CHAPTER L.
SUCCESS OR FAILURE?
Once more the lists were posted at the door of the university, and once more a group of eager faces had gathered round to read them. Presently a tall figure came swinging down the street, and, ignoring the Pass-list altogether, made straight for the Honours.
It was all right,—better than he had dared to hope.
ANATOMY.
First Class.
DUDLEY, RALPH, St Kunigonde's Hospital.
Exhibition and Gold Medal.
Ralph's heart gave a great leap of thanksgiving.
"Now," he said almost audibly, "I can go down to Borrowness, and ask Miss Maclean in so many words to be my wife."
As if the paper in front of him had heard the words, his eye caught the name Maclean below his own. He looked again. Yes, there was no imagination about it.
PHYSIOLOGY.
First Class.
MACLEAN, MONA, Lond. Sch. of Med. for Women.
Exhibition and Gold Medal.
Mona Maclean—her name was Margaret. She had told him so that day at Castle Maclean, and he had seen it in a well-worn prayer-book in Mr Ewing's church. But the coincidence was a curious one. He turned sharply round and touched a fellow-student on the arm.
"Who," he said hastily, "is Miss Mona Maclean?"
"Miss Maclean? Oh, she is one of their great dons at the Women's School. She took a First Class in Botany the year I passed my Prel. Sci."
Certainly it was only a coincidence. No doubt this woman was an out-and-out blue-stocking, in spite of her pretty name; and even in the matter of brains he did not believe she was a patch upon his princess.
He knew his old aunt would be delighted to hear of his success, but he would not telegraph, lest by any chance the news should leak round to Mona. He wanted to tell her himself. She had been so interested the day he had told her the story of his life. He had not concealed its failures, and he wanted to tell her with his own lips of this first little bit of success. For, after all, it was a success to be M'Diarmid's medallist. No man who had scamped his work could possibly hold such a position as that; and Miss Maclean was so quick, so sympathetic, she would see in a moment how much it meant. It seemed almost too good to be true, that this time to-morrow he would be sitting with her, alone on her storm-tossed battlements, free to talk of his love, and to draw her secret from half-willing lips—free to build all sorts of castles in the air, and to sketch the bold outline of a perfect future.
He looked at his watch, and wondered how he was to exist till eight o'clock, when the night express left for Edinburgh. He scarcely heard the congratulations that were heaped upon him by one and another of his friends, so eager was he to hear what she would say.
The examination was over now—well over. He was free for the first time to give the reins to his thoughts, and to follow whithersoever they beckoned; and a wild dance they led him, over giddy heights that made his brain reel and his pulse leap high with infinite longing. The dusty streets might have been Elysian fields for all he knew; in so far as he saw outward things at all, he saw them through a rose-hued medium of love. Introspection was almost dead within him—almost, but not quite—enough remained to fill him with intensest gratitude that this complete abandonment should have come to him.
"Oh let the solid ground not fail beneath my feet,
Before my life has found what some have found so sweet!"
How often he had uttered those words, scarcely daring to hope that his prayer would be granted; and now he had found what he longed for, and surely no man before had ever found it so sweet.
"Holloa! cutting old friends already?" said a merry voice in his ear. "Some people are very quickly blinded by success."
"Why, Melville, what brings you here?"
"I was on my way to the university to find out how many medals you have got. Your face proclaims four at least."
"I am sorry it is so deceptive. I have only got one."
"Anatomy?"
"Anatomy."
"Played! Anything else?"
"No. A second class in chemistry."
"And that's nothing? We have grown very high and mighty all of a sudden. Who's got the medal in physiology?"
"A woman!"
"Name?"
"Miss—Maclean, I think;" and Dudley was amazed to find himself blushing.
"When do you go down?"
"To-night."
"That's right! But look here, dear boy. Take a word of advice with you. Keep out of the way of the siren!"
"You go to——!" Dudley stopped short, but his eyes flashed fire.
"It's a curious thing," he observed cynically, "how a man can go through half his life without learning to hold his tongue about his private affairs."
Melville raised his eyebrows, and whistled a few notes of a popular music-hall ditty.
For about a hundred yards the two walked on in silence. Then Ralph put his hand in his friend's arm.
"Don't talk to me about it, Jack," he said, "there's a good fellow, but I have been the most confounded snob that ever lived."
Nothing more was said till they parted at the street corner, and then Melville stood and watched his friend out of sight.
"Another good man gone wrong!" he observed philosophically; and, shrugging his shoulders, he made his way back to the hospital.
The long day and the interminable night were over.
"Even an Eastern Counties train
Must needs come in at last."
And Dudley did actually find himself alighting at the familiar little station on a bright August morning. Never before had his home seemed so attractive to him. The strong east wind was like wine, fleecy clouds chased each other across a brilliant blue sky, and the first mellow glow was just beginning to tinge the billowy acres of corn. The tall trees at the foot of his aunt's garden threw broken shadows across the quiet lawn. The beds were bright with old-fashioned flowers, and the house, with its pillared portico, rose, white and stately, beyond the sweep of the carriage-drive.
"Welcome home, doctor!" said the gatekeeper's wife, curtseying low as Ralph passed the lodge. "You're gey late this year. Jeames cam' through frae Edinbury a fortnight syne."
"I suppose so," said Ralph, smiling pleasantly; "how is he getting on?"
"Vera weel, I thank ye, sir! He's brocht a prize buik wi' him this time;" and the good woman's face beamed with triumph. To the great pride of his family, the gatekeeper's son was studying "to be a meenister."
Mrs Hamilton came out to the door to meet her nephew, and a pang shot through Ralph's heart as he saw how frail she looked.
"Why, I declare," he said, putting his arm round her affectionately, "my old lady has been missing her scapegrace."
"Conceited as ever," she said, returning his caress, but the rare tears stole into her eyes as she spoke.
"You dear old thing! why didn't you send for me? And Burns, too, promised to let me know."
"Nonsense, laddie! There's nothing wrong. I have never been ill. I am getting to be an old woman, that's all; and I'm not so fond of east winds as I once was. Run up-stairs while Dobson infuses the tea, and then come and tell me all about the examination."
The breakfast parlour was bright with flowers, and the table was laden with good things. The window stood open, and the bees hummed in and out in a flood of sunshine.
"Grouse already!" exclaimed Ralph.
"Yes; Lord Kirkhope and Sir Roderick have each sent a brace."
"What it is to live with the belle of the country-side, as they say in the story-books!"
"What it is to live with a spoilt and impertinent nephew! Very well done, Ralph! I have no patience with a man who does not know how to carve."
"Carving ought to come easy to the Gold Medallist in Anatomy, oughtn't it?" he said mischievously.
"Are you really that?"
"At your service."
"And you have not shown it to me yet!"
"Bless the old darling! I shall not see it myself till May. The object of the medal is to remind a man of the mountain of learning he has contrived to—forget!"
Mrs Hamilton laughed.
"How long a holiday can you take, Ralph?" she asked presently.
"A month. I ought to get back to hospital then, if you are—sick of my company."
"Oh, I'll be that, never fear! and I suppose you would have no objection to spending a few weeks with me up in the Highlands, when you get a little rested. It's not like me, but I've a great longing for a change."
"I daresay it would be a good plan," he answered very gravely; and, quick as she was, she did not guess the throb of dismay that shot through his heart.
"You do look tired, Ralph, in spite of yourself," she said a moment later. "Your room is all ready. Go and lie down for a few hours."
"No, no," he said restlessly. "I can't sleep during the day. Let us have a drive; and this afternoon, while you have your nap, I will go and smool on the beach. That rests me more than anything."
Smool! Oh Ralph!
He never doubted that he would find Mona at Castle Maclean. She went there so often, and now she must know well that any day might bring him, and that he would seek her there. He had rehearsed the meeting so often in his mind; and unconsciously he rehearsed it again this afternoon, as he strode down the little footpath that led through the fields to the sea. The tide was out. That was disappointing. Sun-lit waves, rocking festoons of Fucus on their bosom, had always formed part of his mental picture; but now the great brown trails hung dry and motionless, from the burning rocks, in the strong afternoon sun.
Never mind! It was of no consequence after all. Two minutes hence, he and she would have little thought to spare for the tide and the Fucus. Ralph quickened his steps and leapt up the side of the rock.
But Castle Maclean was empty.
"I need not have been in such a confounded hurry," he muttered irritably, as he looked at his watch. "Miss Simpson's mid-day dinner won't be over yet."
But two hours passed away, and no one came.
Miss Simpson's mid-day dinner must certainly be over now. Ralph was bitterly disappointed. Miss Maclean had always shown herself so much quicker, more perceptive, than he had dared to hope. Why did she fail him now, just when he had depended on her most? It took half the poetry out of their relationship, to think that she had not understood, that she had not counted on this meeting as he had.
He made up his mind to go home; but he overrated his own resolution; and in an incredibly short space of time, the bell of Miss Simpson's shop rang as he opened the door.
The shop was disappointing too. Everything was disappointing to-day! There was no lack of new goods, but they were displayed with a want of design and harmony that jarred on his over-strained nerves; and, to crown all, an "air with variations" was being very indifferently played on a cracked piano up-stairs. The music stopped at the sound of the bell, and a young woman came down-stairs.
"Genus minx, species vulgaris." A moment was sufficient to settle that question. Ralph was so taken aback that it did not even occur to him to ask for india-rubber.
"Is Miss Simpson in?" he said at last.
"Oh lor'! no, sir. Miss Simpson sailed for America nearly a week ago. My pa bought the business, and he means to conduct it on quite a different scale. What is the first thing I can show you to-day, air?"
He tried to ask for Miss Maclean, but he could not bring her name over his lips; so, lifting his hat, he hastily left the shop.
He emptied his first glass of wine at dinner, before he ventured to broach the subject to his aunt.
"You did not tell me Miss Simpson had emigrated," he said suddenly.
"Miss Simpson! What Miss Simpson? Bless the boy! he's developing quite a taste for local gossip. I only heard it myself three or four days ago. It seems that niece—whom you thought such a genius, by the way—went to America some time ago, and now her aunt has gone to join her."
"Nonsense! I mean"—Ralph laughed rather nervously—"I can't conceive of any one sending across the Atlantic for old Simpson. And, besides—that—young lady—wasn't her niece at all, auntie mine. She was a distant cousin."
"I think you are mistaken, dear. The young woman told me herself she was Miss Simpson's niece, and I suppose she ought to know."
Dimly it occurred to Ralph that he and his aunt must be talking of two different people; but his mind was in such a whirl of bewilderment that reflection was impossible, and as soon as dinner was over, he escaped to his own room, on the true plea of a racking headache.
What had happened? Was it all a hideous nightmare, from which he would awake with infinite relief; or was some evil genius really turning his life upside down? What an infernal idiot he had been not to speak out plainly six months ago! And to think that he had waited only for this examination,—this trumpery bit of child's-play! Perhaps she had expected him to write, perhaps she had gone to America in despair; at all events, she had vanished out of his life like the heroine of a fairy tale, and he had not the vaguest notion where to look for her.
Then saner thoughts began to take form in his mind. He was living, after all, in the latter part of the nineteenth century. People could not vanish now-a-days and leave no trace. There must be many in Borrowness who could tell him where she was.
Yes; but who were they? He knew few people in the place, and he could not go round from door to door making enquiries.
At last, with a rush of thankfulness, he bethought himself of Mr Stuart and Matilda Cookson. Both of them were sure to know where Miss Maclean had gone. He looked at his watch—yes, it was past his aunt's bedtime, and not too late to drop in on Stuart. He told the servants not to sit up if he should be late, and then he walked along the highroad to Kirkstoun, at a pace few men could have equalled.
Once more disappointment awaited him. Mr Stuart was away for a month's holiday, and the manse was occupied by his "supply." Dudley was certainly not intimate enough with the Cooksons to pay them a visit at this hour; so he was forced, sorely against his will, to postpone his enquiries until the next day.
"I suppose the Cooksons will be away for August too," he said to himself many times during that restless night; but Fortune favoured him at last. When he opened the garden-gate next day, he found Matilda and her father on the lawn.
"Come away, doctor!" cried Mr Cookson heartily. "I have got some cigars here that you won't get a chance to smoke every day of your life. Come and tell us your news!"
Fully half an hour passed before Dudley contrived to bring the conversation round to Rachel Simpson's departure.
"And has Miss Maclean gone to America too?" he said indifferently, with his eyes fixed on the curling wreaths of tobacco-smoke.
"Oh, bless my soul, no!" cried Mr Cookson, slapping his visitor on the knee. "Did you never hear that story? It was excellent,—excellent! Where do you think I saw Miss Maclean last? Driving in Hyde Park in as elegant a carriage as ever I wish to see. There was another lady with her—leaning back, you know, with their lace and their parasols,"—Mr Cookson attempted somewhat unsuccessfully to demonstrate the attitude of the ladies in question,—"and a young man riding alongside. A tip-top turn-out altogether, I warrant you."
Dudley's face darkened, but he waited for his host to go on.
"I had got wind of it before she left us," Mr Cookson continued complacently, "from something Colonel Lawrence let drop, and we had her here to dinner; a fine girl, a fine girl! I remember when I was a boy hearing what a successful man her grandfather was; but her people had been out of the place so long, one never thought of one of them coming back. Matilda knew about it all along, it seems; and she and Miss Maclean were fast friends, but she kept it very close."
"I found it out by accident," Matilda said with dignity; "but no one with any perception could see Miss Maclean and question that she was a lady."
"I quite agree with you," Dudley said gravely; "but did Miss Maclean confide to you what induced her to come masquerading down here?"
He regretted the words the moment they were spoken, but it was too late to recall them.
Matilda's face flushed.
"If you knew Miss Maclean at all," she said, "you would be ashamed to say that. She was not always wondering what people would think of somebody's cousin, or somebody else's niece; she was her very own self. The fact that she had grand relations did not make Miss Simpson any the less her cousin. It was as easy to Miss Maclean to claim kindred with a vulgar woman in a shop as with a fine lady in a ballroom."
This was hyperbolical, no doubt; but as Dudley listened to it, he wondered whether Mona could safely be judged by the influence she had had on Matilda Cookson.
One question more he had to ask. "Is she a medical student?"
"Bless my soul, no!" laughed Mr Cookson. "She has no need to do anything for herself. In a small way she is an heiress."
This was rash; but, after acting the part of the one who knows, Mr Cookson was unwilling to own his ignorance; and, his idea of medical women being vague and alarming in the extreme, it never crossed his mind that an attractive, well-to-do young lady like Miss Maclean could possibly belong to their ranks.
Ralph turned to Matilda.
"Do you know where Miss Maclean is now?" he said. "In London?"
"I had a letter from her yesterday," Matilda answered proudly, drawing an oft-perused document from her pocket. "She is just starting with a party of friends to travel in Switzerland."
"What a magnificent araucaria that is!" Dudley said suddenly.
"It would need be," replied Mr Cookson. "It cost me a pretty penny, I can tell you."
Then Dudley rose to go. His manner was playful, but his heart was welling over with bitterness. He did not realise the position in which he had placed the woman he loved; it did not occur to him to think how much worse it would have been if she had run after him, instead of appearing to run away. He could not believe that she was false, and yet—how she had deceived him! What madness it was ever to trust to the honesty of a woman's eyes!
"Well, old boy!" he said to himself cynically, as he walked back to Carlton Lodge, "are we going to write our 'Sorrows of Werther' once again?”