"I suppose you are the best judge of your feelings towards me," he said coldly; "but you will allow me to answer for mine."
The Sahib was a good man, and a simple-hearted, but he knew his own value, and it would have been strange if Mona's reply had not surprised him. In fact he could only account for it on one supposition, and that supposition made him very angry and indignant. His next words were natural, if unpardonable. Perhaps Mona's frankness was spoiling him.
"Tell me," he said sharply, "in the old Norway days, when we saw so much of each other, was there some one else then?"
Mona drew herself up. "I do call that an insult," she said quietly. "Do you suppose that every unmarried woman is standing in the market-place waiting for a husband? Is it impossible that a woman may prefer to remain unmarried for the sake of all the work in the world that only an unmarried woman can do?"
The Sahib's face brightened visibly for a moment. Perhaps it was true, after all, that this clever woman was more of a child in some respects than half the flimsy damsels in the ball-room.
"Miss Maclean," he said, "bear with my dulness, and say to me these five words, 'There is no one else.'"
Mona lifted her honest eyes.
"There is no one else," she said simply.
"Thank you. Then if my sole rival is the work that only an unmarried woman can do, I decline to accept your answer."
"Don't be foolish, Mr Dickinson," said Mona gently. "You call me honest, and in this respect I am absolutely honest. If there were the faintest shadow of a doubt in my mind I would tell you. There are very few people in the world whom I like and trust as I do you, but I would as soon think of marrying Sir Douglas Munro. And you—you are sacrificing yourself to your own chivalry. You want to marry me because you are sorry for me, because I have muddled my own life."
"That is not true. My one objection to you is that you are twice the man that I am."
Mona laughed. "Eh bien! L'un n'empêche pas l'autre. No, no; you are much too good a man to be thrown away on a woman who only likes and trusts you."
"When do you leave this place?" he asked doggedly.
"In March."
"And do you stop in Edinburgh on the way?"
"Yes; I have promised to spend a week with the Colquhouns."
"Good. I will ask you then again."
"Dear Sahib," said Mona earnestly, "I have not spoilt your life yet. Don't let me begin to spoil it now. You cannot afford to waste even three months over a chivalrous fancy. Put me out of your mind altogether, till you have married a bright young thing full of enthusiasms, not a worn-out old cynic like me. Then by-and-by, if she will let me be her sister, you and I can be brother and sister again."
"May I write to you during the next two months?"
"I think it would be a great mistake."
"Your will shall be law. But remember, I shall be thinking of you constantly, and when you are in Edinburgh I will come. Shall we go back to the ball-room?" He rose and offered her his arm.
"Mr Dickinson, I absolutely refuse to leave the question open. What is the use?"
"You will not do even that for me?"
"It would be returning evil for good."
"No matter. The results be on my own head!"
They were back in the noise and glare of the ball-room, and further conversation was impossible.
"Who would have thought of meeting two charmingémancipéesdown here?" said Captain Steele, as the men drove back to the Towers.
"If allémancipéesare like Miss Colquhoun," said a young man with red hair and a retreating chin, "I will get a book and go round canvassing for women's rights to-morrow!"
The excitement was over, and every one was suffering from a profound reaction. Rachel's cold was no better, and her temper was decidedly worse; for although the sermons still lay on her table, both they and the illness that had brought them into requisition had lost the charm of novelty. However—like the ravages of drink in relation to the efforts of temperance reformers—it was of course impossible to say how much worse she might have been without them.
Mona had by no means escaped the general depression consequent on the bazaar and the ball, and her cousin's querulousness was a heavy strain upon her endurance. Fortunately, it had the effect of putting her on her mettle. "I am certainly not fit to be a doctor," she thought, "if I cannot bear and forbear in a simple little case like this." So she went from shop to parlour, and from parlour to shop, with a light step and a cheerful face, striving hard to keep Rachel supplied with scraps of gossip that would amuse her without tempting her to talk.
"Mrs Smith has come to inquire for you," she said, as she entered the close little sitting-room. "Do you think you ought to see her? You know you made your chest worse by talking to Mrs Anderson the other day."
"And how am I to get well, I should like to know, mope, mope, moping all by myself from morning till night? All these blessed days I've sat here, while other folks were gallivanting about taking their pleasure. It's easy for you to say, 'Don't see her,' after all the ploy you've been having, and all the folk you are seeing in the shop to-day."
"Very well, I will bring her up; but do you let her talk, and save your voice as much as you can."
The interview was a long one, but it did not appear to have the desired effect of improving Rachel's spirits.
"Upon my word," she said, when the visitor had gone, "I never knew anybody so close as you are. One would think, after all the pleasure you've been having, while I've been cooped up in the house, that you'd be glad to tell me any bit of news."
"Why, cousin," laughed Mona, "what else have I been doing? I have even told you what everybody wore!"
"The like of that!" said Rachel scornfully; "and you never told me you got the word of her ladyship? I wonder what Mrs Smith would think of me knowing nothing about it?"
Mona was puzzled for a moment. "Oh," she said suddenly, "Lady Kirkhope! She only said a few words to me."
"And how many would she say—the like of her to the like of you! I suppose you think because your mother's sister is married on a Sir, that their ladyships are as common as gooseberries. Much your mother's sister has done for you—leaving you to take all sorts of maggots into your head! But I've no doubt you think a sight more of her than you do of me, for all the time you've been with me."
This was the first time the Munros had been mentioned between the cousins, and Mona was not anxious to pursue the subject. "Your mother's sister married on a Sir." Oh, the sordidness of it!
Mona had refused to see the Sahib again during his stay at the Towers, and although she could not for a moment regret her refusal, she was conscious of a distinct sense of emptiness in her life. There was no doubt that for the moment she had lost her friend; and perhaps things might never again be as they had been before his clumsy and lamentable mistake. But although he was lost to her directly, she was only now beginning to possess him through Doris.
"He will see her constantly for the next two months," she thought, "and he cannot but love her. He loves her now, if he only knew it. It is absurd to suppose that he ever looked at me with that light in his eyes. He analyses me, and admires me deliberately, but Doris bowls him over. Whether she will care for him, is another question; but I am sure he at least possesses the prime merit in her eyes of being a Sir Galahad; and by the doctrine of averages, a magnificent son of Anak like that cannot be refused by two sensible women within the space of two months. He will consider himself bound to me of course, but he will fall in love with her all the faster for that; and at the appointed time he will duly present himself in much fear and trembling lest I should take him at his word. How amusing it will be!" And a cold little ray of sunshine stole across the chill grey mists of her life.
That day Rachel's appetite failed for the first time. Her face was more flushed than usual, and her moist, flabby hands became dry and hot. In some uneasiness Mona produced her clinical thermometer, and found that her cousin's temperature had run up to 102°.
"You are a little feverish, dear," she said lightly. "I don't think it is going to be anything serious, but it will be wise to go to bed and let me fetch the doctor. Shall I send Sally or go myself?"
"Send Sally," was the prompt reply, "and let him find out for himself that I am feverish. Don't tell him anything about that machine of yours. He'd think it wasn't canny for the like of you."
"I will do as you please, of course; but lots of people have thermometers now, who know no more of medicine—than that spoon. Not but what the spoon's experience of the subject has been both varied and profound!" she added, smiling, as she remembered Rachel's love for domestic therapeutica.
Rachel smiled too at the feeble little joke. The knowledge that she was really ill had improved her spirits wonderfully, partly by gratifying her sense of self-importance, and partly by making the occasion seem worthy of the manifestation of a little practical Christianity.
It was evening when the doctor arrived, and then, of course, he could say but little. Milk diet, a cooling draught, no visitors, and patience. He would call about noon the next day.
"I fear you are as much in need of rest and care as my cousin is," said Mona, when a fit of coughing interrupted his final directions to her at the door.
"I am fairly run off my feet," he said. "I have had a lot of night-work, and now this bout of frivolity has given me a crop of bronchial attacks and nervous headaches. I have got a friend to take my work for a fortnight, but he can't come for a week or ten days yet. I must just rub along somehow in the meantime. A good sharp frost would do us all good; this damp weather is perfectly killing."
As if in answer to his wish, the frost came that night with a will. In the morning Mona found a tropical forest on her window-panes; and in a moment up ran the curtains of the invisible. The shop and the dingy house fell into their true perspective, and she felt herself a sentient human being—dowered with the glorious privilege of living.
Rachel was no better, and as soon as Mona had made her patient and the room as neat and fresh as circumstances would allow, she set out to do the marketing. "Send Sally," Rachel said; but customers never came before ten, and Mona considered it the very acme of squalor to leave that part of the housekeeping to chance, in the shape of a thriftless, fusionless maid-of-all-work. She walked quickly through the sharp frosty air, and came in with a sprinkle of snow on her dark fluffy fur, and a face like a half-blown rose.
"The doctor has just gone up-stairs," whispered Sally, and Mona hastened up to find, not Dr Burns, but Dr Dudley. She was too much taken by surprise to conceal the pleasure she felt, and, much as Dudley had counted on this meeting, his brain well-nigh reeled under the exquisite unconscious flattery of her smile. It was a minute before he could control himself sufficiently to speak.
"I am afraid Dr Burns is ill," said Mona, as she took his hand.
"Yes, poor fellow! He is very much below par altogether, and he has taken a serious chill, which has settled on his lungs. I fear it will be some time before he is about again. A substitute will be here in a week, I hope; and in the meantime,nolens volens, I am thrust into the service. Thank you, Miss Simpson, that will do, I think." He took the thermometer to the light, and then gave Mona a few directions. "You have not got one of these things, I suppose?" he said.
"I never even had one in my hand," put in Rachel hastily.
"You know you can easily get one," added Mona severely.
"Oh, it's of no consequence. I think there is no doubt that this is only a feverish cold. I wish I had no more serious case. Go on with the mixture, but I should like Miss Simpson to take some quinine as well. I have no doubt she will be about again in a few days."
He wrote a prescription—very unnecessarily, Mona thought,—and then she followed him down-stairs. When they reached the shop he deliberately stopped, and turned to face her. He did not speak; his mind was in a whirl. He was thinking no longer of the beauty of her mind, and character, and face; he had ceased even to admire. He only knew that he wanted her, that he had found her out, that she was his by right; every other thought and feeling was merged in the consciousness that he was alone with the woman he loved. Oh, how good it was to lose one's self at last in a longing like this!
His back was turned to the light, and Mona wondered why her "playfellow" was so silent.
"This is an unfortunate holiday for you," she said.
He shook himself out of his dream, and answered gaily, "Oh, I don't know. This sort of thing is a rest in one way at least,—it does not call the same brain-cells into requisition, and it gives me a little anticipation of the manhood my cursed folly has postponed."
Of course the humble words were spoken very proudly; and he looked every inch a man even to eyes that still retained a vivid picture of the Sahib. His shoulders seemed more broad and strong in the heavy becoming Inverness cape, he held himself more upright than formerly, and his face had gained an expression of quiet self-confidence.
"Work suits you," said Mona, smiling.
"That it does!" He brought his closed fist vehemently down upon the counter. "When my examination is over, Miss Maclean, I shall be a different being,—in a position to do and say things that I dare not do and say now."
He spoke with emphasis, half hoping she would understand him, and then broke off with sudden bitterness—
"Unless I fail!"
"Youfail!" laughed Mona.
"Ah! so outsiders always say. I can assure you, you have no idea how chancy those London examinations are."
The colour rushed into her face. A dozen times she had tried to ask Rachel's permission to tell him all; a dozen times the question, "Why him rather than any one else?" had sealed her lips. What if she were to make a clean breast of it now, and risk her cousin's anger afterwards! She could never hope for such another opportunity.
She was determined to use it, to tell him she knew the chances of those examinations only too well; but to her surprise she found the confession far more difficult than the one she had made to the Sahib. At the very thought of it, her heart beat hard and her breath came fast.
"This is too absurd!" she thought, in fierce indignation at her own weakness. "What do I care what he thinks? But if I cannot speak without panting as if I were trying to turn a mill, I must hold my peace. It is of little consequence, after all, whether he knows or not."
"Do you know," said Dudley deliberately, "I thought for a moment that I had come into the wrong house this morning? I never should have recognised your—quarters."
"Did you notice the difference? You must have a quick eye and a good memory."
Notice the difference! He had noticed few things in the last six months that had given him half the pleasure of that sweeping reformation. Dudley was no giant among men; but, if he cared for name and outward appearance, at least he cared more for reality; and, I think, the sight of that fresh, business-like, creditable shop was a greater comfort to his mind than it would have been to see his Cinderella at the ball. He had ceased to regret that Mona was a shopkeeper, but he was not too much in love to be glad that she was a good shopkeeper.
"I knew your influence was bound to tell in the long-run," he said. "I suppose Miss Simpson did not greatly encourage you to interfere?"
"No, but she has been very good. I don't believe I should have left an assistant as free a hand as she left me. I hope you admire my window. I call it a work of art."
"I call it something a great deal better than that," he said rather huskily, as he held out his hand. "Good morning."
"Bless her!" he said to himself as he jumped into his gig. "She never apologises for the shop—never speaks as if it were something beneath her. My God, what a snob I am!"
As soon as he was gone, Mona raised the hand he had shaken, and looked at it deliberately. Then she took a few turns up and down the shop. "I never mean to marry," she said very slowly to herself, "and I don't suppose I shall ever know what it is to be in love; but it would be a fine test of a man's sincerity to see whether he would be willing to take me simply and solely as I am now—as Rachel Simpson's assistant."
The next day was Sunday, and Rachel was so much better that she insisted on Mona's going to church.
"Folk will be thinking it is something catching," she said, "and by the time I'm down-stairs again, there'll be nobody in the shop to talk to."
It was a bright, crisp morning, but Mona found the service rather a barren one.
"I suppose the doctor has been here," she said with marked indifference, when she re-entered Rachel's room.
"Yes; and very pleased he was to find me so well. He says I'm to get up to tea to-day, and go out for ten minutes to-morrow, if all's well. He is very busy, and he's not to come back unless we send for him. He's not one of them that tries how many visits they can put in."
"No," said Mona drearily, and then she roused herself with an effort. "I am so glad you are better, dear," she said. "Mr Stuart is coming to see you to-morrow afternoon."
When New Year's Day came round, the little household had fallen back into its ordinary routine. Mona had decorated the parlour with evergreens before Rachel left her sick-room; had superintended divers important proceedings in the kitchen; and had done her best to feel, and to make others feel, the festive influence of the season. The attempt had not been a very successful one, however; Rachel was at no time susceptible to the poetry of domestic life; and when dim visions rose in Mona's mind of giving a treat to herprotégées, or to the Sunday-school children, she forced herself to remember that she was only a humble shopkeeper, bound to keep within the limits of herrôle. For one night she had played a more important part, but that was over now. She was back in her humble sphere, and, for very art's sake, she must keep her true proportion till the end. Fortunately, she was asked to assist in the management of one or two "treats," and, by means of these and a few anonymous contributions to local charities, she—to use an expression of her own—"saved her soul alive." She looked for no selfish enjoyment, she told herself. Auntie Bell was the only human thing in the neighbourhood whom, for her own sake, she really cared to see; Auntie Bell—and perhaps one other; but, although Mona often saw the doctor's gig in those days, she never chanced to meet the doctor.
A New Year dinner is not a very cheerful festivity in a somewhat uncongenialsolitude à deux, and Mona was not sorry when an invitation came for Rachel to drink tea with a crony in the evening. She herself was included in the invitation, but had no difficulty in getting out of it. She was popular on the whole, among Rachel's friends, but there was a general consensus of opinion among them that, when it came to a regular gossip over the fire, Miss Maclean, with all her cleverness, was a sad wet-blanket. Sally had been promised a half-holiday, and Rachel had some compunction about leaving her cousin alone, but Mona laughed at the idea.
"The arrangement suits me quite as well as it does you," she said; "I am going to take some of my mince-pies to old Jenny, and I have no doubt she will give me a cup of tea. She has been on my mind all day. It is glorious weather for a walk, and I shall have a full moon to light me home."
And in truth it was a glorious day for a walk. The thermometer had fallen abruptly after a heavy mist, and the great stretch of fields was perfectly white with the deepest hoar-frost Mona had ever seen. From every stone in the dyke, every blade of grass by the wayside, every hardy scrap of moss and lichen, the most exquisite ice-needles stood out in wonderful coruscations, sparkling and blazing in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun; a huge spider's web in the window of an old barn looked like some marvellous piece of fairy lacework; the cart-ruts in the more deserted roads were spanned by tiny rafters of ice; and above all, the moon, modest and retiring as yet, looked down from an infinitely distant expanse of pale, cloudless sky.
Very slowly the sun sank below the horizon, and the moon asserted herself more and more; till, when Mona reached the pine-wood, the mystic, unearthly beauty of the scene brought the actual tears into her eyes. The silence was broken only by sounds that served to gauge its depth; the recesses of the wood were as gloomy and mysterious as ever; but the moonlight streamed down on graceful tops and spreading branches, not burdened with massive whiteness, but transformed into crystal. A pine-wood in snow is a sight to be seen, but the work of the snow is only a daub, after all, when compared with the artist touch of a frost like this.
Mona scarcely knew how long she stood there, unwilling even to lean against the gate and so destroy its perfect bloom; but she was disturbed at last by the sound of wheels on the carriage-drive. Had the Colonel come back? Was Jenny ill? And then with a quick flash of conviction she knew whom she was going to see.
It was Dudley, leading his horse by the bridle, and looking worn and anxious. He brightened up and quickened his step when he saw a woman's figure at the gate; then recognised who it was, and stopped short, with something like a groan. Poor Dudley! A moment before he would have given almost anything he possessed for the presence of a female human creature, and now that his prayer was granted, how he wished that it had been any other woman in the world than just this one whom the Fates had sent!
He had no choice, however, and he plunged into the matter at once, with white lips, but with a quick, resolute voice.
"I am in a sore dilemma, Miss Maclean," he said. "I was sent for suddenly up country to a case of arsenical poisoning; and, as I went past, they stopped me at those cottar-houses to tell me that there was a poor soul in extremity here. It's your little Maggie, by the way. Poor child! She may well ask herself whether life is worth living now! Of course I had to go on to my man, but I left him before I really ought to have done so, and now I must hurry back. The baby is just born."
"Is Jenny here?" Mona found it difficult to speak at all in the deafening rush of sorrow and bitterness that came over her.
"Jenny is away to Leith. Her brother's ship has just come in. The girl came home unexpectedly, and had to get the key of the house at the cottage. Everybody is down in the town celebrating the New Year, except a few infants, and an infirm old man, who noticed that she was ill and hailed me. Will you go in? There is no fire, nor comfort of any sort for the poor child. It is no work for you——"
Mona looked up with a curious light in her eyes.
"You don't really mean that," she said quietly. "If there were only a duchess on the road to-night, it would be her work. I suppose I may run to the cottage for some milk? I expect Maggie has eaten nothing all day."
His lips quivered slightly, in the relief of finding how simply she took it.
"God bless you," he said, as he took the reins. "I believe the girl will do well. I will be back as soon as I possibly can, and I will send the first woman I meet to your relief."
"No, you won't," she said gently. "I would rather stay all night than have a woman here of whom I know nothing. Go on. Good speed to your case!"
She fetched the milk, and then ran like the wind to the house. It was a lonely place at the best of times, and now it seemed bleak and damp and dreary,—a fitting home for the poor little singed human butterfly, who, in the hour of her agony, had taken refuge within its walls.
Mona was thankful there was so much to do, for her indignation burned like fire at the sight of that altered, chubby face. All honour to the stern and noble women who, by the severity of their views, have done so much to preserve the purity of their sex; but let us be thankful, too, for those who, like Mona, in time of need lose sight of the sinning woman in the injured suffering child.
In a very short time a bright fire was blazing in the grate; the bed had been arranged as comfortably as might be, and Mona was holding a cup of hot milk to the lips of the half-starved girl. Only an invalid knows the relief of having some one in the sick-room who, without fuss or questioning, quietly takes the helm of affairs; and poor little Maggie looked up at her comforter with the eyes of a hunted animal, which, bruised and bleeding, finds that it has run by chance into a haven of rest.
For some time Mona doubted whether the baby would live till Dr Dudley's return. It was such a puny little thing—a poor morsel of humanity, thrust prematurely into a cold and busy world that had no need of him. "He had better have died!" thought Mona, as she did all that in her lay to keep him in life; and, in truth, I know not whether the woman or the doctor in her rejoiced more truly when she saw that all immediate danger was past.
All was peaceful, and Maggie, with the tears undried on her long eyelashes, had fallen asleep when Dudley came back.
"I don't know how to apologise for being so long away," he said, in a low voice. "Talk of Scylla and Charybdis!" He asked a few simple questions, and then, leading the way into the kitchen, he pushed forward the shabby old armchair for her, and seated himself on the corner of the table.
"I am afraid you are very tired," he said,
"Oh no!"
"You are reserving that for to-morrow?"
He would have liked to feel her pulse, both as a matter of personal and of scientific interest, but he did not dare.
"I wonder what poor little Maggie and I would have done without you to-night," he said. "As it is, I have had a close shave with my man. I found him a good deal collapsed when I went back,—cold and clammy, with blue lines round his eyes."
"What did you do?" said Mona eagerly, with a student's interest.
"You may well ask. One's textbooks always fail one just at the point that offers a real difficulty in practice. They tell you how to get rid of and to neutralise the poison; they overwhelm you with Marsh's and Reinsch's tests; but how to keep the patient alive—that is a mere detail. Hot bottles were safe, of course, and 'in the right direction.' I was afraid to give stimulants, in case I should promote the absorption of any eddies of the poison, but finally I had to chance a little whisky-and-water, and that brought him round. I was very ill at ease about leaving you so long, but I thought some married woman from the cottar-houses would have been here before this."
"They won't come," said Mona, "I gave the old man a sovereign to hold his peace." And then she bit her lip, remembering that Miss Simpson's shop-girl could scarcely be supposed to have sovereigns to spare.
Dudley smiled,—a half-amused but very kindly smile, that reflected itself in a moment in Mona's face.
"Do you think it was foolish?" she asked simply.
"God forbid that I should criticise a woman's instinct in such a matter! With my powers of persuasion, I might as well have tried to hush up the death of a prince. I have long since decided that if I don't want people to talk about a thing, the best plan is to advertise it at once, then turn up the collar of my coat, fold my arms, and—thole."
"That is all very well when only one's self is concerned, but, by the time Jenny came back, no choice would have been left her."
"True. I might have known all along that you were right. It will be worth more than a sovereign to be able to tell Jenny that no one knows. And if she comes soon, the statement will do for the truth. Heigh-ho! do you know, I could throw my cap in the air, and hurrah like a schoolboy, when I think that my man has pulled through. A poisoning case is no joke, I can tell you; all hurry and confusion and uncertainty, with the prospect of a legal inquiry at the end of it. 'Do you mean to say, sir,'—Dudley adjusted an imaginary wig and weighed an imaginary eyeglass,—'that with a man's life at stake, you did so-and-so?' Ugh! who says a doctor's fees are easily earned? It would take many a jog-trot dyspepsia or liver complaint to restore the balance after that!"
"I am quite sure of it; and now I advise you to go home and get a night's rest if you can."
"But what am I to do about you? You don't suppose I am going to sleep the sleep of the unjust and leave you here?"
"That is precisely what you are going to do. An hour's forced march will do me no harm; you have had no lack of them lately. I will ask you to leave this note for my cousin, and if you have no objection, I think you might ask Jenny's friend, Mrs Arnot—you know who I mean—to come up to-morrow morning. She is absolutely safe. Tell her to wait till the shops are open, and bring me the things I have jotted down here."
Maggie was awake by this time, and Dudley paid her a short visit before he left. The poor girl thought the gentleman very kind, but she was thankful when he was gone, and she was alone once more with Mona.
"I will tell you all how it was," she sobbed out convulsively.
"Not to-night, dear," Mona said quietly, stroking the thick brown hair. "When you are a little stronger, you shall tell me the whole story. To-night you must lie quite still and rest. I will take care of you."
It was a strange experience to sit there through the long hours, listening to the regular breathing of the young mother, the steady tick of the clock, and the occasional fall of a cinder from the grate. It seemed so incredible that this girl—this butterfly—had passed already, all frivolous and unprepared, through that tract of country which, to each fresh traveller, is only less new and mysterious than the river of death. A few months before, Mona had felt so old and wise, compared to that ignorant child; and now a great gulf of experience and of sorrow lay between them, and the child was on the farther side.
More and more heavily the burden of the sorrows of her sex pressed on Mona's heart as the night went on; more and more she longed to carry all suffering women in her arms; more and more she felt her unworthiness for the life-work she had chosen, till at last, half unconsciously, she fell on her knees and her thoughts took the form of a prayer.
When Mona first began her medical career, she was actuated partly by intense love of study and scientific work, partly by a firm and enthusiastic conviction that, while the fitness of women for certain spheres of usefulness is an open question, medical work is the natural right and duty of the sex, apart from all shifting standards and conventional views. Her repeated failure "took the starch out of her," as she expressed it, but I do not think that she ever for more than a moment seriously thought of giving up the work, when she laid it aside for a time; and her promise to Mr Reynolds was made, less out of gratitude to him than from a stern sense of duty. But now the cold hard lines of duty were broken through by the growing developing force of a living inspiration. We need many fresh initiations into a life-work that is really to move mankind, and Mona underwent one that night at Barntoun Wood, hundreds of miles away from the scene of her studies, with the silvered pines for a temple, the lonely house for a holy place, and a shrine of sin and sorrow. "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these—" Who shall tell beforehand what events will form the epochs, or the turning-points, in the life of any one of us? Verily the wind bloweth where it listeth.
The night was over, and the morning sun was once more kindling all the ice-crystals into sparkles of light, when Mrs Arnot arrived—kind and motherly, but of course inexpressibly shocked. Mona conjured her not to have any conversation about the past that might agitate the patient; and then set out for home, promising to return before night. The ready tears welled up in Maggie's eyes as she watched her benefactress go; and then she turned her face to the wall and pretended to sleep. If she could only be with Miss Maclean always, how easy it would be to be good; and perhaps in time she would even begin to forget—about him.
Since her illness Rachel had been very affectionate to her cousin, and Mona was quite unprepared for the torrent of indignation that assailed her when she entered the sitting-room. She had found Maggie ill at the Wood alone, she said, and almost in a moment Rachel guessed what had happened.
For some time Mona tried to discuss the question calmly, but the cutting, merciless words wounded her more than she could bear; so she rose and took her gloves from the table.
"That will do, cousin," she said coldly; "but for the accident of circumstances it might have been you or I."
This of course was a truism, but Rachel could not be expected to see it in that light, and the flames of her wrath leaped higher.
"Jenny can pay for a nurse from Kirkstoun," she said; "I'll not have you waiting hand and foot on a creature no decent woman would speak to. You'll not enter that house again."
"I've promised to go back this afternoon. Of course you have a perfect right, if you like, to forbid me to return here. But I am very tired, and I think it would be a pity, after all your kindness to me, to send me away with such an interpretation as this of the parable of the Good Samaritan. Unless you mention the incident, people will never find out that I had anything to do with it."
She left the room without giving her cousin time to reply. Before long Sally knocked at her door with a tolerably inviting breakfast-tray. Poor Rachel! She had never made any attempt to reduce her opinions and convictions to common principles, and it was very easy to defeat her with a weapon out of her own miscellaneous armoury. She was perfectly satisfied that the parable of the Good Samaritan had nothing to do with the case, but the mention of it reminded her of other incidents in the Gospel narrative which seemed to lend some support to Mona's position. But then things were so different now-a-days. Was that wicked little minx to be encouraged to hold up her head again as if nothing her happened?
Not even for Jenny's sake could Mona stoop to beg her cousin to hold her peace, but Rachel had already resolved to do this for reasons of her own. She was shrewd enough to see that if the incident came out at all at present, it would come out in its entirety, and, rather than sacrifice "her own flesh and blood," she would spare even Maggie—for the present.
About mid-day Dudley arrived at the shop on foot.
"I thought the friendly Fates would let me find you alone," he said. "Your patients are thriving famously. I came to tell you that Jenny is to arrive at Kirkstoun to-night. I know it is asking a hard thing; but it would soften matters so for everybody else if you could meet her."
"Thank you so much for coming to tell me. I have been very unhappy about her home-coming. I am afraid I cannot do much, but I need not say I will do my best. I meant to go out this afternoon, but I will wait now, and go with Jenny. Poor soul! it will be an awful blow to her."
Dudley was looking at her fixedly. "Having expressed my delight at finding you," he said, "I am going to proceed, with true masculine inconsistency, to scold you for not taking a few hour's sleep. You look very tired."
"Appearances are deceptive."
"I am afraid Miss Simpson is not pleased with last night's work."
She hesitated, then smiled. "Miss Simpson is not the keeper of my conscience."
"Thank God for that at least! You will not stay for more than half an hour to-night?"
"I don't know."
"No, Miss Maclean, you will not," he said firmly; "I will not have it."
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Bear with my dulness," she said, "and explain to me your precise right to interfere. Is it the doctor's place to arrange how long the nurses are to remain on duty? I only ask for information, you know."
"Yes," he said boldly, "it is."
"Ah! so it becomes a simple matter of official duty. Thank you for explaining it to me."
Then suddenly the blood rushed up into her face. "Oh, Dr Dudley," she said impulsively, "what a brute I am to laugh and jest the moment I have turned my back on a tragedy like that!"
"And why?" he asked. "Do not the laughter and jesting, like the flowers and the sunshine, show that the heart of things is not all tragedy? If you and I could not laugh a little, in sheer healthy human reaction from too near a view of the seamy side of life, I think we should go mad; don't you?"
"Yes," she said earnestly.
"I think it is a great mistake to encourage mere feeling beyond the point where it serves as a motive. As we say in physiology that the optimum stimulus is the one that produces the maximum contraction; so the optimum feeling is not the maximum feeling, but the one that produces the maximum of action. Maggie is as safe with you as if she had fallen into the hands of her guardian angel. There is but little I can do, as the law does not permit us, even under strong provocation, to wring the necks of our fellow-men; but I will see Jenny to-morrow, and arrange about making the fellow contribute to the support of the child. Do you think you and I need to be afraid of an innocent laugh if it chances to come in our way?"
Dudley spoke simply and naturally, without realising how his sympathetic chivalrous words would appeal to a woman who loved her own sex. Mona tried to thank him, but the words would not come, so with an instinct that was half that of a woman, half that of a child, she looked up and paid him the compliment of the tears for which she blushed.
It was then that Dudley understood for the first time all the possibilities of Mona's beauty, and realised that the face of the woman he loved was as potter's clay in the grasp of a beautiful soul.
He held out his hand without a word, and left the shop.
The clear sky was obscured by driving clouds, and the night was darkening fast, as Mona walked up and down the draughty little station, waiting for the arrival of Jenny's train. The prospect of a long walk across the bleak open country, with a heartrending tale to tell on the way, was not an inviting one, and Mona had serious thoughts of hiring a conveyance; but that would have been the surest method of attracting attention to herself and Jenny, so she reluctantly relinquished the idea. The train was very late, and the wind seemed to rise higher every minute; but at last the whistle was heard, and in a few moments more Jenny's quaint old figure alighted from a grimy third-class carriage, and proceeded with difficulty to "rax doun" the basket and bundle from the high seat.
Mona's heart bled afresh at the sight of the weather-worn old face, and her whole nature recoiled from the task she had accepted. After all, why should she interfere? Might she not do more harm than good? Would it not be wiser to leave the whole development of events to Mother Nature and the friendly Fates?
"Is that you, Jenny?" she said; "I am going out your way, so we can walk together. Give me your basket."
"Hoot awa', Miss Maclean! You leddies dinna tak' weel wi' the like o' that. Feel the weicht o' it."
"That is nothing," said Mona, bracing her muscles to treat it like a feather. "I will take the bundle, too, if you like. And now, Jenny, I want to hear about your travels."
Her great fear was lest the old woman's suspicions should be aroused before they got out of the town, and she talked rather excitedly about anything that suggested itself. At last they passed the outskirts, and Mona drew a long breath of mingled relief and apprehension.
"It's an awfu' nicht," gasped Jenny, taking Mona's proffered arm, as a fierce gust of wind swept across the bare fields. "I nae ken hoo I'd win hame my lane. But what taks ye sae far on siccan a nicht?"
"I went out to see you last night," Mona answered irrelevantly, "but found you away."
"Eh, lassie, but I'm sair fashed! An' ye'd no' ken that the key was at the cottar-hoose? Ye micht hae gaed in, and rested yersel' a bit. I'd ask ye in the nicht, but the house is cauld, and nae doubt ye're gaun tae some ither body."
"Yes," said Mona, and then she rushed into the subject that occupied all her thoughts. "When did you last hear from Maggie?" she asked.
The old woman's face darkened. "I wadna wonner but there'll be a letter frae her at the cottar-hoose. I'm that ill pleased wi' her for no' writin'. It'll be sax weeks, come Monday, sin' I'd ony word. I'll no' ken a meenit's peace till her twel'month's oot in Feb'ry, and she's back at hame."
"Perhaps she is ill," said Mona deliberately.
Jenny peered up at her companion's face in the darkness.
"What gars ye say that?" she asked quickly.
"Jenny," said Mona, in a voice that shook with sympathy, "when I went out last night, I found Maggie at the house. She has come home."
She never could remember afterwards whether she added anything more, or whether Jenny guessed at once what had befallen. There were a few quick imperious questions, and then the old woman dropped her bundle and burst into a torrent of wrath that made Mona's blood run cold. For some minutes she could scarcely understand a word of the incoherent outcry, but it was an awful experience to see the dim figure of the mother, standing there with upraised hands on the deserted road, calling down curses upon her child.
Presently she picked up her bundle, and walked on so swiftly that Mona could scarcely keep pace with her.
"Hoo daured she come hame?" she muttered. "Hoo daured she, hoo daured she? Could she no' bide whaur naebody kent her, and no' shame her auld mither afore a' the folk? The barefaced hussy! I'd ha' slammed the door i' her face. An' she'll oot o' the hoose this vera nicht, she an' the bairn o' her shame. There's no' room yonder for baith her an' me. I nae care what comes o' them. She suld ha' thocht o' that i' time. We maun e'en reap what we saw. Frae this day forrit she's nae bairn o' mine, and I'll no' lie doon ae nicht wi' a shameless strumpet unner my roof."
"If you turn her out of the house," Mona said quietly, "you will tell all the world what has happened. At present it is a secret."
Jenny's face brightened, but only for a moment.
"Ye needna pit yersel' aboot tae tell me the like o' that," she said bitterly. "Or maybe ye're but a lassie yet, and dinna ken hoo lang thae secrets is like tae be keepit. I niver keepit ane mysel', and it's no' likely ither folk are gaun to begin noo." Then she burst into a wailing cry, "Eh, Miss Maclean, I'm sair stricken! I can turn her oot o' my hoose, but I'll niver haud up my held again. What's dune canna be undune."
"What is done cannot be undone," Mona answered very slowly; "but it can be made a great deal worse. The child did not know her trouble was so near, when she came to ask your advice and help. Where else, indeed, should she have gone? Would you have had her drift on to the streets? Because she has lost what you call her good name, do you care nothing for her soul? I think, in all my life, I never knew anything so beautiful as the trustful way in which that poor little thing came home to her mother. I'm sure I should not have had the courage to do it. She knew you better than you do yourself. She had not sat on your knee and heard all your loving words for nothing; and when the world treated her cruelly, and she fell into temptation, she knew where to turn. Fifty vows and promises of reformation would not mean so much. If I were a mother, I should turn my back on a storm of gossip and slander, and thank God on my bended knees for that."
Mona paused, and in the darkness she heard a suppressed sob.
"I am not a child, Jenny," she went on. "I know as well as you do what the world would say, but we are away from the world just now, you and I; we are alone in the darkness with God. Let us try for a little to see things as He sees them. Don't you think He knows as well as we do that if Maggie is kindly and lovingly dealt with now, she may live to be a better woman and not a worse, because of this fall? He puts it into her mother's power to turn this evil into good. And you must not think that her life is spoilt. She is such a child. She must not stay here, of course, but if you will let me, I will find a home for her where she will be carefully trained; and you will live yet to see her with a husband of her own to take care of her, and little children, of whom you will be proud."
Jenny sobbed aloud. "Na, na, Miss Maclean," she said; "ye may pit the pieces thegither, sae that naebody kens the pitcher was broke, but the crack's aye there!"
"That's true, dear Jenny; but are we not all cracked pitchers in the sight of God? We may not have committed just that sin, but may not our pride and selfishness be even more wicked in His eyes? I am sure Jesus Christ would have said some burning words to the man whose selfishness has caused all this misery; but to poor little Maggie, who has suffered so much, He would surely say, 'Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.' It seems to me that the only peace we can get in this world is by trying to see things as God sees them."
So they talked on till they reached the Wood. From time to time Jenny spoke softly, with infinite pathos, of her child; and then, again and again, her indignation broke forth uncontrollably—now against Maggie, now against the man who had betrayed her. Mona's influence was strong, but it was exerted against a mighty rock of opposition; and just when all seemed gained, the stone rolled heavily back into its place. She was almost exhausted with the long struggle when they reached the door, and she did not feel perfectly sure even then that Jenny would not end by fulfilling her original threat.
Mrs Arnot had gone home half an hour before, and Maggie was lying alone, with pale face and large pathetic eyes. She recognised her mother's step, and turned towards the opening door with quivering lips.
"Mither!" she sobbed, like a lost lamb.
There was a moment of agonising uncertainty, and then a very bitter cry.
"Eh, my dawtie, my dawtie! my bonnie bit bairn! I suld ha' keepit ye by me."
Mona slipped into the kitchen. The blazing fire and the well-polished tins swam mistily before her eyes, as she took the tea-canister from the shelf, and her whole heart was singing a pæan of thanksgiving.
"It was the 'Mither!' that did it," she thought. "Where was all my wordy talk compared to the pathos of that? But I am very glad I came all the same."
She left the mother and daughter alone for ten minutes or so, and then carried in the tea-tray.
"I don't know how you feel, Jenny," she said, "but I am very cold and very hungry, so I took the liberty of making some tea. I even think Maggie might be allowed to have some, very weak, if she promises faithfully not to talk any more to-night."
Jenny drank her hot tea, and her heart was cheered and comforted, in spite of all her burden of sorrow. Miss Maclean's friendship was at least something to set over against the talk of the folk; and—and—she thought she would read a chapter of her Bible that night; she would try to find the bit about Jesus and the woman. Had any one told Jenny beforehand that, so soon after hearing such dreadful news, her heart would have been comparatively at rest, she would have laughed the idea to scorn. Yet so it was. Poor old Jenny! The morrow was yet to come, with reflections of its own, with the return swing of the pendulum, weighted with principle and prejudice and old tradition; but in her simplicity she never thought of that, and for a few short hours she had peace.
As soon as tea was over, Mona rose to go. Jenny begged her to stay all night, for the wind was howling most dismally through the pine-trees; but Mona laughed at the idea of danger or difficulty, and set out with a light heart. She had scarcely found herself alone, however, in the wild and gusty night, when she began to regret her own rashness. She was groping her way slowly along the carriage-drive, with the guidance of the hedge, when, with a sudden sense of protection, she caught sight of lamps at the gate.
Dudley came forward as soon as he heard her step.
"That is right," he said, with a chime of gladness in his beautiful voice; "I thought you would obey orders."
"I am naturally glad to receive the commendation of my superior officer."
"Is Jenny back?"
"Yes. All is well,—for to-night at least. I must go out as early as possible to-morrow. It was one of the most beautiful sights I ever saw in my life;" and Mona described what had taken place.
"You have done a good day's work," Dudley said, after a pause.
"Oh, I did nothing. I laughed at my own heroics when I heard Maggie's 'Mither!'"
"No doubt; but Maggie's part would have fallen rather flat, if you had not borne all the brunt of the disclosure."
"Are you going to visit your patient?"
"Is there any necessity?"
"None whatever, I imagine."
"Then I shall have the pleasure of driving you home."
"Oh no, thank you! I would rather walk."
They were standing now in the full light of the lamps. Dudley waxed bold.
"Look me in the face, Miss Maclean, and tell me that that is true."
Mona raised her eyes with a curious sensation, as if the ground were slipping from under her feet.
"No," she said, "it is not true. I rather dread the walk; but—you know I cannot come with you."
"Why not?"
She frowned at his persistence; then met his eyes again.
"Because I should not do it by daylight," she said proudly.
There was a minute's silence.
"Burns' substitute comes to-morrow," he said carelessly.
Her face changed very slightly, but sufficiently to catch his quick eye.
"And as soon as I have discussed things with him, I have promised to carry my old aunt off to warmer climes. I shan't be back here till August."
No answer. A sudden blast of wind swept along the road, and she instinctively laid hold of the shaft of the gig for support.
Dudley held out his hand.
"It is a high step," he said, "but I think you can manage it."
Mona took his hand almost unconsciously, tried to say something flippant, failed utterly, and took her seat in the gig without a word.
"Am I drugged?" she thought, "or am I going mad?"
Never in all her life had she so utterly failed insavoir-faire. She felt vaguely how indignant she would be next day at her own weakness and want of pride; but at the moment she only knew that it was good to be there with Dr Dudley.
He arranged the rug over her knees, and took the reins.
"Is this better than walking?" he asked in a low voice, stooping down to catch her answer.
Only for a moment she tried to resist the influence that was creeping over her.
"Yes," she said simply.
"Are you glad you came?"
And this time she did not try at all.
"Yes."
"That's good!" The reins fell loosely on the mare's back. "Peggy's tired," he said. "Don't hurry, old girl. Take your time."
Mona shivered nervously.
"You are cold," he said, taking a plaid from the back of the seat. "Will you put this round you?"
"No, thank you; I am not really cold, and I have no hands. I should be blown away altogether if I did not hold on to this iron bar."
"Should you?" he said, with a curious intonation in his voice. "Take the reins."
He put them in her hand, unfolded the plaid, and stooped to put it round her shoulders. In a momentary lull of the storm, he fancied he felt her warm breath on his chilled cheek; a little curl of her hair, dancing in the wind, brushed his hand lightly like a cobweb; and she sat there, unguarded as a child, one hand holding the reins, the other grasping the rail of the gig.
Then Dudley forgot himself. His good resolutions were blotted out, and he felt only a gambler's passionate desire to stake all in one mad throw. If it failed, he was a ruined man; but, if it succeeded, what treasure-house could contain his riches? He could not wait,—he could not, he could not! One moment would tell him all, and he must know it. The future might have pleasures of its own in store, but would it ever bring back this very hour, of night, and storm, and solitude, and passionate desire?
So the arm, that passed round Mona to arrange the plaid, was not withdrawn. "Give me the reins," he said firmly, with that calmness which in hours of intense excitement is Nature's most precious gift to her sons; "give me the reins and let go the rail—I will take care of you."
And with a touch that was tender, but fearless with passion, his strong arm drew her close.
And Mona? why did she not repulse him? Never, since she was a little child, had any man, save Sir Douglas and old Mr Reynolds, done more than touch her hand; and now she obeyed without a word, and sat there silent and unresisting. Why? Because she knew not what had befallen her; because, with a last instinct of self-preservation, she held her peace, lest a word should betray the frantic beating of her heart.
"This is death," she thought; but it was life, not death. Dudley's eye had gauged well the promise of that folded bud; and now, in the sunshine of his touch, on that wild and wintry night, behold a glowing crimson streak!
And so Ralph knew that this woman would be his wife.
Not a word passed between them as Peggy trotted slowly homewards. Mona could not speak, and Ralph rejoiced to think that he need not. When they reached Miss Simpson's door, he sprang down, lifted Mona to the ground, raised her hands to his lips, and stood there waiting, till the door had shut in the light.
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 mybusiness," 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'futfor yer faither's bairn!" And with a heavy heart the old woman betook herself to the station.