Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
"I SEE THEM, I SEE THEM PLAINLY!"
LIFE'S LITTLE STAGE
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"SUN, MOON AND STARS," "THIS WONDER-WORLD,"
"STORIES OF THE ABBEY PRECINCTS," ETC., ETC.
"Who can over-estimate the value of these little Opportunities?
How angels must weep to see us throw them away!
. . . And how can we ever expect to meet the great trials
worthily, unless we learn discipline by those which to others
may seem but trifles?"—ANON.
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, E.C.
1913
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Little 'Why-Because'
This Wonder-World
Gwendoline
The Hillside Children
Stories of the Abbey Precincts
Anthony Cragg's Tenant
Profit and Loss; or, Life's Ledger
Through the Linn
Five Little Birdies
Next-Door Neighbours
Willie and Lucy at the Sea-side
LONDON: THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
FOREWORD
THERE are many girls who, on leaving School for Home-life, find the year or two following rather "difficult." They seem often not quite to know what to do with themselves, with their time, with their gifts; and they are apt to fall into some needless mistakes for want of a guiding hand. My wish, in writing this tale, has been to give such girls a little help. It may be that one here or there, in reading it, will find out how to avoid such mistakes from the struggles, the defeats, and the non-defeats of Magda Royston.
AGNES GIBERNE.
EASTBOURNE.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
[VII. A MOUNTAIN HUT BY NIGHT]
[XXIII. HERSELF OR HER FRIEND?]
[XXXIII. THIS GLORIOUS WORLD!]
[XXXIV. ONCE MORE TO THE TEST]
LIFE'S LITTLE STAGE
[CHAPTER I]
GOOD-BYE TO SCHOOL
"SOME girls would be glad in your place."
"It's just the other way with me."
"Not that you have not been happy here. I know you have. Still—home is home."
"This is my other home."
Miss Mordaunt smiled. It was hardly in human nature not to be gratified.
"If only I could have stayed two years longer! Or even one year! Father might let me. It's such a horrid bore to have to leave now."
"But since no choice is left, you must make the best of things."
The two stood facing one another in the bow-window of Miss Mordaunt's pretty drawing-room; tears in the eyes of the elder woman, for hers was a sympathetic nature; no tears in the eyes of the girl, but a sharp ache at her heart. Till the arrival of this morning's post she never quite lost hope, though notice of her removal was given months before. A final appeal, vehemently worded, after the writer's fashion, had lately gone; and the reply was decisive.
Many a tussle of wills had taken place during the last four years between these two; and a time was when the pupil indulged in hard thoughts of the kind Principal. But Miss Mordaunt possessed power to win love; and though she found in Magda Royston a difficult subject, she conquered in the end. Out of battling grew strong affection—how strong on the side of Magda perhaps neither quite knew until this hour.
"There isn't any 'best.' It's just simply horrid."
"Still, if you are wanted at home, your duty lies there."
"I'm not. That's the thing. Nobody wants me. Mother has Penrose; and father has Merryl; and Frip—I mean, Francie—is the family pet. And I come in nowhere. I'm a sort of extraneous atom that can't coalesce with any other atom." A tinge of self-satisfaction crept into the tone. "It's not my fault. Nobody at home needs me—not one least little bit. And there isn't a person in all the town that I care for—not one blessed individual!"
Miss Mordaunt seated herself on the sofa, drawing the speaker to her side, with a protesting touch.
"There isn't. Pen snaps them all up. And if she didn't, it would come to the same thing. I'm not chummy with girls—never was. I had a real friend once; but he was a boy; and boys are so different. Ned Fairfax and I were immense chums; but he was years and years older than me; and he went right away when I was only eleven. I've never set eyes on him since, and I don't even know now what has become of him. Only I know we should be friends again—directly—if ever we met! The girls and I get on well enough here, but we're not friends."
"Except Beatrice."
"Bee is a little dear, and I dote on her; and she worships the ground I tread on. But after all—though she is more than a year older, she always seems the younger. And I'm much more to her than she is to me. Don't you see? I wouldn't say that to everybody, but it's true. I want something more than that, if it is to satisfy! Bee looks up to me. I want some one that I can look up to."
"There is much more in Bee than appears on the surface."
"I dare say. She pegs away, and gets on. She'll be awfully useful at home. And in a sort of way she is taking."
"People find her extremely taking. She is a friend worth having and worth keeping. But I hope you are going to have friends in Burwood."
"There's nobody. Oh well, yes, there is one—but she doesn't live there. She only comes down to a place near for a week or ten days at a time. Her name is Patricia, and she is a picture! I've seen her just three times, and I fell in love straight off. But I haven't a ghost of a chance. Everybody runs after her. Oh, I shall get on all right. There's Rob, you know. He and I have always been cronies; and it's quite settled that I shall keep house for him some day. Not till he gets a living; and that won't be yet. He was only ordained two years ago."
"I should advise you not to build too much on that notion. Your brother may marry."
Magda's eyes blazed. They were singular golden-brown eyes, with a reddish tinge in the iris, matching her hair.
"You don't know Rob! He always says he never comes across any girls to be compared with his sisters. And I always was his special! He promised—years ago—that I should live with him by-and-by. At least—if he didn't exactly promise, he said it. Father jeers at the idea, but Rob means what he says."
Miss Mordaunt hesitated to throw further cold water. Life itself would bring the chill splash soon enough.
"Well—perhaps," she admitted. "Only, it is always wiser not to look forward too confidently. Things turn out so unlike what one expects beforehand. Have you not found it so?"
"I'm sure this won't. It will all come right, I know. But just imagine father talking about my having 'finished my education.' Oh dear me, if he would but understand! He says his own sisters finished theirs at seventeen, and he doesn't see any need for new-fangled ways. You may read it!" Magda held out the sheet with an indignant thrust. "As if it mattered what they used to do in the Dark Ages."
Miss Mordaunt could not quite suppress another smile. She read the letter and gave it back.
"That settles the matter, I am afraid. I see that your father wants his daughter."
"He doesn't!" bluntly. "He wants nobody except Merryl. 'Finished my education' indeed! Why, I'm not seventeen till next month; and I'm only just beginning to know what real work means."
Miss Mordaunt could have endorsed this; but an interruption came. She was called away; and Magda wandered to one of the class-rooms, where, as she expected, she found a girl alone bending over a desk, hard at work—a girl nearly as tall as herself, but so slight in make that people often spoke of her as "little;" the more so, perhaps, from her gentle retiring manner, and from the look of wistful appeal in her brown eyes. It was a pale face, even-featured, with rather marked dark brows and brown hair full of natural waves. As Magda entered she jumped up.
"I've been wanting to see you, Magda. Only think—"
"I went to tell Miss Mordaunt—father has written at last."
"Has he? And he says—?"
"I'm to go home for good at the end of the term."
"Then we leave together, after all."
"It's right enough for you. You've had an extra year. But I do hate it—just as I am getting to love work—to have to stop."
"You won't stop. You are so clever. You will keep on with everything."
"It can't be the same—working all alone."
Beatrice looked sympathetic, but only remarked—"I have heard from my mother too. And only think! We are to leave town. Not now, but some time next year; when the lease of our house is up. Guess where we may perhaps live!"
"Not—Burwood!" dubiously.
Bee clapped joyous hands.
"What can have made your mother think of such a thing?"
"Why, Magda! Wouldn't you be glad to have us?"
"Of course. But I mean—how did it come into her head?"
"I put the notion there. Wouldn't you have done it in my place? London never has suited her; and our doctor advises the country. And I said something in my last about Burwood—not really thinking that anything would come of it. But mother has quite taken to the idea. She used to stay near, sometimes, when she was a child; and she remembers well how pretty the walks and drives were. It would make all the difference to me if we were near to you. I should not mind so very much then having to leave Amy."
Magda was not especially fond of hearing about this other great friend—Amy Smith. Whatever her estimate might be, in the abstract, of the value of Bee, she liked to have the whole of her; not to share her with somebody else. Certainly not with a "Miss Smith!"
"You see, I've been near Amy all my life; and she is so good to me—too good! She's years older, but we are just like sisters, and I don't know how I shall get on without her. But if it is to come near you, dear, saying good-bye won't be quite so hard."
"It will be frightfully nice if you do. We can do no end of things together. I suppose it's not settled yet."
"No; only, if mother once takes to a plan, she doesn't soon give it up. So I'm very hopeful. Just think! If I were always near you! And you were always coming in and out!"
"It would be frightfully nice!" repeated Magda, throwing into her voice what Bee would expect to hear. But when she strolled away, she questioned within herself—was she glad? Would she be more disappointed or more relieved if the scheme fell through?
The notion of introducing Beatrice Major to her home-circle did not quite appeal to her. The Roystons held their heads high, and moved in county circles, and were extremely particular as to whom they deigned to know. Bee herself was the dearest little creature—pretty and lovable, sweet and kind; but she had been only two years in the school, and Magda had met none of Bee's people. They might very easily fail to suit her people.
Beatrice, it was true, never seemed to mind being questioned about her home and connections; but it was equally true that she never appeared to have very much to say—at least of any such particulars as would impress the Royston imagination; and this was suggestive. Magda had heard so much all her life about people's antecedents, that she might be excused for feeling nervous. She had seen a photo of Bee's mother, and thought her a very unattractive person; also a photo of Amy Smith, which was worse still. She knew that Mrs. Major could not be too well off, for Bee's command of pocket-money was by no means plentiful, and her wardrobe was limited.
They would probably live in some poky little house. And though Magda could talk grandly about not caring what other people thought, and though personally she would not perhaps mind about the said house, yet she would mind extremely if her own particular friend were looked down upon by her home-folks. The very idea of Pen's air of mild disdain stung sharply.
So altogether she felt that, if the plan failed, she would not be very sorry. But Bee might on no account guess this.
Several weeks later came the day of parting; and once more Magda stood before Miss Mordaunt with a lump in her throat.
"You will have to work steadily, if you do not mean to lose all you have gained, Magda."
"I know. I shall make a plan for every day, and stick to it."
"Except when home duties come between."
"I've no home duties. Pen goes everywhere with mother, and Merryl does all the little useful fidgets. There's nothing left for me. Nobody will care what I'm after."
Miss Mordaunt studied the impressionable face. Some eager thought was at work below the surface.
"What is it, my dear?"
"You always know when I've something on my mind. I've been thinking a lot lately. Miss Mordaunt, I want to do something with my life. Not just to drift along anyhow, as so many girls do. I want to make something of it. Something great, you know!"—and her eyes glowed. "Do you think I shall ever be able? Does the chance come to everybody some time or other? I've heard it said that it does."
"It may. Many miss the 'chance,' as you call it, when it does come. I should rather call it 'the opportunity.' What do you mean by 'something great'?"
"Oh—Why!—You know! Something above the common run. Like Grace Darling, or Miss Florence Nightingale, or that Duchess who stayed behind in the French bazaar to be burnt to death, so that others might escape. It was noblesse oblige with her, wasn't it? I think it would be grand to do something of that sort,—that would be always remembered and talked about."
"Perhaps so. But don't forget that what one is in the little things of life, one is also in the great things. More than one rehearsal is generally given to us before the 'great opportunity' is sent. And if we fail in the rehearsals, we fail then also."
"Yes—I know. And I do mean to work at my studies. But all the same, I should like to do something, some day, really and truly great."
Miss Mordaunt looked wistfully at the girl. "Dear Magda—real greatness does not mean being talked about. It means—doing the Will of God in our lives—doing our duty, and doing it for Him."
[CHAPTER II]
WHAT WAS THE USE?
MANY months later that parting interview with Miss Mordaunt recurred vividly to Magda.
"What's the good of it all, I wonder?" she had been asking aloud.
And suddenly, as if called up from a far distance, she saw again Miss Mordaunt's face, and heard again her own confident utterances.
It was a bitterly cold March afternoon. She stood alone under the great walnut tree in the back garden—which was divided by a tall hedge from the kitchen garden. Over her head was a network of bare boughs; and upon the grass at her feet lay a pure white carpet. Some lilac bushes near had begun to show promise of coming buds; but they looked doleful enough now, weighed down by snow.
She had with such readiness promised steady work in the future! And she had meant it too.
The thing seemed so easy beforehand. And for a time she really had tried. But she had not kept it up. She had not worked persistently. She had not "stuck" to her plans. The contrast between intention and non-fulfilment came upon her now with force.
Six months had gone by of home-life, of emancipation from school control. Six months of aimless drifting—the very thing she had resolved sturdily against.
"Oh, bother! What's the use of worrying? Why can't I take things as Pen does? Pen never seems to mind." But she was in the grip of a cogitative mood, and thinking would not be stayed.
She had begun well enough—had planned daily two hours of music, an hour of history, an hour of literature, an hour alternately of French and German. It had all looked fair and promising. And the whole had ended in smoke.
Something always seemed to come in the way. The children wanted a ramble. Or she was sent on an errand. Or a caller came in. Or there was an invitation. Or—oftener and worse!—disinclination had her by the throat.
Disinclination which, no doubt, might have been, and ought to have been, grappled with and overcome. Only, she had not grappled with it. She had not overcome. She had yielded, time after time.
It was so difficult to work alone; so dull to sit and read in her own room; so stupid to write a translation that nobody would see; so tiresome to practice when there was none to praise or blame. Not that she liked blame; and not that she was not expected to practice; but no marked interest was shown in her advance; and she wanted sympathy and craved an object. And it was so fatally easy to put off, to let things slide, to get out of the way of regular plans. The fact that any time would do equally well soon meant no time.
This had been a typical day; and she reviewed it ruefully. A morning of aimless nothings; the mending of clothes idly deferred; hours spent in the reading of a foolish novel; jars with Penrose; friction with her mother; a sharp set-down from her father; then forgetfulness of wrongs and resentment during a romp in the snow with Merryl and Frip—till the younger girls were summoned indoors, leaving her to descend at a plunge from gaiety to disquiet. Magda's variations were many.
She stood pondering the subject—a long-limbed well-grown girl, young in look for her years, with a curly mass of red-brown hair, seldom tidy, and a pair of expressive eyes. They could look gentle and loving, though that phase was not common; they could sparkle with joy or blaze with anger; they could be dull as a November fog; they could, as at this moment, turn their regards inwards with uneasy self-condemnation.
But it was a condemnation of self which she would not have liked anybody else to echo. No one quicker, you may be sure, than Magda Royston in self-defence! Even now words of excuse sprang readily, as she stood at the bar of her own judgment.
"After all, I don't see that it is my fault. I can't help things being as they are. And suppose I had worked all these months at music and history and languages—what then? What would be the good? It would be all for myself. I should be just as useless to other people."
A vision arose of the great things she had wished to do, and she stamped the snow flat.
"It's no good. I've no chance. There's nothing to be done that I can see. If I had heaps of money to give away! Or if I had a special gift—if I could write books, or could paint pictures! Or even if my people were poor, and I could work hard to get money for them! Anything like that would make all the difference. As it is—well, I know I have brains of a sort; better brains than Pen! But I don't see what I can do with them. I don't see that I can do anything out of the common, or better than hundreds of other people do. And that is so stupid. Not worth the trouble!"
"Mag-da!" sounded in Pen's clear voice.
"She never can leave me in peace! I'm not going indoors yet."
"Mag-da!" Three times repeated, was followed by—"Where are you? Mother says you are to come."
This could not be disregarded. "Coming," she called carelessly, and in a slow saunter she followed the boundary of the kitchen garden hedge, trailed through the back yard, stopped to exchange a greeting with the house-dog as he sprang to the extent of his chain, stroked the stately Persian cat on the door-step, and finally presented herself in the inner hall.
It was one of the oldest houses in the country town of Burwood; rather small, but antique. Once upon a time it had stood alone, surrounded by its own broad acres; but things were changed, and the acres had shrunk—through the extravagance of former Roystons—to only a fair-sized garden. The rest of the land had been sold for building; and other houses in gardens stood near. In the opinion of old residents, this was no longer real country; and with new-comers, the Roystons no longer ranked as quite the most important people in the near neighbourhood. Their means were limited enough to make it no easy matter for them to remain on in the house, and they could do little in the way of entertaining. But they prided themselves still on their exclusiveness.
Penrose stood waiting; a contrast to Magda, who was five years her junior. Not nearly so tall and much more slim, she had rather pretty blue eyes and a neat figure, which comprised her all in the way of good looks. Her manner towards Magda was superior and mildly positive, though with people in general she knew how to be agreeable. Magda's air in response was combative.
"Did you not hear me calling?"
"If not, I shouldn't be here now."
"I think you need not have kept me so long."
Magda vouchsafed no excuse. "What's up?" she demanded.
"Mother wants you in the drawing-room."
"What for?"
"She found your drawers untidy."
"Of course you sent her to look at them."
"I don't 'send' mother about. And I have not been in your room to-day."
"I understand!" Magda spoke pointedly.
Penrose glanced up and down her sister with critical eyes. A word of warning would be kind. Magda seemed blissfully unconscious of her outward condition; and Pen had this moment heard a ring at the front door, which might mean callers.
"You've done the business now, so I hope you're satisfied," Magda went on. "Mother would never have thought of looking in my drawers, if you had not said something. I know! I did make hay in them yesterday, when I couldn't find my gloves, but I meant to put them straight to-night. It's too bad of you."
Pen's lips, parted for speech, closed again. If Magda chose to fling untrue accusations, she might manage for herself. And indeed small chance was given her to say more. Magda marched off, just as she was, straight for the drawing-room—her skirts pinned abnormally high for the snow-frolic; her shoes encased in snow; her tam-o'-shanter half-covering a mass of wild hair; her bare hands soiled and red with cold and scratched with brambles.
"Yes, mother. Pen says you want me."
She sent the words in advance with no gentle voice, as she whisked open the drawing-room door. Then she stopped.
Mrs. Royston, a graceful woman, looked in displeasure towards the figure in the doorway; for she was not alone.
Callers had arrived, as Pen conjectured; and through the front window might be seen two thoroughbreds champing their bits, and a footman standing stolidly. Why had Pen given no hint? How unkind! Then she recalled her own curt turning away, and knew that she was to blame.
"Really!" with a faint laugh protested Mrs. Royston.
"So I thought we would look in for five minutes on our way back from Sir John's," the elder caller was remarking in a manly voice.
She was a large woman, more in breadth and portliness than in height, and her magnificent furs made her look like a big brown bear sitting on end. Her face too was large and strongly outlined.
Magda guessed in a moment what her mother felt; for the Honourable Mrs. Framley was a county magnate; the weightiest personality in more senses than one to be found for many a mile around. A call from her was reckoned by some people as second only to a call from Royalty. The girl's first impulse was to flee; but a solid outstretched hand commanded her approach.
"Now, which of your young folks is this?" demanded Mrs. Framley, examining Magda through an eye-glass. "Let me see—you've got—how many daughters? Penrose—Magda—Merryl—Frances. I've not forgotten their names, though it's—how long?—since I was here last. Months, I'm afraid. But this is not your neat Penrose; and my jolly little friend Merryl can't have shot up to that height since I saw her; and Magda is out. Came out in the autumn, didn't she? So who is this? A niece?"
"I'm Magda," the girl said in shamefaced confession, for Mrs. Royston seemed voiceless.
Mrs. Framley leant back in her chair, and laughed till she was exhausted.
"So that's a specimen of the modern young woman, eh?"—when she could regain her voice. "My dear—" to Mrs. Royston—"pray don't apologise. It's I who should apologise. But really—really—it's irresistible." She went into another fit, and emerged from it, wheezing. "The child doesn't look a day over fifteen." The speaker wiped her eyes. "Don't send her away. Unadulterated Nature is always worth seeing—eh, Patricia?"
Magda turned startled eyes in the direction of the second caller, a girl three or four years older than herself, and the last person whom she expected to see. The last person, perhaps, whom at that moment she wished to see. For despite Magda's boasted non-chumminess with girls, this was the one girl whom she did, honestly and heartily, though not hopefully, desire for a friend. She had fallen in love at first sight with Mrs. Framley's niece, and had cherished her image ever since in the most secret recess of her heart.
"She'll think me just a silly idiotic school-girl!" flashed through Magda's mind, as she made an involuntary movement forward with extended hand—a soiled hand, as already said, scratched and slightly bleeding.
Patricia Vincent, standing thus far with amused eyes in the background, hesitated. She was immaculately dressed in grey, with a grey-feathered hat, relieved by touches of salmon-pink, and the daintiest of pale grey kid gloves. Contact with that hand did not quite suit her fastidious sense. A mere fraction of a second—and then she would have responded; but Magda, with crimsoning cheeks, had snatched the offending member away.
"I think you had better go and send Pen," interposed Mrs. Royston. Under the quiet words lay a command, "Do not come back."
Magda fled, without a good-bye, and went to the school-room, where she flung herself into an old armchair. The gas was low, but a good fire gave light; and she sat there in a dishevelled heap, weighing her grievances.
It was too bad of Pen, quite too bad, not to have warned her! And now the mischief was done. Patricia Vincent would never forget. Pen would go in and win; while she, as usual, would be nowhere in the race.
And all because she had not first rushed upstairs, to smooth her hair and wash her hands! Such nonsense!
As if Pen had not friends enough already! Just the single girl that she wanted for herself! If she might have Patricia, Pen was welcome to the rest of the world. But that was always the way! If one cared for a thing particularly, that thing was certain to be out of reach.
She was smarting still over the thought of that refused handshake; but her anger all went in the direction of Pen, not of Patricia. Pen alone was to blame!
Presently the front door was opened and shut; and then Mrs. Royston came in, moving with her usual graceful deliberation.
"What could have made you behave so, Magda?" she asked. "To come before callers in such a state!"
Magda was instantly up in arms. "Pen never told me there were callers."
"She did not know it. She would have reminded you how untidy you were—certainly in no condition to come into the drawing-room, even if I had been alone! But you show so much annoyance if she speaks."
"Pen is always in the right, of course."
"That is not the way to speak to me. I would rather have had this happen before anybody than before Mrs. Framley."
Magda shut her lips.
"Why did you not send Pen, as I told you?"
"I forgot."
"You always do forget. There is more dependence to be put upon Francie than upon you. You think of nothing, and care for nothing, except your own concerns. I am disappointed in you. It seems sometimes as if you had no sense of duty. And you ought to leave off giving way to temper as you do. It is so unlike your sisters. Nothing ever seems right with you."
"I can't help it. It isn't my fault."
"Then you ought to help it. You are not a little child any longer."
Mrs. Royston hesitated, as if about to say more; but Magda held up her head with an air of indifference, though invisible tears were scorching the backs of her eyes; and with a sigh she left the room. Magda would let no tear fall. She was angry, as well as unhappy.
Why should she be always the one in disgrace—and never Pen? True, Pen was careful, and neat, and sensible. All through girlhood Pen had been in the right. She had done her lessons, not indeed brilliantly, but with punctuality and exactness. Her hair was always neat; her stockings were always darned; her room was always in order; she never forgot what she undertook to do; she never gave a message upside-down or wrong end before. While Magda—but it is enough to say that in all these items she was the exact reverse of Penrose.
This week she in her turn had charge of the school-room, which was also the play-room. And the result, but for thoughtful Merryl, would have been "confusion worse confounded." Mr. Royston was wont to declare that when his second daughter passed through a room, she left such traces as are commonly left by a tropical cyclone. There was some truth in the remark, if Magda happened to be in a tumultuous mood.
Penrose had her faults, as well as Magda, though somehow she was seldom blamed for them. She had a knack of being always in the right, at least to outward appearance. No doubt her faults were exaggerated by Magda; but they did exist. She wanted the best of everything for herself; she alone must be popular; she could not endure that Magda should do anything better than she did; she was not always strictly true. Magda saw and felt these defects; but nobody else seemed to be aware of them; and she could prove nothing. If she tried, she only managed to get into hot water, while Pen was sure to come off with flying colours.
"And it will be just the same with Patricia Vincent," was the outcome of this soliloquy. "The moment Pen guesses that I like her, she'll step in and oust me. I know she will."
[CHAPTER III]
ROBERT
WITH a creak, the door was cautiously opened. Somebody put in his head.
"All alone, Magda!"
Depression vanished, and the transformation in Magda's face was like an instantaneous leap from November to June. In a moment her eyes were alight, her limbs alert.
"Rob!" she cried.
"Well, old girl! How are you?"
"You dear old fellow—I am glad."
The new-comer was about her own height, which though fairly tall for a girl could not be so counted for a man. He was slim in make, like Pen; also, like Pen, scrupulously neat in dress. Her eager welcome met with a quiet kiss; after which he seated himself; and his eyes travelled over her, with a rather dubious expression.
"It's awfully jolly to have you here again. You never told us you were coming."
"I happened not to know it myself till this morning. What have you been after?"
"Just now? Playing in the snow."
Rob's gaze reached her shoes, and she laughed.
"Yes, I know! Of course, I ought to have changed them. But it didn't seem worth while. I shall have to dress for dinner soon."
"And, meantime, you are anxious to start early rheumatism!"
"My dear Rob! I never had a twinge of it in my life—I don't know what it means."
"So much the better. It would be more sensible to continue in ignorance."
"Oh, all right. I'll be sensible, and change—presently. I really can't just now. I must have you while I can. When the others know you are here, I shall not have a chance. Are you going to stay?"
"One night. I must be off the first thing to-morrow morning."
"And I've oceans to say! Things that can't by any possibility be written."
"Fire away then. There's no time like the present."
"We shall be interrupted in two minutes. It's always the way! Why do things always go contrary, I wonder? At least, they do with me. If I could only come and live with you, Rob!—now!"
"That is to be your future life—is it?"
"Why, you know! Haven't we always said so? And whenever I am miserable, I always comfort myself by looking forward to a home with you."
"What are you miserable about?"
"All sorts of things. Some days everything goes wrong and I can't get on with people. It's not my fault. They don't understand me."
"I wonder whether you understand them?" murmured Rob.
"And there's nothing in life that's worth doing. Nothing in my life, I mean."
"Or rather—you have not found it yet."
"No, I don't mean that. I mean that there isn't anything. Really and truly!"
Rob said only, "H'm!"
"Yes, I dare say! But just think what I have to do. Tennis and hockey; cycling and walking; mending my clothes and making blouses—not that I'm much good at that! Going to tea with people I don't care a fig for; and having people here that I shouldn't mind never setting eyes on again! Smothering down all I think and feel, because nobody cares. Worrying and being worried, and all to no good. Nothing to show for the half-year that is gone, and nothing to look to in the year that's begun. The months are just simply frittered away, and no human being is the better for my being alive. It's not what I call Life. It is just getting through time. Don't you see? It suits Pen well enough. So long as she gets a decent amount of attention, she's happy. But I'm not made that way; and I can't see what life is given us for, if it means nothing better."
When she stopped, pleased with her own eloquence, Rob merely remarked—
"Don't you think that bit of hard judgment might have been left out? It wasn't a needful peroration."
Magda blushed; and Robert pondered.
"But, Rob—would you like to live such a life?"
Rob's gesture was sufficient answer.
"And yet you think I oughtn't to mind?"
"I beg your pardon. You are wrong to live it."
"But what can I do?"
"Find work. Take care that somebody is the better for your existence."
"I've tried. I can't. It's no good."
"There are always people to be helped—people you can be kind to—people you can cheer up, when they feel dull."
"Pick up old ladies' stitches, I suppose. Interesting!"
"I did not know you wished to be interested. I thought you wanted to be of use."
"Well—of course! But that's so commonplace. I want to do something out of the ordinary beat."
"You want some agreeable duty, manufactured to suit your especial taste!"
"Oh, bother! Somebody is coming. What a plague! And I have heaps more to say. Won't you give me another talk?"
"I'll manage it."
He stood up to greet his mother, as she came in, followed by the two younger girls. The news of his unexpected arrival seemed all at once to pervade the household.
Penrose entered next; and behind her Mr. Royston, a thick-set grey-haired man, of impulsive manners, sometimes more kindly than judicious.
He was devoted to his family; not much given to books; ready to help anybody and everybody who might appeal to him; generally more or less in financial difficulties, partly from his inherited tendency to allow pounds and pence to slide too rapidly through his fingers. A pleasant and genial man, so long as he did not encounter opposition; but it was out of his power to understand why all the world should not agree with himself. His wife gave in to him ninety-nine times in a hundred; and if, the hundredth time, she set her foot down firmly, he gave in to her; for he was a most affectionate husband.
As for his daughters, he doted on them. Steady Penrose, useful Merryl, picturesque little Frip, were everything that he desired. Magda alone puzzled him. He could not make out what she wanted, or why she would not be content to fit in with others, to play games, to sit and work, to do anything or nothing with equal content. Dreams and aspirations, indeed! Nonsense! Humbug! What did girls want with such notions? They had to be good girls, to do as they were told, and to make themselves agreeable. A vexed face annoyed him beyond expression. He could not get over it. He could never ignore it. By his want of tact, though with the kindest intentions, he often managed to put a finishing stroke to Magda's uncomfortable moods.
"Why can't father leave me alone?" she sometimes complained.
Mr. Royston never did leave anybody alone, whether for weal or for woe. Nor did he ever learn wisdom through his own mistakes.
This afternoon, happily, there were no dismal faces. With Rob to the fore, even though he had not fallen in with her views, Magda was in the best of spirits.
She took pains with her toilette that evening—which she was not always at the trouble to do. Sometimes it did not seem "worth while." Yet she well repaid care in that direction. Though not strictly good-looking, she had a nice figure, and knew how to carry herself; and the mass of reddish-gold hair came out well, if properly dressed; and when she smiled and was pleased, her face would hardly have been recognised by one who had seen her only in one of her "November fogs." Rob looked her over, and signified approval by a quiet—"That's right." She expected no more. He never wasted unnecessary words.
Further confidential talk that day proved out of the question, for Rob was very much in request. But Magda waited patiently; for he had promised, and he always kept his promises. Bedtime arrived; and still she felt sure.
"I'm off early," he said, and he looked at her. "Seven-thirty train. Will you be down at seven, and walk to the station with me?"
"This weather!" demurred Mrs. Royston.
"It won't hurt her, mother. She's strong."
"I'm as strong as a horse. Of course it wont hurt me."
"Mayn't we come too?" begged Merryl.
"Only Magda." Rob's tone was final.
"She will never be down in time. Magda is always late," put in Penrose.
Magda's eyes flamed, but she had no need to speak.
"I don't think she will fail me," Rob said tranquilly.
[CHAPTER IV]
THE INEFFABLE PATRICIA
"THAT'S right," Robert remarked, finding Magda already in the breakfast-room, before a blazing fire. She had on a little round cap and motor-veil, and a heavy ulster lay at hand. "Awful morning. You'll have to let me go alone."
"No, indeed! You said I might."
"Well!" Rob shook his head dubiously. "Got thick boots on? We must hurry. I'm late, though you are not."
Breakfast claimed immediate attention, for only ten minutes remained. On leaving the front door, they found themselves in a smothering hail of small hard snow-pellets, driven by an icy gale, dead ahead. It took all their breath to bore through that opposing blast; and conversation by the way was a thing impossible. One or two gasping remarks were all that could be exchanged.
Umbrellas were out of the question; nor could they get along at the speed they wished. When two white-clad figures at length stumbled upon the platform, Rob's train, though not yet signalled, was three minutes over due.
"I might have missed it!" he said, trying to stamp himself free from a superabundant covering. They took refuge in a sheltered corner beside the closed bookstall, where the wind no longer reached them. "My plan has been a failure. I'm sorry. We must have our talk out next time I come."
"When will you?"
"Ah—that's the question."
Magda spoke abruptly. "Somebody said not long ago that my dream of living with you would never come true, because you were sure to marry."
Robert laughed. "I can't afford it. And my work leaves no leisure. And—I've never seen the girl. Three cogent reasons. So you may pretty well count upon me. I'm a non-marrying man."
Magda's sigh was one of relief. "I'm glad. I don't think I could endure all the home-worries, if I had not that to look forward to. I only wish I could come to you now!"
"Nobody is the worse for waiting. Don't let your life be empty meantime—that's all."
"I've been thinking since yesterday—but really and truly, I can't see what to take up. Father would never let me be trained as a nurse. And I do hate sick-rooms and sick people. And commonplace nursing is such awful drudgery."
"The cure for that is to put one's heart into it. No work is drudgery, if one loves it."
"I should love nursing soldiers in war-time. Or people in some great plague outbreak."
"If you were not trained beforehand, I rather pity the victims of war and plague."
"Of course I should have to learn. But, Rob—you needn't think I mind all drudgery. If I could see any use in hard work, I would work like a horse. But where's the good? Music and French and German are of no earthly use to any one except myself."
"You don't know how soon they may be of use. There are some nice girls who come every week to sing to our hospital patients. Suppose they had never learnt to sing! The other day I came across a poor German sailor, unable to speak a word of English. I would have given much for somebody good at German."
"But to work for years beforehand—just for the chance of things being needed—it seems so vague!"
"That's no matter. Make yourself ready, and there is small fear but that a use will some time be found for you. It is like preparing for an exam—not knowing what questions may be asked, and so having to study a variety of books."
Magda liked the idea, yet persisted—"I don't see, all the same, what I've got to do."
"You have to train yourself—your powers—your whole being—your character—your habits of body and mind. Don't you see? You have to get the upper hand over yourself—not to be a victim to moods—to be ready for whatever by-and-by you may be called to do."
"It isn't so easy!" she said resentfully.
"It's not easy at all. We are not put here to lounge in armchairs and to feel comfortable."
"I sometimes wonder what we are put here for."
"That is easily answered. To do the Will of God, whatever that Will may be. And one part of His loving Will for His children is that they must work—and fight—and conquer."
"If only everything wasn't so abominably humdrum! If there were any sort of a chance of doing anything worth doing!"
"There are hundreds of chances, Magda. They lie all round, in every direction. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, when lives are wasted, it is not the opportunity that is wanting, but the will."
"I'm sure I've got the will—if I could see what to do."
As she spoke the train came in. Rob opened a door, put in his bag, and turned for a last word.