DORIS.
The steamer was fast approaching Newcastle.
They had had some very rough weather, but now the sea was like a
mill-pond, and the whole party was sitting on deck under an awning.
"Well, Mona dear," said Lady Munro, "I am sure I don't know how we
are to say good-bye to you."
"_Don't!_" entreated Mona. "You make me feel that I must find words
in which to thank you, and indeed I can't!"
Her sensitive lips quivered, and Sir Douglas uttered a sympathetic
grunt.
"You really must spend a month with us on the Riviera at Christmas,"
went on her aunt. "We will take no refusal."
"_Do!_" said Evelyn, putting her arm round her cousin's waist.
"Thank you very much," and Mona's eyes looked eloquent thanks; "but
it is quite out of the question."
"I have put my hand to the plough," she thought, "and I don't mean to
look back. Six months it shall be, at the very least."
"And what is a month," growled Sir Douglas, "when we want her
altogether! I am afraid I promised that her incomings and outgoings
should be without let or hindrance as heretofore--old fool that I
was!--but how could I tell how indispensable she was going to make
herself?"
"I wish you would not talk so," said Mona. "I have never in all my
life been so disgracefully spoilt as during the last fortnight. I
should get simply unbearable if I lived with you much longer."
"The fact is," continued Sir Douglas, looking at his wife, "the
greatest mistake of our married life has been that Mona did not come
to us ten years ago, when your mother died."
"I don't fancy Mona thinks so," said Lady Munro, smiling at her niece.
"No," said Mona, and the slight flush on her cheek showed that her
frankness cost her an effort. "It is good for a man to bear the yoke
in his youth. If I had not known hardship sometimes, and loneliness
often, I could not have appreciated as I have done the infinite
enjoyment of the last fortnight."
"The fact is, you bear the yoke a deal too much," said her uncle.
"Bless my soul! you're only a girl yet, and you can only be young
once. And now you are going to mope, mope, mope, over your books."
"You know I am going to my cousin in the first instance."
"Yes--for a few weeks, I suppose! By the way, can't you get out of
that? I am sure we want you a great deal more than she does."
"Oh no," said Mona hastily. "I can't get out of that even if I
wished to."
"If you were cut out for a common drudge, I should not mind," he went
on; "but with your gifts---- Do you know, there is nothing to hinder
your being a great social success?"
"Oh, indeed there is!" exclaimed Mona. "You have made me very happy,
and I have shown my gratitude by forgetting my own existence, and
talking a great deal too much. But when my friends want to show me
off, and beg me to talk--with the best will in the world, I seem
unable to utter a word."
"No wonder, when you live the life of a hermit. But if you gave your
mind to it----"
Mona opened her lips to speak, and then thought better of it. There
was no need to say that, at the best, social success seemed a poor
thing to give one's mind to; attractive enough, no doubt, so long as
it was unattained; but when attained, as the sole result of years of
effort, nothing but Dead Sea fruit.
Sir Douglas got up and offered her his arm without speaking. They
walked up and down the deck together.
"Where are your cigars?" she said. "I am sure you want one."
"I don't," he said irritably. "I want you." But he allowed her to
get one out of his case for him nevertheless.
"And now, Mona," he said more amiably, "I want you to tell me all
about your money affairs--what you have got, how it is invested, and
who looks after it for you."
"You are very kind," she said gratefully; "but please don't suppose I
was thinking of money when I talked of hardship. I am quite a
Croesus now. I had to be very careful for a year or two, while
things were unsettled."
"And why the deuce did not you write to me? What did you suppose you
had an uncle for? What is the use of your coming to us now, when you
are quite independent and we can do nothing for you?"
Mona pressed his hand affectionately in both of here.
"The use is problematical from your point of view, I confess, but
from mine it is infinite. You have made me fancy myself a girl
again."
"And what are you but a girl! But come along, I am to hear all about
your money."
And they entered into a long and involved discussion.
The Sahib meanwhile was looking on in a mood as nearly approaching
ill-humour as was possible to him. If Lady Munro and Mona had both
been available, he might have been in some doubt as to which he
should converse with; but Sir Douglas had settled the question by
monopolising Mona, and she had become proportionately desirable in
his eyes. He persuaded himself that he had fifty things to say to
her on this the last day of their companionship, and he considered
himself much aggrieved. Moreover, Mona seemed to be submitting to a
lecture, and the docile, affectionate smile on her face seemed
strangely attractive to the neglected man.
Every moment his irritation increased, and when at last--with
Newcastle well in sight--Mona left Sir Douglas and began to talk
caressingly to her aunt and Evelyn, the Sahib rose abruptly from his
chair and strode away.
Mona did not notice that he had gone. She liked him cordially, but,
now that the moment of parting had come, her thoughts were fully
occupied with her "own people."
"You will let us know of your safe arrival, won't you?" said Lady
Munro. "I suppose you will be too busy to write often during the
winter, and I am afraid none of us are very great correspondents; but
remember, we tryst you for next summer, if not before."
"You can't possibly get beyond Edinburgh to-night," said Sir Douglas,
stopping in front of them and looking at his watch.
"I am afraid not," said Mona. "But I am very anxious to go straight
through, if possible."
"I do not know why we should not all have gone north together," he
continued, turning to his wife. "Cannot we do it still? Your maid
can bring your boxes."
"My _dear_ Douglas! Evelyn and I need no end of things before we can
start on a round of visits."
He shrugged his shoulders, and threw up his eyes resignedly.
"Mona cannot possibly spend a night in a hotel alone," he said.
"You dear old uncle! You must remember I have not had you to take
care of me all my life. But I am all right to-night. If I sleep in
Edinburgh, it shall be with a friend."
"What friend? Who is she?"
"She is a grade or two below the rank of a duchess, but I think she
will satisfy even you. Doris Colquhoun."
He smiled and nodded. On the whole, he was well satisfied to have a
few days at his club, even if everybody was out of town.
"Well, I will at least see you safe into the train," he said.
The Sahib had expected that this duty would fall to him, and it was
with the least possible shade of injured dignity that he took Mona's
proffered hand.
"I shall often think of our pleasant walks," she said, looking up
with the frank, bright smile that made her face beautiful. But he
tried in vain to find a suitable answer, and merely bowed over her
hand in silence.
"Now remember, my dear girl," said Sir Douglas, as he passed the last
of a series of periodicals through the window of the railway
carriage, "if you want anything whatever, write to me, or, better
still, come. You do not need even to wire unless you want me to meet
you at the station. Just get into the first train and walk into our
quarters as if they belonged to you. We are rolling stones, but,
wherever we are, you will always find a home."
Mona did not answer. Her eyes were brimming over with tears.
The train glided out of the station, and Sir Douglas watched it till
it was out of sight. Then he swore roundly at a small newsboy who
was somewhat persistent in the offer of his wares, and walked back to
the hotel in an execrable temper towards the world in general, and
towards his wife and daughter in particular.
Mona was alone in the carriage, but she did not allow herself for one
moment the luxury of dwelling on the life she had left behind. She
dashed away her tears, and brought all her power of concentration to
bear on the heap of magazines at her side. But it was hard work.
Visions of sunlight dancing on the rippling fjord, of waterfalls
plunging from crag to crag, of mountains looming in solemn stillness,
of deep blue columns supporting a sea of ice,--all these lingered on
the retina of her mind, as the physical image persists after the eye
is shut.
And with them came the faces--of which she must not allow herself to
think.
Never, since she was a mere girl, had Mona known any lack of
friends,--friends true and devoted; but, in spite of moments of
curious impulsiveness, a proud reserve, which was half sensitiveness,
had always kept even the irrepressible Lucy more or less at a
distance. None of her friends had ever presumed to lay claim to any
proprietorship in her, as Sir Douglas now did; and perhaps because it
was something so new and strange, his blunt kindness was more welcome
than the refinement of tact to her sensitive nature.
It was growing dark when the train drew in to the Waverley Station.
"I want to go to Borrowness," said Mona hastily. "Am I in time for
the train?"
"Borrowness," repeated the porter meditatively, for the place was not
one of European celebrity. "Well, ma'am, it's touch and go. If you
have no luggage you might manage it."
"You will do nothing of the kind," said a quiet voice, and a neatly
gloved hand was slipped into Mona's arm. "I never heard anything
more absurd."
"Oh, Doris!" exclaimed Mona. "Why did you come? I told you I could
only come to you if I missed the last train."
"Was not that the more reason why I should come here for a glimpse of
you? I don't get the chance so often. But if you think you are
going on with that tired face, and without any dinner, you are much
mistaken. Mona, I am surprised--_you_ of all people!"
"If you only knew it," said Mona resignedly, "you are very unkind."
"No, I am not. I will observe your own conditions, and argue about
nothing. Your will shall be law; I shall not even refer to your last
letter unless you do. If you tell me that you are going to fly to
the moon from the top of the Scott Monument, I shall merely wish you
a pleasant journey. And indeed, dear, I am quite sure your train had
gone."
"Well, let me telegraph to my cousin," said Mona, with a sigh.
Doris Colquhoun was not a little surprised at her easy victory, but
in truth her friend was too worn out to argue.
"My own ponies shall take you out," said Doris. "They are something
new since you were here, and they are such beauties. Do not laugh
when you see my groom. Father hunted him out for me. He is about
the size of a pepper-pot."
With a light practised hand she took the reins, the "pepper-pot"
touched his hat with infinite solemnity, and they bowled away through
the town and out into the suburbs.
"Your pepper-pot is a work of art, without doubt," said Mona, "but I
fear he would not be of much use in case of an accident."
"So Father said. But the ponies are very safe, and I don't know what
fear is when I am driving. Father is well content to gratify all my
whims, so long as I hold my peace about the one that is more than a
whim."
Mona did not answer. Just then they entered the avenue of a brightly
lighted house; and, with a magnificent sweep, Doris brought the
ponies to a standstill in front of the steps.
Mona knew that here she was a very welcome guest, and when she found
herself in the familiar dining-room, with the wood-fire crackling in
the grate, and father and daughter quietly and unaffectedly enjoying
her society, she felt cheered and comforted in spite of herself.
Mr Colquhoun was a shrewd, kind-hearted Scotch solicitor, or, to be
more exact, a Writer to the Signet. He was a man of much weight in
his own profession, and, in addition to that, he dabbled in art, and
firmly believed himself to be a brilliant scientist _manqué_. He was
a man of a hundred little vanities, but his genuine goodness of heart
would have atoned for many more grievous sins. His gentle,
strong-willed daughter was the pride of his life. Only once, as she
told Mona, had she made a request that he refused to grant, and in
her devotion to him she well-nigh forgave him even that.
"Miss Maclean looks as if she would be the better of some sparkling
wine," said Mr Colquhoun, and he gave an order to the footman.
Mona smiled and drew a long breath.
"What a relief it is to be with people who know one's little
weaknesses!" she said.
"What a relief it is to be with people who know one wine from
another!" he replied. "Now Doris drinks my Rœderer dutifully, but
in her heart she prefers ginger-pop!"
Doris protested indignantly.
"Now don't pretend that you are a wholesome animal," said her father,
looking at her with infinite pride. "You like horses and dogs, that
is the one human thing about you. By the way, did you make any
sketches in Norway, Miss Maclean?"
"Very few. Norway was too big for me. I did some pretentious
_genrebilder_ of women in their native dress, and a hut with a goat
browsing at the foot of a tree that grew on the roof."
"Both goat and tree being on the roof?"
"Both goat and tree being on the roof. The tree is a very common
feature in that situation; the goat was somewhat exceptional."
"So I should think," said Doris. "I should like to see that sketch."
"Oh, when you want to turn an honest penny," said Mr Colquhoun, "I
will give you fifty pounds for your sketch-book any day."
"Indeed I am sorely in want of fifty pounds at the present moment,"
laughed Mona, "and, regarded as a work of art, you might have the
book for sixpence. But there is a sort of indecency in selling one's
diary."
"It is not as a work of art that I want it," he said candidly,
"though there is something of that in it too. It is like your
father's college note-books." He laughed at the recollection. "You
have a knack of knowing the right thing to sketch, which is rare
among men, and unique among women."
"Thank you very much, but I am afraid I never appreciate a compliment
at the expense of my sex."
"Then you may accept this one with an easy mind," said Doris. "The
hit is not at the sex, but at my pine-forests and waterfalls."
"Oh, pray do not let us get on the subject of Doris's sex," said Mr
Colquhoun. "That is our one bone of contention."
"One of a very few," corrected Doris.
"I think they all reduce themselves to that."
"Perhaps," she answered gravely.
"And now I want to know how long you can stay with us, Miss Maclean.
You must stay for lunch to-morrow, whatever happens. Some cronies of
mine--scientific cronies, you know--are coming to look at a wonderful
microscope I have been buying. It cost a pretty penny, I assure you.
Professor Murray calls it the hundred-ton gun. We should be glad of
the opinion of a lady fresh from one of the greatest physiological
laboratories in the world."
A courteous refusal was on Mona's lips, but the description of the
microscope sounded suspicious. She had had some experience of Mr
Colquhoun's method of purchasing scientific articles, and guessed
that he had probably given fifty pounds for a cumbrous antiquated
instrument, when he might have got a simpler, more efficient one for
ten. She was determined that the "cronies" should not laugh at the
simple-hearted old man if she could help it; and if the opinion of a
"lady fresh from one of the greatest physiological laboratories in
the world" carried any weight, surely even a little perjury would be
excusable in such a case.
"I will stay with a great deal of pleasure," she said; "but, whatever
happens, I must catch the afternoon train."
When the evening was at an end, the two girls went together to Mona's
room, and for a time they gossiped about all sorts of trifles.
"Well, I see you are very tired," said Doris at length. "Goodnight."
Mona did not answer.
"Are you sure you have got everything you want? Let me put that
arm-chair under the gas. That's right. Good night."
Still there was no answer.
"Have you fallen asleep already, Mona, or do you not mean to say good
night?"
"Oh, you old humbug!" said Mona suddenly, pushing an arm-chair to the
other side of the hearth, and putting her friend unceremoniously into
it. "Fire away, in heaven's name! Let me hear all you have to say.
Now that I have come, I suppose we must thrash the whole thing out.
I withdraw all my conditions. Let us have it out and get it over!"
Doris was almost startled at her friend's vehemence.
"Well, of course, you know, Mona," she said hesitatingly, "it was a
great disappointment to me."
"My failure? Naturally. I did not find it exactly amusing myself."
"I don't mean that. I do not care a straw about the failure, except
in so far as it delays the moment when you can begin to practise.
That was the fortune of war. But I do think you are doing a very
wrong thing now."
"In what way?"
"Burying your wonderful powers in the petty life of a village."
"Look here, Doris. I mean to give you a fair hearing, though it is
too late to change my plans, even if I wished to, which I don't; but
suppose we drop my 'wonderful powers'? I fancy that theory is played
out."
"All the examiners in the world could not change my opinion on that
score. But we will not discuss the point. Taking you as you
stand----"
"Five feet five in my stockings----"
"Please do not be frivolous. Taking you as you stand--a woman of
education, culture, and refinement----"
"Youth, beauty, and boundless wealth--go on! Word-painting is cheap."
"I thought you were going to give me a fair hearing?"
"So I will, dear. Forgive me!"
"It used to be a favourite theory of yours that 'every man truly
lives so long as he acts himself, or in any way makes good the
faculties of himself.'"
"So it is still, now that you remind me of it. _Après?_"
"Oh, Mona, you know all I would say. Are you making good the
faculties of yourself? With the most glorious life-work in the world
opening before you--work that I would give all I possess to be
allowed to share--you deliberately turn aside and waste six precious
months among people who do not understand you, and who won't
appreciate you one bit."
"I admire the expression 'opening before me,' when the examiners have
twice slammed the door in my face. But, as you say, we won't discuss
that. You talk as if I were going on a mission to the Hottentots. I
am only going to my own people. I do not suppose I am any more
superior to my cousin Rachel than the Munros are superior to me."
"Nonsense!"
"At least you will admit that she is my blood-relation. You can't
deny that claim."
"I can't deny the relationship, distant though it is, but I do
distinctly deny the claim. You know, Mona, we all have what are
called 'poor relations.'"
"I suppose many of us have," said Mona meditatively, after a pause.
"You will scarcely believe it, but for the last three weeks I have
been fancying that my position is unique."
"Of course it is not. We are all in the same boat, more or less. My
brother Frank says that, after mature consideration on the subject of
so-called poor relations, he has come to the conclusion that, in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, it is better to cut the
connection at once and altogether."
Mona raised her eyebrows. "Doris Colquhoun quotes that?"
The colour rose to Doris's face, but she went on--
"Not because of their poverty. I do not need to tell you that.
There are people who earn thirty pounds a year by the sweat of their
brow whom one is proud to have at one's table. It is because they
have different ideas, speak a different language, live in a different
world. What can one do at the best? Frank says,--Spend a week in
the country with them once a year or so, and invite them to spend a
fortnight in town. What is the result? They feel the difference
between themselves and you, they don't like it, and they call you
'snob.' Suppose you ignore them altogether? The net result is the
same. They call you 'snob.' The question is, Is it worth all the
trouble and friction?"
"Doris, Doris," said Mona, "that is the sheerest casuistry. You know
no power on earth would tempt you to cut your own poor relations."
"I don't know. The women all happen to be particularly nice. I
should not break my heart if I thought I should never see some of the
men again."
"All women are particularly nice, according to you; no doubt my
cousin Rachel would be included in the number. No, no; tell all that
to the marines! I know you too well. And pray don't preach such
dangerous doctrine. It would be precisely the people who have risen
above their relatives only in the vulgar externals of life who would
be most ready to take advantage of it."
"Well, I confess that I always argue the matter with Frank.
Personally, I don't see why one cannot be happy and cordial when one
meets one's relations, without sacrificing one's self to them as you
are doing."
"I don't know that I am sacrificing myself. Perhaps," she added
suddenly with a curious smile, "I shall acquire at Borrowness some
personal experience in the 'wide, puzzling subject of compromise.'"
"Compromise!" repeated Doris. "Please don't go out of your way for
that. The magnificent thing about your life is that there is no
occasion for compromise in it. That duty is reserved for people with
benighted old fathers. Borrowness is somewhere near St Rules, is it
not?"
"Yes," said Mona. "There is only the breadth of the county between
them."
"I know some very nice people there. I shall be proud to give you an
introduction if you like."
"No, no, no, dear," said Mona quickly. "My friends must be my
cousin's friends. Thank you very much all the same."
"But, Mona, at the end of this miserable six months you will go on,
won't you?"
Mona frowned. "I have not the vaguest idea what I shall do at the
end of the six months," she said.
"You are taking your books with you?"
"Some old classics and German books, nothing more."
"No medical books?"
"Not one."
Doris sighed deeply.
"Don't be so unhappy, dear. I wish with all my heart you could be a
doctor yourself."
"Oh, don't talk of that. It is no use. My father never will give
his consent. But you know, dear, I am studying by proxy. I am
living in your life. You must not fail me."
"You talk as if suffering humanity could scarcely make shift to get
along without me."
"And that is what I think, in a sense. Oh, Mona"--she drew a long
breath, and her face crimsoned--"it is so difficult to talk of it
even to you. A young girl in my Bible-class went into the Infirmary
a few weeks ago--only one case among many--and you should have heard
what she told me! Of course I know it was only routine treatment.
It would have been the same in any hospital; but that does not make
it any better. She said she would rather die than go there again.
No fate could have been worse."
"Dear Doris! don't you think I know it all? But you must not say no
fate could have been worse. The worst fate is moral wrong, and there
is no moral wrong where our will is not concerned."
"Wrong!" repeated Doris scornfully. "Moral wrong! Is it nothing
then for a girl to lose her _bloom_?" Her face was burning, and her
breath came fast. "Young men," she said, scarcely above a whisper,
"and all those students--mere boys! It drives me mad!"
Mona rose and kissed her.
"Dearest," she said, "you are the _preux chevalier_ of your sex, and
I love you for it with all my heart. I feel the force of what you
say, though one learns in time to be silent, and not even to think of
it more than need be. But indeed, you make yourself more unhappy
than you should. Some of the young men of whom you speak so
scornfully are truly scientific, and many of them have infinite
kindness of heart."
"Don't let us talk of it. I cannot bear it. But oh, Mona, go on
with your work--_go on_!" She kissed her friend almost passionately
and left the room.
"There goes," thought Mona, "a woman with a pure passion for an
abstract cause--a woman whose shoe-latchets I am not worthy to
unloose."