CHAPTER XXV.
A VOICE IN THE FOG.
A dense fog hung over the city.
Doris and Mona had spent half the day among the shops and stores, and Mona was in a glow of satisfaction. She was convinced that no human being had ever made a ten-pound note go so far before, and it was with difficulty that she could be induced to talk of anything else.
Doris was much amused. She believed in letting people "gang their ain gait," and a day with Mona was worth having under most conditions; but how any intelligent human being could elect to spend it so, was more than she could divine.
"It would have come to all the same in the end," she said, laughing, "if you had sent a general order to the Stores, and left the details to them; and it would have saved a vast amount of energy."
"Ah!" said Mona. When the two girls were together, Mona felt about petty things what Doris felt about great ones, that one must not expect absolute sympathy even from one's dearest friends.
By common consent, however, they dropped into St James's Hall for an hour, when their work was over, to refresh themselves with a little music. The overture to Tannhäuser was the last item on the programme, and Mona would have walked twenty miles any day to hear that. It was dark when they left the building, and the fog had reduced the sphere of each street lamp to a radius of two or three yards; but Mona could easily have found her way home to "blessed Bloomsbury" with her eyes shut. Doris was going to the Reynolds' to supper, to meet Lucy for the first time, and her aunt's brougham was to fetch her at night.
"Listen, Mona," she said suddenly, as they made their way along Piccadilly, "there are two men behind us discussing your beloved Tannhäuser."
This was interesting. Mona mentally relinquished her knick-knacks, and pricked up her ears.
At first she could only hear something about "sheer noise," "hideous crash of chords," "gospel of din"; but a moment later the hand that rested on Doris's arm twitched involuntarily, for the mellow, cultured voice that took up the discussion was strangely familiar.
"My dear fellow, to my mind that is precisely the point of the whole thing. The Pilgrims' Chorus is beautiful and suggestive when one hears it simply and alone, in its own special sphere, so to speak; but when it rises clear, steady, and unvarying, without apparent exertion, above all the reiterated noise and crash and distraction of the world, the flesh, and the devil,—why, then, it is an inspiration. It becomes triumphant by sheer force of continuing to be itself."
The first voice said something about "want of melody." and then the deep bass went on,—
"I am not at all learned in the discussion from a technical point of view. To my mind it is simply a question of making the opera an organic whole,—not a collection of works of art, but one work of art. Take Don Juan for instance——"
The men turned down a side street, and the voices died away in the distance.
"What a beautiful voice!" said Doris.
"Yes."
"Do you know, Mona, I think that must have been a nice man."
"Because of the voice?"
"Because of the voice, and because of what the voice said. Young men don't talk like that as a rule."
"How do you know he was young?"
"I am sure that 'my dear fellow' was not more than twenty-five."
"Twenty-seven, I should think," said Mona reflectively.
Doris laughed. "You are very exact. Or is it that you have gone back to the inkstands?"
Mona sighed. "Yes," she said gravely, "I have gone back to the inkstands."
There was silence for a few minutes.
"I should like to know who that young man was," said Doris presently.
"Why, Doris, you are coming out in a new rôle. It is not like you to be interested in a young man."
"The more reason why I should be interested in an exceptional one."
"You dear old Doris!" said Mona affectionately. "He talks well, certainly; but what if talking be, like Gretchen's beauty, his Yerderben?"
"I don't think it likely—not that kind of talking."
"Assuredly that kind—if any."
But she thought, "Not any. He has chosen the right corrective. If he possesses the gift of utterance, he will at least have something to utter."
"It has been such a delightful week," said Doris, "and now another nice long railway journey with you to-morrow will bring it all to an end. You are a highly privileged mortal, Mona, to be able to order your life as you choose."
Mona smiled without replying. This was a well-worn subject of debate.
"I know what you are going to say," continued Doris. "But it is no use asking me. I don't know which of those little inkstands was the best, and I think you did very wisely in ordering an equal number of both."
"Yes," said Mona; "and the hinges were so strong, weren't they? That is the point to look to in a cheap inkstand."
"What an age you have been!" said Lucy, as they entered the dining-room, where she was seated by the fire, arrayed in her comfortable dressing-gown. "I was just going to send the bellman after you. So glad to meet you, Miss Colquhoun."
"She is not so pretty as I am," Lucy thought, "but Mona will never see that."
Certainly Lucy's interest in the afternoon's shopping abundantly atoned for Doris's lofty indifference. "Of course, you had to have the things sent straight to the station," she said, "but I do wish I could have gone with you. Tell me all about it. Where did you go first?"
Fortunately Mr Reynolds came in at this moment, so Doris was not forced to go over all the ribbons and flowers and note-paper and what-nots again.
"Keep a thing seven years, and its use will come," said Mona. "My childish passion for shop-windows and pretty things has stood me in good stead, you see. You have no idea how crisp and fresh all the things looked. The shop will simply be another place. I need not blush now whenever a new customer comes in."
"How I wish I could come and see it!" said Lucy. "I am sure I could 'dress a window' beautifully. Do you think Borrowness would do me as much good as the Riviera? It would come a great deal cheaper, would not it?"
"Much," said Mona, smiling; "but the cutting east wind has a knack of finding out one's weak places, and you must not forget that you have a traitor in the garrison now."
"It is so awfully unfortunate! My fees are paid, and of course there have been a lot of new books this term. Father simply cannot afford to send me away."
"Don't fret. I think you will find that it can be done very cheaply."
"Cheapness is a relative thing. You must remember that our whole income does not come to much more than yours."
"Well, at least your board here would be saved."
In point of fact, Mona had already written to Lady Munro about her friend's illness, and she hoped the answer would be an invitation to Lucy to spend a month or two at Cannes. Mona knew that the Munros were not at all the kind of people who are on the outlook for opportunities to benefit their fellow-men, but for that very reason they might be the more likely to do a graceful action that actually came in their way. The arrangement was extremely awkward, so far as she herself was concerned, for she did not mean the Munros to know that she was spending the winter at Borrowness. However, that was a minor and selfish consideration, and no doubt it could be arranged somehow.
In the midst of the conversation supper was announced. It was a homely meal, but the simplest proceedings always acquired a charm and dignity when Mr Reynolds took part in them. As soon as it was over he took Mona aside.
"Dr Bateson tells me it is very desirable that Lucy should get into a warmer climate for a month or two," he said, "before a rheumatic habit has any chance to assert itself. I am anxious to send her to the south of France, and I want you to tell me how it can be cheaply and satisfactorily done. I need not tell you, after what you saw of our life when you were with us, that Lucy's education is a heavy strain upon my purse. In fact, I give it to her because a profession is almost the only provision I can make for her future. I never allow myself to be absolutely unprepared for an unexpected drain; but Lucy's hospital fees have just been paid, and altogether this has come at a most unfortunate time."
"I know very little about the matter at present," said Mona, "but I can easily make enquiries, as I have friends in the Riviera now. My impression is, that you can do it satisfactorily, and at the same time cheaply; but I will let you know before the end of the week."
"If my aunt declines to rise to the occasion," she thought, "I will manage by hook or by crook to make them take the money from me."
Meanwhile Doris and Lucy were getting on together pretty well. Doris was shy, but she was prejudiced in Lucy's favour by the fact that she was a woman and a medical student. Lucy was not at all shy, but she was somewhat prejudiced against Doris by the fact that she was Mona's oldest friend.
"Did not Mona look lovely at Mrs Percival's 'At Home'?" asked Lucy. "She always looks nice; but in that blue velvet, with her old lace and pearls, I think she is like an empress."
"She has a very noble face, and a very lovable face. I suppose she is not beautiful, though it is not always easy to believe it."
"Was she a great success?"
"I don't think I quite know what you mean by a success. Mona never commands a room. Perhaps she might if she laid herself out to do it. Every one who spoke to her seemed much interested in her conversation."
This was scarcely to the point. What Lucy wanted to know was whether Mona had proved "fetching"; but Doris's serene face was not encouraging, and she dared not ask.
"Mona is a fortunate being," she said.
"Oh, very!"
"It must be delightful to have plenty of new gowns and all sorts of pretty things."
Doris looked aghast. Mona sometimes talked in this way, but then Mona was—Mona. No one could look at her face and suspect her of real frivolity; but this child ought to be careful.
"It must be a great deal more delightful to be able to study medicine," she said, with a little more warmth than she intended.
Lucy shrugged her shoulders. "Oh yes," she said, uncertain whether she was speaking in jest or in earnest. Then she laughed,—
"So ist es in der Welt;
Der Eine hat den Beutel,
Der Andere das Geld."
"The fact is, our circles did not overlap much." she confided to Mona afterwards. "Our circumferences just touched somewhere about the middle of your circle."
"You see, Doris is a great soul."
"Ample reason, truly, why her circle should not coincide with mine. But you know, Mona, she would be a deal more satisfactory if she were a little less great, or a little small as well."
"She told me you were a dear little thing, and so pretty."
"She's not pretty!"
"Perhaps not, but she is fascinating, just because she never tries to fascinate. A man of the world said to me at that 'At Home,' that Miss Colquhoun was just the woman to drive a man over head and ears in love."
"Did he really? Miss Colquhoun? How queer! What did you say?"
"I cordially agreed with him."
"But has she had many offers?"
"She would not talk of them if she had; but you may take it as broadly true, that every man of her acquaintance is either living in hope, or has practically—I say practically—been rejected."
"Oh, Mona, that is a large order! You see, the fact is, I am jealous of Miss Colquhoun."
"My dear Pussy! Doris and I were chums before you were born."
"Raison de plus! Look here, dear! you say things to me that you would not say to her?"
"Oh yes!"
"And you don't say things to her that you would not say to me?"
"Oh yes!"
Lucy laughed, discomfited. "I choose not to believe it," she said.
Mona kissed her affectionately. "Come, that is right! With that comfortable creed for a pillow, you ought to have an excellent night.”