THE THICK OF THE FIGHT
SOME days later, in the afternoon, Magda lounged in the old school-room
basket-chair, with a novel on her knee. She failed to find the tale
interesting, and she did not care to do anything else. Of what use now
to practise or work or study? The future for which she had been toiling
was at an end. No delightful little home with Rob lay before her—a home
into which no troubles or worries were ever to find admission. The
dream was dead; and life was a blank.
Her mood, of course, was wrong, and she knew it; but she would not
admit that it might be conquered. She only indulged in self-pity.
Everything had gone astray to-day; and she had nothing to which she
could turn in contrast.
The room looked untidy. This week it was in Magda's charge; and she
had left arrangements to care for themselves; a mode not conducive to
order. The green window-curtains hung awry; chairs stood crookedly;
books lay about in confusion; and the table-cloth had collapsed in a
heap on the floor.
Presently she stood up and went across to a side-table. In her present
mood of self-compassion, she wanted further food for unhappiness; and
it had come to her mind that Rob, no long time since, had spoken in
one of his letters about that future which now had ceased to be. She
unlocked her desk, and fished out a bundle of his letters, which she
began glancing through.
The one she wanted did not appear; but she found a doleful enjoyment
in reading one after another, and in contrasting their tone with what
she knew she had to expect in days to come. He would write to Patricia
instead of to her; he would tell Patricia everything, instead of
telling her. That was the keynote of her mental ditty.
Losing herself in the thought, she ceased to read, and her fingers
played aimlessly with the desk. Unconsciously she pressed a small
spring with force, and a piece of wood stirred. Yes; there was a secret
drawer there, of course; but she had not opened it for years and years.
A touch of idle curiosity made her open it now; and she found within
a sealed envelope. At the moment, memory brought no associations with
the packet; but out of it dropped a small photograph. Then recollection
flashed back.
"Why—Ned Fairfax!" she uttered.
It was the face of a boy of sixteen or seventeen; good-natured and
sensible. She was a trifle amused, in spite of herself; recalling the
long-past day when, in a fit of childish wrath, because her last letter
to him had remained unanswered, she had tragically closed and sealed
and put away his likeness, resolving to forget his existence.
"Seems to be my fate!" she muttered. "Everybody gives me up in turn."
A familiar voice outside the door broke upon these musings. "All right,
Frip. I'll come presently. I must have a chat with Magda first."
And Rob came in; sunburnt, healthy, glowing with happiness.
Magda stood up reluctantly. She resented his manifest and supreme
gladness, in which she had no share.
"Well, Magda," as she returned his kiss in limp fashion. "I have come
for your congratulations. Why did you not write?"
"I—meant to. Are you going to stay?" So different from former comings
did this seem, that she had to swallow a lump in her throat.
"I'm sleeping at Claughton. Came back with Patricia yesterday. I want
to hear how Merryl is after her change. Not strong yet, I'm told.
Well?" And his quiet happy eyes looked into hers.
She was silent, gazing on the ground. "Not one word!" in a tone of
surprise. "Why—Magda!"
"I don't see how you can expect—" She spoke resentfully.
"Not expect congratulations!"
"Of course—I do congratulate you. One always has to say that, I
suppose," and there was a hard little laugh. "All the same—Rob, you did
tell me—"
"What did I tell you?"
"That you didn't mean to marry."
"I told you that I had not seen the right girl—and I had not. While
that was the case, I was a non-marrying man. But now, I have seen her!
Which makes all the difference!"
"Yes, it means that you'll never want me!"
Rob laughed outright at the injured tone. It was too comic—from the
point of view of a man, and especially of a man over head and ears in
love!
"My dear Magda!" he said. "You are not a child any longer. Don't you
see that this alters everything—must alter everything? If I had not met
Patricia, I might have gone on single for years, perhaps even for life.
But—I have met her."
"Oh, I know! Of course, I understand. It's all quite right and
sensible, I dare say—only it does just make all the difference to me.
You'll never want anybody now except Patricia."
It was Amy Smith over again, but without consciousness of the
"green-eyed monster." Magda was seeing things solely from her own point
of view.
"Magda, are you an infant still?"
"No," shortly. "Only—I have looked forward—"
"I would not look forward any more in that spirit! I am sorry if my
happiness means disappointment to you. Why, I thought you would be
delighted—Patricia being your particular friend."
"I'm not."
"Don't make other people uncomfortable, pray, by treating them to a
November fog."
Magda was silent.
"Come—be brave and sensible," he urged. "Some friends are expected
there to tea this afternoon, and Patricia sent a particular message,
hoping that you would come."
She murmured something like assent, and he went away evidently
disappointed in her. No sooner was he gone, than she felt ashamed of
her own moodiness, realising that if she should show any slight to
Patricia, it could only end in a breach between herself and Rob.
The others were invited also; and not long after four o'clock they
arrived at Claughton. A goodly company was already assembled on the
large lawn, under shadow of some ancient cedars. It was a scene, and
Magda felt secretly grateful to Pen and her mother for not allowing her
to go in less than her "best," though she had flung out indignantly at
the interference after luncheon. In her then state of mind she had been
disposed to think that "anything" would do. Why bother to be smart?
Patricia, a dainty nymph in white and green, stood upon the grass,
dispensing smiles upon an admiring world. She was particularly gracious
to Mr. Royston—Mrs. Royston had not been able to come—and she welcomed
her future sisters-in-law with exactly the right degree of warmth,
kissing each lightly on the cheek, and paying chief attention to Pen as
the elder.
Pen and Mr. Royston stayed in the circle which surrounded Patricia; but
Magda fell back to a retired position, half sheltered by bushes. She
had no wish to remain prominently forward, under Rob's observation.
To her surprise, she saw Bee, apparently the centre of another little
circle, farther off; and Mrs. Major, looking distinguished in a rich
black silk, seated in the post of honour, and receiving pointed
attentions from Mr. and Mrs. Framley.
It was all oddly the reverse of what she had pictured so often in
earlier months, before the arrival of the Majors at Virginia Villa.
Her own inclination would have been to escape from the crowd
altogether; but that at present was out of the question. A fear of
annoying Rob restrained her.
But what to do with herself was the question. Plainly she was not
needed by Patricia; and having done her duty, she would not go forward
again. All the ladies were chatting together, and being waited on with
cups of tea by the limited number of masculine guests. There was no one
for whom Magda cared; and nobody who cared for her. So she told herself
rather dismally, as she stood apart, watching the people, listening to
the buzz of voices. Bee once had cared; and, but for her own folly,
Bee would undoubtedly care still, since hers was no changeable nature.
But things were altered. How could Magda expect that either Bee or her
mother would forget the manner in which she had treated them?
She was saying this to herself, when a hand touched hers, and she awoke
with a start, to find Bee's soft brown eyes looking into her own.
"Why did you not come to me, Magda? I could not get away sooner, but
I've been trying. Don't stay here all alone. Would you not like some
tea?"
"Oh, thanks—but it doesn't matter. I can get some for myself presently.
It's all right—don't bother about me, please." Magda was annoyed to
hear a tell-tale huskiness in her own voice. That would never do. She
pulled herself together, with an air of indifference. "The people over
there want you. Don't stay."
Bee kept her position, and Magda examined her with more attention.
She was very pretty, in her white embroidered frock and shady hat—so
pale and delicate featured, with marked dark brows and a gentle smile.
Yet there was something of sadness in those sweet eyes; and a wonder
assailed Magda—had she given serious pain to her friend by her recent
conduct?
"Bee, I want to talk with you some day," she broke out impulsively.
"Not here. Another time. I want to explain—"
"Any day. You are always welcome at our house. I think I pretty well
understand already. Don't you feel very glad about your brother?"
"Bee! How can I? When you know what I always expected!"
The words ended abruptly. Bee slipped her arm through Magda's, and led
her into a little side-path winding among trees.
"Come, shall we have a turn through the grounds? Tea will do presently.
Yes, I know you used to talk of keeping house for him some day. But
that was only a dream. One knew it might never come true. And surely
you must be glad about this—if it means his greater happiness. You—who
are so fond of your brother! How can you help being glad?"
She would not seem to see the struggle going on at her side. Magda was
in danger of a breakdown.
"Don't you see—" Bee went on—"that it is the right thing for him? If
she is the one woman who can fill his life and make him happy—then,
surely, he should marry. And you must wish the very best for him. Not
merely that you should have something that you would like, but that he
should live the fullest and most useful life possible. I don't know
Miss Vincent well yet; but one can't help admiring her. And he is
devoted to her—quite, quite devoted."
Magda muttered something indistinct, and they walked on in silence. On
one side of them the bushes grew thinner, and they saw a seat beyond,
with two ladies on it. As they passed, a voice remarked, low but
distinctly—
"All very well, my dear! This is the third! Patricia is never happy
long without a man at her apron-strings. But how long will it last?"
Bee hurried her companion on, making a slight stir; and the sound
ceased. Another ten seconds, and they were out of hearing.
"Patricia! The third!" repeated Magda.
"We were not meant to hear. People should be more careful."
"Who was it? Do you know the voice?"
Bee kept silence, for she did know. It was that of Patricia's aunt,
Mrs. Norman—the sister of Patricia's mother, whereas Mrs. Framley was
the sister of Patricia's father.
"Do you suppose it is true?"
"There is always gossip of the sort. We must forget it."
"You don't think I ought to tell Rob?"
"Certainly not. It is no business of ours. Magda, be wise—don't repeat
it to any human being. I shall not tell even my mother."
"But if it is true?"
"Miss Vincent may have been engaged before—and she may have found it
to be a mistake. Anyhow, one may always allow for exaggeration. Your
brother must find out for himself. Try to forget it, dear. No one can
see the two together without seeing how happy they are."
"Would Rob be happy if he thought this was true—if he were really the
third?"
"We have nothing whatever to do with that!" Then Bee began talking
about Wratt-Wrothesley and the house-party there. "Everybody admired
Miss Vincent," she said. "And everybody liked your brother. My aunts
were so grateful to him for what he did in the summer, when Mr. Ivor
had that terrible accident. He is one of their greatest friends; and
but for your brother, he never could have come through it."
"But it was partly you too, Bee."
"Oh, mine was the most commonplace help. I just looked through a
telescope and used ordinary sense. But Mr. Royston—think what it
meant for him to spend the whole night on those rocks, in such awful
cold—waiting for the morning. We all felt that he was a real hero."
"I suppose Mr. Ivor wasn't at Wratt-Wrothesley, too, when you were all
there."
"No." Bee spoke quietly, without the shadow of a sign that it meant
anything to her. "My aunts did invite him, but he said he could not
spare the time just then. He was going a little later."