Chapter XXIV: Somebody's Loose Ends

FOR a fortnight past—ever since Ivor's departure—those "loose ends" had been very apparent. Magda had dropped into a state of hopeless inertia. There was energy enough in her constitution, when it was aroused by a sufficient stimulus; but, like many strong and energetic people, she could be unspeakably lazy. And that was her present condition.

Everything seemed dull and stupid, "stale, flat and unprofitable." Work went to the wall. All that she cared to do was to sit before the fire, reading or pretending to read novels, and going over in imagination those two delightful evenings, which had somehow demoralised her, making nothing else in life worth consideration.

She had fallen back into her usual standing of a "nobody;" and she could not see why it must be so. Other girls were made much of, admired, put forward. Why should it not be the same with herself? She had found that—given certain conditions—it was in her power to be taking. She wanted those conditions to recur. If only Mr. Ivor would pay another visit to the Vicarage, she might again enjoy that delightful sense of power. There was nobody now in the place for whom she cared or who cared for her.

So she made herself far from agreeable to her home-folks, for whom in reality she cared very much; only, a cyclone was needed to reveal the fact. She forgot what she had to do, and refused what she was asked, and replied snappishly, and resented being found fault with, and behaved altogether like a querulous child.

"What are you doing, Magda?"

Mrs. Royston, coming into the morning-room an hour after breakfast, found her second daughter lounging before the fire, with an open novel on her knee, and eyes fixed dreamily on nothing.

Magda slowly stood up. "I'm—reading."

"I think, at this time of the day, you might find something better worth reading than that," as she glanced at the title. "I want you to leave one or two notes for me."

"Isn't Merryl going out?"

"No; not at present. What is the matter? Are you poorly?"

"No, mother."

Mrs. Royston stood looking at her. "Have you practised the last few mornings?"

"I do—sometimes."

"And you look 'sometimes' at your French and German, I suppose. It is a great pity that you let yourself get into such idle habits."

"It's so stupid—practising for one's self alone."

"Why for yourself alone? Why not give other people pleasure. See how pleased your father was yesterday with Merryl's playing."

"He wouldn't have cared for mine. Father hates classical music, and I hate jigs. Merryl only strums. She hasn't a spark of music in her."

"At all events, she does her best; and you do not. You have a real gift for the piano, and you are neglecting it."

"Whatever Merryl does is right, and whatever I do is wrong."

Mrs. Royston sighed. "You always have an answer ready, Magda. I did think at one time—when we so nearly lost our darling Merryl—that you meant to be different. But you go on now just the same. I should like these notes taken, please, at once—and you can ask for the answers."

"Verbal?" Magda spoke in a hard tone, all the more because her mother's words had struck home.

"I don't mind; only, if you bring verbal replies, do bring them correctly."

Magda took up one of the notes. "All the way to Claughton!"

"You used to think nothing of bicycling there two or three times a week. Why should you mind it now?"

"Patricia was fond of me then."

"Patricia has a good deal to think about. I do not believe she has changed to you. Is anything really the matter? If you are not well, tell me frankly."

"I'm quite well, mother."

"Then please take the notes."

Mrs. Royston left the room, and Magda stood staring out of the window—stirred uncomfortably.

No doubt it was true that she had "gone on" lately, and especially in the last fortnight, "just the same" as before Merryl's illness. She had lost sight of her remorse and her resolutions, and had again been wrapped up in her own concerns, living an idle and purposeless existence.

"This must be no empty repentance," Rob had said. "When you get back into everyday life again, don't let yourself forget."

But she had allowed herself to forget. She had been beaten again and again, in the strife between right and wrong.

She echoed her mother's sigh, and took up the second note.

It was to Mrs. Major; and strong distaste seized her. She had seen very little of Bee lately. The two had met once or twice in public; but not in private. Magda had been careful to avoid the latter. She knew that she had not been true to her friend; and she knew that Bee must know it. Frip's words could not fail to be enlightening.

And now she was as likely as not to find Bee alone. And she had to go in—had to wait for an answer.

She threw her book impatiently on one side, and left the chair with its crumpled cushions before the fire. Which house to take first was the question. She decided on the nearer, because then she could plead a need for haste.

As she went up the garden, she caught sight of Bee's head within the front room, bending over some work. And when she rang the bell, Mrs. Major came out.

"How do you do? Have you come to see Bee?" Mrs. Major scanned the girl critically, having remarked the rarity of her calls.

"I've come to bring a note from mother. She said a verbal answer would do."

Mrs. Major glanced down the page. "Yes—your mother wants an address. Will you ask Bee to look it out in my address-book, please. I have an engagement and cannot wait."

So Magda had no choice. She made her way in, for once so noiselessly that she had time for observation, before Bee awoke to her presence. Something in Bee's bent head and quiet look impressed her—something of resolute patience in the sweet face, with its downcast eyes and dark brows. It made Magda feel uncomfortable—almost guilty. She stirred, and the other glanced up.

"Why, Magda! It is quite an age since you came last!"

Magda explained her object.

"Yes—I know where the address is. Sit down. I'll look it up."

"I mustn't wait. I've to go on to Claughton."

"Are you in such a hurry? You once said you could bicycle to the Manor in twenty minutes."

"Did I? Oh, I couldn't quite have meant that. It takes half-an-hour at least—and more! And I ought to get back in time to practice."

Bee went to the davenport, where she hunted out the address and wrote it down.

"Will that do—without a note?"

"Oh yes, thanks!"

Magda stood up, and Bee came close, studying her gravely.

"You used not to seem so impatient to be off!"

"I've got to take mother's note."

"Yes, I know—but it is quite early still." Bee sat down, and a light touch on Magda's wrist somehow made her do the same. "I don't think there can be such terrific haste, that you cannot spare a few minutes. I want to ask you what has been the matter lately?"

Somehow, Magda had not expected this; and she flushed up.

"The matter! Oh, why—nothing! Of course not! What do you mean? Why should anything be the matter?"

"You have not been quite the same lately. And I never like to let misunderstandings run on. There is some misunderstanding—isn't there?"

"No! Nothing of the sort!" Magda spoke vehemently. "I don't know what you mean."

Then she felt that this was not true.

"Don't you, really?"

"No, of course, I—What do you mean?"

"I have noticed a difference, and I want to know the reason. We are old friends now—and it seems such a pity to let anything come between us, when perhaps one word of explanation—"

Magda broke in. "But there's nothing to explain. There isn't, really. I—it's only—I've been—busy!"

"Busy about what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Heaps of things. Perhaps—more lazy than busy." She tried to laugh, but could not face the wistful eyes bent upon her. "Oh, bother—why must you be so inquisitorial?"

"Am I? Well—if you would rather not tell me—"

"I can't. I've nothing to tell."

"Are you sure? Things haven't seemed right. If you would rather drop the subject, I must let you. Only, if I have hurt you in any way, or if you have thought me unkind, I am sorry."

"Bee! It isn't—"

Magda choked over the words. She hardly knew what to say; for the contrast between herself and Bee was not pleasing to vanity.

"It isn't what?"

"It's not you! If either of us is wrong, it is I—not you!"

She remembered afterwards that Bee did not contradict the assertion.

"Anyhow, it need not put us apart."

"I suppose not, if—if you don't mind. But—only—" Magda spoke disjointedly, fidgeting with a cushion-tassel. "Only—you know—one does feel horrid sometimes; and Frip told me she had told you—and of course—though I really didn't mean to be unkind—"

"When didn't you?"

"You know. You heard what Frip said. And I suppose you would have liked to come—and I ought to have known. And I dare say I did know, really—only one can't always decide rightly, just in a moment. Well—if I'm to make a clean breast of it—I didn't want you that evening, Bee. There! It's out!"

"But why?"

"I liked talking to Mr. Ivor. He was so jolly and amusing. And on the whole I rather thought he liked talking with me. He is Rob's friend, you see. And he somehow sort of made me able to talk—you know! As some people can, and only a few. And I wanted it over again. And I knew I should have no chance if you, were there. He would only have cared to talk with you."

Magda was not looking up, as she jerked out her little confession. Had she been, she could not have failed to see the swift flash of response in Bee's face. It was quickly subdued, and Bee asked mildly—

"Why?"

"My dear, you're dull to-day. You don't seem to understand anything. Why, of course—because you are you! He would be after you fast enough, if you would let him. You can be stiff—most people can, I suppose. But everybody says how pretty you are, and how taking. It's not like Patricia's prettiness. Quite a different sort of thing. But I couldn't help noticing that afternoon, when Mr. Ivor came to call here—though he and I were talking a lot, his eyes kept going back and back to you, as if he couldn't help it; and twice he didn't hear what I was saying."

"I didn't see!"

"Well, anyhow, I did. I declare, Bee, you are looking oceans better than when I came in. You were so white."

"Just a little tired, perhaps. It does one good to have a chat. Don't worry yourself any more about—that—or keep away. Come in as often as you can."

Magda stood up. "All right; I will. But I really must go now, or I shall be late for lunch."

"Yes; I won't keep you. But I am glad you came, dear."

Her good-bye kiss in its tender warmth surprised and touched Magda; for she did not feel that she deserved it.

"I wonder what made me say that—about Mr. Ivor?" she debated, as she bicycled out of the town. "But it was true. I'd forgotten, till the moment when I said it, how he did look at her."

And Beatrice, left alone, stood in the room, with both hands pressed hard over her face.

"Oh, if it is! Oh, if it is!" she whispered once or twice.

Then she drew a long breath, and went back to her work quietly, but with a glad light in her eyes.

"What a child Magda is still!" she uttered aloud, with a little laugh. "I seem to be years and years the elder!"