"How do you do?" she said coldly, presenting a cheek. "A note? Thanks."
"From mother. I think it is only to say that we shall like very much to come to your evening—and to help as much as we can."
Magda spoke in a rather dejected tone, and sat down with the air of one who was tired of everything. Since the departure of Ned Fairfax a month earlier, in the end of September, no word of him, good or bad or indifferent, had come to hand. She began to feel again as the little Magda of old had felt, when her long letter brought no response. Only she was now debarred from writing, since Ned had not asked it. She wondered much and often that he had not! Here again was shown the altered nature of their relations.
Patricia read the note slowly, then seemed to ponder over it. Magda exerted herself to break the silence.
"We're all looking forward to your evening. But it is such a pity that Rob can't come."
"Rob will come of course—if I ask it."
"I've had a letter from him this morning, and he says it is impossible. He would if he could."
"I'm writing to say that I shall expect him."
Magda wondered at the confident tone. She thought she knew Patricia pretty well by this time—but she also knew that Rob was not in the habit of lightly changing his plans.
"It would be nice if he could," she said, with unwonted caution, aware that Patricia was not in a mood to be contradicted. "And you are going to get up a charade."
Patricia laughed. "I call it a charade!" she said. "My uncle has a mortal horror of theatricals, and wouldn't for any consideration allow them in his house. He doesn't mind a mild little charade—so that's what it is supposed to be. Of course I intend to do things properly. Pen says she can't act—so I want you and Merryl."
"I should love it—but Merryl can't act!"
"She'll do for dumb show—it will be hardly more than that. Mind you don't use the word theatricals before my uncle and aunt."
"But won't they know when the day comes? And—do you think you—ought?"
"That's my business; not yours! Of course they will know when the day comes. They can't help it then; so it will not matter. They can say what they like afterwards."
Magda succumbed. "What sort of play is it to be?" she asked.
"Written by a friend of mine—on purpose for me. Something quite uncommon. A Queen of Beauty, living on an island, and being wooed by two Princes from other islands. Not many characters, and I shall take the part of the Queen, of course. I want you and Beatrice Major for my attendants. Your colouring and hers will look well together; and Merryl shall be the waiting-maid. She will only have to say a word or two at a time. My part is much the longest of any. Yours will be easily learnt. But I must have two men for the princes; and Rob is to be the successful one."
"Rob never cares for acting."
"He will have to care—if I wish it."
Magda was again astonished.
"His part is not difficult. I thought of Mr. Ivor for the second prince; but he says he has no time for getting it up. It wants some one with a turn for the comic. I've been rather wondering—how about that other cousin of Mrs. Miles who was here—Mr. Fairfax?"
Magda flashed into animation. "Oh, he would do it splendidly."
"I'm not so sure. He is plain; and he can look dull."
"Oh!" and Magda barely held in words of indignant contradiction. "I should think he would be the very one for you. He once did Father Christmas for a lot of children, and kept them in roars of laughter."
"When?"
"Years ago."
"That is a very different sort of thing."
"But he can be comic, I know, and that is what you want." She watched Patricia's undecided face eagerly. "I've known him ever so long. He and I were great chums, when I was little. And we are now—too. He is such a nice fellow—everybody likes him. Mrs. Miles says so."
"Really!" in an uninterested tone. "Well—it might be worth thinking about, if I can't get any one else. I'd rather have had somebody a trifle better-looking."
Magda again bottled up her wrath. Ned not good-looking indeed! But she knew that if she annoyed Patricia, all hope of his coming would vanish.
Patricia then entered at length into the momentous question of what she herself would wear in the different scenes. It became clear that the part which she had selected was the dominant one of the play; and that all others, except those of the two lovers, would be subordinate and unimportant. She took out the MS., and read passages aloud, explaining by the way what would be required of Magda and Bee, but chiefly occupied with the impression which she herself expected to make. Her dress was to be arranged without regard to cost.
"White and blue are what suit me best; and I mean to make my first appearance in white and silver—a sort of silver sheen, which will sparkle—and my hair down over my shoulders. I've been making a sketch of the style of dress—a kind of medieval flowing robe. Yes—here it is. What do you think? But nothing suits me quite so well as blue; so I shall keep that for the last. I'm not sure about the second act. Something by way of contrast might come in there. I have a notion of pale mauve velvet, with gold trimmings and a long train."
"It will cost a lot," remarked Magda dreamily, her mind still on Ned. Would he come? Would Patricia ask him? "I'm afraid I can't spend much on mine. I shouldn't think Bee could either."
"I've spoken to her, and she is all right. She will run up her own things in no time. And I mean to help with you and Merryl. In fact, I shall give you both your dresses. Yours won't need to be expensive. The general effect has to be pretty; but so long as your colouring harmonises with mine, that is all that matters. For the first scene I thought of some soft material like delaine—either blue or mauve—for you and Miss Major. Then, in the second part, something dark—and in the third, just white. You see, if your frocks are simple, they will throw out mine the more."
Patricia spoke with serene unconsciousness; and this was the note which controlled her talk all through. For herself—the best, the most costly, the most becoming and effective that could be designed! For the rest—anything!
And she did not see it! She had not the faintest idea how this looked in the eyes of another.
Magda's mind wandered, as Patricia flowed on—still about self, all about self, how self was to be adorned, how self was to be admired. A sudden revelation had come to her of the great lack in the character of this girl, whom once she had adored and counted perfect. And with the glimpse into Patricia Vincent came also a glimpse into—Magda Royston. Being with Patricia to-day meant an unexpected vision of herself, seen as in a mirror, whereby she learnt something new as to "the manner of girl" that she was.
Weeks earlier, in a certain talk with Bee, a little previous insight had been given. Then, by way of contrast. Now, through an exaggeration.
Yet, was it exaggeration? Were Patricia's complacent self-absorption, self-admiration, self-preoccupation, really so much greater than her own? Patricia was the prettier, the more fascinating, and her temptations therefore were increased. But Magda too had lived for self.
And how essentially unlovely such a life was!
Another thought broke upon Magda with sudden force. Had Ned seen her as she now saw Patricia?
All the month that he had been in and out of the house, all through those long delightful talks she had had with him, through which he had patiently listened,—had not the keynote been the same with her outpourings—always Herself? For the first time she saw it with clearness.
What must Ned think?
"Oh, how could I?" she mentally cried, in extreme disgust. "How could I do it? But I must stop! I must change! I can't let myself go on so. I didn't know before how it looked to other people—how poor and mean and horrid!" She might have added—"Or, how it looked in the sight of God!" At this moment the thought of Ned's opinion blotted out all else.
"What on earth are you mooning about?" Patricia enquired. "I've asked you a question three times and had no answer."
"I'm sorry. What was it?"
Patricia declined to repeat her question a fourth time; and Magda found that she had to move, or she would be late for luncheon. When she was gone, Patricia took up the note that she had written to Rob, and stood weighing it in her hand with an air of consideration.
"Shall I send it? Yes, I think so. Why not? Rob needs to be brought to his bearings."
She dropped it into the letter-box in the hall, then mounted the stairs, singing as she went, picturing herself as the Queen of Beauty, and wondering which of the three costumes would be the most entrancing.
Half-an-hour later a qualm assailed her. What if her words should fail to "bring Rob to his bearings"? What if he did not yield? Then—she had said to him—they had better part. Did she really wish this?
She ran downstairs again, with a half intention to take her letter back, and at least to have a few hours for consideration.
But the letters were gone, and from the window she saw the postman trudging far down the drive. Should she race and overtake him? She could just do it.
Pride held her back, and she stood debating till it was too late. No chance now! "Oh well, it must go," she said recklessly.
It went, and later in the day she would have given much to recall it. She began to realise what Rob really was to her, how much more than either of her two former fiancés, whom she had discarded as easily as one discards old gloves. What if he should take her at her word? She grew cold at the thought. Then she tried to forget him in renewed attention to the charade costumes.
WOULD SHE GIVE IN?
TWO nights passed, and the early post brought no letter from Robert. Patricia might have heard, possibly, the evening before. She had felt secure of a reply, at latest, this morning, giving in to her demand. When Rob knew all that hung on his decision—and she had put it plainly—he could not hesitate.
Since no word arrived, she began to realise that it meant his coming down to speak. So much the better! She believed in personal power. To travel from London, and to return in the same day, meant a rush; but it could be done.
She knew at what hour to expect him, if he followed this plan; and as it drew near she was rather surprised at various heart-flutterings and nervous dreads. What if he should walk in, merely to announce that he had no intention of yielding.
But the idea was absurd. Rob had more sense!
She put on one of her prettiest frocks, arranged her hair with extra attention, and then busied herself with preparations for the charade—still keeping watch on the clock.
The time when she expected him went by, and he did not come. She was alone in her boudoir, waiting; and the minutes lagged. Even allowing for a tardy train, he ought to have appeared before now. With a sinking of heart she gave him up and determined to go back to her arrangements. A letter would doubtless arrive later.
As she moved towards the door it opened, and he stood before her—calm, stern, collected. Not the Rob whom she had known hitherto. She moved forward in welcome, but his manner checked her, and he offered no kiss.
"I have come to see you," he said. "That is better than writing. I must know what you mean."
"I meant of course what I said." Pride again had the upper hand as she stood facing him.
He had closed the door as he entered, and he too kept on his feet, looking pale but resolute.
"You said—or implied—that the continuance of our engagement must depend on my coming to that particular party."
"Yes. I meant that. I have told you how much I want you here—and it ought to be enough! If I ask it, you ought to come."
"For my own pleasure I should not hesitate, of course. There are other things to be considered. It is a question of duty, not pleasure; and I have told you already that I cannot be away from my post on that particular evening."
"Some stupid parish tea, I suppose."
"Yes, it is our parish tea; and I told the Vicar weeks ago that nothing should induce me to fail him."
"I think my wishes ought to rank first with you. If you love me—as you have said you do!"
She sat down, but Rob remained standing.
"Even for you, Patricia, I cannot put amusement before duty."
"But if your duty is to please me?" She lifted her eyes to his with their sweetest look.
"I cannot be away—even to please you—that evening."
"If you asked your Vicar, he would understand."
"It could make no difference. I have no doubt whatever as to what I ought to do."
She held up her head. "You can put slum-work before me! It shows how little you really care!"
"Is it not rather that you and I look upon life with different eyes? My first duty is to my Master—to the life-work to which I am vowed. Nothing may hinder that. Cannot you see things, or try to see them, from my standpoint?"
"Really, I don't see why I should try to do anything of the kind," she retorted, losing temper. "It ought to be your business to see things from my standpoint."
"Hardly—when yours is a question of pleasure, and mine is a question of duty. If I were a soldier in the king's army, could I let our enjoyment come before duty? It would be impossible. Neither can I here."
"Evidently you are much too good for me!" She spoke in a mocking tone.
"It is necessary that we should face the question." He said this with extreme quietness. "Better that you should see how things are now than later—too late! If you and I are to be one, we must be one in very truth. We cannot pull opposite ways."
"If you mean that I am always to be put second to every slum-child or dirty old woman who happens to want you—then—I agree! We had better part. That of course is what you mean."
"I mean only that you must see clearly what lies before you. At one time I had no fears. I believed that you thought as I thought—felt as I felt. I believed that my Master was your Master—that my aim in life was your aim in life. But lately I have doubted. You must remember that when I have a living, it will be the same. Year after year the same. Work before pleasure—work, for which you do not care—in which you have no interest. If that is indeed so—"
"If that is so, we had better have done with one another," she said impatiently. "Anyhow, I don't choose to be second. I suppose you made up your mind to this some time ago, and only waited for a good chance."
"I think you know that you are wronging me. Do you imagine that I find it easy now to make this stand? But there are some things that a man cannot do—and this is one. I cannot put aside a plain duty merely to come here on a particular evening, because you have set your mind upon it."
"I see! Oh yes, I see! My setting my mind on a thing isn't worth a moment's consideration. All that signifies is your work. We are happier apart!"
She stood up, flushed and excited. "Remember—it is your doing!" she added.
"Had it not better be yours?"
"Well—we both agree. Is that it? We feel that we don't suit, and can't get on together."
"If you make my coming that evening a sine quâ non!"
"I do make it!" she responded passionately. "I told my aunt it should be a test-case. And you fail to meet the test."
Rob's eyes met hers; quiet eyes, full of patience, full also of pain. She found it difficult to meet them, but anger helped her through.
"I don't believe you love me. If you did, you could not say 'no' to such a little, little request! It is absurd. You could come if you chose; and you do not choose. Once more I give you the chance! Once more, Rob!" She held out her pretty hands, and lifted her lovely eyes to his. "If you love me—if you care—give in this once. Just this once! I won't ask it again. I'll be good in the future. Only this once!"
The tone was almost entreating, but he said gently—"I am very sorry. It is impossible. I am pledged to the other."
"Very well! You've taken your choice. It's all over!"
She dropped her hands and stood facing him, a scornful smile on her lips—lovely still, in spite of the scorn. Rob remained motionless, drinking in her beauty. And well he might; for, though neither he nor she could guess what lay ahead, he would never again set eyes upon that rare and perfect colouring.
"Well—good-bye!" she said coldly.
She brushed past him, moving with unusual haste, and left him alone. Going upstairs she set to work, precisely as if nothing had happened, upon the dress arrangements for her acting.
Rob made his way out of the house. He knew that this had to be. He had feared for months that it might end thus. Patricia, if she were indeed what she had seemed of late, would act in his life as a deadweight, hindering the work to which he was vowed, dragging him constantly earthward. He had feared; yet he had waited and hoped. Now matters had come to a climax, and Patricia herself had settled the question.
Whether he was more grieved, or in a certain sense more relieved, he could not yet have told. Her beauty had an extraordinary power over him; so that, when with her, he found it desperately hard to offer opposition, not to let her have her own way. Yet the last few months had brought to him deep disappointment. Not even a lover's devotion could permanently blind him to the truth that, within that exquisite casket, little was to be found beyond mental emptiness. Or, if Mind were there—and at times he felt sure it was—it had never been exercised, had never been called forth. He found in her no companionship, no understanding, no sympathy, no true intercourse.
Rob had long fought against the knowledge, had viewed her with indulgence, had made all possible excuses. He loved her still, and the thought that she was no longer his made the whole world look blank, and robbed life of its joy. Still, far below the chill desolation which had him in its grip, there was also a dim sense of regained freedom. In years to come, he might well be thankful to have had things thus decided for him.
He did not go home, but caught the next train, and from London wrote a line to his mother, simply stating that "all was over" between himself and Patricia.
A cheerful note from Patricia to Pen endorsed this. "We don't feel that we are suited, so it is by mutual consent," she said. Then she expressed an urgent hope that it might make no difference as to her "little charade." She would still want the help of Magda and Merryl.
"How like Patricia!" somebody remarked, as Pen handed over the note indifferently.
Pen had that day become engaged, and she had small interest to spare for other people's concerns.
Somebody else suggested—"So now Magda will be able, after all, to keep house for Rob by-and-by!"
That set Magda thinking. She wondered that she had not at once remembered the possibility; and she wondered still more that the idea did not wear its old radiant colouring. It certainly did not.
Patricia, with undaunted courage, set to work to re-organise her plans. Ivor, after a good deal of persuading, at length consented to take that part in the charade which Rob had refused. Bee Major, thenceforward, looked as if her world lay under a June sky. And Ned Fairfax undertook the comic character; with a proviso that he could not come down till a day or two before the evening. He would learn his part in readiness; learning by heart was no trouble to him; and no doubt a single rehearsal would be sufficient. Patricia was piqued at what she called "his cool assurance;" but since she could find nobody else, she agreed.
One letter Magda sent to Ned on the subject, doing it avowedly to save Patricia trouble. She put much of herself into the sheet, writing and rewriting more times than she would have cared to avow. No direct answer was called for, though she felt sure that one would come. But Ned wrote instead to Patricia, and merely sent "thanks" to Magda. Her spirits went down to zero, and she became a burden in her home.
SO AWFULLY SUDDEN!
FEW would have supposed, on the eve of Patricia's evening, that she suffered under her broken engagement. To all appearance, both then and during the weeks before, she was sublimely indifferent, fully occupied with plans and arrangements for her forthcoming "charade."
No, not quite "to all appearance." Those about her, Mr. and Mrs. Framley and the servants, knew that she was not her usual self. Excited, impatient, hasty, ready to take offence, difficult to please, hard to get on with—they had found her all this. But outsiders saw little of it.
Magda, annoyed for Rob, who she felt sure had suffered ill-treatment at Patricia's hands, would gladly in the first instance have drawn back from taking an active part; and Mrs. Royston shared the feeling. But since Patricia had made it a matter of personal request that all should go on, unaltered; and since she had been at some expense in getting dresses for Magda and Merryl, it was hardly possible for them to give the whole thing up against her will.
Both Ivor and Fairfax were induced to run down to the Manor for a night, some little time before the important day. Then of course Ivor met Bee, and Ned met Magda; but Patricia claimed everybody's time and attention. Bee was her usual gentle controlled self; and she and Ivor came together as mere acquaintances; yet each understood the other rather better after those few hours.
As for Ned, he was pleasant and friendly with Magda, her old chum still; but she somehow felt that she no longer had a monopoly of him. There was a slight indefinable difference; whether due to their altered relations as man and woman, or whether to the fact that he did not look upon her as he had once done—she was unable to determine. The perplexity weighed.
This little visit was soon over, and everything promised to go well. On the last evening a final rehearsal would take place; almost equal to the "real thing." Mr. Framley had a distant engagement, which ensured his absence, much to Patricia's relief. Mrs. Framley had begun to remonstrate, as she found how far from a simple charade the affair promised to be.
But Patricia by this time had the bit between her teeth. "It had to go on," she said composedly. "If uncle didn't like it—well, then it wouldn't happen again. Too late now to make any difference."
Ivor and Fairfax were again to sleep at the Manor. Dinner was over and all had arrived. Mrs. Royston had excused herself; and so had Pen, busy with her elderly fiancé. The men, in no haste to don their costumes, had gone to the drawing-room away from the large library, where, on a raised dais at the upper end, the acting would take place. Curtains, dividing the dais from the rest of the room, were now drawn back, and a door behind the dais led into a smaller room, which had no other outlet and was lined with book-shelves.
Magda, Merryl, and Bee were present; also three or four other girls with unimportant parts to play. Magda was alone, half-way down the library, in the broad gangway left between rows of chairs which had been placed for spectators. Two or three of the girls had grouped themselves on one side, some distance behind Magda, as she faced the dais. Bee and Merryl, still farther away, were talking together.
A spare woollen curtain had been flung down, just behind where Magda stood, ready for possible use.
She was gazing towards the figure of Patricia, visible within the smaller room; but her mind had wandered elsewhere. Would she see anything of Ned on the morrow, before he returned to town? Did he wish to see more of her?
Patricia, in white and silver, with long fair hair hanging loose, stood before a full length pier-glass in the inner room, looking flushed and excited and very lovely, while the maid vainly tried to arrange the silver-tissue veil to her liking.
"It won't do. It hangs all wrong. How stupid you are, Frost! It will not do at all."
"If I was to loop it up this side a little, Miss—"
"That is better. But you must have made the veil wrong. It hangs quite crookedly. Yes—so. You want safety-pins."
"I'll get some, Miss. I haven't got any more here."
"Why didn't you bring plenty? You knew they would be wanted."
The maid went away, not answering. As she disappeared through the door at the lower end of the long library, Magda stepped dreamily backwards, and stumbled over the curtain, just escaping a fall. Nobody else was near Patricia.
Then it was that Magda's "great opportunity" came; an opportunity for heroic self-forgetfulness, such as she might never have again.
Patricia, still before the glass, was studying herself, turning this way and that with hasty petulant movements. At the instant when Magda stumbled, a quick movement brought the hanging veil into contact with a lighted candle on the table, dragging the candlestick over. It fell—the candle still alight—upon Patricia's flowing train, which at once caught fire.
Though vaguely conscious of having made something fall, Patricia did not know what had happened. But the flame rushed up her robe and enveloped her. One instant she was twisting into a new attitude, muttering vexedly about people's "stupidity." The next instant, dress and veil and hair all blazed, and a burning tongue licked her delicate skin, bringing anguish and terror. With a frantic shriek, she sped into the library, aiming straight for Magda—across the dais, down the two steps.
Now was Magda's opportunity! She had longed for such a chance, and here it was. She stood nearer to Patricia than any other, and the heavy woollen curtain lay in readiness at her very feet.
But the thing came with such awful suddenness! There was no warning. The whole world seemed serene; everything going on quietly, just as usual. And then, all at once, that fearful piercing scream, and the living column of fire and smoke, with white arms flung high in wild appeal, bearing down upon her!
She was taken utterly by surprise—terrified—bewildered—startled out of her self-control. And her own dress was so flimsy as to mean added danger. Not that she thought of this, for she thought of nothing. There was no time to think! She only followed the first blind impulse, which urged personal safety.
Afterwards, she never could imagine how it was that she had not instantly snatched up the curtain, and thrown it round the fire-clad figure. There it lay, within touch; yet she did nothing. Terror overmastered her; and with an echoing cry of alarm, she turned and ran towards the farther end of the long library, as Patricia in agony came after her.
Such a simple obvious thing it would have been to do—though meaning no doubt danger to herself. Ah—but not so easy! The prevailing impulse at such a moment is determined by dominant habits of mind and thought. And Magda had not trained herself to act instinctively for others, to put self aside.
She had been beaten on countless small occasions before; therefore she was naturally beaten here again. She had not been faithful in those things which were least; and how could she now be faithful in this which was much?
So, without thought or pause, she fled, not turning till she had reached the door.
Then, with dazed senses, she became aware that Bee had rushed forward—had caught up the curtain—had flung it over and around the frenzied Patricia—had dragged her with desperate energy to the ground; that Bee now was kneeling over the prostrate form, pressing down the charred clothes, putting out the flames, and pleading for "Water! water!" While Patricia's screams had died into moans. Not Magda but Merryl—white as ashes and shaking like an aspen-leaf—flew to the inner room for a large jug, and poured its contents over the two, just in time to quench Bee's frock, which had become alight.
It all happened in a flash. Others were hurrying to the spot, and crowding around. Magda, already ashamed and conscience-smitten, was among them, asking—"Can't I help? What can I do?" But nobody listened, and the time had gone by. She could do nothing—now. It was too late!
Ivor, first to arrive, lifted Bee away in a half-fainting condition, and carried her from the room to an open window in the hall.
Fairfax somehow at once took the lead, and bent over that moaning form on the floor, warding off well-meant attempts to touch and raise her, and asking urgently for oil, which he knew might be safely applied, pending the doctor's arrival. In the general confusion he found it not easy to make his want understood; but Merryl caught the word, seized the elderly housekeeper, and dragged her off, to hunt out a bottle of salad-oil, with which she herself sped back to the scene of disaster.
Ned's eyes went to her face, as he received it from those little icy fingers; and a quarter of an hour later, when the doctor's coming set him free, his first move was in search of Merryl.
Magda, thinking that he would now surely speak to her, began—"Oh, can't I do something?" But he was gone before the words were uttered; and Magda wandered forlornly into the hall.
There she came upon two others who did not need her. Bee, rallying slowly from the faintness which had blotted out everything, found herself lying on the broad window seat, supported by somebody. At first she did not even wonder who it might be, but only whispered—
"Is Patricia badly burnt?"
"I hope not. You have done your very best to save her—you splendid girl!" A stirred and familiar voice replied; and then she woke to the fact that it was Ivor himself, and that her head was resting against his shoulder.
"My darling!" he breathed, unable to restrain himself.
For in that terrible moment, when he saw Bee on the ground, in a heap with the smoking figure which, but a few seconds earlier, had been a dazzling Queen of Beauty, and when he believed that she too might have been fatally injured—then in a flash he knew with no shadow of doubt all that he truly felt for Bee. And, strangely, in the same moment, questionings as to what Bee felt for him died out of existence.
"Oh!" she said, with a note of bewilderment and joy. "I didn't—think—"
And again he murmured—"My own brave, brave darling!"
Magda came near enough to hear this. It made no difference to them. They were entirely taken up, each with the other. Bee almost forgot the smart of her poor scorched hands, in the supreme gladness of learning that Ivor loved her.
IF ONLY SHE HAD—!
THROUGH the next two or three weeks Patricia's life hung on a thread. Bee's promptitude had indeed saved her from death; but shoulders and back, arms, and hands, were badly scorched, and all her pretty hair was gone. As she rushed from one room to the other the flames were driven back; yet her face had felt their touch, though to what extent the doctors did not say. For the greater part her burns were not deep, but the extent of surface affected made them serious; and she was suffering from shock to a degree which meant pressing danger.
As this peril lessened, another set in, with a threatening of septic pneumonia, barely warded off. Intense pain, restlessness, delirium, days of blindness from the swelled face, weeks of prostration in a darkened room—all these were her portion. Night and day nurses were in constant attendance.
Wide interest was felt in the poor girl's condition; and the news at length given forth, that she might be counted out of danger, was hailed with relief on all sides.
It oozed out slowly that the fair face, so much admired, had suffered more than was at first expected; and that she would in all probability never regain her old loveliness. This fear was still carefully guarded from Patricia herself, though she had begun to suspect, and to put many disquieting questions.
"She has cared so much for her beauty," murmured Bee. "If that goes, she will have nothing left. Mother, it is sad."
"I suppose it sounds rather hard to say—just now—that if she went through life caring for nothing but her own looks, that would be sadder still," Mrs. Major remarked.
Bee felt that it did sound rather hard—just then!—however true. She could only think tenderly of Patricia's feelings when she should learn her loss.
Everybody was talking about Bee's heroism, though Bee herself made nothing of it.
"Why, how could I do anything else?" she asked, when admiration was openly expressed. "Of course I had to try. And the curtain being close at hand made things so easy."
It had lain closer still to Magda! But about that nothing was said, at least in her hearing. Few quite realised what her position had been. Few perhaps knew that she had actually run away; and some who did seemed to think it quite natural. But Bee had suddenly developed into a heroine, going about with bandaged hands, unable to endure a touch or to do anything for herself, yet radiant in her new happiness.
Merryl too came in for praise, only second in degree to that which was showered upon Bee. For it was she who had kept her wits, and had rushed to the help of Bee. But for the jug of water, promptly procured and used, Bee might have suffered much more severely. Mr. Royston was exceedingly proud of his "little girl," as he still called her, and he could talk for days of nothing else.
And Magda, looking on at all this, felt bitterly regretful and very unhappy.
For, whatever other people might think, she saw—she knew—she realised. She had had her longed-for chance in life, and had failed to use it. She was humbled in her own eyes.
And it was useless to talk, to express regrets. The crucial moment had gone by. Such an opportunity might never recur. If it should—how different might be her conduct! But such chances seldom come a second time. Other tests, other opportunities, would no doubt arrive in due course; yet they would not be the same in kind.
In that moment of horror, she might have done just what Bee did do. She might now be the heroine of the hour; admired and talked about—a centre of notice.
Yet this is hardly fair to Magda. It was not only for the sake of lost praise that she so blamed herself, and so vehemently wished to have acted in other wise. Praise once had been her foremost aim; but of late she had made advance. She did now truly wish to live a noble life for the sake of living it; not merely that she might win good opinions. She began to see—a little—what it meant to do right for the sake of pleasing God!
And, looking back, she knew that she had not even tried to do this; she knew that her life had been the reverse of noble. Everything had gone wrong. Plans had failed. Resolutions had come to nought. Nothing that she took up had ended well. She was of no use to any one.
Was it that she had begun at the wrong end?—That she had not first yielded herself in heart and spirit to her Divine Master? That she had attempted things in her own strength alone?
As days went by, a longing took possession of her to pour out what she felt to somebody. But who would care? Fairfax was out of reach, having left within twenty-four hours after the accident, during which she had seen nothing of him. Rob was corresponding with his mother; not with her. Magda had refused sympathy in his happiness; and naturally now he did not turn to her in trouble. She could not go to Bee. Bee was so glad, so joyous! Bee had done just what Magda had failed to do. To seek help from her at that moment seemed out of the question. Not that Bee would be conceited or boastful!—But still, she could not!
There was the Vicar! Many times Magda thought of him, and almost went; but somehow she held back—perhaps mainly from pride. Perhaps unconsciously what she craved was not really advice, but soothing. So, unwisely, she put off that step.
It was no doubt well that she had no "soothing" friend at this juncture, to whom she could pour out freely. Much talk is apt to weaken conviction. She might have found satisfaction in enlarging on her own remorse, and comfort in making excuses for herself. Having no such vent, she viewed her own conduct more severely; and, from the lack of such comfort, she was driven to find help in prayer.
Thus weeks passed by, and Pen's wedding-day arrived. After which Pen was gone, and Magda found herself in the new position of eldest daughter in the house.
It entailed upon her a variety of new duties, new claims, new responsibilities. She had never guessed beforehand how very much she and everybody would miss careful quiet Pen in the little arrangements of common life. Everything at first seemed awry without her; everything out of joint. And Magda really did set herself, honestly, to learn and remember the hundred and one little things, which somehow had always seemed to do themselves, and which now she was expected as a matter of course to undertake.
It was not easy. The habits of years are not to be conquered in a day. But for Merryl, her faithful remembrancer, she would have failed much oftener than she did; and she forgot or let slip her new duties quite often enough. She could not but note that Mrs. Royston, perhaps half unconsciously, turned far more to Merryl than to herself, in the blank left by Pen; and this again spoke sharply to Magda, spurring her to renewed efforts.
Till late in February no one saw anything of Patricia. Even when the doctors gave leave, she steadily refused to admit any of her friends. Bee and Magda were often at the door, making inquiries, only to be denied admittance.
And each time that Magda went, she came away with a sense of relief; for she dreaded the first meeting. Words of sympathy never flowed from her with ease; and she could not feel at home in a sick-room.
So when a little pencil-note at length arrived, asking her to go that afternoon, her first exclamation was of dismay.
"What is it?" Merryl asked.
"Patricia wants to see me."
"Oh, I'm glad! It is so bad for her, being shut up as she is."
"I'm not glad. I don't know what in the world to say to her."
"Magda—how funny you are! I should have thought—so fond of her as you used to be—!"
"I'm fond of her now in a way. But don't you understand—if she is as much altered as people say—how is one to take it?"
"I can't see any difficulty."
"I dare say it would be easy enough for you. It isn't for me. And Patricia would hate to be pitied."
"But you needn't pity her—exactly. I wish she would let me go."
"I'm sure I wish you could—instead of me."
At the hour named, Magda reached the Manor, and was shown into the breakfast-room where, as she remembered, she had been taken on a certain day when wild to see her then idol. Patricia had put her off, lightly and indifferently, to her dire distress. That day seemed very long ago; and Patricia was her idol no longer. Enthusiasm, lacking food, had died a natural death.
A maid came to take her upstairs, and she went, feeling each moment more awkward and embarrassed, more uncertain how to comport herself. She had not yet acquired the gracious gift of self-forgetfulness.
Outside the door she was met by a pleasant-faced woman in nursing dress, who said in a low tone—
"Please do not let Miss Vincent excite herself. She wants cheering up."
They went in together; and at first, in the contrast of lowered blinds and semi-darkness, after brilliant sunshine, Magda could see nothing. Guided by the nurse, she stumbled towards a dim figure in an armchair, wondering whether to offer a kiss. A hand held out settled the question.
"Sit down, please," Patricia said. "Nurse, you can leave us for a talk."
"Not more than half-an-hour, I think."
"Magda will have had enough of me by that time."
Nurse went away; and Magda growing more used to the light, ventured on a glance—only to snatch her eyes away too hastily.
What she saw in one hurried glimpse was a thin pale face, with a patchy complexion, scarred on the brow, with weak eyes, and the skin on one side of the mouth slightly drawn. A light lace shawl over Patricia's head hid the absence of hair—though it had begun to grow again, like a baby's.
That—Patricia! That—the lovely Queen of Beauty!
LOST LOOKS
"YOU don't seem to have much to say," Patricia languidly remarked, as Magda sat in a dazed silence.
"It was—so kind of you to send for me," murmured Magda.
"I didn't want to do it. I don't care to see any one—till I'm all right again. But they said I must have somebody—so I thought of you."
"Yes, of course—I—you were quite right."
"Bee Major has offered to come, again and again. But I can't have her yet. I'd rather not. Magda—I want you to tell me something—quite honestly. Tell me the truth. Am I much altered? Nurse won't let me have a glass. She says I am to wait—but I have waited so long. I did get a glimpse one day—some time ago. But my eyes were so weak, and the room was so dark, I could hardly see anything. Of course, I know there's a scar—and that must take some time to wear away. The doctors keep telling me to be patient. Patient! After nearly three months! It is like three years!"
"I dare say it does seem long."
"You don't understand, of course. You have never had anything of the kind to bear. It wasn't so bad at first when I was very ill. I could think of nothing then but the pain; and, in a sort of way, time didn't drag so awfully. But now I am better, I do long to be all right again—and just as I used to be."
Magda muttered something vaguely, playing with the handle of her sunshade. Would Patricia ever again be "just as she used to be"?
"You've not answered my question. How does my face look—seeing it for the first time? Tell me plainly—I want to know the truth. Is it much altered?"
"Of course you look different. Anybody would—after a long illness."
"That is not what I mean. I want to know if I shall be pretty again, as I was. Nobody will tell me. I am treated like a child. And I don't choose to be treated so." She spoke fretfully. "I want to know how I look—now."
Magda was very much at a loss. "It must take time, I suppose," she observed hesitatingly. "If I were you, I would try not to think about that. I would make up my mind to wait."
"I dare say! It's so easy to be patient for somebody else! If you had to bear it yourself, you wouldn't be so sensible. I'm sick of hearing that sort of thing. Everybody talks so—aunt and nurse and doctors, all round. Over and over again the same. My face feels horrid still—like a mask. Magda, do you know that it was Bee who saved my life? You just ran away and did nothing! It was awful!—to feel myself so horribly alone! I suppose it was only for one moment; but it seemed like ages."
"I wish I hadn't! I would give anything to have done what Bee did!" Magda spoke from the depth of her heart, and Patricia heard listlessly.
"Of course you were frightened. I dare say I should have done the same in your place. But if Bee had run too, they say I must have died. I should have been out in the hall in one second more, in the full draught—and then nothing could have saved me. I suppose I ought to have thrown myself down; but how can one remember anything at such a time? Bee was quick! Sometimes I wonder—whether—I wouldn't rather have died!" Patricia burst into tears.
"Don't cry, please," begged Magda, dismayed. "You don't really mean that, you know."
"Perhaps not, in one way. But in another way—if I'm never to be what I was—if nobody is ever to love me again—"
"People don't love one another because of their looks."
Patricia drew the little lace handkerchief petulantly from her eyes.
"Oh, don't they? I know better."
"Wouldn't it be wiser not to keep thinking about that sort of thing—just to wait till you are well again?"
"I dare say! I've nothing else to think about. If money would do it—would make me what I was—I would spend every penny I have!"
Magda thought she would try a change of topic. "Have you heard of Bee's engagement?"
"Everybody has heard it, I suppose. When are they to be married?"
"Not till next August. Mrs. Major says she can't spare Bee sooner. I'm to be one of the bridesmaids."
"And of course your brother will be best man."
Magda had not expected Patricia to speak of Rob.
"I dare say he will, if he isn't too busy."
"He always says he is too busy for anything." A pause, and then—"I sometimes wonder—if we had not broken off before all this—"
"You wonder what?" Magda's curiosity was aroused.
"How he would have managed. He would not have wanted me any longer."
"Patricia!" indignantly. "Rob would never never have changed—and for such a reason!"
"He did change. It was because I knew he had changed that I—oh, it doesn't matter! Nothing matters now. I dare say he would have put up with me still, as a duty. I should hate to be put up with, as a duty! And he only cared for me because of my face. I knew that all along, though he didn't."
"If that was all, I don't call it 'love.'" Magda spoke with decision, though an odd consciousness came over her that the devotion which she herself had poured upon Patricia might be described in those terms.
"You don't know anything about it. I'm glad we broke off in time. And he has his beloved slums. That is all he really cares for."
"He mayn't have them long. There's some idea of his going to Canada."
Patricia sat suddenly upright, and her pale face grew quite white. "Canada! Why! What for?"
"There's a great want for more men in the North-West—men of his stamp, it is said. The Bishop there has begged for Rob; and Rob is thinking what to do. He likes the idea. Mother is sorry; but she won't try to prevent his going."
"If he does, I suppose you will go too some day, and keep house for him. Your old notion!" There was a hard little laugh; but Magda, occupied with her own thoughts, did not notice it.
"Oh, I don't know," she said uncertainly. "I—perhaps I shall—some day."
"You used to rave about the prospect." Patricia leant back with a sigh.
"Are you tired? Would you like me to go?"
"It doesn't matter. Yes, I'm tired—I always am. And you can go as soon as you like. There's nothing to keep you here. I'm not going to be a bore to people."
Magda kept her seat uncomfortably; and the door opened slowly. "Who is there? Nurse?" Patricia asked.
"It's not nurse," a soft voice said.
"I can't see anybody. Go away, please. It is a mistake. Magda, you needn't wait. I'd rather be alone."
"It's Bee," the voice said. "I did not know Magda was here. The maid told me she was gone, and she said I could not come upstairs. And I have come—against orders. I wanted so much to see you, dear."
Patricia turned sullenly away, hiding her face with both hands. Bee came through the dim room to her side, knelt down, and took Patricia into her arms, holding her in a firm and tender grasp. Nothing more was said. Magda looked on in wonder. Bee remained perfectly still; and in a few seconds Patricia turned a little, so that her face rested against Bee's dress. She was sobbing now, hard convulsive sobs; and at first Bee allowed the passionate distress to have its way. Presently the nurse, coming in and finding them thus, murmured—
"She ought not. It is bad for her eyes."
"Some water, please," Bee said in a smothered voice; and a glass being brought, she held it to Patricia's lips.
"You poor darling!—take some," she said with a sob.
Patricia looked up in utter amazement, to see those brown eyes streaming.
"Bee! You don't really care!" she gasped. "I thought nobody—nobody—would ever care again!"
She flung her arms round Bee and clung to her as if in a despairing appeal for help; and the silence now was broken only by Bee's weeping.
"Don't cry!" Patricia whispered in her turn. "Don't! But—it's such a comfort! It has been—awful! And I mustn't even cry. They say—if I go on as I did—it will make me blind!"
Bee had hardly voice to whisper—"Poor darling!"—once more.
"Hold me tight! Bee—don't go. To think that you—care! I shan't feel so alone now! Hold me—tighter!"
Magda might have moved or spoken, not being tactful, but nurse's hand on her arm insisted on silence. Any sound or stir might break the spell. Presently Patricia's voice was heard again in a note of subdued passion and vehement appeal.
"Bee—Bee—help me! I want help! I don't know what to do. I don't know how to bear it! . . . Bee—I've been so wicked! I've been longing to die! And nobody helped me . . . I know—it was my own fault. I wouldn't see any one—who could. But I—I—couldn't make up my mind. You'll come now— sometimes—come and help me!"
That hand on Magda's arm bade her go. She obeyed without a word, and it did not seem that Patricia even remembered their presence or noticed their departure. Nurse closed the door softly when they were outside.
"If anybody can do that poor thing good—she will!" came with a slight break.
"Nurse, is Patricia getting on? Will she be well in time?"
"She gets on slowly. She would get on faster, if she cared."
"Cared to get well?"
"Yes."
"You mean—she doesn't care because her face is altered? Yes—I heard what she said. But will it get right in time? She has been so lovely. Will she be that again?"
"I'm afraid not, quite. She will improve; and the scar will get fainter. But that contraction of the mouth will be permanent."
"And her eyes—they seem so weak."
"Yes. They may improve a good deal. I hope they will."
Magda was conscious of a lump in her own throat. She went off, oppressed once more with a sense of failure. How was it that she could do nothing for Patricia, while Bee in two minutes had gained a hold, and was giving comfort? And a soft inner voice whispered—
"You were thinking of yourself! Bee thought only of Patricia."
AFTER SEVEN MONTHS
ONE sunny August afternoon saw those two charming sisters, the Miss Wryatts of Wratt-Wrothesley, in their favourite "living-room," a square antique hall, with windows of mediæval coloured glass and ancient black-oak panelling, busily discussing with their other sister, Mrs. Major, the never-ending subject of Bee's wedding on the morrow.
Bee was to be married from the old family home—of course! So the Miss Wryatts had said from the first. That she should be married from Virginia Villa was, in their opinion, a thing unthinkable. Not only every spare room in the house—and there were fewer than might have been expected from its size, since a large amount of space went to reception rooms—but also every available bed in the neighbourhood, had been long engaged for the use of relatives and friends.
Miss Wryatt was tall and meekly dignified, with the sweetest and serenest elderly face ever seen; and Miss Emma Wryatt was short and plump and full of life. Both resembled Mrs. Major in a certain air of distinguished composure; and both also resembled her in devotion to and admiration for Bee, only daughter of the one, only niece of the other two.
Everything was by this time in train for the morrow; all arrangements were made; and nothing remained to be done. The staff of old and capable servants knew their duties to perfection in any kind of function; so that really they needed little telling, though Miss Wryatt kept the reins in her own hands, and trusted nothing to chance. She had just been going through with her sisters the list of guests expected that afternoon, naming the bedroom assigned to each, and discussing plans for making the hours slide by with smoothness and satisfaction.
Mr. and Mrs. Royston, Robert, Magda, Merryl, and Frances; Mr. and Mrs. Framley, and Patricia Vincent; Mr. and Mrs. Miles; Ned Fairfax, and two or three others, would arrive before tea; and carriages had already been despatched to meet them at the station. Ivor had come the day before, and was now with Bee in the grounds.
"Dear Bee!" Miss Wryatt said affectionately. "She looks the very picture of happiness! It does one good to see her face. Well, dear—one thing is certain—you will be gaining a son and not losing a daughter. And such a son! I really do not know a finer fellow than Lance—such high principles! All that we could wish for our dear Bee. And there are not many men whom one could count worthy of her."
"Lance is all right," remarked Mrs. Major, who had no trace of sentimentality in her composition.
"Dear fellow! And he will be a fortunate man—with such a sweet wife. My dear, I am glad that poor girl, Patricia Vincent, has made up her mind to be present. Bee was afraid she would not."
"Bee refused to let her off."
"And of course it is wiser—still, one can well understand that it must be a trial to come among all her old friends. Such a lovely creature as she was! And now, I suppose—"
"No, she is not lovely now. To my mind, she is more taking."
"Really, dear!" both sisters exclaimed.
Mrs. Major was turning down a narrow hem, in some useful work for Bee; and she paused to complete it.
"Much more," she said. "Patricia's prettiness was all outside—mere shape and colouring. Something else has come now. There is a great difference—but not all for the worse."
"Ah! Something of spirit-beauty, perhaps," murmured Miss Wryatt.
"You might call it that. A very pleasant look. Her expression in old days spoilt her—it was so self-centred."
"And now—it is otherwise?"
"Yes. The fact is, Bee was the saving of her. No one else could do anything. She seemed hopeless and broken, with no interest left in life; and she would see nobody—not even Mr. Miles."
"That delightful Mr. Miles! We are so pleased that he can come. And Bee did—what, dear?"
A slight moisture might be seen in Mrs. Major's small keen dark eyes.
"What the child always does! She crept somehow into the poor thing's heart, and got hold of her. It is a way that Bee has, you know. She was the first to carry a grain of comfort. And for weeks afterwards, no matter how busy she might be, she went there day after day—even if it were only for ten minutes, and generally it was for at least an hour—till Patricia was ordered abroad in May. Patricia would only go on condition that Bee should be with her for the first month. I have no doubt that Bee's influence has made all the difference to her future."
"Just like dear Bee!" murmured Miss Wryatt. "And—what about Robert Royston?"
"Well, he went to Florence after Bee came away. Mrs. Framley says it was a curious sight to see him falling in love again with Patricia—this time with herself, not with her face. For my part, I believe he has never left off caring for her. They say that after her accident, he looked ghastly. Then he had a breakdown, and the Canada plan had to be put off. In June he was ordered abroad—and he went straight to Florence. If he were not going to Canada, I don't see why that might not come on again."
"Why should not Patricia go too?" Miss Wryatt asked tranquilly.
The expected guests began to arrive and no more could be said.
Bee had indeed devoted much of her time to Patricia, through the late winter and early spring; spending hours in the dim room; putting aside other claims and many pleasures, that she might carry comfort and cheer to the stricken girl, bracing her to endure her trouble with courage, and gently leading her up to higher views of life and its duties, to a truer conception of what is meant by happiness, than Patricia had ever known before. These efforts had been crowned by a month with her on the Continent, and later by constant correspondence, while Patricia remained abroad till after the end of July.
The Roystons were among the first to arrive; and Rob was there when Patricia came. She walked in quietly—not as of old with the air of one who expected everybody to be looking at her, but rather as if shunning observation.
And she was, as Mrs. Major had said, much changed in more ways than one. She was thinner than in past years; and the exquisite colouring had vanished. The scar was already less prominent, yet it could not be overlooked, neither could the contraction at one side of her mouth, which altered her much when she smiled. The eyes were still weak, but very gentle; and her hair had grown into short curls, clustering closely over her head. But there was gain as well as loss; for if the delicate beauty of form and tint had disappeared, a new loveliness had dawned in the calm peace of her expression, the soft light in her eyes, never seen there before. It was, as Miss Wryatt suggested, a touch of spirit-beauty.
Rob had noted it already, in its earlier dawning; and he welcomed now its fuller development with a throb of joy. Few minutes passed before he made his way to her side; and neither he nor she had much attention to spare for others that evening.
Magda looking eagerly for Ned Fairfax, found him soon at her side, where indeed her face beckoned him; and they had a short chat. Her consequent high spirits, somewhat later, were rather dashed, when she saw him deep in talk with Merryl, showing at least as much interest as when he had been with her. An independent observer would have said that he showed much more interest, but Magda was not an independent observer.
She noticed enough, however, to feel a sharp pang of jealousy; and she recognised it as jealousy, which would hardly have been the case a year earlier. Jealousy was so mean, she told herself; it had to be kept down! And she really did try hard.
Soon she saw Merryl making signs to her to join them; and she at once responded, failing to note the disappointment in Fairfax' face. Bestowing herself gaily on a seat close by, she took the lead in a triangular talk, from which Merryl next slipped away, leaving her in possession.
That was delightful! Now she had Ned again all to herself; and there were a hundred things that she wanted to tell him. Merryl never seemed to forget for a moment that Ned was her friend, and that she had—as she would have expressed it—the "first right." That this view of the question made small account of Ned's possible wishes did not occur to her mind.
She began to pour out details of what she had been doing lately, of books she had read and people she had seen. As she rambled on, she awoke to the fact that Ned seemed less interested than he had been before she joined him and Merryl. His eyes and attention both wandered; and his answers went astray. Then, to her utter amazement, on some slight pretext, Ned himself was gone; and in less than a minute she saw him again by Merryl's side.
But she wouldn't be jealous!—She wouldn't!—She wouldn't! So she declared resolutely to herself. Jealousy was so horrid. And Ned had always been kind to the younger ones. Merryl was still only "one of the younger ones!" It was just like dear old Ned to go and amuse her, because she had unselfishly departed—when perhaps he might have liked better to stay and talk with his old chum. He always had been so nice and thoughtful!
THIS GLORIOUS WORLD!
"OH, it is a glorious world!" Magda exclaimed.
At six o'clock she had roused up, wide awake. Breakfast would not be until past nine. To waste two more long hours in bed, waiting for an "early" cup of tea was out of the question. The radiant sunshine, the dew-besprinkled lawn, the great cedar of Lebanon with its flat outspread branches, the distant blue hills, all enticed her. So she sprang up and dressed with speed; and after a short time given to her devotions, she ran softly down the wide staircase, meeting no one by the way, and slipped out at a side-door which she noiselessly unbolted.
Everybody else was resting or asleep, unless perhaps in kitchen regions. Only she out here, with sunshine and dew, birds and insects, enjoying herself. Why did not others do the same? If Ned should come, that would mean perfection!
Even without him it was very near perfection. Such a lovely place—such masses of flowers—such luxuriant trees with branches sweeping the ground—such velvet lawns! She set off at full speed, going from one part to another with ever-increasing delight, till she reached a little "view-spot" on the top of a hillock, where creepers had been trained as a background to a sheltered rustic seat, and a wide extent of country broke upon the sight. She stood drinking it eagerly in; and—
"Oh, it is a glorious world!" escaped her lips.
"Yes, it is," a voice said. To her surprise, there stood Mr. Miles.
"Isn't it lovely?" she exclaimed. "And you are up too! I thought I was the only one. It seems a shame to lie in bed and lose this!"
He pointed out to her some of the main features in the landscapes, naming two or three distant hills. Then they sat down, and somehow—Magda could not afterwards recall what had led to it—she found herself talking about the use she had made of life in this same wonderful world. Mr. Miles certainly asked a question or two—but she forgot what the questions had been.
"I did mean once to study hard," she said. "When I first left school, I mean. There was plenty of time—then—and Rob said I ought, so as to prepare for future work. But somehow—I never kept it up. And now Pen is married, I am much less free. I'm supposed to do heaps of stupid little fidgets, and I never know when I shall be wanted. And—is it right? Ought I to be always doing such things, instead of finding time for more important work?"
"It seems that when you had the time you did not use it. What sort of 'things' are they? And what is the more important work that you propose to do?"
"I don't know. I've wanted for ever so long to find some work really worth doing. And the little things are—oh, just what Pen used to do. Things for the house; and going out with mother; and writing notes; and tidying up."
"Home duties, in short. Now that you are the eldest daughter, they must come first."
"Merryl could do them!"
"But if they fall to your lot, you must not shirk them. Think! Now is your chance to do all you can to brighten the lives of your father and mother. The opportunity will not last for ever!" Magda gave one startled glance, as if the suggestion had gone home. "And the duties which lie ready to our hands are generally the important ones in life—for us."
"They seem so poor—just frittering away the hours."
"If they are given you to do, it is no question of frittering away. It becomes a matter simply of obedience."
She repeated the word—"Obedience?"
Magda almost thought he had not heard, for he seemed lost in thought. Soon he aroused himself.
"Once upon a time," he said, "a carpet was being woven by hand in an eastern land. Many men were employed upon it; and to each his separate task was given. If he failed—either the whole would be spoilt, or his share would be given to another. To a visitor from far-off, who stood looking as they worked, it appeared a mere jumble of shapeless figures and ill-assorted colours, with no definite plan, not worth the trouble expended on it. But long after, when that same traveller saw the carpet in its completed state, he found it to be a thing of wonderful richness and beauty, of fine design and splendid colouring. For he saw it then on its right side—whereas he had seen it before on its wrong side. And those men, as they worked, could see little beyond the small portion under their own eyes. They could not judge of the effect of the whole, till the day when it should be finished."
Silence again; and Magda said, "You mean—?"
"A world-wide carpet is being woven through the ages. And only the Divine Master-Mind, having designed its pattern, can foresee what it will be like in the end. Many, many, are at work upon it. One little square inch of the weaving is given to me as my life-task, and another little square inch is given to you. Neither of us can see much beyond our own tiny share. What we have to do may seem to us out of harmony with the rest, or not worth the trouble of doing. Sometimes our whole work looks like failure. But we cannot judge. It is impossible for us in this life to see which task is the more important—still less, to decide which is the better done. We only know that it is in the faithful working out of our own appointed task, great or small—in doing it for our dear Master and by His help—that we may hope to win by-and-by His loving—'Well done!'"
"Only it's so awfully difficult to find out what one really has to do."
"Granted, in certain cases, such a difficulty! There is always the promise that he who wills to do God's Will, shall be shown that Will. He may have to wait; but in time it will be made clear."
"And till then—?"
"Till then—there are always the little homely duties ready to hand; small kindnesses, small self-denials. The one thing that we are never called to is—careless drifting. Never despise the tiniest deed which may add a feather's weight to anybody's happiness; or which may aid in the right shaping of our own characters."
"I suppose one ought to think about that."
"Certainly. We are put into this earthly school—this glorious world, Magda!—for the express purpose that our characters may be formed for the great Future. And while we are here, our God graciously uses us, if we are willing, to do some of His work. The more fully we submit to His training, and the more we strive with His help to make ourselves ready, the more likely it is that, at some crucial moment, He will find in us just what He needs."
Magda thought of her recent lost opportunity. Was Mr. Miles thinking of it too?