"Will you please leave me alone!"
"Why were you so stiff to him this afternoon?"
The question was unexpected, and heavy throbbing in Bee's throat answered quickly to it. She said only—
"You made me."
"I! But of course I didn't mean—"
"How could I be anything else—after all you said! With Magda there! It was—impossible! You did it!"
Amy caught one of Bee's hands, and it hung in her grasp like a thing without life.
"I was wrong—I knew I was wrong at the time," she said penitently. "It was horrid of me. That was why I couldn't sleep without seeing you again. I suppose—I suppose it was jealousy. Just a touch of it, you know. Bee—" and she caressed the cold fingers—"of course jealousy is always horrid. But don't you think there is just some little excuse for me? You have always been mine, and nothing before has ever come between us. And now—Oh, I see, it has to be. I see you can't help it. Nothing and nobody is anything to you, in comparison with—him! I must make up my mind to it, and learn to play second fiddle. Or rather—to play no fiddle at all. That's what it really means—" and she tried to laugh. "I shall be out of the orchestra altogether. But it isn't quite easy for me—is it, darling? You'll forgive—won't you? Though I was rather horrid this afternoon. I'll never do it again. And things will soon come right."
"Please leave me alone!" was all that she had in reply.
"Won't you just say first that you forgive me?"
The silence following seemed long. Bee's head dropped.
"I—can't!" came at length. "I—can't—yet! If only you would go!"
"It makes me wretched to think of leaving you like this."
"Why should it? You can do nothing for me—now. You could have helped this afternoon—and you did not! You spoilt everything—made me drive him away—for ever! It was so cruel—so cruel! And now—to pretend—"
"Oh, Bee! Pretend!"
"I can't help it. You must give me time. I can't forgive you yet."
Bee turned away, with a low moan, and went towards the window.
Amy came close behind.
"Listen to me, dear. I promise you that I'll put it right. I'll explain—"
Bee turned fiercely, gripping her wrist. No limpness about her now!
"Never! Never! Not one word. Amy—if you dare—" and her breath grew short. "Have you no sense? Don't you see what it would mean for me, if—if he doesn't care? Promise—promise faithfully—that you never, never will say a single word to anybody about it. Promise!"
"Can't you trust me?"
"No, I can't—after to-day!—after what you did say! You must promise. Amy, I tell you plainly—if ever—ever!—you interfere again—it will be the end of our friendship."
The usually gentle girl was strangely wrought up; and Amy, quite subdued, gave the required promise. She had to repeat it three times, before Bee was satisfied.
"And now will you go to bed? Will you try to rest, darling? And do believe that things are not so bad as you fancy. You will see it to-morrow morning."
"Oh yes,"—came languidly, not in assent.
"And I do think you will soon believe that I did not mean to be cruel!" That word had gone deep. "Bee darling, if you only knew one-half of how I love you, I think you could not suspect me of ever meaning to be unkind."
Bee was listlessly silent.
"One kiss," pleaded Amy. She folded the other in a warm grasp, and Bee again submitted; no more. Amy released her, sighing.
"Well, good-night, poor darling. I'm much more to be pitied than you are. I've done the harm, and that is worse than only having to bear it."
Met again by uncompromising silence, Amy stole away, closing the door with circumspection, lest Mrs. Major should hear. She lay awake in bed, tears dropping at intervals. Had she indeed forfeited Bee's love by her folly?
Sleep under the circumstances lay outside the range of possibilities. An hour passed; and another hour.
The house was very still. A tiny creak startled her; and then a soft footfall.
"Bee!"—she said instantly.
A slight figure bent over her in the darkness, and a smothered voice murmured—
"I'm come—to say—good-night."
Amy held her in a long close clasp. Neither could speak at first; and one tiny sob might be heard from Bee.
"And you forgive me, my darling!"
"I—had to! I—couldn't say my prayers. I couldn't say—Forgive me—as—"
Bee broke down.
"COULDN'T BE TIED!"
"I REALLY did think that dear boy had more sense," quoth Mrs. Miles, as her busy fingers arranged rows of tucks in a small frock. Two little maidens of seven and eight brightened the Vicarage home, and she made all their clothes herself.
"Ivor! What has he done?"
"He has done nothing. It's what he is going to do."
"Where is he to-night?"
"Gone to dine at Claughton. I thought you knew. That is not the point! Imagine his taking to Magda, more than to Bee Major!"
"You think he has?"
"Quite sure. When he came back from his call yesterday, he had nothing to say, except what a nice bright girl Magda was. And so she is; and I like her. But you can no more compare her with Beatrice Major than—" Mrs. Miles paused for a simile, as she measured the width of her tucks, and failed to find one. "Not that Magda isn't attractive in her own way. But I wish one could bring her to a point. She is all loose ends, and vague dreams, and general discontent. Nothing that one suggests in the way of work seems to be the right thing. I suppose girls are often like that when they first get away from school; but it is time she should settle to something."
"I thought she had given you some help of late."
"In a casual fashion—when nothing that she likes better happens to turn up."
"That seems to be the way with a good many of the Burwood ladies—older as well as younger."
"I've tried my best to rouse them; and some respond all right. But with most of the girls, it is—'Oh, I can't be tied!' Those Hodgson girls, for instance—five of them, strong clever young people, and well-educated. And they're just running to seed. They do absolutely nothing for any human being except themselves. A house-full of servants—no help wanted there; abundance of money; and life one endless round of pleasure! Riding, hunting, motoring, golfing, dancing, paying visits, travelling—nothing but amusement! I tackled them one day in good earnest, and asked if one wouldn't help in the Sunday-school, and another in the night-school, and another in the shoe-club, and so on. And one and all made the same reply. Oh dear, no, they couldn't be tied! They liked to be free. Which means—free to amuse themselves without stint."
"One wonders that any human being, with brains and character, can be content with such an existence!"
"You see, dear, the point of the matter is that, if they undertake any regular weekly task, something may turn up at that particular hour, which they don't like to miss. An invitation, perhaps."
In the Vicar's strenuous life, work had habitually barred the way upon pleasure. But then he had found his pleasure in his work.
"And if it does?" he said.
"Why, generally they accept the invitation, and toss up the work. I tried to get the Hodgsons to see that they might perhaps owe a duty to other folks besides themselves; and they took it very well. They really are nice girls, you know, only so fearfully useless. One of them actually consented to help me in the library once a week for an hour. And she came twice. Then something turned up that she didn't wish to lose; so she sent an excuse. Next time she sent no excuse, but simply stayed away. And then she wrote a pleasant little note, saying she was so busy-busy! That she was afraid she must give up the library."
The Vicar had put down his pen, and was gravely attentive. He knew it all, of course—probably better than his wife; but she liked to pour forth and he liked to listen.
"There are delightful exceptions, I'll allow. Bee Major, for one. But she has been trained to do her duty; and the others have been brought up from babyhood to think of nothing but themselves. No real sense of duty! The Royston girls are different—except Magda. Whatever you propose to her she doesn't want to do. She can't manage this, and she doesn't 'like' that. Anyhow, I never came across a nicer girl than Bee Major. She would make an ideal wife for Lance!"
"You can't choose his wife for him, my dear."
"More's the pity!" she retorted. "One could often choose for a man so much more sensibly than he chooses for himself! However—since he likes Magda, he shall see her again. I'm asking her and Pen and one or two others—Bee included—to spend the evening here the day after to-morrow. You love having young folks about."
Ivor was already seeing Magda again. She and Pen had been invited to dine at Claughton Manor; other guests being there also.
Bee was asked, and she accepted; and just at the last she had to send an excuse. Nothing short of absolute necessity would have kept her away, since she realised what it might mean. But that very afternoon Mrs. Major was taken with an acute attack of illness, to which she was occasionally subject, connected with the heart, and serious enough to mean actual danger. Bee could not leave her. Neither could she fully explain; for Mrs. Major had an extreme dislike to being counted delicate; and Bee was under strict orders never to say a superfluous word about her mother's health. The doctor had similar instructions; and he alone, beside Bee and the faithful old "Nurse," knew how grave these attacks were, or might at any time become.
Nothing could have been more unfortunate than one happening just now. Ivor, on hearing of the excuse sent—that Mrs. Major was "very poorly," and that Bee could not be spared—naturally drew his own conclusions. Coupled with her cold manner, it meant of course that she wished to keep out of his way.
Partly, perhaps, in self-defence, and in consequence of the wet blanket to which he had been treated, he turned a good deal of his attention to Magda that evening. She was again at her best, in a prettily-made frock of thin black material, which suited the red-gold of her hair, and the bright curiously-tinted eyes. A spray of variegated leaves, chosen and fastened in by Merryl, gave exactly the right tone; and there was no other colouring to compete with it. She talked well too. She and Ivor exchanged ideas, played upon words, discussed opposite views, laughingly. He found her unformed, but clever, and on the whole refreshingly simple. It went for little, so far; yet the fact that she was the sister of his most intimate friend meant that they had many subjects in common.
For once Pen was in the background. Patricia showed herself, as always, daintily charming, moving amid a circle of admirers. The personality of the admirers mattered little, so long as they were there.
Magda was entirely occupied with Ivor—or rather, with Ivor's attentions. He managed to draw her out, as she had not been drawn out before. He made her sparkle, and showed her to herself in new and agreeable lights. A feeling of delighted gratification, which she did not attempt to analyse, filled her mind in consequence.
Two days later they again met at the Vicarage; and once more Bee, though invited, was absent, since her mother was still too ill to be left, though she might only hint at this. Ivor had no further doubts.
"A convenient excuse!" he said bitterly to himself.
Amy, full of remorse, would gladly have taken Bee's place in the sick-room; but it was not allowed; and, she knew Mrs. Major too well to venture on any full explanation to others. She too had been invited, and she had to go, since Bee was bent upon her having the pleasure. It was an evening which, for Amy, spelt the reverse of enjoyment.
Magda this time really shone. She seemed at one leap to have grown older, to have become less school-girlish, more handsome, more taking. A slight consciousness made her voice softer, her manner more restrained, than usual; yet with this came also a touch of increased confidence. She found in herself a power to please, which she had not known before; and the experience was delicious. Others watched her with a mingling of surprise and amusement. Magda was developing, they said. She was "quite coming out."
Amy Smith's sensations included no amusement. She grew inwardly furious, more and more furious, as the evening wore on. Bee's friend—to step in, like this, in Bee's absence!—To try deliberately to win Ivor's love away from her! It was scandalous! Disgraceful! Amy found it hard work to hold her wrath within bounds.
Nor did she—altogether. Early hours were the rule at the Vicarage; and by half-past ten a general exodus took place. Wraps were donned, amid talk and laughter, in the breakfast-room; and Amy, standing grimly apart from the rest, found Magda offering a good-bye hand, all smiles.
"Hasn't it been a delightful evening?" Magda was saying.
Amy had always been impulsive; and she was so still, though fast leaving girlhood behind. Without an instant's pause for thought, and not so much as remembering her promise to Bee, she spoke words which leaped up in her mind—
"To you, I dare say! But—I couldn't—in your place! I call it—poaching!"
Then, with sudden contrition, as a flame of colour rushed into Magda's face, she knew what she had done. "What do you mean?" came involuntarily.
"Oh, nothing!" Amy tried to laugh. "I'm talking nonsense. Good-bye."
Magda hesitated an instant; then walked off, holding her head high.
"I can't endure that Miss Smith," she said disdainfully to Pen, as they drove home. "Such a stupid ordinary little person! I can't imagine what Bee sees to like in her."
Pen made some chilling reply. She was not pleased with Magda's prominence during the two past evenings.
But Amy had blundered again. She had opened Magda's eyes.
HERSELF OR HER FRIEND?
ONE may be walking on a most ordinary path, plucking flowers by the way, and doing—or not doing—one's everyday duties. And suddenly temptation comes!
But in the meeting of that temptation it makes just all the difference, whether the everyday duties have been faithfully carried out, or have been shirked. In the one case, previous weeks have strengthened one's power to stand firm; in the other case, previous weeks have lessened it.
Going to bed this night seemed to Magda almost impossible. There was so much to think about. Life had assumed a new colouring.
A vague sense had dawned upon her—vague at first, but rendered more definite by Amy Smith's unwise speech—that she had some sort of power over Lancelot Ivor. Power, it might be, to make him like her. He seemed to enjoy her companionship. She had found that she could interest him, could amuse him, could make him for the moment grave at will. And Amy's remark set the seal to her discovery. If others saw the same, then it must be real—then she could not only have fancied it.
The thought was immensely exciting.
Not that she cared markedly for Ivor himself. Magda did not know what real love meant. But he was handsome and much liked; and her vanity was flattered. Hitherto she had counted for little, either in her own home or among Burwood friends. His attention lifted her upon a pedestal of importance.
He had deferred going away for another night or two; and next evening he was to dine with them. She would see him again. She would have another chance to deepen the impression which—perhaps—she had already made.
And—it meant—temptation!
She woke up to the fact slowly; and it was partly from what Amy had said that she recognised the temptation as such.
Magda was not keenly observant. Thus far she had not known what Amy knew—that Bee's heart belonged to Ivor. It was the last thing Bee would have wished her to know. Here again Amy had betrayed Bee.
Not indeed directly. Her hasty speech at first only aroused Magda's ire, on her own account. She disliked Amy, and she hated to be lectured and interfered with. But as she restlessly walked her room, going over the evening in her mind, and as she thought again of Amy's words, a new sense came into them.
"Poaching! What nonsense!" What could Miss Smith have meant? Poaching in another person's preserve—that was the idea. What—in Bee's preserve? How ridiculous! As if Bee had any particular rights over Mr. Ivor! And as if Bee cared!
But did Bee not care? She recalled her own announcement of Ivor's expected arrival, and Bee's unwonted flush—then her absence, her dreaminess, her look of happiness. It all seemed rather suspicious, even though Ivor had received no especially warm welcome afterwards. Bee was always so funny about things—so slow to show what she felt. Perhaps Miss Smith knew that Bee really did care—and perhaps that was why she had meddled.
If indeed it were so—what then?
Was Magda to cut in between, to steal Ivor, to destroy her friend's hopes of happiness? It might mean all this! If left to himself, Ivor and Bee were not unlikely to draw together. But if Magda should exert herself to win him—should use the power which she believed to be hers—she might draw him on to like her more. And then—Bee might lose for ever the man who perhaps had already won her heart.
"Well, I suppose, if she does care, it would be rather mean of me, on the whole," meditated Magda.
That ought to have settled the matter, but it did not. Magda went on reviewing pros and cons.
If she now decisively drew back, and took no further pains to make herself attractive to him, she might thus secure Bee's life-long joy. Ivor, no longer drawn ever so slightly in another direction, would probably turn to Bee. Why not? They were well suited, each to the other. And Bee had saved his life!
It was all conjecture; yet grave possibilities were involved. And whether the conjectures were right or wrong, Magda's duty stood forth clearly.
One more of life's opportunities lay before her. An opportunity for self-denial, for self-forgetfulness, on behalf of her friend. She had so wanted in the past to do something great, something grand, something worth doing. Here was her chance. Self-sacrifice is the grandest thing possible in the life of man or woman.
Nor was it of so severe a type as to be overwhelmingly difficult. She liked to be the prominent person, winning attention and admiration. She also liked Mr. Ivor, and her vanity was pleased. But that was all. Her heart was not affected. To draw back would mean no question of heavy loss, still less of heartbreak.
Miss Mordaunt had spoken of "rehearsals" given beforehand of greater opportunities to follow. What if this were one such "rehearsal"? What if the faithful carrying out of this might mean something greater to come after? So it often is in life.
The thing looked worth doing, apart from any question of rehearsals. Magda thought she would do it. For the sake of right, for the sake of honour, for the sake of her friend—she would hold herself in the background. She would no longer exert herself to be delightful. Mr. Ivor should find her dull and uninteresting. That would put things straight for Bee. She got into bed at last, seeing her own conduct in rosy hues, self put aside, love for Bee victorious, principle getting the upper hand over inclination.
But she forgot to look for Divine help in the carrying out of her good resolution. Some perfunctory prayers had been said earlier—only said with wandering attention. That was all. She had not asked to be made able to tread this path.
And when she awoke in the morning, things wore a different aspect. The road she had marked out for herself had lost its sunshine.
A quiet background is no inviting place for a lively girl, who has just discovered her power to please. And what if Mr. Ivor really were inclined to like her—more than others—more even than Bee? What if he really did wish to see more of her? This thought flashed up vividly. Was she to fling aside such a dazzling possibility, merely because she fancied that Bee was perhaps in love? Why, it would be quite absurd!
Besides—how could she be so rude as to neglect Mr. Ivor, when he came to their house? It would be her duty to make herself agreeable.
Not that Magda was usually bound by any obligations in this direction, when the guest happened to be not to her liking!
Swayed to and fro by such opposite considerations, she went down to breakfast; and the first test came soon.
"Would it be of any use to ask Beatrice Major here this evening?" Mrs. Royston inquired of Penrose.
"I don't know, mother. Mrs. Major has been poorly, but I should think she is better now. Magda will know."
Mrs. Royston looked at Magda, and the thin rope of her last night's resolution snapped under the strain.
"I shouldn't think it would be much use. Bee has been nowhere yet."
"You might find out. She knows Mr. Ivor, and I dare say she would like to come, as he goes to-morrow."
Would Bee not like it? Was her mother not well enough by this time? Magda was aware at least that she might be able. But with the thought came a further temptation, as Pen said—
"What has been the matter with Mrs. Major? Not influenza, I suppose? We don't want to get that in the house."
"Something of the sort, I dare say!" Magda replied carelessly.
"Mean! Mean!" cried conscience. She knew she had done it now! Mother and elder daughter exchanged glances, and the subject was dropped. No more chance of an invitation for Bee! And Magda did not want her to come. She did not wish to have Bee as a rival. But how contemptible it was! All her visions of a noble self-forgetfulness had faded into smoke. Everything had given way before her desire to shine. And she knew that she had not spoken the truth. She knew that Mrs. Major was subject to such recurring attacks, though unaware of their exact nature.
When evening came, things did not go as she had hoped. In their own home Pen, as eldest, was automatically more to the fore; and Magda, as the younger, had to submit to being second. Mr. Royston too engrossed a large share of their chief guest. One brief ten minutes' chat with him Magda had towards the close; only enough to make her want more; and then Mr. Royston again took possession, and her enjoyment was cut short.
So she gained little by her disregard of Bee's interests. She had been worsted in her fight, and had flung away another of life's opportunities; and all for nothing. She went to bed feeling indignant and very flat.
And next day the young barrister returned to his busy life in town, without having again met Bee.
That morning Merryl and Frip, as they walked down High Street, saw her coming out of a shop; and she stopped at once to speak to them. Frip was still a small child; but Merryl, since her illness, had shot up rapidly. She had grown much slighter; and her face, though perhaps not strictly pretty, was very attractive, with its look of sunny repose.
"I hope Mrs. Major is better," she said. "We were so sorry to hear about her."
"Thanks, dear; she is getting all right again. She had quite a long drive yesterday."
Frip's shrill little pipe made itself heard before Merryl could reply.
"Why!"—came in astonished accents. "Why, mother wanted to have you to dinner last night. And Magda said it wouldn't be any use, because you couldn't come. And she thought it was influenza."
Bee flushed.
"No, no—Magda only fancied it might be that. She wasn't sure," explained Merryl, always anxious to smooth things down. "She had not been to ask for a day or two, I think."
"No, she had not been. It was not influenza." Bee spoke in a mechanical voice, and her smile was rather forced.
"I suppose—some one must have told her," ventured Merryl.
"People always say that sort of thing, don't they?" Bee remarked. Then, a little hurriedly, she said good-bye, and went on.
"Frip, you shouldn't have told!"
"But I do wonder what made Magda say it. I should have thought she'd have wanted Bee to come. And I'm almost sure Bee is sorry. I'm almost sure she'd have liked to come."
Merryl was quite sure, but would not say so; and the matter dropped. It did not, however, end there. At luncheon some remark was made about Mrs. Major; and Frip, pricking up her ears, put in a word which Merryl, at the other end, had no power to check.
"Mummie, we saw Bee to-day."
"You shouldn't call her 'Bee,' Frip. You should say 'Miss Major,'" admonished Pen.
"But she told me I might call her 'Bee;' so I may, mayn't I? And Mrs. Major is almost quite well again; and it wasn't influenza, not one bit; and Bee could have come yesterday, if you'd asked her, mummie. And I told her you wanted to, only Magda said it was no good. And she looked—I don't exactly know how—only as if she was sorry."
"You do meddle, Frip!" burst out Magda.
"Frip was not very wise to repeat things. But why should you have said what was not correct?"
"I thought it was—of course! How could I know?"
"It would have been kinder to Bee to find out."
That was all that passed; but Magda was much disturbed. It had never crossed her mind that what she did might come to Bee's knowledge.
SOMEBODY'S LOOSE ENDS
FOR a fortnight past—ever since Ivor's departure—those "loose ends" had been very apparent. Magda had dropped into a state of hopeless inertia. There was energy enough in her constitution, when it was aroused by a sufficient stimulus; but, like many strong and energetic people, she could be unspeakably lazy. And that was her present condition.
Everything seemed dull and stupid, "stale, flat and unprofitable." Work went to the wall. All that she cared to do was to sit before the fire, reading or pretending to read novels, and going over in imagination those two delightful evenings, which had somehow demoralised her, making nothing else in life worth consideration.
She had fallen back into her usual standing of a "nobody;" and she could not see why it must be so. Other girls were made much of, admired, put forward. Why should it not be the same with herself? She had found that—given certain conditions—it was in her power to be taking. She wanted those conditions to recur. If only Mr. Ivor would pay another visit to the Vicarage, she might again enjoy that delightful sense of power. There was nobody now in the place for whom she cared or who cared for her.
So she made herself far from agreeable to her home-folks, for whom in reality she cared very much; only, a cyclone was needed to reveal the fact. She forgot what she had to do, and refused what she was asked, and replied snappishly, and resented being found fault with, and behaved altogether like a querulous child.
"What are you doing, Magda?"
Mrs. Royston, coming into the morning-room an hour after breakfast, found her second daughter lounging before the fire, with an open novel on her knee, and eyes fixed dreamily on nothing.
Magda slowly stood up. "I'm—reading."
"I think, at this time of the day, you might find something better worth reading than that," as she glanced at the title. "I want you to leave one or two notes for me."
"Isn't Merryl going out?"
"No; not at present. What is the matter? Are you poorly?"
"No, mother."
Mrs. Royston stood looking at her. "Have you practised the last few mornings?"
"I do—sometimes."
"And you look 'sometimes' at your French and German, I suppose. It is a great pity that you let yourself get into such idle habits."
"It's so stupid—practising for one's self alone."
"Why for yourself alone? Why not give other people pleasure. See how pleased your father was yesterday with Merryl's playing."
"He wouldn't have cared for mine. Father hates classical music, and I hate jigs. Merryl only strums. She hasn't a spark of music in her."
"At all events, she does her best; and you do not. You have a real gift for the piano, and you are neglecting it."
"Whatever Merryl does is right, and whatever I do is wrong."
Mrs. Royston sighed. "You always have an answer ready, Magda. I did think at one time—when we so nearly lost our darling Merryl—that you meant to be different. But you go on now just the same. I should like these notes taken, please, at once—and you can ask for the answers."
"Verbal?" Magda spoke in a hard tone, all the more because her mother's words had struck home.
"I don't mind; only, if you bring verbal replies, do bring them correctly."
Magda took up one of the notes. "All the way to Claughton!"
"You used to think nothing of bicycling there two or three times a week. Why should you mind it now?"
"Patricia was fond of me then."
"Patricia has a good deal to think about. I do not believe she has changed to you. Is anything really the matter? If you are not well, tell me frankly."
"I'm quite well, mother."
"Then please take the notes."
Mrs. Royston left the room, and Magda stood staring out of the window—stirred uncomfortably.
No doubt it was true that she had "gone on" lately, and especially in the last fortnight, "just the same" as before Merryl's illness. She had lost sight of her remorse and her resolutions, and had again been wrapped up in her own concerns, living an idle and purposeless existence.
"This must be no empty repentance," Rob had said. "When you get back into everyday life again, don't let yourself forget."
But she had allowed herself to forget. She had been beaten again and again, in the strife between right and wrong.
She echoed her mother's sigh, and took up the second note.
It was to Mrs. Major; and strong distaste seized her. She had seen very little of Bee lately. The two had met once or twice in public; but not in private. Magda had been careful to avoid the latter. She knew that she had not been true to her friend; and she knew that Bee must know it. Frip's words could not fail to be enlightening.
And now she was as likely as not to find Bee alone. And she had to go in—had to wait for an answer.
She threw her book impatiently on one side, and left the chair with its crumpled cushions before the fire. Which house to take first was the question. She decided on the nearer, because then she could plead a need for haste.
As she went up the garden, she caught sight of Bee's head within the front room, bending over some work. And when she rang the bell, Mrs. Major came out.
"How do you do? Have you come to see Bee?" Mrs. Major scanned the girl critically, having remarked the rarity of her calls.
"I've come to bring a note from mother. She said a verbal answer would do."
Mrs. Major glanced down the page. "Yes—your mother wants an address. Will you ask Bee to look it out in my address-book, please. I have an engagement and cannot wait."
So Magda had no choice. She made her way in, for once so noiselessly that she had time for observation, before Bee awoke to her presence. Something in Bee's bent head and quiet look impressed her—something of resolute patience in the sweet face, with its downcast eyes and dark brows. It made Magda feel uncomfortable—almost guilty. She stirred, and the other glanced up.
"Why, Magda! It is quite an age since you came last!"
Magda explained her object.
"Yes—I know where the address is. Sit down. I'll look it up."
"I mustn't wait. I've to go on to Claughton."
"Are you in such a hurry? You once said you could bicycle to the Manor in twenty minutes."
"Did I? Oh, I couldn't quite have meant that. It takes half-an-hour at least—and more! And I ought to get back in time to practice."
Bee went to the davenport, where she hunted out the address and wrote it down.
"Will that do—without a note?"
"Oh yes, thanks!"
Magda stood up, and Bee came close, studying her gravely.
"You used not to seem so impatient to be off!"
"I've got to take mother's note."
"Yes, I know—but it is quite early still." Bee sat down, and a light touch on Magda's wrist somehow made her do the same. "I don't think there can be such terrific haste, that you cannot spare a few minutes. I want to ask you what has been the matter lately?"
Somehow, Magda had not expected this; and she flushed up.
"The matter! Oh, why—nothing! Of course not! What do you mean? Why should anything be the matter?"
"You have not been quite the same lately. And I never like to let misunderstandings run on. There is some misunderstanding—isn't there?"
"No! Nothing of the sort!" Magda spoke vehemently. "I don't know what you mean."
Then she felt that this was not true.
"Don't you, really?"
"No, of course, I—What do you mean?"
"I have noticed a difference, and I want to know the reason. We are old friends now—and it seems such a pity to let anything come between us, when perhaps one word of explanation—"
Magda broke in. "But there's nothing to explain. There isn't, really. I—it's only—I've been—busy!"
"Busy about what?"
"Oh, I don't know. Heaps of things. Perhaps—more lazy than busy." She tried to laugh, but could not face the wistful eyes bent upon her. "Oh, bother—why must you be so inquisitorial?"
"Am I? Well—if you would rather not tell me—"
"I can't. I've nothing to tell."
"Are you sure? Things haven't seemed right. If you would rather drop the subject, I must let you. Only, if I have hurt you in any way, or if you have thought me unkind, I am sorry."
"Bee! It isn't—"
Magda choked over the words. She hardly knew what to say; for the contrast between herself and Bee was not pleasing to vanity.
"It isn't what?"
"It's not you! If either of us is wrong, it is I—not you!"
She remembered afterwards that Bee did not contradict the assertion.
"Anyhow, it need not put us apart."
"I suppose not, if—if you don't mind. But—only—" Magda spoke disjointedly, fidgeting with a cushion-tassel. "Only—you know—one does feel horrid sometimes; and Frip told me she had told you—and of course—though I really didn't mean to be unkind—"
"When didn't you?"
"You know. You heard what Frip said. And I suppose you would have liked to come—and I ought to have known. And I dare say I did know, really—only one can't always decide rightly, just in a moment. Well—if I'm to make a clean breast of it—I didn't want you that evening, Bee. There! It's out!"
"But why?"
"I liked talking to Mr. Ivor. He was so jolly and amusing. And on the whole I rather thought he liked talking with me. He is Rob's friend, you see. And he somehow sort of made me able to talk—you know! As some people can, and only a few. And I wanted it over again. And I knew I should have no chance if you, were there. He would only have cared to talk with you."
Magda was not looking up, as she jerked out her little confession. Had she been, she could not have failed to see the swift flash of response in Bee's face. It was quickly subdued, and Bee asked mildly—
"Why?"
"My dear, you're dull to-day. You don't seem to understand anything. Why, of course—because you are you! He would be after you fast enough, if you would let him. You can be stiff—most people can, I suppose. But everybody says how pretty you are, and how taking. It's not like Patricia's prettiness. Quite a different sort of thing. But I couldn't help noticing that afternoon, when Mr. Ivor came to call here—though he and I were talking a lot, his eyes kept going back and back to you, as if he couldn't help it; and twice he didn't hear what I was saying."
"I didn't see!"
"Well, anyhow, I did. I declare, Bee, you are looking oceans better than when I came in. You were so white."
"Just a little tired, perhaps. It does one good to have a chat. Don't worry yourself any more about—that—or keep away. Come in as often as you can."
Magda stood up. "All right; I will. But I really must go now, or I shall be late for lunch."
"Yes; I won't keep you. But I am glad you came, dear."
Her good-bye kiss in its tender warmth surprised and touched Magda; for she did not feel that she deserved it.
"I wonder what made me say that—about Mr. Ivor?" she debated, as she bicycled out of the town. "But it was true. I'd forgotten, till the moment when I said it, how he did look at her."
And Beatrice, left alone, stood in the room, with both hands pressed hard over her face.
"Oh, if it is! Oh, if it is!" she whispered once or twice.
Then she drew a long breath, and went back to her work quietly, but with a glad light in her eyes.
"What a child Magda is still!" she uttered aloud, with a little laugh. "I seem to be years and years the elder!"
MAGDA'S OLD CHUM
"SO you know the Roystons," remarked Edward Fairfax to his cousin, Mrs. Miles.
He had arrived the evening before, and had been occupied for an hour past with the newspaper, near an open window. It was a fine day, late in July.
There was nothing restless or impulsive about him. Though only six years Magda's senior, he might have been well over thirty, judging from his outlines, his immobility, and his scanty hair. He was neither small and slim like Rob, nor tall and muscular like Ivor; but of another stamp altogether. Medium in site, and solid in make, he had rugged features, yet a very pleasant face. As he sat thus, silent and motionless, a looker-on could hardly have imagined the possibility of Fairfax out of temper. He seemed to be made up of kindliness and good sense. A queer little twinkle in his light-grey eyes gave promise of the "saving sense of humour," which alone goes a long way; and he also had a well-shaped head. As he spoke, he glanced over the edge of his newspaper.
"We know them well. Especially the second girl."
"Magda?"
"That is the one. She says she knew you in old days."
"Yes. Odd little scarecrow of a being, when I first came across her. She'd got into a way of talking all over the shop about her troubles. I cured her of that—made her tell me instead. I used to chaff her fearfully, and she took it well."
"Perhaps she wouldn't have taken it well from everybody. What sort of troubles?"
"Oh, a rum lot! She was always in hot water, somehow. I never could make out who was to blame. So I just told her to keep a stiff upper lip, and not to worry. She had ripping hair—all down her back."
"She has lovely hair now—rather wild sometimes. And she isn't bad-looking. The advice given sounds extremely like Ned Fairfax."
"What else would you have had me say? I wonder if she remembers what chums we were."
"Why—of course. It was she who told me first, when she happened to see your likeness."
"Yes—but still, it was she who dropped me, not I who dropped her. I wrote last, and had no answer. So I stopped."
"You might have tried a second time, if you wanted to keep it up."
"I might—but I didn't."
"Some day soon you are sure to see her. She is rather fond of dropping in here. And you will pay us a long visit."
"Anyhow, I think I'll look up Magda—presently."
"My dear Ned, you have not seen her since she was a child. Wouldn't you rather call her 'Miss Royston'?"
"She is not 'Miss Royston.' And 'Miss Magda Royston' is such a mouthful."
"I should imagine that she would expect it."
Fairfax returned to his paper for another half-hour. Then he put it aside, and went out, aiming for Magda Royston's home.
It was quite true that he and she had been great chums, in the days when he was a big schoolboy from fourteen to seventeen, and she an excitable little girl from eight to eleven. He had made a pet of her, and she had made a hero of him. She had confided to him her every thought and trouble; and he in return, from laughing and pitying, had grown to be fond of the impetuous warm-hearted difficult child, whom nobody seemed to understand. He was rather curious to see what manner of being she had grown into.
Reaching the house, he decided against a formal entrance by means of the front door. It was not an hour for a stiff call; and as a boy, he had been free of the garden. He saw no reason why he should not revert to old habits.
So, following a path amid bushes which led round behind, he found himself close to the kitchen garden; and a few yards in advance of him, their backs turned in his direction, he saw two girls; one small and long-haired; the other rather tall and slight.
"Yes, dear," the latter was saying in a soft voice. "But I don't think it does to mind that sort of thing too much. It isn't worth while. Shall we go and feed the chickens?"
"She needn't be so cross, though—need she?"
"I don't think she means to be cross, darling. Perhaps she is worried about something. That often makes people seem a little cross, you know."
"I beg your pardon—" Ned interposed, with lifted cap; and they turned promptly.
"No—not Magda!" Ned instantly decided. That serene brow, those smiling eyes and happy lips, could hardly appertain to his quondam chum. Unless, indeed, the years had remade her! But this girl was surely younger; hardly more than sixteen, with smooth dark hair. Another sort altogether. Not pretty perhaps in the ordinary sense of the word—but something in the sunshine of that childlike face enchained attention.
"I beg your pardon—" Ned was saying aloud, while such thoughts flashed through his mind. "I fancied you might be Miss Magda Royston."
"Oh, no, I'm only her sister. I'm Merryl," came in frank reply. "Do you want to see Magda?"
"She and I are old friends. I am afraid I have taken rather a liberty in coming this way; but it all looked so familiar that I—well, I came. You don't know me, of course. You must have been one of the little ones in those days. I am Ned Fairfax."
Merryl's hand came out cordially.
"But of course I remember. I'm only two years younger than Magda—though we did seem so far apart then. Of course I remember. You were always so good to us little ones. Will you come indoors, and shall I call her? She has gone to the other end of the kitchen garden."
"Then perhaps I might find her there. I should like to discover if she will recognise me—unannounced."
"If you like—please do. But I am sure mother will wish to see you too."
"Hadn't I better choose a more orthodox hour for calling? One afternoon, perhaps. I've come to the Vicarage for ten days."
"Yes, we heard you were coming; and Magda was so pleased."
"Then she has not quite forgotten me. And this of course is little Frip!" Ned's hand grasped Francie's pleasantly. Children always took to him, and Frip proved no exception.
"Frip is our baby still," observed Merryl. "I sometimes think she always will be. We are going now to feed the chickens. You are sure you would rather find Magda yourself?"
Ned was not quite sure. He felt tempted to ask if he might not first interview the chickens; but this suggestion was resisted.
Merryl smiled a good-bye; and as the two went off, he overheard a shrill little voice saying—"I like that man! Don't you?" Followed by a—"Hush, darling."
"That's a nice girl," Ned murmured. He recalled the plump plain-faced little Merryl of former times, and marvelled over time's developments. Would Magda be equally transformed? And if so, in what direction? She had been better-looking than Merryl, despite her "scarecrow" outlines. Whether she would be so still remained to be seen.
Ned knew well the walk at the end of the kitchen garden. It had been there that Magda was wont, in past days, to take refuge from a troublesome world, when in one of her injured moods. He wondered whether she kept the habit up still. Then Merryl's words recurred to his mind; and he questioned—was it Magda who had been "cross"?
There she was—pacing hurriedly along the grass-path, just as in old times. Something had plainly gone wrong with her. She was walking away from where he stood; and he examined the restless movements, contrasting them mentally with the repose of the younger girl's look. Like many men, perhaps most men, Ned loved repose.
Now she was coming back, moving still with a quick impatient swing, as if working off indignation. Her eyes were bent on the ground and he had time to analyse her further, before she looked up. Improved in some ways, he told himself. Height and figure were good; and she held herself well; and the sunshine, catching her hair, lighted the red-gold into brilliancy. But the face at that moment was not a happy one.
Suddenly—as a result, perhaps, of his gaze—she glanced full at him. There was a momentary hesitation; and then a glow of pleasure.
"Ned!" she cried, and drew back. "Oh, I beg your pardon. I mean—Mr. Fairfax."
"Since when have I ceased to be 'Ned'?" he asked, as their hands met.
"Since we grew into strangers," she replied readily. "Ages ago! But I heard you were coming, and I wondered if we should come across one another."
"Was it likely that we should not?"
"How could I tell? Those are such far-off times. But it is nice to see you again. Have you seen mother yet?"
"I did not suppose she would be grateful for so early a call."
"But how did you get round here?"
"Usual mode of progression—on my two feet."
"Oh, how like you are to what you used to be! We always talked nonsense together."
"Did we? My impression is that we discussed endlessly your heart-breaking trials and dismal views of life."
"But then you always made them out to be nothing."
"And then you used to howl and be the better for it."
"Girls always are the better for it, I suppose. I don't howl now. And really I did not often then."
"Not more than three times a week, on an average."
"Oh, I didn't! That is too bad."
"It was a safety-valve. You would have gone off in steam, otherwise."
"But what are you doing now, N—Mr. Fairfax? I mean—what are you—if you don't mind my putting the question? I know nothing of your history."
"Yet we seem to meet very much on the old level."
"I always fancied we should. We were such real friends!"
"Though the friendship has been in complete abeyance!"
"Fizzled out into nothing," she rejoined. "Well, it wasn't my fault. I wrote last."
"I beg your pardon; I wrote last, and had no answer."
"N—Mr. Fairfax! You didn't."
"Miss Magda Royston—pardon me! I did."
"But I do assure you—"
"I sent you a lengthy and most interesting composition, full of sympathy for your bereft condition. And that was the end. I had no reply. So I came to the conclusion that you had found another Ned, and wanted no more of me."
"But indeed, indeed, I wrote last. I wrote sheets; and you never answered them. So I was dreadfully miserable, and I knew you were tired of me, and delighted to get away. And so—"
"So it meant a long gap. But old friends can always begin again, just where they left off."
"It's very nice," murmured Magda. Then she wondered what her mother and Pen would say if she kept N—Mr. Fairfax all to herself out here. "I think I ought to take you indoors," she remarked. "Wouldn't you like to see the others?"
"I'm glad to see everybody. You asked a question just now."
"Yes. I thought you didn't mean to answer it."
"Why should I not? My mother has made a home for me in town, and I have a post in a bank."
"I see—" with a note of disappointment.
"Not romantic, is it? A good many useful things in life are unromantic."
"But you like it?"
"One must do something, and that turned up. It seemed as good as anything else was likely to be."
They began to move towards the house. Magda had suggested this, but it was Fairfax who took the first step. Magda talked eagerly, bringing up one reminiscence after another, and he responded sufficiently to keep her going.
Perhaps his interest was a little less keen than hers; for when they came across Mrs. Royston and Merryl in the flower-garden, and Magda muttered an impatient—"Oh, bother!" Fairfax showed no reluctance. He even quickened his pace to meet them. Magda wanted to keep him longer to herself, for she had no notion of sharing her friend with others.
WHERETO THINGS TENDED
"WHAT is all this about, mother?" Rob asked three weeks later. "I mean, of course,—the girls."
He had run down for a few days, spending the greater part of them with Patricia. Mrs. Royston thought him looking pale and worried, even unhappy. But he said nothing which could give a clue to the cause; and she was reluctant to force confidence by direct questions. Rob, whatever his own cares might be, was not too much wrapped up in them to note other people's concerns; and he very soon put the above query.
The condition of things which led to it was as follows.
Pen had an affair on hand, which had suddenly reached a forward stage, occupying the whole of her attention. A recent acquaintance, the Honourable James Wagstaff, a sensible and agreeable bachelor, well over sixty, with plenty of money, had taken a fancy to "neat Pen," and was assiduously pursuing her. Pen showed no reluctance or hesitation. It became clear that she was simply waiting for the word to be spoken.
There was nothing romantic or misty about this affair. It was straightforward and business-like.
Ned Fairfax had been much in and out of the house. Having come to his cousin's for a fortnight, he was there still. From the first he had dropped, easily and naturally, into his old position of intimacy with the Royston family. Much as Mrs. Royston liked him, she would have preferred a more cautious advance; but she found herself powerless. Fairfax took it for granted that he might do as he liked; and he made himself so charming to her personally, that she had not the heart to administer a check.
He was Magda's especial friend. All her world admitted the fact. She had the first right; and she took care to claim it. When Ned came to the house, he of course came to see her; and she was always on the spot, never doubting that he felt as she did.
It was delightful to have him again; to revert at once to the old order; to pour out unreservedly in his hearing her aims, her wishes, her difficulties, her worries—to be laughed at and genially set to rights by him. She enjoyed it heartily. Each day her mind was more and more full of Ned—of nothing but Ned. As usual, her steed ran away with her; and she could think of nought else. When Robert arrived, she did not so much as notice his pale and altered look. Her whole world now consisted of—Ned.
So different, she told herself, from the time when she had that silly little fancy for Mr. Ivor! She had never given him another thought since he went away; and he had not again been to the place. But Ned was her friend—her property—and everybody knew it. Everybody appeared to recognise her right.
Just exactly like former days!
Well, no; perhaps not exactly. As time went on, it dawned upon her that a distinction did exist. Some measure of reconstruction in the manner of their friendship was needful. Things had to be different from the days when he was a big boy and she a small girl. She could not now rush after Ned, whenever she wanted him. She must wait till he chose to come. He was a man—and she a woman—which altered the whole outlook.
He did very often come. But was it only or mainly after Magda? This was a question which soon took shape in the mind of Mrs. Royston. He always saw Magda, it was true, for she managed to be invariably to the fore; and the one desire of unselfish Merryl seemed to be that Magda should thoroughly enjoy her old friend. So surely as Fairfax appeared on the scene, Merryl effaced herself and left him to Magda. Mrs. Royston, watching with a mother's solicitude, had doubts whether Fairfax was duly grateful.
No doubt he had at first thought mainly of Magda. He had even recognised a dim notion in his own mind that, not impossibly, his one time little chum and playmate might suit him for a life-mate.
But on his arrival, the first strong impression made upon him was imprinted, not by Magda but by Merryl. And unfortunately for herself, Magda did not go to work in the right way to counteract this impression, as she would have wished. She was making herself cheap. A man often values more highly the thing that he cannot too easily obtain. There was about Merryl a touch of the elusive which fascinated him. In Magda, he found no trace of the elusive. He had begun to grow—though he hardly yet acknowledged the fact—rather tired of her outpourings. And he could not but note that Magda always talked about herself—a subject direfully apt to become boredom to the listener! Whereas Merryl never did.
True, he was very pleasant with his former chum. It was his way to be pleasant with people in general, and he was not given to administering snubs. He treated her with frank kindliness, and was always ready to respond to her sallies. That did not mean much, Mrs. Royston thought; and she was troubled to see Magda so entirely absorbed in this revival of a childish friendship—far more absorbed, she feared, with Fairfax, than Fairfax was with her.
Sometimes she all but resolved to give a word of warning. But Magda was apt to receive such words tempestuously; and also she had a wholesome dread of suggesting ideas and feelings that had not yet taken shape. Ned Fairfax would soon return to London, and then things would go back to their normal state; except that Magda would pass through one of her uncomfortable states of discontent.
While she so debated, Rob came home, and before two days were over, finding himself alone with his mother, he asked—
"What is all this about?"
"I think it is genuine with Pen and Mr. Wagstaff," she said.
"He's old enough to be her grandfather."
"There is a difference in age, but not so much as that, Rob. And after all, Pen has always taken to people older than herself. And she is so staid and controlled—don't you think it may be better for her than a very young husband?"
"Such a thing does exist as the happy medium! But if it is for her happiness—and if you and my father are satisfied—"
"Your father likes Mr. Wagstaff. And I do think that Pen is—not exactly in love, perhaps, but really attached to him."
"And what about Magda?"
"I don't know what to think. I am rather sorry that Mr. Fairfax has turned up. He is such a good pleasant fellow; but Magda's head is completely turned. And I cannot see that it is his fault. She takes it for granted that he is just the same now as when she was a child. And really—such a friendship—after all these years—"
"That is all nonsense, mother."
"Magda doesn't see it so. She seems never to have a doubt. And his is not the manner of a lover. He lets her talk, and he chaffs her, but I don't believe he is touched."
"Whether Magda is touched seems more to the point!"
"It is my fear. But what can one do? Speaking too soon might do harm. I don't want to put the idea into Magda's head that he is after her."
"You don't suppose the idea isn't in her head already!"
"I really cannot say, Rob. She is still so oddly childish in some respects—actually in many ways younger than Merryl, since Merryl's illness. Magda seems to think of nothing beyond their old friendship. She is continually recurring to it. Mr. Fairfax must grow rather sick of the subject. And—perhaps I am only fancying—but I do sometimes think he is a little taken with Merryl."
"That infant!"
"Yes, of course she is very young, but she is old for her age now. And he is very discreet. It may be nothing. Anyhow, he goes home in three or four days; so I hope all this will be over. And Magda in time may forget."
"I wish Magda had more balance," he said with a sigh.
Mrs. Royston longed to ask him—"Is all right between you and Patricia?" Her cautious reserve, and fear of saying the wrong thing, held her back.
Fairfax did not leave so soon as was expected. He again deferred his departure, not leaving until the day after Rob.
Late that last afternoon he appeared; and for once Magda was not on the watch. She had been called away; and he followed his favourite route to the back of the house, coming upon Merryl. She met him with a little flush and smile of greeting, and he thought once more, as often before, what a happy winsome face hers was.
"How do you do? Have you come to say good-bye to Magda? I'll call her."
"Not yet," he replied cheerfully. "There's plenty of time. I'll get through my good-bye to you first."
"But Magda won't like—she will want to know at once!" Merryl showed uneasiness.
"Plenty of time," repeated Ned. He was not going to lose this opportunity. "Did you tell me a day or two ago that you had a little greenhouse of your own? I wish you would show it to me. It's all right," as she glanced round. "Magda will come after us directly." The old use of Christian names had been reverted to.
Merryl was rather distressed, but Ned's manner being positive, she could not see her way to a refusal. So she led him to the quiet corner of the garden, where she had a little piece of ground and her tiny "bit of glass," sheltering pet plants. Ned, with his cool and disengaged air, wiled her inside, and led her into a discussion about the names, the natures, and the particular needs, of her said "pets," and he succeeded in so enchaining her attention, that she forgot all else, and thought no more of Magda. She had not the least notion how long a time had passed thus; and both she and Fairfax were thoroughly enjoying themselves, when—the little door was pushed indignantly open, and Magda came upon them. There was barely space for the three to stand inside at once.
It was a shock to both girls. A shock to Merryl, to find that she had been depriving Magda of her expected enjoyment. A shock to Magda, to find those two in happy and confidential talk, and to see how much Ned liked it. More than this she did not see, but it was enough. She flushed up hotly.
"Ned! You here!" she cried. And then in a tone of sharp rebuke. "Why didn't you tell me, Merryl? It's too bad!"
The sound of that angry voice, the sight of Merryl's grieved face, made together an impression on Fairfax which time would not efface.
"I'm so sorry; I did mean to call you," faltered Merryl.
"You must not blame your sister," Ned said gravely. "She only did what I asked her to do. I particularly wished to come and see the little glass-house."
"Merryl had no business—your last day—and when she knew—"
"I'm so sorry!" Merryl repeated, tears in her eyes. "I quite forgot! But I'm going now, dear. Good-bye, Mr. Fairfax!" And with one glance at him, she literally fled.
That scene showed Ned more than he had yet discovered about his quondam "chum."
Magda cooled down when she had him to herself; and he noted that she did not seem troubled about her own outburst of annoyance. He said nothing, and allowed her to run on as usual; but his mind was very much astray—wandering after Merryl. He registered a silent determination that, next time he came to the Vicarage, things would have to be different.
WHAT PATRICIA WANTED
"REALLY, my dear, I don't see that it can be helped. If Robert says he cannot come on that particular day, I suppose he cannot. Men generally know their own business. You will have either to alter the day, or to do without him."
Mrs. Framley stood near the door, in the Manor hall, and she spoke in her deepest voice—a voice which Mrs. Miles privately declared had its origin in her shoes. She wore her magnificent furs; and she looked more than ever like a big brown bear on end. But she smiled good-humouredly as she spoke; while Patricia, on the other side of the solid oak table, seemed the reverse of good-humoured. A frown puckered her pretty brow; and the charming smile was conspicuously absent. When Patricia was "put out," she could be very much "out" indeed.
"You see, he is a busy man, not always with time at his own disposal; and he has to consider his Vicar. If I were you, I wouldn't mind. It can't be helped."
"I do mind, and it can be helped. If I want Rob, he ought to come. And I intend that he shall."
"I thought you said it was impossible."
"He says so. Ridiculous! Rob can always get his own way, if he chooses. People have told me so, again and again."
"Why don't you alter the day?"
"Because it's not convenient, and I don't choose. Rob has to make his plans fit in with mine. Some stupid parish tea! Anybody could see to it."
"When you are Rob's wife, you will find that a parish tea can't be put aside for the sake of a charade."
"When I am Rob's wife, if that ever comes to pass, he will find that a parish tea has to give way to me."
Mrs. Framley doubted the fact, but forebore to say so.
"I am sure he would do what you wish, if he could. But if he cannot—"
"It only shows that slums are more to him than I am."
Patricia walked across to the fireplace and threw a letter into the flames. She watched the disappearance of Rob's signature, as it slowly blackened and curled.
"Does she mean to toss him overboard?" questioned the elder lady.
"I would not be too sure," she remarked with soothing intent. "He naturally feels bound to his work, even at some cost to himself."
"He ought to consider the cost to me. But he never does. I have seen that, plainly—and I have my doubts—"
Mrs. Framley repeated the last word.
"Whether he really wishes things to be as they are! Once or twice before he has refused to do what I wished. And it can't go on. I shall make this a test-case."
"Patricia, if I were you, I wouldn't do what I should be sorry for afterwards."
Patricia made a movement as of one flinging aside unasked advice.
"I shall make this a test-case," she loftily repeated. "I have told Rob that I particularly want him to be here that evening, and to take a part in the charade. If he cares so little for my wishes that anything and everything is considered first—then our engagement may come to an end. I shall tell him so."
"I wouldn't, my dear! I really would not. You know you are fond of him—and you can't expect always to get your own way in life. You had much better give in quietly and not mind. It would be such a pity to upset things for nothing."
"The question is whether Rob is fond enough of me—to do what I wish. If not, the sooner we part the better. If he does not choose to give in, he may find somebody else to act as his humble slave. That's not my style!"
Mrs. Framley shook a protesting head. "You are not wise, Patricia. You may do the sort of thing once too often. This is your third engagement!"
"If it were my thirteenth, I would end it, rather than go on with what we should both be sorry for in the end."
"Well, I believe you will be sorry soon for what you think of doing. But of course it is no business of mine! You must decide for yourself. Ah—there it comes."
"It" referred to her carriage, for which she had been waiting. Two minutes more saw her gone; and Patricia sat down, to write the threatened note to Rob. She tossed it off in haste; not weighing her words; put it up, and stamped it. Then Magda was announced.