Penelope's Experiences in Scotland

These conflicting emotions successfully simulated, Sir Patrick resumed:—

  ‘“O wha is he has done this deed,
     And tauld the King o’ me,—
   To send us out, at this time o’ the year,
     To sail upon the sea?”’

Then the king stood up in the unstable tower and shouted his own orders:—

  ‘“Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
     Our ship maun sail the faem;
    The King’s daughter o’ Noroway,
     ‘Tis we maun fetch her hame.”’

“Can’t we rig the ship a little better?” demanded our stage-manager at this juncture. “It isn’t half as good as the tower.”

Ten minutes’ hard work, in which we assisted, produced something a trifle more nautical and seaworthy than the first craft. The ground with a few boards spread upon it was the deck. Tarpaulin sheets were arranged on sticks to represent sails, and we located the vessel so cleverly that two slender trees shot out of the middle of it and served as the tall topmasts.

“Now let us make believe that we’ve hoisted our sails on ‘Mononday morn’ and been in Noroway ‘weeks but only twae,’” said our leading man; “and your time has come now,”—turning to us.

We felt indeed that it had; but plucking up sufficient courage for the lords o’ Noroway, we cried accusingly,—

  ‘“Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our King’s gowd,
     And a’ our Queenis fee!”’

Oh but Sir Apple-Cheek was glorious as he roared virtuously:—

  ‘“Ye lee! ye lee! ye leers loud,
     Fu’ loudly do you lee!

   “For I brocht as much white monie
     As gane my men and me,
    An’ I brocht a half-fou o’ gude red gowd
     Out ower the sea wi’ me.

   “But betide me well, betide me wae,
     This day I’se leave the shore;
    And never spend my King’s monie
     ‘Mong Noroway dogs no more.

   “Make ready, make ready, my merry men a’,
     Our gude ship sails the morn.”’

“Now you be the sailors, please!”

Glad to be anything but Noroway dogs, we recited obediently—

  ‘“Now, ever alake, my master dear,
     I fear a deadly storm?
     . . . . . . .
    And if ye gang to sea, master,
     I fear we’ll come to harm.”’

We added much to the effect of this stanza by flinging ourselves on the turf and embracing Sir Patrick’s knees, with which touch of melodrama he was enchanted.

Then came a storm so terrible that I can hardly trust myself to describe its fury. The entire corps dramatique personated the elements, and tore the gallant ship in twain, while Sir Patrick shouted in the teeth of the gale—

  ‘“O whaur will I get a gude sailor
     To tak’ my helm in hand,
    Till I get up to the tall topmast
     To see if I can spy land?”’

I knew the words a trifle better than Francesca, and thus succeeded in forestalling her as the fortunate hero—

  ‘“O here I am, a sailor gude,
     To tak’ the helm in hand,
    Till you go up to the tall topmast;
     But I fear ye’ll ne’er spy land.”’

And the heroic sailor was right, for

   ‘He hadna gone a step, a step,
     A step but only ane,
    When a bout flew out o’ our goodly ship,
     And the saut sea it came in.’

Then we fetched a web o’ the silken claith, and anither o’ the twine, as our captain bade us; we wapped them into our ship’s side and letna the sea come in; but in vain, in vain. Laith were the gude Scots lords to weet their cork-heeled shune, but they did, and wat their hats abune; for the ship sank in spite of their despairing efforts,

   ‘And mony was the gude lord’s son
     That never mair cam’ hame.’

Francesca and I were now obliged to creep from under the tarpaulins and personate the dishevelled ladies on the strand.

“Will your hair come down?” asked the manager gravely.

“It will and shall,” we rejoined; and it did.

   ‘The ladies wrang their fingers white,
     The maidens tore their hair.’

“Do tear your hair, Jessie! It’s the only thing you have to do, and you never do it on time!”

The Wrig made ready to howl with offended pride, but we soothed her, and she tore her yellow curls with her chubby hands.

   ‘And lang, lang may the maidens sit
     Wi’ there gowd kaims i’ the hair,
    A’ waitin’ for their ain dear luves,
     For them they’ll see nae mair.’

I did a bit of sobbing here that would have been a credit to Sarah Siddons.

“Splendid! Grand!” cried Sir Patrick, as he stretched himself fifty fathoms below the imaginary surface of the water, and gave explicit ante-mortem directions to the other Scots lords to spread themselves out in like manner.

   ‘Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,
     ‘Tis fifty fathoms deep,
    And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
     Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.’

“Oh, it is grand!” he repeated jubilantly. “If I could only be the king and see it all from Dunfermline tower! Could you be Sir Patrick once, do you think, now that I have shown you how?” he asked Francesca.

“Indeed I could!” she replied, glowing with excitement (and small wonder) at being chosen for the principal role.

“The only trouble is that you do look awfully like a girl in that white frock.”

Francesca appeared rather ashamed at her natural disqualifications for the part of Sir Patrick. “If I had only worn my long black cloak!” she sighed.

“Oh, I have an idea!” cried the boy. “Hand her the minister’s gown from the hedge, Rafe. You see, Mistress Ogilvie of Crummylowe lent us this old gown for a sail; she’s doing something to a new one, and this was her pattern.”

Francesca slipped it on over her white serge, and the Pettybaw parson should have seen her with the long veil of her dark locks floating over his ministerial garment.

“It seems a pity to put up your hair,” said the stage manager critically, “because you look so jolly and wild with it down, but I suppose you must; and will you have Rafe’s bonnet?”

Yes, she would have Rafe’s bonnet; and when she perched it on the side of her head and paced the deck restlessly, while the black gown floated behind in the breeze, we all cheered with enthusiasm, and, having rebuilt the ship, began the play again from the moment of the gale. The wreck was more horribly realistic than ever, this time, because of our rehearsal; and when I crawled from under the masts and sails to seat myself on the beach with the Wrig, I had scarcely strength enough to remove the cooky from her hand and set her a-combing her curly locks.

When our new Sir Patrick stretched herself on the ocean bed, she fell with a despairing wail; her gown spread like a pall over the earth, the Highland bonnet came off, and her hair floated over a haphazard pillow of Jessie’s wildflowers.

“Oh, it is fine, that part; but from here is where it always goes wrong!” cried the king from the castle tower. “It’s too bad to take the maidens away from the strand where they look so bonnie, and Rafe is splendid as the gude sailor, but Dandie looks so silly as one little dead Scots lord; if we only had one more person, young or old, if he was ever so stupid!”