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."