Free ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery by Maryrose Wood Page B

will be tired from her long journey, but perhaps tomorrow, after I have done with the children’s lessons for the day, I will go downstairs on some pretext or other and see if I can engage Lady Constance in pleasant conversation. It would be the kind and generous thing—the Swanburne thing—to do.”

T HE S EVENTH C HAPTER
    Lady Constance endures a series
of postal disappointments.
    A WELL-KNOWN POET — not Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who wrote “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” a poem with which the Incorrigible children were already quite familiar, but a different poet, named Robert Burns—once wrote a poem called, simply, “To a Mouse.”
    Now, you might find this title silly and even a bit misleading, for what famous poet writes poems to mice? Especially when there are so many shipwrecks, headless horsemen, gloomy talking birds, and otherequally fascinating topics to write poems about?
    On the other hand, perhaps Mr. Burns was using his poetic license. This is the license that allows poets to say things that are not precisely true without being accused of telling lies. Anyone may obtain such a license, but still, the powers it grants must be wielded responsibly. (A word to the wise: When asked, “Who put the empty milk carton back in the refrigerator?” if you reply, “My incorrigible sister, Lavinia,” when in fact it is you who are the guilty party, at the ensuing trial, the judge will not be impressed to hear you defend yourself by claiming that your whopper was merely “poetic license.”)
    However, the title “To a Mouse” is not an example of poetic license, for the poem was, in fact, written to a mouse, which simply goes to prove that one never knows from what furry little rodent inspiration will strike. In Mr. Burns’s case, inspiration struck the poet soon after his plow struck the nest of a “wee beastie,” which is to say, a small field mouse, and tore it all to pieces. His eight-stanza apology includes the memorable lines:
    The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
    Gang aft agley…
    It should be pointed out that the poem is written in an old Scottish dialect, and thus contains words that are rarely used nowadays, even in Scotland. To “gang aft agley” means to “often go astray.” What Mr. Burns was driving at was this: The mouse, who had built herself a cozy nest and was no doubt feeling quite smug about it, was now flat out of luck, and that is simply the way life goes, not only for mice but for people, too. One thing is planned, and yet something quite different actually occurs. A careless poet accidentally plows your mouse house to bits, an important appointment is missed due to a flat tire on one’s velocipede, or a well-intended and perfectly friendly overture is interpreted as something else altogether.
    Thus it was the next day, when Penelope eventually went downstairs to strike up a conversation with Lady Constance. Her impulse to offer some fellowship was a kind and noble one, and yet it was received in an entirely different spirit—for one of the disadvantages of having a postal delivery five times daily is that it creates so many opportunities to be disappointed when a much-longed-for invitation fails, and fails, and fails yet again, to arrive.
    The morning post had brought nothing to the house but the day’s newspaper. The midday post had brought an advertisement promoting the skills of alocal chimney sweep. Now it was nearly three o’clock, and another post was due any moment. It was Margaret’s duty to await the postman by the front door, silver letter tray in hand.
    As was always the case at mail time, there were two sharp raps on the knocker, after which the mail came sliding through a brass mail slot in the lower part of the heavy wooden door.
    Knock! Knock!
    â€œIs it the post?” Lady Constance’s voice rang eagerly down the stairs.
    â€œYes, my lady,