"Oh, I am quite, quite sure!" After a pause she went on. "I don't understand why Mr. Royston stayed there. Ought he not to have gone at once for help? Suppose we had not seen you? Suppose the guides had not started when they did?"
"That was the question—what he should do. The shrund was in no state to be crossed, especially by one man alone. He would have had to go back up the mountain, and round by the usual route."
"Could he not do it?"
"The danger of course is greater for a man by himself. But he is a cool hand, not soon flurried. He would have gone in the morning, if help had not come. Nothing would induce him to budge earlier, though I did my best. I knew that putting off must make the return alone much worse for him."
"Then it was for your sake that he waited?"
"Entirely. I could not persuade him to leave me. It would have pretty well settled matters, I suppose, so far as I was concerned; and that was what he felt."
Bee's eyes grew large. "You mean that he—?"
"He had made up his mind that, if I had to spend the night there by myself, I should be frozen before morning."
"But was it—was it—so bad as that?" Her breath grew short.
"I'm not sure that I could have held out, if it hadn't been for him."
"The cold—?" murmured Bee.
"Well, the cold was awful. Sometimes I seemed to be on the verge of slipping out of it all—losing hold of life. And then Rob's voice would rouse me, and I could fight on. But if he hadn't been there—don't you see?"
"Yes, I see." Bee had grown white, but she spoke quietly. "You might have just forgotten yourself, and not—not—"
"Not come to again," ended Ivor. "Yes, that was it. But of course I'd have given anything to make him go. I knew what it must mean, waiting hour after hour on that steep slope, with no shelter of any sort. He's a fine fellow! I wish you knew him better."
"Perhaps I shall some day. His sister is a friend of mine. Yes, he must be—splendid!" So was somebody else, thought Bee, and she did not mind the little glow which had come to her face, for he would only think it was called up by admiration of Mr. Royston. "And then—" she said—"then, I suppose, you saw the guides coming. I mean, Mr. Royston saw them."
"Yes; and his shout soon let me know. He had just been saying he must start soon. After that it was all right. I only had to be hauled up. But you understand now how much we owe to you—both of us."
"Not Mr. Royston!"
"Yes, both of us. I very much doubt whether, after that night, he would have been equal to the return by himself. He found it quite enough, even with the help of a guide. So I think we may pretty well say that you have saved both our lives!"
"I've always longed to be able some day to save somebody's life," she replied gently.
Much more he could have told her, and did not.
He might have described at length that interminable night in his dreary bergshrund prison, where he dared not stir, for fear of falling yet lower. He had found a lodgment on a narrow snow-shelf at one side of the great cleft. Black depths of mystery lay below; and steep snow-walls rose high before and behind him; and the projecting upper "lip" of the shrund overhung his head; and nothing was clearly visible except a strip of sky far, far above. At any moment a fresh fall of snow might overwhelm him; and time crawled on with leaden footsteps, as he waited in his constrained position, suffering acutely from the piercing cold.
He could not see Rob. He was without food, without restoratives, and in hourly peril of death. Vainly, from time to time, he urged his friend to escape while escape was possible, and to leave him to his fate. Or rather—and he put this forward for Rob's sake—to get help. But he knew well that such help must almost certainly arrive too late; and Rob, knowing the same, always cheerily refused, bidding him keep up a brave heart.
Through it all Ivor could not banish Bee from his mind. He saw her face; he was haunted by her soft tones; he recalled little talks with her in the spring; he heard again Amy's utterance outside the Hut. The consciousness of what she possibly felt for him, and floating visions of what in some future day they might become one to the other, alternated with a picture of his life cut short, his career abruptly ended. And with this came self-searchings as to the manner of life he had lived; not indeed a blameworthy life, weighed in ordinary scales; yet not all that it should have been, weighed in loftier scales, seen in the near prospect of the Life to follow. It had not been an irreligious or a prayerless life; yet now, looking back, he felt how much had been wanting in it of whole-hearted devotion to the service of God; and keen regrets for the past mingled with strong resolutions for the future—if he should be permitted to get through safely.
As the fierce numbing cold of night enveloped him, creeping from limb to limb, stiffening every muscle, gripping his very bones, he could hear Royston far above, stamping, stirring, ever and anon shouting words of encouragement.
And once—never after would Ivor lose the impression made!—once, without warning or introduction, in strong distinct tones, Rob repeated the General Confession. Heart and soul Ivor joined in, echoing each familiar petition, and finding in them the full utterance of his own deepest need.
A slight pause at the end; and then the emphatic tones went on, in words equally familiar, declaring that, "HE pardoneth and absolveth!" Sentence by sentence came soon the Lord's Prayer; the evening Collects; the General Thanksgiving; and the Blessing.
This, Ivor thought, was the end of their strange Evensong—a service amid unwonted surroundings, and with an unwonted audience. Silence fell upon the icy scene; and he thankfully felt that it had done him good. Death indeed might lie ahead; near at hand! But there was ONE Who "pardoneth and absolveth all them that truly repent and unfeignedly believe!" The words gained a new power and depth for Ivor in that hour.
Rob had not done. His voice pealed forth anew; and now in song. Words and tune were alike well-known. But never before had they carried such meaning to Ivor, as when he heard them from the depths of his snow-cavern.
"O God, our help in ages past,Our hope for years to come;Our shelter from the stormy blast,And our Eternal Home!"
No wonder, as verse after verse rang through the still night-air, and rolled over the snowy slopes, and echoed from the rocks, that they brought a sound of hope and promise for the unfortunate prisoner below. At the end, Ivor had difficulty in controlling his voice, to shout a hearty—"Thank you!"
No, he would never forget! An experience such as this leaves its stamp on a man for life!
PATRICIA'S AFFAIRS
"A LETTER from Magda, I declare! Again—already!"
Patricia laughed. She was lounging gracefully on a low chair, near the window of a good-sized first-floor bedroom. Outside lay that same mountain amphitheatre, which had enchained the gaze of Beatrice Major from two storeys higher. It did not enchain the forget-me-not eyes of Patricia Vincent—those eyes having been engrossed during an hour past with the latest "Tauchnitz" novel.
Opposite sat a good-looking and well-dressed elderly lady. She had in hand some light fancy-work, and she cast an occasional glance—like Amy Smith—at the view. Her chief desire was to talk, but Patricia was not in the mood for talk, preferring her novel, and the aunt had to wait.
An English maid brought in letters; and Patricia turned hers over, with the above remark.
"Three whole sheets. Gracious! And I shall have to wade through them. Magda always finds out if I miss a single sentence."
"I thought you heard from her two days ago."
"Well, about that. The day her brother turned up. This is another!" Patricia exhibited the trio of sheets, holding them up, fan-wise. "She writes an atrocious hand. It will have to wait."
"Till you have finished your novel, I suppose." Mrs. Norman had been resenting her niece's determined pre-occupation with the book.
"Till I have finished my novel," assented Patricia, quite understanding, and not in the least disposed to give way. She always expected, as a matter of course, that everybody else should give way to her.
"You and this Miss—what is the name?—seem to be great friends. How long have you known her?"
"Magda Royston. Oh, about—since March. She is years younger than I am; but she adores me."
"And you like to be adored!" There was a suspicion of irony in the level tones of the elder lady. Patricia failed to detect it; but she could always talk of herself, and the subject was of sufficient interest to make her lay down the book.
"Why, yes. Most people like adoration—when they can get it, aunt Ju! Magda's state is simply worshipping! You know the sort of thing."
"Perhaps I do. And you are fond of her?"
"Yes, of course." The manner was not enthusiastic. "She is a nice enough girl—in her way. School-girlish!"
"And that was her brother who was going up the Blümlisalp—the one you spoke to!"
Patricia had taken Mrs. Norman somewhat aback, after table d'hôte, by accosting Rob as the brother of her new Burwood friend. Mrs. Norman held certain rather old-fashioned notions, and objected to casual acquaintances.
"Yes. I had only seen him once before, in a freezing March blizzard; but I liked his face then—and there was no mistaking it!"
"Would you not have been wiser to wait for an introduction?"
Patricia yawned gracefully behind her hand, at the first suspicion of fault-finding; and to yawn gracefully is a feat possible to few. A widely-extended jaw shows most faces at their worst.
"People don't wait for introductions in foreign hotels."
"It might be as well if they did sometimes. Mrs. Framley is particular!"
"And practically I had an introduction, in knowing his sister. I assure you I am every inch as particular as aunt Anne. I know what I'm about, aunt Ju. The Roystons are right enough. Otherwise I should never have thought of noticing him." Patricia objected to the slightest implication that she had done wrongly.
"And his friend? You may find yourself in for him also."
"I don't mind. I know all about Mr. Ivor. He is a barrister—one of the most promising on the bench, they say—any number of briefs already. I believe he has money of his own, or else expectations—but he works like a horse, and he is tremendously liked. And he is a friend of those delightful people, the Wryatts of Wratt-Wrothesley."
"Rye—Ratt—Rott—what, my dear?"
"You may well ask! It is a mouthful of a name. Two unmarried sisters in a dear old country house; perfectly charming women. I don't know them well; I wish I did, for it is an ideal house to stay in. Anybody who goes there is sure to be all right. I met them once in a house-party, and heard all about them. Grand-daughters of an Earl, and cousins of a Duke, and all that sort of thing."
"Mr. Royston seemed to know that very sweet-looking girl nearly opposite to us—with the pretty delicate face, and nice brown eyes."
"No, he didn't. They were strangers, only they happened to be together, and people don't sit mum on those occasions. I shouldn't have called her 'pretty,' exactly!" Patricia seldom called any woman pretty. "But I liked her look—if only she had not such a queer little piece of goods for her travelling-companion!"
"Your friend, Miss Royston, will be interested to hear that you have met her brother."
"Magda! I'm not sure. I don't think I shall say anything about him till I get back. No use to rouse jealousies."
"Surely there can be nothing in that for jealousy."
"I can't tell. She is frantically jealous of every single person that I speak to. It is getting to be a bore. She wants to keep me as a close preserve for herself; and that is out of the question. Things were well enough for the first few weeks, when I knew very few people in the place; but I'm getting full up now with engagements, and I can't have Magda perpetually hanging round. However—I don't want to hurt her feelings. I wish girls wouldn't be so frightfully sensitive. But I like that brother of hers. There's something about him out of the common."
"Clergyman?"
"Curate in some big parish. I'm not sure where. South London, I believe." Patricia began to laugh. "Magda raves about him. She has made up her mind to live with him in the future—to keep house, and work among the poor. About as fit for it as our Persian cat! I never saw a more recklessly untidy person—and he is the very essence of orderliness. Every inch of the man shows it. If ever that plan came to pass, she would drive him demented. But of course it never will."
"Men don't invariably marry."
"Anyhow, Magda won't suit him for a housekeeper."
"What is all the stir about?" Mrs. Norman stood up to look out.
"One of the climbing parties coming back I should imagine. They have been away much longer than was expected." Patricia showed signs of interest. "Both parties together—yes, there are the two girls, and the two men. Mr. Ivor seems hardly able to get along. He must have had an accident."
She ran downstairs, followed more deliberately by her aunt. Everybody was hurrying out to welcome the returned climbers, and to hear the story of their doings.
Most of the way from the Oeschinen Hotel, Ivor had perforce submitted to be carried, but he insisted on walking into Kandersteg. It was as much as he could do, for his foot remained very painful; and a few days' rest would plainly be necessary before he could go farther.
To Beatrice this made no difference. She and Amy were leaving next morning; and of course they kept to their plan.
Bee had seen little of Ivor during their descent. The two girls had been together in front; Ivor coming behind with the guides; Rob taking turns with either. Nor did she see more of him this last evening. He had talked freely to her of his adventure, by the Oeschinen Lake; but he made no efforts to be thrown more in her path.
He recognised by this time the fact that he was very much drawn to Bee; that he had begun to look upon her as altogether different and apart from other girls; and he could not forget how she had haunted his imagination during this terrible time in the bergshrund. If not yet in love, he was fast nearing that condition.
But two strong reasons withheld him from immediate action. For one thing—she had saved his life; and it would not do to risk letting her think that he sought her out of gratitude. For another—she must be aware that he might have overheard Miss Smith's remark outside the Hut; and there again he sensitively feared that she would perhaps imagine his conduct to have been inspired by those careless words. His suit would have to come freely, naturally, spontaneously—if ever he did seek her.
Ivor put it thus cautiously to himself. Then, with a glow, he altered the words. "When I seek her—!" he said.
The farewell between himself and Bee next morning was entirely simple and commonplace. Bee said sadly in her mind—"I may never see him again!"
And Ivor went off to his room with a book, which he found supremely uninteresting. To make matters worse, he saw little of his hitherto constant friend. For the change in their plans which could mean nothing for Bee meant much to Rob, and something to Patricia. The two thereafter were perpetually coming together. They had endless talks, and Rob was captivated.
Patricia as usual welcomed with warmth another worshipper at her shrine. She lived for admiration, and she did not know how to get on without it. With her numerous devotees, both masculine and feminine, the question might always be asked whether what she really cared for was the person, or the person's devotion for herself. But she certainly did like Rob, and had liked him from the first. His personality took more hold upon her than was generally the case.
Mrs. Norman allowed matters to drift for three or four days, then suddenly awoke to the fact that this might mean something serious. Rob's absorption in her niece was patent to the most casual observer; and Patricia too showed signs of being for once touched. Mrs. Norman did not wish for the responsibility of an "affair," while Patricia was with her. Mr. Royston might be all that one could wish as a man, but a curate without private means or prospects would hardly meet with Mrs. Framley's approval. So she promptly decided to move on elsewhere, and she gave out this intention.
Patricia was not given to sulks, for sulks are not becoming; but she actually did treat her aunt to something not far removed from one of Magda's "November fogs" during the week that followed. Not of course in public, where she always smiled, but in private.
For obvious reasons Rob said nothing about Patricia, when he wrote to Magda; and for reasons perhaps less obvious, despite what she had said to her aunt, Patricia was equally silent. Beatrice followed the same course, simply because she did not write. Her last three letters to Magda had had no reply; and though hers was not a resentful nature, and she was slow to take offence, she had resolved to wait till she should hear.
Virginia Villa, in which she and her mother would now live, was within a quarter of an hour of Magda's home. It was clearly for Magda to take the next step.
AN OPPORTUNITY LOST
MAGDA was unhappy, and distinctly cross.
She did not wish to be cross, and probably she would not have called herself so. But her world seemed all awry, and her temper suffered under the strain. Self-control was not one of Magda's prime virtues, as by this time you will have found out. It is quite possible for a person to feel desperately cross, and yet so to hold down the feeling that no one can guess its existence. But if Magda were cross, all around knew it.
Merryl certainly did. She came in, dragging her steps in an unwonted fashion, looking pale and heavy-eyed. Magda was alone, seated at a side-table of the school-room, with an ostentatious array of grammars and dictionaries. Since Patricia's departure for the Continent she had, in self-defence, taken violently to French and German.
"Please, Magda—"
"Oh, don't bother. I'm busy."
"Mother wants a note taken to Mrs. Hodgson."
"Well, I suppose you can take it." Merryl was the acknowledged family messenger.
"Yes—only—"
"Only what?"
"I thought perhaps you would—just for once."
"I can't, Merryl. I want to get this translation done before lunch."
"Couldn't you do it—after lunch?"
"No, I can't!" sharply. "I must bicycle over then to see if Patricia is back."
Merryl did not give up yet. "It's such a long way—and so hot!" she murmured.
"I don't see that it's any farther or hotter for you than for me!"
"No," rather faintly. "Only—if you could—only just this once."
"I've told you—I can't! That's enough."
Merryl said no more. She stood still looking at Magda. Then she dragged herself slowly from the room.
That was not like her. Ordinarily she was all sunshine, all readiness to do whatever anybody wished. Though not observant, Magda felt a little uncomfortable. It occurred to her that the child might for once be tired, and that she certainly ought to offer to go in her stead.
Instead of responding instantly to this inward suggestion, she sat still and debated with herself. Should she? Was it needful? It would be such a bother! She had made up her mind to do a certain amount that morning, and she hated having to change her plans. Besides, she felt cross and dissatisfied—unhappy, she called it to herself—and disinclined for a long hot bicycle ride in the sun. Such a dull straight road. And all the other way in the afternoon! She liked the idea quite as little as Merryl. Why should she have to do it, and not Merryl? Nothing ever hurt Merryl. And she couldn't put off going to Claughton. That must come first—sun or no sun, Merryl or no Merryl.
The translation was at a standstill. Magda leant back in her chair, lost in thought.
There was more than one trouble weighing on her mind.
Rob had written only a single short letter all the time he had been in Switzerland. True, he had sent a shower of picture-postcards; but what are picture-postcards when one wants a long delightful outpour? And since his return only one plain postcard! She felt deeply injured.
Worse still, she had written five long letters to the adored Patricia during her absence on the Continent; and only one scribbled note had come in response, with a list of places visited. She had poured out her soul for Patricia's benefit; giving the best gold that she had; and it brought in exchange a few coppers.
Nor was this all. Three days earlier, hearing casually that Patricia was expected, she had bicycled over beforehand, to leave flowers and an enthusiastic note of welcome, imploring to know how soon she might see her idol. No reply, no word of thanks, had yet arrived. It might be that Patricia's return had been delayed. She could not pass another night not knowing.
In addition to these worries was another, yet heavier. The Majors had arrived, and had taken possession of Virginia Villa. She had seen vans with luggage before the door ten days earlier; and by reference to Bee's last unanswered letter, she knew that Bee herself must now be there.
Action could no longer be put off. She would have to tell her mother and Penrose. She would have to ask them to call. She would have to explain somehow why she had kept silence so long. How she now wished that she had been brave and sensible, and had spoken earlier! It seemed so silly, so absurd, not to have done it—and so unkind to Bee. "Mean!" whispered a small accusing voice in her heart.
It was mean, and she knew it. Bee had been so good and true, always kind and helpful and ready to take trouble—surely, the least she could do now was to welcome her friend, and not to give way to foolish shame, merely because that friend lived in a small and unimportant house.
But—Pen's little contemptuous laugh!
If she could not stand a laugh for the sake of a friend, what was her friendship worth? And what was she worth? "Mean!" whispered again that accusing voice.
"Oh dear! I wish they had never come!" she sighed.
But they had come. It was sheer waste of time to sit wishing that her world had been ordered differently. The question was—not, how things might have been, but how she was going to meet them as they were?
Glancing out of the window, she saw Merryl bicycling down the road. So now it was too late to go in her stead. The matter was settled, and she might bend her attention to her work—that work, for the sake of which, ostensibly, she had refused to do a little kindness.
But the wandering attention failed to be bent. She had been beaten in one respect, and now she was beaten in another. The German translation made no further advance; and when the gong sounded for luncheon, she was still moodily nursing her grievances, still debating with herself what to do about the Majors—whether to put off, whether to speak, and if she did speak, what to say.
At luncheon she was to be taken by surprise—as one is apt to be, if one drifts along, waiting for circumstances to decide one's action, instead of simply resolving to do what is right.
Merryl did not appear. She had been some distance to take a note for Mrs. Royston, the latter said regretfully, and had not said that she was not well; and the heat had upset her. She was lying down upstairs. Mr. Royston was very much disturbed. He glared round angrily, and asked why on earth somebody else hadn't gone? It was too bad! They all made a regular Cinderella of Merryl, and nobody ever gave a thought to his poor little girl. What was Magda about not to do it, he wanted to know? He attacked the cold joint savagely, casting indignant glances.
Magda felt guilty and looked injured.
Pen tried to make a diversion. "I see that Virginia Villa is taken," she unexpectedly remarked. "People are arriving there."
"Oh, ever so long ago," piped Frip's little soprano. "There were two whole waggons there, and another next day. And, oh, such a funny lady, mummie—dressed all anyhow. She'd got a sort of big apron-pinafore all over her frock, and she stood outside the door in it giving orders. And she spoke in a sort of slow way, and made the men hurry, and told them just exactly where every single thing was to go. She was funny."
Magda writhed internally.
"And the Vicarage gardener was going by, just when they were getting the furniture down, and they couldn't manage the piano right. And she said to him—'Will you give a helping hand, my man?' John did it directly, and he didn't seem to mind. But it was funny of her, wasn't it? And there was one of those wicker things, like what Pen hangs her skirt on when she's making one."
"Another dressmaker, I suppose," Pen remarked. "I only hope she will be as good as the last. Such a pity she married and went away. I always liked her style. I wonder if this one will have any style."
Mrs. Royston half smiled. "Judging from Frip's description of her dress, that is doubtful."
"Any plate with a name on the door, Frip?"
Frip shook a wise little head. "I didn't see one, but she mightn't have had time to put it up yet, might she?"
Magda said nothing. She felt that she could say nothing. Not at all events just then. She wished with all her heart that she had spoken out sooner. Now—how could she? To have her friend's mother taken for a dressmaker! It was hopeless!
Luncheon ended, she felt scared and unhappy. The thought of Merryl went out of her head. She was bewildered, and perplexed what line to follow.
Claughton had to come first. Upon that point she was resolute. Nothing and nobody might interfere with it. But when she had been, when she had as she hoped seen Patricia, then no doubt it would be wise to go and see Bee. If she did not call soon, who could say whether Bee might not decide to come and see her? So she imagined, though no step was more unlikely on the part of Bee. She grew cold at the thought. What would Pen say?
There seemed to be nothing for it but to take the bull by the horns—by the wrong horn, be it remarked!—to go without further delay to Virginia Villa, and to put things right somehow.
She would have to make Bee and her mother understand the position of affairs. She would have to explain-or to hint—that though she herself would go to see Bee as often as she could spare the time, yet they must not expect to find themselves quite upon the same level, or look to have a welcome from all the circle of the Royston acquaintances. It was too horrid, too disgusting, to have to do anything of the sort. But how could she help it? Nothing else remained? After what had passed at luncheon, how could she ask her mother to call?
Was it really impossible? Even now, would not complete frankness be the wiser, the nobler, the better course? This thought came vividly; but Magda put it aside.
"I can't! I really can't!" she muttered impatiently. "I must wait! I must find out first what I can do with them. After that—perhaps—I suppose I must tell mother!"
And she did not see the cowardice of her decision.
VIRGINIA VILLA
IT was a broiling afternoon, and no mistake. No wonder Merryl had felt the sun too hot! Magda thought of this, and wished, with a touch of self-reproach, that she had gone to see her sister before starting. By the time she reached Claughton Manor, her face was the colour of a peony.
She rang and asked for Patricia. "Was Miss Vincent back yet?"
Miss Vincent had returned three days earlier.
"Could I see her?"
The man—an old family butler—was not sure. He believed that Miss Vincent had an engagement that afternoon, but he would enquire.
"I won't keep Miss Vincent long. Only just a minute!" pleaded Magda.
She was shown into the breakfast-room, and the man disappeared. Returning, he said that Miss Vincent would come presently, if Miss Royston could wait.
She was left in the breakfast-room, not taken upstairs, as she had hoped, into Patricia's boudoir—a sure sign that the interview was to be brief. There she sat, and waited long. Patricia often kept people waiting—those whom she counted to be of small social importance; but she had never kept Magda quite so long before. Gloomy forebodings attacked the girl. Did Patricia not care to see her, after all these weeks of separation? Had she said or done something that Patricia did not like? Could it be that some inkling had reached Patricia of the coming of the Majors to Burwood, and that she counted a friend of theirs no longer a fit friend for herself?
Magda had time enough in which to conjure up no end of direful imaginings. Nearly three-quarters of an hour passed, before a light step came down the passage, and Patricia appeared, wearing one of her daintiest frocks and most bewitching hats, evidently ready for some social function. She was drawing on a pair of white gloves.
"Well, Magda—how are you? So sorry to keep you waiting, dear, but I'm awfully busy since getting back. And I have had to dress early, so as to be ready in time. I can give you two or three minutes now." She just touched her lips to Magda's flushed cheek, eluding a proffered embrace. "Don't crumple me, dear, please. Well—are you quite well, and desperately busy too?"
"I'm never too busy to come here. Never!"
"You told me you were working very hard."
"Yes—but still—Patricia, when may I really see you? When may I come for a good long talk? I want to hear all about your travels and everything."
"Of course—yes. I have no end of things to tell you." Patricia slowly buttoned her left glove. "Let me see I'm afraid every single day this week is full. I must write, and name some afternoon—next week."
Magda's face fell, while Patricia was wondering whether and how much Robert Royston might have said to his sister as to their meeting abroad. It was her intention to avoid being catechised about it by Magda; but, perhaps, on the whole, some slight allusion now was desirable, all the more since there was no time for the said catechising. So, with a little laugh, she remarked—
"You must have been amused to hear of my coming across your brother at Kandersteg."
"Rob! Not Rob!" cried Magda, in deep amazement. "Why, he never told me!"
This meant a good deal to Patricia, as a token of Rob's feelings. She only said, with a smile—
"He did not think it important enough."
"Oh, it couldn't be that! It wasn't that! And you met—really! Were you in the same hotel?"
Patricia held out a hand. "Can you manage these buttons for me? They are rather difficult. Yes, the same hotel. Just for three or four days or so. It was when he went up the Blümlisalphorn with his friend, Mr. Ivor."
"He sent me a picture-card, I remember. But he did not say a word about you!"
"Too busy, my dear. Climbing takes a lot of time. And Mr. Ivor had a bad accident as they were coming down the mountain—fell into a crevasse, and might have been killed. That gave your brother more to do."
"I suppose so. But I do think he might have told me—if it was only half-a-dozen words."
"You shouldn't expect too much. Men hate writing letters on a holiday. By-the-by, thanks so much for those nice flowers, and for your note. So good of you! And now, I'm afraid, I really must say good-bye. But you will come again soon. I shall write and fix a day."
And that was all. Magda made her way out, mounted her bicycle, and set off for home; going slowly much of the way, and walking up the hills with a heavy step. She was puzzled by Rob's silence on what he must have known would be a great interest to her. She was conscious of a slight subtle change in Patricia—she did not use the word "subtle," but she felt it—which perplexed and weighed upon her. The manner was not less affectionate than usual; yet some new element seemed to have crept into their friendship.
Was it the Majors? Toiling up a long slope, she asked this question.
Anyhow, she would go at once to Virginia Villa, and would see how the land lay. No use putting off.
Thither she went direct, not calling at home by the way. She left her bicycle in the tiny front garden, and rang. A neat little maid opened the door and showed her into a drawing-room which took her by surprise. It was much larger than she had expected—yes, plainly, the front and back rooms had been thrown into one, making a room of good size, handsomely furnished. On an easel in the back window stood a half-finished painting; and work lay about carelessly. Magda recognised the tasteful fingers of her friend in the very sweep of the window-curtains, and in the mass of flowers piled upon a side-table. Bee was a born artist, and she carried with her an atmosphere of harmony.
Magda herself felt anything rather than harmonious this hour. She had never been more uncomfortable in her life.
The two ladies came in together; Bee, as always, gentle, slender, reticent, quietly affectionate, but rather holding back, as if not quite sure of Magda. The latter's constrained kiss was hardly of a nature to reassure.
There was no manner of constraint about Bee's mother. Of medium height, plain in feature, rather stout, wearing a short alpaca black skirt and a loose black jacket—she did in a fashion resemble the photograph with which Magda was familiar. Only, no photograph could reproduce the absolute ease and supreme composure of the original. In two points alone was she like her daughter—in the slender pretty hands, and the soft low-toned voice; but her speech was slower than Bee's, and she had the air of being much more sure of herself.
"So this is your particular friend, Bee!" Mrs. Major's eyes examined Magda kindly, as she shook hands.
Bee looked rather sad.
"I thought I had better come directly—though of course—though I was afraid—I thought you might be too busy—"
"Not at all, Magda. Mother was so good—only think, instead of waiting for me to come home and help her, as I expected, she did everything with the maids, and had the whole house straight before I arrived. It was such a surprise."
"Then Mrs. Major has been here some time."
"More than a fortnight. And how she must have worked!"
"Work does nobody harm. Sit down, Miss Royston. Tea is coming directly."
As Mrs. Major spoke, the neat young girl brought in a tray, placing it upon a small basket-table.
Magda murmured indistinct thanks, adding, "And you like Burwood?"
"It is not new to me. I used to visit in the neighbourhood when I was a child."
Magda was too much pre-occupied with her own line of thought to notice this, or to follow it out, as she might have done. How to bring in what she had to say she did not know; and the mental struggle kept her absent and dull. Bee waited on her, supplied her wants, and asked questions about things in general. Mrs. Major filled gaps with easy talk, never for a moment at a loss for something to say. She was evidently a well-read woman, and a clever one; much more so than Magda had been accustomed to consider Bee. She tried Magda on a variety of subjects, and had small response in any direction. For some time no loophole occurred for anything personal.
Tea was nearly over when Bee remarked—"I hope you will come in very often, Magda."
Magda seized upon the opening. "Yes—I should like it very much. Only, of course, when one is at home, there is a lot to do—and so many people to see—and—"
"We quite understand. I don't think you will find us at all unreasonable, dear."
Magda had an odd sense, of which she had never at school been conscious, that she was a good deal younger than Bee. The latter seemed, all at once, to have gained years in age. Not only was she older, but prettier, more dignified, more controlled in manner.
"But of course I do mean—" Magda came to a stop.
"No doubt you have a great many friends here, and perhaps not very much leisure," politely suggested Mrs. Major. It really seemed as if they were trying to help her out of her difficulty.
"And then, Magda, having Miss Vincent must make a great difference. You are always seeing her, are you not? And at first we shall not know all your friends, or they us."
The opportunity was not to be lost. Magda summoned up her courage. "I suppose—I suppose not," she said, with averted gaze. "People here are rather—are rather slow, you know—I mean, in calling on new-comers."
She looked up nervously to see the effect of her words, and intercepted one swift glance between mother and daughter. Not an unkind glance; not offended; but amused.
"No doubt," assented Mrs. Major. "It is always wise to be careful."
Bee laughed. "But even if we don't know your friends, dear, and even if we are out of it all, I hope we shall see you sometimes, when you can spare half-an-hour. You must not make a burden of it."
Magda felt ashamed. "Of course I shall come," she said. "And if—if my mother—" she stopped, hardly knowing what she had meant to say.
"I want so much to know your mother," Bee observed.
"But—but I'm not quite sure—" faltered Magda. "You see—mother isn't very strong—and she has so many calls to pay—and I'm not sure—if she—"
It was impossible to finish the sentence, in face of Bee's soft wondering eyes, still more in face of Mrs. Major's steady gaze and air of composed waiting. Magda found her feet awkwardly, with crimsoning cheeks.
"I'm so sorry, I can't stay longer now," she added. "I'll come again soon, if I may."
"Pray come any day that you feel inclined," Mrs. Major responded easily, with no apparent consciousness of what Magda had meant. "Bee's friends will always be welcome at Virginia Villa." She said the name in precisely the same tone that she might have used to say "Claughton Manor," or "Windsor Castle."
Bee went out to see Magda through the little front door, coming back with a shadow on her face.
"I'm rather disappointed in your friend, my dear. But she may improve on a further acquaintance. Is she always like this?"
"She was different at school. I don't understand her to-day—or what made her so. Unless—it is something perhaps that her mother has said."
"Probably. Mrs. Royston may not intend to call, till she has hunted out our antecedents."
"It may be that, mother."
"But after being your friend for two years, she might have said enough to satisfy even Burwood squeamishness."
"Yes—only—I never did tell Magda much."
"Not enough, perhaps."
"Mother, you have always hated snobbishness. And I know how you laughed at Miss Norris, for dragging in her rich relations at every corner."
"And you are your mother's own daughter." Mrs. Major's small dark eyes, clever and deep-set, rested lovingly on the girl. "However, one must take people as they are. Never mind. It will all come right. I have no doubt that there is a finer side to Magda Royston—and that this is a mere episode; not her fault."
"No. Only, I don't really think—if I had been in her place this afternoon—that I could have done just so!"
"I'm perfectly sure that you could not, Bee." Mrs. Major spoke with decision.
A REVERSION OF THOUGHT
LEAVING her machine in the bicycle-shed, Magda went indoors, to find herself face to face with her father. Up to that moment she had been entirely occupied with her own concerns—dissatisfied with herself, disappointed not to have seen more of Patricia, uncomfortable about Bee—and since leaving the house she had not once remembered Merryl.
The moment her eyes fell upon Mr. Royston she did remember. He was roving restlessly about, between hall and study and drawing-room, as if not knowing what to do with himself. At the sight of Magda, he faced round abruptly.
"So here you are at last! Time enough too! Where have you been all day?"
"I've only been away since lunch. Not all day."
"Pretty sharp you went off too, never stopping to see if you were wanted. Never a thought of your poor little sister, or how she might be!"
There was too much truth in this. She had hurried off, in fear that something might prevent that which she had set her mind on doing.
"Isn't Merryl well, father?"
"Well! Not likely!—treated in such a way! My poor little girl! Sent off in that hair-brained fashion, when she was only fit for bed! In this heat too! I'm not blaming your mother. She didn't know. Merryl took care she shouldn't! But you might have had more sense. Not a soul in the house sees to that child. She never complains—never thinks of herself—the most unselfish little darling that ever lived. And you—always so full of your own affairs, that you neither know nor care what becomes of anybody else!"
Magda swelled resentfully, for this of course was an exaggeration; but he went on wrathfully—"I'll take good care nothing of that sort ever happens again! I'll look after her myself in future—if—" and there was an ominous choke in his voice—"if—if she gets over—this!"
Magda's heart gave a great frightened throb.
"Is Merryl lying down still?"
"Lying down still!" growled Mr. Royston. "That's all you know! That's all you care!" He turned off, as if not trusting himself to say more, and disappeared in the study, shutting the door.
Magda stood feeling dazed. It was as if a small thunderbolt had fallen at her feet. If Merryl should get over this! She repeated the words to herself. Get over what? Something must have come to pass while she was away—something unlooked-for. All sorts of conjectures thronged up, none of which would fit the case. But Merryl was ill. Merryl must be ill. That "if she gets over this" could have no other meaning. She must have been ill in the morning—too ill for a long hot bicycle ride—and Magda had refused to go in her stead.
In one moment the world had changed; and she saw it from a new standpoint. No longer was Patricia the one and only person to be considered. Suddenly she found how much these home-ties really meant—how dear to her heart was this unselfish little sister, Merryl! Ill! Perhaps not to get over it! Oh, but that was impossible. It could not have come upon them with such frightful suddenness. And Mr. Royston was always an alarmist, especially in regard to Merryl.
Magda plucked up courage, and went to the school-room. She must hear more—must know what it all meant.
At first the room looked empty. Then she espied a small figure, curled up in one corner of the deep old window seat, with long hair falling like a veil and hiding the child's face.
"Frip!" The word came fearfully. Dread surged up anew.
Francie made no answer. Magda went close, putting an urgent arm round the little figure; and there was a slight shake of the shoulders, as if to repudiate her touch.
"Frip! what is it? Frip, tell me! I'm only just come in. What is the matter?"
Frip said one word—"Merryl!" and burst into tears.
"Go on! Go on!" commanded Magda.
"She is—oh, so bad!" sobbed Frip. "And the doctor has been. And he says—she never, never ought to have gone! Her head did ache so, and her throat was sore, and I begged her so to let you take the note. But she said you couldn't—you were busy—and she wouldn't let me worry mother—and I couldn't find Pen."
"She never told me her head ached," spoke Magda miserably.
"She didn't tell me; but I saw. Of course I saw. And I do wish now I'd told mother, though she said I mustn't. She said perhaps the ride would do her good. But it didn't. When she tried to get up, after lunch, she nearly fainted right off. And then she said she had tumbled off her bicycle twice, coming home; and the second time she banged her head against the gate-post, and it hurt her so dreadfully, she could hardly get indoors. And the doctor says nobody is to go into her room, except mother; and she's to be taken to the end spare room; and Pen has gone out to find a nurse. And I don't know what to do without Merryl!"
Magda felt guilty and unhappy. It was easy to see that even little Francie blamed her; and for once she had no words of self-defence to offer.
Penrose came in, grave and sad. "Is Frip here?" she said. Then—"So you have come back!" Magda heard reproach in the tone.
"Yes. What is the matter with Merryl?"
Pen did not at once reply. "Come, Frip, dear," she said. "You had better run into the garden."
"I don't want to go—without Merryl."
"Shall I come too? Run and get your garden-hat, and wait for me at the back-door. Don't go upstairs."
Frip obeyed, and Pen turned to Magda. "We don't want much said before Frip," she breathed. "Dr. Cartwright is afraid that it may be scarlet fever. There are one or two bad cases in the town."
"Then it wasn't going out in the sun that made her ill."
"That has made her worse. She never ought to have gone—if any one had had the least idea that she was so poorly. No one knew except Frip; and of course Frip did not understand. I can't think how it was that none of us saw; but mother and I were very busy; and she had such a colour. Frip says she turned quite white before she started—and when she asked you to go."
The words, though pointed, were not unkindly spoken; and Magda was too unhappy for vexation.
"I don't think I looked at her—particularly. And she never said she wasn't well. If I had known, of course I would have gone."
"It is such a pity you did not. She fell from her bicycle with her head against the gate-post, and it almost stunned her. That makes things so much worse. She was quite wandering before Dr. Cartwright came, and he found her in a high fever. He cannot know for some hours how much is due to the blow, and whether it really is scarlet fever; but he seems pretty sure. Poor dear little Merryl. If only we had known!"
Pen spoke tenderly and went away. Magda, left alone, with nothing to do, nobody wanting her, nobody turning to her, felt very wretched. When she thought of Merryl's plaintive petition, and of her own curt refusal, she hardly knew how to bear herself. It was too terrible to think that she might have refused Merryl's very last request—the very last time that she would ever see and speak with her sister. It was not her way to cry easily; but she sat long, looking straight before her, and feeling acutely that if that came to pass, she could never be happy again.
Yet nobody seemed to think that she was to be pitied. This dawned upon her with a sense of surprise. All the others were full of loving sympathy one for another; while towards herself there was only blame; and no one expected her to mind very much. It startled her to find things thus, and made her realise, more than she had ever done before, the manner of life she had been living.
For it was not that she meant to be unkind or selfish; not that she was wanting in real affection; but that she did not think, did not put others' happiness before her own, did not live for those around. There was any amount of real love and tenderness below the surface, but love of self had had the upper hand. And when she resented what they felt, she quite forgot how very little she had yet shown of what this trouble meant to her. The first impulse with Magda, as with many girls who pride themselves on their reserve, was to hide what she felt, and to put on an appearance of indifference.
This was only the beginning of a long stretch of anxiety. The doctor's fear proved correct. It was scarlet fever of a pronounced type; and the illness was greatly aggravated by the blow on the head, which had caused slight concussion. Day by day reports grew worse; and delirium was incessant.
The patient had been removed to a part of the house entirely separated from the rest, with a staircase of its own, and an outer door; so the segregation could be complete. There was at first some talk of the family going elsewhere for a time. But this was decided against. They had all been with Merryl; and any one among them might already have caught the complaint. So they remained where they were, all possible precautions being taken. Nothing could induce Mrs. Royston to remain away from the sick-room. A second nurse was a necessity, the case being so severe; so she and the nurse and child lived a separate existence from the household.
Complete isolation from friends and neighbours was involved for the whole party. It was a new experience for Magda. Everybody was most kind; notes and enquiries, supplies of beef-tea and jelly for the little invalid, arrived in profusion. But naturally and rightly, other people had to avoid infection for themselves and their children.
No going to church; no entering of shops; no seeing of friends; no engagements. The doctor of course came daily; before long twice and even three times in the day; but only Mr. Royston or Pen spoke with him; and though the Vicar called often, he and Magda did not happen to meet.
Patricia sent a little conventional note of sympathy, prettily expressed, and making it very clear that she intended to hold aloof as long as possible. Magda was requested not even to write to her, for fear of infection being conveyed through the post. Magda did think Patricia might have said less about the need for care on her own account, and more about her friend's trouble. It was the first real touch of disillusionment.
On the same day a letter arrived from Bee, so tender, so loving, so full of sympathy, that Magda could not but mark the contrast. Bee seemed to think of nothing, to remember nothing, except that Magda was in sorrow, and that she longed to comfort her. Magda could not but think of Miss Mordaunt's words—"Bee is a friend worth having, and worth keeping."
How little she had thought of late about kind Miss Mordaunt!—And still less of her own aims and aspirations, her desire to live a brave and useful life!
She quite longed to speak out, to tell her mother about the Majors, to confess her own folly in keeping silence. But Mrs. Royston was in the sick-room, out of reach. She had to wait; and meantime nothing could be thought of except that long life-and-death struggle going on upstairs in the distant end-room.
Then came a day when a few hours would decide the probable issue; when Merryl lay, powerless, feeble, unconscious, just breathing, and on the very borderland of the next world—when, hour by hour, they all knew that any moment might see the end. And of all in the house, none grieved more bitterly than Magda. For she knew, she could not help knowing, that her consenting to take the note might have made just all the difference. The great danger was that Merryl would sink from exhaustion. And but for the added complications, resulting from over-exertion and the fall from her bicycle, there could be no doubt that her rallying-power would have been greater.
If Magda had never prayed before—and probably she had at times, however fitfully—she did pray, fervently and passionately, in these days of suspense.
No one in the house thought now that she did not care. Little though she said, the burden was plainly written on her face. Even Mr. Royston had ceased to reproach her; and Pen was kind; and Frip often clung to her with childish pity. But there was no comfort. Magda felt that there never could be any comfort, if Merryl should die.
She saw life in truer colours than ever before. There are times when we get away from earth-mists, and gain clear views of the true proportions, the true values of things. This was one such time. Many a resolution she made in those sorrowful waiting hours—if only Merryl might recover!
Rob came down to see them. He thought nothing of infection for himself, being used to sick-rooms of all kinds; and he had hoped to see Merryl, but against this Mr. Royston laid an embargo. If Rob went to that room, he might not come back among the rest. Rob was about to agree, about to say that he would return home that evening, when his eyes fell upon Magda. He knew in a moment that she needed him more than Merryl.
No opportunity came before night for any word alone with her. Magda kept up and seemed resolutely to hold aloof.
And next morning the cloud lifted. Merryl was better. Definite improvement had set in; and the doctor, coming early, spoke in cheerful tones of recovery.
Until that moment Magda had not been seen to give way. But when Mr. Royston came in, radiant with the good news, and when she learnt that confident hopes might at last be indulged, she looked wildly round as if for escape. She rushed away, without a word, to the deserted school-room, and knelt down, hiding her face on folded arms, to sob out her vehement thanksgiving for this merciful escape from a life-long sorrow.
Pen found her thus; and she might as well have tried to stop a gale of wind with her hand, as to stay with words that tempest of weeping. As with many who seldom are mastered, when Magda was mastered, it was very completely. She did not even know that Pen had been, or was gone. But presently a strong quiet hand was on her shoulder, gently pressing it, and in time Rob's voice said—
"That will do!"
Magda sobbed on, and again came the words—
"That will do, Magda."
She was crumpled in a heap on the rug; and she allowed him to draw her to a sitting posture. With gasping efforts after self-control, she at length managed to stop.
"What is it all about?" he asked then. "Try to tell me—quietly."
"Rob—if—if she had died—"
"Yes. Go on."
"It would have been my doing."
"In what way? Hush—" as the storm threatened to return. "It would have been your doing—how?"
Gradually he induced her to pour out the whole—how she had failed all round, how she had lived for self only, how she had refused to help Merryl when asked, how that one ordinary slip in everyday kindness might have brought about tragic consequences. And when she had related her tale, she found that he knew it already at least in part, that he had divined what she must be going through, that he was here for the very purpose of bringing help.
Not help of his own. He was here to point her to ONE stronger than himself,—"mighty to save." Magda needed to be saved from her weakness of will, from her readiness to give in to temptation. For the past she needed forgiveness; for the future, power to fight and to conquer.
"But this must be no empty repentance," he urged. "You must let what has happened be a warning to you. It is in the small things of common life that we fail most grievously; it is in those small things that we often dishonour our Lord most, and do most harm to others. You have to make a fresh start now, to remember that you are bound to His service. It must not be any longer self-pleasing, self-indulgence—but—'Teach me to do the thing that pleaseth Thee!' When you get back into everyday life again, don't let yourself forget."
"I'll try," she whispered in a subdued tone.
LIFE'S ONWARD MARCH
WEEKS and weeks had passed; all the long weeks of Merryl's acute danger, and of her slow recovery with its many drawbacks; and then of her absence at the sea-side with her mother. It seemed to Magda like years since the day that she had last called upon Patricia, for that short and disappointing interview from which she had hoped so much.
No one else had caught the fever; and it was now over a month that Mrs. Royston and Merryl had been away. The whole house had been thoroughly fumigated and disinfected; much painting and papering had taken place; and everything which could be suspected of conveying infection was destroyed. With the arrival of autumn, people were beginning to realise that the Roystons were once more "safe," though some of the more nervous still held aloof.
Mrs. Major and Bee had been for several weeks away from Burwood paying visits; otherwise, Magda could not doubt, she and Bee would have met. Not yet had she found opportunity to tell her mother about them; and she shrank from speaking first to her sister. Pen might set herself against the acquaintance, and might influence Mrs. Royston to refuse to call. A mistake again on the part of Magda!
The absentees were expected soon to return. Merryl was better, Mrs. Royston wrote, though not so much better as every one hoped; but they would not remain much longer away.
Patricia was among those who held longest aloof. If she chanced to meet any of the Roystons out-of-doors, she gave them a very wide berth; this, up to the last fortnight, during which she too had flitted elsewhere, Magda sometimes admitted to herself, though to no one else, that she in Patricia's place could not have shown quite such excessive caution to her greatest friend.
But was she Patricia's greatest friend? At one time she had felt sure. Doubts now troubled her often.
All these weeks of trouble, of anxiety, of self-searching, were good for Magda. It was one of those periods in life when one is taken apart from the ordinary round, and set upon a watch-tower on the mountainside, to gain new views of the landscape, new views of duty, new views of self. She had been compelled to pause, to think, to take stock of her own aims and objects, to examine her course. She had been humbled in her own eyes; had seen her failures; had made resolves for the future.
Now she was back again in ordinary life; and she found herself, as she might have expected, back also amid the old temptations, the old tendencies, the old difficulties. Nay, more—she was back amid the old views of life. A landscape, as seen from a lonely tower upon the hill-side, has a very different aspect from that same landscape looked upon from its own lowest level. She was assailed once more by the commonplace pleasures, the small distractions, the hourly inducements to self-indulgence, which surround us all; and she found resistance no easy matter.
Of course it was not easy—as Rob had frankly conceded. Life is not meant to be easy.
Though she would never forget what it had been to stand and wait in hourly expectation of news that dear little Merryl had passed away, conscious that she herself had had a hand in bringing about that peril—and though the shock of this experience had awakened and aroused her, and had made her look upon life with a new realisation—still, there was all the battle to be fought. Knowing that the foe is there, and must be conquered, is not at all the same thing as being victor. Magda knew; but the fight lay ahead.
One thing had become clear to her mind, in those weeks of graver thought—that there is a very definite danger in "drifting." She had to insist upon steady work for herself, of one kind or another. The resolution was for a time more easily carried out, because during their quarantine, few interruptions came, and social invitations were non-existent.
Her old favourite notion of a home some day with Rob was at this time strongly in the ascendant. While hardly willing to admit the fact even to herself, she was disappointed in Patricia; and being so naturally made her turn the more to Rob. She dwelt much upon this dream of the future, picturing the little house that she would share with him, and painting visions of herself as his housekeeper, his tried and valued sub-worker. Of possible trials and rubs and boredom in that life, she never thought. The whole view was rose-coloured.
Any day Rob might have the offer of a living. Though still so young, she knew that he had won golden opinions, that he had many friends, and that any of these friends might soon find just the right nook for him. When that happy day should arrive, he would want her. She never felt any doubt that this would be the case. For years there had been an understanding between them that when he needed her she would go—an understanding which no doubt was regarded much more seriously by Magda than by Rob. Still, though he had sometimes laughed, he had never discouraged the dream; and she looked upon it as a certainty. True, Mr. Royston might object; but if Rob wished it, Rob would get his way.
Magda decided that she would now, really and in sober earnest, begin to make herself ready for the life. A good deal would no doubt be needed. Not merely the study of music and history and languages—though Rob had intimated that all such learning might come in usefully—but, much more, habits of neatness, method, self-control, general usefulness. A mastery of cooking and needle-work suggested itself as desirable; and, during Mrs. Royston's absence, she went in for a course of cookery-lessons, much to Pen's astonishment. Also she set herself a daily task in plain needle-work, which hitherto she had disdainfully eschewed. Even darning and patching were included.
"Really, Magda is very much improved. Very much indeed!" Mr. Royston remarked one morning to Pen. His favourite notion of Woman presented her always as needle in hand, and he had never been able to reconcile himself to his second daughter's objection to sewing. "I found her yesterday in the school-room, making a child's frock."
"I wonder how long it will last," Pen could not resist saying.
"It will last; no doubt. She is growing older and more sensible. It will last," repeated Mr. Royston confidently. Breakfast was on the table, and the gong had sounded; but Magda unfortunately failed to appear in good time. No unusual event in the past, though lately she really had striven after punctuality as part of her preparation for the future. Mr. Royston expected everybody to be down before himself; and when she appeared, he showed displeasure. "Breakfast at such a reasonable hour as we have it—there can be no question of hardship," he declared.
Magda broke out in warm self-defence before she knew that the words were coming.
"I've not been late once for three weeks. But if I make one single slip, that always means a scolding; and there's never any praise for doing better."
The manner was not too respectful, and she knew it. Fresh blame was certainly deserved on that score. Happily, the entrance of letters made a diversion, and no more was said. There were two for Magda, one from Rob, one from Patricia; and she flushed with pleasure at sight of the latter, having given up all hope of hearing.
Neither letter could have immediate attention. During Merryl's absence, some of the little duties always before done by Merryl had fallen to her share. She undertook them at first, in the mood of self-reproach, and soon they were expected as a matter of course. Mr. Royston liked to be waited on and fussed over by his daughters. She had to boil him an egg in the silver egg-boiler; and because she was in a hurry, she turned the whole toast-rack over on the floor, scattering its contents far and wide. Mr. Royston growled out that Merryl never blundered, and he desired Magda to leave things alone, and to go back to her seat. She obeyed, feeling aggrieved; and Mr. Royston, no less aggrieved, took up one of his letters. Pen meanwhile was reading hers from Mrs. Royston.
"They hope to come next week," she observed, to divert attention from Magda's misdeeds. "Mother says Merryl is still weak, poor little dear, and gets tired out directly. But the doctor advises home for a time. Then there is something about Rob. He is paying a visit at some place—what is the name? Rat—Rot—W-r-a-t-t—"
"Not Wratt-Wrothesley!" cried Magda in amaze.
"Why, what do you know about it?" demanded Pen.
Magda was examining the postmark of her own letter from Rob. "He actually is there. I didn't know he had ever come across the Miss Wryatts."
"When did you come across them?"
"I've never seen them. They are Bee Major's aunts."
"Your school friend—Beatrice Major. You used to be always talking about her. By-the-by, I meant to ask you—are these Majors that have come to live here related to your friend? I'm told that they are delightful people."
Magda gasped. It was the last thing she had expected to hear from Pen. There was nothing for it now but to speak out.
"It's they—themselves!"
"Nonsense!"
"It is, Pen. Beatrice and her mother."
"Why in the world haven't you told us? Why, they have been here—months! We ought to have called at once."
"I did mean to tell mother. But I felt so sure you wouldn't like the idea of the house—Virginia Villa. You are always so particular."
"Particular! As if it signified about the house! Mrs. Major is a person who can live where she chooses. What does that matter? Why, all the county is calling on them. Really, Magda!—To let us wait and come in at the end, when we might have been the first to call! It is too bad!"
"I don't see how I could know! I was afraid you would keep mother from knowing them."
"The last thing I should do. But you never do understand! We only heard about them just before Merryl fell ill; and then of course we could do nothing."
Magda was at a loss what to say. She felt that she had been not a little foolish. Pen went on—
"I don't know how far it is all true; but everybody is talking about them. They say Miss Major is one of the sweetest girls ever seen. And as for Mrs. Major—of course you know that she is an Earl's granddaughter, or something of that sort. A Duke's cousin, some say."
"I don't know anything about it."
"And yet you call Miss Major your friend!"
"She never told me."
"If I had been you, I would have found out."
Which was undoubtedly true.
Magda began opening Patricia's letter. "Why—she is at Wratt-Wrothesley too. I can't imagine what has taken Rob there."
"I can tell you that. Mr. Ivor, who went up the mountain with Rob, and fell into the crevasse, is a great friend of the Miss Wryatts—and mother supposes that they wanted to thank Rob for saving his life."
"And Mrs. Major and Bee are there too," murmured Magda, feeling rather dazed; for this meant Patricia and Bee meeting under one roof in hourly intercourse.
"I dare say! Mrs. Major is their sister. Mother seems very much pleased that Rob should have had the invitation. You don't seem to have made much use of your openings at school."
Magda did not hear. She was suddenly engrossed by Patricia's letter, which indeed contained something altogether unexpected and astounding. No exclamation passed her lips. She read on in stupefied silence, at first hardly able to grasp the full meaning of the words, which ran as follows:—