LIFE'S ONWARD MARCH
WEEKS and weeks had passed; all the long weeks of Merryl's acute
danger, and of her slow recovery with its many drawbacks; and then of
her absence at the sea-side with her mother. It seemed to Magda like
years since the day that she had last called upon Patricia, for that
short and disappointing interview from which she had hoped so much.
No one else had caught the fever; and it was now over a month that Mrs.
Royston and Merryl had been away. The whole house had been thoroughly
fumigated and disinfected; much painting and papering had taken place;
and everything which could be suspected of conveying infection was
destroyed. With the arrival of autumn, people were beginning to realise
that the Roystons were once more "safe," though some of the more
nervous still held aloof.
Mrs. Major and Bee had been for several weeks away from Burwood paying
visits; otherwise, Magda could not doubt, she and Bee would have met.
Not yet had she found opportunity to tell her mother about them; and
she shrank from speaking first to her sister. Pen might set herself
against the acquaintance, and might influence Mrs. Royston to refuse to
call. A mistake again on the part of Magda!
The absentees were expected soon to return. Merryl was better, Mrs.
Royston wrote, though not so much better as every one hoped; but they
would not remain much longer away.
Patricia was among those who held longest aloof. If she chanced to meet
any of the Roystons out-of-doors, she gave them a very wide berth;
this, up to the last fortnight, during which she too had flitted
elsewhere, Magda sometimes admitted to herself, though to no one else,
that she in Patricia's place could not have shown quite such excessive
caution to her greatest friend.
But was she Patricia's greatest friend? At one time she had felt sure.
Doubts now troubled her often.
All these weeks of trouble, of anxiety, of self-searching, were good
for Magda. It was one of those periods in life when one is taken
apart from the ordinary round, and set upon a watch-tower on the
mountainside, to gain new views of the landscape, new views of duty,
new views of self. She had been compelled to pause, to think, to take
stock of her own aims and objects, to examine her course. She had been
humbled in her own eyes; had seen her failures; had made resolves for
the future.
Now she was back again in ordinary life; and she found herself, as
she might have expected, back also amid the old temptations, the old
tendencies, the old difficulties. Nay, more—she was back amid the
old views of life. A landscape, as seen from a lonely tower upon the
hill-side, has a very different aspect from that same landscape looked
upon from its own lowest level. She was assailed once more by the
commonplace pleasures, the small distractions, the hourly inducements
to self-indulgence, which surround us all; and she found resistance no
easy matter.
Of course it was not easy—as Rob had frankly conceded. Life is not
meant to be easy.
Though she would never forget what it had been to stand and wait in
hourly expectation of news that dear little Merryl had passed away,
conscious that she herself had had a hand in bringing about that
peril—and though the shock of this experience had awakened and aroused
her, and had made her look upon life with a new realisation—still,
there was all the battle to be fought. Knowing that the foe is there,
and must be conquered, is not at all the same thing as being victor.
Magda knew; but the fight lay ahead.
One thing had become clear to her mind, in those weeks of graver
thought—that there is a very definite danger in "drifting." She had
to insist upon steady work for herself, of one kind or another. The
resolution was for a time more easily carried out, because during
their quarantine, few interruptions came, and social invitations were
non-existent.
Her old favourite notion of a home some day with Rob was at this time
strongly in the ascendant. While hardly willing to admit the fact even
to herself, she was disappointed in Patricia; and being so naturally
made her turn the more to Rob. She dwelt much upon this dream of the
future, picturing the little house that she would share with him, and
painting visions of herself as his housekeeper, his tried and valued
sub-worker. Of possible trials and rubs and boredom in that life, she
never thought. The whole view was rose-coloured.
Any day Rob might have the offer of a living. Though still so young,
she knew that he had won golden opinions, that he had many friends,
and that any of these friends might soon find just the right nook for
him. When that happy day should arrive, he would want her. She never
felt any doubt that this would be the case. For years there had been
an understanding between them that when he needed her she would go—an
understanding which no doubt was regarded much more seriously by Magda
than by Rob. Still, though he had sometimes laughed, he had never
discouraged the dream; and she looked upon it as a certainty. True, Mr.
Royston might object; but if Rob wished it, Rob would get his way.
Magda decided that she would now, really and in sober earnest, begin to
make herself ready for the life. A good deal would no doubt be needed.
Not merely the study of music and history and languages—though Rob had
intimated that all such learning might come in usefully—but, much more,
habits of neatness, method, self-control, general usefulness. A mastery
of cooking and needle-work suggested itself as desirable; and, during
Mrs. Royston's absence, she went in for a course of cookery-lessons,
much to Pen's astonishment. Also she set herself a daily task in plain
needle-work, which hitherto she had disdainfully eschewed. Even darning
and patching were included.
"Really, Magda is very much improved. Very much indeed!" Mr. Royston
remarked one morning to Pen. His favourite notion of Woman presented
her always as needle in hand, and he had never been able to reconcile
himself to his second daughter's objection to sewing. "I found her
yesterday in the school-room, making a child's frock."
"I wonder how long it will last," Pen could not resist saying.
"It will last; no doubt. She is growing older and more sensible. It
will last," repeated Mr. Royston confidently. Breakfast was on the
table, and the gong had sounded; but Magda unfortunately failed to
appear in good time. No unusual event in the past, though lately she
really had striven after punctuality as part of her preparation for
the future. Mr. Royston expected everybody to be down before himself;
and when she appeared, he showed displeasure. "Breakfast at such a
reasonable hour as we have it—there can be no question of hardship," he
declared.
Magda broke out in warm self-defence before she knew that the words
were coming.
"I've not been late once for three weeks. But if I make one single
slip, that always means a scolding; and there's never any praise for
doing better."
The manner was not too respectful, and she knew it. Fresh blame was
certainly deserved on that score. Happily, the entrance of letters made
a diversion, and no more was said. There were two for Magda, one from
Rob, one from Patricia; and she flushed with pleasure at sight of the
latter, having given up all hope of hearing.
Neither letter could have immediate attention. During Merryl's absence,
some of the little duties always before done by Merryl had fallen to
her share. She undertook them at first, in the mood of self-reproach,
and soon they were expected as a matter of course. Mr. Royston liked
to be waited on and fussed over by his daughters. She had to boil him
an egg in the silver egg-boiler; and because she was in a hurry, she
turned the whole toast-rack over on the floor, scattering its contents
far and wide. Mr. Royston growled out that Merryl never blundered, and
he desired Magda to leave things alone, and to go back to her seat. She
obeyed, feeling aggrieved; and Mr. Royston, no less aggrieved, took up
one of his letters. Pen meanwhile was reading hers from Mrs. Royston.
"They hope to come next week," she observed, to divert attention from
Magda's misdeeds. "Mother says Merryl is still weak, poor little
dear, and gets tired out directly. But the doctor advises home for a
time. Then there is something about Rob. He is paying a visit at some
place—what is the name? Rat—Rot—W-r-a-t-t—"
"Not Wratt-Wrothesley!" cried Magda in amaze.
"Why, what do you know about it?" demanded Pen.
Magda was examining the postmark of her own letter from Rob. "He
actually is there. I didn't know he had ever come across the Miss
Wryatts."
"When did you come across them?"
"I've never seen them. They are Bee Major's aunts."
"Your school friend—Beatrice Major. You used to be always talking about
her. By-the-by, I meant to ask you—are these Majors that have come to
live here related to your friend? I'm told that they are delightful
people."
Magda gasped. It was the last thing she had expected to hear from Pen.
There was nothing for it now but to speak out.
"It's they—themselves!"
"Nonsense!"
"It is, Pen. Beatrice and her mother."
"Why in the world haven't you told us? Why, they have been here—months!
We ought to have called at once."
"I did mean to tell mother. But I felt so sure you wouldn't like the
idea of the house—Virginia Villa. You are always so particular."
"Particular! As if it signified about the house! Mrs. Major is a person
who can live where she chooses. What does that matter? Why, all the
county is calling on them. Really, Magda!—To let us wait and come in at
the end, when we might have been the first to call! It is too bad!"
"I don't see how I could know! I was afraid you would keep mother from
knowing them."
"The last thing I should do. But you never do understand! We only heard
about them just before Merryl fell ill; and then of course we could do
nothing."
Magda was at a loss what to say. She felt that she had been not a
little foolish. Pen went on—
"I don't know how far it is all true; but everybody is talking about
them. They say Miss Major is one of the sweetest girls ever seen.
And as for Mrs. Major—of course you know that she is an Earl's
granddaughter, or something of that sort. A Duke's cousin, some say."
"I don't know anything about it."
"And yet you call Miss Major your friend!"
"She never told me."
"If I had been you, I would have found out."
Which was undoubtedly true.
Magda began opening Patricia's letter. "Why—she is at Wratt-Wrothesley
too. I can't imagine what has taken Rob there."
"I can tell you that. Mr. Ivor, who went up the mountain with Rob,
and fell into the crevasse, is a great friend of the Miss Wryatts—and
mother supposes that they wanted to thank Rob for saving his life."
"And Mrs. Major and Bee are there too," murmured Magda, feeling rather
dazed; for this meant Patricia and Bee meeting under one roof in hourly
intercourse.
"I dare say! Mrs. Major is their sister. Mother seems very much pleased
that Rob should have had the invitation. You don't seem to have made
much use of your openings at school."
Magda did not hear. She was suddenly engrossed by Patricia's letter,
which indeed contained something altogether unexpected and astounding.
No exclamation passed her lips. She read on in stupefied silence, at
first hardly able to grasp the full meaning of the words, which ran as
follows:—
"Wratt-Wrothesley."
"Tuesday."
"MY DEAR MAGDA,—"
"You will be rather surprised to find that I am here, in the
same house with your brother, and with your friends the Majors. Why did
you not tell me about their coming to Burwood, you dear little goose?
Did you think I should be jealous? My aunt and I went lately to call
at Virginia Villa—not dreaming that you knew them! And we were just
charmed with them both. Mrs. Major is quite unique; and the daughter
so pretty and charming. Of course everybody knows all about Mrs. Major,
directly it oozes out that she is a sister of the Miss Wryatts'; and I
believe it is solely through them that I have this invitation
to Wyatt-Wrothesley, where I have always longed to come—though certainly
I knew the Miss Wryatts slightly before. They are about the most
delightful people I ever came across; and the house and its surroundings
are simply perfect."
"I am enjoying myself here more than I can tell; and for more
reasons than one—as you will understand! You are such a devoted sister,
that you have certainly read Rob's letter before giving a look at mine;
so you know the news, and there is no need to tell you again. We are very,
very happy—he and I. How happy I cannot explain, or hope to make you
understand, since you have never yet been through the same. He is such
a dear fellow! I can hardly believe in my good luck! And it is nice to
think that one day you will be my sister. Not that we talk of marriage
yet. That must wait till Rob gets a living. But everything is so far
settled—except that Rob is writing to his father and mother and I am
writing to my aunt. Everybody here congratulates us both—each on having
the other—which is all right!"
"Your affectionate friend,"
"PATRICIA."
With dazzled eyes and beating heart, Magda tore open Rob's letter, not
trusting herself to speak. As from a distance she heard Mr. Royston's
excited exclamations—
"Hallo! So Rob has stolen a march on us all! Engaged! And to Miss
Vincent! Well, well, he knows a pretty face when he sees it. Pretty
manners too, and a nice girl; and there is money in the background.
Might have done worse for himself."
Magda was reading, or trying to read, Rob's short letter, brimming with
suppressed joy and tender gladness, which found no echo in her heart.
He spoke of his darling—of his supreme happiness—of his certainty
that Magda would rejoice with and for him. Not one word about that
discarded dream of the future, now never to be anything but a dream.
Not a thought of her disappointment! For him and Patricia—all might be
sunshine. But—where did she come in?
She stood up hastily, sliding her chair back. "Where are you off
to?" Mr. Royston asked. He disliked any one leaving the table before
himself. "Did you hear about Rob?"
"Yes—I know."
Before another word could be said, she was gone. It was impossible to
stay, impossible to hear them lightly and with laughter discussing that
which was the death-knell of her hopes. Again it was as if a small
thunderbolt had crashed down at her feet; not this time from any fault
of her own, which might have been a comfort, had she only seen it. To
bear a trouble which comes straight from a Father's Hand is always
easier than to endure one which we have brought upon ourselves.
Still, it did seem very, very hard to Magda; and not less so because it
was Patricia who had stolen Rob from her. Till now she had never quite
realised what that dream of the future had been in her imagination—how
fixed and stable it had seemed, how it had coloured all her outlook,
how it had comforted and helped her in little daily frets and worries,
how it had filled the horizon of her mind. And lately she had worked so
hard, so eagerly, to make herself ready! And now—now—she was nothing to
Rob; now Rob would never want her, would never again turn to her for
sympathy. He had Patricia; and in Patricia, he would find all he needed.
And she—Magda—had nobody! Not even Patricia remained to her. Patricia
had Rob. She was left alone.
The ground seemed cut away from beneath her feet; and she found herself
stranded.
She had escaped from the house, in dread of being questioned, and
either pitied or laughed at; and she walked with hot impatient steps up
and down the path at the far end of the kitchen garden. She was angry
with Rob; angry with Patricia. And she did not see in this wreck of her
dream one of Life's opportunities for real heroism—for putting self
manfully aside, and dwelling only on the happiness of others.