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.