Chapter XII: An Opportunity Lost

MAGDA was unhappy, and distinctly cross.

She did not wish to be cross, and probably she would not have called herself so. But her world seemed all awry, and her temper suffered under the strain. Self-control was not one of Magda's prime virtues, as by this time you will have found out. It is quite possible for a person to feel desperately cross, and yet so to hold down the feeling that no one can guess its existence. But if Magda were cross, all around knew it.

Merryl certainly did. She came in, dragging her steps in an unwonted fashion, looking pale and heavy-eyed. Magda was alone, seated at a side-table of the school-room, with an ostentatious array of grammars and dictionaries. Since Patricia's departure for the Continent she had, in self-defence, taken violently to French and German.

"Please, Magda—"

"Oh, don't bother. I'm busy."

"Mother wants a note taken to Mrs. Hodgson."

"Well, I suppose you can take it." Merryl was the acknowledged family messenger.

"Yes—only—"

"Only what?"

"I thought perhaps you would—just for once."

"I can't, Merryl. I want to get this translation done before lunch."

"Couldn't you do it—after lunch?"

"No, I can't!" sharply. "I must bicycle over then to see if Patricia is back."

Merryl did not give up yet. "It's such a long way—and so hot!" she murmured.

"I don't see that it's any farther or hotter for you than for me!"

"No," rather faintly. "Only—if you could—only just this once."

"I've told you—I can't! That's enough."

Merryl said no more. She stood still looking at Magda. Then she dragged herself slowly from the room.

That was not like her. Ordinarily she was all sunshine, all readiness to do whatever anybody wished. Though not observant, Magda felt a little uncomfortable. It occurred to her that the child might for once be tired, and that she certainly ought to offer to go in her stead.

Instead of responding instantly to this inward suggestion, she sat still and debated with herself. Should she? Was it needful? It would be such a bother! She had made up her mind to do a certain amount that morning, and she hated having to change her plans. Besides, she felt cross and dissatisfied—unhappy, she called it to herself—and disinclined for a long hot bicycle ride in the sun. Such a dull straight road. And all the other way in the afternoon! She liked the idea quite as little as Merryl. Why should she have to do it, and not Merryl? Nothing ever hurt Merryl. And she couldn't put off going to Claughton. That must come first—sun or no sun, Merryl or no Merryl.

The translation was at a standstill. Magda leant back in her chair, lost in thought.

There was more than one trouble weighing on her mind.

Rob had written only a single short letter all the time he had been in Switzerland. True, he had sent a shower of picture-postcards; but what are picture-postcards when one wants a long delightful outpour? And since his return only one plain postcard! She felt deeply injured.

Worse still, she had written five long letters to the adored Patricia during her absence on the Continent; and only one scribbled note had come in response, with a list of places visited. She had poured out her soul for Patricia's benefit; giving the best gold that she had; and it brought in exchange a few coppers.

Nor was this all. Three days earlier, hearing casually that Patricia was expected, she had bicycled over beforehand, to leave flowers and an enthusiastic note of welcome, imploring to know how soon she might see her idol. No reply, no word of thanks, had yet arrived. It might be that Patricia's return had been delayed. She could not pass another night not knowing.

In addition to these worries was another, yet heavier. The Majors had arrived, and had taken possession of Virginia Villa. She had seen vans with luggage before the door ten days earlier; and by reference to Bee's last unanswered letter, she knew that Bee herself must now be there.

Action could no longer be put off. She would have to tell her mother and Penrose. She would have to ask them to call. She would have to explain somehow why she had kept silence so long. How she now wished that she had been brave and sensible, and had spoken earlier! It seemed so silly, so absurd, not to have done it—and so unkind to Bee. "Mean!" whispered a small accusing voice in her heart.

It was mean, and she knew it. Bee had been so good and true, always kind and helpful and ready to take trouble—surely, the least she could do now was to welcome her friend, and not to give way to foolish shame, merely because that friend lived in a small and unimportant house.

But—Pen's little contemptuous laugh!

If she could not stand a laugh for the sake of a friend, what was her friendship worth? And what was she worth? "Mean!" whispered again that accusing voice.

"Oh dear! I wish they had never come!" she sighed.

But they had come. It was sheer waste of time to sit wishing that her world had been ordered differently. The question was—not, how things might have been, but how she was going to meet them as they were?

Glancing out of the window, she saw Merryl bicycling down the road. So now it was too late to go in her stead. The matter was settled, and she might bend her attention to her work—that work, for the sake of which, ostensibly, she had refused to do a little kindness.

But the wandering attention failed to be bent. She had been beaten in one respect, and now she was beaten in another. The German translation made no further advance; and when the gong sounded for luncheon, she was still moodily nursing her grievances, still debating with herself what to do about the Majors—whether to put off, whether to speak, and if she did speak, what to say.

At luncheon she was to be taken by surprise—as one is apt to be, if one drifts along, waiting for circumstances to decide one's action, instead of simply resolving to do what is right.

Merryl did not appear. She had been some distance to take a note for Mrs. Royston, the latter said regretfully, and had not said that she was not well; and the heat had upset her. She was lying down upstairs. Mr. Royston was very much disturbed. He glared round angrily, and asked why on earth somebody else hadn't gone? It was too bad! They all made a regular Cinderella of Merryl, and nobody ever gave a thought to his poor little girl. What was Magda about not to do it, he wanted to know? He attacked the cold joint savagely, casting indignant glances.

Magda felt guilty and looked injured.

Pen tried to make a diversion. "I see that Virginia Villa is taken," she unexpectedly remarked. "People are arriving there."

"Oh, ever so long ago," piped Frip's little soprano. "There were two whole waggons there, and another next day. And, oh, such a funny lady, mummie—dressed all anyhow. She'd got a sort of big apron-pinafore all over her frock, and she stood outside the door in it giving orders. And she spoke in a sort of slow way, and made the men hurry, and told them just exactly where every single thing was to go. She was funny."

Magda writhed internally.

"And the Vicarage gardener was going by, just when they were getting the furniture down, and they couldn't manage the piano right. And she said to him—'Will you give a helping hand, my man?' John did it directly, and he didn't seem to mind. But it was funny of her, wasn't it? And there was one of those wicker things, like what Pen hangs her skirt on when she's making one."

"Another dressmaker, I suppose," Pen remarked. "I only hope she will be as good as the last. Such a pity she married and went away. I always liked her style. I wonder if this one will have any style."

Mrs. Royston half smiled. "Judging from Frip's description of her dress, that is doubtful."

"Any plate with a name on the door, Frip?"

Frip shook a wise little head. "I didn't see one, but she mightn't have had time to put it up yet, might she?"

Magda said nothing. She felt that she could say nothing. Not at all events just then. She wished with all her heart that she had spoken out sooner. Now—how could she? To have her friend's mother taken for a dressmaker! It was hopeless!

Luncheon ended, she felt scared and unhappy. The thought of Merryl went out of her head. She was bewildered, and perplexed what line to follow.

Claughton had to come first. Upon that point she was resolute. Nothing and nobody might interfere with it. But when she had been, when she had as she hoped seen Patricia, then no doubt it would be wise to go and see Bee. If she did not call soon, who could say whether Bee might not decide to come and see her? So she imagined, though no step was more unlikely on the part of Bee. She grew cold at the thought. What would Pen say?

There seemed to be nothing for it but to take the bull by the horns—by the wrong horn, be it remarked!—to go without further delay to Virginia Villa, and to put things right somehow.

She would have to make Bee and her mother understand the position of affairs. She would have to explain-or to hint—that though she herself would go to see Bee as often as she could spare the time, yet they must not expect to find themselves quite upon the same level, or look to have a welcome from all the circle of the Royston acquaintances. It was too horrid, too disgusting, to have to do anything of the sort. But how could she help it? Nothing else remained? After what had passed at luncheon, how could she ask her mother to call?

Was it really impossible? Even now, would not complete frankness be the wiser, the nobler, the better course? This thought came vividly; but Magda put it aside.

"I can't! I really can't!" she muttered impatiently. "I must wait! I must find out first what I can do with them. After that—perhaps—I suppose I must tell mother!"

And she did not see the cowardice of her decision.