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."