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.