Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: "I SEE THEM, I SEE THEM PLAINLY!"]



                       LIFE'S LITTLE STAGE


                               BY
                         AGNES GIBERNE

                           AUTHOR OF
          "SUN, MOON AND STARS," "THIS WONDER-WORLD,"
         "STORIES OF THE ABBEY PRECINCTS," ETC., ETC.



 _"Who can over-estimate the value of these little Opportunities?_
        _How angels must weep to see us throw them away!_
    _. . . And how can we ever expect to meet the great trials_
    _worthily, unless we learn discipline by those which to others_
                   _may seem but trifles?"—ANON._



                            LONDON
                 THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
      4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, E. C.

                             1913



                      BY THE SAME AUTHOR


  Little 'Why-Because'
  This Wonder-World
  Gwendoline
  The Hillside Children
  Stories of the Abbey Precincts
  Anthony Cragg's Tenant
  Profit and Loss; or, Life's Ledger
  Through the Linn
  Five Little Birdies
  Next-Door Neighbours
  Willie and Lucy at the Sea-side

               LONDON: THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY



                           FOREWORD

THERE are many girls who, on leaving School for Home-life, find the
year or two following rather "difficult." They seem often not quite to
know what to do with themselves, with their time, with their gifts; and
they are apt to fall into some needless mistakes for want of a guiding
hand. My wish, in writing this tale, has been to give such girls a
little help. It may be that one here or there, in reading it, will find
out how to avoid such mistakes from the struggles, the defeats, and the
non-defeats of Magda Royston.

                                                 AGNES GIBERNE.
EASTBOURNE.



                          CONTENTS

CHAPTER


     I. GOOD-BYE TO SCHOOL

    II. WHAT WAS THE USE?

   III. ROBERT

    IV. THE INEFFABLE PATRICIA

     V. UNWELCOME NEWS

    VI. SWISS ENCOUNTERS

   VII. A MOUNTAIN HUT BY NIGHT

  VIII. IN AN AVALANCHE

    IX. FRIENDS IN PERIL

     X. THE RESCUED MAN

    XI. PATRICIA'S AFFAIRS

   XII. AN OPPORTUNITY LOST

  XIII. VIRGINIA VILLA

   XIV. A REVERSION OF THOUGHT

    XV. LIFE'S ONWARD MARCH

   XVI. THE THICK OF THE FIGHT

  XVII. ABOUT TRUE SERVICE

 XVIII. TAKEN BY SURPRISE

   XIX. IF HE SHOULD COME!

    XX. THROUGH AN ORDEAL

   XXI. AND AFTERWARDS

  XXII. "COULDN'T BE TIED!"

 XXIII. HERSELF OR HER FRIEND?

  XXIV. SOMEBODY'S LOOSE ENDS

   XXV. MAGDA'S OLD CHUM

  XXVI. WHERETO THINGS TENDED

 XXVII. WHAT PATRICIA WANTED

XXVIII. WOULD SHE GIVE IN?

  XXIX. SO AWFULLY SUDDEN!

   XXX. IF ONLY SHE HAD—!

  XXXI. LOST LOOKS

 XXXII. AFTER SEVEN MONTHS

XXXIII. THIS GLORIOUS WORLD!

 XXXIV. ONCE MORE TO THE TEST



                       LIFE'S LITTLE STAGE

CHAPTER I

GOOD-BYE TO SCHOOL

"SOME girls would be glad in your place."

"It's just the other way with me."

"Not that you have not been happy here. I know you have. Still—home is
home."

"This is my other home."

Miss Mordaunt smiled. It was hardly in human nature not to be gratified.

"If only I could have stayed two years longer! Or even one year! Father
might let me. It's such a horrid bore to have to leave now."

"But since no choice is left, you must make the best of things."

The two stood facing one another in the bow-window of Miss Mordaunt's
pretty drawing-room; tears in the eyes of the elder woman, for hers was
a sympathetic nature; no tears in the eyes of the girl, but a sharp
ache at her heart. Till the arrival of this morning's post she never
quite lost hope, though notice of her removal was given months before.
A final appeal, vehemently worded, after the writer's fashion, had
lately gone; and the reply was decisive.

Many a tussle of wills had taken place during the last four years
between these two; and a time was when the pupil indulged in hard
thoughts of the kind Principal. But Miss Mordaunt possessed power to
win love; and though she found in Magda Royston a difficult subject,
she conquered in the end. Out of battling grew strong affection—how
strong on the side of Magda perhaps neither quite knew until this hour.

"There isn't any 'best.' It's just simply horrid."

"Still, if you are wanted at home, your duty lies there."

"I'm not. That's the thing. Nobody wants me. Mother has Penrose; and
father has Merryl; and Frip—I mean, Francie—is the family pet. And I
come in nowhere. I'm a sort of extraneous atom that can't coalesce
with any other atom." A tinge of self-satisfaction crept into the
tone. "It's not my fault. Nobody at home needs me—not one least little
bit. And there isn't a person in all the town that I care for—not one
blessed individual!"

Miss Mordaunt seated herself on the sofa, drawing the speaker to her
side, with a protesting touch.

"There isn't. Pen snaps them all up. And if she didn't, it would come
to the same thing. I'm not chummy with girls—never was. I had a real
friend once; but he was a boy; and boys are so different. Ned Fairfax
and I were immense chums; but he was years and years older than me; and
he went right away when I was only eleven. I've never set eyes on him
since, and I don't even know now what has become of him. Only I know we
should be friends again—directly—if ever we met! The girls and I get on
well enough here, but we're not friends."

"Except Beatrice."

"Bee is a little dear, and I dote on her; and she worships the ground
I tread on. But after all—though she is more than a year older, she
always seems the younger. And I'm much more to her than she is to me.
Don't you see? I wouldn't say that to everybody, but it's true. I want
something more than that, if it is to satisfy! Bee looks up to me. I
want some one that I can look up to."

"There is much more in Bee than appears on the surface."

"I dare say. She pegs away, and gets on. She'll be awfully useful at
home. And in a sort of way she is taking."

"People find her extremely taking. She is a friend worth having and
worth keeping. But I hope you are going to have friends in Burwood."

"There's nobody. Oh well, yes, there is one—but she doesn't live there.
She only comes down to a place near for a week or ten days at a time.
Her name is Patricia, and she is a picture! I've seen her just three
times, and I fell in love straight off. But I haven't a ghost of a
chance. Everybody runs after her. Oh, I shall get on all right. There's
Rob, you know. He and I have always been cronies; and it's quite
settled that I shall keep house for him some day. Not till he gets a
living; and that won't be yet. He was only ordained two years ago."

"I should advise you not to build too much on that notion. Your brother
may marry."

Magda's eyes blazed. They were singular golden-brown eyes, with a
reddish tinge in the iris, matching her hair.

"You don't know Rob! He always says he never comes across any girls
to be compared with his sisters. And I always was his special! He
promised—years ago—that I should live with him by-and-by. At least—if
he didn't exactly promise, he said it. Father jeers at the idea, but
Rob means what he says."

Miss Mordaunt hesitated to throw further cold water. Life itself would
bring the chill splash soon enough.

"Well—perhaps," she admitted. "Only, it is always wiser not to look
forward too confidently. Things turn out so unlike what one expects
beforehand. Have you not found it so?"

"I'm sure this won't. It will all come right, I know. But just imagine
father talking about my having 'finished my education.' Oh dear me, if
he would but understand! He says his own sisters finished theirs at
seventeen, and he doesn't see any need for new-fangled ways. You may
read it!" Magda held out the sheet with an indignant thrust. "As if it
mattered what they used to do in the Dark Ages."

Miss Mordaunt could not quite suppress another smile. She read the
letter and gave it back.

"That settles the matter, I am afraid. I see that your father wants his
daughter."

"He doesn't!" bluntly. "He wants nobody except Merryl. 'Finished my
education' indeed! Why, I'm not seventeen till next month; and I'm only
just beginning to know what real work means."

Miss Mordaunt could have endorsed this; but an interruption came. She
was called away; and Magda wandered to one of the class-rooms, where,
as she expected, she found a girl alone bending over a desk, hard at
work—a girl nearly as tall as herself, but so slight in make that
people often spoke of her as "little;" the more so, perhaps, from her
gentle retiring manner, and from the look of wistful appeal in her
brown eyes. It was a pale face, even-featured, with rather marked dark
brows and brown hair full of natural waves. As Magda entered she jumped
up.

"I've been wanting to see you, Magda. Only think—"

"I went to tell Miss Mordaunt—father has written at last."

"Has he? And he says—?"

"I'm to go home for good at the end of the term."

"Then we leave together, after all."

"It's right enough for you. You've had an extra year. But I do hate
it—just as I am getting to love work—to have to stop."

"You won't stop. You are so clever. You will keep on with everything."

"It can't be the same—working all alone."

Beatrice looked sympathetic, but only remarked—"I have heard from my
mother too. And only think! We are to leave town. Not now, but some
time next year; when the lease of our house is up. Guess where we may
perhaps live!"

"Not—Burwood!" dubiously.

Bee clapped joyous hands.

"What can have made your mother think of such a thing?"

"Why, Magda! Wouldn't you be glad to have us?"

"Of course. But I mean—how did it come into her head?"

"I put the notion there. Wouldn't you have done it in my place? London
never has suited her; and our doctor advises the country. And I said
something in my last about Burwood—not really thinking that anything
would come of it. But mother has quite taken to the idea. She used to
stay near, sometimes, when she was a child; and she remembers well how
pretty the walks and drives were. It would make all the difference to
me if we were near to you. I should not mind so very much then having
to leave Amy."

Magda was not especially fond of hearing about this other great
friend—Amy Smith. Whatever her estimate might be, in the abstract, of
the value of Bee, she liked to have the whole of her; not to share her
with somebody else. Certainly not with a "Miss Smith!"

"You see, I've been near Amy all my life; and she is so good to me—too
good! She's years older, but we are just like sisters, and I don't know
how I shall get on without her. But if it is to come near you, dear,
saying good-bye won't be quite so hard."

"It will be frightfully nice if you do. We can do no end of things
together. I suppose it's not settled yet."

"No; only, if mother once takes to a plan, she doesn't soon give it up.
So I'm very hopeful. Just think! If I were always near you! And you
were always coming in and out!"

"It would be frightfully nice!" repeated Magda, throwing into her
voice what Bee would expect to hear. But when she strolled away, she
questioned within herself—was she glad? Would she be more disappointed
or more relieved if the scheme fell through?

The notion of introducing Beatrice Major to her home-circle did not
quite appeal to her. The Roystons held their heads high, and moved in
county circles, and were extremely particular as to whom they deigned
to know. Bee herself was the dearest little creature—pretty and
lovable, sweet and kind; but she had been only two years in the school,
and Magda had met none of Bee's people. They might very easily fail to
suit her people.

Beatrice, it was true, never seemed to mind being questioned about her
home and connections; but it was equally true that she never appeared
to have very much to say—at least of any such particulars as would
impress the Royston imagination; and this was suggestive. Magda had
heard so much all her life about people's antecedents, that she might
be excused for feeling nervous. She had seen a photo of Bee's mother,
and thought her a very unattractive person; also a photo of Amy Smith,
which was worse still. She knew that Mrs. Major could not be too well
off, for Bee's command of pocket-money was by no means plentiful, and
her wardrobe was limited.

They would probably live in some poky little house. And though Magda
could talk grandly about not caring what other people thought, and
though personally she would not perhaps mind about the said house, yet
she would mind extremely if her own particular friend were looked down
upon by her home-folks. The very idea of Pen's air of mild disdain
stung sharply.

So altogether she felt that, if the plan failed, she would not be very
sorry. But Bee might on no account guess this.


Several weeks later came the day of parting; and once more Magda stood
before Miss Mordaunt with a lump in her throat.

"You will have to work steadily, if you do not mean to lose all you
have gained, Magda."

"I know. I shall make a plan for every day, and stick to it."

"Except when home duties come between."

"I've no home duties. Pen goes everywhere with mother, and Merryl does
all the little useful fidgets. There's nothing left for me. Nobody will
care what I'm after."

Miss Mordaunt studied the impressionable face. Some eager thought was
at work below the surface.

"What is it, my dear?"

"You always know when I've something on my mind. I've been thinking
a lot lately. Miss Mordaunt, I want to do something with my life.
Not just to drift along anyhow, as so many girls do. I want to make
something of it. Something great, you know!"—and her eyes glowed. "Do
you think I shall ever be able? Does the chance come to everybody some
time or other? I've heard it said that it does."

"It may. Many miss the 'chance,' as you call it, when it does come. I
should rather call it 'the opportunity.' What do you mean by 'something
great'?"

"Oh—Why!—You know! Something above the common run. Like Grace Darling,
or Miss Florence Nightingale, or that Duchess who stayed behind in the
French bazaar to be burnt to death, so that others might escape. It
was noblesse oblige with her, wasn't it? I think it would be grand to
do something of that sort,—that would be always remembered and talked
about."

"Perhaps so. But don't forget that what one is in the little things
of life, one is also in the great things. More than one rehearsal is
generally given to us before the 'great opportunity' is sent. And if we
fail in the rehearsals, we fail then also."

"Yes—I know. And I do mean to work at my studies. But all the same, I
should like to do something, some day, really and truly great."

Miss Mordaunt looked wistfully at the girl. "Dear Magda—real greatness
does not mean being talked about. It means—doing the Will of God in our
lives—doing our duty, and doing it for Him."



CHAPTER II

WHAT WAS THE USE?

MANY months later that parting interview with Miss Mordaunt recurred
vividly to Magda.

"What's the good of it all, I wonder?" she had been asking aloud.

And suddenly, as if called up from a far distance, she saw again Miss
Mordaunt's face, and heard again her own confident utterances.

It was a bitterly cold March afternoon. She stood alone under the great
walnut tree in the back garden—which was divided by a tall hedge from
the kitchen garden. Over her head was a network of bare boughs; and
upon the grass at her feet lay a pure white carpet. Some lilac bushes
near had begun to show promise of coming buds; but they looked doleful
enough now, weighed down by snow.

She had with such readiness promised steady work in the future! And she
had meant it too.

The thing seemed so easy beforehand. And for a time she really had
tried. But she had not kept it up. She had not worked persistently.
She had not "stuck" to her plans. The contrast between intention and
non-fulfilment came upon her now with force.

Six months had gone by of home-life, of emancipation from school
control. Six months of aimless drifting—the very thing she had resolved
sturdily against.

"Oh, bother! What's the use of worrying? Why can't I take things as Pen
does? Pen never seems to mind." But she was in the grip of a cogitative
mood, and thinking would not be stayed.

She had begun well enough—had planned daily two hours of music, an hour
of history, an hour of literature, an hour alternately of French and
German. It had all looked fair and promising. And the whole had ended
in smoke.

Something always seemed to come in the way. The children wanted a
ramble. Or she was sent on an errand. Or a caller came in. Or there
was an invitation. Or—oftener and worse!—disinclination had her by the
throat.

Disinclination which, no doubt, might have been, and ought to have
been, grappled with and overcome. Only, she had not grappled with it.
She had not overcome. She had yielded, time after time.

It was so difficult to work alone; so dull to sit and read in her
own room; so stupid to write a translation that nobody would see; so
tiresome to practice when there was none to praise or blame. Not that
she liked blame; and not that she was not expected to practice; but no
marked interest was shown in her advance; and she wanted sympathy and
craved an object. And it was so fatally easy to put off, to let things
slide, to get out of the way of regular plans. The fact that any time
would do equally well soon meant no time.

This had been a typical day; and she reviewed it ruefully. A morning of
aimless nothings; the mending of clothes idly deferred; hours spent in
the reading of a foolish novel; jars with Penrose; friction with her
mother; a sharp set-down from her father; then forgetfulness of wrongs
and resentment during a romp in the snow with Merryl and Frip—till the
younger girls were summoned indoors, leaving her to descend at a plunge
from gaiety to disquiet. Magda's variations were many.

She stood pondering the subject—a long-limbed well-grown girl, young
in look for her years, with a curly mass of red-brown hair, seldom
tidy, and a pair of expressive eyes. They could look gentle and loving,
though that phase was not common; they could sparkle with joy or blaze
with anger; they could be dull as a November fog; they could, as at
this moment, turn their regards inwards with uneasy self-condemnation.

But it was a condemnation of self which she would not have liked
anybody else to echo. No one quicker, you may be sure, than Magda
Royston in self-defence! Even now words of excuse sprang readily, as
she stood at the bar of her own judgment.

"After all, I don't see that it is my fault. I can't help things being
as they are. And suppose I had worked all these months at music and
history and languages—what then? What would be the good? It would be
all for myself. I should be just as useless to other people."

A vision arose of the great things she had wished to do, and she
stamped the snow flat.

"It's no good. I've no chance. There's nothing to be done that I can
see. If I had heaps of money to give away! Or if I had a special
gift—if I could write books, or could paint pictures! Or even if my
people were poor, and I could work hard to get money for them! Anything
like that would make all the difference. As it is—well, I know I have
brains of a sort; better brains than Pen! But I don't see what I can
do with them. I don't see that I can do anything out of the common, or
better than hundreds of other people do. And that is so stupid. Not
worth the trouble!"

"Mag-da!" sounded in Pen's clear voice.

"She never can leave me in peace! I'm not going indoors yet."

"Mag-da!" Three times repeated, was followed by—"Where are you? Mother
says you are to come."

This could not be disregarded. "Coming," she called carelessly, and in
a slow saunter she followed the boundary of the kitchen garden hedge,
trailed through the back yard, stopped to exchange a greeting with the
house-dog as he sprang to the extent of his chain, stroked the stately
Persian cat on the door-step, and finally presented herself in the
inner hall.

It was one of the oldest houses in the country town of Burwood; rather
small, but antique. Once upon a time it had stood alone, surrounded
by its own broad acres; but things were changed, and the acres had
shrunk—through the extravagance of former Roystons—to only a fair-sized
garden. The rest of the land had been sold for building; and other
houses in gardens stood near. In the opinion of old residents, this was
no longer real country; and with new-comers, the Roystons no longer
ranked as quite the most important people in the near neighbourhood.
Their means were limited enough to make it no easy matter for them
to remain on in the house, and they could do little in the way of
entertaining. But they prided themselves still on their exclusiveness.

Penrose stood waiting; a contrast to Magda, who was five years her
junior. Not nearly so tall and much more slim, she had rather pretty
blue eyes and a neat figure, which comprised her all in the way of
good looks. Her manner towards Magda was superior and mildly positive,
though with people in general she knew how to be agreeable. Magda's air
in response was combative.

"Did you not hear me calling?"

"If not, I shouldn't be here now."

"I think you need not have kept me so long."

Magda vouchsafed no excuse. "What's up?" she demanded.

"Mother wants you in the drawing-room."

"What for?"

"She found your drawers untidy."

"Of course you sent her to look at them."

"I don't 'send' mother about. And I have not been in your room to-day."

"I understand!" Magda spoke pointedly.

Penrose glanced up and down her sister with critical eyes. A word of
warning would be kind. Magda seemed blissfully unconscious of her
outward condition; and Pen had this moment heard a ring at the front
door, which might mean callers.

"You've done the business now, so I hope you're satisfied," Magda went
on. "Mother would never have thought of looking in my drawers, if you
had not said something. I know! I did make hay in them yesterday, when
I couldn't find my gloves, but I meant to put them straight to-night.
It's too bad of you."

Pen's lips, parted for speech, closed again. If Magda chose to fling
untrue accusations, she might manage for herself. And indeed small
chance was given her to say more. Magda marched off, just as she
was, straight for the drawing-room—her skirts pinned abnormally high
for the snow-frolic; her shoes encased in snow; her tam-o'-shanter
half-covering a mass of wild hair; her bare hands soiled and red with
cold and scratched with brambles.

"Yes, mother. Pen says you want me."

She sent the words in advance with no gentle voice, as she whisked open
the drawing-room door. Then she stopped.

Mrs. Royston, a graceful woman, looked in displeasure towards the
figure in the doorway; for she was not alone.

Callers had arrived, as Pen conjectured; and through the front window
might be seen two thoroughbreds champing their bits, and a footman
standing stolidly. Why had Pen given no hint? How unkind! Then she
recalled her own curt turning away, and knew that she was to blame.

"Really!" with a faint laugh protested Mrs. Royston.

"So I thought we would look in for five minutes on our way back from
Sir John's," the elder caller was remarking in a manly voice.

She was a large woman, more in breadth and portliness than in height,
and her magnificent furs made her look like a big brown bear sitting on
end. Her face too was large and strongly outlined.

Magda guessed in a moment what her mother felt; for the Honourable
Mrs. Framley was a county magnate; the weightiest personality in more
senses than one to be found for many a mile around. A call from her
was reckoned by some people as second only to a call from Royalty.
The girl's first impulse was to flee; but a solid outstretched hand
commanded her approach.

"Now, which of your young folks is this?" demanded Mrs. Framley,
examining Magda through an eye-glass. "Let me see—you've got—how many
daughters? Penrose—Magda—Merryl—Frances. I've not forgotten their
names, though it's—how long?—since I was here last. Months, I'm afraid.
But this is not your neat Penrose; and my jolly little friend Merryl
can't have shot up to that height since I saw her; and Magda is out.
Came out in the autumn, didn't she? So who is this? A niece?"

"I'm Magda," the girl said in shamefaced confession, for Mrs. Royston
seemed voiceless.

Mrs. Framley leant back in her chair, and laughed till she was
exhausted.

"So that's a specimen of the modern young woman, eh?"—when she could
regain her voice. "My dear—" to Mrs. Royston—"pray don't apologise.
It's I who should apologise. But really—really—it's irresistible."
She went into another fit, and emerged from it, wheezing. "The child
doesn't look a day over fifteen." The speaker wiped her eyes. "Don't
send her away. Unadulterated Nature is always worth seeing—eh,
Patricia?"

Magda turned startled eyes in the direction of the second caller, a
girl three or four years older than herself, and the last person whom
she expected to see. The last person, perhaps, whom at that moment she
wished to see. For despite Magda's boasted non-chumminess with girls,
this was the one girl whom she did, honestly and heartily, though not
hopefully, desire for a friend. She had fallen in love at first sight
with Mrs. Framley's niece, and had cherished her image ever since in
the most secret recess of her heart.

"She'll think me just a silly idiotic school-girl!" flashed through
Magda's mind, as she made an involuntary movement forward with extended
hand—a soiled hand, as already said, scratched and slightly bleeding.

Patricia Vincent, standing thus far with amused eyes in the background,
hesitated. She was immaculately dressed in grey, with a grey-feathered
hat, relieved by touches of salmon-pink, and the daintiest of pale grey
kid gloves. Contact with that hand did not quite suit her fastidious
sense. A mere fraction of a second—and then she would have responded;
but Magda, with crimsoning cheeks, had snatched the offending member
away.

"I think you had better go and send Pen," interposed Mrs. Royston.
Under the quiet words lay a command, "Do not come back."

Magda fled, without a good-bye, and went to the school-room, where
she flung herself into an old armchair. The gas was low, but a good
fire gave light; and she sat there in a dishevelled heap, weighing her
grievances.

It was too bad of Pen, quite too bad, not to have warned her! And now
the mischief was done. Patricia Vincent would never forget. Pen would
go in and win; while she, as usual, would be nowhere in the race.

And all because she had not first rushed upstairs, to smooth her hair
and wash her hands! Such nonsense!

As if Pen had not friends enough already! Just the single girl that
she wanted for herself! If she might have Patricia, Pen was welcome to
the rest of the world. But that was always the way! If one cared for a
thing particularly, that thing was certain to be out of reach.

She was smarting still over the thought of that refused handshake; but
her anger all went in the direction of Pen, not of Patricia. Pen alone
was to blame!

Presently the front door was opened and shut; and then Mrs. Royston
came in, moving with her usual graceful deliberation.

"What could have made you behave so, Magda?" she asked. "To come before
callers in such a state!"

Magda was instantly up in arms. "Pen never told me there were callers."

"She did not know it. She would have reminded you how untidy you
were—certainly in no condition to come into the drawing-room, even if I
had been alone! But you show so much annoyance if she speaks."

"Pen is always in the right, of course."

"That is not the way to speak to me. I would rather have had this
happen before anybody than before Mrs. Framley."

Magda shut her lips.

"Why did you not send Pen, as I told you?"

"I forgot."

"You always do forget. There is more dependence to be put upon Francie
than upon you. You think of nothing, and care for nothing, except your
own concerns. I am disappointed in you. It seems sometimes as if you
had no sense of duty. And you ought to leave off giving way to temper
as you do. It is so unlike your sisters. Nothing ever seems right with
you."

"I can't help it. It isn't my fault."

"Then you ought to help it. You are not a little child any longer."

Mrs. Royston hesitated, as if about to say more; but Magda held up her
head with an air of indifference, though invisible tears were scorching
the backs of her eyes; and with a sigh she left the room. Magda would
let no tear fall. She was angry, as well as unhappy.

Why should she be always the one in disgrace—and never Pen? True, Pen
was careful, and neat, and sensible. All through girlhood Pen had been
in the right. She had done her lessons, not indeed brilliantly, but
with punctuality and exactness. Her hair was always neat; her stockings
were always darned; her room was always in order; she never forgot what
she undertook to do; she never gave a message upside-down or wrong end
before. While Magda—but it is enough to say that in all these items she
was the exact reverse of Penrose.

This week she in her turn had charge of the school-room, which was also
the play-room. And the result, but for thoughtful Merryl, would have
been "confusion worse confounded." Mr. Royston was wont to declare that
when his second daughter passed through a room, she left such traces as
are commonly left by a tropical cyclone. There was some truth in the
remark, if Magda happened to be in a tumultuous mood.

Penrose had her faults, as well as Magda, though somehow she was seldom
blamed for them. She had a knack of being always in the right, at least
to outward appearance. No doubt her faults were exaggerated by Magda;
but they did exist. She wanted the best of everything for herself;
she alone must be popular; she could not endure that Magda should do
anything better than she did; she was not always strictly true. Magda
saw and felt these defects; but nobody else seemed to be aware of them;
and she could prove nothing. If she tried, she only managed to get into
hot water, while Pen was sure to come off with flying colours.

"And it will be just the same with Patricia Vincent," was the outcome
of this soliloquy. "The moment Pen guesses that I like her, she'll step
in and oust me. I know she will."



CHAPTER III

ROBERT

WITH a creak, the door was cautiously opened. Somebody put in his head.

"All alone, Magda!"

Depression vanished, and the transformation in Magda's face was like
an instantaneous leap from November to June. In a moment her eyes were
alight, her limbs alert.

"Rob!" she cried.

"Well, old girl! How are you?"

"You dear old fellow—I am glad."

The new-comer was about her own height, which though fairly tall for a
girl could not be so counted for a man. He was slim in make, like Pen;
also, like Pen, scrupulously neat in dress. Her eager welcome met with
a quiet kiss; after which he seated himself; and his eyes travelled
over her, with a rather dubious expression.

"It's awfully jolly to have you here again. You never told us you were
coming."

"I happened not to know it myself till this morning. What have you been
after?"

"Just now? Playing in the snow."

Rob's gaze reached her shoes, and she laughed.

"Yes, I know! Of course, I ought to have changed them. But it didn't
seem worth while. I shall have to dress for dinner soon."

"And, meantime, you are anxious to start early rheumatism!"

"My dear Rob! I never had a twinge of it in my life—I don't know what
it means."

"So much the better. It would be more sensible to continue in
ignorance."

"Oh, all right. I'll be sensible, and change—presently. I really can't
just now. I must have you while I can. When the others know you are
here, I shall not have a chance. Are you going to stay?"

"One night. I must be off the first thing to-morrow morning."

"And I've oceans to say! Things that can't by any possibility be
written."

"Fire away then. There's no time like the present."

"We shall be interrupted in two minutes. It's always the way! Why do
things always go contrary, I wonder? At least, they do with me. If I
could only come and live with you, Rob!—now!"

"That is to be your future life—is it?"

"Why, you know! Haven't we always said so? And whenever I am miserable,
I always comfort myself by looking forward to a home with you."

"What are you miserable about?"

"All sorts of things. Some days everything goes wrong and I can't get
on with people. It's not my fault. They don't understand me."

"I wonder whether you understand them?" murmured Rob.

"And there's nothing in life that's worth doing. Nothing in my life, I
mean."

"Or rather—you have not found it yet."

"No, I don't mean that. I mean that there isn't anything. Really and
truly!"

Rob said only, "H'm!"

"Yes, I dare say! But just think what I have to do. Tennis and hockey;
cycling and walking; mending my clothes and making blouses—not that
I'm much good at that! Going to tea with people I don't care a fig
for; and having people here that I shouldn't mind never setting eyes
on again! Smothering down all I think and feel, because nobody cares.
Worrying and being worried, and all to no good. Nothing to show for
the half-year that is gone, and nothing to look to in the year that's
begun. The months are just simply frittered away, and no human being is
the better for my being alive. It's not what I call Life. It is just
getting through time. Don't you see? It suits Pen well enough. So long
as she gets a decent amount of attention, she's happy. But I'm not
made that way; and I can't see what life is given us for, if it means
nothing better."

When she stopped, pleased with her own eloquence, Rob merely remarked—

"Don't you think that bit of hard judgment might have been left out? It
wasn't a needful peroration."

Magda blushed; and Robert pondered.

"But, Rob—would you like to live such a life?"

Rob's gesture was sufficient answer.

"And yet you think I oughtn't to mind?"

"I beg your pardon. You are wrong to live it."

"But what can I do?"

"Find work. Take care that somebody is the better for your existence."

"I've tried. I can't. It's no good."

"There are always people to be helped—people you can be kind to—people
you can cheer up, when they feel dull."

"Pick up old ladies' stitches, I suppose. Interesting!"

"I did not know you wished to be interested. I thought you wanted to be
of use."

"Well—of course! But that's so commonplace. I want to do something out
of the ordinary beat."

"You want some agreeable duty, manufactured to suit your especial
taste!"

"Oh, bother! Somebody is coming. What a plague! And I have heaps more
to say. Won't you give me another talk?"

"I'll manage it."

He stood up to greet his mother, as she came in, followed by the two
younger girls. The news of his unexpected arrival seemed all at once to
pervade the household.

Penrose entered next; and behind her Mr. Royston, a thick-set
grey-haired man, of impulsive manners, sometimes more kindly than
judicious.

He was devoted to his family; not much given to books; ready to help
anybody and everybody who might appeal to him; generally more or less
in financial difficulties, partly from his inherited tendency to allow
pounds and pence to slide too rapidly through his fingers. A pleasant
and genial man, so long as he did not encounter opposition; but it was
out of his power to understand why all the world should not agree with
himself. His wife gave in to him ninety-nine times in a hundred; and
if, the hundredth time, she set her foot down firmly, he gave in to
her; for he was a most affectionate husband.

As for his daughters, he doted on them. Steady Penrose, useful Merryl,
picturesque little Frip, were everything that he desired. Magda alone
puzzled him. He could not make out what she wanted, or why she would
not be content to fit in with others, to play games, to sit and work,
to do anything or nothing with equal content. Dreams and aspirations,
indeed! Nonsense! Humbug! What did girls want with such notions? They
had to be good girls, to do as they were told, and to make themselves
agreeable. A vexed face annoyed him beyond expression. He could not get
over it. He could never ignore it. By his want of tact, though with
the kindest intentions, he often managed to put a finishing stroke to
Magda's uncomfortable moods.

"Why can't father leave me alone?" she sometimes complained.

Mr. Royston never did leave anybody alone, whether for weal or for woe.
Nor did he ever learn wisdom through his own mistakes.

This afternoon, happily, there were no dismal faces. With Rob to the
fore, even though he had not fallen in with her views, Magda was in the
best of spirits.

She took pains with her toilette that evening—which she was not always
at the trouble to do. Sometimes it did not seem "worth while." Yet she
well repaid care in that direction. Though not strictly good-looking,
she had a nice figure, and knew how to carry herself; and the mass of
reddish-gold hair came out well, if properly dressed; and when she
smiled and was pleased, her face would hardly have been recognised by
one who had seen her only in one of her "November fogs." Rob looked her
over, and signified approval by a quiet—"That's right." She expected no
more. He never wasted unnecessary words.

Further confidential talk that day proved out of the question, for
Rob was very much in request. But Magda waited patiently; for he had
promised, and he always kept his promises. Bedtime arrived; and still
she felt sure.

"I'm off early," he said, and he looked at her. "Seven-thirty train.
Will you be down at seven, and walk to the station with me?"

"This weather!" demurred Mrs. Royston.

"It won't hurt her, mother. She's strong."

"I'm as strong as a horse. Of course it wont hurt me."

"Mayn't we come too?" begged Merryl.

"Only Magda." Rob's tone was final.

"She will never be down in time. Magda is always late," put in Penrose.

Magda's eyes flamed, but she had no need to speak.

"I don't think she will fail me," Rob said tranquilly.



CHAPTER IV

THE INEFFABLE PATRICIA

"THAT'S right," Robert remarked, finding Magda already in the
breakfast-room, before a blazing fire. She had on a little round cap
and motor-veil, and a heavy ulster lay at hand. "Awful morning. You'll
have to let me go alone."

"No, indeed! You said I might."

"Well!" Rob shook his head dubiously. "Got thick boots on? We must
hurry. I'm late, though you are not."

Breakfast claimed immediate attention, for only ten minutes remained.
On leaving the front door, they found themselves in a smothering hail
of small hard snow-pellets, driven by an icy gale, dead ahead. It took
all their breath to bore through that opposing blast; and conversation
by the way was a thing impossible. One or two gasping remarks were all
that could be exchanged.

Umbrellas were out of the question; nor could they get along at the
speed they wished. When two white-clad figures at length stumbled upon
the platform, Rob's train, though not yet signalled, was three minutes
over due.

"I might have missed it!" he said, trying to stamp himself free from a
superabundant covering. They took refuge in a sheltered corner beside
the closed bookstall, where the wind no longer reached them. "My plan
has been a failure. I'm sorry. We must have our talk out next time I
come."

"When will you?"

"Ah—that's the question."

Magda spoke abruptly. "Somebody said not long ago that my dream of
living with you would never come true, because you were sure to marry."

Robert laughed. "I can't afford it. And my work leaves no leisure.
And—I've never seen the girl. Three cogent reasons. So you may pretty
well count upon me. I'm a non-marrying man."

Magda's sigh was one of relief. "I'm glad. I don't think I could endure
all the home-worries, if I had not that to look forward to. I only wish
I could come to you now!"

"Nobody is the worse for waiting. Don't let your life be empty
meantime—that's all."

"I've been thinking since yesterday—but really and truly, I can't see
what to take up. Father would never let me be trained as a nurse. And
I do hate sick-rooms and sick people. And commonplace nursing is such
awful drudgery."

"The cure for that is to put one's heart into it. No work is drudgery,
if one loves it."

"I should love nursing soldiers in war-time. Or people in some great
plague outbreak."

"If you were not trained beforehand, I rather pity the victims of war
and plague."

"Of course I should have to learn. But, Rob—you needn't think I mind
all drudgery. If I could see any use in hard work, I would work like
a horse. But where's the good? Music and French and German are of no
earthly use to any one except myself."

"You don't know how soon they may be of use. There are some nice girls
who come every week to sing to our hospital patients. Suppose they had
never learnt to sing! The other day I came across a poor German sailor,
unable to speak a word of English. I would have given much for somebody
good at German."

"But to work for years beforehand—just for the chance of things being
needed—it seems so vague!"

"That's no matter. Make yourself ready, and there is small fear but
that a use will some time be found for you. It is like preparing for an
exam—not knowing what questions may be asked, and so having to study a
variety of books."

Magda liked the idea, yet persisted—"I don't see, all the same, what
I've got to do."

"You have to train yourself—your powers—your whole being—your
character—your habits of body and mind. Don't you see? You have to get
the upper hand over yourself—not to be a victim to moods—to be ready
for whatever by-and-by you may be called to do."

"It isn't so easy!" she said resentfully.

"It's not easy at all. We are not put here to lounge in armchairs and
to feel comfortable."

"I sometimes wonder what we are put here for."

"That is easily answered. To do the Will of God, whatever that Will may
be. And one part of His loving Will for His children is that they must
work—and fight—and conquer."

"If only everything wasn't so abominably humdrum! If there were any
sort of a chance of doing anything worth doing!"

"There are hundreds of chances, Magda. They lie all round, in every
direction. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, when lives are
wasted, it is not the opportunity that is wanting, but the will."

"I'm sure I've got the will—if I could see what to do."

As she spoke the train came in. Rob opened a door, put in his bag, and
turned for a last word.

"You harp on doing great things," he said. "But the very essence of
greatness lies in simple duty and self-sacrifice. It is no question
of what you like or don't like, but simply of what God has given you
to do. Nothing short of the highest service is worth anything. Don't
expect to find things easy. They are not meant to be easy. But we are
meant to conquer; and in Christ our Lord, victory is certain. Life is a
tremendous gift. See that you use it!"

The train had begun to move. He stepped in and was borne away, waving
farewell. She stood motionless, forgetful of the piercing cold. "See
that you use it!" rang still in her ears.

But how? Go home to chit-chat, to worries and vexations, to tiresome
misunderstandings, to objectless study—which he said ought not to be
objectless! Was that using the "tremendous gift" of life?

She was vexed with him for not taking her view of matters, and she was
vexed with herself for being vexed; but also she was impressed by what
he had said.

"How do you do? So glad to see you!" a pretty voice said. And she
turned to meet no less a person than Patricia Vincent, in a fur-lined
coat of dark silk, the grey "fox" of its high collar framing her
delicate face, with its ivory and rose tinting, its smiling eyes, its
fair hair clustering below a dainty fur cap. She might have come out of
some old Gainsborough portrait.

"How do you do?" Magda rather shyly responded. Patricia alone had
power to make her shy. She felt herself so inferior a creation in that
fascinating presence.

"Cold—isn't it? I have been seeing off an old school friend; and she
has to go all the way to Scotland. I don't envy her, in such weather.
Why did you not come back yesterday? I wanted to see you again."

"I was in such a mess. I couldn't!"

"You had a lovely time in the snow, I dare say. I should have liked it
too—only not in my quite new gloves!" The tactful little hint at an
apology was perfect. "Is that your brother who is just gone?"

"Yes—Robert."

"I've not seen him before. Somebody was speaking about him yesterday."

"I'm desperately fond of Rob."

Patricia smiled her sympathy. "I'm sure you must be. I could not help
noticing you two, though you were much too busy to see me. He looks
like—somebody out of the common—if you don't mind my saying so."

"But he is just that. Rob never was the least scrap commonplace.
I'm awfully proud of him. And they do like him so much in his
parish—everybody does. Have you any brothers or sisters?"

"None at all. And I was left an orphan long ago. So you see I stand
alone. Did you know that I had come to stay at Claughton—perhaps for
months?"

"No. Oh, I'm glad! Then—I shall see you again!"

The glow of delight was not to be mistaken. Patricia at once recognised
a new admirer. She was well used to adulation, and she had plenty, yet
never too much, for she could not exist without it; and the earliest
token of a fresh worshipper was always hailed with encouragement.
Instinctively, she gazed into her companion's eyes, and her soft little
hand squeezed Magda's.

"We shall meet very often, I hope. Why not? I think you and I will have
to be friends."

"Oh!" Magda cried, breathless. "Oh, I've wanted it so much! I can't
tell you how much! Ever since the very first time I saw you, I've
longed to have you for a friend. There is nobody else here that I care
for—in that way."

"And I have no friends here either. I shall miss all my London friends.
But I am quite sure you and I will suit. I always know from the first."

"Oh, and so do I! But you couldn't have thought—yesterday—"

"Yes, I liked you yesterday. I wanted to see you again."

Magda devoured her in response with eager eyes; and Patricia smiled,
well-pleased.

"I wonder whether you could come to tea with me to-morrow at four
o'clock. My aunt will be out, and we could have a good chat. Can you
manage the distance?"

"Oh, quite well. That's nothing. Only five miles. If I can't bicycle,
I'll do it by train. There's one that reaches Claughton at ten minutes
to four. I shall love to come. How good of you!"

"That will be charming. Now how are you going to get home? Walking! How
plucky you are! I wish I could give you a lift, but I have to hurry
back; and it is just the other way. So good-bye till to-morrow, Magda.
Of course, if it is a 'blizzard,' I shall not expect you."

Magda privately resolved that, blizzard or no blizzard, she would not
be deterred. She watched the brougham out of sight, then hurried home
with the wind in her back, helping now instead of hindering. She trod
upon air, so great was her exultation.

That Patricia should want her for a friend! Patricia, of all people! It
was sublime! The impression made by Rob's words sank for a time into
the background of her mind. She could think of nothing but this new
delight.

After all—life was worth living—with such a prospect!



CHAPTER V

UNWELCOME NEWS

MAGDA, having removed her snowy garments, found the family round the
breakfast-table; and she did not disdain a second course of tea and
toast after her early outing.

She certainly looked no worse for the walk. Her face glowed with
delight.

"Letters—letters!" quoth Merryl, next in age to Magda, and a complete
child still, despite her fifteen years—plump and rosy, unformed in
feature, but with a look of beaming good-nature and pure happiness,
which must have transformed the plainest face into pleasantness. She
was busily engaged in buttering her father's toast. From early infancy
she had been his especial pet; and her seat was always by his side. Mr.
Royston without Merryl was like a ship without its rudder—a helpless
object.

"Lots of letters for everybody except Magda," piped Francie's small
treble.

"So much the better for me! I haven't the bother of answering them,"
Magda said joyously.

"Seem to have liked your walk," Mr. Royston remarked in puzzled
accents. For Magda, after parting with Rob, was usually what he
described as "in the dumps" for hours.

"I just love a fight with the snow. And I've seen Patricia Vincent. She
was at the station too. And she has asked me to tea to-morrow."

There was a note of triumph in the tone, for Magda was aware that Pen
had been counting on some such invitation for herself.

"How did you manage to bring that about?" asked Pen, obviously not
pleased.

"I didn't manage at all. She simply asked me."

"You must have said something. It is not the Claughton Manor way to
invite people informally."

"I suppose it's her way. Now she has come to live there—"

"She has not."

"Well, anyhow, to stay for a long while—"

Penrose demurred again, and Mrs. Royston put in a word.

"Yes, dear. Mrs. Framley told me, and I forgot to mention it. Miss
Vincent has lived for years with some London cousins; but the eldest
daughter was lately married; and things now are not so comfortable. I
fancy she and the second daughter do not much care for one another. And
Mr. and Mrs. Framley have proposed that she should make the Manor her
headquarters. The plan is to be tried."

"She has plenty of money. Why doesn't she live in a house of her own?"

"Too young, Pen. She is only twenty-two."

"She is the very sweetest—" began Magda rapturously, and checked
herself at the sound of Pen's little laugh. Magda crimsoned.

"Heigh-ho! What's wrong now?" Mr. Royston stopped in the act of turning
his newspaper inside-out, and fixed inquiring eyes upon his second
daughter.

"Pen is so disagreeable."

"Come, come! You needn't complain of other people. Pen is a good
girl—always was! I wish other girls were as good."

Pen wore an air of pretty and appropriate meekness.

"I know! I'm always the one in the wrong."

"Then, if I were you, I wouldn't be—that's all. I would take care to be
in the right."

Mrs. Royston wisely rose, and a general move followed. Magda fled
upstairs, only to find her room in process of being "done;" so she
caught up a rough-coat and a tam-o'-shanter, and escaped into the
garden. Already the snow had ceased to fall, and the sky was clearing.

To and fro on a white carpet in the kitchen garden she paced, pitying
herself at first for home grievances, but turning soon to the thought
of Patricia, going over the past interview, seeing again the dainty
flower-like face, hearing afresh the pretty voice, picturing the joys
of coming intimacy.

Now at last she would have a real friend, the sort of friend she had
always wanted, a satisfying friend, one who would meet her needs,
one who would understand her feelings, one who would enter into her
dreams and aspirations, one to whom she could look up with unbounded
admiration—different altogether from good little Beatrice Major, who
was well enough in her way, but totally unlike this!

That word—"aspirations"—pulled up the recollection of Rob and of all
that he had said. She was to begin at once to make ready for her future
life with him.

Yes, of course; and she meant to do it. She was not going to "drift"
any longer. She would hunt out her neglected plan of study, and would
start with it afresh. That was all right. If once she really made up
her mind, of course she would do it. She was not one of those weak
creatures who could not carry out a resolution.

Only—not this morning. There was so much to think about!—and Pen was
so annoying!—and she felt so unsettled! To seat herself down to a
French translation or a German exercise in her present condition was
impossible.

"You've got to get the upper hand over yourself. Not to be a victim to
moods!" So Rob had said.

Oh, bother! what did Rob know about moods? He never had any. He was
always the same—always calm and composed and steady; the dearest old
fellow, but without a notion of what it meant to be made up of all
sorts of opposite characteristics, and never in the same state for two
consecutive quarters of an hour. People could not help being what they
were made! She meant to get the upper hand of herself—in time. But it
was absurd to expect impossibilities.

So the hours drifted by; and another day was added to the waste pile.

After the next night came a rapid thaw. The world around streamed with
water, while a wet fog hung overhead. It made no difference to Magda.
Go she would, no matter what the elements might say.

Mrs. Royston tried remonstrance, but Magda's agony at the notion of
giving up was too patent, and she desisted. Bicycling was out of the
question; so the train had to be resorted to and twenty minutes' walk
through the soaking grounds brought her to the Manor with boots clogged
in mud.

What did that matter? After an abnormal amount of boot-rubbing, she
was shown upstairs into Patricia's special sanctum, a "study in blue,"
as she was presently informed, carpet, curtains, cretonne covers,
all partaking of the same hue. Patricia, also in blue, welcomed her
sweetly, exclaimed at her condition, set her down before the fire to
dry, gave her tea, and gradually unlocked a tongue, which at first
seemed tied.

However, once it was untied, the young hostess had no further trouble.
Magda could talk; none faster! She poured out the contents of her mind
for Patricia's inspection; and Patricia listened, with always those
sweetly smiling eyes, and little pearly teeth just showing themselves.
Once or twice a close observer might have detected a puzzled look at
some of Magda's flights; but she was invariably sympathetic—or she
seemed so, which did as well under the circumstances.

Magda was used to sympathy from Bee, though hardly of the same kind.
Bee would sometimes differ from Magda; never otherwise than gently,
yet with decision. Patricia disagreed with nothing. She had that
captivating habit, possessed by some agreeable people, of managing
always to say exactly what her listener would have wished to hear.
Though not by birth Irish, she really might have been so; for this is
one of the Green Isle's characteristics.

So, whatever Magda chose to utter, she found herself in the right; and
if aught had been needed to complete the enchaining process, this was
sufficient. When she went home that afternoon, she was wildly happy. In
Patricia she had found an ideal friend; the dearest, the sweetest, the
loveliest, ever seen. She had now all she wanted!

The fascination grew. Magda never did anything by halves; and during
the next few weeks she had eyes, ears, thoughts, for Patricia only.
When they parted, she could not be content unless the time and place of
their next meeting were named. If she could not see her idol for two or
three days, she sent rapturous notes by post. Every spare shilling of
her pocket-money went in gifts for Patricia. Half her time was spent
upon the road between Burwood and Claughton.

"It is getting to be a perfect craze," Mrs. Royston one day remarked to
Penrose. "I really don't know what to do. The Framleys will be bored to
death, if it goes on."

"Patricia herself is having rather too much of it, I suspect. I noticed
her face yesterday afternoon when Magda was hanging round and would
not leave her for a moment. Naturally she wanted to be free for other
people."

"I thought she was affectionate to Magda. Still, the thing may go too
far. Magda has no balance. Some day I shall have to give her a word of
warning."

"I would, mother!"

But Mrs. Royston delayed. Magda seemed aboundingly happy; and she
rather shrank from putting a spoke in the wheel. Matters might right
themselves.

One morning, after an especially rapturous afternoon of intercourse
with Patricia, Magda found on the breakfast-table a letter from Bee.
She had not given much thought to Bee lately—had not written to her for
weeks. She felt a little ashamed, and began to read under a sense of
compunction.

Then a startled—"Oh!"—all but escaped her.

"Anything wrong?" asked Pen.

"Why should anything be wrong?"

"You looked the reverse of pleased."

Magda retreated into herself, and refused to discuss the question.
Breakfast ended, she escaped to her favourite quarter, the kitchen
garden, now a blaze of spring sunshine, and there she went through the
letter a second time.

"Bother! I hoped that was all given up!" she sighed.

   "Think, how lovely!" wrote Bee in her pretty ladylike hand. "We really
are coming to Burwood. Do you remember my telling you that it was
spoken about? My mother heard of a little house which she went to see;
and she liked it so much that she made up her mind quickly. She did not
tell me this till I got home; and there were one or two hitches, so I
would not say any more to you till everything was arranged."

   "Now papers are all signed, and the house will be ours in the end of
June. It has to be painted and papered, and I suppose we shall not get
in before August. It is near the Post Office in High Street—standing
back in a little garden—and it is all grown over with Virginia
creeper—so pretty, mother says. It is called 'Virginia Villa.'"

   "I cannot hope that you will be as glad as I am; still I do feel sure
that it will be a pleasure to my darling Magda to have her 'little Bee'
within such easy reach. Only think of it! I often sit and dream of what
it will be to have you always in and out—every day, I hope, and as
often in the day as you can manage it. You will know that you cannot
come too often."

   "I'm hoping for a most lovely treat this summer. Isn't it sweet
of Amy? She has been saving and laying by money all the last year,
and now she is bent on taking me to Switzerland for three weeks in July.
I can hardly believe it to be true. I've always had such a longing for
Swiss mountains!"

   "To-morrow I am going into the country for three weeks with Aunt
Belle and Aunt Emma—mother's sisters, you know. If you should write to
me then, please address—'Wratt-Wrothesley, —shire.' I am longing to hear
from you again."

Magda was half touched, half aggrieved. She hardly knew how to take
it. She and Beatrice had been friends through two long years of
school-life; and though she might make little of the tie to Miss
Mordaunt, it had been a close one. Bee had loved her devotedly; and she
had been really fond of Bee. Yet, somehow, she did not take to the idea
of having Bee permanently in Burwood, for reasons earlier explained.

Things looked even worse to her now than when she was at school. Her
mother and Pen were so awfully critical and particular. She minded
Pen's little laugh of disdain almost more than she minded anything. It
would be horrid if that laugh were called forth by a friend of hers.

And then the small creeper-grown house in High Street, where till now
a successful dressmaker had lived—it really was too dreadful! To think
of her especial friend living there—in Virginia Villa! She was certain
that nothing would ever induce her mother to leave a card at that
door. And if not—if Mrs. Royston declined to call—it would be quite as
objectionable. To have a friend in a different stratum, so to speak,
just allowed in their house on occasions, just tolerated perhaps, but
looked upon as belonging to a lower level—how unbearable! And Bee's
relatives might be—well, anything! They might tread upon the sensitive
toes of her people at every turn. If only Bee had never thought of the
plan!

Worse still—much worse!—there was this delightful new friendship
with Patricia Vincent. Most certainly neither Patricia nor her aunt,
Mrs. Framley, would deign to look at any human being who should live
in Virginia Villa. To them it would be an impossible locality. For
a dressmaker, well enough—and nothing would exceed their gracious
kindness to the said dressmaker. But—for a friend! Magda went hot and
cold by turns. She had not haunted Patricia for weeks, without becoming
pretty well acquainted with the Framley scales of measurement.

When the Majors should have settled in, she would have to keep her two
friends absolutely apart—to segregate them in water-tight compartments,
so to speak. But would this be possible? Suppose, some day, they should
come together! Suppose that Patricia should find her chosen friend's
other friend to be a mere nobody, living in that wretched little house!
Why, it might squash altogether this new glorious friendship of hers!

And the more she considered, the more certain she felt that the two
must sooner or later meet. Burwood was not a large town. Everybody
there knew all about everybody else. To be sure, the Framleys lived
apart, and held themselves very much aloof from the townsfolk
generally. Still, accidental encounters do take place, even under such
conditions, just when least desired.

And Bee was so simple; she would never understand. Nobody could call so
gentle a creature "pushing;" but on the other hand it would never occur
to her mind that anybody could object to know her, merely because she
lived in an insignificant house. She had a pretty natural way of always
expecting to find herself welcome. Magda had heard that way admired;
but she felt at this moment that she could have dispensed with it.

She would have to make Bee understand—somehow. She would have to
explain that not all her friends and acquaintances would be likely to
call—in fact, that probably very few would. It would be very difficult
and horrid; but since the Majors chose to come, they must take the
consequences.

Always in and out! That was very fine; but neither her mother nor Pen
would stand such a state of things—considering the position of Virginia
Villa. Magda had a good deal of liberty, within limits; but those
limits were clearly defined.

In this direction she did not want more liberty. She could not be
perpetually going after Bee. Her time was already full—of Patricia.

True, Bee was the old friend, Patricia was the new. But she had always
felt that Bee could not fully meet her needs, and Patricia could—which
made all the difference. Patricia was more to her—oh, miles more!—than
poor little Bee.

As she felt her way through this maze of difficulties, a thought
suggested itself. Why need she say anything at present about the coming
of the Majors to Burwood?

Nobody in the place knew them. It was nobody's business except her own.
There was plenty of time. They would not arrive for weeks and weeks.
And each week was of importance to her for the further cementing of her
new friendship. She could at least—wait.

By-and-by, of course, it must be told; and her mother must be asked to
call; and Pen's little laugh of disdain must be endured. But there was
no hurry. For a while longer she might allow herself to revel in the
Patricia sunshine, without fear of a rising cloud.



CHAPTER VI

SWISS ENCOUNTERS

TWO girls sat in a tiny verandah, outside the third storey of a Swiss
hotel, facing a horseshoe group of dazzling peaks. Or rather, one of
the two faced it, while the other faced her.

She who gazed upon the mountains, a slender maiden, pale, with brown
eyes and wavy hair and rather heavy dark brows, did nothing else. It
was enough to be there, enough to look, enough to study and absorb
Nature's glories.

But the second—a girl only by courtesy, being many years the older—a
short plump vigorous person, snub-nosed, with insignificant light eyes
and tow-coloured hair—seemed to find an occasional glance at lofty
peaks sufficient. For each glance sent in that direction, half-a-dozen
glances went towards her companion; and in addition, she busily darned
a dilapidated stocking.

Despite the difference in age, a difference amounting to over twelve
years, those two were intimate friends. Yet it was a friendship of
sorts; not alike on both sides. The younger girl's love for her senior
was gentle and sincere. The elder's love for her junior amounted to an
absorbing passion. Amy Smith would have done anything, given anything,
endured anything, for the sake of Beatrice Major.

"Amy—if you could only know what a delight this trip has been to
me!—has been and is!"

"My dear, one couldn't watch your face and not know."

"But to think that it is all you!—that you have saved and scraped and
denied yourself—and just for my sake! And I never dreaming all those
months, when you said you could not afford this and that and the
other—never dreaming what you had in your mind!"

"It has been one long joy to me. You wouldn't wish to deprive me of it."

"But that you should have given up so much—for me!"

"Nobody minds giving up a shilling for the sake of a guinea."

"If I could feel that I deserved it—but I don't."

"I know, my dear!"

"You don't—and I can't make you."

She looked up to meet the steadfast gaze; a gaze which she understood.
It meant that if Amy had her, there was no need for aught beside. And
she could not return this devotion in kind or in degree. She did want
something else.

"C'est toujours l'un qui aime, et l'autre qui se laisse aimé." Was it
always so? Not altogether; for she did love dear kind Amy, truly and
faithfully. But with the same love!—ah, no. And this seemed cruel for
Amy.

"How I shall miss you in Burwood!" she said, with an earnest wish to
give pleasure. And, indeed, it was true! She could not but miss the
constant outpouring of affection which she had had from childhood, even
though at times she might have felt its expression a trifle burdensome.
But she would not miss as she would be missed.

"Will you—really?" Amy was generally blunt in speech and manner; yet
she could be wistful. The plump plain face softened; the little snub
nose flushed with the flushing of her freckled brow and tanned cheeks;
and the pale grey eyes grew moist. "Bee—will you want me?"

"Of course I shall, at every turn. Think how long I have had you
always."

"You will have Magda Royston now."

"Yes." Bee forgot to say more. She looked away at the lofty peaks
opposite, where a ruby gleam lay athwart the snows. Yes, she would have
Magda. She remembered in a flash her letter to Magda, telling her so
eagerly of the settled plans; and her own hurt feeling at receiving no
response.

In a month the response came; but before the close of that month
another personality had entered her life. The three weeks at "Aunt
Belle's" meant much to her. She had been in close touch with one whom
she could never forget, who could never in the future be to her as a
stranger. An impress had been made upon her life, transforming her at
one touch into a woman. And if her love for Amy had paled a little
before her warmer love for Magda, as starlight pales before moonlight,
her love for Magda paled before this fresh experience, as moonlight
pales before sunlight. Not that in either case her affection actually
waned or altered, but that the lesser light became of necessity dim by
comparison with the greater.

Nobody knew or suspected what had happened. Her gentle self-control
prevented any betrayal of feeling on her part. The two had indeed been
a great deal together, during those three weeks, but intercourse came
about so simply and naturally, that she never could decide how far it
was purely accidental, how far as a result of effort on his part. He
seemed to enjoy being with her; and they seemed to suit; but whether he
would remember her, whether he had any strong desire to meet her again,
were questions which she had no power to decide. Their paths might lie
permanently apart.

When the expected letter at last came from Magda, though she was a
little grieved at the manifest lack of real delight in the prospect of
having her at Burwood, it could not mean the same that it would have
meant before that visit. For one who has been in strong sunshine, the
brightest moonlight must seem pale.

"Bee, what are you cogitating about? I don't understand your face."

Bee smiled. "I was thinking over—varieties. These mountains make one
think. Yes, I shall have Magda. But one friend does not fill another's
place. You will always be you to me."

"And she will be she, I suppose."

"Yes; but she can never be you. Don't you see?"

Amy sighed profoundly. "All I know is that London will be a desert
without you. And I'm torn in half—do you know that sensation?—between
two longings. I long for you to be happy in Burwood; and if you weren't
happy, I should be miserable. And yet I long for you to miss me so
desperately that you can't be happy without me. There!—it's out! Horrid
and mean of me! But it's true."

"Amy, you never could be mean. You are only too good—too unselfish."

"It's all selfishness. You don't understand. I love doing anything
in the world for you, purely as a matter of self-gratification. Real
unselfishness would only want you to be perfectly happy—apart from
myself. And what I do want is that I should make you happy. Which means
that, if I can't, I'd rather nobody else should. Isn't it disgusting?"

"But you have made me happy. I can't tell you half or a quarter of the
joy this trip has been to me. I have so longed all my life to see Swiss
mountains. And you have given me the joy! I do believe there is going
to be an afterglow, and we shall miss it! Just time for table d'hôte."

Once before the glow had occurred when they were all engaged in what
Amy disdainfully described as "gormandizing."

"We've got to be in bed early to-night, mind, Bee. I want you to get
well rested for to-morrow's exertions. Sure you are fit for it?"

"I never was more fit in my life. It will be splendid."

"And to-morrow night we sleep at the Hut."

"Delightful! Such an experience! I don't believe I shall sleep a wink
to-night, thinking about all we are going to see."

"You must, or you won't be up to the walking."

After two weeks of lesser practice, and divers small climbs, they were
going on a real expedition—their first ascent, worthy of the name—under
charge of Peter Steimathen, than whom they could have found no more
dependable guide, and his son, Abraham. Both girls were of slight
physique; both were by nature sure of foot; and both dearly loved
climbing. Since both were Londoners, their opportunities hitherto had
not been great in that line; but they had taken to it like ducklings to
water. Peter Steimathen, after some consultation, pronounced that they
might safely, under his guidance, make the attempt.

At table d'hôte Beatrice found a stranger by her side; a reticent young
English clergyman, slim in make, with quiet observant eyes. She had
never met him before; yet something once and again in his look seemed
familiar, and she vainly tried to "locate" the resemblance. He and she
fell easily into talk—strictly on the surface of things.

"Yes, we are going for a climb to-morrow," she said soon. "Nothing big,
of course. We are only beginners. It is called the Rothstock—a lesser
peak of the Blümlisalp group."

"You will want a guide for that, if you are beginners."

"We would not venture without Peter Steimathen."

"I know him. You couldn't do better."

"Are you going up somewhere too?"

"The Blümlisalphorn."

"Not alone! You have a guide."

"No, I have a friend. Not here—he has a room in a châlet close by. We
are both well used to the mountains. No need for a guide."

"People say that is not safe."

"Depends!" And he smiled. "We've done a good deal together that way."

"Without guides?"

"Without guides."

"I hope you won't come to grief some day."

"I hope not!"

"You think it is wise?" dubiously.

"Extremely wise. But you must be careful—excuse me! There are traps for
beginners that don't affect old hands."

"Peter Steimathen!" she suggested.

"He is excellent. But you must do as he tells you."

"Oh, I've learnt to obey," laughed Bee.

Then she saw that his attention was distracted; and her own became
distracted also. Two new arrivals had just come in; a middle-aged lady,
stout and handsomely dressed; and a girl, young, and quite lovely. She
had one of those picture-faces which are seen two or three times in a
half-century. Not Bee's gaze alone suffered distraction. The whole room
gazed; and the object of all this attention received it calmly, without
a change of colour or the flicker of an eyelid.

"She's used to it," Bee remarked to herself.

But it was impossible not to go on gazing. The face was one that
nobody could glance at once and not glance again. Soft curly fair hair
clustered about a fair brow; and the delicately tinted complexion made
one think of snowflakes and rose-buds, or of early dawn in June. A
slender figure, full of grace, shell-white arms and hands, features
pretty enough not to detract from the exquisite colouring, helped to
make up the tout-ensemble; and the forget-me-not blue eyes smiled
graciously at the elder lady, at the waiters, at the table-cloth, at
anything and everything that they happened to encounter.

Beatrice cast an involuntary side-glance towards her neighbour. He too
was gazing; and in the quiet eyes she detected a subdued intensity, of
which she would not have thought them capable.

"Isn't she sweet?" breathed Bee.

The remark was not even heard, and no reply came. Their broken talk was
not renewed; and he disposed of eatables with the air of one who hardly
knew what was before him. Dinner ended, the vision disappeared, and so
did Bee's neighbour; but an hour later she was amused to see him at the
further end of the saloon, in close talk with the pretty new arrival.

Meeting him still later in a passage, she paused and made some slight
reference to the girl.

"I wonder who she is," Bee said.

"A friend of my sister's," he replied. "Singular, our meeting here. I
have heard of her before."

Bee noted again a suppressed gleam in his eyes.



CHAPTER VII

A MOUNTAIN HUT BY NIGHT

THE Frauenbahn Hut, at last!

For eight hours and a half, including rests, they had been en route,
with their guide and porter, making the steep ascent from Kandersteg,
winding through pine-woods, pausing at the rough Oeschinen Hotel,
skirting the deep-grey waters of the lake from which it took its
name—then mounting again to the "Upper Alp," only to leave that also
behind, as they yet more steeply zig-zagged onward over rough shale,
with the glacier to their right and the Hut for their aim.

An experienced mountaineer would have covered in six hours the distance
they had come; but, naturally, it took them a good deal longer, which
meant arriving late.

Both were very tired and very happy, and in a state of mental
exhilaration, which, despite fatigue, gave small promise of getting
quickly to sleep amid such unwonted surroundings. Thus far, though the
way had been steep, they had had a rugged path. On the morrow they
would quit beaten tracks, and would do a "bit of the real thing," as
Amy expressed it.

The guide, Peter Steimathen, had proved himself a pleasant companion
all that day. Fortunately, since neither of the two was a practised
German speaker, he had some command of English.

A rough little place was this Frauenbahn Hut, though better than most
mountain refuges, for, in addition to the room on the ground-floor, it
boasted a loft above, both being on occasions crammed with climbers.
Nearly half the lower room consisted of a shelf, some three feet from
the floor, covered with a bedding of straw; and on this the girls would
spend their night, rolled up in rugs, provided for sleepers. High above
their heads the guides would repose on another shelf, to reach which
some agility was needed.

Beatrice and Amy counted themselves fortunate in finding the Hut empty.
Apparently they would have the place to themselves. They looked round
with interest at the wooden walls, the small window, and the stove at
which the guide was preparing to boil water for their soup.

"But come—come outside," urged Amy. "Don't let us miss the sunset. It
won't wait our pleasure. We can examine things inside by-and-by. Come!"

And they went, commandeering hut rugs for wraps, since it was "a
nipping and an eager air" here, nine thousand feet above the sea-level.

"To think of it! Up in the very midst of the mountain amphitheatre!"
murmured Amy.

When seated side by side on the bench, silence fell. They had chatted
much in the early stage of their ascent; or rather, Amy had chatted and
Bee had listened, which was a not unusual division of labour between
them. Bee was a good listener. But more than once Amy had detected a
wandering of attention, which was not common. At least, it had not been
common till lately.

"Dreaming, Bee?" she had asked; and Bee blushed. Amy noted the blush,
putting that down also as something new.

But Amy too for once became dumb, as they gazed from their Alpine Hut
over the wide snowy expanse. It was hardly a scene to induce light
chatter.

The track by which they had mounted from the Oeschinensee was already
lost in darkness. But in front stood forth the roseate peaks of the
Blümlisalp; notably the Weisse Frau, square-shouldered, and clothed
in a mantle of ineffably delicate pink; and beyond her, almost
bending over her like a devoted bridegroom, stood the yet loftier
Blümlisalphorn, scarcely less pure, though broken by lines and ridges
of rock which lay at too sharp an angle to retain snow. Nearer was the
bare and rocky Blümlisalp-stock, cold and grim in the twilight, rising
abruptly from the névé of the glacier.

Long lingered the mysterious radiance of the afterglow on the spurs
and slopes of those great Gothic peaks, until the last filmy veil,
sea-green in hue, faded before the onslaught of night. Then attendant
stars began to twinkle in the vault over the Blümlisalphorn, forming a
little crown above his head.

The two girls held their breath, clasping hands under the rugs.

"It's too lovely," murmured Amy. "What a splendid world ours is! Do you
remember what Ruskin says—'Did you ever see one sunrise like another?
Does not God vary His clouds for you every morning and every night?'
Does He really—for us? Are you and I meant to enjoy this, Bee? And has
nobody ever seen, and will nobody else ever see, just precisely what we
are seeing now? Isn't it a perfectly extraordinary idea? Why, even a
mile off—even half a mile off—it wouldn't be the same."

Bee did not answer at once. She could not so readily as Amy put her
thoughts into words. After a pause she suggested—

"It makes one feel how small one's life is."

"Does it? No, no, Bee—just the other way. I always feel how
terrifically full life is—absolutely brim-full! There's any amount,
every day, of what one could do, and might do, and ought to do—and of
what one doesn't do! Isn't that true?"

Then, with a change of tone—"Bee, do you ever look forward, and picture
life in the future—think and dream of what may lie ahead!" Bee's
imprisoned hand stirred, for did she not? Amy went on, unheeding the
movement—"I do! I'm always and for ever dreaming of the time when you
and I will live together; when we shall be just everything to each
other. One knows that changes must come, as years pass on; and why
shouldn't one think of the things that will lie beyond those changes?
Do you remember my telling you last summer of this vision of mine?—Of
the dear little home that is to be ours, and of how the days will fly,
and of how I shall shelter and guard and pet my darling, and of how we
shall want nothing and nobody except just our two selves! Think—how
perfect it will be. You remember—don't you?"

Yes; Bee remembered, though, truth to tell, the said talk had made no
very profound impression upon her mind. Amy had talked, and she had
listened and had pleasantly assented, only to dismiss the subject later
from her thoughts. Plainly, Amy had taken it much more seriously.

"When I'm vexed or worried, nothing comforts me like thinking about
that sweet little future home of ours. Does it comfort you too?"

Bee hesitated, too truthful to say yes. "I don't know—" she murmured at
length. "I haven't thought much about it."

"You haven't!"

"One can't look forward with any sort of certainty. Life is often so
different—so unlike what one has fancied."

"That wasn't the way you took it last time."

"I'm older now."

"You're not twenty; and I'm over thirty."

"Yes, I know. But don't you think one learns to see things a little
differently as time goes on?"

"Nothing could make me see that differently. I have always counted
myself yours for life—and you mine. I have always felt sure that you
did too."

"At all events—nothing can ever alter our friendship," remarked Bee
cheerfully.

"It would be very much altered, if I believed that you didn't care for
me as I care for you."

"I don't think it's a question of caring—but only—one never knows what
life may be by-and-by."

Amy made an impatient movement. "Of course I see what all this means. I
suppose you're thinking of marrying some day."

Another little pause, broken by Bee's soft tones.

"One can't shut one's eyes quite to possibilities," she said. "Either
you or I might some day come across the right man. I dare say it isn't
likely—but still—"

"So—that's it!" Amy drew a long breath. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?
Who is the lucky person?"

"You are talking nonsense now, Amy. All I say is that the thing might
some day happen for either of us. And then—I'm afraid the little house—"

"Would be tenantless! No doubt! And if this supposititious individual
did turn up—you'd care for him, of course, a great deal more than you
care for—"

Bee laughed a little. "I shouldn't think you could compare the two
sorts of feeling. I shall always care for you, no matter what else
happens. But I don't see the use of planning so far ahead."

Amy was busily thinking. "Somebody or other is at the bottom of this,"
she cogitated. "Who can it be? Let me think—Bee has not been her
usual self since—since—that visit to her aunts! I know! There were
two house-parties while she was there, and she saw no end of people.
And—yes, she did mention one name several times—a great pet of the old
ladies! I remember! He was there nearly as long as Bee. What was his
name?"

"So you can't compare the two feelings!" she remarked aloud. "Which
means that you know both, my dear! Ah, now you've given yourself
away, you transparent person! Come—you may as well 'fess! Who is the
objectionable individual?"

"You are talking nonsense again!"

"I'm not so sure! Let me think—whom have you been seeing lately? Wasn't
there a very delightful person at your aunts' house—yes, you certainly
spoke of somebody two or three times, and said he was nice. Which from
you is high praise. What is the man's name?"

Bee was thankful for the darkness. She wished now that she had not
been so foolish as to differ from Amy. Why had she not fallen in
with her friend's mood, and allowed her to expatiate as long as she
liked on that "sweet little home," which in Bee's eyes looked so far
from attractive? It would have been wiser not to risk awakening her
suspicions.

"A great many nice people were in the house. Amy, look at that gleam of
light on the snow—just dying away."

"I'm more interested in the lights and shades of human beings. I
suppose he didn't actually propose."

Bee stood up, and her tone held a touch of gentle dignity.

"Amy, you are talking in a very foolish way—in a way you have no right
to talk. I am tired of listening, and I shall go inside."

Amy was in a perverse mood, at the root of which lay jealousy; and this
offended her. She, too, jumped up.

"Just as you like! I'll come too. But you can't throw dust in my
eyes, my dear. You never can hide things from me, you know. Much
better confess that your poor little heart has been taken captive. I
have it now! I remember his name! And I shall always owe a grudge to
Wratt-Wrothesley after this. Of course—it's that Mr. Ivor! Wretched
man, to rob me of my Bee!"

She slightly raised her voice that Bee might hear. And as the latter
disappeared within the hut door, making no reply, a soft sound floated
down from the loft, just over Amy's head—the unmistakable sound of a
subdued masculine snore.

"Gracious!" uttered Amy under her breath. "Somebody must be up there!
What a mercy he's asleep!"

She found Bee inside, looking pale, and disposed to hold coldly aloof.
Amy, already ashamed of herself, was constrained to whisper—

"Never mind! I was only talking nonsense! I won't again! It's all
right!"



CHAPTER VIII

IN AN AVALANCHE

THE Hut was not, as Amy and Beatrice had supposed, occupied only by
themselves, their guide and their porter. Unknown to them all, two
guideless climbers had arrived earlier—none other than the young
English clergyman and his friend. They had retired to rest in the loft,
purposing to ascend the Blümlisalphorn the next day. As they meant to
start in the very small hours of the morning, they were glad to get to
sleep without loss of time; and by thus retreating to the loft they
hoped to secure an absence of interruptions.

Steimathen had quickly discovered, by the remains of a fire in the
stove, that somebody had preceded them; but this fact he had not
happened to name to the girls.

One of the two men, out of sight in the loft, was Robert Royston, now
abroad for his short summer holiday. The other, strange to say, was
actually Lancelot Dennis Ivor himself—with whom Bee had been thrown
during her three weeks' visit to her aunts.

Bee had known, and had not forgotten, that he was an adept at
mountaineering. Nay, it was he who had advised her to do a little
scrambling in this very district, when she had mentioned her hope of a
visit to Switzerland in the summer. She did not dream of coming across
him, since he had said that Switzerland this year would be for him an
impossibility, on account of certain engagements. Plans had changed,
however; and here he was in company with his old college friend, Robert
Royston.

At table d'hôte the evening before, though Robert alluded to his
proposed ascent, he did not speak of the Hut; and she failed to deduce
the fact that he and his friend were likely to sleep there. Neither did
he utter his friend's name. Possibly, had Patricia not appeared just
when she did, drawing off everybody's attention, he might have done
either; in which case she and Amy would have been upon their guard. As
things were, they had not the smallest suspicion that any human being
was within earshot—the guide and his son being quite cut off by the
solid wall of the Hut.

Voices under the open loft-window aroused Ivor from a light sleep. Not
for some time fully. He lay in semi-consciousness—vaguely wishing that
he had not been disturbed, envying the calm slumber of Rob, hearing
partly as in a dream what was said, and regarding the same with the
uncritical detachment and indifference of a dreamer.

The soft tones of one speaker sounded familiar; and though he was too
far gone to attach a name, they transported him in imagination to
Wratt-Wrothesley; and he saw himself again wandering through the lovely
grounds with Bee.

A girlish argument of some sort seemed to be going on; and he took a
drowsy dislike to Amy, as he rolled over and tried to forget himself
once more.

Then the sounds grew clearer, more definite. That gentle-voiced girl
was being pestered—worried—and he felt a touch of indignation. It
dawned upon him that he was listening to something not meant for his
ears; and he was rousing himself to give a loud cough of warning, when—

"Much better confess that your poor little heart has been taken
captive," checked him abruptly, with a feeling that the listening girl
must not know what he had heard. Then came the name of the place where
he had met Bee Major, and his own name following.

In a moment he was wide awake. In a moment also he had the blankets
over his ears, shutting out further sounds.

He recognised now well enough that soft voice. The only marvel was that
he had not instantly known it. He had seen much of Bee during three
weeks, had liked her much. If the impression made by him upon her was
deep, the impression made by her upon him was not slight. He admired
her; he enjoyed intercourse with her; he hoped some day before long to
meet her again; he had even recognised as a possibility that he might
by-and-bye find himself in love with her.

But he was not yet in love. He told himself so, almost angrily, as he
clutched the blanket round his head. And of all wretched contretemps,
what could be worse than this? That he and she should have come
together, high in the mountains, away from the crowds, neither knowing
of the other's presence, and that he should have overheard, without
intending it, words which—whether truly or falsely—no doubt implied
that he had somehow captured her heart! It was appalling!

Of course it might be all a mistake. Probably it was all a mistake. The
girl was joking, teasing her companion, trying to get a rise out of
her, as girls will; and Beatrice might never give the careless words
another thought, if—it all hung upon that!—if she did not discover that
he had been close at hand, and that he had or might have overheard. But
if she did find this out—his whole being rose in revolt for Bee's sake.
What would she not think? What would she not feel?

Small chance of sleep remained to him. He lay thinking the matter over,
worrying himself, and planning how to escape in the early morning,
before she should become aware of his presence.

An odd realisation crept over him, as he tossed and turned, that—if it
were true—and no doubt it was not true, it was mere nonsense!—but if it
were, then to be so loved would be a new and beautiful thing. Through
his twenty-five years of life he had never yet known what it was to be
first in a woman's heart. His mother had died in his infancy, and he
had no sisters. He was well off, successful, and popular. Match-making
mothers had courted him; and girls of a sort—the sort he would never
dream of marrying, for he held a high ideal of what a woman should
be—had flirted with him. But he knew Bee well enough to grasp that this
would be altogether different. If Bee Major loved, hers would be a love
worth having.

Of course it was all nonsense; a silly joke of that other unpleasant
girl. Only—if it were—

He knew himself to be companionable and agreeable, liked by people
in general, one who made and kept friends. But to be utterly and
absolutely first with another—to be the one and only man to one only
woman—that would put him on a new level, would give to life a fresh
colouring.

No use dwelling on all that, he told himself impatiently. Bee Major had
probably laughed at the silly words; and he himself was not in love. He
was, however, very much concerned to prevent her from becoming aware
of his presence in the Hut; and when one o'clock arrived, he wakened
Robert, and impressed on him the need for abnormal caution, lest they
should disturb two lady-climbers, sleeping on the ground-floor.

With exaggerated care, he set the example, creeping down the ladder
like a mouse, and keeping as much as possible in shadow behind the
stove, lest they also should have planned an early start, and should
arouse themselves. Not likely, at one o'clock in the morning; but on
such occasions nothing is impossible.

Besides, Beatrice might be awake, despite her stillness; and though she
should catch no glimpse of his face, she might recognise his voice. So,
in sombre silence, and not without some nervous glances towards the
lower shelf, on which lay two dimly-outlined figures rolled in rugs, he
drank his coffee. Rob kept equal silence.

It was a relief to Ivor to find himself safe outside the Hut. Quietly
he and Rob started on their dark upward tramp, lighted only by stars,
and by the glimmering lantern which swayed to and fro in the leader's
hand. An hour later, as they were crossing the hard frozen neve, he
received a fresh shock. Some words passed about their return route, and
Rob remarked that he had entered a note as to their intentions in the
Visitor's Book at the Hut.

"You didn't write our names!" Ivor involuntarily exclaimed.

"Yes, of course—why not?"

Why not, indeed? Ivor could offer no reason. He said only—

"I meant to do it on our way back."

"Always better to leave word of one's plans in case of an accident."

This was true enough; and Ivor made no further protest. He recalled
that Rob had stayed behind for a minute or two, when he had made his
way out of the Hut in readiness to start. He was very much annoyed—not
with Rob for doing what was quite reasonable, but with the fact.
Beatrice Major would undoubtedly look at the book, and she could not
fail to see his name. She would at once surmise, not that he had
actually heard her friend's foolish words, but that he might have done
so. Too late now to do anything; but the day was more or less spoilt
for him.

Such thoughts had to be put on one side, as the difficulties of the
way increased. They were still there, lying as a weight at the back of
his mind, though he had resolutely to ignore them and to bend all his
energies to the task in hand. The ascent of the Blümlisalphorn is not
exactly playwork, even for experienced climbers.

For a good while there was easy going over the frozen snow, and only
for a few hundred yards was their route shadowed by the possibility—a
slight one at such an early hour—of a falling avalanche. Breakfast on a
pure white table-cloth followed; and after this began the exciting part
of their ascent.

At first they mounted snow in good condition, lying on a foundation
of rock, which here and there cropped through. Then it steepened and
hardened, and the cutting of steps became necessary, till they reached
the col or narrow neck, from which one looks down on the little
Oeschinen Lake and the Valley of Kandersteg.

Thence the usual route is followed by the arête, now ice, now rock,
not only narrow but steeply ascending. If the leader, as he cuts steps
up the knife-edge of ice, should slip and fall, the instant duty of
his companion on the rope is to fling himself over on the opposite
side, where his weight would counterbalance that of his friend, and so
prevent both from being dashed to pieces three thousand feet below. For
such prompt action, in such a position, no little nerve is requisite;
yet not to do it spells a double fatality. Both Ivor and Rob were men
of calm nerve and quick decision.

While traversing the arête, no thinking about Beatrice could be allowed
himself by Ivor; and he was hardly conscious of the scenery. Nothing
but close and exclusive regard to each successive planting of the feet
ensures safety, as, steadying himself with his ice-axe, a climber moves
slowly upward and onward, till the summit is gained.

They stood there at length, side by side, triumphant,—just in time
to revel in the magnificent sight of a cloudless panorama of peaks,
each with its own wealth of golden light and azure shade, its morning
glories and fleeting shadows, its crumpled and rifted glaciers, its
uncountable revelations of beauty. Silent and entranced, they drank
in the loveliness with supreme enjoyment; though perhaps neither
could quite banish from his mind a recollection of that nerve-testing
"knife-edge," which had soon to be descended.

Coming down such a mauvais pas is, as everybody knows, always far worse
than going up it. Doubtless, it was as well that the Blümlisalphorn
does not lend itself to a picnic or a lengthy rest upon the summit;
for muscles are apt to stiffen with delay. A few minutes were all that
could be safely spared.

As they gazed, neither of the two was thinking only and exclusively of
the view.

In Rob's mind, together with the mountain glory, lay the picture of a
girl's face, fair and smiling, which he could not banish. Patricia had
laid her spell upon him; and even while his attention was most taken up
with the perils of the way, that face remained. It sprang up now with a
fresh insistence.

"If ever I marry—" he found himself saying, as his eyes roved from
height to height, from glacier to glacier—"If ever I marry, she shall
be my wife!" He was not conscious of haste in this decision—if a dream
may be called a decision; and he did not even remember his words to
Magda about not being a marrying man. He had not then "seen the girl."
To-day he had seen her.

Ivor also, while his glance wandered hither and thither, was haunted
by a presence. His chivalry had been troubled on behalf of Bee; and
the thought of what she must go through, when she became aware of his
nearness the evening before, pressed upon his mind. So soon as active
exertion ceased, the burden made itself felt; and he began again to
picture her state of mind.

If he did not really care for Bee, more than he was yet aware, it
might seem singular that he should be so much disturbed. This view of
the question did occur, and he had no answer ready—yet still he was
disquieted. When, however, the moment arrived for starting; when the
"knife-edge" had once more to be tackled—then he put her out of his
thoughts; and then, too, Rob had for the time to forget Patricia. All
their attention, all their nerve, were required.

Chip, chip, went the leader's axe, as he improved the steps made on
their ascent; and when one was clean-cut, the nail-studded boot slid
forward, and found good hold. Again the axe was at work; and the other
boot crept to its place. So each in turn advanced; and never did the
two climbers move together; and never was the rope that bound them
in a bond of comradeship allowed to sag. Its tautness was their only
insurance against the disaster which must otherwise have followed upon
a slip. But, happily, no slip occurred.

They had come to a determination, on the preceding day, that if all
went well they would return by another route from the col overlooking
Kandersteg—a route rarely attempted, since the condition of an open
couloir, a wide gully full of snow, which would have to be descended,
was seldom tempting. In addition, there was always a possibility of
the bergshrund below the couloir—a huge crevasse at the foot of the
snow-slope—entirely stopping their further progress, and forcing them
to re-ascend to the col, after half the descent had been done. But they
hoped to find either a bridge of winter snow across the bergshrund,
or else a place where they could turn it. And they were young and
enthusiastic, and willing to run a certain amount of risk.

So they decided to venture on the attempt. And this was the scheme
which Rob, the moment before they started, had scribbled in the
Visitors' Book at the Hut, together with their two names.

The variation from the more ordinary route at first promised well; and
the soft snow of the open couloir or gully allowed them, as they came
down it, to kick for themselves deep and safe steps.

But gradually, almost imperceptibly, the character of the snow changed.
It became powdery in substance; and each downward step started a
miniature avalanche—so small as to discount precaution.

They were now hardly two hundred yards from the yawning bergshrund at
the bottom of the slope; and to turn back without having examined it
would be really too exasperating. Thus it was that the warning given by
that shifting snow was allowed to pass almost unheeded. Rob, who was
now the leader, did his best to pack it firmly, before trusting his
weight to each foothold; and so far all seemed safe.

Ivor indeed felt so secure, as he plunged his foot into one deep step
after another made by his friend, that he a little relaxed his watchful
caution, and allowed his attention to wander, indulging in speculations
whether he and Rob would find the two girls still at the Hut. But for
that unfortunate remark overheard the evening before, he would have
wished that it might be so. He would have liked nothing better than to
see Bee Major again. He might never reach the point of actually falling
in love with her; yet she was undoubtedly a very sweet and taking girl.

Such thoughts were travelling through his mind when something occurred,
against which not all the acumen of the most experienced guides could
have insured, had they ventured to trust themselves upon so treacherous
a slope.

The sheet of snow which the two were descending began to stir! At first
slightly—then more decisively.

Ivor, well behind Rob, the rope between them being nearly taut, was
the first to awake to the awful fact that a wave had formed in front
of him. Only too well he knew what that meant; and he instantaneously
dug his ice-axe deep into the snow. This had small effect; for, as the
snow-sheet slid downward, Rob was carried with it. For one second the
rope tightened round Ivor; but, as the silent onrush of the avalanche
fought for the mastery, he too felt himself gently yet irresistibly
drawn into the white stream. Their eyes met, saying what their lips did
not utter—"We are lost!"

Down and down, sliding, struggling, borne along by the moving mass,
went both men; but Ivor was more in the actual stream than Rob, who
happened to be swept to one side. It was a small avalanche, neither
deep nor wide; and while Ivor remained near the centre, Rob was on the
border. Though perforce moving with it, he was subject to less impetus;
and as the white wave curled round a rib of rock outstanding from the
snow, the rope caught firmly. On swirled the shallow snow, and he
remained behind.

All might have been well with them both, had the rope held. But when
Ivor's weight came on it with a heavy jerk, it severed on the sharp
rock, as though cut by a knife.

Ivor was swept rapidly downwards; and without a sound, he disappeared
over the edge, into the bergshrund. From that deep snow-prison, even
if the hapless climber had not been at once killed by the fall, or
smothered in the cataract of snow, Rob—barely escaping the same fate,
and with only a short end of broken rope—was powerless to rescue him.



CHAPTER IX

FRIENDS IN PERIL

FOUR hours after the departure of the two men, the girls were up,
starting for their smaller ascent of the little Rothstock. They had
a delightful five-hours' scramble, at the end of which, they again
reached the Hut.

No contretemps, no false step on the part of either, had marred
the climb. Amy had, in the early hours, shown a slight tendency to
moodiness; and Bee had been silent and grave. But as the charm of their
expedition gripped them, the spirits of both girls improved. As yet
Bee remained in complete ignorance of the presence of others in the
loft through the night. She could not easily throw off her displeasure
at Amy's conduct; but she did her best to hide it. After all Amy had
not meant to be unkind. She had only been—silly! It was wiser on her
part to treat the affair as nonsense. And as the day went on, the
recollection sank out of mind.

They resolved to have an hour's rest, before tackling the easy descent
to Kandersteg; and as Amy flung herself down outside the Hut, Bee went
inside, returning with the Visitors' Book in her hands.

"We haven't taken a look at the list of climbers yet," she said.

Amy had hoped to avert this. The last thing she wished was for Bee to
awake to the possibility of those imprudent words having been overheard
by some chance tourist. Unknown to Bee, she had found out that, not one
man only, but two men had slept in the loft; and all day she had been
at pains to keep clear of the subject.

"Yes, of course. We must sign our own names as conquerors of the
Rothstock," she said quickly. "I'll do that presently. You've got to
rest now. Give me the book, and I'll read the list aloud."

"Thanks, but we can both look. I like to see." Bee turned to the latest
page, and exclaimed in surprise—"Robert Royston!—Magda's brother—" and
the last word remained only half-uttered, as her eyes fell upon the
name following. A deep flush suffused her cheeks. Amy, glancing at the
page and then, in dismay, at her face, knew in a moment that what she
had half-jestingly surmised was true.

Bee's colour faded faster than it had arisen. She grew white to the
lips as if on the verge of fainting.

"They were here—last night!" Her eyes met those of her companion.
"Amy!—Did you know?"

"Of course I didn't know. How should I? We both felt sure there was
nobody here except ourselves. I never dreamt of such a thing. But we
talked so low—they couldn't have heard a word!"

"Oh, no—no! You called out—loudly!"

"Bee, I'm sure I didn't. It isn't my way. You are fancying. And the
window would be shut—"

"They are English. It would be open."

"But they were sound asleep. Of course they were sound!" Amy was really
grieved at Bee's pale distress. "Quite sound!"

"It is easy to say so! You do not know."

"But Peter told me they went to bed very early, on purpose to sleep.
Yes, I asked him, because—just after you went in, I heard a snore. I
didn't see any use in worrying you, but I did ask Peter, and he said
there were two Herren in the loft, and they had gone off in the night.
I wonder we didn't hear them go. But I heard the snore quite plainly."

"That might show that one was asleep. Not—both!"

"If they had chanced to overhear a few words, they would know it meant
nothing—just fun! They would understand."

"If only, only you had not done it!" Bee despairingly murmured. "I feel
as if I could never bear to see either of them again."

"Why, Bee, really you are making too much of a small matter. What does
it signify? Just a jest between two girls! Any sensible man would know
what it was worth. If I had had a notion that anybody was there, of
course I wouldn't have teased you; but I had not. And till this moment
I didn't know their names. But now we do know, we can be perfectly sure
that if either of them was awake, he would never have listened. He
would have done something to let us know he was there."

"Not if he were taken by surprise—if he woke just then and heard his
own name! How could he speak? I dare say it isn't likely; but it might
have happened! I do think that sort of joking is very very wrong and
unkind."

"Well, I won't do it again; I promise I won't. And I wouldn't think any
more about it if I were you. Things can't be helped now; and the only
way is to take sensibly what's done and can't be undone. You may depend
upon it Mr. Ivor heard nothing."

Bee felt that it was easy for one person to be philosophical about
another's trouble. She bent over the book with a troubled face, and
read aloud a short note scrawled after the two names—"Going to try
the Blümlisalphorn, descending from the col to the alp above the
Oeschinensee."

She carried the book inside the Hut, and drew their guide's attention
to this memorandum. Steimathen uttered a gruff word of disapproval.
It was in his opinion a difficult and dangerous deviation from the
ordinary route. The Herren would have been better advised, he said,
had they kept to that route—with the snow in none too sound a state.
Naturally, Peter was not particularly pleased with the enterprise of
guideless parties, on mountains which he looked upon as his preserve.

All the way down, as far as the Oeschinen Hotel, Beatrice walked
in thoughtful silence. She was pondering, partly, the dread that
Ivor might have been awake, and so might have heard Amy's imprudent
utterance; but also her mind was a good deal occupied with Steimathen's
observations. More and more the possibility took hold of her that those
two were in danger. The guide's suggestion might, it was true, have
been to some extent dictated by jealousy; yet such a suggestion from a
first-rate guide, who was also a good and dependable man, could not be
lightly dismissed.

What if things were as Peter seemed to fear—if they had chosen a
perilous route—if the snow was in an unsafe state—if something should
happen to them on their way down? Nay, what if something were happening
at this moment? The fear came between her mind and Amy's talk. For once
she wished that her friend were capable of silence.

She made an opportunity to tackle Peter anew on the subject, asking
fuller details about the nature of the proposed descent, and the
reasons for his uneasiness. Peter's explanations were the reverse of
comforting.

Very much more quickly than they had gone up, they regained the little
hotel on the shore of the Oeschinensee. No sooner were they there,
than Bee made straight for the telescope. She called Peter, got him to
show her by which way the English gentlemen had planned to descend,
and found that, from her present position, the entire route from the
col—including a risky descent towards a very undesirable bergshrund,
the nature of which he had already enlarged upon—could be swept by the
glass.

Whether they had yet passed in safety that yawning chasm, Bee could not
know, Peter could not tell her. If they had not, there was no reason
why she should not actually watch their progress, could she but once
"locate" them—or, as she expressed it, "get hold of them."

A good hour went by, during which she searched in vain. The guide
wished to continue their descent to Kandersteg; and Amy was growing
impatient; but neither of them could induce Bee to stir.

"I can't just yet," she pleaded. "There is no hurry. I have such a
feeling that something is wrong. Do let me try a little longer. Yes—it
may be all fancy—but I want to make sure."

Remonstrances fell on deaf ears. The usually compliant girl was
resolute. She said little, but she clung to her post.

"What an imagination you have!" pettishly complained Amy, who by this
time was both tired and cross. Yet still Bee gazed, searching the white
slopes, regardless of her own or the other's fatigue.

"Just a little longer, Amy! I shall find them soon. I am sure I shall.
If you cannot wait, please go on with Abraham; and I'll follow with
Peter."

"Thanks. If I go, I'd rather have Peter. Of course I don't mean to
leave you. But it is such nonsense!"

"Peter must wait, in case anything is wrong. He would have to go and
help them."

"Why on earth should anything be wrong? It's more than likely that
they have kept to the usual route, and are at the Hut by now. It's
ridiculous your bothering about them like this."

"I can't help it, Amy. If anything happened to Magda's brother—"

"Oh, you needn't pretend, my dear! It's not—'Magda's brother'—"
mimicking her tone—"that exercises your mind."

Beatrice lifted her face for one moment to look steadily at the other
girl.

"I don't think that is quite like you," she said gravely, and she went
back to the telescope.

Amy broke a lengthy silence, as if it had not existed. "No; it isn't
like me. At least, I hope not. It isn't like my better self. I'm in the
grip of the Green-eyed Monster to-day. Can't you see? It's hateful."

Bee's hand came softly on hers.

"Yes; I know. I've got to conquer. But all the same—oh, bother—I wish
they'd turn up and have done with it. I'm tired."

"I'm so sorry," was all Bee said; and another ten minutes of patient
scanning went by. Then her attitude changed, as—"There they are!"
escaped her lips.

"Really!" with awakened interest.

"I see them! I see them plainly. Two little dots on the snow. I'm sure
it is they." She called eagerly to Peter. "Oh, come!—come and look.
I've found the Herren. What are they doing?"

She relinquished her post as he eagerly advanced. "My lady, she has
good eyesight. She is right. The Herren are there. Nicht wahr?"

"Let me see again. One moment, please. Just to make sure!"

Unwillingly the guide complied, for Bee could not control her
impatience.

"I see them now—quite plainly. Is that the part you said was where
the snow might be bad? How fast they are coming down! Is it safe? But
they are not so very high up. It's all right, isn't it? Oh! Oh, what
is happening? What is it?" She seized Peter, and thrust him vehemently
into her seat. "Tell me—what does it mean?"

Peter drew a long audible breath. He was just in time to catch one
clear glimpse of the rolling figure of Ivor, before it vanished.

"Something is—not right," he answered gravely. "Yes; there is a mishap.
One of the Herren has fallen. It may be—not far—but he is gone down.
Nein, nein, Mees—one moment," as she grasped his arm. "Permit me,
Mees—it is better that I look. Mees will not understand. The second
Herr does not move. He stays there. He does nothing."

"You will send help! You will go yourself! You will not leave him to
die!" urged the girl. "Peter—what can be done? Oh, please make haste."

She wrung her hands together, waiting for his next words, which did not
come at once. Peter's gaze was riveted.

"The fallen Herr is out of sight still. The Herr above stirs not. He
stays in one spot."

"You will go—will you not?" implored Bee.

"It is so. Mees may rest assured. All shall be done that man can do.
They shall not be left to perish." Three minutes longer he studied the
far-off scene.

"Peter—tell me—which Herr is it that has fallen?" She put the question
faintly; and in her heart she chided herself for hoping that it might
be Magda's brother—poor Magda!—and not the other.

"Ach! How can I tell?"

"Is he—is he—dead?"

Peter stood up. "We must not waste the time, Mees, in talk. It is
that we must act. You, ladies, will wait here—is it not so?—till a
rescue-party shall return from going to the Herren?"

"Yes, yes—only don't delay!" pleaded Bee.

Two other guides had happily arrived within the last hour from an
expedition with three ladies, who at once agreed to manage the rest of
their descent under the leadership of their porter, since they were
unable to wait. A hurried consultation then took place; and it was
decided that the three guides should start immediately, taking ropes
and restoratives, and going by the shortest possible route. Peter, from
his intimate knowledge of the district, had divined that one of the
"Herren" must have fallen into the bergshrund, though he would not say
as much to Bee. He knew too well what it might mean.

For Beatrice there followed a period of suspense, such as she had never
before gone through. The hours seemed endless. It was not her way to
talk of what she felt. All she wanted was to be left alone, that she
might carry on her watch, silently praying. Afterwards, when she looked
back, she knew that her whole being had been concentrated into one
continuous wordless petition.

Amy really was sorry, now that she knew true cause for fear to exist.
But her anxiety was moderate and impersonal; while to Bee it seemed
that all joy in life hung upon the result of the guides' expedition.

While daylight lasted, she sat at the telescope, searching and
searching, till her eyes grew dim and dazzled with the strain. That one
tiny dark figure was always there; moving from time to time, yet never
straying far. Beatrice built much upon the fact. If the fallen man were
dead, why should his friend stay? On the other hand, if the fallen man
were alive, would not his friend go in quest of help? Hope was put to a
severe test.

Amy, as she found her efforts to bestow comfort of small use, went
indoors and fell asleep; but Bee could not rest. When darkness made
the telescope of no avail, she walked up and down outside the hotel,
scarcely conscious of the cold, turning gently from well-meant attempts
on the part of the hotel people to cheer her up, and picturing to
herself without cessation Ivor dying or dead, or at best waiting on the
lone island of rock, in cold and hunger and discomfort, resolute not to
quit his friend.

If only he might escape with life, she would be content to ask no more.
He might never think of her; he might never care for her; they might
never meet again; but still he would be alive. She did not know how to
endure the thought of a world which would no longer contain him.

Mastered at length by Amy's entreaties, she too went into the hotel,
and lay down under blankets, refusing to undress. When Amy again
dropped soundly off, she arose and seated herself at the window, to
gaze in the direction of the spot where, perhaps, Ivor still was;
or looking up at the calm stars overhead, to wonder whether already
his spirit might have taken flight to those sublime heights; and how
soon—if indeed it were so—she might be permitted to follow. Would it be
wrong to wish to go—not to have to wait very long?

Then, refusing to admit any such possibilities, she imagined the guides
drawing near to the scene of disaster, and tried to see, as in a
vision, how they would rescue the fallen man. Though Peter had not told
her exactly what it was that he conjectured, she had been quick to put
two and two together, quick to read his thoughts. He had spoken of the
bergshrund before the accident; and she knew at least something of what
might be involved. Scene after scene passed before her mind's eyes till
her brain whirled.

Dawn at last began; and with the earliest gleams of light she again
planted herself at the post of observation; long before she could hope
to make out anything. Time slowly, slowly dragged by; and patience at
length met with its reward.

As day grew into being, she found herself actually witnessing the
cautious descent of the couloir by the rescue-party. They hugged the
rocks on one side, avoiding the course of the avalanche; and Bee
watched, with a trembling hope which could find no utterance, till they
reached the islet of rock where that patient watcher had spent his
night; and the solitary dark figure was reinforced by other little dark
figures. They seemed to pause and consult; then movements took place.
What actually happened was that one of the guides attached himself to
the full length of the rope, and was let down towards the shrund by the
others, till he vanished over its edge. Then, when he reached Ivor, he
fastened the rope round him, and they were drawn up together, the guide
undermost.

Bee, from her distant post, could make out something of this. She
followed the descent of the small dark body, saw it disappear, and with
shortened breath waited through interminable minutes till something
became visible, coming up slowly out of the depth. Something! But was
it one man or two men?

She strained her eyes to see. Yes, certainly—two specks, close
together, yet distinct, where only one had been; both apparently being
dragged upwards toward where the rest of the party stood. The second
might be Lancelot Ivor—or Robert Royston—or only a lifeless form, taken
from its snow-prison. Who could tell?

"Anyhow, they've got him," Amy remarked, when Bee in short murmurs told
what she saw.

"If we had not waited—if I had not found them—"

"Yes. You were right. I'm glad now that you persisted."

"Nobody might have known till—too late! Amy, you were very patient."

"I didn't feel patient, I assure you."

More hours crept by, and still Bee watched. Amy at last protested—

"You are worn out, Bee. If you would but lie down for an hour!"

"I can't just yet. Please don't ask it."

Nearer and nearer drew the party; more and more distinct in the field
of the telescope.

Then Amy heard one short sigh of relief. "Yes," she said. "I can count
them now. They are resting. The three guides, and both the others.
Both—both!"

"Yes, dear."

"He's not killed. He's—alive!"

She slid off her seat into Amy's arms; and for a moment Amy thought she
had fainted away; but she pulled herself together.

"How stupid! What made me do that?"

"You felt dizzy. Come indoors now and lie down. They are all right; and
they can't get here for ever so long."

"Yes; I think I will. I'm a little—tired."

She walked quietly, stumbling once or twice, as if uncertain of her
footing. Amy put her on the bed, and covered her up.

"You are to go to sleep. You shall hear everything by-and-by."

Amy stooped for a kiss; and Bee held her down. "Dear—you have been so
kind. Thank you. Please don't let anybody know that I have—minded!"

"No, of course not!" Amy did not add, as she felt tempted to do, that
anybody might have seen. She knew that it would be easy to explain
Bee's over-anxiety, by the fact that one of the two men was the brother
of her intimate friend.

"He's safe!" dropped slowly from Bee's lips. She drew one long sigh;
her arms slackened and fell; and already she was dead asleep. A look of
childlike peace overspread her face.

Amy stood looking down upon her. "Poor little dear! That's all you
care for now! He—not even 'they.' And will he ever care for you? And
if not—will you break your poor little heart? People don't break their
hearts now-a-days—some say. But Bee is not like the ordinary run."

Bee smiled in her sleep.

"I shall hate him if he does; and I shall hate him if he doesn't! A
nice state of things! O you Green-eyed Monster!—How I despise you! But
you've had the better of me to-day; though I don't believe Bee has
found it out. And you've got to be squashed, you know!" Amy shook her
fist as at an enemy.



CHAPTER X

THE RESCUED MAN

ONCE asleep, after her long watch, Beatrice slept profoundly—slept till
long after the rescue-party and the two Englishmen had come in.

There could be no question of getting back that night to Kandersteg.
Ivor was suffering from frostbite and bruises; and though, with a
good deal of help, he had managed to walk part of the way down to the
Oeschinen Hotel, he could do no more. Both he and Rob had to be warmed
and fed; and for both a good night's rest was the first essential.

Bee saw nothing of them until next morning, by which time she was
quite restored to her usual gentle self. That evening talk outside the
Hut seemed to her dreamy and unreal, and as if it had happened years
before. She had almost lost sight of it, under the great strain of
anxiety; and she could not think of it now, for the joy of knowing Ivor
to be safe. For this her heart sang a ceaseless song of thanksgiving.

Or at least, she would not let herself think of it. Probably, as Amy
insisted, he had heard nothing. If he had caught a few words—the only
course for her was to be utterly simple, utterly natural, free from
self-consciousness. Then he would forget; he would think himself
mistaken. Bee was capable of carrying out this rôle; as perhaps many
girls, less practised in self-control, might not have been.

Ivor appeared last of an early party. He came to breakfast limping, and
still pale, but with a smile.

"All right, old fellow?" Rob asked.

"Thanks—yes." His glance went straight to Bee, and without hesitation
he crossed over, holding out his hand. "We have met before," he said;
for he, like Bee, had resolved on complete simplicity as the only mode
of "grasping the nettle."

She met the hand and smiled bravely; and before a word could be spoken,
Peter Steimathen, who had followed Ivor in, to see how the "Herr"
might be after his severe experience, made matters easier for both by
breaking in—

"It is to the Mees here that you owe your life, Mein Herr!" He glanced
at Bee with admiration. "The Fräulein she would have her way! She would
not return to Kandersteg, till she should see where the English Herren
were. Myself I had told her there might be difficulties for the Herren,
and the Fräulein understood. Ach, but had she not so done, we should
not so soon have gone in search. Nein, truly we should not."

"And that must have meant for me—just all the difference!" Ivor
observed in a low voice.

He was not allowed then to say more. Rob insisted on attention to
breakfast. But Bee had already heard from the others what was thought
of her share in the rescue; and her feelings may be easily imagined.
From Ivor she wanted no thanks. It was enough, and more than enough,
to know that she had been the means of saving his life—as they all
declared was the case.

After breakfast, when Amy was putting up their things and Peter was
consulting with Rob how to get Ivor to Kandersteg—since he was clearly
unable to walk any distance—she found herself, quite by accident, alone
with the latter.

Bee took it simply; and her complete naturalness made the position of
affairs easy for him.

"I am afraid you are suffering a good deal with your foot," she said.

"Rather numb still, thanks; but I'm getting back the proper
circulation. No fear now, they tell me, that I shall lose even a
toe." He smiled; then, putting aside his own hurts, he expressed his
gratitude, in a few strong words, for what she had done.

"Neither Royston nor I can ever forget it. We owe our lives to your
thoughtfulness. I—even more than he. I suppose he might have got back
in safety; but I was helpless."

"Would not the guides have started in search of you—if I had done
nothing?"

"Yes. The question is—whether they would have been in time."

"I am very, very glad!" The words sounded absurdly inadequate. She
had never in her life been half so glad, half so thankful; yet she
spoke quietly. "It was curious—I could not help waiting. Such a strong
feeling came that something was wrong—that I had to wait!—Even before
it actually happened."

"One may say, I suppose, that it was—Providential!" He spoke with shy
English reserve, yet with real feeling; and this time her response was
eager.

"Oh, I am quite, quite sure!" After a pause she went on. "I don't
understand why Mr. Royston stayed there. Ought he not to have gone at
once for help? Suppose we had not seen you? Suppose the guides had not
started when they did?"

"That was the question—what he should do. The shrund was in no state to
be crossed, especially by one man alone. He would have had to go back
up the mountain, and round by the usual route."

"Could he not do it?"

"The danger of course is greater for a man by himself. But he is a cool
hand, not soon flurried. He would have gone in the morning, if help had
not come. Nothing would induce him to budge earlier, though I did my
best. I knew that putting off must make the return alone much worse for
him."

"Then it was for your sake that he waited?"

"Entirely. I could not persuade him to leave me. It would have pretty
well settled matters, I suppose, so far as I was concerned; and that
was what he felt."

Bee's eyes grew large. "You mean that he—?"

"He had made up his mind that, if I had to spend the night there by
myself, I should be frozen before morning."

"But was it—was it—so bad as that?" Her breath grew short.

"I'm not sure that I could have held out, if it hadn't been for him."

"The cold—?" murmured Bee.

"Well, the cold was awful. Sometimes I seemed to be on the verge of
slipping out of it all—losing hold of life. And then Rob's voice would
rouse me, and I could fight on. But if he hadn't been there—don't you
see?"

"Yes, I see." Bee had grown white, but she spoke quietly. "You might
have just forgotten yourself, and not—not—"

"Not come to again," ended Ivor. "Yes, that was it. But of course I'd
have given anything to make him go. I knew what it must mean, waiting
hour after hour on that steep slope, with no shelter of any sort. He's
a fine fellow! I wish you knew him better."

"Perhaps I shall some day. His sister is a friend of mine. Yes, he must
be—splendid!" So was somebody else, thought Bee, and she did not mind
the little glow which had come to her face, for he would only think it
was called up by admiration of Mr. Royston. "And then—" she said—"then,
I suppose, you saw the guides coming. I mean, Mr. Royston saw them."

"Yes; and his shout soon let me know. He had just been saying he must
start soon. After that it was all right. I only had to be hauled up.
But you understand now how much we owe to you—both of us."

"Not Mr. Royston!"

"Yes, both of us. I very much doubt whether, after that night, he would
have been equal to the return by himself. He found it quite enough,
even with the help of a guide. So I think we may pretty well say that
you have saved both our lives!"

"I've always longed to be able some day to save somebody's life," she
replied gently.

Much more he could have told her, and did not.

He might have described at length that interminable night in his dreary
bergshrund prison, where he dared not stir, for fear of falling yet
lower. He had found a lodgment on a narrow snow-shelf at one side
of the great cleft. Black depths of mystery lay below; and steep
snow-walls rose high before and behind him; and the projecting upper
"lip" of the shrund overhung his head; and nothing was clearly visible
except a strip of sky far, far above. At any moment a fresh fall of
snow might overwhelm him; and time crawled on with leaden footsteps,
as he waited in his constrained position, suffering acutely from the
piercing cold.

He could not see Rob. He was without food, without restoratives, and in
hourly peril of death. Vainly, from time to time, he urged his friend
to escape while escape was possible, and to leave him to his fate. Or
rather—and he put this forward for Rob's sake—to get help. But he knew
well that such help must almost certainly arrive too late; and Rob,
knowing the same, always cheerily refused, bidding him keep up a brave
heart.

Through it all Ivor could not banish Bee from his mind. He saw her
face; he was haunted by her soft tones; he recalled little talks with
her in the spring; he heard again Amy's utterance outside the Hut.
The consciousness of what she possibly felt for him, and floating
visions of what in some future day they might become one to the other,
alternated with a picture of his life cut short, his career abruptly
ended. And with this came self-searchings as to the manner of life he
had lived; not indeed a blameworthy life, weighed in ordinary scales;
yet not all that it should have been, weighed in loftier scales,
seen in the near prospect of the Life to follow. It had not been an
irreligious or a prayerless life; yet now, looking back, he felt how
much had been wanting in it of whole-hearted devotion to the service of
God; and keen regrets for the past mingled with strong resolutions for
the future—if he should be permitted to get through safely.

As the fierce numbing cold of night enveloped him, creeping from limb
to limb, stiffening every muscle, gripping his very bones, he could
hear Royston far above, stamping, stirring, ever and anon shouting
words of encouragement.

And once—never after would Ivor lose the impression made!—once, without
warning or introduction, in strong distinct tones, Rob repeated the
General Confession. Heart and soul Ivor joined in, echoing each
familiar petition, and finding in them the full utterance of his own
deepest need.

A slight pause at the end; and then the emphatic tones went on, in
words equally familiar, declaring that, "HE pardoneth and absolveth!"
Sentence by sentence came soon the Lord's Prayer; the evening Collects;
the General Thanksgiving; and the Blessing.

This, Ivor thought, was the end of their strange Evensong—a service
amid unwonted surroundings, and with an unwonted audience. Silence
fell upon the icy scene; and he thankfully felt that it had done him
good. Death indeed might lie ahead; near at hand! But there was ONE Who
"pardoneth and absolveth all them that truly repent and unfeignedly
believe!" The words gained a new power and depth for Ivor in that hour.

Rob had not done. His voice pealed forth anew; and now in song. Words
and tune were alike well-known. But never before had they carried
such meaning to Ivor, as when he heard them from the depths of his
snow-cavern.

   "O God, our help in ages past,
      Our hope for years to come;
    Our shelter from the stormy blast,
      And our Eternal Home!"

No wonder, as verse after verse rang through the still night-air, and
rolled over the snowy slopes, and echoed from the rocks, that they
brought a sound of hope and promise for the unfortunate prisoner below.
At the end, Ivor had difficulty in controlling his voice, to shout a
hearty—"Thank you!"

No, he would never forget! An experience such as this leaves its stamp
on a man for life!



CHAPTER XI

PATRICIA'S AFFAIRS

"A LETTER from Magda, I declare! Again—already!"

Patricia laughed. She was lounging gracefully on a low chair, near
the window of a good-sized first-floor bedroom. Outside lay that same
mountain amphitheatre, which had enchained the gaze of Beatrice Major
from two storeys higher. It did not enchain the forget-me-not eyes of
Patricia Vincent—those eyes having been engrossed during an hour past
with the latest "Tauchnitz" novel.

Opposite sat a good-looking and well-dressed elderly lady. She had in
hand some light fancy-work, and she cast an occasional glance—like Amy
Smith—at the view. Her chief desire was to talk, but Patricia was not
in the mood for talk, preferring her novel, and the aunt had to wait.

An English maid brought in letters; and Patricia turned hers over, with
the above remark.

"Three whole sheets. Gracious! And I shall have to wade through them.
Magda always finds out if I miss a single sentence."

"I thought you heard from her two days ago."

"Well, about that. The day her brother turned up. This is another!"
Patricia exhibited the trio of sheets, holding them up, fan-wise. "She
writes an atrocious hand. It will have to wait."

"Till you have finished your novel, I suppose." Mrs. Norman had been
resenting her niece's determined pre-occupation with the book.

"Till I have finished my novel," assented Patricia, quite
understanding, and not in the least disposed to give way. She always
expected, as a matter of course, that everybody else should give way to
her.

"You and this Miss—what is the name?—seem to be great friends. How long
have you known her?"

"Magda Royston. Oh, about—since March. She is years younger than I am;
but she adores me."

"And you like to be adored!" There was a suspicion of irony in the
level tones of the elder lady. Patricia failed to detect it; but
she could always talk of herself, and the subject was of sufficient
interest to make her lay down the book.

"Why, yes. Most people like adoration—when they can get it, aunt Ju!
Magda's state is simply worshipping! You know the sort of thing."

"Perhaps I do. And you are fond of her?"

"Yes, of course." The manner was not enthusiastic. "She is a nice
enough girl—in her way. School-girlish!"

"And that was her brother who was going up the Blümlisalp—the one you
spoke to!"

Patricia had taken Mrs. Norman somewhat aback, after table d'hôte, by
accosting Rob as the brother of her new Burwood friend. Mrs. Norman
held certain rather old-fashioned notions, and objected to casual
acquaintances.

"Yes. I had only seen him once before, in a freezing March blizzard;
but I liked his face then—and there was no mistaking it!"

"Would you not have been wiser to wait for an introduction?"

Patricia yawned gracefully behind her hand, at the first suspicion of
fault-finding; and to yawn gracefully is a feat possible to few. A
widely-extended jaw shows most faces at their worst.

"People don't wait for introductions in foreign hotels."

"It might be as well if they did sometimes. Mrs. Framley is particular!"

"And practically I had an introduction, in knowing his sister. I
assure you I am every inch as particular as aunt Anne. I know what
I'm about, aunt Ju. The Roystons are right enough. Otherwise I should
never have thought of noticing him." Patricia objected to the slightest
implication that she had done wrongly.

"And his friend? You may find yourself in for him also."

"I don't mind. I know all about Mr. Ivor. He is a barrister—one of the
most promising on the bench, they say—any number of briefs already.
I believe he has money of his own, or else expectations—but he works
like a horse, and he is tremendously liked. And he is a friend of those
delightful people, the Wryatts of Wratt-Wrothesley."

"Rye—Ratt—Rott—what, my dear?"

"You may well ask! It is a mouthful of a name. Two unmarried sisters in
a dear old country house; perfectly charming women. I don't know them
well; I wish I did, for it is an ideal house to stay in. Anybody who
goes there is sure to be all right. I met them once in a house-party,
and heard all about them. Grand-daughters of an Earl, and cousins of a
Duke, and all that sort of thing."

"Mr. Royston seemed to know that very sweet-looking girl nearly
opposite to us—with the pretty delicate face, and nice brown eyes."

"No, he didn't. They were strangers, only they happened to be together,
and people don't sit mum on those occasions. I shouldn't have called
her 'pretty,' exactly!" Patricia seldom called any woman pretty. "But I
liked her look—if only she had not such a queer little piece of goods
for her travelling-companion!"

"Your friend, Miss Royston, will be interested to hear that you have
met her brother."

"Magda! I'm not sure. I don't think I shall say anything about him till
I get back. No use to rouse jealousies."

"Surely there can be nothing in that for jealousy."

"I can't tell. She is frantically jealous of every single person that I
speak to. It is getting to be a bore. She wants to keep me as a close
preserve for herself; and that is out of the question. Things were
well enough for the first few weeks, when I knew very few people in
the place; but I'm getting full up now with engagements, and I can't
have Magda perpetually hanging round. However—I don't want to hurt her
feelings. I wish girls wouldn't be so frightfully sensitive. But I like
that brother of hers. There's something about him out of the common."

"Clergyman?"

"Curate in some big parish. I'm not sure where. South London, I
believe." Patricia began to laugh. "Magda raves about him. She has
made up her mind to live with him in the future—to keep house, and
work among the poor. About as fit for it as our Persian cat! I never
saw a more recklessly untidy person—and he is the very essence of
orderliness. Every inch of the man shows it. If ever that plan came to
pass, she would drive him demented. But of course it never will."

"Men don't invariably marry."

"Anyhow, Magda won't suit him for a housekeeper."

"What is all the stir about?" Mrs. Norman stood up to look out.

"One of the climbing parties coming back I should imagine. They have
been away much longer than was expected." Patricia showed signs of
interest. "Both parties together—yes, there are the two girls, and the
two men. Mr. Ivor seems hardly able to get along. He must have had an
accident."

She ran downstairs, followed more deliberately by her aunt. Everybody
was hurrying out to welcome the returned climbers, and to hear the
story of their doings.

Most of the way from the Oeschinen Hotel, Ivor had perforce submitted
to be carried, but he insisted on walking into Kandersteg. It was as
much as he could do, for his foot remained very painful; and a few
days' rest would plainly be necessary before he could go farther.

To Beatrice this made no difference. She and Amy were leaving next
morning; and of course they kept to their plan.

Bee had seen little of Ivor during their descent. The two girls had
been together in front; Ivor coming behind with the guides; Rob taking
turns with either. Nor did she see more of him this last evening. He
had talked freely to her of his adventure, by the Oeschinen Lake; but
he made no efforts to be thrown more in her path.

He recognised by this time the fact that he was very much drawn to
Bee; that he had begun to look upon her as altogether different and
apart from other girls; and he could not forget how she had haunted his
imagination during this terrible time in the bergshrund. If not yet in
love, he was fast nearing that condition.

But two strong reasons withheld him from immediate action. For one
thing—she had saved his life; and it would not do to risk letting her
think that he sought her out of gratitude. For another—she must be
aware that he might have overheard Miss Smith's remark outside the Hut;
and there again he sensitively feared that she would perhaps imagine
his conduct to have been inspired by those careless words. His suit
would have to come freely, naturally, spontaneously—if ever he did seek
her.

Ivor put it thus cautiously to himself. Then, with a glow, he altered
the words. "When I seek her—!" he said.

The farewell between himself and Bee next morning was entirely simple
and commonplace. Bee said sadly in her mind—"I may never see him again!"

And Ivor went off to his room with a book, which he found supremely
uninteresting. To make matters worse, he saw little of his hitherto
constant friend. For the change in their plans which could mean
nothing for Bee meant much to Rob, and something to Patricia. The two
thereafter were perpetually coming together. They had endless talks,
and Rob was captivated.

Patricia as usual welcomed with warmth another worshipper at her
shrine. She lived for admiration, and she did not know how to get on
without it. With her numerous devotees, both masculine and feminine,
the question might always be asked whether what she really cared for
was the person, or the person's devotion for herself. But she certainly
did like Rob, and had liked him from the first. His personality took
more hold upon her than was generally the case.

Mrs. Norman allowed matters to drift for three or four days, then
suddenly awoke to the fact that this might mean something serious.
Rob's absorption in her niece was patent to the most casual observer;
and Patricia too showed signs of being for once touched. Mrs. Norman
did not wish for the responsibility of an "affair," while Patricia was
with her. Mr. Royston might be all that one could wish as a man, but a
curate without private means or prospects would hardly meet with Mrs.
Framley's approval. So she promptly decided to move on elsewhere, and
she gave out this intention.

Patricia was not given to sulks, for sulks are not becoming; but she
actually did treat her aunt to something not far removed from one of
Magda's "November fogs" during the week that followed. Not of course in
public, where she always smiled, but in private.

For obvious reasons Rob said nothing about Patricia, when he wrote to
Magda; and for reasons perhaps less obvious, despite what she had said
to her aunt, Patricia was equally silent. Beatrice followed the same
course, simply because she did not write. Her last three letters to
Magda had had no reply; and though hers was not a resentful nature, and
she was slow to take offence, she had resolved to wait till she should
hear.

Virginia Villa, in which she and her mother would now live, was within
a quarter of an hour of Magda's home. It was clearly for Magda to take
the next step.



CHAPTER XII

AN OPPORTUNITY LOST

MAGDA was unhappy, and distinctly cross.

She did not wish to be cross, and probably she would not have called
herself so. But her world seemed all awry, and her temper suffered
under the strain. Self-control was not one of Magda's prime virtues, as
by this time you will have found out. It is quite possible for a person
to feel desperately cross, and yet so to hold down the feeling that no
one can guess its existence. But if Magda were cross, all around knew
it.

Merryl certainly did. She came in, dragging her steps in an unwonted
fashion, looking pale and heavy-eyed. Magda was alone, seated at a
side-table of the school-room, with an ostentatious array of grammars
and dictionaries. Since Patricia's departure for the Continent she had,
in self-defence, taken violently to French and German.

"Please, Magda—"

"Oh, don't bother. I'm busy."

"Mother wants a note taken to Mrs. Hodgson."

"Well, I suppose you can take it." Merryl was the acknowledged family
messenger.

"Yes—only—"

"Only what?"

"I thought perhaps you would—just for once."

"I can't, Merryl. I want to get this translation done before lunch."

"Couldn't you do it—after lunch?"

"No, I can't!" sharply. "I must bicycle over then to see if Patricia is
back."

Merryl did not give up yet. "It's such a long way—and so hot!" she
murmured.

"I don't see that it's any farther or hotter for you than for me!"

"No," rather faintly. "Only—if you could—only just this once."

"I've told you—I can't! That's enough."

Merryl said no more. She stood still looking at Magda. Then she dragged
herself slowly from the room.

That was not like her. Ordinarily she was all sunshine, all readiness
to do whatever anybody wished. Though not observant, Magda felt a
little uncomfortable. It occurred to her that the child might for once
be tired, and that she certainly ought to offer to go in her stead.

Instead of responding instantly to this inward suggestion, she sat
still and debated with herself. Should she? Was it needful? It would
be such a bother! She had made up her mind to do a certain amount
that morning, and she hated having to change her plans. Besides, she
felt cross and dissatisfied—unhappy, she called it to herself—and
disinclined for a long hot bicycle ride in the sun. Such a dull
straight road. And all the other way in the afternoon! She liked the
idea quite as little as Merryl. Why should she have to do it, and not
Merryl? Nothing ever hurt Merryl. And she couldn't put off going to
Claughton. That must come first—sun or no sun, Merryl or no Merryl.

The translation was at a standstill. Magda leant back in her chair,
lost in thought.

There was more than one trouble weighing on her mind.

Rob had written only a single short letter all the time he had been in
Switzerland. True, he had sent a shower of picture-postcards; but what
are picture-postcards when one wants a long delightful outpour? And
since his return only one plain postcard! She felt deeply injured.

Worse still, she had written five long letters to the adored Patricia
during her absence on the Continent; and only one scribbled note had
come in response, with a list of places visited. She had poured out her
soul for Patricia's benefit; giving the best gold that she had; and it
brought in exchange a few coppers.

Nor was this all. Three days earlier, hearing casually that Patricia
was expected, she had bicycled over beforehand, to leave flowers and
an enthusiastic note of welcome, imploring to know how soon she might
see her idol. No reply, no word of thanks, had yet arrived. It might
be that Patricia's return had been delayed. She could not pass another
night not knowing.

In addition to these worries was another, yet heavier. The Majors had
arrived, and had taken possession of Virginia Villa. She had seen vans
with luggage before the door ten days earlier; and by reference to
Bee's last unanswered letter, she knew that Bee herself must now be
there.

Action could no longer be put off. She would have to tell her mother
and Penrose. She would have to ask them to call. She would have to
explain somehow why she had kept silence so long. How she now wished
that she had been brave and sensible, and had spoken earlier! It seemed
so silly, so absurd, not to have done it—and so unkind to Bee. "Mean!"
whispered a small accusing voice in her heart.

It was mean, and she knew it. Bee had been so good and true, always
kind and helpful and ready to take trouble—surely, the least she could
do now was to welcome her friend, and not to give way to foolish shame,
merely because that friend lived in a small and unimportant house.

But—Pen's little contemptuous laugh!

If she could not stand a laugh for the sake of a friend, what was her
friendship worth? And what was she worth? "Mean!" whispered again that
accusing voice.

"Oh dear! I wish they had never come!" she sighed.

But they had come. It was sheer waste of time to sit wishing that her
world had been ordered differently. The question was—not, how things
might have been, but how she was going to meet them as they were?

Glancing out of the window, she saw Merryl bicycling down the road. So
now it was too late to go in her stead. The matter was settled, and she
might bend her attention to her work—that work, for the sake of which,
ostensibly, she had refused to do a little kindness.

But the wandering attention failed to be bent. She had been beaten in
one respect, and now she was beaten in another. The German translation
made no further advance; and when the gong sounded for luncheon, she
was still moodily nursing her grievances, still debating with herself
what to do about the Majors—whether to put off, whether to speak, and
if she did speak, what to say.

At luncheon she was to be taken by surprise—as one is apt to be, if one
drifts along, waiting for circumstances to decide one's action, instead
of simply resolving to do what is right.

Merryl did not appear. She had been some distance to take a note for
Mrs. Royston, the latter said regretfully, and had not said that she
was not well; and the heat had upset her. She was lying down upstairs.
Mr. Royston was very much disturbed. He glared round angrily, and asked
why on earth somebody else hadn't gone? It was too bad! They all made
a regular Cinderella of Merryl, and nobody ever gave a thought to his
poor little girl. What was Magda about not to do it, he wanted to know?
He attacked the cold joint savagely, casting indignant glances.

Magda felt guilty and looked injured.

Pen tried to make a diversion. "I see that Virginia Villa is taken,"
she unexpectedly remarked. "People are arriving there."

"Oh, ever so long ago," piped Frip's little soprano. "There were two
whole waggons there, and another next day. And, oh, such a funny lady,
mummie—dressed all anyhow. She'd got a sort of big apron-pinafore all
over her frock, and she stood outside the door in it giving orders. And
she spoke in a sort of slow way, and made the men hurry, and told them
just exactly where every single thing was to go. She was funny."

Magda writhed internally.

"And the Vicarage gardener was going by, just when they were getting
the furniture down, and they couldn't manage the piano right. And
she said to him—'Will you give a helping hand, my man?' John did it
directly, and he didn't seem to mind. But it was funny of her, wasn't
it? And there was one of those wicker things, like what Pen hangs her
skirt on when she's making one."

"Another dressmaker, I suppose," Pen remarked. "I only hope she will be
as good as the last. Such a pity she married and went away. I always
liked her style. I wonder if this one will have any style."

Mrs. Royston half smiled. "Judging from Frip's description of her
dress, that is doubtful."

"Any plate with a name on the door, Frip?"

Frip shook a wise little head. "I didn't see one, but she mightn't have
had time to put it up yet, might she?"

Magda said nothing. She felt that she could say nothing. Not at all
events just then. She wished with all her heart that she had spoken
out sooner. Now—how could she? To have her friend's mother taken for a
dressmaker! It was hopeless!

Luncheon ended, she felt scared and unhappy. The thought of Merryl went
out of her head. She was bewildered, and perplexed what line to follow.

Claughton had to come first. Upon that point she was resolute. Nothing
and nobody might interfere with it. But when she had been, when she had
as she hoped seen Patricia, then no doubt it would be wise to go and
see Bee. If she did not call soon, who could say whether Bee might not
decide to come and see her? So she imagined, though no step was more
unlikely on the part of Bee. She grew cold at the thought. What would
Pen say?

There seemed to be nothing for it but to take the bull by the horns—by
the wrong horn, be it remarked!—to go without further delay to Virginia
Villa, and to put things right somehow.

She would have to make Bee and her mother understand the position of
affairs. She would have to explain-or to hint—that though she herself
would go to see Bee as often as she could spare the time, yet they
must not expect to find themselves quite upon the same level, or look
to have a welcome from all the circle of the Royston acquaintances. It
was too horrid, too disgusting, to have to do anything of the sort. But
how could she help it? Nothing else remained? After what had passed at
luncheon, how could she ask her mother to call?

Was it really impossible? Even now, would not complete frankness be the
wiser, the nobler, the better course? This thought came vividly; but
Magda put it aside.

"I can't! I really can't!" she muttered impatiently. "I must wait!
I must find out first what I can do with them. After that—perhaps—I
suppose I must tell mother!"

And she did not see the cowardice of her decision.



CHAPTER XIII

VIRGINIA VILLA

IT was a broiling afternoon, and no mistake. No wonder Merryl had felt
the sun too hot! Magda thought of this, and wished, with a touch of
self-reproach, that she had gone to see her sister before starting.
By the time she reached Claughton Manor, her face was the colour of a
peony.

She rang and asked for Patricia. "Was Miss Vincent back yet?"

Miss Vincent had returned three days earlier.

"Could I see her?"

The man—an old family butler—was not sure. He believed that Miss
Vincent had an engagement that afternoon, but he would enquire.

"I won't keep Miss Vincent long. Only just a minute!" pleaded Magda.

She was shown into the breakfast-room, and the man disappeared.
Returning, he said that Miss Vincent would come presently, if Miss
Royston could wait.

She was left in the breakfast-room, not taken upstairs, as she had
hoped, into Patricia's boudoir—a sure sign that the interview was to
be brief. There she sat, and waited long. Patricia often kept people
waiting—those whom she counted to be of small social importance; but
she had never kept Magda quite so long before. Gloomy forebodings
attacked the girl. Did Patricia not care to see her, after all these
weeks of separation? Had she said or done something that Patricia did
not like? Could it be that some inkling had reached Patricia of the
coming of the Majors to Burwood, and that she counted a friend of
theirs no longer a fit friend for herself?

Magda had time enough in which to conjure up no end of direful
imaginings. Nearly three-quarters of an hour passed, before a light
step came down the passage, and Patricia appeared, wearing one of her
daintiest frocks and most bewitching hats, evidently ready for some
social function. She was drawing on a pair of white gloves.

"Well, Magda—how are you? So sorry to keep you waiting, dear, but I'm
awfully busy since getting back. And I have had to dress early, so as
to be ready in time. I can give you two or three minutes now." She
just touched her lips to Magda's flushed cheek, eluding a proffered
embrace. "Don't crumple me, dear, please. Well—are you quite well, and
desperately busy too?"

"I'm never too busy to come here. Never!"

"You told me you were working very hard."

"Yes—but still—Patricia, when may I really see you? When may I come for
a good long talk? I want to hear all about your travels and everything."

"Of course—yes. I have no end of things to tell you." Patricia slowly
buttoned her left glove. "Let me see I'm afraid every single day this
week is full. I must write, and name some afternoon—next week."

Magda's face fell, while Patricia was wondering whether and how much
Robert Royston might have said to his sister as to their meeting
abroad. It was her intention to avoid being catechised about it
by Magda; but, perhaps, on the whole, some slight allusion now
was desirable, all the more since there was no time for the said
catechising. So, with a little laugh, she remarked—

"You must have been amused to hear of my coming across your brother at
Kandersteg."

"Rob! Not Rob!" cried Magda, in deep amazement. "Why, he never told me!"

This meant a good deal to Patricia, as a token of Rob's feelings. She
only said, with a smile—

"He did not think it important enough."

"Oh, it couldn't be that! It wasn't that! And you met—really! Were you
in the same hotel?"

Patricia held out a hand. "Can you manage these buttons for me? They
are rather difficult. Yes, the same hotel. Just for three or four days
or so. It was when he went up the Blümlisalphorn with his friend, Mr.
Ivor."

"He sent me a picture-card, I remember. But he did not say a word about
you!"

"Too busy, my dear. Climbing takes a lot of time. And Mr. Ivor had
a bad accident as they were coming down the mountain—fell into a
crevasse, and might have been killed. That gave your brother more to
do."

"I suppose so. But I do think he might have told me—if it was only
half-a-dozen words."

"You shouldn't expect too much. Men hate writing letters on a holiday.
By-the-by, thanks so much for those nice flowers, and for your note. So
good of you! And now, I'm afraid, I really must say good-bye. But you
will come again soon. I shall write and fix a day."

And that was all. Magda made her way out, mounted her bicycle, and set
off for home; going slowly much of the way, and walking up the hills
with a heavy step. She was puzzled by Rob's silence on what he must
have known would be a great interest to her. She was conscious of a
slight subtle change in Patricia—she did not use the word "subtle," but
she felt it—which perplexed and weighed upon her. The manner was not
less affectionate than usual; yet some new element seemed to have crept
into their friendship.

Was it the Majors? Toiling up a long slope, she asked this question.

Anyhow, she would go at once to Virginia Villa, and would see how the
land lay. No use putting off.

Thither she went direct, not calling at home by the way. She left
her bicycle in the tiny front garden, and rang. A neat little maid
opened the door and showed her into a drawing-room which took her
by surprise. It was much larger than she had expected—yes, plainly,
the front and back rooms had been thrown into one, making a room
of good size, handsomely furnished. On an easel in the back window
stood a half-finished painting; and work lay about carelessly. Magda
recognised the tasteful fingers of her friend in the very sweep of the
window-curtains, and in the mass of flowers piled upon a side-table.
Bee was a born artist, and she carried with her an atmosphere of
harmony.

Magda herself felt anything rather than harmonious this hour. She had
never been more uncomfortable in her life.

The two ladies came in together; Bee, as always, gentle, slender,
reticent, quietly affectionate, but rather holding back, as if not
quite sure of Magda. The latter's constrained kiss was hardly of a
nature to reassure.

There was no manner of constraint about Bee's mother. Of medium height,
plain in feature, rather stout, wearing a short alpaca black skirt
and a loose black jacket—she did in a fashion resemble the photograph
with which Magda was familiar. Only, no photograph could reproduce the
absolute ease and supreme composure of the original. In two points
alone was she like her daughter—in the slender pretty hands, and the
soft low-toned voice; but her speech was slower than Bee's, and she had
the air of being much more sure of herself.

"So this is your particular friend, Bee!" Mrs. Major's eyes examined
Magda kindly, as she shook hands.

Bee looked rather sad.

"I thought I had better come directly—though of course—though I was
afraid—I thought you might be too busy—"

"Not at all, Magda. Mother was so good—only think, instead of waiting
for me to come home and help her, as I expected, she did everything
with the maids, and had the whole house straight before I arrived. It
was such a surprise."

"Then Mrs. Major has been here some time."

"More than a fortnight. And how she must have worked!"

"Work does nobody harm. Sit down, Miss Royston. Tea is coming directly."

As Mrs. Major spoke, the neat young girl brought in a tray, placing it
upon a small basket-table.

Magda murmured indistinct thanks, adding, "And you like Burwood?"

"It is not new to me. I used to visit in the neighbourhood when I was a
child."

Magda was too much pre-occupied with her own line of thought to notice
this, or to follow it out, as she might have done. How to bring in
what she had to say she did not know; and the mental struggle kept
her absent and dull. Bee waited on her, supplied her wants, and asked
questions about things in general. Mrs. Major filled gaps with easy
talk, never for a moment at a loss for something to say. She was
evidently a well-read woman, and a clever one; much more so than Magda
had been accustomed to consider Bee. She tried Magda on a variety of
subjects, and had small response in any direction. For some time no
loophole occurred for anything personal.

Tea was nearly over when Bee remarked—"I hope you will come in very
often, Magda."

Magda seized upon the opening. "Yes—I should like it very much. Only,
of course, when one is at home, there is a lot to do—and so many people
to see—and—"

"We quite understand. I don't think you will find us at all
unreasonable, dear."

Magda had an odd sense, of which she had never at school been
conscious, that she was a good deal younger than Bee. The latter
seemed, all at once, to have gained years in age. Not only was she
older, but prettier, more dignified, more controlled in manner.

"But of course I do mean—" Magda came to a stop.

"No doubt you have a great many friends here, and perhaps not very much
leisure," politely suggested Mrs. Major. It really seemed as if they
were trying to help her out of her difficulty.

"And then, Magda, having Miss Vincent must make a great difference. You
are always seeing her, are you not? And at first we shall not know all
your friends, or they us."

The opportunity was not to be lost. Magda summoned up her courage. "I
suppose—I suppose not," she said, with averted gaze. "People here are
rather—are rather slow, you know—I mean, in calling on new-comers."

She looked up nervously to see the effect of her words, and intercepted
one swift glance between mother and daughter. Not an unkind glance; not
offended; but amused.

"No doubt," assented Mrs. Major. "It is always wise to be careful."

Bee laughed. "But even if we don't know your friends, dear, and even if
we are out of it all, I hope we shall see you sometimes, when you can
spare half-an-hour. You must not make a burden of it."

Magda felt ashamed. "Of course I shall come," she said. "And if—if my
mother—" she stopped, hardly knowing what she had meant to say.

"I want so much to know your mother," Bee observed.

"But—but I'm not quite sure—" faltered Magda. "You see—mother isn't
very strong—and she has so many calls to pay—and I'm not sure—if she—"

It was impossible to finish the sentence, in face of Bee's soft
wondering eyes, still more in face of Mrs. Major's steady gaze and air
of composed waiting. Magda found her feet awkwardly, with crimsoning
cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, I can't stay longer now," she added. "I'll come again
soon, if I may."

"Pray come any day that you feel inclined," Mrs. Major responded
easily, with no apparent consciousness of what Magda had meant. "Bee's
friends will always be welcome at Virginia Villa." She said the name
in precisely the same tone that she might have used to say "Claughton
Manor," or "Windsor Castle."

Bee went out to see Magda through the little front door, coming back
with a shadow on her face.

"I'm rather disappointed in your friend, my dear. But she may improve
on a further acquaintance. Is she always like this?"

"She was different at school. I don't understand her to-day—or what
made her so. Unless—it is something perhaps that her mother has said."

"Probably. Mrs. Royston may not intend to call, till she has hunted out
our antecedents."

"It may be that, mother."

"But after being your friend for two years, she might have said enough
to satisfy even Burwood squeamishness."

"Yes—only—I never did tell Magda much."

"Not enough, perhaps."

"Mother, you have always hated snobbishness. And I know how you laughed
at Miss Norris, for dragging in her rich relations at every corner."

"And you are your mother's own daughter." Mrs. Major's small dark eyes,
clever and deep-set, rested lovingly on the girl. "However, one must
take people as they are. Never mind. It will all come right. I have no
doubt that there is a finer side to Magda Royston—and that this is a
mere episode; not her fault."

"No. Only, I don't really think—if I had been in her place this
afternoon—that I could have done just so!"

"I'm perfectly sure that you could not, Bee." Mrs. Major spoke with
decision.



CHAPTER XIV

A REVERSION OF THOUGHT

LEAVING her machine in the bicycle-shed, Magda went indoors, to find
herself face to face with her father. Up to that moment she had been
entirely occupied with her own concerns—dissatisfied with herself,
disappointed not to have seen more of Patricia, uncomfortable about
Bee—and since leaving the house she had not once remembered Merryl.

The moment her eyes fell upon Mr. Royston she did remember. He was
roving restlessly about, between hall and study and drawing-room, as if
not knowing what to do with himself. At the sight of Magda, he faced
round abruptly.

"So here you are at last! Time enough too! Where have you been all day?"

"I've only been away since lunch. Not all day."

"Pretty sharp you went off too, never stopping to see if you were
wanted. Never a thought of your poor little sister, or how she might
be!"

There was too much truth in this. She had hurried off, in fear that
something might prevent that which she had set her mind on doing.

"Isn't Merryl well, father?"

"Well! Not likely!—treated in such a way! My poor little girl! Sent
off in that hair-brained fashion, when she was only fit for bed! In
this heat too! I'm not blaming your mother. She didn't know. Merryl
took care she shouldn't! But you might have had more sense. Not a soul
in the house sees to that child. She never complains—never thinks
of herself—the most unselfish little darling that ever lived. And
you—always so full of your own affairs, that you neither know nor care
what becomes of anybody else!"

Magda swelled resentfully, for this of course was an exaggeration; but
he went on wrathfully—"I'll take good care nothing of that sort ever
happens again! I'll look after her myself in future—if—" and there was
an ominous choke in his voice—"if—if she gets over—this!"

Magda's heart gave a great frightened throb.

"Is Merryl lying down still?"

"Lying down still!" growled Mr. Royston. "That's all you know! That's
all you care!" He turned off, as if not trusting himself to say more,
and disappeared in the study, shutting the door.

Magda stood feeling dazed. It was as if a small thunderbolt had fallen
at her feet. If Merryl should get over this! She repeated the words to
herself. Get over what? Something must have come to pass while she was
away—something unlooked-for. All sorts of conjectures thronged up, none
of which would fit the case. But Merryl was ill. Merryl must be ill.
That "if she gets over this" could have no other meaning. She must have
been ill in the morning—too ill for a long hot bicycle ride—and Magda
had refused to go in her stead.

In one moment the world had changed; and she saw it from a new
standpoint. No longer was Patricia the one and only person to be
considered. Suddenly she found how much these home-ties really
meant—how dear to her heart was this unselfish little sister, Merryl!
Ill! Perhaps not to get over it! Oh, but that was impossible. It could
not have come upon them with such frightful suddenness. And Mr. Royston
was always an alarmist, especially in regard to Merryl.

Magda plucked up courage, and went to the school-room. She must hear
more—must know what it all meant.

At first the room looked empty. Then she espied a small figure, curled
up in one corner of the deep old window seat, with long hair falling
like a veil and hiding the child's face.

"Frip!" The word came fearfully. Dread surged up anew.

Francie made no answer. Magda went close, putting an urgent arm round
the little figure; and there was a slight shake of the shoulders, as if
to repudiate her touch.

"Frip! what is it? Frip, tell me! I'm only just come in. What is the
matter?"

Frip said one word—"Merryl!" and burst into tears.

"Go on! Go on!" commanded Magda.

"She is—oh, so bad!" sobbed Frip. "And the doctor has been. And he
says—she never, never ought to have gone! Her head did ache so, and
her throat was sore, and I begged her so to let you take the note.
But she said you couldn't—you were busy—and she wouldn't let me worry
mother—and I couldn't find Pen."

"She never told me her head ached," spoke Magda miserably.

"She didn't tell me; but I saw. Of course I saw. And I do wish now I'd
told mother, though she said I mustn't. She said perhaps the ride would
do her good. But it didn't. When she tried to get up, after lunch, she
nearly fainted right off. And then she said she had tumbled off her
bicycle twice, coming home; and the second time she banged her head
against the gate-post, and it hurt her so dreadfully, she could hardly
get indoors. And the doctor says nobody is to go into her room, except
mother; and she's to be taken to the end spare room; and Pen has gone
out to find a nurse. And I don't know what to do without Merryl!"

Magda felt guilty and unhappy. It was easy to see that even little
Francie blamed her; and for once she had no words of self-defence to
offer.

Penrose came in, grave and sad. "Is Frip here?" she said. Then—"So you
have come back!" Magda heard reproach in the tone.

"Yes. What is the matter with Merryl?"

Pen did not at once reply. "Come, Frip, dear," she said. "You had
better run into the garden."

"I don't want to go—without Merryl."

"Shall I come too? Run and get your garden-hat, and wait for me at the
back-door. Don't go upstairs."

Frip obeyed, and Pen turned to Magda. "We don't want much said before
Frip," she breathed. "Dr. Cartwright is afraid that it may be scarlet
fever. There are one or two bad cases in the town."

"Then it wasn't going out in the sun that made her ill."

"That has made her worse. She never ought to have gone—if any one had
had the least idea that she was so poorly. No one knew except Frip; and
of course Frip did not understand. I can't think how it was that none
of us saw; but mother and I were very busy; and she had such a colour.
Frip says she turned quite white before she started—and when she asked
you to go."

The words, though pointed, were not unkindly spoken; and Magda was too
unhappy for vexation.

"I don't think I looked at her—particularly. And she never said she
wasn't well. If I had known, of course I would have gone."

"It is such a pity you did not. She fell from her bicycle with her head
against the gate-post, and it almost stunned her. That makes things so
much worse. She was quite wandering before Dr. Cartwright came, and he
found her in a high fever. He cannot know for some hours how much is
due to the blow, and whether it really is scarlet fever; but he seems
pretty sure. Poor dear little Merryl. If only we had known!"

Pen spoke tenderly and went away. Magda, left alone, with nothing to
do, nobody wanting her, nobody turning to her, felt very wretched.
When she thought of Merryl's plaintive petition, and of her own curt
refusal, she hardly knew how to bear herself. It was too terrible to
think that she might have refused Merryl's very last request—the very
last time that she would ever see and speak with her sister. It was not
her way to cry easily; but she sat long, looking straight before her,
and feeling acutely that if that came to pass, she could never be happy
again.

Yet nobody seemed to think that she was to be pitied. This dawned
upon her with a sense of surprise. All the others were full of loving
sympathy one for another; while towards herself there was only blame;
and no one expected her to mind very much. It startled her to find
things thus, and made her realise, more than she had ever done before,
the manner of life she had been living.

For it was not that she meant to be unkind or selfish; not that she
was wanting in real affection; but that she did not think, did not put
others' happiness before her own, did not live for those around. There
was any amount of real love and tenderness below the surface, but love
of self had had the upper hand. And when she resented what they felt,
she quite forgot how very little she had yet shown of what this trouble
meant to her. The first impulse with Magda, as with many girls who
pride themselves on their reserve, was to hide what she felt, and to
put on an appearance of indifference.

This was only the beginning of a long stretch of anxiety. The doctor's
fear proved correct. It was scarlet fever of a pronounced type; and
the illness was greatly aggravated by the blow on the head, which had
caused slight concussion. Day by day reports grew worse; and delirium
was incessant.

The patient had been removed to a part of the house entirely separated
from the rest, with a staircase of its own, and an outer door; so the
segregation could be complete. There was at first some talk of the
family going elsewhere for a time. But this was decided against. They
had all been with Merryl; and any one among them might already have
caught the complaint. So they remained where they were, all possible
precautions being taken. Nothing could induce Mrs. Royston to remain
away from the sick-room. A second nurse was a necessity, the case being
so severe; so she and the nurse and child lived a separate existence
from the household.

Complete isolation from friends and neighbours was involved for the
whole party. It was a new experience for Magda. Everybody was most
kind; notes and enquiries, supplies of beef-tea and jelly for the
little invalid, arrived in profusion. But naturally and rightly, other
people had to avoid infection for themselves and their children.

No going to church; no entering of shops; no seeing of friends; no
engagements. The doctor of course came daily; before long twice and
even three times in the day; but only Mr. Royston or Pen spoke with
him; and though the Vicar called often, he and Magda did not happen to
meet.

Patricia sent a little conventional note of sympathy, prettily
expressed, and making it very clear that she intended to hold aloof as
long as possible. Magda was requested not even to write to her, for
fear of infection being conveyed through the post. Magda did think
Patricia might have said less about the need for care on her own
account, and more about her friend's trouble. It was the first real
touch of disillusionment.

On the same day a letter arrived from Bee, so tender, so loving, so
full of sympathy, that Magda could not but mark the contrast. Bee
seemed to think of nothing, to remember nothing, except that Magda was
in sorrow, and that she longed to comfort her. Magda could not but
think of Miss Mordaunt's words—"Bee is a friend worth having, and worth
keeping."

How little she had thought of late about kind Miss Mordaunt!—And still
less of her own aims and aspirations, her desire to live a brave and
useful life!

She quite longed to speak out, to tell her mother about the Majors, to
confess her own folly in keeping silence. But Mrs. Royston was in the
sick-room, out of reach. She had to wait; and meantime nothing could be
thought of except that long life-and-death struggle going on upstairs
in the distant end-room.

Then came a day when a few hours would decide the probable issue;
when Merryl lay, powerless, feeble, unconscious, just breathing, and
on the very borderland of the next world—when, hour by hour, they
all knew that any moment might see the end. And of all in the house,
none grieved more bitterly than Magda. For she knew, she could not
help knowing, that her consenting to take the note might have made
just all the difference. The great danger was that Merryl would sink
from exhaustion. And but for the added complications, resulting from
over-exertion and the fall from her bicycle, there could be no doubt
that her rallying-power would have been greater.

If Magda had never prayed before—and probably she had at times, however
fitfully—she did pray, fervently and passionately, in these days of
suspense.

No one in the house thought now that she did not care. Little though
she said, the burden was plainly written on her face. Even Mr. Royston
had ceased to reproach her; and Pen was kind; and Frip often clung to
her with childish pity. But there was no comfort. Magda felt that there
never could be any comfort, if Merryl should die.

She saw life in truer colours than ever before. There are times
when we get away from earth-mists, and gain clear views of the true
proportions, the true values of things. This was one such time. Many
a resolution she made in those sorrowful waiting hours—if only Merryl
might recover!

Rob came down to see them. He thought nothing of infection for himself,
being used to sick-rooms of all kinds; and he had hoped to see Merryl,
but against this Mr. Royston laid an embargo. If Rob went to that room,
he might not come back among the rest. Rob was about to agree, about
to say that he would return home that evening, when his eyes fell upon
Magda. He knew in a moment that she needed him more than Merryl.

No opportunity came before night for any word alone with her. Magda
kept up and seemed resolutely to hold aloof.

And next morning the cloud lifted. Merryl was better. Definite
improvement had set in; and the doctor, coming early, spoke in cheerful
tones of recovery.

Until that moment Magda had not been seen to give way. But when Mr.
Royston came in, radiant with the good news, and when she learnt that
confident hopes might at last be indulged, she looked wildly round
as if for escape. She rushed away, without a word, to the deserted
school-room, and knelt down, hiding her face on folded arms, to sob out
her vehement thanksgiving for this merciful escape from a life-long
sorrow.

Pen found her thus; and she might as well have tried to stop a gale of
wind with her hand, as to stay with words that tempest of weeping. As
with many who seldom are mastered, when Magda was mastered, it was very
completely. She did not even know that Pen had been, or was gone. But
presently a strong quiet hand was on her shoulder, gently pressing it,
and in time Rob's voice said—

"That will do!"

Magda sobbed on, and again came the words—

"That will do, Magda."

She was crumpled in a heap on the rug; and she allowed him to draw her
to a sitting posture. With gasping efforts after self-control, she at
length managed to stop.

"What is it all about?" he asked then. "Try to tell me—quietly."

"Rob—if—if she had died—"

"Yes. Go on."

"It would have been my doing."

"In what way? Hush—" as the storm threatened to return. "It would have
been your doing—how?"

Gradually he induced her to pour out the whole—how she had failed all
round, how she had lived for self only, how she had refused to help
Merryl when asked, how that one ordinary slip in everyday kindness
might have brought about tragic consequences. And when she had related
her tale, she found that he knew it already at least in part, that he
had divined what she must be going through, that he was here for the
very purpose of bringing help.

Not help of his own. He was here to point her to ONE stronger than
himself,—"mighty to save." Magda needed to be saved from her weakness
of will, from her readiness to give in to temptation. For the past she
needed forgiveness; for the future, power to fight and to conquer.

"But this must be no empty repentance," he urged. "You must let what
has happened be a warning to you. It is in the small things of common
life that we fail most grievously; it is in those small things that we
often dishonour our Lord most, and do most harm to others. You have to
make a fresh start now, to remember that you are bound to His service.
It must not be any longer self-pleasing, self-indulgence—but—'Teach me
to do the thing that pleaseth Thee!' When you get back into everyday
life again, don't let yourself forget."

"I'll try," she whispered in a subdued tone.



CHAPTER XV

LIFE'S ONWARD MARCH

WEEKS and weeks had passed; all the long weeks of Merryl's acute
danger, and of her slow recovery with its many drawbacks; and then of
her absence at the sea-side with her mother. It seemed to Magda like
years since the day that she had last called upon Patricia, for that
short and disappointing interview from which she had hoped so much.

No one else had caught the fever; and it was now over a month that Mrs.
Royston and Merryl had been away. The whole house had been thoroughly
fumigated and disinfected; much painting and papering had taken place;
and everything which could be suspected of conveying infection was
destroyed. With the arrival of autumn, people were beginning to realise
that the Roystons were once more "safe," though some of the more
nervous still held aloof.

Mrs. Major and Bee had been for several weeks away from Burwood paying
visits; otherwise, Magda could not doubt, she and Bee would have met.
Not yet had she found opportunity to tell her mother about them; and
she shrank from speaking first to her sister. Pen might set herself
against the acquaintance, and might influence Mrs. Royston to refuse to
call. A mistake again on the part of Magda!

The absentees were expected soon to return. Merryl was better, Mrs.
Royston wrote, though not so much better as every one hoped; but they
would not remain much longer away.

Patricia was among those who held longest aloof. If she chanced to meet
any of the Roystons out-of-doors, she gave them a very wide berth;
this, up to the last fortnight, during which she too had flitted
elsewhere, Magda sometimes admitted to herself, though to no one else,
that she in Patricia's place could not have shown quite such excessive
caution to her greatest friend.

But was she Patricia's greatest friend? At one time she had felt sure.
Doubts now troubled her often.

All these weeks of trouble, of anxiety, of self-searching, were good
for Magda. It was one of those periods in life when one is taken
apart from the ordinary round, and set upon a watch-tower on the
mountainside, to gain new views of the landscape, new views of duty,
new views of self. She had been compelled to pause, to think, to take
stock of her own aims and objects, to examine her course. She had been
humbled in her own eyes; had seen her failures; had made resolves for
the future.

Now she was back again in ordinary life; and she found herself, as
she might have expected, back also amid the old temptations, the old
tendencies, the old difficulties. Nay, more—she was back amid the
old views of life. A landscape, as seen from a lonely tower upon the
hill-side, has a very different aspect from that same landscape looked
upon from its own lowest level. She was assailed once more by the
commonplace pleasures, the small distractions, the hourly inducements
to self-indulgence, which surround us all; and she found resistance no
easy matter.

Of course it was not easy—as Rob had frankly conceded. Life is not
meant to be easy.

Though she would never forget what it had been to stand and wait in
hourly expectation of news that dear little Merryl had passed away,
conscious that she herself had had a hand in bringing about that
peril—and though the shock of this experience had awakened and aroused
her, and had made her look upon life with a new realisation—still,
there was all the battle to be fought. Knowing that the foe is there,
and must be conquered, is not at all the same thing as being victor.
Magda knew; but the fight lay ahead.

One thing had become clear to her mind, in those weeks of graver
thought—that there is a very definite danger in "drifting." She had
to insist upon steady work for herself, of one kind or another. The
resolution was for a time more easily carried out, because during
their quarantine, few interruptions came, and social invitations were
non-existent.

Her old favourite notion of a home some day with Rob was at this time
strongly in the ascendant. While hardly willing to admit the fact even
to herself, she was disappointed in Patricia; and being so naturally
made her turn the more to Rob. She dwelt much upon this dream of the
future, picturing the little house that she would share with him, and
painting visions of herself as his housekeeper, his tried and valued
sub-worker. Of possible trials and rubs and boredom in that life, she
never thought. The whole view was rose-coloured.

Any day Rob might have the offer of a living. Though still so young,
she knew that he had won golden opinions, that he had many friends,
and that any of these friends might soon find just the right nook for
him. When that happy day should arrive, he would want her. She never
felt any doubt that this would be the case. For years there had been
an understanding between them that when he needed her she would go—an
understanding which no doubt was regarded much more seriously by Magda
than by Rob. Still, though he had sometimes laughed, he had never
discouraged the dream; and she looked upon it as a certainty. True, Mr.
Royston might object; but if Rob wished it, Rob would get his way.

Magda decided that she would now, really and in sober earnest, begin to
make herself ready for the life. A good deal would no doubt be needed.
Not merely the study of music and history and languages—though Rob had
intimated that all such learning might come in usefully—but, much more,
habits of neatness, method, self-control, general usefulness. A mastery
of cooking and needle-work suggested itself as desirable; and, during
Mrs. Royston's absence, she went in for a course of cookery-lessons,
much to Pen's astonishment. Also she set herself a daily task in plain
needle-work, which hitherto she had disdainfully eschewed. Even darning
and patching were included.

"Really, Magda is very much improved. Very much indeed!" Mr. Royston
remarked one morning to Pen. His favourite notion of Woman presented
her always as needle in hand, and he had never been able to reconcile
himself to his second daughter's objection to sewing. "I found her
yesterday in the school-room, making a child's frock."

"I wonder how long it will last," Pen could not resist saying.

"It will last; no doubt. She is growing older and more sensible. It
will last," repeated Mr. Royston confidently. Breakfast was on the
table, and the gong had sounded; but Magda unfortunately failed to
appear in good time. No unusual event in the past, though lately she
really had striven after punctuality as part of her preparation for
the future. Mr. Royston expected everybody to be down before himself;
and when she appeared, he showed displeasure. "Breakfast at such a
reasonable hour as we have it—there can be no question of hardship," he
declared.

Magda broke out in warm self-defence before she knew that the words
were coming.

"I've not been late once for three weeks. But if I make one single
slip, that always means a scolding; and there's never any praise for
doing better."

The manner was not too respectful, and she knew it. Fresh blame was
certainly deserved on that score. Happily, the entrance of letters made
a diversion, and no more was said. There were two for Magda, one from
Rob, one from Patricia; and she flushed with pleasure at sight of the
latter, having given up all hope of hearing.

Neither letter could have immediate attention. During Merryl's absence,
some of the little duties always before done by Merryl had fallen to
her share. She undertook them at first, in the mood of self-reproach,
and soon they were expected as a matter of course. Mr. Royston liked
to be waited on and fussed over by his daughters. She had to boil him
an egg in the silver egg-boiler; and because she was in a hurry, she
turned the whole toast-rack over on the floor, scattering its contents
far and wide. Mr. Royston growled out that Merryl never blundered, and
he desired Magda to leave things alone, and to go back to her seat. She
obeyed, feeling aggrieved; and Mr. Royston, no less aggrieved, took up
one of his letters. Pen meanwhile was reading hers from Mrs. Royston.

"They hope to come next week," she observed, to divert attention from
Magda's misdeeds. "Mother says Merryl is still weak, poor little
dear, and gets tired out directly. But the doctor advises home for a
time. Then there is something about Rob. He is paying a visit at some
place—what is the name? Rat—Rot—W-r-a-t-t—"

"Not Wratt-Wrothesley!" cried Magda in amaze.

"Why, what do you know about it?" demanded Pen.

Magda was examining the postmark of her own letter from Rob. "He
actually is there. I didn't know he had ever come across the Miss
Wryatts."

"When did you come across them?"

"I've never seen them. They are Bee Major's aunts."

"Your school friend—Beatrice Major. You used to be always talking about
her. By-the-by, I meant to ask you—are these Majors that have come to
live here related to your friend? I'm told that they are delightful
people."

Magda gasped. It was the last thing she had expected to hear from Pen.
There was nothing for it now but to speak out.

"It's they—themselves!"

"Nonsense!"

"It is, Pen. Beatrice and her mother."

"Why in the world haven't you told us? Why, they have been here—months!
We ought to have called at once."

"I did mean to tell mother. But I felt so sure you wouldn't like the
idea of the house—Virginia Villa. You are always so particular."

"Particular! As if it signified about the house! Mrs. Major is a person
who can live where she chooses. What does that matter? Why, all the
county is calling on them. Really, Magda!—To let us wait and come in at
the end, when we might have been the first to call! It is too bad!"

"I don't see how I could know! I was afraid you would keep mother from
knowing them."

"The last thing I should do. But you never do understand! We only heard
about them just before Merryl fell ill; and then of course we could do
nothing."

Magda was at a loss what to say. She felt that she had been not a
little foolish. Pen went on—

"I don't know how far it is all true; but everybody is talking about
them. They say Miss Major is one of the sweetest girls ever seen.
And as for Mrs. Major—of course you know that she is an Earl's
granddaughter, or something of that sort. A Duke's cousin, some say."

"I don't know anything about it."

"And yet you call Miss Major your friend!"

"She never told me."

"If I had been you, I would have found out."

Which was undoubtedly true.

Magda began opening Patricia's letter. "Why—she is at Wratt-Wrothesley
too. I can't imagine what has taken Rob there."

"I can tell you that. Mr. Ivor, who went up the mountain with Rob,
and fell into the crevasse, is a great friend of the Miss Wryatts—and
mother supposes that they wanted to thank Rob for saving his life."

"And Mrs. Major and Bee are there too," murmured Magda, feeling rather
dazed; for this meant Patricia and Bee meeting under one roof in hourly
intercourse.

"I dare say! Mrs. Major is their sister. Mother seems very much pleased
that Rob should have had the invitation. You don't seem to have made
much use of your openings at school."

Magda did not hear. She was suddenly engrossed by Patricia's letter,
which indeed contained something altogether unexpected and astounding.
No exclamation passed her lips. She read on in stupefied silence, at
first hardly able to grasp the full meaning of the words, which ran as
follows:—

                                                 "Wratt-Wrothesley."
                                                             "Tuesday."
   "MY DEAR MAGDA,—"

        "You will be rather surprised to find that I am here, in the
same house with your brother, and with your friends the Majors. Why did
you not tell me about their coming to Burwood, you dear little goose?
Did you think I should be jealous? My aunt and I went lately to call
at Virginia Villa—not dreaming that you knew them! And we were just
charmed with them both. Mrs. Major is quite unique; and the daughter
so pretty and charming. Of course everybody knows all about Mrs. Major,
directly it oozes out that she is a sister of the Miss Wryatts'; and I
believe it is solely through them that I have this invitation
to Wyatt-Wrothesley, where I have always longed to come—though certainly
I knew the Miss Wryatts slightly before. They are about the most
delightful people I ever came across; and the house and its surroundings
are simply perfect."

        "I am enjoying myself here more than I can tell; and for more
reasons than one—as you will understand! You are such a devoted sister,
that you have certainly read Rob's letter before giving a look at mine;
so you know the news, and there is no need to tell you again. We are very,
very happy—he and I. How happy I cannot explain, or hope to make you
understand, since you have never yet been through the same. He is such
a dear fellow! I can hardly believe in my good luck! And it is nice to
think that one day you will be my sister. Not that we talk of marriage
yet. That must wait till Rob gets a living. But everything is so far
settled—except that Rob is writing to his father and mother and I am
writing to my aunt. Everybody here congratulates us both—each on having
the other—which is all right!"

                          "Your affectionate friend,"
                                            "PATRICIA."

With dazzled eyes and beating heart, Magda tore open Rob's letter, not
trusting herself to speak. As from a distance she heard Mr. Royston's
excited exclamations—

"Hallo! So Rob has stolen a march on us all! Engaged! And to Miss
Vincent! Well, well, he knows a pretty face when he sees it. Pretty
manners too, and a nice girl; and there is money in the background.
Might have done worse for himself."

Magda was reading, or trying to read, Rob's short letter, brimming with
suppressed joy and tender gladness, which found no echo in her heart.
He spoke of his darling—of his supreme happiness—of his certainty
that Magda would rejoice with and for him. Not one word about that
discarded dream of the future, now never to be anything but a dream.
Not a thought of her disappointment! For him and Patricia—all might be
sunshine. But—where did she come in?

She stood up hastily, sliding her chair back. "Where are you off
to?" Mr. Royston asked. He disliked any one leaving the table before
himself. "Did you hear about Rob?"

"Yes—I know."

Before another word could be said, she was gone. It was impossible to
stay, impossible to hear them lightly and with laughter discussing that
which was the death-knell of her hopes. Again it was as if a small
thunderbolt had crashed down at her feet; not this time from any fault
of her own, which might have been a comfort, had she only seen it. To
bear a trouble which comes straight from a Father's Hand is always
easier than to endure one which we have brought upon ourselves.

Still, it did seem very, very hard to Magda; and not less so because it
was Patricia who had stolen Rob from her. Till now she had never quite
realised what that dream of the future had been in her imagination—how
fixed and stable it had seemed, how it had coloured all her outlook,
how it had comforted and helped her in little daily frets and worries,
how it had filled the horizon of her mind. And lately she had worked so
hard, so eagerly, to make herself ready! And now—now—she was nothing to
Rob; now Rob would never want her, would never again turn to her for
sympathy. He had Patricia; and in Patricia, he would find all he needed.

And she—Magda—had nobody! Not even Patricia remained to her. Patricia
had Rob. She was left alone.

The ground seemed cut away from beneath her feet; and she found herself
stranded.

She had escaped from the house, in dread of being questioned, and
either pitied or laughed at; and she walked with hot impatient steps up
and down the path at the far end of the kitchen garden. She was angry
with Rob; angry with Patricia. And she did not see in this wreck of her
dream one of Life's opportunities for real heroism—for putting self
manfully aside, and dwelling only on the happiness of others.



CHAPTER XVI

THE THICK OF THE FIGHT

SOME days later, in the afternoon, Magda lounged in the old school-room
basket-chair, with a novel on her knee. She failed to find the tale
interesting, and she did not care to do anything else. Of what use now
to practise or work or study? The future for which she had been toiling
was at an end. No delightful little home with Rob lay before her—a home
into which no troubles or worries were ever to find admission. The
dream was dead; and life was a blank.

Her mood, of course, was wrong, and she knew it; but she would not
admit that it might be conquered. She only indulged in self-pity.

Everything had gone astray to-day; and she had nothing to which she
could turn in contrast.

The room looked untidy. This week it was in Magda's charge; and she
had left arrangements to care for themselves; a mode not conducive to
order. The green window-curtains hung awry; chairs stood crookedly;
books lay about in confusion; and the table-cloth had collapsed in a
heap on the floor.

Presently she stood up and went across to a side-table. In her present
mood of self-compassion, she wanted further food for unhappiness; and
it had come to her mind that Rob, no long time since, had spoken in
one of his letters about that future which now had ceased to be. She
unlocked her desk, and fished out a bundle of his letters, which she
began glancing through.

The one she wanted did not appear; but she found a doleful enjoyment
in reading one after another, and in contrasting their tone with what
she knew she had to expect in days to come. He would write to Patricia
instead of to her; he would tell Patricia everything, instead of
telling her. That was the keynote of her mental ditty.

Losing herself in the thought, she ceased to read, and her fingers
played aimlessly with the desk. Unconsciously she pressed a small
spring with force, and a piece of wood stirred. Yes; there was a secret
drawer there, of course; but she had not opened it for years and years.
A touch of idle curiosity made her open it now; and she found within
a sealed envelope. At the moment, memory brought no associations with
the packet; but out of it dropped a small photograph. Then recollection
flashed back.

"Why—Ned Fairfax!" she uttered.

It was the face of a boy of sixteen or seventeen; good-natured and
sensible. She was a trifle amused, in spite of herself; recalling the
long-past day when, in a fit of childish wrath, because her last letter
to him had remained unanswered, she had tragically closed and sealed
and put away his likeness, resolving to forget his existence.

"Seems to be my fate!" she muttered. "Everybody gives me up in turn."

A familiar voice outside the door broke upon these musings. "All right,
Frip. I'll come presently. I must have a chat with Magda first."

And Rob came in; sunburnt, healthy, glowing with happiness.

Magda stood up reluctantly. She resented his manifest and supreme
gladness, in which she had no share.

"Well, Magda," as she returned his kiss in limp fashion. "I have come
for your congratulations. Why did you not write?"

"I—meant to. Are you going to stay?" So different from former comings
did this seem, that she had to swallow a lump in her throat.

"I'm sleeping at Claughton. Came back with Patricia yesterday. I want
to hear how Merryl is after her change. Not strong yet, I'm told.
Well?" And his quiet happy eyes looked into hers.

She was silent, gazing on the ground. "Not one word!" in a tone of
surprise. "Why—Magda!"

"I don't see how you can expect—" She spoke resentfully.

"Not expect congratulations!"

"Of course—I do congratulate you. One always has to say that, I
suppose," and there was a hard little laugh. "All the same—Rob, you did
tell me—"

"What did I tell you?"

"That you didn't mean to marry."

"I told you that I had not seen the right girl—and I had not. While
that was the case, I was a non-marrying man. But now, I have seen her!
Which makes all the difference!"

"Yes, it means that you'll never want me!"

Rob laughed outright at the injured tone. It was too comic—from the
point of view of a man, and especially of a man over head and ears in
love!

"My dear Magda!" he said. "You are not a child any longer. Don't you
see that this alters everything—must alter everything? If I had not met
Patricia, I might have gone on single for years, perhaps even for life.
But—I have met her."

"Oh, I know! Of course, I understand. It's all quite right and
sensible, I dare say—only it does just make all the difference to me.
You'll never want anybody now except Patricia."

It was Amy Smith over again, but without consciousness of the
"green-eyed monster." Magda was seeing things solely from her own point
of view.

"Magda, are you an infant still?"

"No," shortly. "Only—I have looked forward—"

"I would not look forward any more in that spirit! I am sorry if my
happiness means disappointment to you. Why, I thought you would be
delighted—Patricia being your particular friend."

"I'm not."

"Don't make other people uncomfortable, pray, by treating them to a
November fog."

Magda was silent.

"Come—be brave and sensible," he urged. "Some friends are expected
there to tea this afternoon, and Patricia sent a particular message,
hoping that you would come."

She murmured something like assent, and he went away evidently
disappointed in her. No sooner was he gone, than she felt ashamed of
her own moodiness, realising that if she should show any slight to
Patricia, it could only end in a breach between herself and Rob.

The others were invited also; and not long after four o'clock they
arrived at Claughton. A goodly company was already assembled on the
large lawn, under shadow of some ancient cedars. It was a scene, and
Magda felt secretly grateful to Pen and her mother for not allowing her
to go in less than her "best," though she had flung out indignantly at
the interference after luncheon. In her then state of mind she had been
disposed to think that "anything" would do. Why bother to be smart?

Patricia, a dainty nymph in white and green, stood upon the grass,
dispensing smiles upon an admiring world. She was particularly gracious
to Mr. Royston—Mrs. Royston had not been able to come—and she welcomed
her future sisters-in-law with exactly the right degree of warmth,
kissing each lightly on the cheek, and paying chief attention to Pen as
the elder.

Pen and Mr. Royston stayed in the circle which surrounded Patricia; but
Magda fell back to a retired position, half sheltered by bushes. She
had no wish to remain prominently forward, under Rob's observation.

To her surprise, she saw Bee, apparently the centre of another little
circle, farther off; and Mrs. Major, looking distinguished in a rich
black silk, seated in the post of honour, and receiving pointed
attentions from Mr. and Mrs. Framley.

It was all oddly the reverse of what she had pictured so often in
earlier months, before the arrival of the Majors at Virginia Villa.

Her own inclination would have been to escape from the crowd
altogether; but that at present was out of the question. A fear of
annoying Rob restrained her.

But what to do with herself was the question. Plainly she was not
needed by Patricia; and having done her duty, she would not go forward
again. All the ladies were chatting together, and being waited on with
cups of tea by the limited number of masculine guests. There was no one
for whom Magda cared; and nobody who cared for her. So she told herself
rather dismally, as she stood apart, watching the people, listening to
the buzz of voices. Bee once had cared; and, but for her own folly,
Bee would undoubtedly care still, since hers was no changeable nature.
But things were altered. How could Magda expect that either Bee or her
mother would forget the manner in which she had treated them?

She was saying this to herself, when a hand touched hers, and she awoke
with a start, to find Bee's soft brown eyes looking into her own.

"Why did you not come to me, Magda? I could not get away sooner, but
I've been trying. Don't stay here all alone. Would you not like some
tea?"

"Oh, thanks—but it doesn't matter. I can get some for myself presently.
It's all right—don't bother about me, please." Magda was annoyed to
hear a tell-tale huskiness in her own voice. That would never do. She
pulled herself together, with an air of indifference. "The people over
there want you. Don't stay."

Bee kept her position, and Magda examined her with more attention.
She was very pretty, in her white embroidered frock and shady hat—so
pale and delicate featured, with marked dark brows and a gentle smile.
Yet there was something of sadness in those sweet eyes; and a wonder
assailed Magda—had she given serious pain to her friend by her recent
conduct?

"Bee, I want to talk with you some day," she broke out impulsively.
"Not here. Another time. I want to explain—"

"Any day. You are always welcome at our house. I think I pretty well
understand already. Don't you feel very glad about your brother?"

"Bee! How can I? When you know what I always expected!"

The words ended abruptly. Bee slipped her arm through Magda's, and led
her into a little side-path winding among trees.

"Come, shall we have a turn through the grounds? Tea will do presently.
Yes, I know you used to talk of keeping house for him some day. But
that was only a dream. One knew it might never come true. And surely
you must be glad about this—if it means his greater happiness. You—who
are so fond of your brother! How can you help being glad?"

She would not seem to see the struggle going on at her side. Magda was
in danger of a breakdown.

"Don't you see—" Bee went on—"that it is the right thing for him? If
she is the one woman who can fill his life and make him happy—then,
surely, he should marry. And you must wish the very best for him. Not
merely that you should have something that you would like, but that he
should live the fullest and most useful life possible. I don't know
Miss Vincent well yet; but one can't help admiring her. And he is
devoted to her—quite, quite devoted."

Magda muttered something indistinct, and they walked on in silence. On
one side of them the bushes grew thinner, and they saw a seat beyond,
with two ladies on it. As they passed, a voice remarked, low but
distinctly—

"All very well, my dear! This is the third! Patricia is never happy
long without a man at her apron-strings. But how long will it last?"

Bee hurried her companion on, making a slight stir; and the sound
ceased. Another ten seconds, and they were out of hearing.

"Patricia! The third!" repeated Magda.

"We were not meant to hear. People should be more careful."

"Who was it? Do you know the voice?"

Bee kept silence, for she did know. It was that of Patricia's aunt,
Mrs. Norman—the sister of Patricia's mother, whereas Mrs. Framley was
the sister of Patricia's father.

"Do you suppose it is true?"

"There is always gossip of the sort. We must forget it."

"You don't think I ought to tell Rob?"

"Certainly not. It is no business of ours. Magda, be wise—don't repeat
it to any human being. I shall not tell even my mother."

"But if it is true?"

"Miss Vincent may have been engaged before—and she may have found it
to be a mistake. Anyhow, one may always allow for exaggeration. Your
brother must find out for himself. Try to forget it, dear. No one can
see the two together without seeing how happy they are."

"Would Rob be happy if he thought this was true—if he were really the
third?"

"We have nothing whatever to do with that!" Then Bee began talking
about Wratt-Wrothesley and the house-party there. "Everybody admired
Miss Vincent," she said. "And everybody liked your brother. My aunts
were so grateful to him for what he did in the summer, when Mr. Ivor
had that terrible accident. He is one of their greatest friends; and
but for your brother, he never could have come through it."

"But it was partly you too, Bee."

"Oh, mine was the most commonplace help. I just looked through a
telescope and used ordinary sense. But Mr. Royston—think what it
meant for him to spend the whole night on those rocks, in such awful
cold—waiting for the morning. We all felt that he was a real hero."

"I suppose Mr. Ivor wasn't at Wratt-Wrothesley, too, when you were all
there."

"No." Bee spoke quietly, without the shadow of a sign that it meant
anything to her. "My aunts did invite him, but he said he could not
spare the time just then. He was going a little later."



CHAPTER XVII

ABOUT TRUE SERVICE

"I SHOULD like to get hold of that child. There is something out of
time in her life."

The Rev. Osborne Miles, Vicar of Burwood, stood on a side-path in his
garden, surveying with deep interest a group of seedlings, pushing
their way upward. After weeks of severe cold, a mild spell had set
in—quite time it should, people said, near the end of April—and the
Vegetable World was responding with vigour.

He had been presented to the living scarcely a year before this date,
and was therefore still "a new man" in Burwood. Thirty years of
strenuous toil in a murky manufacturing town, with a parish of twenty
thousand, had broken his health by the time he arrived at sixty; and
after much hesitation, and many regrets, he accepted a country cure.
Burwood, though called a "town," was to him absolute country. Sleepy
country too!

He did not look ill, as he stood with squared shoulders and vigorous
mien—being a man of natural energy, and one who would never, at his
physical worst, carry himself with limp dejection. Strong in build,
deliberate and capable in movement, with abundant grey hair and
searching eyes beneath overhanging brows, he was not one to be easily
overcome; but two years earlier he had been brought by long strain to
the lowest possible ebb of vitality. Yet he rallied; and though sternly
prohibited by doctors from returning to his old and beloved sphere, he
never dreamt of leading an idle existence. So the Burwood offer was
accepted.

One thing he found here which, through all his strenuous existence,
he had thirsted for—a garden. The old Vicarage, built of the same
dull-hued local stone as the ancient Church, stood in an acre of ground
well laid out. He could at last freely indulge his passion for flowers.

Of course, even in quiet Burwood, his time was much taken up; but after
the life he had lived, this by comparison was ease. He found time for
everything, and for his garden besides—especially on Monday, always
counted as far as possible an "off-day;" and this was Monday.

After working among thousands of men, it was a change to find himself
chiefly concerned with elderly ladies, spinsters or otherwise. Not
all elderly. There were many girls in the place; and he studied them
with interest. They belonged to such a different type from the young
business-women and rough mill-girls, among whom he had worked hitherto.
The mild futility of existence among many of them aroused his wonder.
It seemed so inadequate a use of life!

"What do they do with themselves?" he one day asked his wife.

"A good many things, dear. They go to tennis-parties—and play
hockey—and bicycle and skate. A few of them hunt."

"You are talking of amusements. What work do they do?"

"Some don't do any work. Some are busy at home. Some have classes in
the Sunday-school—or help in other ways with parish doings. Some make
their own blouses."

The Vicar heard this in silence and went on studying the problem.
He was gradually individualising Burwood folks; and lately he had
individualised Magda Royston. The church was free-seated; but the
Roystons had their own position, just in front of the pulpit, and he
had early noted a fresh girlish face, with its rather unusual mass
of reddish hair, and with a bright brisk bearing. Then he observed
a change. The bright face grew dull; the spirited pose spiritless.
Something was wrong with her, he decided; and he went to call, but
failed to find the object of his solicitude.

Two Sundays back his attention had been awakened anew. Talking to
his people of life, its claims, its duties, its abuses, he saw that
listless face lifted, and a look of interest dawn.

"The child wants a helping hand," he thought. "I must get hold of her."
But he had not yet succeeded.

"Osborne," called a cheery voice; and his wife came across the wet
lawn—a charming little woman, fresh as a daisy, despite years in a
manufacturing town; supremely neat in dress, and supremely happy in
look, with smiling eyes and ready laugh. They had been married ten
years, and were lovers still, though she was a good twenty-five years
his junior.

"You are wanted, dear."

"Generally the case on Monday."

"I know. You ought to be left in peace. But I did not like to suggest
another time. Girls are cranky beings."

"You speak of them from personal experience."

"Yes, I do. I was cranky at her age—always ready to be rubbed up the
wrong way."

Mr. Miles did not count this conclusive as to girls in general, though
he forbore to say so. He seldom argued with a woman.

"And if ever I had screwed up my courage to the point of wanting an
interview with a clergyman, and had been turned away, I should never
have gone again."

"I see. Who is it?"

"One of the Royston girls. The red-haired one."

"She has asked for me?"

"She brings a packet from her father; and she said—might she give it
herself?"

"All right. Send her here."

A very clear sense came over the Vicar that he had had this girl not
only in his thoughts but in his prayers.

"My dear—the grass is wet."

"Nothing but dew. It's delicious."

She tripped lightly off; and the Vicar waited till Magda approached—shy
at coming, and half disposed to bolt at the last moment. He saw so
much. Also, from long experience, he at once recognised that she had
something in her mind, which she wanted to bring out.

"How do you do? All well at home?" Though the words were commonplace,
his strong hand closed round hers with a fatherly grip which won her
confidence on the spot. "I'm glad you have found your way to us. It is
time that I should know you better."

She said only "Yes," but there was evident pleasure.

"Fond of flowers?" He drew her attention to a fine bloom. "Is not that
a marvel of colouring? Something in the arrangement of those petals
speaks of a Mind behind—controlling. A garden has much to say to us, if
we will but listen. We don't always."

"I suppose we don't always understand the garden-language," she
suggested.

He stooped to gather a daisy from the lawn. "Did you ever come across
those lines?—"

   "'Small service is true service while it lasts;
     The daisy by the shadow that it casts
     Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.'"

"And here is the dewdrop—see! Able to last till now, because of the
daisy-shelter. I have taken the daisy away for another and a higher
purpose. But it did its little work first."

"Why higher?"

"It has sheltered a drop of water. Now it serves to illustrate a great
truth. That is the more important."

"I see-yes. Was the other worth doing?"

"Certainly—if that was its appointed task."

"Things like that seem so small—as if it were all the same, whether
they are done or not done."

"Ah, that is the mistake often made. Nothing in life is so small, that
its doing or not doing does not matter. Everything is part of one grand
whole. That gives dignity to the smallest duty."

"I suppose—" and she broke off. "Oh, it doesn't matter."

"Perhaps it does matter. What is your trouble, my child?" And the kind
penetrating eyes studied her.

"I can't see what work there is for me. I couldn't take a district.
Father says I'm too young—and, besides, I shouldn't know how to manage
it. I did think of a class in the Sunday-school. But I hate teaching.
And mother is so afraid of infection for Merryl and Frip."

"What about home duties?"

"Pen sees to all that."

"Leaving nothing for you?"

Magda did not at once reply. A recollection came up of sharp complaints
from her father.

"I can't see that there is anything for me to do—worth doing!" she said
at length. "Nor anything worth living for."

"Child!"—and he spoke in a moved tone. "Life is always worth living—in
God! Everything is worth doing—in Christ our Lord."

"But if there really is nothing?" she insisted.

"If you have absolutely no direct work now, you must wait in patience,
and train yourself for the future. You must educate your powers—make
yourself ready for what may come by-and-by. Preparation for work is, in
its way, as important as the work itself. The preparation in some cases
lasts for years; the work itself lasts but a short time. That does not
matter. All that matters is that we should be doing whatever God gives
us to do, in simple obedience and love."

"And suppose one worked hard for years and years—trying to make
ready—and nothing ever came of it?"

"Something will certainly come of it—in this life or in the next. No
true work for God is ever thrown away."

"I don't see what I'm to do. It all seems so difficult." She sighed
despondently.

"Don't be in too much of a hurry to see your way. Only make the best
possible use of your days meanwhile. There is always something to be
done for somebody. The smallest service may be 'true service while
it lasts.'" Mr. Miles pulled out his watch. He knew that he had said
enough. "Ah—I must be on the move. But come again soon. You will find
my wife indoors."

He went with her; and as they met Mrs. Miles, she said—

"A letter from Lance. He wants to pay us a visit."

"He is always welcome. How soon?"

"In a week or ten days. I'm afraid he'll find it dull."

"Ivor's not given to dulness." The Vicar vanished, and Magda asked in
an interested tone—

"Is that the Mr. Ivor who fell into the crevasse? Do you know him? His
name is Lancelot, I'm sure."

"We are first cousins; and he has always been like a younger brother to
me. He is a dear fellow."

"I've never seen him, but he is Rob's friend."

"Yes, he has spoken of your brother. Come and see his likeness."

She went into the dining-room, and produced a framed photograph, which
the girl studied.

"What a fine face!" she said. Then putting it down, she took up a
second, asking—"And who is this?"

"Another cousin of mine; on my mother's side. Lance is on my father's."

"He isn't so handsome. I seem to know the face."

"Ned never had much to boast of in the way of looks. He is a dear,
kind-hearted fellow; always ready to do anything he can for any human
being. So Is Lance, for the matter of that!"

"I wonder if I ever saw him," murmured Magda. "Perhaps he is like
somebody I know." She turned away, remarking—"I once had a friend
called Ned; but I haven't seen him for years. Not since I was eleven
and he was seventeen. He never wrote."

"I'm afraid your friend was rather fickle."

Magda took up the photograph anew, and after a fresh scrutiny she
glanced at the back.

"Why!" she cried. "It is! It's the same. It is Ned Fairfax!"

"Certainly; that is Ned Fairfax."

"But he used to be my friend. The only friend I ever made before I
went to school. He and I were immense chums. How funny! Oh, how funny!
I didn't even know where he was. We were always getting together,
and I was a sort of pet of his for more than three years. I told him
everything."

"How amusing! Now I think of it, his mother lived here for three or
four years, when she first became a widow. He used to go to a school
two miles off. I was sorry she did not send him to a public school.
Still, he has turned out a good fellow; not so brilliant as Lance."

"We used to write just at first; and then he left off. People said he
would, of course, because he was a boy. But it made me miserable. I
dare say he has forgotten all about me now. I should like to see him
again."

"You are pretty sure to do that. He visits us at least once a year."

"Oh, how droll to come across him like this!" Magda said again.



CHAPTER XVIII

TAKEN BY SURPRISE

IT had dawned upon Magda that the home-life of Beatrice Major was
not quite so smooth and easy, as an outsider might imagine. Bee said
nothing to lead to this impression; but it came into being.

Mrs. Major was socially delightful; "so distinguished and patrician!"
Somebody said this; and the phrase "caught on." The Burwood ladies went
about, remarking one to another—"what a very distinguished person dear
Mrs. Major was; so very patrician, you know!"

But to be never so distinguished and patrician does not mean of
necessity that the possessor of those adjectives must be always easy to
get on with.

She certainly had plenty of originality, with a goodly allowance of
brains, and really fine principles. But she was a woman very much
accustomed to have her own way; and she expected to have it. She
was sensible, even wise; and the "way" that she wanted might, more
frequently than not, be both wise and sensible. Yet at times one would
rather be free to go one's own foolish way than be forced, against
one's will, into paths of wisdom.

If this was the state of things with people in general, much more was
it so with her only daughter. She indeed had shaped and ordered Bee's
life in true "absolute monarchy" style. Of the mother's devotion to the
daughter, there could be no question; and the love was warmly returned.
Yet even Bee, with all her innate and cultured gentleness, did crave
for a trifle more liberty.

Despite her twenty-one years, she was treated precisely as a child in
the school-room. She had an allowance; but she was expected to consult
her mother about every shilling that she spent. She might not go out
for a walk without asking leave. Her ways of thinking were naturally
much the same as Mrs. Major's; but if on any point she differed—and, of
course, she did sometimes differ—she was at once suppressed. She might
not act for herself, might not think for herself. In Mrs. Major's eyes
she was a child still, and likely to remain so.

"Bee, I couldn't stand it in your place! I really couldn't!" Magda
broke out one day. Of late Magda had taken to going often in and out
of Virginia Villa, where she could always be sure of a welcome. Her
friendship with Patricia had dwindled into small dimensions. Patricia
had a fancy for Pen, and the two were much together, while Magda was
treated with kindness as a younger sister, for whom Patricia found
scant leisure. In disgust, she threw up the attempt to see more of her
former idol, and fled for comfort to the earlier companionship.

Bee never showed the slightest umbrage at thus acting as a pis-aller.
Magda one day tried lamely to explain and excuse her own past conduct;
and Bee listened, with patient attention, till the explanation broke
down. After all, there was little to be said, except that Magda had
not been faithful to her friend. But Bee did not seem to mind. She
was gently affectionate as ever, though with a difference. She no
longer "worshipped the ground" on which Magda walked. Rather she
took her stand as the elder of the two, and was kind, solicitous,
sympathetic—but independent. Her happiness rested no longer on
Magda's smiles or frowns. While she still loved, it was with love of
a different quality. She had been disappointed in Magda; and nothing
could reinstate Magda in the old position, for no explanations could do
away with facts.

On this particular day, Bee had just had a decided set-down from
her mother on some little point of variance; and Mrs. Major, having
administered the snub, without any conception that it was a snub, took
herself smilingly off. So soon as the two girls were alone Magda broke
out as above.

"Yes, you would. What does it matter? Mother is so good to me always.
It is only just—not arguing."

"I don't see why you are never to have an opinion of your own."

"Nobody can help my having an opinion of my own."

"Only you've got to smother it down! I've always thought I was pretty
closely kept in—but it's nothing to what you are. And you know how
girls do have their way now—in some houses."

"I wonder if they are the happier for it—really!"

"Anyhow, they like it. Wouldn't you?"

Bee worked steadily in silence. She had clever hands and often made her
own dresses. A half-completed blouse lay on her knees.

"Perhaps I might," she said at length. "But one can't always have
everything one likes."

"If you stood up for yourself a little more, things would be different."

Bee shook her head. "It isn't my way," she said.

After a break, she began again—"And, besides, don't you sometimes
think, Magda, of how things will look by-and-by—as the years go on?"

"How things will look!"

"Yes. Don't you see what I mean? I'll tell you. I knew a girl near
my home, three years ago, who had home troubles. They were real
troubles—not easy to bear, I dare say. But she fought for her own way;
and she said hard things to her mother, and was so cold to her—I've
seen her refuse to give a kiss! And then, quite suddenly, the mother
died. There was no warning at all—it was all in a moment. No time for
any last words or explanations. And I never can forget that girl's
misery—how she reproached herself, and how she would have given all
she had for just one word—just to be able to have one kiss, and to beg
for forgiveness. For she knew then what the mother's love had really
been all through—even though there had been little difficulties, and
perhaps some things rather hard to bear. And I made up my mind that I
would never be in her position—that I wouldn't let myself mind too much
about little worries—and most of all that I would never, never treat my
mother coldly. For I know how she loves me."

"I suppose one ought to feel like that—more than one does," observed
Magda. Conscience gave a sharp little prick. "Well, I must be going.
Oh, by-the-by, what do you think Mrs. Miles told me yesterday?"

"I don't know. You like Mrs. Miles?"

"I like her immensely. And him too. They are dears!" Magda spoke with
enthusiasm. Bee had noted the beginning of this new friendship; and
not being of a jealous temperament, she was honestly pleased at what
seemed likely to make Magda more happy. The last two or three weeks a
change had been visible in the latter, a return of vitality, a dawning
of fresh interests, and a lessening of the dull indifference which had
followed upon Rob's engagement.

"Mother thinks them delightful," she said.

"Oh, they are. I've been twice to tea lately, and I'm going again
to-morrow—to help Mrs. Miles with some work. And only think, Bee—she is
a cousin of that Mr. Ivor who fell into the chasm last summer. And he
is coming to pay them a visit."

Bee, taken by surprise, sent up a startled glance, and flushed
brightly. She so seldom changed colour, that Magda came to a stop, with
arrested attention.

"Is he? How curious!"

"Why—curious? Quite natural that he should come, if they are cousins."

"Yes. I meant, it is curious that they should be related."

"Mrs. Miles is very fond of him. She says he is such a good
fellow—always so kind and thoughtful about other people, and he never
minds what trouble he takes to help anybody. She has always been his
favourite cousin—a sort of elder sister, because he never had any
sisters of his own. She must be a good many years older than he is."

"She will be very pleased to have him." Bee spoke the words quietly,
but she did not feel quiet. Her pulse and her thoughts were running
riot together.

Was he coming—could he be coming—because he knew that she was here?
Did he care—ever so little—for seeing her again? No—no—she answered
resolutely—no chance of such a thing! He had given her no reason
whatever to think so, when they were together. He had made no effort
to see more of her. He had shown no particular feeling beyond simple
gratitude for what she had done. She might not allow herself to indulge
in dreams. Yet, even as she so replied, the eager questioning leapt up
anew, asking with insistent loudness—was it, was it, quite impossible
that he might find a pleasure in meeting her once more? She had tried
so hard not to dwell upon recollections of him, and had counted herself
successful on the whole. Yet now, at the first mention of his name, at
the mere thought of seeing his face, she was stirred to the depths.

"Bee, what are you thinking about? You have such a colour! I never saw
you look so pretty."

Bee woke up to the fact that she was not alone. Actually, she had
forgotten Magda's presence. The latter was examining her with puzzled
eyes.

"What are you thinking about? Are you so glad that Mr. Ivor is coming?"

Bee pulled herself together instantly. She did wish that every pulse in
her frame would not clang at such a furious rate; yet she spoke in a
voice of entire composure.

"I've met him twice. He was very pleasant both times. Of course, it
will be nice to see him again—and nice for you too, as he is your
brother's friend. Did I tell you that Amy Smith is coming to us?"

"No, I don't remember?"

"We expect her early next week."

"Why Mr. Ivor comes next week too. I'm not sure which day. The place
will be quite lively. Well, I suppose I ought to be off. Mother told me
to be back early."

Magda vanished; and Bee sat deep in thought, thankful to be alone.

Would the two visits clash—that of Ivor and that of Amy? Bee shivered
under the possibility. It was one thing to turn aside Magda's
attention. It would be quite another thing to encounter Amy's
preternaturally sharp observation.

She might meet Mr. Ivor happily alone, when Amy was not there! But
suppose he should come to call, and Amy should be present!—noting her
every look, her every change of expression!

The Hut scene was again before her mind's eyes, vividly as if at that
moment it was being enacted. She heard again her own talk with Amy; saw
herself stand up in displeasure; caught afresh the words called out as
she retreated—

"Much better confess that your poor little heart has been taken
captive! I have it now! Of course—it's that Mr. Ivor! Wretched man, to
rob me of my Bee!"

Words which—if Ivor chanced to be awake—could not fail to reach his
ears! In which case he could say nothing!

At the time she had met this knowledge calmly. The after terror for his
life had dwarfed its importance; and when he was safe, the after joy
and relief carried her through their first meeting.

But now, at the thought of again seeing him, she was far more keenly
affected by this realisation of what he might have overheard. Fear had
her in its grip lest, when in his presence, she should fail to hold
herself well in leash. How if he were indifferent, and if she should
betray the fact that she was not indifferent? How if some look or word
of hers should reveal that Amy's utterance had been true, while yet he
could not respond? It would be too dreadful.

Extreme care would be necessary, not to go one inch farther than she
intended—or than he would go. She Would have to be simple, natural,
easy, kind—no more. And with Amy present, the difficulty would be
magnified tenfold.

Till this hour she had not known the strength of the hold that he had
upon her; the overwhelming intensity of her love for him. Would she
have power to go through such an ordeal, and to emerge triumphant?

Bee almost felt that she could not endure the strain—that she must
somehow make her escape.

But if he did care—if he were coming with the expectation of seeing
her—how could she be absent?



CHAPTER XIX

IF HE SHOULD COME!

"BEE, I'm wondering—is it one-tenth, one-hundredth part as much to you
as it is to me—my being here?"

The words broke into a long silence, rousing Beatrice out of her dream;
by no means the first of the kind since Amy Smith's arrival two days
before.

They were together in the little morning-room of Virginia Villa,
sometimes called "The Green Room," because of its prevailing tint. It
was a foggy afternoon, not tempting out-of-doors. Mrs. Major had an
engagement, so the two were alone; and in the midst of a lengthy talk
about "old days," Bee had dropped out of it, forgetting to answer Amy's
last remark, leaning a little forward, her eyes fixed on the fire, lost
in a vision, which seemed to be half-sad, half-glad, but certainly
profound.

Amy knew that she herself had no share in this dream. Somebody else
reigned there, and she was forgotten. She saw far more than Magda in
her place would have seen. In her passionate devotion to Bee, she had
accustomed herself to read each turn of expression, each inflection
of voice. It was pathetic, this intensity of her love for the younger
girl; for she paid away her whole self, and Bee could not give back an
equivalent. Amy Smith, however estimable and good and unselfish—and in
the main she was all these,—just did not possess that undefinable gift,
the power to win great love. All that Bee was able to give in return
was a kind and sincere affection.

Perhaps for the first time, as she sat gazing this afternoon upon
Bee's absorbed face, Amy realised it. As the outcome of her troubled
realisation, she broke into the above words. Bee, wrenched back to the
present, lifted startled eyes.

"Why—of course—"

"There's no 'of course' in the matter. Are you glad to have me? Do
you really care? Would it have been better, if I had not come? Tell
me—truly. Shall I go back to-morrow?"

"Amy, what nonsense! How can you say such things?"

"Because I think them! Because I never have any secrets from you.
Because I don't choose to live in a Fool's Paradise! There are fifty
'becauses,' any one of which will do. But most of all, because it
is so much to me to be with you again; and I should like—foolishly,
perhaps—selfishly no doubt—to be sure that you are the least little
bit glad to be with me. Are you glad—honestly glad? I want the truth,
please."

An embarrassing question! Bee had so wished that Amy's visit could have
been delayed, just until Ivor's was over. Only that; no more. It was
not that she did not wish to have her old friend, but that she dreaded
the conjunction of the two. All day she saw Ivor with her mental
vision, pictured their first encounter, and longed-for, yet feared the
moment. And Amy was here—to look on! That alone was what she craved to
alter. She was not and could not be glad to have Amy this particular
week. Any other week—only not this. For sole answer, she put her hand
on Amy's arm.

"Yes; I know. I'm unreasonable. All the same, remember—I had you
for years and years; and nothing ever came between us. If ever the
Green-eyed Monster had a valid excuse, I do think he has with me. It
isn't as if I had dozens of friends, like some people,—or as if new
ones with me could be more than the old ones. But circumstances are
different. Once in love, I suppose everything else goes down before it.
Do you think I don't know what is in your mind, when you look as you
did just now? Know! I should think I did. It's—Mr. Ivor!"

"I would rather talk of something else, please."

"No earthly use. You can't think of anything else."

"You make me sorry I ever let you know that I had any sort of
feeling—of that kind!"

"You didn't, my dear child! I found it out for myself—in spite of all
you could do."

Bee's pale cheeks were slightly flushed. "And if I had not found it
out before, I should find it out now. You are different—different
altogether from the Bee of old. Do you think I don't see? Do you think
I don't feel? You are away from us all—living in a separate world
of your own. Oh, I don't complain. It's natural, I suppose,—and you
are just as sweet and kind and thoughtful as ever. There's nothing
to complain of—only—you are not here! Nothing is anything to you,
except—Of course I see! Bee—look at me." She took possession of the
slight hand, lying near, and was instantly aware of the hurried throb
of Bee's pulse. "Look at me! I want to see into your eyes."

Bee obeyed gravely, but withdrew her hand. "Amy, if you want to make me
really sorry to have you—you will go on saying this sort of thing."

There was a short silence. Amy was a good deal surprised, and her
little snub nose reddened.

"You are developing," she said at length, with a touch of constraint.
"I never knew you to take quite such a tone before."

"Was I unkind? I am sorry." Bee spoke with difficulty. "I did not mean
to give you pain."

"I suppose all is fair in love and war—but you are older."

"Of course I am older. What else can you expect?"

"I didn't expect that, somehow. I thought my Bee would be my Bee still.
And she isn't. She is—some one else's Bee now. There's nothing of you
left for me."

"Indeed there is, Amy. I never could alter to old friends. How can you
suspect me of such a thing?"

"I don't suspect. I know. It's not that you are changed to me, but that
you are changed in yourself. You can't help it. You are another being.
Quite as dear and sweet as the old Bee, but not the same."

"I'm sorry. I'll try to be my old self. We'll go back to what we were
talking about. It was—" She stopped, in perplexity.

"Yes. Go on. It was—"

"I don't quite remember."

"No, of course you don't. Well—if we are to drop the subject of that
individual—how I detest the man! Suppose you tell me about your friend,
Magda. Are you as absorbed in her as ever?"

"Was I absorbed in her?"

"Every letter that you wrote from school rang with 'Magda' all through.
I don't notice her name so often now. But then—you are no longer a
school-girl. Do you like her as much as ever?"

"I'm very fond of Magda—really. There's so much that is fine in
her. I think she's going through a sort of phase that girls do go
through—she's unsettled, and never certain what to do with herself or
her time. But she will come through. She does really wish to be useful."

"You might be King Solomon, my dear! It wasn't your way in the past
to analyse her, as if you were her granny. You tried to give me the
impression that she was a perfectly angelic being. I have always wanted
to make her acquaintance."

"So you can. There she is!"

"Not coming here! What a plague! I did think I should have you to
myself for this one afternoon."

Bee did not echo the regret.

Magda entered briskly, looking her best. She had for once arranged
well her mass of reddish-gold hair; and the quick walk had given her a
bright colour; and her golden-brown eyes had their happy light, often
lacking in less cheerful moods.

"Bee—" she cried, and stopped at sight of a stranger. "Oh, I forgot!"
As it recurred to her mind that Bee had expected a friend.

Bee performed the introduction, and the two shook hands, each
critically scanning the other.

"What a plain uninteresting person!" was Magda's inward comment.

"Shouldn't have thought her the sort of girl to suit Bee!" Amy
voicelessly said.

"I'm afraid I'm interrupting."

"Not at all. Do stay to tea with us. Mother is out for the afternoon."
The words had no sooner passed Bee's lips than she wished them unsaid.
She had carefully refrained from saying aught to Amy about Ivor's
presence at the Vicarage; and Magda might bring it up. But the thing
was done. Already Magda was accepting the invitation.

Bent on keeping clear of the one topic, Bee threw herself into
conversation, taking the lead in an unwonted fashion, bringing up
everything she could think of to interest her companions. For a time
she was successful, though Amy looked curiously at her, and Magda more
than once sought to introduce something of which her mind was full.
Three times she tried in vain. But a slight pause at length occurred,
when tea was brought in, and Magda used her chance.

"I've just been to the Vicarage, Bee. I had to leave some cards that I
had been copying out for Mrs. Miles. And—"

"You are always going there now, dear, are you not?"

"Well, sometimes. Not always. I like going, and I like them. And I saw
your friend. He arrived late last night."

"Did you? What will you have? Cake or bread-and-butter? Did I show you
this photo of our house, Magda? It was taken the other day by a passing
photographer—as a specimen of Burwood architecture." She tried to laugh.

Magda glanced casually at the proffered view. "Yes—very good. Bee, I
like your friend. He is a handsome man. I never saw a handsomer, I do
think. And awfully nice too!"

It was useless to resist. The situation had to be accepted. But Bee
found it difficult. She was seated facing the light; and she knew that
Amy's eyes were full upon her.

"Yes, he is nice," she said quietly. "You don't take sugar, do you,
Amy? I haven't quite forgotten your tastes, you see. I can recommend
these cakes."

"So—that is the meaning of the dreaminess," thought Amy, in a flash of
comprehension. She instantly recognised that the 'friend' must be Ivor.
But she would not spare Bee, feeling vexed that she had not been told
of his coming, and she asked pointedly: "A friend! What friend? Who did
you say it was?"

Magda answered this. "Why—Mr. Ivor. The one who fell into the
bergshrund last summer—don't you remember? Rob always declares that Bee
saved his life; and Mr. Ivor says the same. He says that but for her he
wouldn't be alive now. I should be awfully proud in your place, Bee."

"I don't see what I have to be proud of. It was little enough that I
did."

"Other folks didn't think so at the time," remarked Amy. "If you had
seen her, Miss Royston—simply glued to the telescope for hours! Nothing
would induce her to budge, till she had spotted the climbers. I should
never have thought of staying. But then—they were not friends of mine!
Don't you see? That makes all the difference."

"How horrid of me! How small of me!" Amy said to herself, as these
words slipped out. She knew that she had said them in revenge, because
Bee had not informed her of Ivor's coming.

"But, Bee—that was before you had seen Rob. You didn't know him then!"

A slight clash of the milk-jug against a cup showed that Bee's hand was
trembling. It seemed hard that Amy, her own old friend, should make
things more difficult for her!

"No," she said. "But I knew that he was your brother!"

"And you knew Mr. Ivor?"

"I had met him—once."

At this moment, of all moments, came a ring at the front door. Bee
instantly guessed—nay, knew, as a matter of certainty—who the caller
was; and her inward trembling increased. She was not surprised when the
door opened, and the little maid announced—

"Mr. Ivor."



CHAPTER XX

THROUGH AN ORDEAL

IT was a severe trial for Bee. Amy there—Magda there—both looking
on critically; one certainly knowing, and the other possibly
half-suspecting, what she felt for him; while she had no knowledge
whether his feelings for her went beyond ordinary friendliness, and
gratitude for the part she had played in his rescue. That in some
measure, he owed his life to her, none seemed to question. Under the
circumstances, a call from him, when he happened to be in the place,
was only to be expected, and might mean absolutely nothing.

Had she been alone, or with her mother only, she could have met him
again as before—perhaps not quite so easily as then, yet with much
the same simplicity. But Amy had been putting her to a severe strain.
Already her heart beat fast, and her cheeks were flushed. If she
allowed herself to show pleasure, there was danger that she might
show overmuch pleasure; and those watching eyes would see! If she
smiled in his face, she would be taxed afterwards with undue warmth.
Besides—if he indeed had overheard Amy's words outside the Hut, he
would understand only too well.

These thoughts rushed pell-mell through her mind, as she stood up
to greet him. She knew that there was nothing for the emergency
but self-restraint and composure. And in her present condition of
overstrain, such composure could hardly fail to be over-done.

He came in quickly; looking well and handsome; and very glad, it would
seem, to see her again. If so, he met with an immediate check. Bee
received him coldly, distantly, as she might have received the veriest
stranger. As he passed the door, the pretty flush in her cheeks died
out, leaving her pale and apparently unmoved; and her chill quiet might
easily be mistaken for utter indifference. Could he have seen the surge
of joy which swelled below at the first glimpse of his face, he would
not have been so taken in. Yet her eyes scarcely met his; and his warm
grasp found limp fingers.

She overdid it completely, as many a woman in like circumstances is apt
to do. And he had not the clue.

His own mind by this time was made up. He had thought incessantly of
Bee, had grown more and more impatient to see her again, had craved
to know her better. For the purpose of so doing, he had proposed this
visit to the Vicarage. Her gentleness, her thought for others, had left
a powerful impression; and he had begun to know that she was necessary
to his happiness. More perhaps than aught else, the semi-consciousness
that he might already be enshrined in that girlish heart recurred again
and again, with an ever-growing sense of restful delight.

And now he was flung back on himself, and was made to feel that he had
been all along cherishing a delusion.

She introduced him to her friends, then returned to the tea-tray,
and busied herself with downcast eyes, leaving Magda to do the
entertaining—a task which Magda was not slow to take up. Ivor
submitted to what Bee apparently desired, though he sent more than one
questioning glance towards that still face, wondering what it meant.
Once she met his gaze; and a throbbing tide of joy swelled up, so
fiercely that she dared not let herself meet it a second time.

She found him suddenly by her side, holding a cup and saucer. "For Miss
Royston," he said. And then—"Are you thinking of Switzerland again next
summer?"

"No—I am afraid not." She spoke in a low suppressed voice. "Not—likely.
I hope you have quite got over—that night—no ill effects!"

"None at all, thanks."

"No sugar, I suppose," Bee remarked, with a glance towards Magda. Then
she felt that she was restraining herself too much, was going farther
than necessity imposed, and she lifted one eager wistful look—but too
late. He had turned away, and was carrying the tea to Magda, beside
whom he again seated himself.

The two were soon in a full swing of talk; for Magda liked Ivor, and
found him entertaining. Besides, he was Rob's particular friend, which
made a link and supplied a topic; and she could talk well enough, when
she chose to take the trouble. She did choose to-day.

They got upon the subject of mountain-climbing; and since most of his
ascents had been done in company with Rob, she was delighted to draw
from him tales of difficult passages and hair-breadth escapes. He was
not a man to say much ordinarily about his own doings; but this meant
telling about Rob to Rob's sister, which made a difference.

Amy listened with dissatisfied annoyance. She might be vexed and
jealous with Bee; she might even stoop to a momentary revenge; but
she did not wish her darling to be unhappy, or to be ousted by "this
red-haired upstart of a school-girl," as she contemptuously stigmatised
Magda in her mind. Yet, looking on, she knew that the "red-haired
school-girl" was not without charm, and also that Ivor was not
unconscious of that charm. There was a touch of unwonted brightness
about Magda, both in colouring and in manner; and the contrast of Bee's
impassive pallor was marked.

Now and again the latter made some slight remark, just enough for
politeness, and no more. Amy grew annoyed. Why did not Bee exert
herself to be agreeable? Why leave the field clear for "that conceited
child"? Amy had abundance of adjectives at command, and she often found
them a relief to her feelings.

"I should just love to go up a Swiss mountain," Magda was saying. "No,
I've never been to Switzerland. I've done some scrambling on English
cliffs and places, with Rob—and once he took me to Scotland, and we had
some real climbs there. That was three years ago. Only rocky places—not
ice and snow."

"Rock-climbing may be quite as difficult, and may need as much care.
There is many an English rock-face, where a slip might be as fatal as
on a Swiss mountain."

"Only it doesn't sound so grand. That climb of Bee and Miss Smith last
year sounds much more than what I did with Rob in Scotland—but I don't
believe it was really. When they went to the Hut, I mean."

They both looked towards Bee, and she said mechanically—

"No, I dare say not."

"It was fortunate for me that Miss Major should have undertaken the
expedition," observed Ivor.

"If I had not, somebody else would have been there," Bee murmured; and
Amy put in an impulsive word, kindly meant—

"My dear, nobody else would have been likely to glue herself to the
telescope for hours, as you did: You should have seen her—" this was
addressed direct to Ivor—"hour after hour, watching and watching.
Nothing would make her stir, when once she settled in her mind that
you were in danger. She held on 'like grim death,' no matter what
the guides or I might say." It suddenly dawned upon Amy that the
"you" which she perhaps meant in the plural might be taken as in
the singular; and she made matters worse by hastily adding, as an
after-thought, and with a little laugh—"Of course I mean—you both—you
and Mr. Royston."

Then she knew that she had doubly blundered; that it would have been
far better if she had said nothing. Ivor for a moment was perfectly
still, looking down; and it was Bee who broke silence, in her quietest
tones—

"I don't see that any one else in my place could have done differently."

"No—perhaps not! Oh, well—I suppose it was just a sort of instinct,"
explained Amy, feeling guilty.

"And a most kind benevolence towards two fellow-climbers in
difficulties," Ivor added.

He stood up then to say good-bye; and Bee did not relax. She longed
to do so, longed at this last moment to infuse some warmth into her
manner. But Amy's latest interference had made it impossible. She felt
frozen and rigid. Good-byes were quickly over; and he spoke no word of
seeing her again. His manner too was cold by this time.

As he walked back to the Vicarage, he was conscious of deep
disappointment. Bee had been perpetually in his thoughts of late. He
had dwelt upon her constantly in imagination; and—much more than he
was aware of till this hour—he had counted on the truth of Amy Smith's
assertion. He had believed that Bee would be easily won, that she was
at least disposed to care for him.

All that was at an end. She did not care; she felt no pleasure in
meeting him. Recalling again the Hut scene, he realised how easily he
might have misunderstood or exaggerated the meaning of the speech he
had overheard—also how, even if Bee had been a trifle touched, she
might by this time have lost the slight impression once made.

It was quite evident that she did not care any longer. No girl could
put on so icy a manner towards a man whom she loved. So he told
himself—little knowing! He could imagine no cause for such a manner,
save one—indifference! Probably, she felt that she had been too kind to
him at the time of his accident, and she wished to make him see that
clearly.

If so, she had succeeded. He did see. He had no further expectations.
The dream was dead. He wished that he had not come to Burwood.



CHAPTER XXI

AND AFTERWARDS

BEE went quietly through the rest of the day, saying little, doing all
that was needful. She looked white, Amy thought. But any attempt at
confidential talk, any reference to the past scene, on the part of the
elder, was decisively checked by the younger girl. For once, Amy found
herself powerless.

Mrs. Major did not seem to remark anything unusual; and the hours wore
away tardily. How tardily, how drearily, with Bee, Amy might have seen.
She was no longer a young girl herself; but she had known something
of life. She had had her own love-affair, many years back, caring too
much for one who did not care for her; and this ought to have given her
power, to read and sympathise. But she had found consolation in that
past trouble, by pouring her rejected devotion upon Bee; and somehow,
though she did see something, she failed to estimate fully.

Bedtime came; and Bee was alone. At last!

She had longed for this moment, through those leaden hours of the
interminable evening. Till now she had not dared to let herself think.
A heavy weight pressed upon her; but she might not analyse it. She
could only struggle on, minute by minute, holding herself in with a
firm hand.

The others had gone to bed; and her door was locked; and she no longer
feared interruption. She stood in the middle of her pretty room, dazed
and motionless; her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on a far distance.

She was seeing again, hearing again, all that had gone on that
afternoon; feeling again her own coldness to him; enduring again that
terrible strain, and the sense that she might not, could not, let
herself go—that she might not, could not, let him see what his coming
was to her.

And she had driven him away; had rebuffed and repelled him; had made
him think that she did not care, that he was nothing to her. She had
read in his face, that he understood it so. He would never get over it.
He would never again come forward. She had ruined her happiness, once
and for all!

It had been unavoidable. Not knowing what he felt, and recalling what
he might have overheard, how could she take any forward step? Things
might have been so different—but for Amy! Magda mattered less. Magda
saw little below the surface. She could have managed Magda. But Amy—her
life-long friend and devotee, Amy who professed to love her more than
any other—Amy had done this. Amy had worked the mischief. Amy had
laughed at her; had twice said the wrong thing at the critical moment;
had upset her self-control; had interfered unkindly, when she might
have helped; had driven her into doing that which had destroyed her
hope, that which had spoilt her life. If Amy had not been there, or if
Amy had acted otherwise, when he came in, she might have met him so
differently!

Bee was startled at the force of her own passionate resentment, under
this consciousness. Hers was not a resentful nature. That, is to say,
it was not one of those natures which are for ever taking offence at
nothings, being annoyed at little things. But if resentment were once
aroused in her, it was no light matter—just because such arousing was
so rare, and would never be without some real cause. To-day it had been
aroused, intensely, deeply. Her whole being as she stood in the centre
of her room, seemed to swell and surge in vehement bitter wrath. How
could she ever forgive this—this which meant the wrecking of her life's
happiness?

Somebody turned the handle of her door—in vain. Bee held her breath.
She guessed it to be Amy; and she did not want Amy. She wanted
nobody,—Amy least of all. Now that she had let herself go, she could
not regain the dropped reins.

"If Amy comes, I shall show her—I can't help it!" she muttered
despairingly.

Again the handle rattled, and a tap was followed by—

"Please, Bee—please!"

Bee moved nearer to the door, and said in a distinct tone—

"Good-night."

"I want to speak to you."

"No use. I'd rather not. It is too late."

"You are not in bed yet."

"I shall be—soon."

"But I want a word with you first . . . Let me in, please. I must, Bee!"

The wave of resentment again rose high, and Bee pressed both hands on
her chest, as if to hold it down. But she had always given way to the
elder girl; and habit is strong. After some further hesitation, she
very slowly withdrew the bolt. Amy opened, and hurriedly entered.

"What is it that you want?" Bee asked icily.

"I want you. What made you keep me out? That is not like my darling."

She came close, and folded both arms round Bee; but there was no
response. Bee seemed an image of snow; as white, as chill; not
resisting, but simply enduring the embrace. Never, in all the years
that they had known one another, had Amy seen her like this.

Releasing the passive figure, she stood looking, with troubled
eyes—herself a small being, in a crude red dressing-gown, her limp
light hair hanging loose in rats' tails.

"Bee dear—what is it?"

"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.



CHAPTER XXII

"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.



CHAPTER XXIII

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.



CHAPTER XXIV

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!"



CHAPTER XXV

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.



CHAPTER XXVI

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.



CHAPTER XXVII

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.

"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.



CHAPTER XXVIII

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.



CHAPTER XXIX

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.



CHAPTER XXX

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!



CHAPTER XXXI

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."



CHAPTER XXXII

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!



CHAPTER XXXIII

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?

"And—if we fail—"

"Then we are losers. One thing is certain—that failure after failure
in ordinary temptations must lead to failure when extraordinary
temptations come. Each hour that we live helps to shape future hours."

"But I suppose—other chances do come, in time."

"Yes, my child. Don't be discouraged by past failures. Go on in hope
and courage!" Magda glanced up into the kind face. "If Christ our dear
Lord is your Master and Friend, there's no need to despond. Trust in Him
more fully—lean upon Him more utterly—and that will lead to victory.
That alone can. Without Him we are powerless."

"Is everybody called to—something particular?" Magda asked after a pause.

"Yes. God has need of us all—each for some particular task. We have each
to live our lives, to do our work. And life is short; it comes only once.
There are hundreds of people, kind-hearted well-meaning people, who let
the years slide by, just pleasing themselves, and doing practically
nothing for God. Don't be betrayed into that. Home duties come first,
and ought to come first. But there are great needs, all over the world,
for workers; and it is not necessary that three or four girls should give
themselves to that which one could easily do alone. The chorus of outside
calls must also be heard."

"And if—if one should want to go—and if—one's father should say No?"

"Then just put it all into the Hands of God and wait for His guidance.
Wait!—But be ready to act, the moment the way becomes clear. And
meanwhile, do your very best to make ready for an opening when it
comes. Time given to preparation is never wasted."

Magda was musing gravely. It might be, in time, though Pen was married,
that Merryl would suffice for the home needs, and that she herself would
be free to go elsewhere.

Time was getting on; and Mr. Miles stood up. As they turned towards
the house, he repeated aloud—

   "'Birds by being glad their Maker bless,
       By simply shining, Sun and Star;
     And we whose law is Love, serve less
       By what we do than what we are.'"

"Not that the 'doing' is not needful; but that, to be, is what matters
above all. Simple shining is often a great deal harder than active work.
Still—there the work is, needing to be done; and it must not be
neglected."

In the front flower-garden they came across two other early risers;
Patricia and Robert. Both were smiling. Rob touched Magda's arm.

"I want your congratulations," he said.

She looked puzzled. "What for?"

"Patricia will go to Canada with me!"

"Oh, Rob! I am glad!" cried Magda. She was honestly glad, honestly
delighted, both for him and for Patricia. But this involved no
"opportunity," no contest with her own desires. Life with Rob had
ceased to be the one thing wanted. She did not now even wish to keep
house for him, since that would involve leaving England. A more
absorbing attraction existed here.

Another and a very real test awaited her not far ahead. And, as often
happens, it was to come from a quarter least expected.

Was she by this time better fitted to meet it? She had learnt to know
herself more; she had found her own weakness; she had begun to look
upward for help in the battle. Victory in small skirmishes of late
might make all the difference in her next hard fight.



CHAPTER XXXIV

ONCE MORE TO THE TEST

WITHOUT a single hitch the wedding went off.

All agreed that Bee, in bridal white, with a veil of old and exquisite
point-lace, presented by the Miss Wryatts, looked her sweetest; and that
her handsome bridegroom was worthy of her. And though it might not be
possible to find happier faces than those two, another pair could be
seen, not far-off, which at least equalled them in sunshine—the faces
of Patricia and Rob, that very morning re-engaged.

The little church was full to overflowing. Patricia had begged off
being one of the bridesmaids, who were much admired in their graceful
white and mauve. Of the six, Magda and Merryl were accounted the
best looking; and indeed more than one observer was heard to remark
that Merryl had grown quite pretty. Ned said nothing, but he gazed
the more! And almost the only person present who did not notice
his absorption in Merryl was unobservant Magda. Whether Merryl
was conscious of it might be questioned. She looked serene as usual,
but kept her eyes unwontedly cast down.

Perhaps her serenity was not quite as usual. For after the wedding
service, still early in the afternoon, when house and garden were
thronged with guests, and kisses and congratulations and cake-cutting
had been gone through, and Bee was upstairs, changing her dress,
Magda came across Merryl in a quiet corner—actually with tears
in her eyes!

"Why, Merryl!" she said in amazement.

But Merryl put her off so lightly, that she fancied she must have
been mistaken.

And then, in the excitement of watching for Bee's re-appearance in
travelling-dress, ready for departure, she forgot all about it.

The send-off was enthusiastic; and Bee seemed all smiles, except at
the moment when she said good-bye to her mother; while Ivor positively
radiated gladness and pride in his new possession. Amid a shower of
rice and a hurricane of cheers, the carriage drove away. After which
came a pause, and a general sense of flatness.

Local guests disappeared gradually; but few departures from the house
would take place before the morrow, since the Miss Wryatts were giving
a large dinner-party that evening. The hours between had to be got
through somehow—no difficult matter with at least two of the party.

Rob and Patricia promptly vanished, not to be seen again till nearly
dinner-time. Mrs. Major was invisible. Mrs. Royston and other ladies
went to their rooms to rest. Some of the more active individuals changed
to everyday dresses, and started for a ramble.

Magda, watching these departures, knew that Ned was not among them.
Where he might be she could not guess; but she was counting on his
society that afternoon. It seemed only natural; she had seen so little
of him thus far.

After waiting about for a while she went into the garden, hoping that
he might turn up. Nor did she hope in vain. Suddenly, there he
was—by her side.

"I want a chat with you, Magda. Free?"

"Of course I am. I should like nothing better," she said joyously.
"Somehow I rather fancied you'd come, Ned. I've no end of things to say
to you."

"All right. This way," and he turned towards a little shrubby avenue,
leading from the flower-garden. "It will be quiet."

"We always did like tête-à-tête rambles, didn't we?" She felt perfectly
happy. Ned to herself was all she wanted. Dear old Ned! He was just the
same as ever.

"Did we?" absently. "I don't remember."

"Why—of course we did. It wasn't half so much fun if there was a third
person."

"One doesn't always want a third person, certainly!" Ned spoke with
feeling.

"That's just what I meant."

"Was it?" questioned Ned internally. "Well—" he said aloud. "You wanted
to talk about something."

"But you had something to say first."

"Place aux dames! Mine must wait. Presently I'll ask you to do something
for me. Yours shall be the first innings."

Nothing loth, Magda started off with one of her accustomed outpourings.
She had, as she said, "no end" of things to enlarge upon—books she had
read, people she had seen, things she had done, plans she meant to carry
out. She was always sure of Ned's interest and sympathy; and it never
occurred to her that he might grow tired of listening. But, as she
flowed on, it dawned upon her that she had not his undivided attention.
He twice said "No," when he ought to have said "Yes;" and when she put
a leading question as to a certain subject, which she had fully
explained, his silence spoke for itself.

"Didn't you hear?"

"I'm most awfully sorry!—No, I'm afraid—not quite all."

"You were thinking of something else!"

"Well, perhaps—just for a minute," admitted Ned, with an air of
penitence.

Magda drew a long breath; for this was rather hard. So unlike Ned!

"I think you had better have your say first," she suggested, with great
magnanimity. "I'll tell you the rest of mine presently—when you've got
yours off your mind."

It flashed across her, suddenly and brilliantly—what if he wanted to
ask her to marry him? True, his ordinary manner was not that of the
typical lover. But this might only be because they were so entirely
at ease in their intercourse. His present absence of mind and evident
embarrassment had a suspicious look; and it might be so! He might
wish it! The notion had never before presented itself to her imagination
in so luminous a light; though at the same instant she realised that she
had thought of it, had pictured it, had hoped for it, not on the upper
surface of her mind, but in some shady half-acknowledged corner. And if
he did—if it should mean this! She would have no doubt what answer to
give. There was nobody like Ned—no, not in all the world.

Her heart beat fast, and her colour heightened. "Go on," she said
carelessly. "Tell me what you want."

Ned was almost nervous. He said nothing, but walked slowly, poking his
stick into the ground at regular intervals, as if marking out an
embroidery pattern.

"Perhaps," and she paused, "you are in need of a pair of bedroom
slippers. Shall I make them?"

"I'm in earnest. Don't talk bosh."

"No, I won't. I'll be sober. What is it, Ned? You needn't mind saying
out what you would like. We're such old chums."

"Just so," assented Ned. "That's what I've been feeling—that I might
ask your help, and that you wouldn't mind—you'd be sure to understand."

It did not sound precisely like the preliminary to an offer of marriage;
but she replied cheerfully—

"Of course I shall. We always did understand one another—even in the
days when I wore short frocks, and when you—"

Ned was in no mood for a plunge into schoolboy reminiscences.

"Yes, yes—that's all right," he said hastily.

"Well, you may as well tell me what it is that I've got to do for you."

Ned hesitated still. "You see," he at length said, "you see—I've wanted
it so long! And the longer I wait, the more I'm set on it. That's the
way one does, I suppose. And the time has come now when I needn't put
off any longer."

Magda's hopes again went up. "Yes—I see!" She vaguely agreed.

"And there seems no possibility of getting hold—" one or two words
were murmured inaudibly. "Always something in the way—preventing—"

"Why, Ned!" she all but exclaimed. "You haven't tried!" Happily
she checked the words.

"It seems no use trying," he went on, with a touch of dejection.
"I cannot get hold of her or make her understand. She slips away as
soon as I appear on the scene—or at least, as soon as—" He left the
sentence unfinished, and Magda could supply the missing words. "You
must have noticed! And I thought I would have it out with you, and
ask your help. You can put things right for me."

Once launched, he found it easy to proceed; and he did not observe
her silence, nor the averted face.

"I believe I have had it in my mind from the first moment that I saw
her again—you know! When I met her in the garden, on my way to find you.
I believe I went in, over head and ears, there and then. She is the sort
of sunny-tempered darling that does take hold of a man! But she was so
young, I didn't venture to say anything. It was wiser to wait.
However—I spoke to your father and mother a few weeks ago, when I was
down in Burwood, and they gave their consent. The difficulty now is to
get hold of Merryl. I seem to have no chance. You see—"

He paused again and had no response. Perhaps he hardly expected one yet,
as he had not finished. Magda was in the thick of a fierce conflict
which rendered her voiceless.

So Ned was not in love with her! He did not want her! He was in love
with another—and that other was Merryl. Merryl—of all people! The younger
sister—the quiet little useful nonentity—Merryl, who was not clever, nor
charming, nor really good-looking—Merryl, who had no conversational
gifts, no particular talents or powers—Merryl who was so far inferior
intellectually to Magda herself! Yet here was Ned Fairfax, her
friend!—professing himself to be deep in love with Merryl. Not only so;
but calmly asking her to help forward his suit! A passion of wrath had
possession of Magda—wrath towards Merryl, and wrath towards Ned.

"You see," he went on, "she seems to have got it into her head that she
is an intruder if you and I are together. And that, of course, is absurd.
I want her to understand."

"You want me to make love to Merryl for you!" Magda spoke with a curt
laugh.

"Well, no—not exactly." Ned took this as a joke—a rather ill-timed joke
in his opinion—but he echoed her laugh good-naturedly. "What I want you
to do is to make her understand that she is not in the way—that she
never can be in the way—that it is her dear little self that I
want—always!"

"That, in fact, I'm the person in the way—not Merryl!"

Ned wondered for a moment—was Magda in one of her "moods"?

"If you must take it in that way, I shall be sorry that I said anything.
I thought I might venture."

"Of course you might!" Magda was alarmed, lest he should discover too
much. "Go on—you had more to say."

Ned obeyed, and did go on. He went through the whole again, with
amplifications, explaining more fluently, and enlarging in lover-like
style upon Merryl's unselfishness, and the spell which her face had laid
upon him—that face of placid content, which would be a never-ending
delight to the man who should be so fortunate as to win her for his own.
For once, it was Ned who poured out, and Magda who listened.

Or at least, who seemed to listen. She heard only part, for she was
fighting a very hard battle. The same hour which had brought knowledge
of his love for another, had brought also knowledge of what he had grown
to be to herself. And now, she must lose him—had lost him. Whether he
did or did not marry Merryl, he did not want her. She would not even
be his chum any longer. When Merryl should be his wife, how could she
any more confide in him, as she had been wont? How tell him her thoughts,
her aims, her troubles? It was very very hard!

Then a gentle voice within, a voice to which she was learning to give
attention, said—

"Another opportunity!"

Was it that? Was this the next opportunity, which she had known must
some day come? Not like the one in which she had so signally failed;
for here lay no possibilities of grand action in the eyes of men, or of
praise and admiration to follow. No one would know; no one might know.
She had to keep to herself all that it meant; had to hide from Ned all
she might feel or suffer. Yet the test was no less severe, the chance
for self-sacrifice no less genuine, than last time. Perhaps, even more
severe, even more genuine, while hidden from those around.

And the question was—would she be beaten anew? She had been so often
defeated in the past. Would she refuse to do what Ned asked? It was
a request not easy to face. She was to help him to gain his heart's
desire; to try to persuade Merryl; to efface herself; to retreat
willingly into the background, that he might have her younger sister!

She could not escape from the trouble itself. It had to be endured.
But was it to be a sorrow taken sullenly and despairingly, taken only
because it could not be avoided? Or should it be a test met bravely,
an unselfish action embraced, a victory won in the face of odds?
Was she going to think only of herself, and of what she had lost?
Or would she do her utmost for the happiness of her sister and her
friend?

The choice had to be made quickly. Ned was speaking still; but he
would soon pause, and then she must say something. What should she—what
could she say? And with the sense of helplessness, a passionate appeal
went up for help; such an appeal, such a prayer, as never can be made
in vain. A sudden calm came.

The pause occurred; and she heard herself saying—

"I'll do what I can for you."

"If you could just make her understand that it is all a mistake—that she
never can be in the way—in anybody's way."

"Why don't you speak out yourself?"

"I'm afraid to risk it too soon. I did try a word or two this afternoon;
and she simply would not listen. She seems to think it is disloyal
to you. I shall be in Burwood now for a fortnight; and I want a clear
field. You see?"

Magda did see. "I'll do my best," she repeated.

They were close to a little summer-house. Ned halted.

"I don't want to lose to-day," he said. "Magda—could you—wait here,
and let me send her to you? I know where she is."

"Yes. And then you can come for her."

"Thanks—a thousand times. You are a friend worth having."

He sped away; and Magda sat down, gazing into the blue distance with eyes
that saw little. It was hard! But the calm overshadowed her still; and
she knew that in this fight at least she had come off victor; not in her
own strength.

She found herself facing steadily the fact that, for the present, her
life was clearly marked out. She would be the one efficient home-daughter.
Her parents in their advancing years would depend mainly upon her for
cheer and sunshine. The quiet daily round would be her portion. And if
she were called to this—if this were the Will of her Master!—What mattered
its insignificance, its dulness, or even her own loneliness?

"I've got to be brave about it—that's all!" she murmured. "I've just got
to do it; and to do it well! Nothing grand about it. A plain little
square of weaving! Sort of ground-work to the pattern, perhaps," and she
laughed softly. "Not pretty, but useful. Well, I've had other chances,
and I've missed them. I'll try hard now, with this. Life is worth living;
when one sees what it means!"

Sooner than she would have thought possible, Merryl came in, looking
puzzled.

"You want me!" she said.

"Come and sit down here. I've something to say. Merryl, what makes you
run away from Ned as you do? Especially the moment I turn up!"

Merryl flushed and seemed embarrassed. "Has he told you—about this
afternoon?"

"What happened?"

"Oh, nothing much. Only, he said something—I didn't quite understand.
And I wouldn't let him go on. It didn't seem fair; and I told him so.
He has always been your friend."

"You don't suppose I want to shut him up in a box for my own use!
Was it that you were crying about?"

"I wasn't crying—really. Only—I was afraid I had hurt him—and I
couldn't bear—"

"Don't cry now. There's no need. You like Ned?"

"Why—everybody likes him."

"Well, you've got to get it into your head that there is no question
of unfairness, or of Ned belonging to me. He is free to choose for
himself. And if he chooses to go after you, don't run away. Unless you
really want to drive him off, and to make him miserable. Do you?"

Merryl shook her head.

"Then it is all right. Don't you suppose I want my old friend to be
happy? So when he comes back in a few minutes—you had better go with him."

"Magda, you are a dear!" murmured Merryl, clinging to her.



                           THE END.



PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.