IF ONLY SHE HAD—!
THROUGH the next two or three weeks Patricia's life hung on a thread.
Bee's promptitude had indeed saved her from death; but shoulders and
back, arms, and hands, were badly scorched, and all her pretty hair was
gone. As she rushed from one room to the other the flames were driven
back; yet her face had felt their touch, though to what extent the
doctors did not say. For the greater part her burns were not deep, but
the extent of surface affected made them serious; and she was suffering
from shock to a degree which meant pressing danger.
As this peril lessened, another set in, with a threatening of septic
pneumonia, barely warded off. Intense pain, restlessness, delirium,
days of blindness from the swelled face, weeks of prostration in a
darkened room—all these were her portion. Night and day nurses were in
constant attendance.
Wide interest was felt in the poor girl's condition; and the news at
length given forth, that she might be counted out of danger, was hailed
with relief on all sides.
It oozed out slowly that the fair face, so much admired, had suffered
more than was at first expected; and that she would in all probability
never regain her old loveliness. This fear was still carefully guarded
from Patricia herself, though she had begun to suspect, and to put many
disquieting questions.
"She has cared so much for her beauty," murmured Bee. "If that goes,
she will have nothing left. Mother, it is sad."
"I suppose it sounds rather hard to say—just now—that if she went
through life caring for nothing but her own looks, that would be sadder
still," Mrs. Major remarked.
Bee felt that it did sound rather hard—just then!—however true. She
could only think tenderly of Patricia's feelings when she should learn
her loss.
Everybody was talking about Bee's heroism, though Bee herself made
nothing of it.
"Why, how could I do anything else?" she asked, when admiration was
openly expressed. "Of course I had to try. And the curtain being close
at hand made things so easy."
It had lain closer still to Magda! But about that nothing was said, at
least in her hearing. Few quite realised what her position had been.
Few perhaps knew that she had actually run away; and some who did
seemed to think it quite natural. But Bee had suddenly developed into a
heroine, going about with bandaged hands, unable to endure a touch or
to do anything for herself, yet radiant in her new happiness.
Merryl too came in for praise, only second in degree to that which
was showered upon Bee. For it was she who had kept her wits, and had
rushed to the help of Bee. But for the jug of water, promptly procured
and used, Bee might have suffered much more severely. Mr. Royston was
exceedingly proud of his "little girl," as he still called her, and he
could talk for days of nothing else.
And Magda, looking on at all this, felt bitterly regretful and very
unhappy.
For, whatever other people might think, she saw—she knew—she realised.
She had had her longed-for chance in life, and had failed to use it.
She was humbled in her own eyes.
And it was useless to talk, to express regrets. The crucial moment
had gone by. Such an opportunity might never recur. If it should—how
different might be her conduct! But such chances seldom come a second
time. Other tests, other opportunities, would no doubt arrive in due
course; yet they would not be the same in kind.
In that moment of horror, she might have done just what Bee did do. She
might now be the heroine of the hour; admired and talked about—a centre
of notice.
Yet this is hardly fair to Magda. It was not only for the sake of lost
praise that she so blamed herself, and so vehemently wished to have
acted in other wise. Praise once had been her foremost aim; but of late
she had made advance. She did now truly wish to live a noble life for
the sake of living it; not merely that she might win good opinions.
She began to see—a little—what it meant to do right for the sake of
pleasing God!
And, looking back, she knew that she had not even tried to do this; she
knew that her life had been the reverse of noble. Everything had gone
wrong. Plans had failed. Resolutions had come to nought. Nothing that
she took up had ended well. She was of no use to any one.
Was it that she had begun at the wrong end?—That she had not first
yielded herself in heart and spirit to her Divine Master? That she had
attempted things in her own strength alone?
As days went by, a longing took possession of her to pour out what she
felt to somebody. But who would care? Fairfax was out of reach, having
left within twenty-four hours after the accident, during which she had
seen nothing of him. Rob was corresponding with his mother; not with
her. Magda had refused sympathy in his happiness; and naturally now he
did not turn to her in trouble. She could not go to Bee. Bee was so
glad, so joyous! Bee had done just what Magda had failed to do. To seek
help from her at that moment seemed out of the question. Not that Bee
would be conceited or boastful!—But still, she could not!
There was the Vicar! Many times Magda thought of him, and almost
went; but somehow she held back—perhaps mainly from pride. Perhaps
unconsciously what she craved was not really advice, but soothing. So,
unwisely, she put off that step.
It was no doubt well that she had no "soothing" friend at this
juncture, to whom she could pour out freely. Much talk is apt to weaken
conviction. She might have found satisfaction in enlarging on her own
remorse, and comfort in making excuses for herself. Having no such
vent, she viewed her own conduct more severely; and, from the lack of
such comfort, she was driven to find help in prayer.
Thus weeks passed by, and Pen's wedding-day arrived. After which
Pen was gone, and Magda found herself in the new position of eldest
daughter in the house.
It entailed upon her a variety of new duties, new claims, new
responsibilities. She had never guessed beforehand how very much she
and everybody would miss careful quiet Pen in the little arrangements
of common life. Everything at first seemed awry without her; everything
out of joint. And Magda really did set herself, honestly, to learn and
remember the hundred and one little things, which somehow had always
seemed to do themselves, and which now she was expected as a matter of
course to undertake.
It was not easy. The habits of years are not to be conquered in a day.
But for Merryl, her faithful remembrancer, she would have failed much
oftener than she did; and she forgot or let slip her new duties quite
often enough. She could not but note that Mrs. Royston, perhaps half
unconsciously, turned far more to Merryl than to herself, in the blank
left by Pen; and this again spoke sharply to Magda, spurring her to
renewed efforts.
Till late in February no one saw anything of Patricia. Even when the
doctors gave leave, she steadily refused to admit any of her friends.
Bee and Magda were often at the door, making inquiries, only to be
denied admittance.
And each time that Magda went, she came away with a sense of relief;
for she dreaded the first meeting. Words of sympathy never flowed from
her with ease; and she could not feel at home in a sick-room.
So when a little pencil-note at length arrived, asking her to go that
afternoon, her first exclamation was of dismay.
"What is it?" Merryl asked.
"Patricia wants to see me."
"Oh, I'm glad! It is so bad for her, being shut up as she is."
"I'm not glad. I don't know what in the world to say to her."
"Magda—how funny you are! I should have thought—so fond of her as you
used to be—!"
"I'm fond of her now in a way. But don't you understand—if she is as
much altered as people say—how is one to take it?"
"I can't see any difficulty."
"I dare say it would be easy enough for you. It isn't for me. And
Patricia would hate to be pitied."
"But you needn't pity her—exactly. I wish she would let me go."
"I'm sure I wish you could—instead of me."
At the hour named, Magda reached the Manor, and was shown into the
breakfast-room where, as she remembered, she had been taken on a
certain day when wild to see her then idol. Patricia had put her off,
lightly and indifferently, to her dire distress. That day seemed very
long ago; and Patricia was her idol no longer. Enthusiasm, lacking
food, had died a natural death.
A maid came to take her upstairs, and she went, feeling each moment
more awkward and embarrassed, more uncertain how to comport herself.
She had not yet acquired the gracious gift of self-forgetfulness.
Outside the door she was met by a pleasant-faced woman in nursing
dress, who said in a low tone—
"Please do not let Miss Vincent excite herself. She wants cheering up."
They went in together; and at first, in the contrast of lowered blinds
and semi-darkness, after brilliant sunshine, Magda could see nothing.
Guided by the nurse, she stumbled towards a dim figure in an armchair,
wondering whether to offer a kiss. A hand held out settled the question.
"Sit down, please," Patricia said. "Nurse, you can leave us for a talk."
"Not more than half-an-hour, I think."
"Magda will have had enough of me by that time."
Nurse went away; and Magda growing more used to the light, ventured on
a glance—only to snatch her eyes away too hastily.
What she saw in one hurried glimpse was a thin pale face, with a patchy
complexion, scarred on the brow, with weak eyes, and the skin on one
side of the mouth slightly drawn. A light lace shawl over Patricia's
head hid the absence of hair—though it had begun to grow again, like a
baby's.
That—Patricia! That—the lovely Queen of Beauty!