THE FLYING SCOTCHMAN.
"What do you think, my dear?" said Rachel, a few days later, with
beaming face. "I have just had a letter from my niece. Would you
like to hear it?"
"Very much," said Mona, "'First Impressions of a New Continent.' Is
it the first you have had?"
"No, it's the second. She's no great hand at the letter-writing.
But there's more 'impressions' in this. She says the difficulty of
getting servants is beyond everything."
Rachel proceeded to read the epistle: and for once Mona found herself
in absolute accord with her cousin. Rachel's niece was certainly "no
great hand at the letter-writing."
It was evening, and Mona had just come in from a stroll in the
twilight. She did not often go out after tea, but there was no
denying the fact that the last few days had not been very lively
ones, and that physical exercise had become more desirable than ever.
She had not realised, till he was gone, that Dr Dudley's occasional
companionship made any appreciable difference in the world at
Borrowness; but she did not now hesitate for a moment to acknowledge
the truth to herself.
"It is almost as if I had lost Doris or Lucy," she said; "and of
course, in a place like this, sympathetic companionship is at a
premium. One might go into a melancholia here over the loss of an
intelligent dog or a favourite canary. The fact that so many women
have fallen in love throws a lurid light on the lives they must have
led. Poor souls! I will write to Tilbury to-morrow to send me my
little box of books. Two hours' hard reading a day is a panacea for
most things."
With this wholesome resolution she returned from her walk, to find
Rachel in a state of beatification over her niece's letter.
"I declare I quite forgot," she said; "there's a parcel and letter
for you too. I think you'll find them on the chair by the door."
"Nothing of much interest," said Mona; "at least I don't know the
handwriting on either. A begging-letter, I expect."
She proceeded to open the parcel first, untying the knot very
deliberately, and speculating vaguely as to the cause of the curious
damp smell about the wrappings. "Fancy Ruching" in gilt letters on
one end of the box was apparently a misleading title; for, when the
cover was removed, a mass of damp vegetation came to view.
Rachel lifted her hands in horror. The idea of bringing caterpillars
and earwigs and the like of that into the house!
On the top of the box lay a sheet of moist writing-paper folded
lengthwise. Mona took it up.
"Why," she said, "how very kind! It is from Mr Brown. He has been
out botanising, and has sent me the fruits of an afternoon's ramble."
"The man must be daft!" thought Rachel, "to pay the postage on stuff
that anybody else would put on the ash-heap. The very box isn't fit
to use after having that rubbish inside it."
Fortunately, before she could give utterance to her thoughts, a
brilliant idea flashed into her mind. Regarded absolutely, the box
might be rubbish; but relatively, it might prove to be of enormous
value.
Everybody knew that the draper was "daft"; but nobody considered him
any the less eligible in consequence, either as a provost or as a
husband. For the matter of that, Mona was "daft" too. She cared as
much about these bits of weed and stick as the draper did. There
would be a pair of them in that respect. And then--how wonderfully
things do come about in life!--Mona would find a field for her
undeniable gifts in the shopkeeping line. At Mr Brown's things were
done on as large a scale as even she could desire; and if she were
called upon some day to fill the proud position of "provost's lady,"
what other girl in the place would look the part so well?
Of course the house at Borrowness would be sadly dull without her.
But she might want to go away some time in any case, and at Kilwinnie
she would always be within reach. Rachel would not admit even to
herself that it might almost be a relief in some ways to be delivered
from the quiet thoughtful look of those bright young eyes.
She beamed, and glowed, and would have winked, if there had been any
one but Mona to wink to. With her of course she must dissemble, till
things had got on a little farther. In the meantime, Mr Brown, quiet
as he looked, seemed quite capable of fighting his own battles;
though if any one had sent her such a box in her young days, she
would have regarded it in the light of a mock valentine.
She longed to know what Mr Brown had said; but, when Mona handed her
the letter, she found it sadly disappointing. In so far as it was
not written in an unknown tongue, it seemed to be all about the
plants; and who in the world had ever taken the trouble to give such
grand names to things that grew in every potato-bed that was not
properly looked after? But of course tastes did differ, and no doubt
daft people understood each other.
Poor Rachel! This disappointment was nothing to the one in store for
her. Mona had opened the "begging-letter," and had turned white to
the lips.
"I must start by the early train to-morrow," she said, "and try to
catch the Flying Scotchman. A little friend of mine in London is
very ill."
It had proved to be a begging-letter indeed, but not of the kind she
had supposed. It came from Lucy's father, Mr Reynolds.
"The doctor says that Lucy is in no actual danger," he wrote, "but
she adds that her temperature must not go any higher. The child is
fretting so for you that I am afraid this alone is enough to increase
the fever. She was not very well when she left us to return to
London a week ago; but our country doctor assured me there was no
reason to keep her at home. Of course, Lucy had sent for a woman
doctor before I arrived; and cordially as I approve her choice, a
moment like this seems to call one's old prejudices, with other
morbid growths, to life. Dr Alice Bateson seems very capable and is
most attentive, but I need not deny that it would be a great relief
to me to have you here. Lucy's mother is too much of an invalid to
travel so far, and you have been like an elder sister to her for
years.
"I know well that I need not apologise for the trouble to which I am
putting you. I fully expect my little girl to improve from the
moment she hears that I have written."
Mona read this aloud, adding, "I will go out and telegraph to him at
once."
"Well, I'm sure," said Rachel, "it's a deal of trouble to take for a
mere acquaintance--not even a blood relation."
"Lucy is more than a mere acquaintance," said Mona, with a quiver in
her voice. "She has been, as he says, a little sister."
"What does he say is the matter?"
"Rheumatic fever."
"Then," said Rachel bitterly, "I suppose I may send your boxes after
you?"
"No, no," said Mona, forcing herself to speak playfully; "a bargain
is a bargain, and I mean to keep you to yours. Six months is in the
bond. I will come back as soon as Lucy is well on the way to
recovery--within a week, I hope. You know rheumatic fever is not the
lengthy affair that it used to be. I assure you, dear, a visit to
London is the very last thing I want at present. So far as I
personally am concerned, I would infinitely rather stay with you.
But I am not of so much use here that I should refuse to go to people
who really need me."
If she wanted a crumb of encouragement, she was not disappointed,
although Rachel was one of the people who do not find it easy to
grant such crumbs.
"Well, I'm sure that's just what you are," she said. "I don't know
what I am to do without you, and everybody says the shop has been a
different place since you came." With a great effort she refrained
from referring to stronger reasons still against Mona's departure.
Mona kissed her on the forehead.
"Then expect me back this day week or sooner," she said. "You don't
want me more than I want to come."
This was the literal truth. When she had laid her plans, she was not
grateful to the unfriendly Fates who interfered with their execution;
she was honestly interested in her life at Borrowness; and it was a
positive trial to return to London, a deserter at least for the time,
just when all the scholastic world, with bustle and stir, was
preparing for a new campaign.
She went to the post-office and sent off her telegram to Mr Reynolds,
and another to Doris announcing the fact that she was going to London
for a few days, and would be at the Waverley Station before ten the
next morning. This done, she returned to the house, wrote a friendly
note to Mr Brown, packed her valise, and spent the rest of the
evening with Rachel and "Mrs Poyser."
She did not pass a very peaceful night. It was all very well to say
that Lucy's temperature "must not go any higher"; but what if it did?
If it had continued to rise ever since the letter was written, what
might be the result even now? Mona had seen several such cases in
hospital, and she remembered one especially, in which cold baths,
ice-packs, and all other remedies had not been sufficient to prevent
a lad's life from being burnt out in a few days. She tossed
restlessly from side to side, and what sleep she got was little
better than a succession of nightmares. She was thankful to rise
even earlier than was necessary, and to busy herself with some of Mr
Brown's specimens.
But, early as she was, Rachel was up before her, cutting bulky,
untempting sandwiches; and when the train carried Mona away, an
unexpected tear coursed down the flabby old cheek.
On the platform at Edinburgh stood Doris, fresh as a lily.
"It's very good of you to come," said Mona. "I did not half expect
to see you."
"My dear," was the calm announcement, "I am going all the way."
"Nonsense!"
"Father remarked most opportunely that I seemed to be in need of a
little change, and I gave him no peace till he allowed me to come
with you. He admitted that such an opportunity might not occur
again. He would have been here to see us off, but he had a big
consultation at ten. You will show me the school and the hospital
and everything, won't you?"
"That I will," said Mona.
That she would at all have preferred to keep away from her old haunts
and companions, just at present, never crossed the mind of
large-souled Doris. "Mona capable of such pettiness!" she would have
said in reply to the suggestion. "You little know her!"
"One has not much space for _minutiæ_ in a telegram," said Mona, "or
I would have explained that I am going to see a friend who is very
ill. You have heard me speak of Lucy Reynolds?"
"Oh, I am sorry! But I shall not be in your way, you know. If you
can spare a few hours some day, that is all I want."
"It is a matter of no moment of course, but do you happen to have any
notion where you mean to put up?"
"I shall go to my aunt in Park Street of course, the one whose 'At
Homes' you so loftily refused to attend. Father telegraphed to her
last night, and I got a very cordial reply before I started. In
point of fact, she is always glad to have me without notice. We
don't stand on ceremony on either side."
"Well, you are a delightful person! I know no one who can do such
sensible, satisfactory things without preliminary fuss. Shall we
take our seats?"
"I took the seats long ago--two nice window seats in a third-class
carriage. Your friend the 'pepper-pot' has duly deposited my wraps
in one, and my dressing-bag in the other, and is now mounting guard
in case of accident. You have plenty of time to have a cup of coffee
at Spiers & Pond's."
In a few minutes they seated themselves in the carriage, dismissed
the "pepper-pot," and launched into earnest conversation. Not till
the train was starting did Mona raise her eyes, and then they
alighted on a friendly, familiar figure, At the extreme end of the
platform stood the Sahib. All unaware that she was in the train, he
was waving his hat to some one else, his fine muscular figure
reducing all the other men on the platform, by force of contrast, to
mere pigmies.
When Mona saw him it was too late even to bow, and she turned away
from the window, her face flushed with disappointment.
"Oh, Doris," she said, "that was the Sahib!"
"And who," asked Doris, "may the Sahib be?"
"A Mr Dickinson. I saw a good deal of him in Norway this summer. He
is a great friend of the Munros, you know. Such a good fellow! The
sort of man whom all women instinctively look upon as a brother."
"The type is a rare one," said Doris coldly, "but I suppose it does
exist."
The conversation had struck the vein of her cynicism now, though the
men who knew "the lily maid" would have been much surprised to hear
that such a vein existed, and, most of all, to hear that it lay just
there.
"I don't think any of us can doubt that there is such a type," said
Mona. "Certainly no one doubts it who has the privilege of knowing
the Sahib."
Doris did not answer, and they sat for some time in silence, the line
on Mona's brow gradually deepening.
"Dearest," said Doris at last, "I don't bore you, do I? You would
not rather be alone?"
Mona laughed. "What will you do if I say 'Yes'?" she said. "Pull
the cord and pay the fine? or jump out of the window? My dear, I
could count on the fingers of one hand the times when you have bored
me, and I am particularly glad to have you to-day. I should fret
myself to death if I were alone, between anxiety about Lucy, and
vexation at having missed the Sahib."
Doris's face clouded. "Mona dear, I do wish the Munros had stayed in
India till you had got on the Register. I don't approve of men whom
all women instinctively look upon as brothers. Marriage is perfectly
fatal to students of either sex."
"Marriage!" said Mona, aghast. "Marry the Sahib! My dear Doris, I
would as soon think of marrying you!"
"I wish you would," said Doris calmly; "but I would not have a word
to say to you till you had got on the Register. Oh how lovely!"
The train had emerged on the open coast, and every line and curve on
creek and cliff stood out sharp and clear in the crisp light of the
October morning.
"Isn't it?" The line on Mona's brow vanished. "You know, Doris, I
believe I am a bit of the east coast, I love it so. Heigh-ho! I do
think Lucy must be better."
"Judging from what you have told me of her. I should think the
chances were in favour of her meeting you at the station."
Mona laughed. "She is an india-rubber ball--up one moment, down the
next; but it has been no laughing matter this time. I told you she
got through her examination all right."
"Thanks to your coaching, no doubt."
"No, no, no! I begin to think Lucy has a better head all round than
mine. The fact is, Doris, I have to readjust my views of life
somehow, and the only satisfactory basis on which I can build is the
conviction that we have all been under a complete misapprehension as
to my powers. There is something gloriously restful in the belief
that one is nothing great, and is not called upon to do anything
particular."
Doris smiled with serene liberality. Mona had been in her mind
constantly during the last month.
"Very well," she said. "As long as you feel like that, go your own
way. I am not afraid that the mood will last. In a few months you
will be neither to hold nor to bind."
"Prophet of evil!"
"Nay; prophet of good."
"It is all very well for you, in your lovely leisure, realising the
ideal of perfect womanhood."
"Don't be sarcastic, please. You know how gladly I would exchange my
'lovely leisure' for your freedom to work. But we need not talk of
it. My mind is perfectly at rest about you. This is only a
reaction--a passing phase."
"A great improvement on the restless, hounding desire to inflict
one's powers, talents, and virtues--save the mark!--on poor, patient,
long-suffering mankind. Oh, Doris, let us take life simply, and work
our reformations unconsciously by the way. We don't increase our
moral energy by pumping our resolutions up to a giddy height."
"I am not to remind you, I suppose, of the old gospel which some of
your friends associate with you, that women ought always to have a
purpose in life, and not be content to drift."
Mona turned a pair of laughing eyes full on her friend.
"Remind me of it by all means. Go a stage farther back, if you like,
and remind me of my dolls. I am not sensitive on either point. I
was saying to some one only the other clay that it takes a great many
incompatible utterances to make up a man's _Credo_, even at one
moment. Perhaps," she added more slowly, "each of us is, in
potentiality, as catholic as God Himself on a small scale; but owing
to the restrictions and mutual pressure of human life, most of us can
only develop one side at a time--some of us only one in a single
'Karma.'"
"You seem," said Doris quietly, "to have found the intellectual life
at Borrowness at a surprisingly high level."
Mona raised her eyebrows with a quick, unconscious gesture.
"There are a few intelligent people," she said rather coldly, "even
there."
"But, Mona, your life has been so free from restriction and pressure.
You have been able to develop on the lines you chose."
"Don't argue that my responsibility is the greater! How do we know
that it is not the less? Besides, there may be very real pressure
and restriction, which is invisible even to the most sympathetic eye."
"I don't want to argue at all. I don't profess to follow all your
flights; but I am perfectly satisfied that you will come back to the
point you started from."
Mona rose and took down a plaid from the rack. "Make it a spiral,
Doris, if you conscientiously can," she said gravely. "I don't like
moving in a circle. 'Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!'"
Doris looked admiringly at her friend. She could very
conscientiously have "made it a spiral," but she was not in the habit
of talking in metaphors as Mona was.
The conversation dropped, and they sat for a long time listening to
the rattle and roar of the train. Mona did not like it. Somehow it
forced her to remember that there was no necessary connection between
Lucy's condition and the bright October weather.'
"A penny for your thoughts, Doris," she cried.
Doris's large grey eyes were sparkling.
"I was wondering," she said, "whether that delicious seal is still at
the Zoo. Do you know?"
"I don't; you might as well ask me whether Carolus Rex is still
brandishing his own death-warrant at Madame Tussaud's."
"Picture mentioning the two places on the same day!"
"I do it because they lie side by side in the fairy memory palace of
childhood. Neither has any existence for me apart from that."
"And you a student of natural history! I should have thought that
most of your spare time would have been spent at the Zoological
Gardens."
"_Ars longa!_--but you are perfectly right. The Huxley of the next
generation, instead of directing us to scalpel and dissecting-board,
will tell us to forego the use of those, till we have studied the
build and movements and habits of the animals in life. I quite agree
with you that it is far better to know and love the creatures as you
do, than to investigate personally the principal variations of the
ground-plan of the vascular system, as I do."
"I don't see why we should not combine the two."
"Truly; but something else would have to go to the wall; Turner,
perhaps, or Browning, or Wagner.
'We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb.'"
"I don't know. Some of us appear to have discovered a pretty fair
substitute for wings. But you know I am looking forward to your
dissecting-room far more even than to the Zoological Gardens."
"You don't really mean to see the dissecting-room?"
"Of course I do. Why not?"
"Chiefly, I suppose, because you never can see it. No outsider can
form any conception of what the dissecting-room really is. You would
only be horrified at the ghastliness of it,--shocked that young girls
can laugh over such work."
"Do they laugh?" said Doris, in an awestruck tone. She had pictured
to herself heroic self-abnegation; but laughter!
"Of course they do, if there is anything to laugh at. We laughed a
great deal at an Irish girl who could only remember the nerves of the
arm by ligaturing them with different-coloured threads. When girls
are doing crewel-work, or painting milking-stools, they are not
incessantly thinking of the source of their materials. No more are
we."
"But it is so different."
"Is it? I don't know. If it is, a merciful Providence shuts our
eyes to the difference. It simply becomes our work, sacred or
commonplace, according to our character and way of looking at things.
There are minor disagreeables, of course; but what pursuit is without
them? And if they are greater in practical anatomy than in other
things, there is increased interest to make up for them."
"Oh yes, I am sure of that. I think nothing of disagreeables in such
a cause. And I suppose what you say is very natural; but I always
fancied that lofty enthusiasm would be necessary to carry one
through."
"I think lofty enthusiasm is necessary to carry us nobly through
anything. But lofty enthusiasm is not an appendage to wear at one's
finger-ends; it is the heart, the central pump of the whole system,
about which we never think till we grow physically or morally morbid.
You know, dear, I don't mean to say that the dissecting-room is
pleasant from the beginning. Before one really gets into the work it
is worse than ghastly, it is _awful_. That is why I say that
outsiders should never see it. For the first few days, I used to
clench my teeth, and repeat to myself over and over again, 'After
life's fitful fever, he sleeps well.' It sounds ironical, does not
it? But it comforted me. On any theory of life, _this_ struggle was
over for one poor soul; and, judging by the net result in this world,
it must have been a sore and bitter struggle. But you know I could
not have gone on like that; it would have killed me. I had to cease
thinking about it at all in that way, and look upon it simply as my
daily work--sometimes commonplace, sometimes enthralling. Sir
Douglas would say I grew hardened, but I don't think I did."
"Hardened!" said Doris, her own eyes softening in sympathy as she
watched Mona's lips quiver at the bare recollection of those days.
"How like a man!"
"I never spoke of this before, except once when my uncle made me; but
if you are determined to go in----"
"Oh yes, I mean to see all I can. You don't object very much, do
you?"
"Object?" Mona's earnestness had all gone. "Did you ever know me
object to anything? I did not even presume to advise; I only stated
an opinion in the abstract. But here is York, and luncheon. We can
continue the conversation afterwards."
But the conversation was over for that day. Just as the train was
about to start, Doris leaned out of the window.
"Oh, Mona," she said, "here is a poor woman with four little
children, looking for a carriage that will hold them all. Poor soul!
She does look hot and tired. I do wish she would look in our
direction. Here she comes!"
Doris threw open the door, and lifted the children and bundles in,
one by one.
"You did not mind, did you?" she said suddenly to Mona, as the train
moved on.
"Oh no!" Mona laughed, and shrugged her shoulders.
"One must pay the penalty of travelling with a _schöne Seele_!"