MAGDA'S OLD CHUM
"SO you know the Roystons," remarked Edward Fairfax to his cousin, Mrs.
Miles.
He had arrived the evening before, and had been occupied for an hour
past with the newspaper, near an open window. It was a fine day, late
in July.
There was nothing restless or impulsive about him. Though only six
years Magda's senior, he might have been well over thirty, judging
from his outlines, his immobility, and his scanty hair. He was neither
small and slim like Rob, nor tall and muscular like Ivor; but of
another stamp altogether. Medium in site, and solid in make, he had
rugged features, yet a very pleasant face. As he sat thus, silent and
motionless, a looker-on could hardly have imagined the possibility of
Fairfax out of temper. He seemed to be made up of kindliness and good
sense. A queer little twinkle in his light-grey eyes gave promise of
the "saving sense of humour," which alone goes a long way; and he also
had a well-shaped head. As he spoke, he glanced over the edge of his
newspaper.
"We know them well. Especially the second girl."
"Magda?"
"That is the one. She says she knew you in old days."
"Yes. Odd little scarecrow of a being, when I first came across her.
She'd got into a way of talking all over the shop about her troubles.
I cured her of that—made her tell me instead. I used to chaff her
fearfully, and she took it well."
"Perhaps she wouldn't have taken it well from everybody. What sort of
troubles?"
"Oh, a rum lot! She was always in hot water, somehow. I never could
make out who was to blame. So I just told her to keep a stiff upper
lip, and not to worry. She had ripping hair—all down her back."
"She has lovely hair now—rather wild sometimes. And she isn't
bad-looking. The advice given sounds extremely like Ned Fairfax."
"What else would you have had me say? I wonder if she remembers what
chums we were."
"Why—of course. It was she who told me first, when she happened to see
your likeness."
"Yes—but still, it was she who dropped me, not I who dropped her. I
wrote last, and had no answer. So I stopped."
"You might have tried a second time, if you wanted to keep it up."
"I might—but I didn't."
"Some day soon you are sure to see her. She is rather fond of dropping
in here. And you will pay us a long visit."
"Anyhow, I think I'll look up Magda—presently."
"My dear Ned, you have not seen her since she was a child. Wouldn't you
rather call her 'Miss Royston'?"
"She is not 'Miss Royston.' And 'Miss Magda Royston' is such a
mouthful."
"I should imagine that she would expect it."
Fairfax returned to his paper for another half-hour. Then he put it
aside, and went out, aiming for Magda Royston's home.
It was quite true that he and she had been great chums, in the days
when he was a big schoolboy from fourteen to seventeen, and she an
excitable little girl from eight to eleven. He had made a pet of her,
and she had made a hero of him. She had confided to him her every
thought and trouble; and he in return, from laughing and pitying, had
grown to be fond of the impetuous warm-hearted difficult child, whom
nobody seemed to understand. He was rather curious to see what manner
of being she had grown into.
Reaching the house, he decided against a formal entrance by means of
the front door. It was not an hour for a stiff call; and as a boy, he
had been free of the garden. He saw no reason why he should not revert
to old habits.
So, following a path amid bushes which led round behind, he found
himself close to the kitchen garden; and a few yards in advance of him,
their backs turned in his direction, he saw two girls; one small and
long-haired; the other rather tall and slight.
"Yes, dear," the latter was saying in a soft voice. "But I don't think
it does to mind that sort of thing too much. It isn't worth while.
Shall we go and feed the chickens?"
"She needn't be so cross, though—need she?"
"I don't think she means to be cross, darling. Perhaps she is worried
about something. That often makes people seem a little cross, you know."
"I beg your pardon—" Ned interposed, with lifted cap; and they turned
promptly.
"No—not Magda!" Ned instantly decided. That serene brow, those smiling
eyes and happy lips, could hardly appertain to his quondam chum.
Unless, indeed, the years had remade her! But this girl was surely
younger; hardly more than sixteen, with smooth dark hair. Another sort
altogether. Not pretty perhaps in the ordinary sense of the word—but
something in the sunshine of that childlike face enchained attention.
"I beg your pardon—" Ned was saying aloud, while such thoughts flashed
through his mind. "I fancied you might be Miss Magda Royston."
"Oh, no, I'm only her sister. I'm Merryl," came in frank reply. "Do you
want to see Magda?"
"She and I are old friends. I am afraid I have taken rather a liberty
in coming this way; but it all looked so familiar that I—well, I came.
You don't know me, of course. You must have been one of the little ones
in those days. I am Ned Fairfax."
Merryl's hand came out cordially.
"But of course I remember. I'm only two years younger than Magda—though
we did seem so far apart then. Of course I remember. You were always so
good to us little ones. Will you come indoors, and shall I call her?
She has gone to the other end of the kitchen garden."
"Then perhaps I might find her there. I should like to discover if she
will recognise me—unannounced."
"If you like—please do. But I am sure mother will wish to see you too."
"Hadn't I better choose a more orthodox hour for calling? One
afternoon, perhaps. I've come to the Vicarage for ten days."
"Yes, we heard you were coming; and Magda was so pleased."
"Then she has not quite forgotten me. And this of course is little
Frip!" Ned's hand grasped Francie's pleasantly. Children always took to
him, and Frip proved no exception.
"Frip is our baby still," observed Merryl. "I sometimes think she
always will be. We are going now to feed the chickens. You are sure you
would rather find Magda yourself?"
Ned was not quite sure. He felt tempted to ask if he might not first
interview the chickens; but this suggestion was resisted.
Merryl smiled a good-bye; and as the two went off, he overheard a
shrill little voice saying—"I like that man! Don't you?" Followed by
a—"Hush, darling."
"That's a nice girl," Ned murmured. He recalled the plump plain-faced
little Merryl of former times, and marvelled over time's developments.
Would Magda be equally transformed? And if so, in what direction? She
had been better-looking than Merryl, despite her "scarecrow" outlines.
Whether she would be so still remained to be seen.
Ned knew well the walk at the end of the kitchen garden. It had
been there that Magda was wont, in past days, to take refuge from
a troublesome world, when in one of her injured moods. He wondered
whether she kept the habit up still. Then Merryl's words recurred to
his mind; and he questioned—was it Magda who had been "cross"?
There she was—pacing hurriedly along the grass-path, just as in old
times. Something had plainly gone wrong with her. She was walking
away from where he stood; and he examined the restless movements,
contrasting them mentally with the repose of the younger girl's look.
Like many men, perhaps most men, Ned loved repose.
Now she was coming back, moving still with a quick impatient swing,
as if working off indignation. Her eyes were bent on the ground and
he had time to analyse her further, before she looked up. Improved in
some ways, he told himself. Height and figure were good; and she held
herself well; and the sunshine, catching her hair, lighted the red-gold
into brilliancy. But the face at that moment was not a happy one.
Suddenly—as a result, perhaps, of his gaze—she glanced full at him.
There was a momentary hesitation; and then a glow of pleasure.
"Ned!" she cried, and drew back. "Oh, I beg your pardon. I mean—Mr.
Fairfax."
"Since when have I ceased to be 'Ned'?" he asked, as their hands met.
"Since we grew into strangers," she replied readily. "Ages ago! But
I heard you were coming, and I wondered if we should come across one
another."
"Was it likely that we should not?"
"How could I tell? Those are such far-off times. But it is nice to see
you again. Have you seen mother yet?"
"I did not suppose she would be grateful for so early a call."
"But how did you get round here?"
"Usual mode of progression—on my two feet."
"Oh, how like you are to what you used to be! We always talked nonsense
together."
"Did we? My impression is that we discussed endlessly your
heart-breaking trials and dismal views of life."
"But then you always made them out to be nothing."
"And then you used to howl and be the better for it."
"Girls always are the better for it, I suppose. I don't howl now. And
really I did not often then."
"Not more than three times a week, on an average."
"Oh, I didn't! That is too bad."
"It was a safety-valve. You would have gone off in steam, otherwise."
"But what are you doing now, N—Mr. Fairfax? I mean—what are you—if you
don't mind my putting the question? I know nothing of your history."
"Yet we seem to meet very much on the old level."
"I always fancied we should. We were such real friends!"
"Though the friendship has been in complete abeyance!"
"Fizzled out into nothing," she rejoined. "Well, it wasn't my fault. I
wrote last."
"I beg your pardon; I wrote last, and had no answer."
"N—Mr. Fairfax! You didn't."
"Miss Magda Royston—pardon me! I did."
"But I do assure you—"
"I sent you a lengthy and most interesting composition, full of
sympathy for your bereft condition. And that was the end. I had no
reply. So I came to the conclusion that you had found another Ned, and
wanted no more of me."
"But indeed, indeed, I wrote last. I wrote sheets; and you never
answered them. So I was dreadfully miserable, and I knew you were tired
of me, and delighted to get away. And so—"
"So it meant a long gap. But old friends can always begin again, just
where they left off."
"It's very nice," murmured Magda. Then she wondered what her mother and
Pen would say if she kept N—Mr. Fairfax all to herself out here. "I
think I ought to take you indoors," she remarked. "Wouldn't you like to
see the others?"
"I'm glad to see everybody. You asked a question just now."
"Yes. I thought you didn't mean to answer it."
"Why should I not? My mother has made a home for me in town, and I have
a post in a bank."
"I see—" with a note of disappointment.
"Not romantic, is it? A good many useful things in life are unromantic."
"But you like it?"
"One must do something, and that turned up. It seemed as good as
anything else was likely to be."
They began to move towards the house. Magda had suggested this, but it
was Fairfax who took the first step. Magda talked eagerly, bringing up
one reminiscence after another, and he responded sufficiently to keep
her going.
Perhaps his interest was a little less keen than hers; for when they
came across Mrs. Royston and Merryl in the flower-garden, and Magda
muttered an impatient—"Oh, bother!" Fairfax showed no reluctance. He
even quickened his pace to meet them. Magda wanted to keep him longer
to herself, for she had no notion of sharing her friend with others.