ONCE MORE TO THE TEST
WITHOUT a single hitch the wedding went off.
All agreed that Bee, in bridal white, with a veil of old and exquisite
point-lace, presented by the Miss Wryatts, looked her sweetest; and that
her handsome bridegroom was worthy of her. And though it might not be
possible to find happier faces than those two, another pair could be
seen, not far-off, which at least equalled them in sunshine—the faces
of Patricia and Rob, that very morning re-engaged.
The little church was full to overflowing. Patricia had begged off
being one of the bridesmaids, who were much admired in their graceful
white and mauve. Of the six, Magda and Merryl were accounted the
best looking; and indeed more than one observer was heard to remark
that Merryl had grown quite pretty. Ned said nothing, but he gazed
the more! And almost the only person present who did not notice
his absorption in Merryl was unobservant Magda. Whether Merryl
was conscious of it might be questioned. She looked serene as usual,
but kept her eyes unwontedly cast down.
Perhaps her serenity was not quite as usual. For after the wedding
service, still early in the afternoon, when house and garden were
thronged with guests, and kisses and congratulations and cake-cutting
had been gone through, and Bee was upstairs, changing her dress,
Magda came across Merryl in a quiet corner—actually with tears
in her eyes!
"Why, Merryl!" she said in amazement.
But Merryl put her off so lightly, that she fancied she must have
been mistaken.
And then, in the excitement of watching for Bee's re-appearance in
travelling-dress, ready for departure, she forgot all about it.
The send-off was enthusiastic; and Bee seemed all smiles, except at
the moment when she said good-bye to her mother; while Ivor positively
radiated gladness and pride in his new possession. Amid a shower of
rice and a hurricane of cheers, the carriage drove away. After which
came a pause, and a general sense of flatness.
Local guests disappeared gradually; but few departures from the house
would take place before the morrow, since the Miss Wryatts were giving
a large dinner-party that evening. The hours between had to be got
through somehow—no difficult matter with at least two of the party.
Rob and Patricia promptly vanished, not to be seen again till nearly
dinner-time. Mrs. Major was invisible. Mrs. Royston and other ladies
went to their rooms to rest. Some of the more active individuals changed
to everyday dresses, and started for a ramble.
Magda, watching these departures, knew that Ned was not among them.
Where he might be she could not guess; but she was counting on his
society that afternoon. It seemed only natural; she had seen so little
of him thus far.
After waiting about for a while she went into the garden, hoping that
he might turn up. Nor did she hope in vain. Suddenly, there he
was—by her side.
"I want a chat with you, Magda. Free?"
"Of course I am. I should like nothing better," she said joyously.
"Somehow I rather fancied you'd come, Ned. I've no end of things to say
to you."
"All right. This way," and he turned towards a little shrubby avenue,
leading from the flower-garden. "It will be quiet."
"We always did like tête-à-tête rambles, didn't we?" She felt perfectly
happy. Ned to herself was all she wanted. Dear old Ned! He was just the
same as ever.
"Did we?" absently. "I don't remember."
"Why—of course we did. It wasn't half so much fun if there was a third
person."
"One doesn't always want a third person, certainly!" Ned spoke with
feeling.
"That's just what I meant."
"Was it?" questioned Ned internally. "Well—" he said aloud. "You wanted
to talk about something."
"But you had something to say first."
"Place aux dames! Mine must wait. Presently I'll ask you to do something
for me. Yours shall be the first innings."
Nothing loth, Magda started off with one of her accustomed outpourings.
She had, as she said, "no end" of things to enlarge upon—books she had
read, people she had seen, things she had done, plans she meant to carry
out. She was always sure of Ned's interest and sympathy; and it never
occurred to her that he might grow tired of listening. But, as she
flowed on, it dawned upon her that she had not his undivided attention.
He twice said "No," when he ought to have said "Yes;" and when she put
a leading question as to a certain subject, which she had fully
explained, his silence spoke for itself.
"Didn't you hear?"
"I'm most awfully sorry!—No, I'm afraid—not quite all."
"You were thinking of something else!"
"Well, perhaps—just for a minute," admitted Ned, with an air of
penitence.
Magda drew a long breath; for this was rather hard. So unlike Ned!
"I think you had better have your say first," she suggested, with great
magnanimity. "I'll tell you the rest of mine presently—when you've got
yours off your mind."
It flashed across her, suddenly and brilliantly—what if he wanted to
ask her to marry him? True, his ordinary manner was not that of the
typical lover. But this might only be because they were so entirely
at ease in their intercourse. His present absence of mind and evident
embarrassment had a suspicious look; and it might be so! He might
wish it! The notion had never before presented itself to her imagination
in so luminous a light; though at the same instant she realised that she
had thought of it, had pictured it, had hoped for it, not on the upper
surface of her mind, but in some shady half-acknowledged corner. And if
he did—if it should mean this! She would have no doubt what answer to
give. There was nobody like Ned—no, not in all the world.
Her heart beat fast, and her colour heightened. "Go on," she said
carelessly. "Tell me what you want."
Ned was almost nervous. He said nothing, but walked slowly, poking his
stick into the ground at regular intervals, as if marking out an
embroidery pattern.
"Perhaps," and she paused, "you are in need of a pair of bedroom
slippers. Shall I make them?"
"I'm in earnest. Don't talk bosh."
"No, I won't. I'll be sober. What is it, Ned? You needn't mind saying
out what you would like. We're such old chums."
"Just so," assented Ned. "That's what I've been feeling—that I might
ask your help, and that you wouldn't mind—you'd be sure to understand."
It did not sound precisely like the preliminary to an offer of marriage;
but she replied cheerfully—
"Of course I shall. We always did understand one another—even in the
days when I wore short frocks, and when you—"
Ned was in no mood for a plunge into schoolboy reminiscences.
"Yes, yes—that's all right," he said hastily.
"Well, you may as well tell me what it is that I've got to do for you."
Ned hesitated still. "You see," he at length said, "you see—I've wanted
it so long! And the longer I wait, the more I'm set on it. That's the
way one does, I suppose. And the time has come now when I needn't put
off any longer."
Magda's hopes again went up. "Yes—I see!" She vaguely agreed.
"And there seems no possibility of getting hold—" one or two words
were murmured inaudibly. "Always something in the way—preventing—"
"Why, Ned!" she all but exclaimed. "You haven't tried!" Happily
she checked the words.
"It seems no use trying," he went on, with a touch of dejection.
"I cannot get hold of her or make her understand. She slips away as
soon as I appear on the scene—or at least, as soon as—" He left the
sentence unfinished, and Magda could supply the missing words. "You
must have noticed! And I thought I would have it out with you, and
ask your help. You can put things right for me."
Once launched, he found it easy to proceed; and he did not observe
her silence, nor the averted face.
"I believe I have had it in my mind from the first moment that I saw
her again—you know! When I met her in the garden, on my way to find you.
I believe I went in, over head and ears, there and then. She is the sort
of sunny-tempered darling that does take hold of a man! But she was so
young, I didn't venture to say anything. It was wiser to wait.
However—I spoke to your father and mother a few weeks ago, when I was
down in Burwood, and they gave their consent. The difficulty now is to
get hold of Merryl. I seem to have no chance. You see—"
He paused again and had no response. Perhaps he hardly expected one yet,
as he had not finished. Magda was in the thick of a fierce conflict
which rendered her voiceless.
So Ned was not in love with her! He did not want her! He was in love
with another—and that other was Merryl. Merryl—of all people! The younger
sister—the quiet little useful nonentity—Merryl, who was not clever, nor
charming, nor really good-looking—Merryl, who had no conversational
gifts, no particular talents or powers—Merryl who was so far inferior
intellectually to Magda herself! Yet here was Ned Fairfax, her
friend!—professing himself to be deep in love with Merryl. Not only so;
but calmly asking her to help forward his suit! A passion of wrath had
possession of Magda—wrath towards Merryl, and wrath towards Ned.
"You see," he went on, "she seems to have got it into her head that she
is an intruder if you and I are together. And that, of course, is absurd.
I want her to understand."
"You want me to make love to Merryl for you!" Magda spoke with a curt
laugh.
"Well, no—not exactly." Ned took this as a joke—a rather ill-timed joke
in his opinion—but he echoed her laugh good-naturedly. "What I want you
to do is to make her understand that she is not in the way—that she
never can be in the way—that it is her dear little self that I
want—always!"
"That, in fact, I'm the person in the way—not Merryl!"
Ned wondered for a moment—was Magda in one of her "moods"?
"If you must take it in that way, I shall be sorry that I said anything.
I thought I might venture."
"Of course you might!" Magda was alarmed, lest he should discover too
much. "Go on—you had more to say."
Ned obeyed, and did go on. He went through the whole again, with
amplifications, explaining more fluently, and enlarging in lover-like
style upon Merryl's unselfishness, and the spell which her face had laid
upon him—that face of placid content, which would be a never-ending
delight to the man who should be so fortunate as to win her for his own.
For once, it was Ned who poured out, and Magda who listened.
Or at least, who seemed to listen. She heard only part, for she was
fighting a very hard battle. The same hour which had brought knowledge
of his love for another, had brought also knowledge of what he had grown
to be to herself. And now, she must lose him—had lost him. Whether he
did or did not marry Merryl, he did not want her. She would not even
be his chum any longer. When Merryl should be his wife, how could she
any more confide in him, as she had been wont? How tell him her thoughts,
her aims, her troubles? It was very very hard!
Then a gentle voice within, a voice to which she was learning to give
attention, said—
"Another opportunity!"
Was it that? Was this the next opportunity, which she had known must
some day come? Not like the one in which she had so signally failed;
for here lay no possibilities of grand action in the eyes of men, or of
praise and admiration to follow. No one would know; no one might know.
She had to keep to herself all that it meant; had to hide from Ned all
she might feel or suffer. Yet the test was no less severe, the chance
for self-sacrifice no less genuine, than last time. Perhaps, even more
severe, even more genuine, while hidden from those around.
And the question was—would she be beaten anew? She had been so often
defeated in the past. Would she refuse to do what Ned asked? It was
a request not easy to face. She was to help him to gain his heart's
desire; to try to persuade Merryl; to efface herself; to retreat
willingly into the background, that he might have her younger sister!
She could not escape from the trouble itself. It had to be endured.
But was it to be a sorrow taken sullenly and despairingly, taken only
because it could not be avoided? Or should it be a test met bravely,
an unselfish action embraced, a victory won in the face of odds?
Was she going to think only of herself, and of what she had lost?
Or would she do her utmost for the happiness of her sister and her
friend?
The choice had to be made quickly. Ned was speaking still; but he
would soon pause, and then she must say something. What should she—what
could she say? And with the sense of helplessness, a passionate appeal
went up for help; such an appeal, such a prayer, as never can be made
in vain. A sudden calm came.
The pause occurred; and she heard herself saying—
"I'll do what I can for you."
"If you could just make her understand that it is all a mistake—that she
never can be in the way—in anybody's way."
"Why don't you speak out yourself?"
"I'm afraid to risk it too soon. I did try a word or two this afternoon;
and she simply would not listen. She seems to think it is disloyal
to you. I shall be in Burwood now for a fortnight; and I want a clear
field. You see?"
Magda did see. "I'll do my best," she repeated.
They were close to a little summer-house. Ned halted.
"I don't want to lose to-day," he said. "Magda—could you—wait here,
and let me send her to you? I know where she is."
"Yes. And then you can come for her."
"Thanks—a thousand times. You are a friend worth having."
He sped away; and Magda sat down, gazing into the blue distance with eyes
that saw little. It was hard! But the calm overshadowed her still; and
she knew that in this fight at least she had come off victor; not in her
own strength.
She found herself facing steadily the fact that, for the present, her
life was clearly marked out. She would be the one efficient home-daughter.
Her parents in their advancing years would depend mainly upon her for
cheer and sunshine. The quiet daily round would be her portion. And if
she were called to this—if this were the Will of her Master!—What mattered
its insignificance, its dulness, or even her own loneliness?
"I've got to be brave about it—that's all!" she murmured. "I've just got
to do it; and to do it well! Nothing grand about it. A plain little
square of weaving! Sort of ground-work to the pattern, perhaps," and she
laughed softly. "Not pretty, but useful. Well, I've had other chances,
and I've missed them. I'll try hard now, with this. Life is worth living;
when one sees what it means!"
Sooner than she would have thought possible, Merryl came in, looking
puzzled.
"You want me!" she said.
"Come and sit down here. I've something to say. Merryl, what makes you
run away from Ned as you do? Especially the moment I turn up!"
Merryl flushed and seemed embarrassed. "Has he told you—about this
afternoon?"
"What happened?"
"Oh, nothing much. Only, he said something—I didn't quite understand.
And I wouldn't let him go on. It didn't seem fair; and I told him so.
He has always been your friend."
"You don't suppose I want to shut him up in a box for my own use!
Was it that you were crying about?"
"I wasn't crying—really. Only—I was afraid I had hurt him—and I
couldn't bear—"
"Don't cry now. There's no need. You like Ned?"
"Why—everybody likes him."
"Well, you've got to get it into your head that there is no question
of unfairness, or of Ned belonging to me. He is free to choose for
himself. And if he chooses to go after you, don't run away. Unless you
really want to drive him off, and to make him miserable. Do you?"
Merryl shook her head.
"Then it is all right. Don't you suppose I want my old friend to be
happy? So when he comes back in a few minutes—you had better go with him."
"Magda, you are a dear!" murmured Merryl, clinging to her.
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.