WHERETO THINGS TENDED
"WHAT is all this about, mother?" Rob asked three weeks later. "I mean,
of course,—the girls."
He had run down for a few days, spending the greater part of them with
Patricia. Mrs. Royston thought him looking pale and worried, even
unhappy. But he said nothing which could give a clue to the cause;
and she was reluctant to force confidence by direct questions. Rob,
whatever his own cares might be, was not too much wrapped up in them to
note other people's concerns; and he very soon put the above query.
The condition of things which led to it was as follows.
Pen had an affair on hand, which had suddenly reached a forward stage,
occupying the whole of her attention. A recent acquaintance, the
Honourable James Wagstaff, a sensible and agreeable bachelor, well over
sixty, with plenty of money, had taken a fancy to "neat Pen," and was
assiduously pursuing her. Pen showed no reluctance or hesitation. It
became clear that she was simply waiting for the word to be spoken.
There was nothing romantic or misty about this affair. It was
straightforward and business-like.
Ned Fairfax had been much in and out of the house. Having come to his
cousin's for a fortnight, he was there still. From the first he had
dropped, easily and naturally, into his old position of intimacy with
the Royston family. Much as Mrs. Royston liked him, she would have
preferred a more cautious advance; but she found herself powerless.
Fairfax took it for granted that he might do as he liked; and he made
himself so charming to her personally, that she had not the heart to
administer a check.
He was Magda's especial friend. All her world admitted the fact. She
had the first right; and she took care to claim it. When Ned came to
the house, he of course came to see her; and she was always on the
spot, never doubting that he felt as she did.
It was delightful to have him again; to revert at once to the old
order; to pour out unreservedly in his hearing her aims, her wishes,
her difficulties, her worries—to be laughed at and genially set to
rights by him. She enjoyed it heartily. Each day her mind was more and
more full of Ned—of nothing but Ned. As usual, her steed ran away with
her; and she could think of nought else. When Robert arrived, she did
not so much as notice his pale and altered look. Her whole world now
consisted of—Ned.
So different, she told herself, from the time when she had that silly
little fancy for Mr. Ivor! She had never given him another thought
since he went away; and he had not again been to the place. But Ned was
her friend—her property—and everybody knew it. Everybody appeared to
recognise her right.
Just exactly like former days!
Well, no; perhaps not exactly. As time went on, it dawned upon her that
a distinction did exist. Some measure of reconstruction in the manner
of their friendship was needful. Things had to be different from the
days when he was a big boy and she a small girl. She could not now rush
after Ned, whenever she wanted him. She must wait till he chose to
come. He was a man—and she a woman—which altered the whole outlook.
He did very often come. But was it only or mainly after Magda? This was
a question which soon took shape in the mind of Mrs. Royston. He always
saw Magda, it was true, for she managed to be invariably to the fore;
and the one desire of unselfish Merryl seemed to be that Magda should
thoroughly enjoy her old friend. So surely as Fairfax appeared on the
scene, Merryl effaced herself and left him to Magda. Mrs. Royston,
watching with a mother's solicitude, had doubts whether Fairfax was
duly grateful.
No doubt he had at first thought mainly of Magda. He had even
recognised a dim notion in his own mind that, not impossibly, his one
time little chum and playmate might suit him for a life-mate.
But on his arrival, the first strong impression made upon him
was imprinted, not by Magda but by Merryl. And unfortunately for
herself, Magda did not go to work in the right way to counteract this
impression, as she would have wished. She was making herself cheap.
A man often values more highly the thing that he cannot too easily
obtain. There was about Merryl a touch of the elusive which fascinated
him. In Magda, he found no trace of the elusive. He had begun to
grow—though he hardly yet acknowledged the fact—rather tired of her
outpourings. And he could not but note that Magda always talked about
herself—a subject direfully apt to become boredom to the listener!
Whereas Merryl never did.
True, he was very pleasant with his former chum. It was his way to be
pleasant with people in general, and he was not given to administering
snubs. He treated her with frank kindliness, and was always ready to
respond to her sallies. That did not mean much, Mrs. Royston thought;
and she was troubled to see Magda so entirely absorbed in this revival
of a childish friendship—far more absorbed, she feared, with Fairfax,
than Fairfax was with her.
Sometimes she all but resolved to give a word of warning. But Magda was
apt to receive such words tempestuously; and also she had a wholesome
dread of suggesting ideas and feelings that had not yet taken shape.
Ned Fairfax would soon return to London, and then things would go back
to their normal state; except that Magda would pass through one of her
uncomfortable states of discontent.
While she so debated, Rob came home, and before two days were over,
finding himself alone with his mother, he asked—
"What is all this about?"
"I think it is genuine with Pen and Mr. Wagstaff," she said.
"He's old enough to be her grandfather."
"There is a difference in age, but not so much as that, Rob. And after
all, Pen has always taken to people older than herself. And she is so
staid and controlled—don't you think it may be better for her than a
very young husband?"
"Such a thing does exist as the happy medium! But if it is for her
happiness—and if you and my father are satisfied—"
"Your father likes Mr. Wagstaff. And I do think that Pen is—not exactly
in love, perhaps, but really attached to him."
"And what about Magda?"
"I don't know what to think. I am rather sorry that Mr. Fairfax has
turned up. He is such a good pleasant fellow; but Magda's head is
completely turned. And I cannot see that it is his fault. She takes it
for granted that he is just the same now as when she was a child. And
really—such a friendship—after all these years—"
"That is all nonsense, mother."
"Magda doesn't see it so. She seems never to have a doubt. And his is
not the manner of a lover. He lets her talk, and he chaffs her, but I
don't believe he is touched."
"Whether Magda is touched seems more to the point!"
"It is my fear. But what can one do? Speaking too soon might do harm. I
don't want to put the idea into Magda's head that he is after her."
"You don't suppose the idea isn't in her head already!"
"I really cannot say, Rob. She is still so oddly childish in some
respects—actually in many ways younger than Merryl, since Merryl's
illness. Magda seems to think of nothing beyond their old friendship.
She is continually recurring to it. Mr. Fairfax must grow rather sick
of the subject. And—perhaps I am only fancying—but I do sometimes think
he is a little taken with Merryl."
"That infant!"
"Yes, of course she is very young, but she is old for her age now. And
he is very discreet. It may be nothing. Anyhow, he goes home in three
or four days; so I hope all this will be over. And Magda in time may
forget."
"I wish Magda had more balance," he said with a sigh.
Mrs. Royston longed to ask him—"Is all right between you and Patricia?"
Her cautious reserve, and fear of saying the wrong thing, held her back.
Fairfax did not leave so soon as was expected. He again deferred his
departure, not leaving until the day after Rob.
Late that last afternoon he appeared; and for once Magda was not on the
watch. She had been called away; and he followed his favourite route to
the back of the house, coming upon Merryl. She met him with a little
flush and smile of greeting, and he thought once more, as often before,
what a happy winsome face hers was.
"How do you do? Have you come to say good-bye to Magda? I'll call her."
"Not yet," he replied cheerfully. "There's plenty of time. I'll get
through my good-bye to you first."
"But Magda won't like—she will want to know at once!" Merryl showed
uneasiness.
"Plenty of time," repeated Ned. He was not going to lose this
opportunity. "Did you tell me a day or two ago that you had a little
greenhouse of your own? I wish you would show it to me. It's all
right," as she glanced round. "Magda will come after us directly." The
old use of Christian names had been reverted to.
Merryl was rather distressed, but Ned's manner being positive, she
could not see her way to a refusal. So she led him to the quiet corner
of the garden, where she had a little piece of ground and her tiny "bit
of glass," sheltering pet plants. Ned, with his cool and disengaged
air, wiled her inside, and led her into a discussion about the names,
the natures, and the particular needs, of her said "pets," and he
succeeded in so enchaining her attention, that she forgot all else,
and thought no more of Magda. She had not the least notion how long a
time had passed thus; and both she and Fairfax were thoroughly enjoying
themselves, when—the little door was pushed indignantly open, and Magda
came upon them. There was barely space for the three to stand inside at
once.
It was a shock to both girls. A shock to Merryl, to find that she had
been depriving Magda of her expected enjoyment. A shock to Magda, to
find those two in happy and confidential talk, and to see how much
Ned liked it. More than this she did not see, but it was enough. She
flushed up hotly.
"Ned! You here!" she cried. And then in a tone of sharp rebuke. "Why
didn't you tell me, Merryl? It's too bad!"
The sound of that angry voice, the sight of Merryl's grieved face, made
together an impression on Fairfax which time would not efface.
"I'm so sorry; I did mean to call you," faltered Merryl.
"You must not blame your sister," Ned said gravely. "She only did what
I asked her to do. I particularly wished to come and see the little
glass-house."
"Merryl had no business—your last day—and when she knew—"
"I'm so sorry!" Merryl repeated, tears in her eyes. "I quite forgot!
But I'm going now, dear. Good-bye, Mr. Fairfax!" And with one glance at
him, she literally fled.
That scene showed Ned more than he had yet discovered about his quondam
"chum."
Magda cooled down when she had him to herself; and he noted that she
did not seem troubled about her own outburst of annoyance. He said
nothing, and allowed her to run on as usual; but his mind was very much
astray—wandering after Merryl. He registered a silent determination
that, next time he came to the Vicarage, things would have to be
different.