"AN AGATE KNIFE-EDGE."
It is doubtful whether Mona had ever received such a shock in the
whole course of her life.
She had always been told, and she had gloried in the knowledge, that
her father's father was a self-made man; but the very fact that she
did thus glory was a proof, perhaps in more ways than one, that the
process of "making" had been a very complete one. She vaguely knew,
but she did not in the least realise, what people may be before they
are "made." She had taken for granted, as she told Lucy, that her
cousin Rachel was "not exactly what one would call a lady;" but she
had unconsciously pictured to herself a pretty cottage embowered in
roses, a simple primitive life, early dinners, occasional afternoon
calls, rare tea-parties, and abundant leisure for walking, reading,
thinking, and dreaming on the rocks. Her love for the sea, and
especially for the wild east coast, amounted almost to a passion,
which hitherto she had had but little opportunity of gratifying; and
this love, perhaps, had weighed with her as much as anything else, in
the decision she had made.
She had talked with pride of the "good old yeoman blood" in her
veins, but principle and dainty nurture shrank alike from the idea of
the middleman--the shop.
She did not dream of withdrawing from the rashly concluded bargain.
That simple way out of the difficulty never suggested itself to her
mind. "After all, could I have done any better?" she said. "Even if
Sir Douglas and my aunt took more than a passing interest in me,
should I be content to devote my life to them? Nay, verily!" But
all her philosophy could not save her from a _mauvais quart
d'heure_--nor from a restless wakeful night--after she had read the
letter.
And yet the situation appealed irresistibly to her sense of humour.
"If only Lucy were here to enjoy it!" she said. And she found the
necessary relief to her feelings in a long letter to her friend.
"I can see you turn pale at the word _shop_," she wrote, "as I
confess I did myself; but I suppose your youthful and untrammelled
imagination has taken flight at once to Parkins & Gotto or Marshall &
Snelgrove. My dear, let me inform you at once that the town contains
less than two thousand inhabitants; and now, will you kindly reflect
on the number of cubic feet which the Parkins & Gotto and Marshall &
Snelgrove of such a place would find ample for the bestowal of their
wares. My own impression is, that my sitting-room would afford
sufficient accommodation for both, and I am not sure that there would
not be room for Fortnum & Mason to boot.
"If I only knew what I am to sell, it would be some relief. Tobacco
was my first thought, but the place is not big enough to support a
tobacconist. At whisky I draw the line--and yet, on second thoughts,
I don't. If it is tobacco or whisky--behold my life-work! But if it
is toffee and ginger-bread horses, and those ghastly blue balls--what
are they for, by the way?--may the Lord have mercy upon my soul!"
She mentioned her meeting with the Munros, and the projected trip to
Norway, and then--
"I hope the grocer duly congratulated you over the counter," she
concluded. "I take a fraternal interest in his behaviour now, and
with characteristic catholicity I have gone further afield, and have
imagined the very words in which the postman delivered his tit-bit of
information, I have even pictured the farmers forgetting the price of
hay, and the state of the crops, in the all-absorbing topic of the
hour.
"Your affectionate friend,
"MONA MACLEAN."
"And now," she said to herself, as she surveyed the alarming array of
trunks and packing-cases which the servants had placed in the
room,--"now I am in the position commonly described as having my work
cut out for me! The valise must do for Norway, that trunk and
hat-box for Borrowness, and all the rest must be warehoused at
Tilbury's."
The consideration of her wardrobe provided food for some reflection
and a good deal of amusement.
"Pity there is no time to write to the _Queen_ for information as to
outfit desirable for six months in a small shop at Borrowness!" she
thought.
Finally, she decided on a plain tailor-made tweed, a dark-coloured
silk, a couple of pretty cotton morning-gowns, and a simple
evening-dress, "in case of emergency," she said, but she knew in her
heart that no such emergency would arise.
"The good folks will think those sweetly simple, and befitting the
state of life to which it has pleased Providence to call me," she
said. "They would stare a little if they knew what I had paid for
them, I fancy. Borrowness '_versteht so was nicht_,' as my dear old
Frau used to say of Pauline and the asparagus."
In the midst of her work Sir Douglas and Evelyn came in on some
mythical errand. Lady Munro would have come herself, but she was so
busy. Sir Douglas was in high spirits. It really was true of him,
what Lady Munro had graciously said of all of them, that Mona's going
made the greatest difference in the pleasure of the tour. From the
point of view of personal companionship he had long since exhausted
his wife, and Evelyn was still too crude and insipid to be thought of
in that capacity. To his peculiar, and possibly morbid, taste,
Mona's society had all the piquancy which was as desirable to his
mind as were Nubboo's curries to his jaded Anglo-Indian palate.
It was sad work that packing. Many a bright hope and lofty ambition
was buried with the books and instruments in the great wooden cases;
and who could tell whether there would be any resurrection? Mona
felt that another fortnight of life would bring her to the end of all
things. "A world of failure and blighted enthusiasm behind," she
said, "a wild waste of vulgarity and mediocrity in front; and here I
stand for an instant poised on an 'agate knife-edge' of fashion and
luxury and popularity. _Carpe diem_!"
"And I'm sure, miss, if you'll give me what notice you can, I'll do
my very best to have the rooms vacant again," said the good-hearted
Irish landlady, who kept dropping in at the most inconvenient moments
to offer assistance and shed a few tears. "It's little trouble
you've given, and many's the time it's done me good to meet your
bright face on the stair."
"You may be quite sure that if I am ever in London for any length of
time, I shall try very hard to secure my old quarters," said Mona
cordially; "but it is impossible to tell what the future may bring;"
and she sighed.
If lodgers could be made to order, Mrs O'Connor would fain have had
hers a little more communicative. She was thirsting for an
explanation of the fine carriage that had driven up to the door on
Wednesday afternoon, and of the beautiful lady who had seemed so
disappointed to find Miss Maclean out.
When the same equipage disappeared with Mona on Monday morning, and
Mrs O'Connor had leisure to reflect on the apparent finality of this
departure, in the light of the alternate high spirits and profound
depression which had not altogether escaped her observation, she came
to the conclusion that Miss Maclean was meditating a good match, but
that she did not quite know her own mind.