It is our last day in 'Scotia's darling seat,' our last day in
Breadalbane Terrace, our last day with Mrs. M'Collop; and though every
one says that we shall love the life in the country, we are loath to
leave Auld Reekie.
Salemina and I have spent two days in search of an abiding-place, and
have visited eight well-recommended villages with that end in view; but
she disliked four of them, and I couldn't endure the other four, though
I considered some of those that fell under her disapproval as quite
delightful in every respect.
We never take Francesca on these pilgrimages of disagreement, as three
conflicting opinions on the same subject would make insupportable what
is otherwise rather exhilarating. She starts from Edinburgh to-morrow
for a brief visit to the Highlands with the Dalziels, and will join us
when we have settled ourselves.
Mr. Beresford leaves Paris as soon after our decision as he is
permitted, so Salemina and I have agreed to agree upon one ideal spot
within thirty-six hours of our quitting Edinburgh, knowing privately
that after a last battle-royal we shall enthusiastically support the
joint decision for the rest of our lives.
We have been bidding good-bye to people and places and things, and
wishing the sun would not shine and thus make our task the harder.
We have looked our last on the old grey town from Calton Hill, of all
places the best, perhaps, for a view; since, as Stevenson says, from
Calton Hill you can see the Castle, which you lose from the Castle, and
Arthur's Seat, which you cannot see from Arthur's Seat. We have taken a
farewell walk to the Dean Bridge, to gaze wistfully eastward and marvel
for the hundredth time to find so beautiful a spot in the heart of
a city. The soft-flowing Water of Leith winding over pebbles between
grassy banks and groups of splendid trees, the roof of the little temple
to Hygeia rising picturesquely among green branches, the slopes of
emerald velvet leading up to the grey stone of the houses,--where, in
all the world of cities, can one find a view to equal it in peaceful
loveliness? Francesca's 'bridge-man,' who, by the way, proved to be a
distinguished young professor of medicine in the University, says
that the beautiful cities of the world should be ranked
thus,--Constantinople, Prague, Genoa, Edinburgh; but having seen only
one of these, and that the last, I refuse to credit any sliding scale of
comparison which leaves Edina at the foot.
It was nearing tea-time, an hour when we never fail to have visitors,
and we were all in the drawing-room together. I was at the piano,
singing Jacobite melodies for Salemina's delectation. When I came to
the last verse of Lady Nairne's 'Hundred Pipers,' the spirited words had
taken my fancy captive, and I am sure I could not have sung with more
vigour and passion had my people been 'out with the Chevalier.'
'The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,
But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;
Twa thousand swam owre to fell English ground,
An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch's sound.
Dumfounder'd the English saw, they saw,
Dumfounder'd they heard the blaw, the blaw,
Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa',
Frae the hundred pipers an' a', an' a'!'
By the time I came to 'Dumfounder'd the English saw,' Francesca left
her book and joined in the next four lines, and when we broke into the
chorus Salemina rushed to the piano, and although she cannot sing, she
lifted her voice both high and loud in the refrain, beating time the
while with a dirk paper-knife.
'Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw,
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'!'
Susanna ushered in Mr. Macdonald and Dr. Moncrieffe as the last 'blaw'
faded into silence, and Jean Dalziel came upstairs to say that they
could seldom get a quiet moment for family prayers, because we
were always at the piano, hurling incendiary sentiments into the
air,--sentiments set to such stirring melodies that no one could resist
them.
“We are very sorry, Miss Dalziel,” I said penitently. “We reserve an
hour in the morning and another at bedtime for your uncle's prayers,
but we had no idea you had them at afternoon tea, even in Scotland. I
believe that you are chaffing, and came up only to swell the chorus.
Come, let us all sing together from 'Dumfounder'd the English saw.'”
Mr. Macdonald and Dr. Moncrieffe gave such splendid body to the music,
and Jean such warlike energy, that Salemina waved her paper-knife in a
manner more than ever sanguinary, and Susanna, hesitating outside the
door for sheer delight, had to be coaxed in with the tea-things. On the
heels of the tea-things came the Dominie, another dear old friend of six
weeks' standing; and while the doctor sang 'Jock o' Hazeldean' with
such irresistible charm that we all longed to elope with somebody on the
instant, Salemina dispensed buttered toast, marmalade sandwiches,
and the fragrant cup. By this time we were thoroughly cosy, and Mr.
Macdonald made himself and us very much at home by stirring the fire;
whereupon Francesca embarrassed him by begging him not to touch it
unless he could do it properly, which, she added, seemed quite unlikely,
from the way in which he handled the poker.
“What will Edinburgh do without you?” he asked, turning towards us with
flattering sadness in his tone. “Who will hear our Scotch stories, never
suspecting their hoary old age? Who will ask us questions to which we
somehow always know the answers? Who will make us study and reverence
anew our own landmarks? Who will keep warm our national and local pride
by judicious enthusiasm?”
“I think the national and local pride may be counted on to exist without
any artificial stimulants,” dryly observed Francesca, whose spirit is
not in the least quenched by approaching departure.
“Perhaps,” answered the Reverend Ronald; “but at any rate, you,
Miss Monroe, will always be able to reflect that you have never been
responsible even for its momentary inflation!”
“Isn't it strange that she cannot get on better with that charming
fellow?” murmured Salemina, as she passed me the sugar for my second
cup.
“If your present symptoms of blindness continue, Salemina,” I said,
searching for a small lump so as to gain time, “I shall write you a
plaintive ballad, buy you a dog, and stand you on a street corner! If
you had ever permitted yourself to 'get on' with any man as Francesca is
getting on with Mr. Macdonald, you would now be Mrs.--Somebody.”
“Do you know, doctor,” asked the Dominie, “that Miss Hamilton shed
real tears at Holyrood the other night, when the band played 'Bonnie
Charlie's noo awa'?'”
“They were real,” I confessed, “in the sense that they certainly were
not crocodile tears; but I am somewhat at a loss to explain them from
a sensible, American standpoint. Of course my Jacobitism is purely
impersonal, though scarcely more so than yours, at this late day; at
least it is merely a poetic sentiment, for which Caroline, Baroness
Nairne, is mainly responsible. My romantic tears came from a vision of
the Bonnie Prince as he entered Holyrood, dressed in his short tartan
coat, his scarlet breeches and military boots, the star of St. Andrew on
his breast, a blue ribbon over his shoulder, and the famous blue velvet
bonnet and white cockade. He must have looked so brave and handsome and
hopeful at that moment, and the moment was so sadly brief, that when the
band played the plaintive air I kept hearing the words--
'Mony a heart will break in twa,
Should he no come back again.'
He did come back again to me that evening, and held a phantom levee
behind the Marchioness of Heatherdale's shoulder. His 'ghaist' looked
bonnie and rosy and confident, yet all the time the band was playing the
requiem for his lost cause and buried hopes.”
I looked towards the fire to hide the moisture that crept again into my
eyes, and my glance fell upon Francesca sitting dreamily on a hassock in
front of the cheerful blaze, her chin in the hollow of her palm, and the
Reverend Ronald standing on the hearth-rug gazing at her, the poker in
his hand, and his heart, I regret to say, in such an exposed position on
his sleeve that even Salemina could have seen it had she turned her eyes
that way.
Jean Dalziel broke the momentary silence: “I am sure I never hear the
last two lines--
'Better lo'ed ye canna be,
Will ye no' come back again?'
without a lump in my throat,” and she hummed the lovely melody. “It
is all as you say, purely impersonal and poetic. My mother is an
Englishwoman, but she sings 'Dumfounder'd the English saw, they saw'
with the greatest fire and fury.”