying malted milk, Mellin's Food, an alcohol



lamp, a tin cup, and getting all the doctor's prescriptions renewed.

We intended, too, to go second or third class now an then, in order



to study the humours of the natives, but of course we went 'first'

on this occasion on account of Benella. I told her that we could



not follow British usage and call her by her surname. Dusenberry

was too long and too--well, too extraordinary for daily use abroad.



"P'r'aps it is," she assented meekly; "and still, Mis' Beresford,

when a man's name is Dusenberry, you can't hardly blame him for



wanting his child to be called by it, can you?"

This was incontrovertible, and I asked her middle name. It was



Frances, and that was too like Francesca.

"You don't like the sound o' Benella?" she inquired. "I've always



set great store by my name, it is so unlikely. My father's name was

Benjamin and my mother's Ella, and mine is made from both of 'em;



but you can call me any kind of a name you please, after what you've

done for me," and she closed her eyes patiently.



'Call me Daphne, call me Chloris,

Call me Lalage or Doris,



Only, only call me thine,'

which is exactly what we are not ready to do, I thought, in a poetic



parenthesis.

Benella looks frail and yet hardy. She has an unusual and perhaps



unnecessary amount of imagination for her station, some native

common-sense, but limited experience; she is somewhat vague and



inconsistent in her theories of life, but I am sure there is

vitality, and energy too, in her composition, although it has been



temporarily drowned in the Atlantic Ocean. If she were a clock, I

should think that some experimenter had taken out her original



works, and substituted others to see how they would run. The clock

has a New England case and strikes with a New England tone, but the



works do not match it altogether. Of course I know that one does

not ordinarily engage a lady's-maid because of these piquant



peculiarities; but in our case the circumstances were extraordinary.

I have explained them fully to Himself in my letters, and Francesca



too has written pages of illuminating detail to Ronald Macdonald.

The similarity in the minds of men must sometimes come across them



with a shock, unless indeed it appeals to their sense of humour.

Himself in America, and the Rev. Mr. Macdonald in the north of



Scotland, both answered, in course of time, that a lady's-maid

should be engaged because is a lady's-maid and for no other reason.



Was ever anything duller than this, more conventional, more

commonplace or didactic, less imaginative? Himself added, "You are



a romantic idiot, and I love you more than tongue can tell."

Francesca did not say what Ronald added; probably a part of this



same sentence (owing to the aforesaid similarity of men's minds),

reserving the rest for the frank intimacy of the connubial state.



Everything looked beautiful in the uncertain glory of the April day.

The thistle-down clouds opened now and then to shake out a delicate,



brilliant little shower that ceased in a trice, and the sun smiled

through the light veil of rain, turning every falling drop to a



jewel. It was as if the fairies were busy at aerial watering-pots,

without any more serious purpose than to amuse themselves and make



the earth beautiful; and we realised that Irish rain is as warm as

an Irish welcome, and soft as an Irish smile.



Everything was bursting into new life, everything but the primroses,

and their glory was departing. The yellow carpet seemed as bright



as ever on the sunny hedgerow banks and on the fringe of the woods,




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