Chapter XXII: "couldn't Be Tied!"

"I REALLY did think that dear boy had more sense," quoth Mrs. Miles, as her busy fingers arranged rows of tucks in a small frock. Two little maidens of seven and eight brightened the Vicarage home, and she made all their clothes herself.

"Ivor! What has he done?"

"He has done nothing. It's what he is going to do."

"Where is he to-night?"

"Gone to dine at Claughton. I thought you knew. That is not the point! Imagine his taking to Magda, more than to Bee Major!"

"You think he has?"

"Quite sure. When he came back from his call yesterday, he had nothing to say, except what a nice bright girl Magda was. And so she is; and I like her. But you can no more compare her with Beatrice Major than—" Mrs. Miles paused for a simile, as she measured the width of her tucks, and failed to find one. "Not that Magda isn't attractive in her own way. But I wish one could bring her to a point. She is all loose ends, and vague dreams, and general discontent. Nothing that one suggests in the way of work seems to be the right thing. I suppose girls are often like that when they first get away from school; but it is time she should settle to something."

"I thought she had given you some help of late."

"In a casual fashion—when nothing that she likes better happens to turn up."

"That seems to be the way with a good many of the Burwood ladies—older as well as younger."

"I've tried my best to rouse them; and some respond all right. But with most of the girls, it is—'Oh, I can't be tied!' Those Hodgson girls, for instance—five of them, strong clever young people, and well-educated. And they're just running to seed. They do absolutely nothing for any human being except themselves. A house-full of servants—no help wanted there; abundance of money; and life one endless round of pleasure! Riding, hunting, motoring, golfing, dancing, paying visits, travelling—nothing but amusement! I tackled them one day in good earnest, and asked if one wouldn't help in the Sunday-school, and another in the night-school, and another in the shoe-club, and so on. And one and all made the same reply. Oh dear, no, they couldn't be tied! They liked to be free. Which means—free to amuse themselves without stint."

"One wonders that any human being, with brains and character, can be content with such an existence!"

"You see, dear, the point of the matter is that, if they undertake any regular weekly task, something may turn up at that particular hour, which they don't like to miss. An invitation, perhaps."

In the Vicar's strenuous life, work had habitually barred the way upon pleasure. But then he had found his pleasure in his work.

"And if it does?" he said.

"Why, generally they accept the invitation, and toss up the work. I tried to get the Hodgsons to see that they might perhaps owe a duty to other folks besides themselves; and they took it very well. They really are nice girls, you know, only so fearfully useless. One of them actually consented to help me in the library once a week for an hour. And she came twice. Then something turned up that she didn't wish to lose; so she sent an excuse. Next time she sent no excuse, but simply stayed away. And then she wrote a pleasant little note, saying she was so busy-busy! That she was afraid she must give up the library."

The Vicar had put down his pen, and was gravely attentive. He knew it all, of course—probably better than his wife; but she liked to pour forth and he liked to listen.

"There are delightful exceptions, I'll allow. Bee Major, for one. But she has been trained to do her duty; and the others have been brought up from babyhood to think of nothing but themselves. No real sense of duty! The Royston girls are different—except Magda. Whatever you propose to her she doesn't want to do. She can't manage this, and she doesn't 'like' that. Anyhow, I never came across a nicer girl than Bee Major. She would make an ideal wife for Lance!"

"You can't choose his wife for him, my dear."

"More's the pity!" she retorted. "One could often choose for a man so much more sensibly than he chooses for himself! However—since he likes Magda, he shall see her again. I'm asking her and Pen and one or two others—Bee included—to spend the evening here the day after to-morrow. You love having young folks about."

Ivor was already seeing Magda again. She and Pen had been invited to dine at Claughton Manor; other guests being there also.

Bee was asked, and she accepted; and just at the last she had to send an excuse. Nothing short of absolute necessity would have kept her away, since she realised what it might mean. But that very afternoon Mrs. Major was taken with an acute attack of illness, to which she was occasionally subject, connected with the heart, and serious enough to mean actual danger. Bee could not leave her. Neither could she fully explain; for Mrs. Major had an extreme dislike to being counted delicate; and Bee was under strict orders never to say a superfluous word about her mother's health. The doctor had similar instructions; and he alone, beside Bee and the faithful old "Nurse," knew how grave these attacks were, or might at any time become.

Nothing could have been more unfortunate than one happening just now. Ivor, on hearing of the excuse sent—that Mrs. Major was "very poorly," and that Bee could not be spared—naturally drew his own conclusions. Coupled with her cold manner, it meant of course that she wished to keep out of his way.

Partly, perhaps, in self-defence, and in consequence of the wet blanket to which he had been treated, he turned a good deal of his attention to Magda that evening. She was again at her best, in a prettily-made frock of thin black material, which suited the red-gold of her hair, and the bright curiously-tinted eyes. A spray of variegated leaves, chosen and fastened in by Merryl, gave exactly the right tone; and there was no other colouring to compete with it. She talked well too. She and Ivor exchanged ideas, played upon words, discussed opposite views, laughingly. He found her unformed, but clever, and on the whole refreshingly simple. It went for little, so far; yet the fact that she was the sister of his most intimate friend meant that they had many subjects in common.

For once Pen was in the background. Patricia showed herself, as always, daintily charming, moving amid a circle of admirers. The personality of the admirers mattered little, so long as they were there.

Magda was entirely occupied with Ivor—or rather, with Ivor's attentions. He managed to draw her out, as she had not been drawn out before. He made her sparkle, and showed her to herself in new and agreeable lights. A feeling of delighted gratification, which she did not attempt to analyse, filled her mind in consequence.

Two days later they again met at the Vicarage; and once more Bee, though invited, was absent, since her mother was still too ill to be left, though she might only hint at this. Ivor had no further doubts.

"A convenient excuse!" he said bitterly to himself.

Amy, full of remorse, would gladly have taken Bee's place in the sick-room; but it was not allowed; and, she knew Mrs. Major too well to venture on any full explanation to others. She too had been invited, and she had to go, since Bee was bent upon her having the pleasure. It was an evening which, for Amy, spelt the reverse of enjoyment.

Magda this time really shone. She seemed at one leap to have grown older, to have become less school-girlish, more handsome, more taking. A slight consciousness made her voice softer, her manner more restrained, than usual; yet with this came also a touch of increased confidence. She found in herself a power to please, which she had not known before; and the experience was delicious. Others watched her with a mingling of surprise and amusement. Magda was developing, they said. She was "quite coming out."

Amy Smith's sensations included no amusement. She grew inwardly furious, more and more furious, as the evening wore on. Bee's friend—to step in, like this, in Bee's absence!—To try deliberately to win Ivor's love away from her! It was scandalous! Disgraceful! Amy found it hard work to hold her wrath within bounds.

Nor did she—altogether. Early hours were the rule at the Vicarage; and by half-past ten a general exodus took place. Wraps were donned, amid talk and laughter, in the breakfast-room; and Amy, standing grimly apart from the rest, found Magda offering a good-bye hand, all smiles.

"Hasn't it been a delightful evening?" Magda was saying.

Amy had always been impulsive; and she was so still, though fast leaving girlhood behind. Without an instant's pause for thought, and not so much as remembering her promise to Bee, she spoke words which leaped up in her mind—

"To you, I dare say! But—I couldn't—in your place! I call it—poaching!"

Then, with sudden contrition, as a flame of colour rushed into Magda's face, she knew what she had done. "What do you mean?" came involuntarily.

"Oh, nothing!" Amy tried to laugh. "I'm talking nonsense. Good-bye."

Magda hesitated an instant; then walked off, holding her head high.

"I can't endure that Miss Smith," she said disdainfully to Pen, as they drove home. "Such a stupid ordinary little person! I can't imagine what Bee sees to like in her."

Pen made some chilling reply. She was not pleased with Magda's prominence during the two past evenings.

But Amy had blundered again. She had opened Magda's eyes.