Chapter XI: Patricia's Affairs

"A LETTER from Magda, I declare! Again—already!"

Patricia laughed. She was lounging gracefully on a low chair, near the window of a good-sized first-floor bedroom. Outside lay that same mountain amphitheatre, which had enchained the gaze of Beatrice Major from two storeys higher. It did not enchain the forget-me-not eyes of Patricia Vincent—those eyes having been engrossed during an hour past with the latest "Tauchnitz" novel.

Opposite sat a good-looking and well-dressed elderly lady. She had in hand some light fancy-work, and she cast an occasional glance—like Amy Smith—at the view. Her chief desire was to talk, but Patricia was not in the mood for talk, preferring her novel, and the aunt had to wait.

An English maid brought in letters; and Patricia turned hers over, with the above remark.

"Three whole sheets. Gracious! And I shall have to wade through them. Magda always finds out if I miss a single sentence."

"I thought you heard from her two days ago."

"Well, about that. The day her brother turned up. This is another!" Patricia exhibited the trio of sheets, holding them up, fan-wise. "She writes an atrocious hand. It will have to wait."

"Till you have finished your novel, I suppose." Mrs. Norman had been resenting her niece's determined pre-occupation with the book.

"Till I have finished my novel," assented Patricia, quite understanding, and not in the least disposed to give way. She always expected, as a matter of course, that everybody else should give way to her.

"You and this Miss—what is the name?—seem to be great friends. How long have you known her?"

"Magda Royston. Oh, about—since March. She is years younger than I am; but she adores me."

"And you like to be adored!" There was a suspicion of irony in the level tones of the elder lady. Patricia failed to detect it; but she could always talk of herself, and the subject was of sufficient interest to make her lay down the book.

"Why, yes. Most people like adoration—when they can get it, aunt Ju! Magda's state is simply worshipping! You know the sort of thing."

"Perhaps I do. And you are fond of her?"

"Yes, of course." The manner was not enthusiastic. "She is a nice enough girl—in her way. School-girlish!"

"And that was her brother who was going up the Blümlisalp—the one you spoke to!"

Patricia had taken Mrs. Norman somewhat aback, after table d'hôte, by accosting Rob as the brother of her new Burwood friend. Mrs. Norman held certain rather old-fashioned notions, and objected to casual acquaintances.

"Yes. I had only seen him once before, in a freezing March blizzard; but I liked his face then—and there was no mistaking it!"

"Would you not have been wiser to wait for an introduction?"

Patricia yawned gracefully behind her hand, at the first suspicion of fault-finding; and to yawn gracefully is a feat possible to few. A widely-extended jaw shows most faces at their worst.

"People don't wait for introductions in foreign hotels."

"It might be as well if they did sometimes. Mrs. Framley is particular!"

"And practically I had an introduction, in knowing his sister. I assure you I am every inch as particular as aunt Anne. I know what I'm about, aunt Ju. The Roystons are right enough. Otherwise I should never have thought of noticing him." Patricia objected to the slightest implication that she had done wrongly.

"And his friend? You may find yourself in for him also."

"I don't mind. I know all about Mr. Ivor. He is a barrister—one of the most promising on the bench, they say—any number of briefs already. I believe he has money of his own, or else expectations—but he works like a horse, and he is tremendously liked. And he is a friend of those delightful people, the Wryatts of Wratt-Wrothesley."

"Rye—Ratt—Rott—what, my dear?"

"You may well ask! It is a mouthful of a name. Two unmarried sisters in a dear old country house; perfectly charming women. I don't know them well; I wish I did, for it is an ideal house to stay in. Anybody who goes there is sure to be all right. I met them once in a house-party, and heard all about them. Grand-daughters of an Earl, and cousins of a Duke, and all that sort of thing."

"Mr. Royston seemed to know that very sweet-looking girl nearly opposite to us—with the pretty delicate face, and nice brown eyes."

"No, he didn't. They were strangers, only they happened to be together, and people don't sit mum on those occasions. I shouldn't have called her 'pretty,' exactly!" Patricia seldom called any woman pretty. "But I liked her look—if only she had not such a queer little piece of goods for her travelling-companion!"

"Your friend, Miss Royston, will be interested to hear that you have met her brother."

"Magda! I'm not sure. I don't think I shall say anything about him till I get back. No use to rouse jealousies."

"Surely there can be nothing in that for jealousy."

"I can't tell. She is frantically jealous of every single person that I speak to. It is getting to be a bore. She wants to keep me as a close preserve for herself; and that is out of the question. Things were well enough for the first few weeks, when I knew very few people in the place; but I'm getting full up now with engagements, and I can't have Magda perpetually hanging round. However—I don't want to hurt her feelings. I wish girls wouldn't be so frightfully sensitive. But I like that brother of hers. There's something about him out of the common."

"Clergyman?"

"Curate in some big parish. I'm not sure where. South London, I believe." Patricia began to laugh. "Magda raves about him. She has made up her mind to live with him in the future—to keep house, and work among the poor. About as fit for it as our Persian cat! I never saw a more recklessly untidy person—and he is the very essence of orderliness. Every inch of the man shows it. If ever that plan came to pass, she would drive him demented. But of course it never will."

"Men don't invariably marry."

"Anyhow, Magda won't suit him for a housekeeper."

"What is all the stir about?" Mrs. Norman stood up to look out.

"One of the climbing parties coming back I should imagine. They have been away much longer than was expected." Patricia showed signs of interest. "Both parties together—yes, there are the two girls, and the two men. Mr. Ivor seems hardly able to get along. He must have had an accident."

She ran downstairs, followed more deliberately by her aunt. Everybody was hurrying out to welcome the returned climbers, and to hear the story of their doings.

Most of the way from the Oeschinen Hotel, Ivor had perforce submitted to be carried, but he insisted on walking into Kandersteg. It was as much as he could do, for his foot remained very painful; and a few days' rest would plainly be necessary before he could go farther.

To Beatrice this made no difference. She and Amy were leaving next morning; and of course they kept to their plan.

Bee had seen little of Ivor during their descent. The two girls had been together in front; Ivor coming behind with the guides; Rob taking turns with either. Nor did she see more of him this last evening. He had talked freely to her of his adventure, by the Oeschinen Lake; but he made no efforts to be thrown more in her path.

He recognised by this time the fact that he was very much drawn to Bee; that he had begun to look upon her as altogether different and apart from other girls; and he could not forget how she had haunted his imagination during this terrible time in the bergshrund. If not yet in love, he was fast nearing that condition.

But two strong reasons withheld him from immediate action. For one thing—she had saved his life; and it would not do to risk letting her think that he sought her out of gratitude. For another—she must be aware that he might have overheard Miss Smith's remark outside the Hut; and there again he sensitively feared that she would perhaps imagine his conduct to have been inspired by those careless words. His suit would have to come freely, naturally, spontaneously—if ever he did seek her.

Ivor put it thus cautiously to himself. Then, with a glow, he altered the words. "When I seek her—!" he said.

The farewell between himself and Bee next morning was entirely simple and commonplace. Bee said sadly in her mind—"I may never see him again!"

And Ivor went off to his room with a book, which he found supremely uninteresting. To make matters worse, he saw little of his hitherto constant friend. For the change in their plans which could mean nothing for Bee meant much to Rob, and something to Patricia. The two thereafter were perpetually coming together. They had endless talks, and Rob was captivated.

Patricia as usual welcomed with warmth another worshipper at her shrine. She lived for admiration, and she did not know how to get on without it. With her numerous devotees, both masculine and feminine, the question might always be asked whether what she really cared for was the person, or the person's devotion for herself. But she certainly did like Rob, and had liked him from the first. His personality took more hold upon her than was generally the case.

Mrs. Norman allowed matters to drift for three or four days, then suddenly awoke to the fact that this might mean something serious. Rob's absorption in her niece was patent to the most casual observer; and Patricia too showed signs of being for once touched. Mrs. Norman did not wish for the responsibility of an "affair," while Patricia was with her. Mr. Royston might be all that one could wish as a man, but a curate without private means or prospects would hardly meet with Mrs. Framley's approval. So she promptly decided to move on elsewhere, and she gave out this intention.

Patricia was not given to sulks, for sulks are not becoming; but she actually did treat her aunt to something not far removed from one of Magda's "November fogs" during the week that followed. Not of course in public, where she always smiled, but in private.

For obvious reasons Rob said nothing about Patricia, when he wrote to Magda; and for reasons perhaps less obvious, despite what she had said to her aunt, Patricia was equally silent. Beatrice followed the same course, simply because she did not write. Her last three letters to Magda had had no reply; and though hers was not a resentful nature, and she was slow to take offence, she had resolved to wait till she should hear.

Virginia Villa, in which she and her mother would now live, was within a quarter of an hour of Magda's home. It was clearly for Magda to take the next step.