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!