Chapter XXIII: Herself or Her Friend?

ONE may be walking on a most ordinary path, plucking flowers by the way, and doing—or not doing—one's everyday duties. And suddenly temptation comes!

But in the meeting of that temptation it makes just all the difference, whether the everyday duties have been faithfully carried out, or have been shirked. In the one case, previous weeks have strengthened one's power to stand firm; in the other case, previous weeks have lessened it.

Going to bed this night seemed to Magda almost impossible. There was so much to think about. Life had assumed a new colouring.

A vague sense had dawned upon her—vague at first, but rendered more definite by Amy Smith's unwise speech—that she had some sort of power over Lancelot Ivor. Power, it might be, to make him like her. He seemed to enjoy her companionship. She had found that she could interest him, could amuse him, could make him for the moment grave at will. And Amy's remark set the seal to her discovery. If others saw the same, then it must be real—then she could not only have fancied it.

The thought was immensely exciting.

Not that she cared markedly for Ivor himself. Magda did not know what real love meant. But he was handsome and much liked; and her vanity was flattered. Hitherto she had counted for little, either in her own home or among Burwood friends. His attention lifted her upon a pedestal of importance.

He had deferred going away for another night or two; and next evening he was to dine with them. She would see him again. She would have another chance to deepen the impression which—perhaps—she had already made.

And—it meant—temptation!

She woke up to the fact slowly; and it was partly from what Amy had said that she recognised the temptation as such.

Magda was not keenly observant. Thus far she had not known what Amy knew—that Bee's heart belonged to Ivor. It was the last thing Bee would have wished her to know. Here again Amy had betrayed Bee.

Not indeed directly. Her hasty speech at first only aroused Magda's ire, on her own account. She disliked Amy, and she hated to be lectured and interfered with. But as she restlessly walked her room, going over the evening in her mind, and as she thought again of Amy's words, a new sense came into them.

"Poaching! What nonsense!" What could Miss Smith have meant? Poaching in another person's preserve—that was the idea. What—in Bee's preserve? How ridiculous! As if Bee had any particular rights over Mr. Ivor! And as if Bee cared!

But did Bee not care? She recalled her own announcement of Ivor's expected arrival, and Bee's unwonted flush—then her absence, her dreaminess, her look of happiness. It all seemed rather suspicious, even though Ivor had received no especially warm welcome afterwards. Bee was always so funny about things—so slow to show what she felt. Perhaps Miss Smith knew that Bee really did care—and perhaps that was why she had meddled.

If indeed it were so—what then?

Was Magda to cut in between, to steal Ivor, to destroy her friend's hopes of happiness? It might mean all this! If left to himself, Ivor and Bee were not unlikely to draw together. But if Magda should exert herself to win him—should use the power which she believed to be hers—she might draw him on to like her more. And then—Bee might lose for ever the man who perhaps had already won her heart.

"Well, I suppose, if she does care, it would be rather mean of me, on the whole," meditated Magda.

That ought to have settled the matter, but it did not. Magda went on reviewing pros and cons.

If she now decisively drew back, and took no further pains to make herself attractive to him, she might thus secure Bee's life-long joy. Ivor, no longer drawn ever so slightly in another direction, would probably turn to Bee. Why not? They were well suited, each to the other. And Bee had saved his life!

It was all conjecture; yet grave possibilities were involved. And whether the conjectures were right or wrong, Magda's duty stood forth clearly.

One more of life's opportunities lay before her. An opportunity for self-denial, for self-forgetfulness, on behalf of her friend. She had so wanted in the past to do something great, something grand, something worth doing. Here was her chance. Self-sacrifice is the grandest thing possible in the life of man or woman.

Nor was it of so severe a type as to be overwhelmingly difficult. She liked to be the prominent person, winning attention and admiration. She also liked Mr. Ivor, and her vanity was pleased. But that was all. Her heart was not affected. To draw back would mean no question of heavy loss, still less of heartbreak.

Miss Mordaunt had spoken of "rehearsals" given beforehand of greater opportunities to follow. What if this were one such "rehearsal"? What if the faithful carrying out of this might mean something greater to come after? So it often is in life.

The thing looked worth doing, apart from any question of rehearsals. Magda thought she would do it. For the sake of right, for the sake of honour, for the sake of her friend—she would hold herself in the background. She would no longer exert herself to be delightful. Mr. Ivor should find her dull and uninteresting. That would put things straight for Bee. She got into bed at last, seeing her own conduct in rosy hues, self put aside, love for Bee victorious, principle getting the upper hand over inclination.

But she forgot to look for Divine help in the carrying out of her good resolution. Some perfunctory prayers had been said earlier—only said with wandering attention. That was all. She had not asked to be made able to tread this path.

And when she awoke in the morning, things wore a different aspect. The road she had marked out for herself had lost its sunshine.

A quiet background is no inviting place for a lively girl, who has just discovered her power to please. And what if Mr. Ivor really were inclined to like her—more than others—more even than Bee? What if he really did wish to see more of her? This thought flashed up vividly. Was she to fling aside such a dazzling possibility, merely because she fancied that Bee was perhaps in love? Why, it would be quite absurd!

Besides—how could she be so rude as to neglect Mr. Ivor, when he came to their house? It would be her duty to make herself agreeable.

Not that Magda was usually bound by any obligations in this direction, when the guest happened to be not to her liking!

Swayed to and fro by such opposite considerations, she went down to breakfast; and the first test came soon.

"Would it be of any use to ask Beatrice Major here this evening?" Mrs. Royston inquired of Penrose.

"I don't know, mother. Mrs. Major has been poorly, but I should think she is better now. Magda will know."

Mrs. Royston looked at Magda, and the thin rope of her last night's resolution snapped under the strain.

"I shouldn't think it would be much use. Bee has been nowhere yet."

"You might find out. She knows Mr. Ivor, and I dare say she would like to come, as he goes to-morrow."

Would Bee not like it? Was her mother not well enough by this time? Magda was aware at least that she might be able. But with the thought came a further temptation, as Pen said—

"What has been the matter with Mrs. Major? Not influenza, I suppose? We don't want to get that in the house."

"Something of the sort, I dare say!" Magda replied carelessly.

"Mean! Mean!" cried conscience. She knew she had done it now! Mother and elder daughter exchanged glances, and the subject was dropped. No more chance of an invitation for Bee! And Magda did not want her to come. She did not wish to have Bee as a rival. But how contemptible it was! All her visions of a noble self-forgetfulness had faded into smoke. Everything had given way before her desire to shine. And she knew that she had not spoken the truth. She knew that Mrs. Major was subject to such recurring attacks, though unaware of their exact nature.

When evening came, things did not go as she had hoped. In their own home Pen, as eldest, was automatically more to the fore; and Magda, as the younger, had to submit to being second. Mr. Royston too engrossed a large share of their chief guest. One brief ten minutes' chat with him Magda had towards the close; only enough to make her want more; and then Mr. Royston again took possession, and her enjoyment was cut short.

So she gained little by her disregard of Bee's interests. She had been worsted in her fight, and had flung away another of life's opportunities; and all for nothing. She went to bed feeling indignant and very flat.

And next day the young barrister returned to his busy life in town, without having again met Bee.

That morning Merryl and Frip, as they walked down High Street, saw her coming out of a shop; and she stopped at once to speak to them. Frip was still a small child; but Merryl, since her illness, had shot up rapidly. She had grown much slighter; and her face, though perhaps not strictly pretty, was very attractive, with its look of sunny repose.

"I hope Mrs. Major is better," she said. "We were so sorry to hear about her."

"Thanks, dear; she is getting all right again. She had quite a long drive yesterday."

Frip's shrill little pipe made itself heard before Merryl could reply.

"Why!"—came in astonished accents. "Why, mother wanted to have you to dinner last night. And Magda said it wouldn't be any use, because you couldn't come. And she thought it was influenza."

Bee flushed.

"No, no—Magda only fancied it might be that. She wasn't sure," explained Merryl, always anxious to smooth things down. "She had not been to ask for a day or two, I think."

"No, she had not been. It was not influenza." Bee spoke in a mechanical voice, and her smile was rather forced.

"I suppose—some one must have told her," ventured Merryl.

"People always say that sort of thing, don't they?" Bee remarked. Then, a little hurriedly, she said good-bye, and went on.

"Frip, you shouldn't have told!"

"But I do wonder what made Magda say it. I should have thought she'd have wanted Bee to come. And I'm almost sure Bee is sorry. I'm almost sure she'd have liked to come."

Merryl was quite sure, but would not say so; and the matter dropped. It did not, however, end there. At luncheon some remark was made about Mrs. Major; and Frip, pricking up her ears, put in a word which Merryl, at the other end, had no power to check.

"Mummie, we saw Bee to-day."

"You shouldn't call her 'Bee,' Frip. You should say 'Miss Major,'" admonished Pen.

"But she told me I might call her 'Bee;' so I may, mayn't I? And Mrs. Major is almost quite well again; and it wasn't influenza, not one bit; and Bee could have come yesterday, if you'd asked her, mummie. And I told her you wanted to, only Magda said it was no good. And she looked—I don't exactly know how—only as if she was sorry."

"You do meddle, Frip!" burst out Magda.

"Frip was not very wise to repeat things. But why should you have said what was not correct?"

"I thought it was—of course! How could I know?"

"It would have been kinder to Bee to find out."

That was all that passed; but Magda was much disturbed. It had never crossed her mind that what she did might come to Bee's knowledge.