AN UNBELIEVER.
Mona did not see Dudley again before he left Borrowness. Strange as
it may seem, she did not even wish to do so. Nothing could have
added just then to the intensity of her life. For days she walked in
a golden dream, performing her daily duties perhaps even better than
usual, but with a constant sense of their unreality; and when at last
outward things began to reassert their importance, she had much ado
to bring her life into unison again.
Hitherto her experience had ebbed and flowed between fairly fixed
limits; and now, all at once, a strong spring-tide had rushed up upon
the beach, carrying cherished landmarks before it, and invading every
sheltered nook and cranny of her being. She had fancied that she
knew life, and she had reduced many shrewd observations to broad
general principles; and now, behold, the relation of all things was
changed, and for the moment she scarcely knew what was eternal rock
and what mere floating driftwood.
"I feel," she said, "like a man who has lived half his life in a
house that amply satisfies all his requirements, till one day by
chance he touches a secret spring, and discovers a staircase in the
wall, leading to a suite of enchanted rooms. He goes back to his
study and laboratory and dining-room, and finds them the same, yet
not the same: he can never forget that the enchanted rooms are there.
He must annex them, and bring them into relation with the rest of the
house, and make them a part of his domicile; and to do that he must
readjust and expand his views of things, and live on a larger scale."
She looked for no letter, and none came. "When the examination is
over in July, I shall be able to say and do things which I dare not
say and do now." The words had conveyed no definite meaning to her
mind when they were spoken; but she knew now that when August came,
and not till then, she would hear from her friend again.
That his behaviour the night before had been inconsistent and
unconventional in the highest degree, did not even occur to her.
When one experiences an earthquake for the first time, one does not
stop to inquire which of its features are peculiar to itself, and
which are common to all earthquakes alike. Moreover, it was weeks
and months before Mona realised that what had passed between Dr
Dudley and herself was as old as the history of man. I am almost
ashamed to confess it of a woman whose girlhood was past, and who
made some pretension to wisdom, but it is the simple fact that her
relation to Dudley seemed to her something unique and unparalleled.
While most girls dream of Love, Mona had dreamt of Duty, and now Love
came to her as a stranger--a stranger armed with a mysterious, divine
right to open up the secret chambers of her heart. She did not
analyse and ask herself what it all meant. She lived a day at a
time, and was happy.
More than a week elapsed before there appeared in her sky a cloud no
bigger than a man's hand, and the cloud took the form of the old
inquiry, "What would Dr Dudley say when he learned that she was a
medical student, that her life was entirely different from what he
had supposed?" She shut her eyes at first when the question asserted
itself, and turned her face the other way; but the cloud was there,
and it grew. For one moment she thought of writing to him; but the
thought was banished almost before it took definite form. To write
to him at all, to make any explanation whatever now, would be to
assume--what he must be the first to put into words.
As soon as February came in, Mona began to look out for a successor
in the shop, and to prepare her cousin for her approaching departure.
It was days before Rachel would even bear to have the subject
broached. Then came a period of passionate protestation and
indignant complaint; but when at length the good soul understood that
Mona had never really belonged to her at all, she began to lavish
upon her young cousin a wealth of tearful affection that touched
Mona's heart to the quick.
"It has been such a quiet, restful winter," Mona said one day, when
the time of complaint was giving place to the time of affection; "and
in some respects the happiest of my life."
"Then why should you go? I am sure, Mona, I am not one to speak of
these things; but anybody can see how it is with Mr Brown. Every day
I am expecting him to pop the question. You surely won't refuse a
chance like that. You are getting on, you know, and he is so steady
and so clever, and so fond of all the things you like yourself."
Mona's cheeks had regained their wonted colour before she answered,
"In the first place, dear, I shall not 'get the chance,' as you call
it; in the second place, I should never think of accepting it, if I
did."
"Well, I'm sure, there's no getting to the bottom of you. I could
understand your not thinking the shop genteel--some folks have such
high and mighty notions--but it is not that with you. You know I've
always said you were a born shopkeeper. I never kept any kind of
accounts before you came, but I don't really think I made anything by
the shop at all to speak of--I don't indeed! So many things got
mislaid, and, when they cast up again, they were soiled and faded,
and one thing and another. I showed Mr Brown your books, and told
him what we had made last quarter, and he was perfectly astonished.
I am sure he thinks you would be a treasure in a shop like his. My
niece, Mary Ann, was capital company, and all her ways were the same
as mine like, but she wasn't a shopkeeper like you. She was aye
forgetting to put things back in their places, and there would be
such a to-do when they were wanted again. Poor thing! I wonder if
she's got quit of that lady-help, as she calls her--lady-hindrance is
liker it, by my way of thinking! And then, Mona, I did hope you
would see your way to being baptised. That was a great thing about
Mary Ann. She was a member of the church, and that gave us so many
more things to talk about like. She was as fond of the
prayer-meeting as I was myself."
"You will come and see me sometimes," Rachel said, a few days later.
"That I will," Mona answered cordially. "I have promised to spend
the summer holidays with some friends, but I will come to you for a
week, in the first instance, if you will be kind enough to take me
in,--the second week of August."
And the reader will be glad to know that, if ever human being had a
guilty conscience, Mona had one at that moment.
The second week of August! How her heart beat at the thought of it!
The examination would be over. With his short-sighted eyes, Dr
Dudley would probably never have seen her at Burlington House; and
down at Castle Maclean, with the sunshine dancing on the water, and
the waves plashing softly on the beach below, she would tell him the
whole story, before the lists came out and betrayed her. In the
exultation of that moment, the very possibility of another failure
did not occur to her. The lists would appear in the course of the
week, and they two would con the results together. She would humble
herself, if need were, and ask his pardon for having in a sense
deceived him; but surely there would be no need. Everything would be
easy and natural and beautiful--in the second week of August!
There was much surprise, considerable regret, and not a little
genuine sorrow, when the news of Miss Maclean's departure became
known; but perhaps no one felt it so keenly as Auntie Bell. The old
woman expected little of men, and, as a rule, found in them as much
as she expected. Of women she had constantly before her so lofty a
type, in her hard-working, high-souled, keen-witted self, that her
female neighbours were a constant source of disappointment to her.
She had been prejudiced in Mona's favour for her father's sake, and
the young girl had more than answered to her expectations. Miss
Maclean had some stuff in her, the old woman used to say, and that
was more than one could say of most of the lassies one met.
One day towards the end of February, Auntie Bell packed a basket with
the beautiful new-laid eggs that were beginning to be plentiful, and
set out, for the first time in many months, to pay a visit to Rachel
Simpson. To her inward delight she met two of Mr Brown's sisters as
she passed through the streets of Kilwinnie.
"Where are you going, Mrs Easson?" asked one. "It's not often we see
you here now-a-days."
Auntie Bell looked keenly up through the gold-rimmed spectacles.
"Whaur wad I be gaun?" she asked grimly, "but tae see Miss Maclean?
She's for leavin' us."
"Why is she going? I understood she was making herself quite useful
to Miss Simpson in the shop."
"Quite usefu'!" Auntie Bell could scarcely keep her indignation
within bounds. "I fancy she is quite usefu'--mair's the peety that
the same canna be maintained o' some o' the lave o' us. Miss Simpson
wad gie her een tae gar her bide, I'm thinkin'. But what is there
here tae keep a leddy like yon? Hae ye no' mind what kin' o' mon her
faither was? Div ye no' ken that she has siller eneuch an' tae
spare? Ma certy! she's no' like tae say as muckle tae common
country-folk like you an' me, an' Rachel Simpson yonder; but onybody
can see, frae the bit w'ys she has wi' her, that she's no' used tae
the like o' us!"
Having thus delivered her soul, Auntie Bell set her basket on a low
stone dyke; wiped, first her face, and then her spectacles, with a
large and spotless handkerchief, and proceeded on her way to the
station with an easy mind.
Rachel was out paying calls when she arrived. But Mona received her
friend with an enthusiastic welcome that amply repaid the old woman
for her trouble. Half of the eccentricity for which Auntie Bell had
so wide a reputation was enthusiasm blighted in the bud; and she
keenly appreciated the quality in another,--when it was accompanied
by a sufficiency of ballast.
"You look tired," Mona said, as she poured out the tea she had
prepared herself.
"Ay, I'm sair owerwraucht. Ane o' the lassies is ill--that's the
first guid cup o' tea I hae tasted i' this hoose! Ane o' the lassies
is ill--she's no' a lassie aither, she'll be forty come Martinmas;
but she's been wi' me sin' she was saxteen, an' the silly thing'll
no' see a doctor, an' I nae ken what's tae be dune."
"What's the matter with her?" asked Mona.
"Hoot, lassie! it's nae hearin' for the like o' you."
"It is just the hearing that is for me. I am not a child, and, now
that I am going away, Rachel has no objection to my telling you in
confidence that I am studying to be a doctor."
Amusement--incredulity--dismay--appeared, one after the other, on the
weather-beaten, expressive old face, and then it grew very grave.
"Na, na, lassie," said the old woman severely. "Ye dinna mean that.
A canny, wiselike thing like you wad niver pit hersel' forrit like
some o' thae hussies we hear aboot in Ameriky. Think o' yer faither!
Ye'll no' dae onything that wad bring discredit on him?"
"Tell me about your servant," Mona said, waiving the question with a
gentleness that was more convincing than any protestations. "What
does she complain of?"
Auntie Bell hesitated, but the subject weighed heavily on her mind,
and the prospect of sympathy was sweet.
"It's no' that she complains," she said, "but----" her voice sank
into an expressive whisper.
Mona listened attentively, and then asked a few questions.
"I wish I could come out with you and see her to-night," she said;
"but a young woman has an appointment with me about the situation. I
will walk out to-morrow and see your maid. It is very unlikely that
I shall be able to do anything,--I know so little yet,--but her
symptoms may be due to many things. If I cannot, you must either
persuade her to see the doctor here; or, if she was able to be moved,
I could take her with me when I go to Edinburgh, to the Women's
Cottage Hospital."
"And what w'y suld ye pit yersel' aboot?"
Mona laughed. "It's my _business_," she said. "We all live for
something."
"Na, na; if she doesna mend, she maun e'en see Dr Robertson. Maybe
I've no' been sae firm wi' her as I suld ha' been; but I've nae
opeenion o' doctors ava'. I'm ready tae dee when my time comes, but
it'll no' be their pheesic that kills me."
Rachel came in at this moment, and the subject was dropped till
Auntie Bell rose to go.
"To-morrow afternoon then," Mona said, as they stood at the
garden-gate.
"Eh, lassie, I couldna hae been fonder o' ma ain bairn! Who'd iver
ha' thocht it?--a wiselike, canny young crittur like you! Pit a'
that nonsense oot o' yer heid!"
Mona laid her hands on the old woman's shoulders, and stooped to kiss
the wrinkled brow.
"I would not vex you for the world, dear Auntie Bell," she said. "If
you like, we will discuss it to-morrow afternoon."
"Na, na, there's naething tae discuss. Ye maun ken fine that the
thing's no' _fut_ for yer faither's bairn!" And with a heavy heart
the old woman betook herself to the station.
"More by good luck than good guidance," Mona said, the medicine she
prescribed for the farm-servant proved effectual, at least for the
moment; and a simple tonic, aided by abundant good things from Auntie
Bell's larder and dairy, soon brought back the glow of health to the
pale cheeks. Auntie Bell looked very grave, and said not one word on
the subject either to Mona or any one else; but the patient was less
reticent, and, before Mona left Borrowness, she was infinitely
touched by an appeal that came to her from a sick woman in Kilwinnie.
"I've niver been able tae bring mysel' tae speak o't," she said, as
Mona sat by her bedside, "an' noo, I doot it's ower late; but they do
say ye're no' canny, an' I thocht maybe ye culd help me."
Poor Mona! Very few minutes were sufficient to convince her that she
could do nothing, that the case was far beyond her powers, if,
indeed, not beyond the possibility of surgical interference.
"I am so sorry," she said, with a quiver in her voice; "but I know so
little, it is no wonder I cannot help you. You must let me speak to
the doctor. He is a good man, and he knows so much more than I do.
I will tell him all about it, so he won't have to worry you or ask
you questions. He will be able to lessen the pain very much, and--to
do you good."
Her conscience reproached her for the last words, but they were
received only with a sigh of infinite resignation.
"I made sure it was ower late," said the woman wearily; "but when I
heard about Mrs Easson's Christie, I just thocht I wad speir at ye
mysel'. It was awfu' guid o' ye tae come sae far."
Mona could find no words. Even the tragedy of Maggie's story faded
into insignificance before the pathos of this; for Mona was young and
strong, and life seemed to her very sweet.
"Thank God, I am going back to work!" she thought as she hastened
home. "I want to learn all that one human being can. It is awful to
be buried alive in the coffin of one's own ignorance and
helplessness."
Alas for the dreams of youth! We may work and strive, but do the
coffin-walls ever recede so very far?