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.