"COULDN'T BE TIED!"
"I REALLY did think that dear boy had more sense," quoth Mrs. Miles, as
her busy fingers arranged rows of tucks in a small frock. Two little
maidens of seven and eight brightened the Vicarage home, and she made
all their clothes herself.
"Ivor! What has he done?"
"He has done nothing. It's what he is going to do."
"Where is he to-night?"
"Gone to dine at Claughton. I thought you knew. That is not the point!
Imagine his taking to Magda, more than to Bee Major!"
"You think he has?"
"Quite sure. When he came back from his call yesterday, he had nothing
to say, except what a nice bright girl Magda was. And so she is; and I
like her. But you can no more compare her with Beatrice Major than—"
Mrs. Miles paused for a simile, as she measured the width of her tucks,
and failed to find one. "Not that Magda isn't attractive in her own
way. But I wish one could bring her to a point. She is all loose ends,
and vague dreams, and general discontent. Nothing that one suggests in
the way of work seems to be the right thing. I suppose girls are often
like that when they first get away from school; but it is time she
should settle to something."
"I thought she had given you some help of late."
"In a casual fashion—when nothing that she likes better happens to turn
up."
"That seems to be the way with a good many of the Burwood ladies—older
as well as younger."
"I've tried my best to rouse them; and some respond all right. But
with most of the girls, it is—'Oh, I can't be tied!' Those Hodgson
girls, for instance—five of them, strong clever young people, and
well-educated. And they're just running to seed. They do absolutely
nothing for any human being except themselves. A house-full of
servants—no help wanted there; abundance of money; and life one endless
round of pleasure! Riding, hunting, motoring, golfing, dancing, paying
visits, travelling—nothing but amusement! I tackled them one day in
good earnest, and asked if one wouldn't help in the Sunday-school,
and another in the night-school, and another in the shoe-club, and so
on. And one and all made the same reply. Oh dear, no, they couldn't
be tied! They liked to be free. Which means—free to amuse themselves
without stint."
"One wonders that any human being, with brains and character, can be
content with such an existence!"
"You see, dear, the point of the matter is that, if they undertake any
regular weekly task, something may turn up at that particular hour,
which they don't like to miss. An invitation, perhaps."
In the Vicar's strenuous life, work had habitually barred the way upon
pleasure. But then he had found his pleasure in his work.
"And if it does?" he said.
"Why, generally they accept the invitation, and toss up the work. I
tried to get the Hodgsons to see that they might perhaps owe a duty
to other folks besides themselves; and they took it very well. They
really are nice girls, you know, only so fearfully useless. One of them
actually consented to help me in the library once a week for an hour.
And she came twice. Then something turned up that she didn't wish to
lose; so she sent an excuse. Next time she sent no excuse, but simply
stayed away. And then she wrote a pleasant little note, saying she was
so busy-busy! That she was afraid she must give up the library."
The Vicar had put down his pen, and was gravely attentive. He knew it
all, of course—probably better than his wife; but she liked to pour
forth and he liked to listen.
"There are delightful exceptions, I'll allow. Bee Major, for one. But
she has been trained to do her duty; and the others have been brought
up from babyhood to think of nothing but themselves. No real sense
of duty! The Royston girls are different—except Magda. Whatever you
propose to her she doesn't want to do. She can't manage this, and she
doesn't 'like' that. Anyhow, I never came across a nicer girl than Bee
Major. She would make an ideal wife for Lance!"
"You can't choose his wife for him, my dear."
"More's the pity!" she retorted. "One could often choose for a man so
much more sensibly than he chooses for himself! However—since he likes
Magda, he shall see her again. I'm asking her and Pen and one or two
others—Bee included—to spend the evening here the day after to-morrow.
You love having young folks about."
Ivor was already seeing Magda again. She and Pen had been invited to
dine at Claughton Manor; other guests being there also.
Bee was asked, and she accepted; and just at the last she had to send
an excuse. Nothing short of absolute necessity would have kept her
away, since she realised what it might mean. But that very afternoon
Mrs. Major was taken with an acute attack of illness, to which she was
occasionally subject, connected with the heart, and serious enough
to mean actual danger. Bee could not leave her. Neither could she
fully explain; for Mrs. Major had an extreme dislike to being counted
delicate; and Bee was under strict orders never to say a superfluous
word about her mother's health. The doctor had similar instructions;
and he alone, beside Bee and the faithful old "Nurse," knew how grave
these attacks were, or might at any time become.
Nothing could have been more unfortunate than one happening just now.
Ivor, on hearing of the excuse sent—that Mrs. Major was "very poorly,"
and that Bee could not be spared—naturally drew his own conclusions.
Coupled with her cold manner, it meant of course that she wished to
keep out of his way.
Partly, perhaps, in self-defence, and in consequence of the wet blanket
to which he had been treated, he turned a good deal of his attention
to Magda that evening. She was again at her best, in a prettily-made
frock of thin black material, which suited the red-gold of her hair,
and the bright curiously-tinted eyes. A spray of variegated leaves,
chosen and fastened in by Merryl, gave exactly the right tone; and
there was no other colouring to compete with it. She talked well too.
She and Ivor exchanged ideas, played upon words, discussed opposite
views, laughingly. He found her unformed, but clever, and on the whole
refreshingly simple. It went for little, so far; yet the fact that she
was the sister of his most intimate friend meant that they had many
subjects in common.
For once Pen was in the background. Patricia showed herself, as always,
daintily charming, moving amid a circle of admirers. The personality of
the admirers mattered little, so long as they were there.
Magda was entirely occupied with Ivor—or rather, with Ivor's
attentions. He managed to draw her out, as she had not been drawn out
before. He made her sparkle, and showed her to herself in new and
agreeable lights. A feeling of delighted gratification, which she did
not attempt to analyse, filled her mind in consequence.
Two days later they again met at the Vicarage; and once more Bee,
though invited, was absent, since her mother was still too ill to be
left, though she might only hint at this. Ivor had no further doubts.
"A convenient excuse!" he said bitterly to himself.
Amy, full of remorse, would gladly have taken Bee's place in the
sick-room; but it was not allowed; and, she knew Mrs. Major too well to
venture on any full explanation to others. She too had been invited,
and she had to go, since Bee was bent upon her having the pleasure. It
was an evening which, for Amy, spelt the reverse of enjoyment.
Magda this time really shone. She seemed at one leap to have grown
older, to have become less school-girlish, more handsome, more
taking. A slight consciousness made her voice softer, her manner more
restrained, than usual; yet with this came also a touch of increased
confidence. She found in herself a power to please, which she had not
known before; and the experience was delicious. Others watched her with
a mingling of surprise and amusement. Magda was developing, they said.
She was "quite coming out."
Amy Smith's sensations included no amusement. She grew inwardly
furious, more and more furious, as the evening wore on. Bee's friend—to
step in, like this, in Bee's absence!—To try deliberately to win Ivor's
love away from her! It was scandalous! Disgraceful! Amy found it hard
work to hold her wrath within bounds.
Nor did she—altogether. Early hours were the rule at the Vicarage; and
by half-past ten a general exodus took place. Wraps were donned, amid
talk and laughter, in the breakfast-room; and Amy, standing grimly
apart from the rest, found Magda offering a good-bye hand, all smiles.
"Hasn't it been a delightful evening?" Magda was saying.
Amy had always been impulsive; and she was so still, though fast
leaving girlhood behind. Without an instant's pause for thought, and
not so much as remembering her promise to Bee, she spoke words which
leaped up in her mind—
"To you, I dare say! But—I couldn't—in your place! I call it—poaching!"
Then, with sudden contrition, as a flame of colour rushed into
Magda's face, she knew what she had done. "What do you mean?" came
involuntarily.
"Oh, nothing!" Amy tried to laugh. "I'm talking nonsense. Good-bye."
Magda hesitated an instant; then walked off, holding her head high.
"I can't endure that Miss Smith," she said disdainfully to Pen, as they
drove home. "Such a stupid ordinary little person! I can't imagine what
Bee sees to like in her."
Pen made some chilling reply. She was not pleased with Magda's
prominence during the two past evenings.
But Amy had blundered again. She had opened Magda's eyes.