CHAPTER V.
"AN AGATE KNIFE-EDGE."
It is doubtful whether Mona had ever received such a shock in the whole course of her life.
She had always been told, and she had gloried in the knowledge, that her father's father was a self-made man; but the very fact that she did thus glory was a proof, perhaps in more ways than one, that the process of "making" had been a very complete one. She vaguely knew, but she did not in the least realise, what people may be before they are "made." She had taken for granted, as she told Lucy, that her cousin Rachel was "not exactly what one would call a lady;" but she had unconsciously pictured to herself a pretty cottage embowered in roses, a simple primitive life, early dinners, occasional afternoon calls, rare tea-parties, and abundant leisure for walking, reading, thinking, and dreaming on the rocks. Her love for the sea, and especially for the wild east coast, amounted almost to a passion, which hitherto she had had but little opportunity of gratifying; and this love, perhaps, had weighed with her as much as anything else, in the decision she had made.
She had talked with pride of the "good old yeoman blood" in her veins, but principle and dainty nurture shrank alike from the idea of the middleman—the shop.
She did not dream of withdrawing from the rashly concluded bargain. That simple way out of the difficulty never suggested itself to her mind. "After all, could I have done any better?" she said. "Even if Sir Douglas and my aunt took more than a passing interest in me, should I be content to devote my life to them? Nay, verily!" But all her philosophy could not save her from a mauvais quart d'heure—nor from a restless wakeful night—after she had read the letter.
And yet the situation appealed irresistibly to her sense of humour.
"If only Lucy were here to enjoy it!" she said. And she found the necessary relief to her feelings in a long letter to her friend.
"I can see you turn pale at the word shop," she wrote, "as I confess I did myself; but I suppose your youthful and untrammelled imagination has taken flight at once to Parkins & Gotto or Marshall & Snelgrove. My dear, let me inform you at once that the town contains less than two thousand inhabitants; and now, will you kindly reflect on the number of cubic feet which the Parkins & Gotto and Marshall & Snelgrove of such a place would find ample for the bestowal of their wares. My own impression is, that my sitting-room would afford sufficient accommodation for both, and I am not sure that there would not be room for Fortnum & Mason to boot.
"If I only knew what I am to sell, it would be some relief. Tobacco was my first thought, but the place is not big enough to support a tobacconist. At whisky I draw the line—and yet, on second thoughts, I don't. If it is tobacco or whisky—behold my life-work! But if it is toffee and ginger-bread horses, and those ghastly blue balls—what are they for, by the way?—may the Lord have mercy upon my soul!"
She mentioned her meeting with the Munros, and the projected trip to Norway, and then—
"I hope the grocer duly congratulated you over the counter," she concluded. "I take a fraternal interest in his behaviour now, and with characteristic catholicity I have gone further afield, and have imagined the very words in which the postman delivered his tit-bit of information, I have even pictured the farmers forgetting the price of hay, and the state of the crops, in the all-absorbing topic of the hour.
"Your affectionate friend,
"MONA MACLEAN."
"And now," she said to herself, as she surveyed the alarming array of trunks and packing-cases which the servants had placed in the room,—"now I am in the position commonly described as having my work cut out for me! The valise must do for Norway, that trunk and hat-box for Borrowness, and all the rest must be warehoused at Tilbury's."
The consideration of her wardrobe provided food for some reflection and a good deal of amusement.
"Pity there is no time to write to the Queen for information as to outfit desirable for six months in a small shop at Borrowness!" she thought.
Finally, she decided on a plain tailor-made tweed, a dark-coloured silk, a couple of pretty cotton morning-gowns, and a simple evening-dress, "in case of emergency," she said, but she knew in her heart that no such emergency would arise.
"The good folks will think those sweetly simple, and befitting the state of life to which it has pleased Providence to call me," she said. "They would stare a little if they knew what I had paid for them, I fancy. Borrowness 'versteht so was nicht,' as my dear old Frau used to say of Pauline and the asparagus."
In the midst of her work Sir Douglas and Evelyn came in on some mythical errand. Lady Munro would have come herself, but she was so busy. Sir Douglas was in high spirits. It really was true of him, what Lady Munro had graciously said of all of them, that Mona's going made the greatest difference in the pleasure of the tour. From the point of view of personal companionship he had long since exhausted his wife, and Evelyn was still too crude and insipid to be thought of in that capacity. To his peculiar, and possibly morbid, taste, Mona's society had all the piquancy which was as desirable to his mind as were Nubboo's curries to his jaded Anglo-Indian palate.
It was sad work that packing. Many a bright hope and lofty ambition was buried with the books and instruments in the great wooden cases; and who could tell whether there would be any resurrection? Mona felt that another fortnight of life would bring her to the end of all things. "A world of failure and blighted enthusiasm behind," she said, "a wild waste of vulgarity and mediocrity in front; and here I stand for an instant poised on an 'agate knife-edge' of fashion and luxury and popularity. Carpe diem!"
"And I'm sure, miss, if you'll give me what notice you can, I'll do my very best to have the rooms vacant again," said the good-hearted Irish landlady, who kept dropping in at the most inconvenient moments to offer assistance and shed a few tears. "It's little trouble you've given, and many's the time it's done me good to meet your bright face on the stair."
"You may be quite sure that if I am ever in London for any length of time, I shall try very hard to secure my old quarters," said Mona cordially; "but it is impossible to tell what the future may bring;" and she sighed.
If lodgers could be made to order, Mrs O'Connor would fain have had hers a little more communicative. She was thirsting for an explanation of the fine carriage that had driven up to the door on Wednesday afternoon, and of the beautiful lady who had seemed so disappointed to find Miss Maclean out.
When the same equipage disappeared with Mona on Monday morning, and Mrs O'Connor had leisure to reflect on the apparent finality of this departure, in the light of the alternate high spirits and profound depression which had not altogether escaped her observation, she came to the conclusion that Miss Maclean was meditating a good match, but that she did not quite know her own mind.