"Nonsense!"
"Fact, my dear fellow! I knew it before I knew her, or I simply should never have believed it It's an awful shock to one's theories, don't you know?—one's views of womanliness and all that sort of thing. I have thought about it till I am tired, and I can't make it out; but upon my soul, Dickinson, you may say what you like, the girl's a brick."
"I'm quite sure of that already, and I'm sure she's clever enough for anything."
"Oh—clever, yes! But clever women don't need to—but there! I can't go into all that again. I simply give the subject up. Don't mention it to me again."
"But you know I am a staunch believer in women doctors. When my sister was so ill, the doctor at the station said she would be an invalid for life, and a staff surgeon who was passing through said the same. As a last resource I got a woman doctor to come a hundred miles to see her, and she brought Lena round in a few weeks. She knew her business, but—she was very different from Miss Maclean."
"Wasn't she? That's just it! Oh, I know they're a necessary evil. I should like to see a man doctor look at my Evelyn, except for a sore throat or a cut finger! I have always upheld the principle, in spite of the sacrifice involved; but how could I tell that any of my own womankind would take it up? You see, she was left so much to her own resources, poor child! There was no one to warn her of what it all meant. I reproach myself now for not having looked after her more; but how on earth could I know that she was going to turn out anything in particular? Gad! Dickinson, when I think of all that girl must know, it makes me sick—sick; but when I am speaking to her—upon my soul, I don't believe it has done her a bit of harm!"
The entrance of Mona and Evelyn into the sunny breakfast-room interrupted the conversation for a moment, and it was presently resumed in a lighter and more frivolous vein over the trout and the coffee.
"Oh, trout, yes!" said Sir Douglas. "I never said anything against the trout. If it were not for that, we should all be reduced to skin and bone. Evelyn, where is your mother?"
It was eight o'clock, and the calesch stood at the door, when Lady Munro appeared, serene and smiling; and then Evelyn and Mona had to hurry away and pack her valise for her.
"You know I've been up for hours," she said, with a charming nod to the Sahib, as she seated herself at the table, "but I began to write some letters——"
"Humph!" said Sir Douglas, and shrugging his shoulders, he abruptly left the room.
When the tardy valise was at last roped on to the calesch, and the portier was opening the door, the young Norwegian landlady came up shyly to Lady Munro.
"Will you haf?" she said in her pretty broken English, holding out a large photograph of the hotel, with its staff on the doorstep.
Never had Lady Munro smiled more sweetly.
"Is that really for me? How very kind! I cannot tell you how much I shall prize it as a memento of a charming visit. Why, I can recognise all of you!" and she looked round at the worshipping servants.
A minute later they drove off in state, with Nubboo enthroned on the box in front, and Dickinson Sahib following on in a kariol behind.
It was a glorious summer morning. Not a trace of mist or cloud lingered about the hillsides; the Nærodal was once more asleep in sunshine and shadow.
"Well, I am sure we shall not soon forget Stalheim," said Lady Munro. "It has been quite a new experience."
"Quite," agreed Sir Douglas. "It has been an absolutely new experience to me to see a hard-worked horse go up a hen's ladder to bed, with only a bundle of hay for supper, and never a touch from his groom. It is astonishing what plucky little beasts they are in spite of it."
"Now don't enjoy the scenery too much," said the Sahib, driving up alongside. "You have been over this ground before, and human nature cannot go on enjoying keenly all day long. Save yourselves for the afternoon. The drive from Voss to Eide is one of the finest things in Norway."
And so it proved. For the first few miles after they left Vossevangen, they drove through pine-woods and dripping cliffs, where every tiny ledge had its own tuft of luxuriant mosses; and then suddenly, at full speed, they began the descent to the sea-level.
"How dreadfully dangerous!" exclaimed Lady Munro.
"As good as a switchback," laughed Evelyn.
"What engineers those fellows must be!" said Sir Douglas admiringly, as every turn brought them in sight of the two great waterfalls, and their faces were drenched with spray.
"It is like going round and round the inside of a mighty chalice," said Mona.
And so it was; but the sides of the chalice were one living mass of the most glorious green, almost every square yard of which would have made a picture by itself.
When they reached the bottom, the driver suddenly dismounted, and proceeded to occupy himself with a piece of string and the weather-beaten straps that did duty for traces.
"Harness—broke!" he said calmly.
"The deuce it has!" exclaimed Sir Douglas. "I think you might have found that out at the top of the hill. Do you suppose our necks are of no more value than your own? Nubboo, just see that it is all right now."
"How horrible!" and Lady Munro shuddered.
Nubboo delivered a lengthy report in his native language, and Sir Douglas shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
"We must just chance it," he said. "I daresay it will be all right."
"How horrible!" repeated Lady Munro.
But they reached Eide without further accident, although rain fell steadily during the last hour of the drive.
It is the pleasant and primitive practice at Eide, especially in rainy weather, for the visitors to assemble in the large entrance-hall and verandah to watch the arrival of new-comers.
"If the show had been got up expressly for their benefit, and they had duly paid for their seats, they could not stare more frankly, could they?" laughed the Sahib, as he helped the ladies out of the calesch. "There is not an atom of concealment about it."
"Great privilege for us, upon my soul, to afford so much entertainment!" growled Sir Douglas.
"Won't you come for a turn in the garden before you go up-stairs?" the Sahib asked Mona, when the question of rooms had been settled. "We have five minutes to spare before supper, and there is a fine view of the fjord."
"But alack! what a change after dear, rugged old Stalheim!" she said, as they strolled down to the water's edge. "This might almost be an Interlaken garden."
"Quite tropical, isn't it? But look at the fjord!"
It spread out before them in a soft, hazy golden light, and the tiny waves broke gently on the steps at their feet.
Mona's face kindled. She did not think it necessary to speak.
"And yet," she said a minute later, "it is a cruel fjord. It is going to take us back to civilisation again." And then she could scarcely repress a laugh. Civilisation, indeed! Civilisation in a small shop at Borrowness!
He looked at her quickly. Did she repent of the life-work she had chosen?
"In the stores of your knowledge," he asked presently, his eyes on the hills, "do you include geology?"
"Among the rags and tags of my information," she replied, "I do not." "Oh, Sir Douglas, Sir Douglas," she thought, "you faithless knight!"
"I seem to have put my foot in it," he thought vaguely, "but I cannot imagine how." And so he proceeded to do it again.
"They have a lot of quaint old silver rings at the hotel," he said, as they turned back, "and other ancient Norwegian curios. I should like your opinion of them. Are you an authority on the subject?"
"Far from it," she said. "But I should like very much to see them, and to compare the things I like with the things I ought to like. Pray," she added, with an expression of almost childlike entreaty, "don't let any one persuade you that I am a learned woman. I wish with all my heart that I were, but I'm not, and I can't bear to feel like a hypocrite."
"I don't think any one will ever take you for that," he said, smiling.
"I suppose it must be my own fault," she went on, with curious impulsiveness, not heeding his remark. "I suppose my manner is dogmatic and priggish. But what can I do? When I am interested in a subject, I can't stop to think about my manner."
"If I might venture to advise," he said, "I should certainly say, 'Don't attempt it.'"
The next day they sailed for Odde. The fjord was smooth as glass, and every hamlet and tree on the peaceful hillsides was reflected in the water. It was a day for dreaming rather than for talking, and they scarcely spoke, save when each bay and gorge brought into view a fresh spur of the mighty glacier.
Early in the afternoon they reached Odde, beautiful Odde!—lying close to the edge of the fjord, embraced by the wooded hills, with pretty yachts and steamers at anchor in its bay, and the glacier looking coldly down from the great ice-sea above.
"We might almost be in England again," said Lady Munro, as they sat at lunch in the dining-room of the Hardanger.
"Yes, indeed," said Sir Douglas. "Civilised notions, half-a-dozen people in the place that one knows, two—actually two—shops, and dinners? Evelyn, you had better take a kariol and a tiger, and go shopping on the Boulevard!"
"I was just going to ask for your purse," said Evelyn calmly; "there are no end of things that I want to buy."
Finally, they betook themselves to the shops en famille, and a scene of reckless expenditure ensued. Sir Douglas heaped presents on "the girls," as he called Mona and Evelyn, and Lady Munro seemed to be in a fair way to buy up the whole shop.
"These old silver things are so pretty," she said childishly.
"And, at worst, they will do for bazaars," added Evelyn.
The saleswoman became more and more gracious. She had considerable experience in serving tourists who, with reminiscences of a previous summer in Switzerland or Italy, offered her "a pound for the lot," and her manner had acquired some asperity in consequence; but she quickly adapted herself to the people with whom she had to deal.
Mona watched her with a curious interest and fellow-feeling. "I ought to be picking up hints," she thought, with a smile. "I certainly might have a much worse teacher."
"Let me see. That's eleven and a half kroner," said a showy-looking man, taking a handful of gold and silver from his pocket. "I'll give you ten shillings."
No answer.
"Will you take ten shillings?"
"No, sir," very quietly.
He frowned. "Eleven shillings?"
"No, sir."
"What do you throw off?"
"Not—anything, sir," in slow but very unmistakable English.
He flounced out of the shop, leaving the things lying on the counter.
Not a muscle of the young woman's face changed, as she quietly returned the pretty toys to their place on the shelves.
"Brava!" said Mona to herself.
"A penny for your thoughts, Mona dear," said Evelyn's quiet voice a minute later. "Mr Dickinson has asked you twice how you like this old chatelaine. He wants to buy it for his sister."
Mona laughed and blushed.
"My thoughts are worth more than a penny," she said,—"to me at least." In point of fact, she was wondering whether it would be a part of her duty to say "Sir" and "Madam" to her customers at Borrowness.
In the course of the afternoon the Munros met a number of friends and acquaintances, and the next few days passed gaily away in excursions of all kinds. Night after night the party came home, sunburnt and stiff, but not too tired to enjoy a bright discussion across the pleasant dinner-table. There was nothing very profound about these conversations. Everybody had toiled and climbed enough during the day. Now they were content to fly lightly from crag to crag over a towering difficulty, or to cross a yawning problem on a rainbow bridge.
But after all, they were happy, and the world was not waiting in suspense for their conclusions.
Sunday morning came round all too soon, and on Monday the Munros were to sail for Bergen. Mona was sitting alone on the verandah, watching the people coming to church. The fjord lay sparkling in the sunshine, and from every hamlet and homestead along the coast, as far as the eye could reach, boats were setting out for Odde. As they drew in to the pier, the voluminous white sleeves, stiff halo-like caps, and brilliant scarlet bodices, made a pretty foreground of light and colour in the landscape.
But in the midst of her enjoyment Mona drew a long, deep, heartfelt sigh.
A little later Evelyn joined her. "I have been looking for you everywhere, Mona," she said. "Mr Dickinson has set his heart on going to the Buarbrae glacier to-day. The others all went before we came, and I think it would be insane to tire ourselves the last day. Father says he has not got over that 'Skedaddle' waterfall yet. You don't care to go, do you?"
Mona's eyes were still fixed on the fjord.
"Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die," she said half absently. "I will go with all the pleasure in life."
"Don't be profane, Mona. You are the queerest, cleverest girl that ever lived."
Mona laughed. "I don't consider that I am queer," she said; "I have good reason to know that I'm not clever; and all the world can see that I am not a girl. Otherwise, your description is correct. My compliments to the Sahib, and, if it please his Majesty to take me, I shall be only too glad to go."
"No doubt it will please his Majesty. You should hear how he speaks to Mother about you. You will soon be on a par with that wonderful sister of his. I think he talks too much about his sister, don't you?"
"No. He is among friends. I don't suppose he would do it in a scoffing world. Evelyn, dear, there is no use telling you not to grow cynical. We all do in this used-up age. Cheap, shallow, cynical talk is the shibboleth of the moment, and if we are at all sensitive, it is a necessary armour. But don't carry it into your immediate circle. In heaven's name, let us live frankly and simply at home, or life will indeed be apples of Sodom."
Evelyn looked rather blank. She did not know very well what all this meant, and still less could she see what it had to do with Mr Dickinson's sister. But she felt rebuked, and the words lingered in her memory.
In five minutes more the Sahib and Mona set off.
"What magnificent training you are in!" he said admiringly, as he watched her lithe young figure mount the hill at his side. "Your walking has improved immensely in the last week."
"Yes; one does get rather flabby towards the end of term, in spite of such specifics as tennis. But I don't think the circumstances of our first meeting were very conducive to a just estimate of my powers."
They both laughed at the recollection.
"What an age ago that seems!" he said.
"I am sorry the time has dragged so heavily."
"Nay. The difficulty is to believe that ten days ago I did not know you. Now turn and look behind."
The village had sunk picturesquely into the perspective of the landscape. Beside them the river surged down over the rocks and boulders to the fjord, and the sound of church bells came through the still summer air.
"This is better than being in church," he said.
"Much;—especially when one understands nothing of what is going on. But I am glad I have seen a Norwegian service. It is so simple and primitive, and besides"—she laughed—"I have a mental picture now of Kjelland's Morten Kruse."
"I do go to church as a rule," he said. "In India I consider it a duty."
Mona raised her eyebrows. "I go to church as a rule, too," she said. "But it never occurred to me to look upon it in the light of a duty."
"Don't you think that in that, as in other things, one has to think of one's neighbours?"
"I can't bear the word 'duty' in such a connection. It seems to me, too, that the Spirit of Praise and Prayer bloweth where it listeth. One cannot command it with mathematical precision at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning. The Spirit of Praise comes when one is alone in a world like this. I think we lose our individuality when there is nothing human near to remind us of it, and become as much a part of this great throbbing glorying Nature as the trees and the grass are."
"And the Spirit of Prayer?"
Mona smiled.
"The story of that," she said, "is written on each man's white stone."
"And yet, if most people act on that principle," he said, "they are a little apt to lose the Spirit of Praise and Prayer altogether. Don't you think so?"
Mona did not answer the question for a moment. Then she met the eyes that were fixed on her face. "Yes," she said frankly, "I do."
They walked on for a few minutes in silence.
"And may I ask what you do go to church for?" he said at last. "Don't answer if I take a liberty in asking."
"You don't at all; but it is a little difficult to say. I believe I go to church in order to get some one to think beautiful thoughts for me. When one's life is busy with work that takes all one's brain-power, there is little energy left with which to think beautiful thoughts. One loses sight of the ideal in the actual. I go to church in order to keep hold of it. If I were a seamstress I should probably go out among the hills on Sunday morning and think my beautiful thoughts for myself."
"You make it, in fact, a question of the division of labour. We are to buy our beautiful thoughts ready-made as we buy our boots, because a complicated state of society leaves us no time to make them."
"Precisely; and yet we are not exactly to buy them ready-made. I think it is Robertson who says that a thought is of no use to us, however beautiful, unless it is in a sense our own,—unless it makes us feel that we have been groping round it unconsciously, and all but grasping it. We cry 'Eureka!' when a beautiful thought strikes home, and we become aware for the first time that we have been in search of something. The moral of all this is, that our priest or preacher must be a man with a mind akin to our own, moving on the same plane, but if possible with a wider radius. This granted, his sect and creed are matters of infinitely little moment."
"But it seems to me that books would serve your purpose as well as sermons?"
"They serve the same purpose," she said; "but I am a strong believer in mesmeric influence, in the force of personality. Other things being equal, a voice impresses me much more than a printed page. Oh, I don't place sermons in a unique position by any means, or even sermons and books. It is very much a question of keeping 'a border of pinks round the potato-patch.' All the endless things that open up our horizon might be classed together; they would differ only as to the direction in which they open up the horizon. It is quite true in one sense that I go to church for the same reason that I go to the theatre—to keep myself from getting worldly; but a good sermon—I say a good sermon—has a more direct bearing on the ordinary affairs of life. In fact, it helps us to see not only the ideal, but, as I said before, the ideal in the actual."
"I think I see what you mean, although theatres are not commonly supposed to serve the purpose of keeping one unspotted from the world."
"It seems to me that one can get worldly over anything, from ballet-dancing to sweeping a room, if one does not see beyond it. There is another side to the 'trivial round, the common task' question, true and beautiful as Keble's poem is. Worldliness seems to me to be entirely a question of getting into a rut."
"All you say is very fine," he said; "but, with the curious provincialism of a Londoner—seen from the Anglo-Indian point of view—you are assuming that one has an unlimited number of preachers from whom to choose. What would you do if you were thrown back on one poor specimen of the 'fag end of the clergy'?"
Mona raised her eyes in surprise.
"I should never dream of going to church at all," she said, "unless there was something to be gained from the service."
"And suppose you were in India, where the lives of the English do not exactly tend to bear out the teaching of the missionaries?"
"I should remember that it must be very poor teaching which would be borne out by hypocrisy on my part."
"You would not go for the sake of example?"
"Most assuredly not. I don't believe in conscious influence."
They had come in sight of the Sandven-vand, and the little steamer stood at the pier. There were several other passengers on deck, so further conversation was impossible till they reached the other side. Then they made their way through the quaint old village, and up the bank of the river towards the glacier. Already it was in full view. Wooded hills closed in the valley on either side, and right in front of them the outlet was blocked, as it were, by a glowing, dazzling mountain of ice, snow-white under the cloudless blue sky.
"Oh, I am so glad we came!" And all the light from sky and glacier seemed reflected in Mona's face.
"I thought so," he said, well pleased. "I was sure it would be worth while."
Presently the view was hidden, as they passed under the trees that overarched the river.
"In fact," he said suddenly, as if the conversation had never been interrupted, "you don't believe in letting your light shine before men?"
"That I do!" she answered warmly. "I believe in letting a clear, steady, unvarying light fall alike on the evil and the good. I do not believe in running hysterically round with a farthing dip into every nook and cranny where we think some one may be guided by it."
"You are severe," he said quietly.
"Forgive me!" said Mona. "In truth, it is the metaphor that is too heavy for me: Fools and firearms—'the proverb is something musty.' Let me choose a weapon that I can use, and you will see what I mean.
"Let us say that each man's life is a garden, which he is called upon to cultivate to the best of his ability. Which do you think will do it best,—the man who, regardless of how his garden looks from the road, works honestly and systematically, taking each bed in its turn; or the man who constantly says, 'A. will be coming down the highroad to-day; I must see that the rose-bed is in good condition: or, B. will be looking over the hedge, I must get that turnip-patch weeded,'—and so on?"
It was some time before he answered.
"I think you are a little one-sided, if you will excuse my saying so."
"Please don't talk like that. How could I help being grateful for an honest opinion?—the more unlike my own, the better for me. Was I dogmatic again? Please remember that, whatever I say, I am feeling after the truth all the time."
He looked at her, smiling.
"But such as your metaphor is, let us carry it a little bit farther. Let us suppose that your garden is laid out in a land where the soil is poor and the people are starving. You know of a vegetable which would abundantly repay the trouble of cultivation, and would make all the difference between starvation and comparative comfort; but no one will believe in it. We will suppose that you yourself have ample means of livelihood, and are not dependent on any such thing. Would you not, nevertheless, sacrifice the symmetry of your flower-beds and grow my imaginary vegetable, if only to convince 'A. who comes down the highroad, and B. who looks over the hedge,' that starvation is needless?"
Mona smiled and held out her hand.
"Well said!" she cried cordially. "A good answer, and given with my own clumsy weapon. I admit that I would try to exercise 'conscious influence' in the very rare cases in which I felt called upon to be a reformer. But I am glad that is not required of me in the matter of church-going."
"And the whole, wide, puzzling subject of Compromise?" he said. "Is there nothing in that?"
Mona's face became very grave. "Yes," she said, "there is a great deal in that—though I believe, as some one says, that we studiously refrain from hurting people in the first instance, only to hurt them doubly and trebly when the time comes—there is a great deal in the puzzling subject of Compromise; but it has not come much into my life. There has been no one to care——"
Suddenly she laughed again and changed the subject abruptly.
"It is so odd," she said, "so natural, so like our humanity, that we should argue like this—you in favour of conscious influence, I against it—and I make not the smallest doubt that your life is incomparably simpler, franker, more straightforward than mine."
"That I do not believe," he said emphatically.
She looked at him with interest.
"I suppose you really don't. I suppose you are quite unconscious of being a moral Antiseptic?"
"A what?" he asked with pretended horror. "It doesn't sound very nice."
"Doesn't it? I should think it must be rather nice to make the world sweeter, sounder, wholesomer, simply by being one's self."
"Miss Maclean—you are very kind!"
"I wish I could say the same of you! I call it most unkind to make that conventional remark in response to a simple and candid statement of a fact."
"It was not conventional. I meant it. It is most kind of a man's friends to give expression now and then to the good things they think about him. One almost wonders why they do it so seldom. The world is ready enough to give him the other side of the question. The truth is—I was thinking how very difficult it would be to formulate a definition of you."
Mona put her fingers in her ears with unaffected alarm.
"Oh, please don't," she said. "That would be a mean revenge indeed. It is one thing to say frankly the thought that is in our mind, and quite another to go afield in search of our opinion of a friend. There is a crude brutality about the latter process."
"True," he said. "And I did not mean to attempt it. In fact, I should not dream of pigeon-holing you."
"You are unkind to-day. Did I deny that you were fifty other things besides an Antiseptic? and may not an Antiseptic have fifty other chemical properties even more important than that one? Who talks of pigeon-holing?"
"You must have the last word, I see."
"Womanlike!" she said, pretending to sneer.
"Womanlike!" he repeated mischievously.
"And now, pray note that I have presented you with the last word. Any woman could answer that taunt. Instead, I inquire what that shanty on the hill is?"
"That shanty, as you are pleased to call it, is the hotel and restaurant of the place. Shall we have lunch now, or after we have been on the glacier?"
"Oh, after! I cannot rest until I have felt the solid ice under my feet."
This proved to be no very easy achievement; but after a good deal of climbing, Mona's ambition was realised. Then they scrambled down to watch the water surging out from under the deep blue arches; and at last, tired and dishevelled, they betook themselves to the inn.
"I hope you are as hungry as I am," he said, with the old boyish manner, "and I hope we shall find something we can eat."
The "shanty" was clean and airy, with well-scoured floors, but the remains of lunch on the table certainly did not look very inviting,—a few transparent slices of Gruyère cheese, which seemed to have been all holes, some uninteresting-looking biscuits, and doubtful sausage.
"Have you coffee and eggs?" asked the Sahib. "Ah—that will do, won't it?"
"Coffee and eggs are food for the gods," said Mona.
"Or would be, if they did not spoil their appetites with nectar and ambrosia," he corrected; and they laughed and talked over the impromptu meal like a couple of children.
"How many ladies are there studying medicine just now?" asked the Sahib as they walked slowly homewards.
"Women? I don't quite know. About a hundred in the country, I should think."
"And what do the—I am afraid I had almost said the stronger sex—say to this infringement of their imagined rights?"
Mona looked at his stalwart, athletic figure.
"Pray don't apologise for calling them the stronger sex to me," she said, laughing. "I am not at all disposed to try my strength against yours. Oh, of course there was immense opposition at first. That is matter of history now. But it would be difficult to exaggerate the kindness and helpfulness of most of the younger men; and a few of the older ones have been heroes all along."
"That is a 'good hearing.' Then do you think it could all have been managed without opposition, by dint of a little waiting?"
"That I don't!" she answered warmly. "The first women, who were determined not merely to creep in themselves but to open up the way for others, must have suffered obloquy and persecution from all but the very few, at any time. If the lives of a little band of women—I had almost said if the life of one woman—could be blotted out, I wonder how many of us would have the courage to stand where we now do? It is a pretty and a wonderful sight, perhaps, to see a band of young girls treading the uphill path and singing as they go. 'How easy it is,' they say, 'and how sweet we make it with our flowers!' No doubt they do, and heaven bless them for it! But it has always seemed to me that the bit of eternal work was the making of the road."
She spoke with so much earnestness that the Sahib was almost uneasy.
"That is more than true," he said warmly. "It is the working of a universal principle. You know," he added shyly, "if you were, going to take to a public life, I wonder you did not think of the platform."
"The platform!" Mona laughed merrily. "If you put me on the platform with an audience in front of me, I should do what a fellow-student tells me she did on receipt of my last letter—'sit on the floor and howl'!"
They both laughed. This anti-climax brought them comfortably down to everyday life again, and they talked about pleasant nothings for the rest of the way.
"Look here, Dickinson," said Sir Douglas, when they entered the hotel; "I won't have you walking off with Mona for a whole day together. She is my property. Do you hear?”
"I am sure it was I who discovered her on the hillside,"
Mona held up her finger protestingly.
"Oh, I am Sir Douglas's invention, without a doubt," she said, putting her hand affectionately within her uncle's arm; "you only rediscovered me accidentally. What a pity it is that every great invention cannot speak for itself and give honest men their due!"
The Sahib was very silent as he sat in the smoking-room that evening. He held a newspaper before him, for he did not wish to be disturbed; but he was not reading.
In India he was looked upon almost as a woman-hater, so little did he care for the society of the young girls who came out there; and Mona's "cleverness" and culture, her earnest views of life, and the indefinable charm of manner which reminded him of Lady Munro, had all combined to make his short friendship with her a very genuine pleasure. Already he found himself thinking half-a-dozen times a day, "I wonder what Miss Maclean would say about this," or "I shall ask Miss Maclean her opinion of that;" and yet what a curious girl she was! It was a new experience to him to be told by an attractive young woman that he was a "moral Antiseptic"; and, in short, she puzzled him. Women always are a terra incognita to men, as men are to women, as indeed every individual soul is to every other; but it might have been well for both of them if the Sahib could have read Mona at that moment even as well as she read him. He would have seen that she looked upon him precisely as she looked upon the women who were her friends; that it never occurred to her that he was man, and she woman, and that nothing more was required for the enaction of the time-worn drama; that, although she had taken no school-girl vow against matrimony, the idea of it had never seriously occupied her mind, so full was that mind of other thoughts and plans. He would have seen that the excitement and enthusiasm of adolescence had taken with her the form of an earnest determination to live to some good purpose; and that the thousand tastes and fancies, which had grouped themselves around this central determination, were not allowed seriously to usurp its place for a moment.
But he did not see. He could only infer, and guess, and wonder.