Penelope's Irish ExperiencesWiggin, Kate Douglas Smith
General
Penelope's Irish Experiences
Wiggin, Kate Douglas Smith
Ireland -- Fiction
“The place is rented, then,” said Francesca, “to some enterprising
American or some star-spangled Irishman who has succeeded in discovering
Devorgilla before us. I well understand how the shade of Columbus must
feel whenever Amerigo Vespucci's name is mentioned!”
We sent the driver off to await our pleasure, and held a consultation by
the wayside.
“I shall call at any rate,” I announced; “any excuse will serve which
brings me nearer to that adorable dwelling. I intend to be standing in
that pink doorway, with that green lattice over my head, when Himself
arrives in Devorgilla. I intend to end my days within those rosy walls,
and to begin the process at the earliest possible moment.”
Salemina disapproved, of course. Her method is always to stand well
in the rear, trembling beforehand lest I should do something
unconventional; then, later on, when things romantic begin to transpire,
she says delightedly, “Wasn't that clever of us?”
“An American flag,” I urged, “is a proclamation; indeed, it is, in a
sense, an invitation; besides it is my duty to salute it in a foreign
land!”
“Patriotism, how many sins are practised in thy name!” said Salemina
satirically. “Can't you salute your flag from the high-road?”
“Not properly, Sally dear, nor satisfactorily. So you and Francesca sit
down, timidly and respectably, under the safe shadow of the hedge, while
I call upon the blooming family in the darling, blooming house. I am an
American artist, lured to their door alike by devotion to my country's
flag and love of the picturesque.” And so saying I ascended the path
with some dignity and a false show of assurance.
The circumstances did not chance to be precisely what I had expected.
There was a nice girl tidying the kitchen, and I found no difficulty
in making friends with her. Her mother owned the cottage, and rented
it every season to a Belfast lady, who was coming in a week to take
possession, as usual. The American flag had been floating in honour of
her mother's brother, who had come over from Milwaukee to make them a
little visit, and had just left that afternoon to sail from Liverpool.
The rest of the family lived, during the three summer months, in a
smaller house down the road; but she herself always stayed at the
cottage, to 'mind' the Belfast lady's children.
When I looked at the pink floor of the kitchen and the view from the
windows, I would have given anything in the world to outbid, yes, even
to obliterate the Belfast lady; but this, unfortunately, was not only
illegal and immoral, but it was impossible. So, calling the mother in
from the stables, I succeeded, after fifteen minutes' persuasion, in
getting permission to occupy the house for one week, beginning with
the next morning, and returned in triumph to my weary constituents, who
thought it an insane idea.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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